"Don't cry so!" he said gently, and he found it hard to keep his own voice steady. "Don't cry so, poor old girl. God knows where she is and He'll take care of her. I keep on saying that to myself, for I know He will."

"If only I had told them all about Cecil, it would not have been so bad," sobbed Gertrude.

And Conway could not answer. He only patted her shoulder kindly and went upstairs to find his mother.

The days dragged along their weary hours after that and no news came of Maud.

The Broughams felt as if an earthquake had come into their lives, leaving them all uprooted; as if nothing could let them settle down to the old routine of life till Maud came back, and without even putting it into words to each other, they all looked drearily forward into days and weeks and months and years, and pictured Maud as never coming back, but growing up somewhere, somehow, with somebody. Truly it was worse than death.

Gladly would they have pulled down their blinds and darkened the house and put on mourning.

When Jerry died, it had not been like this. They wept and sorrowed for him, but they laid him to rest in sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection. He was safe. It was the uncertainty of Maud's fate, her surroundings, her associates, the awful uncertainty of everything concerning her, that made this trial so unbearable, that it seemed to every one of them that they could not bear it for another day.

Yet God knew. The only comfort they had, came to them in that thought.

Their friends were kindness itself; every sort of sympathy, except the sympathy of flowers, was offered them. Special prayer was made in church for those who were "any ways afflicted or distressed," for the story was in every one's mouth, and mothers with little children guarded them jealously, and thought of what they would feel if one of them was taken from them as Maud had been.

But outside of her own home no sympathy was shown to Gertrude.

The place rang with her name. Mrs. Parsons had gone about with her story of the handsome young man in the down train, the meeting with whom Gertrude had not even allowed her little sister to witness, and the stories grew and grew on that foundation, till every picnic or tennis party that Gertrude had attended that summer, was transformed into a separate flirtation or supplied an anecdote to Gertrude's disadvantage.

She had rejoiced at knowing everybody in Old Keston who was worth knowing, but now she wished sadly that she was utterly unknown. She felt that she was pointed at and whispered about, as "the girl that lost her little sister."

Pauline Stacey gathered up all the stories and recounted them to Gertrude with an apologetic air that meant nothing, but covered her real enjoyment in the telling of the gossip, and Gertrude had not the heart to stop her.

After all, what did it matter? Perhaps it was best to know the worst that was being said. No one could blame her more than she blamed herself; she had lost little Maud through meeting Cecil Greyburne and she had done it secretly. Only she hoped that all these other false stories would not reach her home people's ears.

And not one friend of hers had offered her any sympathy. She felt it keenly. Even Pauline only troubled to see her when she had some fresh tale to relate. Cecil had written his sympathy to Denys and had ignored Gertrude, not even sending her a message, for Gertrude had seen the letter.

The rich American had not referred to it when he answered Pauline's letter in which she told him all about Maud, unless his remark that he should not be back in Old Keston after all, could be taken as a reference. Nor had he written a line of condolence to Gertrude, as she had half hoped he would.

And Reggie did not know anything about it. He had sent an immediate and cheerful response to her belated birthday letter, but not having written to him for so long in her sunny days of popularity, she was too proud to do so now, when she was in sorrow.

Yet she watched for a letter from him, hoping that Charlie would write to him and tell him of their trouble, and if he once heard of it, Gertrude knew that a letter would come by return of post.

But none came. Charlie did not write to Reggie. How could he do so without attaching blame to Gertrude?

These were days of darkness, but in them Pattie shone out like gold. She waited on them all with love and patience, she kept the meals regular and the rooms nicely dusted, and she attended to all the little duties that no one seemed to think of now-a-days.

It was she who received Maud's empty chair from the station-clerk, and hid it away that it might bring no fresh pang of sorrow to any heart. It was she who unostentatiously and without fuss, quietly laid by the child's toys and clothes, for she truly guessed that to Denys or Mrs. Brougham, to do so would be like saying a long farewell to their darling, and yet to see them lying here and there, was a constant reminder of her loss.

Though the two things seemed to have no connection with one another, after the day that Maud was lost, Pattie gave up going out with Sam Willard.

She said, when he remonstrated with her, that she had no heart now for palavering and he had better find someone who was free and happy. For herself, she could think of nothing but how to find little Maud again.

"Then you'll be an old maid," said Sam crossly, "whoever's taken the child has taken her a-purpose, and they won't run no risks in returning her. You'll be an old maid if you throw away all your chances like this."

"Very well!" answered Pattie firmly, "then I'll be an old maid and a good-tempered one too. I won't be like some cross-grained bachelors I know, so there!"



CHAPTER XXI.

THE HIDING-PLACE.

Jane did not feel the least shade of regret or fear when she took Maud home.

There was no one there, of course, for Jim was at work still and Harry and the baby were at the Nursery. Jane gave Maud some bread and jam and a mug of milk and sat down to think over the situation.

Harry had made his appearance in the house and street without occasioning the least remark or surprise. They made no apologies for him, no explanations beyond the one that he was Jim's nephew.

This was her niece. That was all the difference. With no mystery and no explanations she felt perfectly secure. She would act exactly as she had done when Harry came. There was only one thing necessary for protection. The colour of the child's hair should be brown and her white dress and sun hat should be pink!

"What's your name, child?" she said abruptly.

Maud looked up startled.

"I'm Maudie," she said piteously, her blue eyes filling with tears, "I don't like being here. I want to go home to my mother."

She struggled out of her chair, and prepared to depart, but Jane lifted her back rather roughly and spoke sharply.

"Look here," she said, "you've got to be a good girl and do what Aunt Jane tells you, and if you are a good girl and don't cry, you shall go home to-morrow; but if you cry, you shan't!"

She bustled over to a cupboard and began rummaging, bringing out presently a ball of pink Dolly dye and a little bottle of deep-red crystals, while poor little Maud choked back her tears as best she could. Her short experience of life had brought prompt fulfilment of promises, and she watched Jane quite interestedly, as she threw a few crystals into a basin, poured boiling water on them, and produced a lovely crimson liquid.

Jane then tied a towel round the child's neck.

"I'm going to make you some lovely curls," she announced, unconsciously using one of Denys's constant formulas, and in a moment Maud's golden head was sopped all over with the crimson liquid, and after it was dried on the towel, she emerged with fluffy brown curls and streaks of brown upon her face. That defect was soon remedied, and the brown stain travelled all over her face and neck till the clear white skin had disappeared, and she looked like all the other little sun-browned children who ran about in the street below.

Jane surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction; then she rapidly undressed her new charge, put her into one of Harry's nightdresses, tucked her up into Harry's bed, and turned her attention to the frock and hat, and when they were hanging on the line, pink and damp, she cleared up the room and wished Jim would make haste and come home. She wanted to get her explanations to him over before she fetched Harry and the baby.

But no Jim came, and at last she went downstairs and knocked at a neighbour's door.

"I say," she said, "I wish you'd fetch my baby and the brat from the Nursery for me. My husband's not in yet, and I've brought my sister's child home along of me for a few days, and he don't know a word about it. If he was to come in while I was out, he might be putting the child outside in the street."

"I'll go," said the woman carelessly. "My word, Jane Adams, but I thought you hated children!"

"So I do!" answered Jane fiercely, "but he would have his sister's, now it's my turn for my sister's!"

As she turned up the stairs her own words came back to her with a sudden qualm. Her sister's child! What about Tom?

