At last, however, the gallant boatman managed to make headway, and, aided by the current, he now rapidly approached the moose, which was considerably distressed by the great length of its swim.

But the instant the animal became aware that it was being pursued, it redoubled its efforts to gain the island, which was not very distant. And this it would have succeeded in doing had it not been for the almost herculean exertions of Ramrod, by which it was eventually headed up stream again.

And now a stern chase up and down and across the river ensued. It really did not last long, though it seemed hours to us who were watching from the bank.

Just as Ramrod thought he had made sure of the moose this time, and dropping his paddle would seize the halter to throw over the head of the animal, the latter would make a sudden turn, and before the baffled hunter could regain command of his boat, would be well on his way down stream again.

All this time the crowd collected on the bank were greatly concerned about Ramrod's safety.

They saw, what he did not, that the affair would end in his getting a ducking at the very least. But worse than that was feared, as, once overturned, the miserable conception of a boat would be beyond the power of any one in the water to right it again. And, moreover, the water was still intensely cold, and a very few minutes would have sufficed to give the cramp to a much stronger man than Ramrod.

Perceiving all this, some of the more energetic had from the first bestirred themselves in preparations for launching a boat.

But this occupied some time, for, as I have said, the boats usually to be seen fringing the bank during the summer months had not yet made their appearance. Oars also and tholepins had to be hunted up, and by the time all this was accomplished the need of help out there on the river was very urgent indeed.

Plenty of pluck had Ramrod, or he would have given up the chase when he found himself becoming so exhausted, by the tremendous exertion necessary to keep control of his cranky craft, that he had scarcely sufficient strength left to follow the deer in its many dodges and turnings.

But strong as the moose was, its time had come. Suddenly the animal stopped, gave a scream that made the blood curdle in all our veins, and would have sunk out of sight only that, with a last desperate effort, Ramrod got up with it, and this time succeeded in throwing the halter over its head and drawing the noose tight.

[Sidenote: An Upset]

Thoroughly exhausted as the moose appeared to be, this act of Ramrod's roused it to make one more effort for life and freedom. Turning quickly about and snorting furiously, it made for its assailant, and before Ramrod could check it had capsized the boat and sent that worthy head over heels into the water.

Presence of mind is a splendid quality, and Ramrod possessed it to the full. Retaining his hold of the halter, he endeavoured to right the boat, but soon perceiving the impossibility of so doing, he relinquished the attempt, and being a good swimmer, boldly struck out for the island, that being the nearest land.

Refreshed by his involuntary bath, and not yet feeling the effects of the cold, Ramrod made no doubt but that he should easily accomplish the task.

As for the moose, it was completely done up, and was now no more trouble than a log of wood. The effort by which it had overturned the boat was the last it made, and its captor was now quietly towing it ashore.

But cold water does not agree with all constitutions, especially if the body has been fatigued and heated before its application.

Cramp seized upon poor Ramrod, and though he made a gallant and desperate struggle to reach land with the aid of his arms alone, he felt that only by a miracle could he do so.

Moment by moment he felt himself growing weaker and less able to withstand the chill which was striking through to his very heart.

At last the supreme moment came. He could go no farther. Brave and collected to the last, he raised his eyes to heaven as in thought he commended his soul to his Maker.

At that instant the sound of oars struck his ear, and the hope it brought him gave him sufficient strength to keep up until a friendly hand grasped him under the arm.

With his last little bit of strength he raised his hand, still grasping the halter, and smiled triumphantly; then he lost consciousness.

The "coffin" was brought ashore afterwards, but no one had the hardihood to navigate it. Even towing it was a trial of temper, for it kept swinging from side to side with a heavy jerking motion with every pull at the oars.

Ramrod, I am glad to say, lived to have many a quiet paddle in his queer boat whenever he went a-fishing; and this, it appears, was all he intended it for when he built it.

Thus ended this famous moose hunt, but the talk of it lasted for many a year; and whenever a pleasure-party were out on the river enjoying a sail by moonlight, this was the one story that was never stale, and mention of "Ramrod's coffin" would cause a smile to appear on the face of even the most grave.

The moose, when brought ashore, proved to be quite young, though full-grown, as its horns were not much more than "buds."



[Sidenote: Edith Harley was called upon to play a rather difficult part. But her patience and her obedience to the call of duty brought their own reward.]

A Girl's Patience

BY

C. J. BLAKE

"A letter from Rachel! Is it possible she can have relented at last?"

Dr. Harley looked across the breakfast-table at his wife as he spoke; and the children, of all ages and sizes, who were busy with their bowls of porridge, stopped the clatter of tongues and spoons to listen.

"Read it, dear," said Mrs. Harley, in her slow, gentle voice. "It must be ten years since Rachel wrote that last dreadful letter. Surely she must have learnt to forgive and forget by this time!"

"Send some of these children away, then. Maude and Jessie can stay; but it is time the others were getting ready for lessons."

There was a hurried, scrambling finish of the simple breakfast; then a little troop of boys and girls filed out of the rather shabby dining-room, and Dr. and Mrs. Harley were alone with their elder daughters.

"'MY DEAR BROTHER,'" began the doctor,—"'I am growing an old woman now, and in spite of the good reasons I had for ceasing to write, or to communicate with you in any way, I do not feel that I can keep up the estrangement from my own flesh and blood any longer.

"'If you like to let bygones be bygones, I, on my side, am quite willing to do the same. I am writing, too, because I have heard a good deal, in one way or another, about your large and expensive family, and the difficulty you have in making both ends meet. It has been more than hinted to me that I ought to render, or at least offer, you some assistance. I have thought perhaps the best thing would be to take one of your girls for a six months' visit; to stay longer, or, indeed, always, if I should, after such a trial, continue to be pleased with her.

"'I don't want a young child, but one old enough to be companionable. Of course I would provide for education, and everything, so long as she stayed with me. It would surely be a relief to have even one of such a number taken off your hands, and it would be the girl's own fault if the relief were not made permanent. If this should meet your views, write at once, and fix a date for one of your daughters to come to me. Your affectionate sister,

"'RACHEL HARLEY.'"

"Oh, papa!" exclaimed Maude and Jessie in a breath, "how could we ever leave you, and dear mamma too! We should be miserable away from home."

"From Aunt Rachel's letter, I should think she must be a dreadfully stiff sort of person," added audacious Jessie. "Please don't say that we shall have to go."

"Not so fast, my dear," returned her father. "Only one of you all can go, and I do not think either you or Maude could possibly be spared. But what does mamma say?"

"You know my wretched health, Henry," said Mrs. Harley. "I never could do without Maude to look after the housekeeping; and Jessie saves both school and governess for the younger ones. But then there is Edith. Why should not Edith go?"

[Sidenote: Edith Harley]

"Why, indeed?" repeated the doctor. "Edith does nothing but mischief—at least, so far as the account of her doings reaches my ears. She is quite too big for Jessie to teach, and we cannot afford to send her to a good school at present, which is the thing that ought to be done. It really seems to me a providential opening for Edith."

"Poor Edie!" sighed the mother again. "It would be a hard life for her, I am afraid."

"Oh, nonsense, Maria! You were always unjust to Rachel. You think, because she took such deep offence, that there can be nothing good in her. Surely I ought to know my own sister's character! Rachel would do her duty by any inmate of her home—of that I am quite certain."

"Well, Henry, it would be a help in many ways. Edith is growing such a great girl, nearly fifteen now, and if it would lighten your cares to have her provided for, I ought not to resist. But at least it would be well to let her know what you think of doing, and hear what she says."

"I don't know that what she says need affect the question much. The fact is, Maria, something will have to be done. We are exceeding what we can afford even now, and the children will be growing more expensive instead of less so. For my own part, I can only feel glad of Rachel's offer. I must go now; but you can tell Edith, if you like; and tell her, too, to hold herself in readiness, for the sooner the matter is settled the better."

Edith Harley, called indifferently by her brothers and sisters the Middle One and the Odd One, was the third daughter and the fifth child of this family of nine. She was a rather tall, awkward girl, who grew out of her frocks, and tumbled her hair, and scandalised her elder sisters, in their pretty prim young ladyhood, by playing with the boys and clinging obstinately, in spite of her fifteen years, to her hoop and skipping-rope. An unfortunate child was this chosen one, always getting into scrapes, and being credited with more mischief than she ever really did.

It was Edith who had caught the whooping-cough through playing with some of the village children, and had brought it home, to be the plague of all the nine for a whole winter and spring.

It was Edith who took Johnnie and Francie down to the pondside to play, and let them both tumble in. True, she went bravely in herself and rescued them, but that did not count for very much. They were terribly wet, and if they had been drowned it would have been all her fault.

It was Edith who let Tom's chickens out for a run, and the cat came and killed two of them; that was just before she forgot to shut the paddock-gate, when the donkey got into mamma's flower-garden and spoilt all the best plants.