He would know that this was not his sister's child—he might even know whose child it was, for he must probably have seen it with Pattie!

But even as the disquieting thought came, a reassuring one followed. Tom was gone away for a month on a special job for his master, and long before that time had elapsed, Pattie would be dismissed and the child could be returned.

Jim did not come home till very late, and when he did, he was more than half intoxicated, and he accepted Jane's story without demur, indeed he scarcely listened to what she said; and as the little girl was still asleep when he went to work in the morning, he really had no idea that there was any addition to his family circle.

Harry was enchanted with a playmate so pretty, so gentle, so near his own age. He wanted to take her to walk in the street to show her off, but Jane promptly boxed his ears and forbade any such thing, on pain of terrific wrath, so Harry contented himself with offering her every toy he possessed, and Maud accepted his attentions like a little queen, and was really quite happy, except when she thought of her mother or Denys. But always there was the same answer to her pleadings to go home.

"To-morrow—to-morrow—if you don't cry."

So the days passed on. Each day Jim drank more and more heavily as he ceased to resist the temptation, and it took stronger hold upon him, and each day Jane grew a little more restless and anxious as she waited for news of Pattie's downfall. She had counted on going over to Old Keston, ostensibly to see her sister and the new baby, but really to pick up any gossip she could about Pattie; but though night after night she made up her mind to go the next day, yet in the morning her heart failed her. The chance of recognition was possible, and to take Maud through the streets to the Nursery, in the glare of the morning sunshine, seemed to be courting discovery. Nor did she dare to leave the child at home alone, because of the neighbours. She would have left Harry alone with the utmost indifference, and locked him in, and he might have been frightened and screamed and cried all day, for all she would have cared, and the neighbours could have made any remarks they liked; but this was different.

She was certainly beginning to be nervous, and she took more beer than she had ever taken before, because she felt so much more cheerful for a little while, and when the inevitable depression it caused, returned, why then she took some more!

As her neighbour had remarked, she hated children, and she became so unutterably wearied of the care of these three all day and every day, that she began to wish she had never troubled about paying Pattie out, or chosen some way which had not entailed the plague of three children upon herself.

Still, she had triumphed; she had had her vengeance. The thought was very sweet, and the bother to herself would soon be over now. Indeed, it must be, or Tom would be coming back.

One Saturday had already passed, since Maud came, and on the second Saturday three things happened. News of Pattie came to her. Wrapped round a haddock which she had purchased for dinner, was a crumpled piece of newspaper. The name upon it, "Old Keston Gazette," caught her eye instantly. She turned it over and glanced down its columns, and her eyes rested on one, and a look and a smile of triumph flashed into her face.

But as she read, her look changed, a deep and angry flush mounted to her forehead and spread to her neck. In a sudden transport of rage, she crumpled up the paper into a ball, cast it upon the floor and trampled on it, and then stooping, she picked it up and thrust it into the fire.

She had failed—she had been deceived—tricked—foiled. All her efforts had been in vain! Pattie had escaped from her toils scot-free. Pattie had never gone to the station at all. She had stolen the child from one of its own sisters! She had risked so much for that! She could have shrieked in her impotent anger.

Turning, she met the wondering gaze of the two children, who had stopped in their play to watch her. She gave them both a smart box on the ears, and then, further enraged when they both began to cry, she seized them roughly and thrust them into the bedroom. She would gladly have smacked her own baby, only that he happened to be asleep.

The second happening was a postcard in the afternoon, from the maid who lived where she used to wash in Old Keston. Her mistress was away, she said; the new washerwoman had not put in an appearance and if Mrs. Adams was not engaged on Monday, would she come and oblige?

Mrs. Adams was not engaged. She thought things over and she decided to go. Not by her usual trains, however. Something must be devised about ridding herself of Maud. She was sick of seeing after the child and she found herself listening to every heavy footstep on the stairs. She would go over late on Monday morning, and returning by a later train, could observe the movements of the St. Olave's household when the dusk fell. She must do something or Tom would be back.

The third happening came late at night.

As might have been expected, Jim came home at last with very little money in his pocket.

He threw over to Jane her usual housekeeping money and growled out that he had not got any extra for Harry this week. She must make do without it. A child like that couldn't cost much, anyhow!

That put the finishing touch to Jane's day. She stormed and raved, she called her husband names, she threatened all sorts of things, but as Jim observed, hard words would not draw blood out of a stone, and he sat there stolidly smoking and listening to the torrent of words, till suddenly his patience gave way all at once, and he declared that if he heard another word, he would take the money back and do the housekeeping himself.

That would have suited Jane very ill, and it sobered her somewhat, and when Jim added that if they were all going short of food next week, she had better send that kid of her sister's home, she became quite silent. It occurred to her that it might be well not to push Jim too hard till the child was safely gone. After that she would have a free hand.

She maintained a sulky silence all Sunday, but Jim took no notice of her. He went out directly after breakfast, taking Harry with him, and they did not return till late at night.

On Monday morning she announced that she was going to work, and demanded the money for the Nursery for Harry, which Jim had always paid cheerfully, but now he only retorted that he had no more money, and went angrily out, apparently heedless of her reply that if he did not pay, Harry could stop at home. For a full minute Jim stood outside on the landing, his hand in his pocket, irresolute. He was quite unaware that the Nursery charge was fivepence for one child, eightpence for two, and tenpence for three, and that Jane had pocketed any benefit which arose from sending more than one. He had sixpence to last him through Monday, but if he left fivepence of that for the Nursery, he would have but one penny for beer!

Yesterday his heart had turned away from his temptation to the fair, innocent little chap that he meant to be a father to, and he had taken him out all day, and had never touched one drop of intoxicating beverage, contenting himself, and very happily too, with iced lemonade and soda water and coffee.

But this morning was different. The cruel trick of his mates rose up in his mind and held him back from trying again. Then he had no coffee ready for dinner, even if he meant to begin again, and it would not hurt the boy to be left at home alone. Still he hesitated, conscious that he was weighing two loves—the child's welfare; his own desire.

And his own desire conquered.

He went quietly downstairs and out to his work, and Jane dressed the baby and Maud, and took them down to her obliging neighbour.

"Take these two down to the Nursery for me," she said, "I've to go back to my old work to-day."

Poor little Harry! He stood forlornly in the middle of the empty room, listening to the sound of the key turning in the lock, listening to the sound of his aunt's retreating footsteps.

Then he thought of the happy Nursery where Maud and Baby had gone; he thought of his place at the head of the long dinner-table that somebody else would have this Monday, and he sat down in a heap on the floor and cried.

Presently he got up and looked about for something to do. His dinner stood on the table, and he thought he might as well eat it now, and when that was disposed of, he strolled into the bedroom, and there he spied the corner of the box that held his best frock, sticking out from under the bed.

Now was his chance! He would have his own again, his bright penny and his bestest pocket-handkerchief with lace upon it.

But the box stuck fast.

Nothing daunted, Harry wrestled with it. He pushed and pulled, under the bed and behind the bed, this way and that, till suddenly, as he pulled, the obstruction which held it gave way, the box came out with a run, and Harry toppled over backwards with a crash, and an awful sound of breaking china, and a rushing of cold water.

For a moment Harry lay there stunned, the broken toilet jug lying in shivers around him, the water soaking into him from head to foot; then, as he came to himself, his startled screams filled the room and he struggled up and sat looking round.

He was more frightened than hurt, but the sight of that broken jug terrified him more than the fall and the wetting. Wouldn't Aunt Jane whip him when she knew!

There was great tenacity in Harry's character. He gathered himself up at last, and opened the box and found his frock and its pocket and its precious contents. He looked at the frock a long time lovingly, then he replaced it, pushed back the box, set the bed straight and gave an involuntary shiver.

He was soaked from head to foot, and though it was summer weather, he felt very, very cold.

He sat down by the empty fireplace and shivered again, and by-and-by he fell fast asleep and dreamed strange dreams, but always he was very, very cold.



CHAPTER XXII.

OUT OF THE NORTH.

In the stillness of a quiet summer evening, when the darkness had fallen and the stars looked down from a far sky, and the soft moonbeams shone silvery on dark trees and velvet lawns, John Gray, Bank Manager, knelt at an open window, his arms resting on the sill, his face turned skywards.

In the silence, in the stillness of that summer night, the great battle of his life was being fought out beneath the stars.

Backwards and forwards raged the battle. Thoughts of what he must give up if he turned his back on this temptation and did not satisfy his desire for strong drink; the friends who would flaunt him; the friends who would pity him for his weakness in yielding to the influence of abstaining noodles; the friends who would smile and bid one another wait a bit, and John Gray would be taking his glass with them again; the awful haunting fear that they were right, that he would only make himself ridiculous and never hold out; all these things seemed ranged on one side against him, and on the other side what was there?

His wife Elaine. She had promised to help him, for them to start together, to turn out of their home and their entertaining all intoxicating beverages, to stand side by side in their social circle and be abstainers. Then there was Reggie. He was helping already. Not ostentatiously, not in a burdensome way. Only just a cycle ride here and there, or a walk, or a concert, or an hour on the church organ, when Reggie would blow and Mr. Gray, who was musical, would play as nobody in the town, not excepting the organist, could play. Or a game of chess in Mrs. Gray's drawing-room, while Elaine played or sang to them and served them with delicious coffee.

There were other friends too—friends who had been shy of him and Elaine lately, but who had once been pleasant, intellectual friends, and who would be friends again if things were different.

All these were on the other side.

But he knew, and his head dropped upon his folded arms with a groan—he knew that none of these things would keep him from satisfying his desire; that they could give him no strength to resist.

They might indeed claim his attention for a little while, but surely, as those smiling friends predicted, he would drift back to the old temptation.

There were real tears of shame and mortification in his eyes, as he lifted them to the sky once more. Oh! if he could only begin again; if he had only been brought up as an abstainer, as children were brought up now-a-days; if he had only taken his stand that side, as a young man, like companions of his own youth had done; if only he had been born strong and not with this weakness.

But all such regrets were unavailing. He knelt there in the moonlight what he was, what he had been made, what he had made himself, and there was something in him that told him that to-night was a deciding point in his life.

And to drift needed no strength, no anything. Only just to get up from his knees and to go upstairs to bed, and to wake again to the old life in the morning.

But the very fact that he was kneeling came to his mind to remind him, and the quiet sky above him spoke to him of strength and peace, and suddenly he bowed his head upon the sill.

"Oh, God, what shall I do?" he moaned. And softly, a voice out of the past—his sweet old grandmother's voice—came to him with words he had never heard or heeded, since she taught them to him in his childhood.

"While we were yet without strength, in due time Christ died for the ungodly."

Without strength—the ungodly. That was himself, and for him Christ died!

The dawn was creeping up the eastern sky when John Gray softly closed the window and went upstairs, and there was the dawn of hope in his heart too, for in his life the Sun of Righteousness had risen with healing in His wings.

It was the next day after this that Reggie Alston received a letter with the Old Keston post-mark, but after the first glance he laid it down indifferently. It was not from Gertrude.

After her birthday letter he had expected another pretty soon, because it had been like her old letters and she had apologised for its brevity, but none had come.

This was only from his aunt. She might, however, mention Gertrude! He opened it and glanced at the opening words. When was she to expect him for his holidays?

He sighed as he thought how long it was till the end of September, when he was to have his holiday. He had so hoped it would be arranged during the school vacation, but it had not been.

He turned the page of his aunt's epistle and then his face changed from listlessness to keen interest.

"I think," wrote his aunt, "that you cannot have heard that little Maud Brougham has been stolen. I thought Gertrude would of course write you all about it, but you did not mention it in your last letter to me, and perhaps, as Gertrude was to blame, she has not liked to write."

And then his aunt proceeded to tell Reggie all the story, and all the stories that had grown upon it. Perhaps in her delight in having so interesting a tale to tell, she forgot what such a story might mean to Reggie, for he had never made any secret of his whole-hearted devotion to Gertrude, but certainly she did not spare Gertrude, and to do Reggie's aunt justice, she fully believed most of the stories of flirtation and coquetry.

Gertrude had been very little to see her of late, and in the light of these tales, she naturally put her own interpretation on the neglect.

Reggie slept very little that night, and it was with a very pale face that he knocked at Mr. Gray's private door in the morning.

"Are you ill?" asked the Manager kindly.

Reggie shook his head with a faint smile.

"Mr. Gray," he said, "you know my holiday is a fortnight in the end of September. Could you possibly make an exception for me and let me have four days now, and give up September entirely?"

"My dear boy! it would not be at all good for you. What's the matter? Anybody at home ill?"

"No! I've only an aunt."

"Is it the one and only girl in all the world?"

Reggie nodded, and a deep flush swept over his face. "She's in trouble. Her little sister has been stolen," he said, feeling some explanation was due.

"Does she care for you?"

"No, I don't think so," said Reggie sadly, "but I should like to go. It's all I can do, and it doesn't matter about my part of it, any way."

"You shall go!" said the Manager quietly. "You shall go by to-night's mail. Perhaps things will be better than you fear. You'll be in London this time to-morrow morning."



CHAPTER XXIII.

THE MEETING OF THE WAYS.

Jim could not forget Harry all day. The hours seemed to drag, and again and again he caught himself wondering if the time seemed as long to the little prisoner, shut within his four walls, with no one to speak to. He determined to go home immediately after his work and take the child for a tram-ride. Even his dinner beer tasted bitter to him to-day, and when he left his work and turned his steps homewards he still had fourpence of his precious sixpence left, wherewith to pay the tram fare.

He was annoyed to find that Jane had not returned, and that there was no supper ready; but he ate what he could find and made a cup of tea.

"I'm going to take you on a tram, Harry," he said, laying his hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder. "Why, child!" he added in astonishment, "your coat's wet! What have you been doing?"

Harry's face clouded. He had forgotten the broken jug for a few minutes in the joy of his uncle's return.

"I broke aunt's jug," he said faintly, "and I all got wetted."

Jim got up and went to inspect the extent of the damage, and he whistled when he saw it.

"Aunt will whip me," said Harry mournfully.

"She'd better not!" said Jim fiercely; "it's my jug. I'll get another on Saturday. Come, let's get ready and be gone before she comes in."

He rubbed his hand over Harry again consideringly. His knickers had dried upon him, but his coat was still very damp.

"You ought to put something else on," said Jim. "What have you got?"

"There's my frock," cried Harry eagerly, "my little frock, what mother made. It's in that box."