So poor Edith went on from day to day, thankful if she could only lay her head upon her pillow at night without being blamed for some fresh escapade, yet thoroughly happy in the freedom of her country life, in the enjoyment of long summer-day rambles, and endless games with the little brothers, who thought her "the jolliest girl that ever was," and followed her lead without scruple, sure that whatever mischief she might get them into she would bravely shield them from the consequences.

A country doctor, with a not very lucrative practice, Dr. Harley had, when Edith was about ten years old, sustained a severe pecuniary loss which greatly reduced his income. It was then that the governess had to be given up, and the twin boys who came next to Maude and Jessie were sent to a cheaper school. These boys were leaving now, one to go to the university, through the kindness of a distant relative, the other to pass a few weeks with the London coach who would prepare him for a Civil Service examination.

Jessie, a nice, clever girl, with a decided taste for music, could teach the four younger ones very well—had done so, indeed, ever since Miss Phipps left; but in this, as in everything, Edith was the family problem. She could not, or would not, learn much from Jessie; she hated the piano and needlework, and even professed not to care for books.

[Sidenote: "Would it help Papa?"]

Yet she astonished the entire family sometimes by knowing all sorts of odd out-of-the-way facts; she could find an apt quotation from some favourite poet for almost any occasion, and did a kind of queer miscellaneous reading in "a hole-and-corner way," as her brother Tom said, that almost drove the sister-governess to distraction.

And now the choice of a companion for Miss Rachel Harley, the stern, middle-aged aunt, whom even the elder girls could scarcely remember to have seen, had fallen upon Edith.

The news came to her first as a great blow. There could not be very much sympathy between the gentle, ailing, slightly querulous mother and the vigorous, active girl; yet Edith had very strong, if half-concealed, home affections, and it hurt her more than she cared to show that even her mother seemed to feel a sort of relief in the prospect of her going away for so long.

"Don't you mind my going, mamma?" she said at last, with a little accent of surprise.

"Well, Edith dear, papa and I think it will be such a good thing for you and for us all. You have been too young, of course, to be told about money matters, but perhaps I may tell you now, for I am sure you are old enough to understand, that papa has a great many expenses, and is often very much worried. There are so many of you," added the poor mother, thinking with a sigh of her own powerlessness to do much towards lifting the burden which pressed so heavily upon her husband's shoulders.

"Do you think it would help papa, then, if I went?" asked the girl slowly.

"Indeed I do. You would have a good home for a time, at all events; and if your Aunt Rachel should take to you, as we may hope she will if you earnestly try to please her, she may be a friend to you always."

"Very well, then; I shall try my best to do as you and papa wish."

That was all Edith said, and Mrs. Harley was quite surprised. She had expected tears and protests, stormy and passionate remonstrances—not this quiet submission so unlike Edith.

Perhaps no one understood the girl less than her own mother. It might have helped Mrs. Harley to know something of her daughter's inner nature if she could have seen her, after their talk together, steal quietly up to the nursery, where there were only the little ones at play, and, throwing her arms round little Francie, burst into a fit of quiet sobbing that fairly frightened the child.

"What is it, Edie? Don't cry, Edie! Francie'll give you a kiss, twenty kisses, if you won't cry," said the pretty baby voice.

"Your poor Edie's going away, and it will break her heart to leave you, my pet," said the girl through her tears, straining the child in a passionate embrace. Presently she grew calmer, and put the wondering little one down.

"There, Francie, I've done crying now, and you needn't mind. You'll always love Edie, won't you, if she does go away?"

"Yes, always, always love Edie," said the child; and Johnnie chimed in too, "And me—me always love Edie."

But there were the boys to be told after that—Alfred and Claude, the two bright boys of ten and eight years, who had been her own especial playmates; and loud was their outcry when they heard that Edith was going.

"We might as well have no sisters," said the ungrateful young rascals. "Maude and Jessie don't care for us. They only think we're in the way. They're always telling us to wipe our feet, and not make such a noise; and Francie's too little for anything. We'd only got Edith, and now she's to go. It's too bad, that it is!"

But their protest availed nothing. The very same night Dr. Harley wrote to his sister, thanking her for her kind offer, and adding that, if convenient, he would bring his daughter Edith, fifteen years of age, to her aunt's home at Silchester in a week's time.

There was much to do in that short week in getting Edith's wardrobe into something like order. Each of the elder sisters sacrificed one of their limited number of dresses to be cut down and altered for the younger one.

The May sunshine of a rather late spring was beginning to grow warm and genial at last, and the girl really must have a new hat and gloves and shoes, and one or two print frocks, before she could possibly put in an appearance at Aunt Rachel's.

Almost anything had done for running about the lanes at Winchcomb, where every one knew the Harleys, and respected them far more for not going beyond their means, than they would have done for any quantity of fine apparel.

[Sidenote: Goodbye!]

But the preparations were finished at last, the goodbyes were said, and Edith, leaving home for the first time in her life, sat gravely by her father's side in the train that was timed to reach Silchester by six in the evening.

She had been up very early that morning, before any of the others were astir; and when she was dressed, went out into the garden, where she could be alone, to think her last thoughts of the wonderful change in her life.

She had gone on always so carelessly and happily, that the new turn of affairs sobered and startled her. She seemed to herself to say goodbye, not only to her home, but to the long, bright, happy childhood that had been spent there. And her thoughts were full of the few words Mrs. Harley had spoken about her papa's expenses and worries.

"If I had only known," she said to herself; "if I had only thought about things, I would have tried to learn more, and be some help while I was here. But it is no use grieving about that now; it seems to me I am come to what our rector calls a 'turning point.' I can begin from to-day to act in a different way, and I will. I will just think in everything how I can help them all at home. I will try to please Aunt Rachel, and get her to like me, and then perhaps I shall grow in time to bear the thought of staying with her for a long, long while. Only, my poor boys and my dear little Johnnie and Francie—I did think I should have had you always. But it will be good for you, too, if I get on well at Silchester."

When she had gone so far, Nancy, the housemaid, came out with broom and bucket, and the mingled sounds of laughing and crying, and babel of many voices that floated out through the opened windows, told Edith that the family were rising for the last breakfast together.

It was a good thing when all the farewells were over, and for the first few miles of the journey she was thankful to sit in silence in the stuffy second-class carriage, and use all her strength of will to keep back the tears that would try to come.

"Papa," she said shyly, as her father laid down his newspaper, and woke up to the fact that the two ladies who had begun the journey with them had got out at the last station—"papa, I want you to promise me something, please."

"Well, Edith, what is it?"

"I want you to promise not to tell Aunt Rachel about all the things that I have done—while I was at home, I mean."

"You have never done anything very dreadful, child," said the doctor with a smile. "Your Aunt Rachel has not been accustomed to little girls, it is true; but I suppose she won't expect you to be quite like an old woman."

[Sidenote: "I will do my very best"]

"No; but if she knew about Johnnie and Francie falling into the water, and about the chickens, and how Alfred and I let Farmer Smith's cow into the potato-field, and the other things, she might not understand that I am going to be different; and I shall be different—I shall indeed, papa."

"Yes, Edith, it is time you began to be more thoughtful, and to remember that there are things in the world, even for boys and girls, far more important than play. If it will be any comfort to you, I will readily promise not to mention the cow, or the chickens, or even that famous water escapade. But I shall trust to your own good sense and knowledge of what is right, and shall expect you to make for yourself a good character with your aunt. You may be sure she will, from the first, be influenced much more by your behaviour than by anything I can say."

"Yes, I know," murmured Edith. "I will do my very best."

She would have liked to say something about helping her father in his difficulties, but the shyness that generally overcame her when she talked to him prevented any further words on the subject; and Dr. Harley began to draw her attention to the objects of interest they were passing, and to remark that in another twenty minutes they would be half-way to Silchester.

It seemed a long while to Edith before the train drew up in the large, glass-roofed station, so different from the little platform at Winchcomb, with the station-master's white cottage and fragrant flower-borders. Silchester is not a very large town, but to the country-bred girl the noise and bustle of the station, and of the first two or three streets through which they were driven in the cab Dr. Harley had called, seemed almost bewildering.

Very soon, however, they began to leave shops and busy pavements behind, and to pass pretty, fancifully-built villas, with very high-sounding names, and trim flower-gardens in front. Even these ceased after a while, and there were first some extensive nursery grounds, and then green open fields on each hand.

"It will be quite the country after all, papa!" exclaimed Edith, surprised.

"Not quite, Edith. You will only be two or three miles out of Silchester, instead of twenty miles from everywhere, as we are at Winchcomb. Look! that is Aunt Rachel's house, just where the old Milford Lane turns out of the road—that house at the corner, I mean."

"Where?" said Edith, half-bewildered. Her unaccustomed eyes could see nothing but greenery and flowers at first, for Miss Harley's long, low, two-storey cottage was entirely overgrown with dense masses of ivy and other creeping plants. It stood well back from the road, in a grassy, old-fashioned garden, shaded by some fine elms; and one magnificent pear-tree, just now glorious in a robe of white blossoms, grew beside the entrance-gate.