Jim pulled out the box and helped Harry strip off the wet coat. The child gave a little shiver, but Jim scarcely noticed it then. He was in a hurry to be off, and in a minute Harry was arrayed in the frock over the knickers, and the two went downstairs hand in hand, just as they had come at Easter-time.

It was a pleasant evening, but the wind was fresh, and all there was of it met them on the top of the tram; but no thought of danger crossed Jim's mind. Harry was very happy and quite ready to chatter after his long day of enforced silence, and though by and by he became very quiet, Jim thought he was tired and took him on his knee, where he fell asleep.

But all night long he tossed and moaned, and when the morning came, instead of being awake with the birds, he lay heavily asleep, with flushed cheeks and quick drawn breath.

Jim stood looking down on him with a frown. Then he made himself some coffee for dinner and went over for another look at the child.

"Jane," he said sharply, "I believe that child has got a cold. Don't you let him go out of the room to-day, and you stop in and mind him. D'you hear me?" he repeated, as Jane made no reply. "You're to stop in and mind the child. No going out to work or to gossip."

"I've arranged to go to Old Keston," said Jane shortly. "He's all right, and he can go to the Nursery."

"He's not to leave the room; and work or no work, you're going to stop and see to him. Look here, Jane!" Jim went on sternly, "I'm master here, though you seemed to forget it when you brought your sister's child, without asking me if it was welcome. You've had a good bit of your own way, but this time it's going to be my way."

Jane had grown a little pale.

"Oh, all right," she said crossly. "What a fuss!"

She had settled everything in her own mind for taking Maud back that very evening, but after all, one day was as good as another, and if Jim should once begin on the subject of Maud, who could tell what he might ferret out? He might even insist on himself taking Maud back to her supposed mother and baby sister, and then what would happen? And it would be of no use to keep back her sister's address from him, for there was always Tom.

She made Harry get up, and he played listlessly with Maud, or fell asleep on the floor in the midst of the toys; and by evening time even Jane's careless eyes could see that the child was really ill.

Jim saw it too, and he went straight out again and left word at the nearest doctor's house, for the doctor to come at once. But the doctor was a busy man, and it was very late when at last he came and stood looking down on Harry's flushed little face. He asked a good many questions, and then made his examination.

Jim watched him keenly, and somehow his heart sank down and down and down.

"Is he very bad?" he asked at last, huskily.

The doctor turned away from the little bed and looked at the fine, tall young fellow before him.

"I understand he isn't your child?"

Jim shook his head. "He's my dead sister's child, and his father's dead too. He belongs to me now, and I'd do anything for him. He's not very bad, is he, doctor?"

"He's going to join them," said the doctor abruptly. "There's not the slightest hope—at least, I think not—but I'll do my best. He's got cold in every bit of him."

Jim groaned. Oh! to have that last fateful Monday back again—to live over again these last weeks of self-indulgence. And now it was too late—too late!

But the doctor was pouring out medicines and directions, and this was no time for vain regrets.

"You'll sit up with him," he said, and he looked directly at Jim; "and," he glanced at Jane this time, "I'll send the nurse. She'll set you going and look in the first thing in the morning."

But there was no need. When, having seen the gravity of the case, the nurse knocked gently at Jim's door, before six o'clock in the morning, the little life had fled, and Jim was kneeling broken-hearted by the little bed, Harry's sweet face still pillowed on his shoulder. A soft smile lingered on the little lips and he seemed asleep, but Jim and the nurse knew better.

He was dead.

As Tom had said, Jesus had got the beautiful home ready, and He had sent for Harry.

* * * * *

It was on this same morning that, by the first post, Denys received a letter from Mixham.

She tore it open eagerly, for any letter nowadays might bring news of Maud, but she laid it down again listlessly.

"Oh dear!" she said, "that is from old Mrs. Richardson. Her daughter has got married and gone away, and she is so lonely, and she sits alone and cries all day, and she says that I have always cheered her up in all her sorrows and she wants me to go over to-day; and it is so bad for her eyes to cry because of her dressmaking, and when she has seen me she won't cry any more; but—oh dear! oh dear!" and Denys herself burst out crying, for her nerves had been very much shaken, "I can't go and comfort anybody. It would be no use my going for that!"

Yet after breakfast she sought out Mrs. Brougham.

"Mother," she said, "I think I'll go to Mrs. Richardson this afternoon. I'm afraid I'm getting selfish in my sorrow, and I'll go, too, and see little Harry Lyon, as I'm over there. I did go once, you know, but everybody was out. The neighbour said his aunt went out washing on Mondays, and Harry was sent to the Nursery. I think perhaps I ought to go."

"Do you?" said her mother with a sigh. "Well, I won't keep you, dear, but oh, do take Pattie with you, just for companionship. I shouldn't feel so anxious while you were gone."

"Oh, but the work," said Denys.

Gertrude looked up from the table where she was correcting exercises.

"I'll see to the work," she said. "I shall be at home all day. It's a pity for mother to feel anxious, and Pattie deserves a change. She's been awfully good to us."

Denys acquiesced, though she felt that Pattie's company was very unnecessary, and so, immediately after an early lunch, Pattie and Denys found themselves stepping out of the train at Mixham Junction.

"I think we'll go to see Harry first," said Denys. "Mrs. Richardson will want to give us tea and we must not be late."

Pattie followed obediently. Little Harry was but a name to her, for he came to brighten Tom's life after she had gone out of it, and she had never heard of Harry's connection with Jane Adams. She knew the road into which Denys turned, however, well enough, and when Denys stopped at the very house where Jane Adams lived, she only thought it was a queer coincidence, and wondered vaguely what she should do if she met Jane on the stairs.

Denys knocked at the first door in the entry, and asked if the Adams's were likely to be in, and which their room was.

She thought the woman looked at her curiously, as she gave her the number on the third floor.

"They're in," she said, with another of those curious looks; "they're in, 'cept the little girl and the baby. I took 'em to the Nursery to be out of the way."

Denys passed on and knocked softly at the door indicated, and Pattie followed trembling, for this was no coincidence—this was reality.

Jim himself opened the door, and when he saw Denys he drew back with a gasp.

"Is Harry at home?" she asked. "You said I might come and see him."

Jim tried to answer, but no words would come. He drew back for Denys to enter, however, and Pattie followed her timidly, and Jim closed the door softly behind them.

Once more he tried to speak—to explain—but Denys did not notice him. In the centre of the room, where the afternoon light fell full upon it, stood a child's crib, and on the white pillow lay the beautiful, familiar little face that had so won its way into her heart.

"Harry," she said softly, crossing the room quickly and longing to hear again the tones that were so like Jerry's, "Harry!"

Was he asleep? She bent over the crib, and then turned bewildered to Jim.

There was no need for words.

She stood a moment spellbound, looking down on the little peaceful face, with its lingering smile, and then she went round the crib and knelt down by the lowered side and softly kissed Harry's forehead and soft golden hair.

She had not seen Jerry's dead face nor kissed him for good-bye, and she knelt beside Harry and wept for them both.

She had completely forgotten Pattie, but after a while, as she wiped away her tears and listened to Jim's story of the child's illness, she became conscious that there was another man in the room, and that Pattie and he were conversing in low tones by the window. She glanced round for Harry's aunt, but there was no one else there; only sundry sounds of stirring about in an adjoining room suggested that she was not far off, but was not inclined to see company. So with one more long look, one more kiss on the fair, still face, Denys and Pattie at last took their leave, and set out for Mrs. Richardson's.

As they left the street, Pattie looked up in Denys's face with crimsoning cheeks.

"Miss Denys," she said shyly, "that was my Tom that was talking to me. He was there taking a photo of the little dead boy, for he loved him, Miss, and—and—him and me, we've made it up, Miss Denys! We've always loved each other all along."

* * * * *

The visit to Mrs. Richardson was over, and Denys and Pattie were once more on their homeward way, hurrying along the crowded streets and threading their way in and out of the bustling crowds, with no thought in their minds but of an accomplished task and a great anxiety not to lose their train.

They took little heed of the passers-by, but their eyes were both attracted at the same moment by a very tall, fine-looking young fellow who was coming towards them with a big, bouncing baby swung high upon his shoulder; even at a good distance they made a conspicuous couple as they came down the street.

"There's Jim Adams," said Denys and Pattie in the same breath.

Jim was walking very slowly, occasionally glancing down at the ground, but the people about him were too many to reveal at what he looked. Whether he caught sight of Denys and Pattie, and could not face speaking to them, or whether he never even saw them, Denys could not tell, but as they neared him, he stopped suddenly and looked into a shop window, showing the baby something that made it shout and crow with delight; but in one instant Denys forgot everything else in the world, but the strangeness of another sight that met her eyes.

She stood stock still in the centre of the pavement, gazing at a figure that was coming towards her.

The figure of a little, little girl, walking alone among the crowd, yet not of it. A little girl with brown, fluffy curls, turning to gold at the roots, crowned by a big white sailor hat with a black ribbon round it—a little girl dressed in a short black frock with a kilt and a sailor jacket; a little girl so like—ah! how many children had she seen lately so like little Maud! Then the child's blue eyes met hers, and, with a scream, Denys had sprung forward, and Maud—little lost Maud—was in her arms.

* * * * *

When Denys began once more to realise anything beyond the pressure of her arms round their lost treasure, she became conscious that a little crowd had gathered, and that Pattie was hurriedly explaining what had happened, and there was pity and sympathy in the listening faces around, so that Denys thought wonderingly how kind the world was.

"A cab!" she said, and she lifted her head as if she were but just awakened from a long and horrible dream. Oh! how glad she was to have Pattie with her!

With Maud still clasped in her arms, she and Pattie got into the cab, and as it rumbled off to the station, the little crowd that had gathered, thinned away and scattered, and Jim Adams and his baby went with it.

Jim had been to the Nursery to fetch the two children. It was upon little Maud, running beside him, that he had constantly glanced down. When he stopped to look into the shop window she had not observed it, but had trotted on among the crowd, and he, turning to see what had become of her, had seen the meeting between her and Denys. Thinking simply that the child knew Denys and loved her, as Harry did, he had drawn near to claim her, and had heard Pattie's hurried explanation, and hearing it, he had drawn further and further to the edge of the crowd.

But Maud had been too far from him, for any of the passing crowd to suspect that she belonged to him. He saw that in a moment, and he waited calmly in the background till Denys and Pattie and the child had driven away.

He understood it all, if no one else did.

So that was Jane's vengeance! That was what Jane could do!

The sooner he and Jane and the baby were out of Mixham the better! What was there to stay for? He hated the whole place. Perhaps he might begin again somewhere else.

He would try, and he would—yes, he would—ask God to help him this time. Tom said that was the only way to keep straight, to ask for God's strength.

And Tom and Pattie had made it up that very day, in Jane's own kitchen!



CHAPTER XXIV.

THE SUN SHINES OUT.

As Reggie opened the gate of St. Olave's and glanced up at the familiar ivy-encircled windows, he felt as if a dream that he had often seen before, had come again to him, and that he should only wake to find himself back in the dull little sitting-room in Scotland, trying to find an uneasy rest on the horsehair sofa.

Mrs. Brougham was sitting in the bow-window; she always sat there nowadays, and there was reality enough in her pale, weary face. Almost the first smile that had lightened it since Maud had disappeared, came to it when she saw Reggie.

"Oh, Reggie!" she exclaimed.

Reggie came to the open window and leaned on the sill.

"Well, mother," he said, lifting up his face to kiss her. He had always called her mother and kissed her, since the days when he had worn knickers and been Gertrude's chum. "Well, mother, aren't you surprised to see me?"

"Very," she said, "is it your holidays?"

Reggie nodded. "I only heard yesterday about Maud," he said gently. "There's nothing fresh—no news, I suppose?"

"Nothing," said Mrs. Brougham, hopelessly.

She felt somehow comforted by Reggie's coming. He was so like one of themselves, so old a friend that there was nothing to explain, no need for excusing words, no fear that his sympathy would make the sorrow wake again.

Reggie felt it too. He stood there quite silent for a minute, still holding her hand; then he said,

"If you knew where Gertrude would be this afternoon, I could go and meet her. She'll be so surprised to see me."

"Yes," answered Mrs. Brougham mechanically. She knew far, far more of those stories about Gertrude, than Gertrude ever guessed. Even in those early summer days of the picnics and tennis parties that had filled all Gertrude's mind, Conway and Willie had confided to their mother that they wished Gertrude would not be quite so pleasant. She sighed a little as she looked into Reggie's bright, open face. Girls did not always know true gold when they saw it. Then she remembered that Reggie had asked her a question.

"Oh, yes," she said hastily, "I was forgetting. Come in, Reggie; she is at home this afternoon. Denys had to go to Mixham, and I persuaded her to take Pattie with her—I am so nervous now," she added pathetically, "and Gertrude has been busy in the kitchen all the afternoon, but she's done now, and I believe she went to the drawing-room to study."

"I'll go round the garden way and disturb her," said Reggie, with a laugh.

He thought as he went round the garden that "Gertrude busy in the kitchen all the afternoon," had an odd sound.

Gertrude had not begun to study. She sat in a deep armchair, her books unopened on her lap, looking out upon the sunny garden, and brooding drearily over the past, wondering sadly whether, if Maud were never, never found, she could ever feel happy again! And if happiness did come to her, and Maud had not come back, how terrible that would be, for it would mean that she had forgotten Maud, forgotten her wrong-doing; that she had become again the self-loving, self-centred being that had lost Maud!

As Reggie's figure crossed the grass she sprang up, and her books fell with a clatter to the ground.

"Oh, Reggie!" she said, just as her mother had done.

"Yes," said Reggie, "I've come! I only heard yesterday."

A flood of colour swept over Gertrude's face, but the room was shaded, and she hoped Reggie would not see. What must he think of the story he had only heard yesterday! She had wished that he might know about it. Now she felt as if he were the only one in the world, from whom she would gladly have hidden it.

"Sit down," she said; "all the others are out, except mother."

"I've seen her," he said quietly.

There was a pause. There seemed nothing to say, absolutely nothing! Nothing that could be said, at least.

At last Reggie broke the silence.

"What have you done to trace her?" he asked. Perhaps it was the easiest question he could have asked. Gertrude could answer that, and she told him all that had been done. "I wish there was something I could do," he said, when she paused.

"Is it your holidays?" she asked indifferently. "I'm afraid there's nothing much going on in Old Keston just now. You'll find it very dull."

"That won't matter to me. I have to go back on Monday."

"Oh! Have you had a nice time the first part? I thought you were going to have a fortnight in September."