"Oh, papa, what a lovely old house!" cried the girl involuntarily. "Did you know it was like this?"

Dr. Harley smiled.

"I suppose you think it lovely, Edith. I have often wondered, for my own part, why your aunt should bury herself here. But come—jump out; there she is at the door. The King's Majesty would not draw her to the garden gate, I think."

Edith got out of the cab, feeling like a girl in a dream, and followed her father up the gravel walk, noting mechanically the gorgeous colouring of tulips and hyacinths that filled the flower-beds on either hand.

A tall, grey-haired lady, well advanced in life, came slowly forward, holding out a thin, cold hand, and saying in a frigid tone, "Well, brother, so we meet again after these ten years. I hope you are well, and have left your wife and family well also."

[Sidenote: A Doubtful Welcome]

"Quite well, thank you, Rachel, excepting Maria, who is never very well, you know," said the doctor heartily, taking the half-proffered hand in both his. "And how are you, after all this long time? You don't look a day older than when we parted."

"I am sorry I cannot return the compliment," remarked the lady, with a grim smile. "I suppose it is all the care and worry of your great family of children that have aged you so. And Maria was always such a poor, shiftless creature. I daresay, now, with all that your boys and girls cost you, you have two or three servants to keep, instead of making the girls work, and saving the wages and the endless waste that the best of servants make."

"We have but two," said the doctor, in a slightly irritated tone of voice. "My girls and their mother are ladies, Rachel, if they are poor. I can't let them do the rough work. For the rest, they have their hands pretty full, I can assure you. You have little idea, living here as you do, how much there is to be done for a family of nine children."

"No, I am thankful to say I have not. But you had better come in, and bring the girl with you."

With these ungracious words Aunt Rachel cast her eyes for the first time upon Edith, who had stood a silent and uncomfortable listener while her father and aunt were talking.

"Humph!" ejaculated Miss Harley, after looking her niece over from top to toe with a piercing, scrutinising gaze, that seemed to take in every detail of figure, face, and toilette, and to disapprove of all; "humph! The child looks healthy, and that is all I can say for her. But bring her in, Henry—Stimson and the boy can see to her box. I suppose you will stay yourself for to-night?"

"I should not be able to go home to-night, as you know," replied Dr. Harley. "But if my staying would be at all inconvenient, I can go to one of the Silchester hotels."

His sister Rachel proved to be the same irritating, cross-grained woman he had quarrelled with and parted from so long before, and he was a little disappointed, for it is wonderful how time softens our thoughts of one another, and how true it is that—

"No distance breaks the tie of blood, Brothers are brothers evermore."

Although Miss Rachel ruffled and annoyed him at every second word—"rubbed him up the wrong way," as her maid Stimson would have said—the doctor had a real regard for her in his heart, and respected her as a woman of sterling principle, and one whose worst faults were all upon the surface.

"There is no need to talk about hotels," and Miss Harley drew herself up, half-offended in her turn. "It's a pity if I can't find houseroom for my own brother, let him stay as long as he will. Now, Edith, if that is your name, go along with Stimson, and she will show you your room, where you can take off your hat and things. And be sure, mind you brush your hair, child, and tie it up, or something. Don't come down with it hanging all wild about your shoulders like that."

Poor Edith's heart sank. She was rather proud of her luxuriant brown tresses, which her mother had always allowed her to wear in all their length and beauty, and she did not even know how to tie them up herself.

"This way, miss," said the prim, elderly servant. "I knew as soon as I saw you that your hair would never do for Miss Harley. I'll fix it neatly for you."

"Oh, thank you!" said Edith, much relieved; and in a few minutes all the flowing locks were gathered into one stiff braid, and tied at the end with a piece of black ribbon.

"There, now you look more like a young lady should!" cried Stimson, surveying her handiwork with pleasure. "You'll always find me ready to oblige you, miss, if you'll only try to please Miss Harley; and you won't mind my saying that I hope you'll be comfortable here, and manage to stay, for it's frightful lonely in the house sometimes, and some one young about the place would do the mistress and me good, I'm sure."

[Sidenote: A Great Improvement]

"Oh, thank you!" said Edith again. She could not trust herself to say more, for the words, that she felt were kindly meant, almost made her cry.

"Now you had better go down to the parlour," Stimson went on. "Miss Harley and your papa won't expect you to be long, and the tea is ready, I know."

With a beating heart Edith stepped down the wide, old-fashioned staircase, and went shyly in at the door which Stimson opened for her. She found herself in a large, handsomely-furnished room, where the table was laid for tea; and Miss Harley sat before the tray, already busy with cups and saucers.

"Come here, Edith, and sit where I can see you. Yes, that is a great improvement. Your hair looks tidy and respectable now."

After this greeting, to Edith's great relief, she was left to take her tea in peace and silence, the doctor and his sister being occupied in conversation about their early days, and continually mentioning the names of persons and places of whom she knew little or nothing.

Only once the girl started to hear her aunt say, "I always told you, Henry, that it was a great mistake. With your talents you might have done almost anything; and here you are, a man still in middle life, saddled and encumbered with a helpless invalid wife and half a score of children, to take all you earn faster than you can get it. It is a mere wasted existence, and if you had listened to me it might all have been different."

"How cruel!" exclaimed Edith to herself indignantly. "Does Aunt Rachel think I am a stock or a stone, to sit and hear my mother—all of us—spoken about like that? I shall never, never be able to bear it!"

Even the doctor was roused. "Once for all, Rachel," he said in a peremptory tone, "you must understand that I cannot allow my wife and children to be spoken of in this manner. No doubt I have had to make sacrifices, but my family have been a source of much happiness to me; and Maria, who cannot help her health, poor thing! has done her best under circumstances that would have crushed a great many women. As for the children, of course they have their faults, but altogether they are good children, and I often feel proud of them. You have been kind enough to ask Edith to stay here, but if I thought you would make her life unhappy with such speeches as you made just now, I would take her back with me to-morrow."

"Well, well," said Miss Harley, a little frightened at the indignation she had raised. "You need not take me up so, Henry. Of course I shall not be so foolish as to talk to the child just as I would to you. I have her interest and yours truly at heart; and since I don't want to quarrel with you again, we will say no more of your wife and family. If you have quite finished, perhaps we might take a turn in the garden."

The rest of the evening passed quietly away. Edith was glad when the time came to go to her room, only she so dreaded the morrow, that would have to be passed in Aunt Rachel's company, without her father's protecting presence.

Soon after breakfast in the morning the doctor had to say goodbye. It was a hard parting for both father and daughter. Edith had never known how dearly she loved that busy and often-anxious father till she was called to let him go. As for the doctor, he was scarcely less moved, and Miss Rachel had to hurry him away at last, or he would have lost the train it was so important he should catch.

Somehow the doctor never could be spared from Winchcomb. There was no other medical man for miles round, and people seemed to expect Dr. Harley to work on from year's end to year's end, without ever needing rest or recreation himself.

[Sidenote: A Close Examination]

As soon as they were left alone, Miss Rachel called Edith into the parlour, and bidding her sit down, began a rigorous inquiry as to her capabilities and accomplishments—whether she had been to school, or had had a governess; whether she was well grounded in music, and had studied drawing and languages; what she knew of plain and fancy needlework; if her mother had made her begin to learn cookery—"as all young women should," added Miss Rachel, sensibly enough.

Poor Edith's answers were very far from satisfying Miss Harley.

"You say you have had no teacher but your sister since Miss Phelps, or Phipps, or whatever her name was, left. And how old is your sister, may I ask?"

"Jessie is eighteen," answered Edith. "And she is very clever—every one says so, especially at music."

"Why didn't she teach you, then, and make you practise regularly? You tell me you have had no regular practice, and cannot play more than two or three pieces."

"It is not Jessie's fault," said Edith, colouring up. "Papa and mamma liked us all to learn, but I am afraid, aunt, I have no natural talent for music. I get on better with some other things."

Aunt Rachel opened a French book that lay on the table.

"Read that," she said shortly, pointing to the open page.

Edith was at home here; her pronunciation was rather original, it is true, but she read with ease and fluency, and translated the page afterwards without any awkward pauses.

"That is better," said her aunt, more graciously. "You shall have some lessons. As for the music, I don't believe in making girls, who can't tell the National Anthem from the Old Hundredth, strum on the piano whether they like it or not. You may learn drawing instead. And then I shall expect you to read with me—good solid authors, you know, not poetry and romances, which are all the girls of the present day seem to care for."

"Thank you, aunt," said Edith. "I should like to learn drawing very much."

"Wait a while," continued Miss Harley. "Perhaps you won't thank me when you have heard all. I shall insist upon your learning plain needlework in all its branches, and getting a thorough insight into cookery and housekeeping. With your mother's delicate health there ought to be at least one of the daughters able to take her place whenever it is needful. Your sisters don't know much about the house, I daresay."