As Gertrude could think of nothing to say, Reggie's holiday seemed a very safe subject.

He laughed a little.

"This is the first part; I came up by last night's mail, I haven't even been home yet. I came off directly I heard about Maud and all your trouble. I was so awfully sorry, and letters are not the least bit of use for saying what you feel."

"It's very good of you," said Gertrude gratefully. "Shall you come home again in September?"

"Oh! there won't be any September," said Reggie cheerfully.

There was another pause and then Gertrude said in a very low voice,

"Reggie, have you heard all the stories that they tell?"

"I expect so," answered Reggie soberly; "but, Gertrude, I would have given up all my holiday, except one hour, if I could just say one word to comfort you."

She looked up at him suddenly, startled.

"Reggie," she said, "do you mean that you gave up all your holiday just to get four days to come up and comfort me? Me! after all you have heard!"

"I don't even think about those stories," said Reggie, half scornfully, half indignantly.

"Don't you?" said Gertrude wistfully. "Oh, Reggie, it is a comfort just to see you sitting there; it is indeed! Except at home here—and they've been so good to me—you are the first that has said one kind word to me about it all. I knew you would when you heard. Only I don't feel as if I ought to be looking for comfort or happiness for myself till she is found; you'll understand that, won't you?"

"Yes, I understand. But that's your side of it, Gertrude. There's another side, and that's my side. I want you to listen to what I've come all the way from Scotland to say. I've said it to myself for years. Last night, when the train was rushing down through England, I was saying it to myself over and over again. Now I'm going to say it to you.

"Gertrude, I love you, I shall always love you, I want you to belong to me for always. I only think of the happiness of my life as bound up in you. I think of your love as the best and happiest thing God can give me.

"That's my side of this matter, and I want you to think of it often, and then, when little Maud is found, and we can talk about our own happiness, then you must tell me what you think about your side of it."

"Gertrude! Gertrude!"

The voice rang through the house as no voice had rung through it since Maud went away, and there was that in the sound of it, which made Gertrude and Reggie spring to their feet and rush to the door.

In the hall was a confused group, and in the centre of the group was a little figure in a short black kilted frock with a sailor jacket, and a big white hat with a black ribbon that half hid the fluffy brown hair, that was turning golden at the roots.

For a moment Gertrude stood staring, as Denys had done, then the familiar blue eyes met hers, and the silvery little voice said gleefully,

"Hullo, Gertrude! I've come back."

"Maud! Maud! Oh, my darling, my darling!"

* * * * *

Reggie returned to the North on Monday, and when he went, a beautiful little half hoop of diamonds sparkled upon Gertrude's left hand. It was Reggie's greatest treasure, for it had been his mother's engagement ring; but the wearing of that ring was the only enlightenment which Old Keston received about Gertrude's and Reggie's affairs.

As Mrs. Brougham observed, people could see what they liked, but they did not deserve to hear anything.

* * * * *

"And so," said Mrs. Gray, as Reggie finished telling his tale in her drawing-room, "and so nobody knows who took the child or how she came to be found again."

"Nobody," repeated Reggie with emphasis. But he was mistaken. There was one man who knew. A man who had gone forth at last "in the strength of the Lord God," and who had conquered. A man, who was holding out loving, strengthening hands to his wife, and to many another tempted one; but he never told anybody what he knew, not even Tom, for Jane was Tom's sister!



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"We have seen nothing better than Ambrose Dudley's coloured illustrations in this particular line."—English Churchman.

The 5/- Crown Quarto Edition has been specially prepared with Thirty-two full-page Illustrations. Of these, Sixteen are in colour and Sixteen in black and white on art paper.

s. d.

Gilt Edges 1 6

Crown 8vo, with Sixteen Illustrations, in Colour and Black and White, Cloth, Gold Letterings 2 0

Crown 4to, Chromo Boards, with Twenty Illustrations, in Colour and Black and White 2 0

Crown 8vo, with Twenty-four Illustrations, in Colour and Black and White, Cloth, Gold Letterings 2 6

Large Crown 8vo, ditto, ditto, Gold Back 3 6

Large Crown 8vo, ditto, ditto, Gold Back and Side, Gilt Edges 5 0

Crown 4to, Chromo Boards, Cloth Back, with Thirty-two Illustrations, in Colour and Black and White 3 0

Crown 4to, Cloth, Bevelled with Inlay, Gilt Edges, ditto, ditto 5 0

SPECIAL SHILLING EDITION.

Cloth, Gold Lettered, with Sixteen Illustrations, in Colour and Black and White.



WORKS BY ANNA CHAPMAN RAY.

HALF-A-DOZEN GIRLS. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6. Cheaper edition, 2/-.

"Will delight and please juvenile readers."—Christian.

HALF-A-DOZEN BOYS. Coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6. Cheaper edition, 2/-.

"Written with bright, good humour throughout."—Gentlewoman.



By WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

THE GREAT WHITE QUEEN. Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6.



By ROBERT LEIGHTON.

THE BOYS OF WAVENEY. Illustrated by Gordon Browne. Large Cr. 8vo, 5/-.

"A splendid story, which never lacks interest, and in which the play of human feeling is admirably depicted."—Daily Graphic.



By FRED WHISHAW.

MYSTERY ISLAND. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo or Demy 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-.

"Told with a swing and a stir that should delight a lover of the sea."—Ladies' Field.



By W. CHARLES METCALFE.

HONOURS DIVIDED; or, Rescued from Rogues' Island. A Story of the China Seas. Gilt edges, 5/-.

"A capital story, full of life and go."—Standard.

"There is no page in the book without its interest, and the whole will bear reading again and again."—Record.

"There is plenty of humour of the brine in this delightful book."—Spectator.

"There is plenty of adventure in this book; but there is also what is better than adventure—the picture of more than one thoroughly generous and manly character. The book is thoroughly manly and thoroughly Christian without a goody-goody vein."—Guardian.



STORIES BY L. T. MEADE.

Author of "Scamp and I," etc.

BEL-MARJORY. A Tale. With coloured illustrations. Demy 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-.

"Most interesting; we give it our hearty commendation."—English Independent.

SCAMP AND I. A Story of City Byeways. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"Little Flo', with her industry and skill in 'translating' old boots and shoes, her motherly instincts and efforts to keep her young brother Dick, the crossing-sweeper, honest, because mother had made them promise to be so when she died; the good-natured, agreeable, clever young thief Jenks, the tempter and beguiler of poor Dick; and, above all, the dear dog Scamp, with his knowing ways and soft brown eyes, are all as true to life and as touchingly set forth as any heart could desire, beguiling the reader into smiles and tears, and into sympathy with them all."—Athenaeum.

THE CHILDREN'S KINGDOM; or, The Story of a Great Endeavour. With illustrations. Cr. 8vo, half-bound cloth sides, 3/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

"A really well-written story, with many touching passages. Boys and girls will read it with eagerness and profit."—Churchman.

DOROTHY'S STORY. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound cloth sides, 3/6; with coloured illustrations, Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

WATER GIPSIES. A Tale. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"It is full of incident from beginning to end, and we do not know the person who will not be interested in it."—Christian World.

DAVID'S LITTLE LAD. With illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 1/6.

"A finely-imagined story, bringing out in grand relief the contrast between quiet, steady self-sacrifice, and brilliant, flashy qualities."—Guardian.

DOT AND HER TREASURES. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 1/-.