"Maude does," answered Edith, proud of her sister's ability. "Maude can keep house well—even papa says so."

"And Jessie?"

"Jessie says her tastes are not domestic, and she has always had enough to do teaching us, and looking after the little ones."

"And what did you do?" demanded Aunt Rachel. "You can't play; you can't sew. By your own confession, you don't know the least thing about household matters. It couldn't have taken you all your time to learn a little French and read a few books. What did you do?"

Edith blushed again.

"I—I went out, Aunt Rachel," she said at last.

"Went out, child?"

"Yes. Winchcomb is a beautiful country place, you know, and Alfred and Claude and I were nearly always out when it was fine. We did learn something, even in that way, about the flowers and plants and birds and live creatures. Papa always said plenty of fresh air would make us strong and healthy, and, indeed, we are well. As for me, I have never been ill that I remember since I was quite a little thing."

[Sidenote: We will Change all that!]

"My patience, child! And did Maria—did your mother allow you to run about with two boys from morning till night?"

"It is such a quiet place, aunt, no one thought it strange. We knew all the people, and they were always glad to see us—nearly always," added truthful Edith, with a sudden remembrance of Mr. Smith's anger when he found his cow in the potato field, and one or two other little matters of a like nature.

"Well, I can only say that you have been most strangely brought up. But we will change all that. You will now find every day full of regular employments, and when I cannot walk out with you I shall send Stimson. You must not expect to run wild any more, but give yourself to the improvement of your mind, and to fitting yourself for the duties of life. Now I have letters to write, and you may leave me till I send for you again. For this one day you will have to be idle, I suppose."

Edith escaped into the garden, thankful that the interview was over, and that, for the time at least, she was free.

The very next day she was introduced to Monsieur Delorme, who undertook to come from Silchester three times a week to give her lessons in French, and to Mr. Sumner, who was to do the same on the three alternate days, for drawing. It seemed a terrible thing to Edith at first to have to learn from strangers; but Monsieur Delorme was a charming old gentleman, with all the politeness of his nation; and, as Edith proved a very apt pupil, they soon got on together beautifully.

Mr. Sumner was not so easy to please. A disappointed artist, who hated teaching, and only gave lessons from absolute necessity, this gentleman had but little patience with the natural inexperience of an untrained girl.

But Edith had made up her mind to overcome all difficulties, and it was not very long before she began to make progress with the pencil too, and to enjoy the drawing-lesson almost as well as the pleasant hours with Monsieur Delorme.

These were almost the only things she did enjoy, however. It was hard work to read for two hours every morning with Miss Rachel, who made her plod wearily through dreary histories and works of science that are reduced to compendiums and abridgements for the favoured students of the present day.

But even that was better than the needlework, the hemming and stitching and darning, over which Stimson presided, and which, good and useful as it is, is apt to become terribly irksome when it is compulsory, and a poor girl must get through her allotted task before she can turn to any other pursuit.

Every day, too, Edith went into the kitchen and learned pastry-making and other mysteries from the good-natured cook, who, with Stimson, and the boy who came daily to look after the garden and pony made up Aunt Rachel's household.

What with these occupations, and the daily walk or drive, the girl found her time pretty well taken up, and had little to spare for the rambles in the garden she loved so much, and for writing letters home.

To write and to receive letters from home were her greatest pleasures, for the separation tried her terribly.

It was difficult, too, for one who had lived a free, careless life, to have to do everything by rule, and submit to restraint in even the smallest matters.

In spite of her efforts to be cheerful and to keep from all complaining, Edith grew paler and thinner, and so quiet, that Aunt Rachel was quite pleased with what she called her niece's "becoming demeanour."

The girl was growing fast; she was undoubtedly learning much that was useful and good, but no one knew what it cost her to go quietly on from day to day and never send one passionate word to the distant home, imploring her father to let her return to the beloved circle again.

[Sidenote: A Welcome Letter]

But the six months, though they had seemed such a long time to look forward to, flew quickly by when there were so many things to be done and learned in them. Edith began to wonder very much in the last few weeks whether she had really been able to please her aunt or not.

It was not Miss Harley's way to praise or commend her niece at all. Young people required setting down and keeping in their proper places, she thought, rather than having their vanity flattered. Yet she could not be blind to Edith's honest and earnest efforts to please and to learn, and at the end of the six months a letter went to Winchcomb, which made both Dr. and Mrs. Harley proud of their child.

"Edith has her faults, as all girls have," wrote Miss Rachel; "but I may tell you that ever since she came I have been pleased with her conduct. She makes the best use of the advantages I am able to give her, and I think you will find her much improved both in knowledge and deportment. You had better have her home for a week or two, to see you and her brothers and sisters, and then she can return, and consider my house her home always. I make no doubt that you will be glad to yield her to me permanently, but be good enough not to tell her how much I have said in her favour. I don't want the child's head turned."

"It is very kind of Rachel," said Mrs. Harley, after reading this letter for the third or fourth time. "I must say I never expected Edith to get to the end of her six months, still less that she should gain so much approval. She was always such a wild, harem-scarem girl at home."

"She only wanted looking after, my dear, and putting in a right way," said the doctor, in a true masculine spirit; and Mrs. Harley answered, with her usual gentle little sigh:

"I don't think that was quite all. Maude and Jessie, who have been brought up at home, have done well, you must admit. But I sometimes think there is more in Edith—more strength of character and real patience than we ever gave her credit for. You must excuse my saying so, but she could never have borne with your sister so long if she had not made a very great effort."

"And now she is to go back to this tyrant of a maiden aunt," laughed the doctor. "But by all means let her come home first, as Rachel suggests, and then we shall see for ourselves, and hear how she likes the prospect too."

That week or two at home seemed like a delightful dream to Edith. It is true the fields and woods had lost all their sweet summer beauty; but the mild late autumn, which lasted far into November that year, had a charm of its own; and then it was so pleasant to be back again in the dear old room which she had always shared with Jessie, to have the boys and Francie laughing and clinging about her, and to find that they had not forgotten her "one bit," as Johnnie said, and that to have their dear Edith back was the most charming thing that could possibly have happened to them.

"You must make much of your sister while she is here," said the doctor. "It will not be long before you have to say 'Goodbye' again."

"Oh, papa, can't she stay till Christmas?" cried a chorus of voices.

"No, no, children. We must do as Aunt Rachel says, and she wants Edith back in a fortnight at the outside."

Both father and mother, though they would not repeat Miss Harley's words, could not help telling their daughter how pleased they were with her.

"You have been a real help to your father, Edith," said Mrs. Harley. "Now you have done so well with Aunt Rachel, we may feel that you are provided for, and I am sure you will be glad to think that your little brothers and sisters will have many things they must have gone without if you had had to be considered too."

[Sidenote: A Trying Time]

Edith felt rewarded then for all it had cost her to please her aunt and work quietly on at Silchester, and she went back to Ivy House with all her good resolutions strengthened, and her love for the dear ones at home stronger than ever.

For a while things went on without much change. The wild, country girl was fast growing into a graceful accomplished young woman, when two events happened which caused her a great deal of thought and anxiety.

First, Aunt Rachel, who had all her life enjoyed excellent health, fell rather seriously ill. She had a sharp attack of bronchitis, and instead of terminating in two or three weeks, as she confidently expected, the disease lingered about her, and at last settled into a chronic form, and made her quite an invalid.

Both Edith and Stimson had a hard time while Miss Harley was at the worst. Unaccustomed to illness, she proved a very difficult patient, and kept niece and maid continually running up and downstairs, and ministering to her real and fancied wants.

The warm, shut-up room where she now spent so many hours tried Edith greatly, and she longed inexpressibly sometimes for the free air of her dear Winchcomb fields, and the open doors and windows of the old house at home. Life at Silchester had always been trying to her; it became much more so when she had to devote herself constantly to an exacting invalid, who never seemed to think that young minds and eyes and hands needed rest and recreation—something over and above continued work and study.

Even when she was almost too ill to listen, Aunt Rachel insisted on the hours of daily reading; she made Edith get through long tasks of household needlework, and, to use her own expression, "kept her niece to her duties" quite as rigidly in sickness as in health.

Then, when it seemed to Edith that she really must give up, and petition for at least a few weeks at home, came a letter from her father, containing some very surprising news. A distant relative had died, and quite unexpectedly had left Dr. Harley a considerable legacy.

"I am very glad to tell you," wrote her father, "that I shall now be relieved from all the pecuniary anxieties that have pressed upon me so heavily for the last few years. Your mother and I would now be very glad to have you home again, unless you feel that you are better and happier where you are. We owe your Aunt Rachel very many thanks for all her kindness, but we think she will agree that, now the chief reason for your absence from home is removed, your right place is with your brothers and sisters."

To go home! How delightful it would be! That was Edith's first thought; but others quickly followed. What would Aunt Rachel say? Would she really be sorry to lose her niece, or would she perhaps feel relieved of a troublesome charge, and glad to be left alone with her faithful Stimson, as she had been before?

"I must speak to my aunt about it at once," thought Edith. "And no doubt papa will write to her too."

But when she went into the garden, where her aunt was venturing to court the sunshine, she found her actually in tears.

"Your father has written me a most unfeeling letter," said the poor lady, sitting on a seat, and before Edith could utter a word. "Because he is better off he wants to take you away. He seems not to think in the least of my lonely state, or that I may have grown attached to you, but suggests that you should return home as soon as we can arrange it, without the least regard for my feelings."

"Papa would never think you cared so much, Aunt Rachel. Would you really rather I should stay, then?"

"Child, I could never go back to my old solitary life again. I did not mean to tell you, and perhaps I am not wise to do so now, but I will say it, Edith—I have grown to love you, my dear, and if you love me, you will not think of going away and leaving me to illness and solitude. Your father and mother have all their other children—I have nothing and no one but you. Promise that you will stay with me?"

[Sidenote: "I have Grown to Love you!"]

"I must think about it, aunt," said Edith, much moved by her aunt's words. "Oh, do not think me ungrateful, but it will be very hard for me to decide; and perhaps papa will not let me decide for myself."

But when Edith, in her own room, came to consider all her aunt's claim, it really seemed that she had no right, at least if her parents would consent to her remaining, to abandon one who had done so much for her. It was, indeed, as she had said, a very difficult choice; there was the old, happy, tempting life at Winchcomb, the pleasant home where she might now return, and live with the dear brothers and sisters without feeling herself a burden upon her father's strained resources; and there was the quiet monotonous daily round at Ivy House, the exacting invalid, the uncongenial work, the lack of all young companionship, that already seemed so hard to bear.

And yet, Edith thought, she really ought to stay. Wonderful as it seemed, Aunt Rachel had grown to love her. How could she say to the lonely, stricken woman, "I will go, and leave you alone"?

"Well, Edith?" said Miss Harley eagerly, when her niece came in again after a prolonged absence.

"I will stay, Aunt Rachel, if my father will let me. I feel that I cannot—ought not—to leave you after all that you have done for me."

So it was settled, after some demur on Dr. Harley's part, and the quiet humdrum days went on again, and Edith found out how, as the poet says—

"Tasks, in hours of insight willed, May be in hours of gloom fulfilled."

For Miss Harley, after that involuntary betrayal of her feelings, relapsed into her own hard, irritable ways, and often made her niece's life a very uncomfortable one.

Patiently and tenderly Edith nursed her aunt through the lingering illness that went on from months to years; very rarely she found time for a brief visit to the home where the little ones were fast growing taller and wiser, the home which Jessie had now exchanged for one of her own, and where careful Maude was still her mother's right hand.

Often it seemed to the girl that her lot in life had been rather harshly determined, and she still found it a struggle to be patient and cheerful through all.

And yet through this patient waiting there came to Edith the great joy and blessing of her life.

Mr. Finch, the elderly medical man who had attended Miss Harley throughout her illness, grew feeble and failing in health himself. He engaged a partner to help him in his heavy, extensive practice, and this young man, Edward Hallett by name, had not been many times to Ivy House before he became keenly alive to the fact that Miss Harley's niece was not only a pretty, but a good and very charming girl. It was strange how soon the young doctor's visits began to make a brightness in Edith's rather dreary days, how soon they both grew to look forward to the two or three minutes together which they might hope to spend every alternate morning.

Before very long, Edith, with the full approval of her parents and her aunt, became Edward Hallett's promised wife.

They would have to wait a long while, for the young doctor was a poor man, and Dr. Harley could not, even now, afford to give his daughter a marriage portion.

But, while they waited, Edith's long trial came to a sudden, unexpected end.

Poor Miss Harley was found one morning, when Stimson, who had been sleeping more heavily than usual, arose from the bed she occupied in her mistress's room, lying very calmly and quietly, as though asleep, with her hands tightly clasped over a folded paper, which she must have taken, after her maid had left her for the night, from the box which always stood at her bedside. The sleep proved to be that last long slumber which knows no waking on earth, and the paper, when the dead fingers were gently unclasped, was found to contain the poor lady's last will and testament, dated a year previously, and duly signed and witnessed.

[Sidenote: Miss Harley's Will]

In it she left the Ivy House and the whole of her, property to her "dear niece, Edith Harley, who," said the grateful testatrix, "has borne with me, a lonely and difficult old woman; has lived my narrow life for my sake, and, as I have reason to believe, at a great sacrifice of her own inclinations and without a thought of gain, and who richly deserves the reward herein bequeathed to her."

* * * * *

There could be no happier home found than that of Edith Hallett and her husband in the Ivy House at Silchester. Nor did they forget how that happiness came about.



"We owe all to your patience," said Dr. Hallett to Edith, as he kissed their firstborn under the mistletoe at the second Christmastide of their wedded life.



[Sidenote: A story, founded on fact, of true love, of changed lives, and of loving service.]

The Tasmanian Sisters

BY

E. B. MOORE

The evening shadows were settling down over Mount Wellington in Tasmania. The distant city was already bathed in the rosy after-glow.

It was near one of the many lakes which abound amongst the mountains round Hobart that our short tale begins.

It was in the middle of January—midsummer in Tasmania. It had been a hot day, but the heat was of a dry sort, and therefore bearable, and of course to those born and bred in that favoured land, it was in no way trying.

On the verandah of a pretty wooden house of the chalet description, stood a lady, shading her eyes from the setting sun, a tall, graceful woman; but as the sun's rays fell on her hair, it revealed silver threads, and the sweet, rather worn face, with a few lines on the forehead, was that of a woman of over forty; and yet she was a woman to whom life's romance had only just come.

She was gazing round her with a lingering, loving glance; the gaze of one who looks on a loved scene for the last time. On the morrow Eva Chadleigh, for so she was called, was leaving her childhood's home, where she had lived all her life, and going to cross the water to the old—though to her new—country.

Sprinkled all down the mountain sides were fair white villas, or wooden chalet-like houses, with their terraces and gardens, and most of them surrounded by trees, of which the eucalyptus was the most common. The soft breezes played round her, and at her feet the little wavelets of the lake rippled in a soft cadence. Sounds of happy voices came wafted out on the evening air, intermingled with music and the tones of a rich tenor voice.

That voice, or rather the owner of it, had made a havoc in that quiet home. Till its owner had appeared on the scene, Eva and her sister had lived quietly together, never dreaming of change. They had been born, and had lived all their lives in the peaceful chalet, seeing no one, going nowhere.

[Sidenote: A Belated Traveller]

One night, about a year previously, a belated traveller knocked at the door, was given admittance, and, in return for the hospitality shown him, had the audacity to fall in love with Blanche Chadleigh, Eva's twin sister. Then, indeed, a change came into Eva's life. Hitherto the two sisters had sufficed to each other; now she had to take a secondary position.

The intruder proved to be a wealthy settler, a Mr. Wells, a man of good family, though alone in the world. In due course the two were married, but Blanche was loath to leave her childhood's home. So it resulted in their remaining there while his own pretty villa, a little higher up the mountain, was being built.

And now Eva too had found her fate. A church "synod" had been held; clergymen of all denominations and from all parts of the earth being present. The sisters had been asked to accommodate one or two clergymen; one of these was an old Scotch minister with snowy locks, and keen dark eyes.

How it came about Eva Chadleigh never knew; she often said he never formally proposed to her, but somehow, without a word on either side, it came to be understood that she should marry him.

"Now you're just coming home with me, lassie," said the old man to the woman of forty-five, who appeared to him as a girl. "I'll make ye as happy as a queen; see here, child, two is company, and three is trumpery, as the saying goes. It isn't that your sister loves ye less," seeing a pained look cross her face, "but she has her husband, don't ye see?" And Eva did see. She fell in love, was drawn irresistibly to her old minister, and it is his voice, with its pleasant Scotch accent, that is now rousing her from her reverie at the time our tale begins.

"Come away—come away, child. The night dews are falling; they're all wearying for ye indoors; come now, no more looking around ye, or I'll never get ye away to-morrow."

"But you promise to bring me back some day, Mr. Cameron, before very long."

"Ay, ay, we'll come back sure enough, don't fret yourself; but first ye must see the old country, and learn to know my friends."

Amongst their neighbours at this time was a young man, apparently about thirty years old; he had travelled to Hobart in the same ship as Mr. Cameron, for whom he had conceived a warm feeling of friendship. Captain Wylie had lately come in for some property in Tasmania, and as he was on furlough and had nothing to keep him at home, he had come out to see his belongings, and since his arrival at Hobart had been a frequent visitor at the chalet.

Though a settled melancholy seemed to rest upon him, his history explained it, for Captain Wylie was married, and yet it was years since he had seen his wife. They had both met at a ball at Gibraltar many years ago. She had been governess in an officer's family on the "Rock" while his regiment had been stationed there. She was nineteen, very pretty, and alone in the world. They had married after five or six weeks' acquaintance, and parted by mutual consent after as many months. She had been self-willed and extravagant, he had nothing but his pay at that time, and she nearly ruined him.