"One of the tales of poor children in London, of which we have had many examples; but none finer, more pathetic, or more original than this."—Nonconformist.

OUTCAST ROBIN; or, Your Brother and Mine. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 1/6.

WHITE LILIES, AND OTHER TALES. With coloured frontispiece. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 9d.

"Stories of a singularly touching and beautiful character."—Rock.

THOSE BOYS. A Story for all Little Fellows. With coloured frontispiece. Cr. 8vo, gold back, 9d.



THE BEST FAIRY TALES.

Splendidly Illustrated Books. In strong Bindings, handsomely designed.

With Coloured and Black and White Illustrations.

THE SUN PRINCESS, and other Fairy Stories. Illustrations by H. R. Millar, Herbert Cole, A. Garth Jones, Reginald Savage, and Arthur Rackham. Cloth bevelled, gilt edges, 5/-. 4to edition.

GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES. Illustrated. Cloth bevelled, gilt edges, 5/-. 4to edition.

FAIRY TALES. By Hans Andersen. Illustrated. Cloth bevelled, gilt edges, 5/-. 4to edition.

QUEEN MAB'S FAIRY REALM, and other Fairy Stories. Profusely illustrated by H. R. Millar, A. Garth Jones, and others. Chromo boards, cloth backs, 2/-. 4to edition.

THE UGLY DUCKLING, and other Stories. By HANS ANDERSEN. With special illustrations. Chromo boards, cloth backs, 2/-. 4to edition.

GRIMM'S FAIRY-TALES. With coloured and black and white illustrations. Chromo boards, cloth backs, 2/-. 4to edition.

ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES. Profusely illustrated edition, including many of the less known stories. Chromo boards, cloth backs, 2/-. 4to edition.



Works by Dr. Gordon Stables.

HEARTS OF OAK. Coloured illustrations. A Story of Nelson and the Navy. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

"Tom Burn, the hero, will charm every boy that gets hold of it."—Literary World.

"A story of the navy and of mighty Nelson, told with excellent spirit."—Saturday Review.

TWO SAILOR LADS: Their Stirring Adventures on Sea and Land. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

"A sea story, big with wonders."—Saturday Review.

"A capital story in Dr. Stables' best style."—Spectator.

FOR ENGLAND, HOME, AND BEAUTY. A Tale of Battle and the Breeze. Large 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

"Dr. Stables has almost surpassed himself in this book. Certainly we have read nothing of his which has pleased us more—perhaps we might say as much."—Spectator.

FACING FEARFUL ODDS. A Tale of Flood and Field. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 5/-; cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

"An exceptionally good book for boys."—Guardian.

"One of the author's most fascinating stories."—Leeds Mercury.

WAR ON THE WORLD'S ROOF. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 5/-; cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.



Works by M. S. COMRIE.

IN THE TYRANT'S GRIP. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-.

"The author has seldom produced a brighter, healthier, or more sympathetic story than this."—Bookseller.

SIR JOSCELINE'S HOSTAGE. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

"A capital story."—Liverpool Daily Mercury.

THE LAIRD'S DAUGHTER. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

THE KING'S LIGHT BEARER. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.



Works by R. M. BALLANTYNE.

THE CORAL ISLAND. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; half-bound leather, cloth sides, leather corners, 3/6; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-; cloth, 1/-.

THE YOUNG FUR TRADERS. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; half-bound, leather, cloth sides, leather corners, 3/6; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-; cloth, 1/-.

THE DOG CRUSOE. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-; cloth extra, gilt, 1/6; cloth, 1/-.

MARTIN RATTLER. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 1/6; cloth, 1/-.



SOMETHING FOR SUNDAY.

SELECTED BY CATHARINE SHAW.

Price ONE SHILLING each.

1. OUTLINE TEXTS FOR PAINTING. 24 Texts in Packet.

2. HAPPY HOURS WITH THE BIBLE. Devices for Bible Searching.

3. ECHOES FROM THE BIBLE. Illustrated Papers for Bible Study.

4. ALPHABET TEXTS FOR PRICKING OR PAINTING. For the Little Ones.

5. MESSAGES FROM HEAVEN. Small Outline Texts for Painting. (Suitable for Flower Missions).

6. GLEAMS OF GLORY FROM THE GOSPELS. Subjects for Bible Study.

7. A LARGE THOUGHT IN A LARGE WORD. Outline Texts for Painting.

8. SCRIPTURE FEAR NOTS. Texts for Painting.

9. "ALL THINGS ARE YOURS." Outline Texts for Painting, with Hints for Bible Searching.

10. TEXTS FOR THE CHILDREN. For Pricking or Painting. New Packet for the Little Ones.

11. CONSIDER THE LILIES. Choice Texts with beautiful Floral Designs for Painting.

12. ENTER YE IN. Texts with Flowers to Paint.

13. REJOICING IN HOPE. A nice selection on Art Cards.

14. WHO GAVE HIMSELF FOR US. Texts with Flowers; very effective.

15. ZION HEARD AND WAS GLAD. Texts with Pictures more advanced.

16. EASY TEXTS FOR PRICKING AND PAINTING. New Packet for the Little Ones.

17. THE ASSORTED PACKET. Giving a selection from the most popular numbers.

"With such work there will be no dull Sundays."—Presbyterian.

"A charming series."—Bookseller.

"A delightful gift for children."—Record.

"Must be a welcome present."—Saturday Review.

"An excellent idea well carried out."—Word and Work.



For Prizes, Gifts, & Rewards.

ROBINSON CRUSOE. By DANIEL DEFOE. With illustrations in colour. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-. Also in half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6; bound in cloth, extra gilt, 2/6.

THE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON. Copyright edition. By E. A. BRAYLEY HODGETTS, with special illustrations by J. Finnemore. Demy 4to, cloth bevelled, gilt edges 5/-; Chromo boards, cloth backs, 3/-.

THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD. By E. WETHERELL. Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

MASTERMAN READY. By CAPTAIN MARRYAT. With coloured illustrations. Large 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-. Cr. 8vo edition, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.



By W. A. ATKINSON.

GLIMPSES OF BRITISH MANUFACTURES. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

LIVES OF BRITISH SEAMEN. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"If necessarily brief, all the 'Lives' are thoroughly adequate, and may with confidence be recommended."—Bookseller.



By E. HARVEY BROOKS.

SAINT JACK. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.



BOOKS FOR BOYS.

By M. L. RIDLEY.

SENT TO COVENTRY; or, The Boys of Highbeech. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 1/6.

"A really good story of boys' school-life."—Pall Mall Gazette.

"Eminently interesting from start to finish."—Pictorial World.

THE KING'S SCHOLARS; or, Work and Play at Easthaven. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 1/6.

"Full of all those stirring incidents which go to make up the approved life of schoolboys. Both adventure and sentiment find a place in it."—Pall Mall Gazette.

"A schoolboy tale of very good tone and spirit."—Guardian.

OUR CAPTAIN. The Heroes of Barton School. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 1/6.

"A first-class book for boys."—Daily Review.

"A regular boy's book."—Christian World.

THE THREE CHUMS. A Story of School Life. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 1/6.

"A book after a boy's heart. How can we better commend it than by saying it is both manly and godly?"—Rev. C. H. SPURGEON in Sword and Trowel.

"Ingeniously worked out and spiritedly told."—Guardian.