[Sidenote: Captain Wylie]

It ended in recriminations. He had a violent temper, and she was proud and sarcastic. They had parted in deep anger and resentment, she to return to her governessing, for she was too proud to accept anything from him, he to remove to another regiment and go to India.

At first he had tried to forget all this short interlude of love and happiness, and flung himself into a gay, wild life: but it would not do. He had deeply loved her with the first strong, untried love of a young impetuous man, and her image was always coming before him. An intense hunger to see her again had swept away every feeling of resentment. Lately he had heard of her as governess to a family in Gibraltar, and a great longing had come over him just to see her once more, and to find out if she still cared for him.

He and Mr. Cameron had travelled out together on a sailing ship, and during the voyage he had been led to confide in the kindly, simple old gentleman; but so sacred did the latter consider his confidence that even to his affianced bride he had never recalled it.

All these thoughts crowded into the young officer's mind as he paced up and down in the stillness of the night, disinclined to turn in. He was startled from his reverie by a voice beside him.

"So you have really decided to come with us to-morrow?" It was Mr. Cameron who spoke. "Ye know, lad, the steamer is not one of the fine new liners. I doubt she's rather antiquated, and as I told ye yesterday, she is a sort of ambulance ship, as one may say. She is bringing home a good many invalided officials and officers left at the hospital here by other ships. It seems a queer place to spend our honeymoon in, and I offered my bride to wait for the next steamer, which won't be for another fortnight or three weeks, and what do you think she said? 'Let us go; we may be of use to those poor things!' That's the sort she is."

"She looks like that," said Captain Wylie, heartily. "I should like to go with you," continued the young man. "Since I have decided on the step I told you of, I cannot remain away a day longer. I saw the mate of the Minerva yesterday, and secured my cabin. He says they have more invalids than they know what to do with. I believe there are no nurses, only one stewardess and some cabin boys to wait on us all."

The night grew chill, and after a little more talk the older gentleman went in, but the younger one continued pacing up and down near the lake, till the rosy dawn had begun to light up the summits.

* * * * *

It was in the month of February, a beautiful bright morning; brilliant sunshine flooded the Rock of Gibraltar, and made the sea of a dazzling blueness, whilst overhead the sky was unclouded.

A young lady who stood in a little terraced garden in front of a house perched on the side of the "Rock" was gazing out on the expanse of sea which lay before her, and seemed for the moment oblivious of two children who were playing near her, and just then loudly claiming her attention. She was their governess, and had the charge of them while their parents were in India.

The house they lived in was the property of Mr. Somerset, who was a Gibraltarian by birth, and it was the children's home at present. Being delicate, the climate of Gibraltar was thought better for them than the mists of England. Major and Mrs. Somerset were shortly expected home for a time on furlough, and there was great excitement at this prospect.

"Nory, Nory, you don't hear what I am saying! When will mamma come? You always say 'soon,' but what does 'soon' mean? Nory, you don't hear me," and the governess's dress was pulled.

This roused her from her reverie, and like one waking from a dream she turned round. "What did you say, dear? Oh, yes, about your mother. Well, I am expecting a letter every mail. I should think she might arrive almost any time; they were to arrive in Malta last Monday, and now it is Wednesday. And that reminds me, children, run and get on your things, we have just time for a walk before your French mistress comes."

[Sidenote: At Gibraltar]

"Oh, do let us go to the market, Nory, it is so long since we went there. It is so stupid always going up the 'Rock,' and you are always looking out to sea, and don't hear us when we talk to you. I know you don't, for when I told you that lovely story about the Brownies, the other day, you just said 'yes' and 'no' in the wrong places, and I knew you were not attending," said sharp little Ethel, who was not easily put off.

"Oh, Nory, see the monkeys," cried the little boy, "they are down near the sentry box, and one of them is carrying off a piece of bread."

"They are very tame, aren't they, Nory?" asked Ethel. "The soldiers leave bread out for them on purpose, Maria says."

"Yes, but you know I don't care for them, Ethel. They gave me such a fright last year they came down to pay a visit, and I discovered one in the bathroom. But run to Maria, and ask her to get you ready quickly, and I will take you to the market."

In great glee the happy little children quickly donned their things, and were soon walking beside their governess towards the gay scene of bargaining and traffic.

Here Moors are sitting cross-legged, with their piles of bright yellow and red slippers turned up at the toe, and calling out in loud harsh voices, "babouchas, babouchas," while the wealthier of them, dressed in their rich Oriental dress, are selling brass trays and ornaments.

The scene is full of gaiety and life, and it is with difficulty that the young governess drags the children away. But now fresh delights begin: they are in the narrow streets where all the Moorish shops with their tempting array of goods attract the childish eye—sweets of all sorts, cocoanut, egg sweets, almond sweets, pine-nut sweets, and the lovely pink and golden "Turkish delight," dear to every child's heart.

"Oh, Nory!" in pleading tones, and "Nory" knows that piteous appeal well, and is weak-minded enough to buy some of the transparent amber-like substance, which is at all events very wholesome. The sun was so powerful that it was quite pleasant on their return to sit in the little terraced garden and take their lunch before lesson-time, and while their governess sipped her tea, the children drank their goat's milk, and ate bread and quince jelly.

The warm February sun shone down on her, but she heeded it not; a passage in Mrs. Somerset's letter, which had just been handed to her, haunted her, and she read again and again: she could get no farther. "I believe it is very likely we shall take the next ship that touches here, it is the Minerva from Tasmania. They say it is a hospital ship, but I cannot wait for another, I hunger so for a sight of the children."

The young governess was none other than Norah Wylie. She had never ceased following her husband's movements with the greatest, most painful interest. She knew he had lately gone to Tasmania; suppose he should return in that very ship? More unlikely things had happened. She was at times very weary of her continual monotonous round, though she had been fortunate enough to have got a very exceptional engagement, and had been with Mrs. Somerset's children almost ever since she and her husband had parted.

As Norah sat and knitted, looking out to sea and wondering where her husband was, he, at the very moment, was pacing up and down the deck of the Minerva. They had so far had a prosperous journey, fair winds, and a calm sea. Some of the invalids were improving, and even able to come to table, for sea air is a wonderful life-giver. But there were others who would never see England. It was a day of intense heat in the Red Sea, and even at that early season of the year there was not a breath of air.

Amongst those who had been carried up out of the stifling cabin was one whose appearance arrested Captain Wylie's attention, as he took his constitutional in the lightest of light flannels. He could not but be struck by the appearance of the young man. He had never seen him before, but he looked so fragile that the young officer's kind heart went out to him. He was lying in an uncomfortable position, his head all twisted and half off the limp cabin pillow.

Something in the young face, so pathetic in its youth, with the ravages of disease visible in the hectic cheek, and harsh, rasping cough, touched the strong young officer. He stooped down and put his hand on the young lad's forehead; it was cold and clammy. Was he dying?

Mrs. Cameron had come over and was standing beside him. She ran down and brought up the doctor, explaining the young man's state.

[Sidenote: The Doctor's Verdict]

"He will pass away in one of these fainting fits," said the tired man as he followed her. He was kind in his way, but overwhelmed with work. "This may revive him for the time being," he went on as they ascended the cabin stairs, "but he cannot live long. I do feel for that young fellow, he is so patient. You never hear a word of complaint."

By this time they had reached the sick man. "Here, my good fellow, try and take this," said the doctor, as Eva Cameron gently raised the young head on her arm. The large dark eyes were gratefully raised to the doctor's face, and a slight tinge of colour came to the pale lips.



"Now I am going to fan you," said Mrs. Cameron, as she sat beside him. Now and then she sprinkled lavender water on his head and hands.

"Thank you," he said; "how nice that is! Would you sing to me? I heard you singing the other day."

Eva softly sang a Tasmanian air which was wild and sweet.

"Will you do me a favour?" asked the young man. "Please sing me one of the dear old psalms. I am Scotch, and at times yearn for them, you would hardly believe how much."

She sang:

"God is our refuge and our strength, In straits a present aid: Therefore, although the earth remove, We will not be afraid."

As she sang tears rolled down the wan cheek, but a look of perfect peace came over the pale face. She went on:

"A river is, whose streams do glad The city of our God, The holy place, wherein the Lord Most High hath His abode."

He was asleep, the wan young cheek leaning on his hand in a child-like attitude of repose. Eva sat and watched him, her heart full of pity. She did not move, but sat fanning him. Soon Mr. Cameron and Captain Wylie joined her; as they approached she put her finger on her lips to inspire silence.

She had no idea what the words of the dear old psalm had been to the young Highlander—like water to a parched soul, bringing back memories of childhood, wooded glens, heather-clad hills, rippling burns, and above all the old grey kirk where the Scotch laddie used to sit beside his mother—that dear mother in whom his whole soul was wrapped up—and join lustily in the psalms.

The dinner-bell rang unheeded—somehow not one of the three could leave him.

"How lovely!" he said at last, opening and fixing his eyes on Eva. "I think God sent you to me."

"Ay, laddie," said the old Scotchman, taking the wasted hand in his, "but it seems to me you know the One who 'sticketh closer than a brother'? I see the 'peace of God' in your face."

"Ah, you are from my part of the country," said the lad joyfully, trying to raise himself, but sinking back exhausted. "I know it in your voice, it's just music to me. How good God has been to me!"

They were all too much touched by his words to answer him, and Eva could only bend over him and smooth his brow.

"Now mother will have some one to tell her about me," he added, turning to Mrs. Cameron, and grasping her hand. Then, as strength came back in some measure to the wasted frame, he went on in broken sentences to tell how he had been clerk in a big mercantile house in Hobart, how he had been invalided and lying in the hospital there for weeks. "But I have saved money," he added joyfully, "she need not feel herself a burden on my sister any more; my sister is married to a poor Scotch minister, and she lives with them, or was to, till I came home. Now that will never be. Oh, if I could just have seen her!"

"But you will see her again, laddie," said the old man. "Remember our own dear poet Bonar's words:

"Where the child shall find his mother, Where the mother finds the child, Where dear families shall gather That were scattered o'er the wild; Brother, we shall meet and rest 'Mid the holy and the blest."

"Thank you," said the dying lad. "I think I could sleep." His eyes were closing, when a harsh loud voice with a foreign accent was heard near.

[Sidenote: "I say I will!"]

"I say I will, and who shall hinder me?"

"Hush, there is a dying man here!" It was the doctor who spoke. A sick-looking, but violent man, who had been reclining in a deck chair not far off, was having a tussle with a doctor, and another man who seemed his valet.

"Indeed you should come down, sir," the man was saying, "there is quite a dew falling."

"You want to make out that I am dying, I suppose, but I have plenty of strength, I can tell you, and will be ordered by no one!"

"Well, then, you will hasten your end, I tell you so plainly," said the doctor sternly.

The man's face altered as he spoke, a kind of fear came over him, as he rose to follow the doctor without a word. As he passed near the young Highlander, he glanced at him and shuddered, "He's young to die, and have done with everything."

"He would tell you he is just going to begin with everything," said Mr. Cameron, who had heard the words, and came forward just then. "Doctor, I suppose we need not move him," he added, glancing at the dying lad, "you see he is going fast."

"No, nothing can harm him now, poor young fellow. I will go and speak to the captain—will you help Mr. Grossman to his cabin?"

As they reached the state-room door, Mr. Cameron said, "Friend, when your time comes, may you too know the peace that is filling the heart of yon lad."

"He is believing in a lie, I fear," said the other.

"And yet, when you were in pain the other day, I heard you call loudly, 'God help me!'"

"Oh, well, I suppose it is a kind of instinct—a habit one gets into, like any other exclamation."

"I think not," said the old man. "I believe that in your inmost, soul is a conviction that there is a God. Don't you remember hearing that Voltaire, with almost his last breath, said, 'Et pourtant, il y a un Dieu!'"

Returning on deck, Mr. Cameron took his watch beside the young Highlander. There was no return of consciousness, and very soon the happy spirit freed itself from its earthly tenement without a struggle.

Next morning they consigned all that was mortal of him to the deep, in sure and certain hope that he shall rise again. God knows where to find His own, whether in the quiet leafy "God's acre," or in the depths of the sea.

* * * * *

The year was advancing. It was towards the end of February. At Gibraltar great excitement prevailed in the house perched on the side of the "Rock." Major Somerset and his wife were expected! Norah paused suddenly to look out over the blue expanse of sea, to-day ruffled with a slight breeze—and then exclaimed:

"Children! children! come, a steamer with the British flag is coming in! Hurry and get on your things."

There was no need for urging them to haste—the outdoor wrappings were on in no time, and they ran down to the landing-stage just as the ship had cast anchor. Numerous boats were already making their way out to her. They soon learnt that the ship was from Malta, though she was not the Minerva they had expected.

How Norah's heart beat as she eagerly, breathlessly, watched the passengers descend the ladder and take their places in the different boats. A keen breeze had got up, and even in the harbour there were waves already.

[Sidenote: "There is Mamma!"]

"There is mamma!" exclaimed little Ethel—"see her, Nory, in the white hat! Oh, my pretty mamma!" she exclaimed, dancing with glee as the boat came nearer and nearer.

Then came exclamations, hugs and kisses, intermingled with the quick vivacious chattering of the boatmen bargaining over their fares. A perfect Babel of sound! Several passengers were landing—so a harvest was being reaped by these small craft.

The children clung to their parents, and Norah followed behind, feeling a little lonely, and out of it all—would there ever come a time of joy for her—a time when she too would be welcoming a dear one?—or should she just have to go on living the life of an outsider in other people's lives—having no joys or sorrows of her own, she who might have been so blessed and so happy? How long those five years had seemed, a lifetime in themselves, since she had last heard her husband's voice! Well, he had not come, that was clear.

That evening as Norah was preparing to go to bed, a knock came to her door, and Mrs. Somerset came in.

"I thought I might come in, Norah dear; I wanted to tell you how pleased my husband and I are with the improvement in the children, they look so well, and are so much more obedient. You have managed them very well, and we are very grateful," and Mrs. Somerset bent forward and kissed her. "Now, dear, we want you to accept a small present from us—it is very commonplace—but there is little variety where we are stationed."

Norah undid the cedar box put into her hand and drew out a most lovely gold bracelet of Indian workmanship.

"Oh, how very good of you, it is far too pretty!" she exclaimed, returning Mrs. Somerset's embrace. "But, indeed, I have only done my duty by the children: they are very good, and I love them dearly."

"Well, dear, I hope you will long remain with them—and yet—I cannot wish it for your sake, for I wish a greater happiness for you. You remember when you first came to me, telling me your history, Norah, and begging me never to refer to it? Well, I have never done so, but to-night I must break my promise, as I think I ought to tell you that I have actually met Captain Wylie, though he did not know who I was."

Norah's colour came and went; she said nothing, only fixed her eyes on Mrs. Somerset in speechless attention, while a tremor ran through her being.

"Now, dear, listen to me; I believe you will see him in Gibraltar very soon. You know we were to have come here in the Minerva, which is actually in port in Malta now, but as she is detained there for some slight repairs, we did not wait for her. I went on board the Minerva with my husband, who had business with the captain—and there he was. The captain introduced us. When he heard I was a native of the 'Rock,' he became quite eager, and asked me many questions about the different families living there, and told me he intended staying a few days here on his way to England. He was standing looking so sad when we came on board, looking out to sea, and he brightened up so when he spoke of Gibraltar. But, dear child, don't cry, you should rejoice."

For Norah had broken down and was weeping bitterly, uncontrollably. She could not speak, she only raised Mrs. Somerset's hand to her lips. The latter saw she was best alone, and was wise enough to leave her.

"Oh Edgar! Edgar!" was the cry of her heart. "Shall I ever really see you? Can you forgive me?"

Just about the same time as Norah Wylie was weeping in her room, her heart torn asunder with hopes and fears, her husband was again pacing the deck of the Minerva. They had sailed from Malta the previous day, but owing to fogs, which had checked their progress, were hardly out of sight of land.

Captain Wylie's thoughts as he passed up and down were evidently of a serious nature. For the first time in his life he had began to think seriously of religious things. Ever since the death of the young Highlander, Kenneth McGregor, he had had deep heart-searchings. Besides, another event had occurred that had cast a shadow over the whole ship, so sudden and so awful had it been.

[Sidenote: "In Spite of the Doctor"]

Mr. Grossman had made a wonderful recovery. Contrary to all explanations, he was apparently almost well. It was his constant boast that he had recovered "in spite of the doctor."

One evening dinner was going on, and Herr Grossman, who was still on diet, and did not take all the courses, got up and declared that he would go on deck. It was misty and raining a little. He sent for his great coat and umbrella, and as his valet helped him on with his coat, the doctor called out to him:

"Don't stay up long in the damp."

"Oh, I'll be down directly," he had answered. "I've no wish to lay myself up again."

The company at table fell into talk, and it was some time before they dispersed.

"It is time Mr. Grossman was down," said the doctor; "did you see him, steward?"

"I saw him near an hour ago, sir, he stopped on his way up to light his cigar at the tinder lamp on the stairs."

The doctor went up, but no Herr Grossman was to be seen. He and others hunted all over the ship. At last a sort of panic prevailed. Where was he? What had happened? The ship was stopped and boats lowered. Captain Wylie was one of those who volunteered to go with the search party. Clouds of mist hung over the sea, and although lanterns were held aloft, nothing was visible.

The search was in vain. No one ever knew precisely what had happened, nor would know. Whether a sudden giddiness seized him, or whether he leaned too far forward, misled by the fog which makes things look so different; certain it is that he had disappeared—not even his umbrella was found.

No one slept that night; a great awe had settled down over the whole ship.

The next day a furious gale sprang up. Captain Wylie, who was an old sailor, crawled up on deck; he was used to roughing it, and the waves dashing over him as they swept the deck had an invigorating effect.

"We ought to be in this afternoon," shouted the captain, as he passed, "but the propeller has come to grief; you see we are not moving, and hard enough it will be to fix the other in in such weather," and he looked anxiously around. The wind almost blew his words away.

Captain Wylie then perceived that they were in the trough of the sea, helplessly tossed about, while the waves were mounting high, and any moment the engine fires might be extinguished. Should that happen, indeed they would be in a bad strait.

With difficulty he made his way to where the men were vainly trying to fix the monster screw. Each time they thought they had it in place, the heavy sea shifted it, and the men were knocked down in their attempts. Captain Wylie willingly gave a hand, and after a long time, so it seemed to the weary men, the screw was in its place, and doing its work.

The brave ship battled on. Already in the far distance the great "Rock" was visible, and the young soldier's heart turned passionately to her whom he loved.

And now a fresh disaster had arisen; the steam steering-gear had come to grief, and the old, long-neglected wheel had to be brought into use. It had not been used for years, and though constantly cleaned and kept in order, the salt water had been washing over it now for hours, and it was very hard to turn. The question now was, should they remain in the open sea, or venture into the harbour?

A discussion on the subject was taking place between the captain and the first mate. The steering-gear did not seem to do its work properly, and the captain anxiously kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, as they were drawn irresistibly nearer and nearer to the harbour. "It is the men-of-war I dread coming near," the captain was saying to his mates; "those deadly rams are a terror in this weather."

[Sidenote: A Critical Moment]

It was a critical moment. Darkness was coming down, the rain became more violent, the wind cold and cutting, with now and then fierce showers of hail.

On, on they were being driven; nothing could keep them back. The captain shouted orders, the men did their best, but the wheel did not work properly. Captain Wylie as he stood near, holding on while the waves dashed over him, saw the lights twinkling in the town, and felt that the cup of happiness so near might now at any moment be dashed from his lips.

The danger was clear to all, nearer and nearer they drew. "Out with the life-belts!" shouted the captain; "lower the boats!"

There was no time to be lost, faster and faster they were being driven into the harbour.

Captain Wylie rushed downstairs; and here confusion and terror reigned, for bad news travels fast, and a panic had seized the poor fellows who were still weak from recent illness. They were dragging themselves out of their berths.

"Get her ready, here are two belts," he cried, and, throwing them to Mr. Cameron, he hurried to the assistance of the invalids. All were soon provided with belts. A wonderful calm succeeded to the confusion, and great self-control was exercised.

"Courage!" cried the young soldier; "remember we are close to shore. If you can keep your heads above water you will speedily be rescued." The one frail woman was as calm as any.

It came at last! A crash, a gurgling sound of rushing water, a ripping, rasping noise.

"Up on deck," shouted Captain Wylie, as seizing the one helpless invalid in his arms, he hastened on deck. An awful scene met the eye. What the ship's captain feared had indeed come true!

The boats were soon freighted and pushed off.

* * * * *

While this terrible scene was taking place, anxious eyes were taking it all in from the shore.

Early that day the Minerva had been signalled, and Norah with her heart in her mouth had watched almost all day from the veranda, scanning the sea with a pair of binoculars. Mrs. Somerset kept the children entirely, knowing well what her poor young governess was going through.

[Sidenote: A Weary Night]

The storm had raged fiercely all day, but as night came on it grew worse. Norah could remain no longer in the house, and had gone down to the quay. As she reached it she saw a large ship driving furiously forward to its doom. There she stood as though turned to stone, and was not aware of a voice speaking in her ear, and a hand drawing her away.

"This is no place for you, Mrs. Wylie; my wife sent me for you. You can do no good here; you will learn what there is to learn quicker at home—one can't believe a word they say."

Her agony was too great for words or tears. She had gone through so much all those years, and now happiness had seemed so near, she had believed it might even yet be in store for her since Mrs. Somerset had spoken to her on the subject, and now? . . . She let herself be led into the house, and when Mrs. Somerset ran to meet her and clasp her in her arms, it was as if she grasped a statue, so cold and lifeless was Norah.

"She is stunned," the major said; "she is exhausted."

Mechanically she let herself be covered up and put on the sofa, her feet chafed by kind hands—it gave a vague sense of comfort, though all the time she felt as if it were being done to some one else.

And yet had Norah only known, grief would have been turned into thanksgiving. Her husband was not dead.

The weary night came to an end at last, as such nights do. Several times Mrs. Somerset had crept in. They had been unable to gather any reliable news about the Minerva's passengers. The ship had gone down, but whether the people had been saved they had been unable as yet to ascertain.

A glorious sunrise succeeded a night of storm and terror, and its crimson beams came in on Norah. Hastily rising, and throwing on her hat and jacket she ran out into the morning freshness longing to feel the cool air.

She only wanted to get away from herself.

She climbed the steep ascent up the "Rock," past the governor's house, then stood and gazed at this wonderful scene.

And she stood thus, wrapped up in sad thoughts and anticipations of evil, a great, great joy lay very near her.

Edgar Wylie had thrown himself into the sea, and lost consciousness from the effects of a blow. Several boats had braved the furious sea, and come out to save the unfortunate people if possible.

Thus it was that he was picked up, as well as a young fellow he had risked his life to save.

When he came to himself, he found he had been brought to the nearest hotel, and a doctor was in attendance. There was, however, nothing really the matter with him. He had, it is true, been stunned by the sharp spar that had come in contact with his head, but no real injury had been done.

A good night's rest had restored him to himself. He woke early the following morning, and rising went out to breathe the fresh pure air.

Thus it came to pass that the husband and wife were passing each other in their morning walk, and they did not know it.

And yet, as his tall figure passed her, a thrill of memory went through her, a something in the walk reminded her of her husband.

Both had arrived at the supreme crisis of their lives, and yet they might never have met, but for a small incident, and a rather funny one.

Norah had taken off her hat and had laid it carelessly beside her on the low wall on which she was leaning, when she became aware of some one taking possession of it, and looking round she saw the impudent face of a monkey disappearing with it up the steep side of the "Rock."

She had no energy to recover it, and was standing helplessly watching his movements when she saw the stranger who had passed her set off in pursuit of the truant.

She soon lost sight of him, and had again sunk into a reverie when a voice said: "Here is your hat; I have rescued it. I think it is none the worse for this adventure."

Oh, that voice! Norah's heart stood still, she was stunned and could not believe that she heard aright. Was she dreaming? "The rascal was caught by one of the sentries, evidently he is quite at home with them, and the soldier on duty coaxed it from him."

Then Norah turned, there was no longer room for doubt, her eyes were riveted on the grey ones fixed on her.

[Sidenote: "You are not Dead!"]

"Then you are not dead," was the thought that flashed through her mind. Her tongue was dry and parched; her heart, which had seemed to stop, bounded forward, as though it must burst its bonds.

"Oh, Edgar!" she cried, losing all self-command; "oh, if it is you, forgive me, don't leave me. Don't let me wake and find it a dream!"

A strange whizzing and whirling came over her, and then she felt herself held securely by a strong arm and a face was bent to hers. When she recovered herself somewhat, she found that she was seated on a bank, supported by her husband.

It was his voice that said in the old fond tones: "Oh, Norah, my Norah, we are together again, never, never more to part. Forgive me, darling, for all I have made you suffer in the past."

"Forgive you! Oh, Edgar! Will you forgive me?"

The sun rose higher, and sounds of everyday life filled the air, drawing those two into the practical everyday world, out of the sunny paradise in which they had been basking while Norah sat leaning against that strong true heart that all these years had beat only for her.



[Sidenote: The story of a simple Irish girl, a sorrow, and a disillusion.]

The Queen of Connemara

BY

FLORENCE MOON

The mountains of Connemara stretched bare and desolate beneath the November sky.

Down the bleak mountain side, with his broad-leaved caubeen (peasant's hat) pulled well over his face, tramped a tall young countryman, clad in a stout frieze coat. His was an honest face, with broad, square brow, eyes of speedwell-blue that looked steadfast and fearless, and a mouth and chin expressive both of strength and sweetness.

Dermot O'Malley was the only son of Patrick and Honor O'Malley, who dwelt in a little white-washed farmhouse near the foot of the mountain. His father tilled a few acres of land—poor stony ground, out of which he contrived to keep his family and to save a little besides.

The little patch surrounding the farmhouse was, in its proper season, gay with oats and barley, while potatoes and cabbage, the staple food of the peasant, flourished in plenty. With such a desirable home, such a "likeable" face, and steady, upright character, it was no wonder that Dermot O'Malley was the object of much admiration among the people of the mountains, and several scheming parents had offered their daughters and their "fortunes" to him through the medium of his father, according to the custom of the country.