HILLSIDE FARM; or Marjorie's Magic. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 1/6.

"A very well-written story which all girls will thoroughly enjoy."—Guardian.

By M. E. WINCHESTER.

CITY SNOWDROPS; or, The House of Flowers. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, leather corners, 5/-; cloth, gilt edges, 5/-.

"We have read very few stories of such pathos and interest."—British Weekly.

"A most touching story."—English Churchman.



SPLENDID BOYS' BOOKS.

By DR. GORDON STABLES, R.N.

THE CRUISE OF THE "VENGEFUL." With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

IN SHIPS OF STEEL. Cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; cloth, gilt, 2/6.

LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 2/-.

CHRIS CUNNINGHAM. Large Cr. 8vo, extra cloth, gilt, 5/-.

ALFRED THE GREAT. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

CRUISE OF THE "ARCTIC FOX." With coloured illustrations. Large 8vo, extra cloth, gilt edges, 5/-; cloth gilt, 2/6.

ON TO THE RESCUE. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 5/-; cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

SHOULDER TO SHOULDER. Large 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-.

MIDSHIPMITE CURLY. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 1/6; cloth, gold back, 1/-.



STORIES BY CATHARINE SHAW.

Author of "Dickie's Attic."

TALKS WITH AUNT KATIE. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth, 1/-.

TWILIGHT STORIES. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 1/-.

OUT IN STORM. With coloured frontispiece. Cr. 8vo, gold back, 9d.

KITTY'S CHARGE. With coloured frontispiece. Cloth, 6d.

LUCIA'S TRUST. With coloured frontispiece. Cloth, 6d.



Tales of English Life in the Olden Time.

By EMILY S. HOLT.

"We know of no one whose historical fiction is more trustworthy."—SPECTATOR.

"Miss Holt's historical tales are all most interesting and profitable, for they teach of what happened in the former and darker ages, and how clearer light has come to us, brought in by fierce struggle and firm adhesion to principle and to the right."—THE FREEMAN.

Crown 8vo, 1/6 each.

OUT IN THE '45. A Story of the Jacobites, 1745.

"No one can fail to find pleasure in the quaint, picturesque tale which Miss Holt sets forth."—Spectator.

THE WELL IN THE DESERT. An Old Legend, 1345.

"The author has given herself to a class of literature in which she unquestionably excels."—Literary World.

THE WAY OF THE CROSS. A Tale of the Second Century.

"The book has a simple beauty about it which cannot fail to commend it."—Baptist.

THE SLAVE GIRL OF POMPEII. A Tale of the First Century.

MISTRESS MARGERY. A Story of the Lollards, 1400.

"The author has the pen of an artistic writer."—Athenaeum.

CLARE AVERY. A Story of the Spanish Armada, 1588.

"Full of thrilling interest."—Word and Work.

THE KING'S DAUGHTERS. How two Girls kept the Faith, 1556.

"A stirring picture of the time."—Daily Telegraph.

THRO' THE STORM; or, The Lord's Prisoners, 1544.

FOR THE MASTER'S SAKE; or, The Days of Queen Mary, 1566.

"We heartily commend it."—Churchman.

ONE SNOWY NIGHT; or, Long Ago at Oxford, 1159.



STORIES BY AGNES GIBERNE.

Author of "Sun, Moon, and Stars," etc.

LIFE IN A NUTSHELL. A Story. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 2/-.

"A very refreshing tale of devotion and care."—Record.

"The story of a girl's life and love pleasantly told."—Athenaeum.

"A charming story."—Presbyterian.

IDA'S SECRET; or, The Towers of Ickledale. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"Agnes Giberne has never written a prettier tale. The characters are made to live, and there is a refreshing tone running throughout the whole."—Record.

"Should be a pronounced favourite."—Bookseller.

WON AT LAST; or, Mrs. Briscoe's Nephews. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

"The treatment is so admirable, we can understand Miss Giberne's book being a help to many."—Athenaeum.

"Generosity and gratitude are the moral of this tale, which is very natural in the telling."—Guardian.

FLOSS SILVERTHORN; or, The Master's Little Handmaid. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"Thoroughly interesting and profitable, as Miss Giberne's tales always are. We should like to see this in every home library."—News.

"An admirable study of a simple-hearted, well-reared, and self-sacrificing child."—Spectator.

"A really beautiful little story, telling how even a child can do and suffer for Christ's service."—Rock.

MADGE HARDWICKE; or, The Mists of the Valley. Cr. 8vo.

"An extremely interesting book, and one that can be read with profit by all."—Schoolmaster.

MISS PRIMROSE. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gilt, 1/-.

LITTLE EYEBRIGHT. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gilt, 1/-.



POPULAR HOME STORIES.

By EMILY BRODIE.

OLD CHRISTIE'S CABIN. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 1/6.

"A capital book for young people, depicting the loveliness of a ministering life on the part of some happy children."—Christian.

COUSIN DORA; or, Serving the King. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 2/-.

"An admirable tale for elder girls."—Nonconformist.

HIS GUARDIAN ANGEL. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 2/-.

"Should find its way into school libraries as well as into homes."—Sunday School Chronicle.

FIVE MINUTES TOO LATE; or, Leslie Harcourt's Resolve. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 2/-.

NORMAN AND ELSIE; or, Two Little Prisoners. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"So true and delightful a picture that we can hardly believe we have only read about it; it all seems so real, and has done us so much good."—Christian.

SYBIL'S MESSAGE. Coloured frontispiece. Sm. 8vo, cloth extra, 9d.

EAST AND WEST; or, The Strolling Artist. With coloured frontispiece. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 9d.

RIGHT ABOUT FACE. With coloured frontispiece. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 9d.



CAPITAL STORIES

By GRACE STEBBING.

ONLY A TRAMP. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 2/-.

"Holds the attention and extorts the admiration of the reader from first to last. Many a weighty lesson may be learnt from these pages."—Christian.

DENHAM HALL. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 1/6.

A REAL HERO. A Story of the Conquest of Mexico. With illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, 3/6.

"We can cordially recommend this to all youthful lovers of adventure and enterprise."—Academy.

GRAHAM'S VICTORY. A Tale of the Covenanters. With illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, 5/-.

"Stirring, and ably written."—Guardian.

"We heartily commend it to English boys and girls."—Sunday School Chronicle.

WINNING AN EMPIRE; or, The Story of Clive. With illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, 5/-.

"Miss Stebbing is one of the few ladies that can write really good boys' stories. She has caught, not only the phraseology, but the spirit of boys."—Standard.

SILVERDALE RECTORY; or, The Golden Links. With illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, 2/-.

"We can heartily recommend this story."—Church of England Sunday School Magazine.

BRAVE GEORDIE. The Story of an English Boy. With illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, 2/-.

"It is refreshing to meet with such a spirited and thoroughly good story."—Christian.



BOOKS FOR GIRLS

By E. A. GILLIE.

A GIRL AMONG GIRLS. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

"A delightfully written story."—Newcastle Daily Journal.

A COMRADE'S TROTH. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

"An excellent story."—Spectator.

"A capital story."—Westminster Gazette.



STORIES BY MABEL MACKINTOSH.

THE GIRLS OF ST. OLAVE'S. A fascinating story. With coloured illustrations. Cloth, extra gilt, with coloured inlay, 2/-.

THE DOINGS OF DENYS. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 1/6.

"Full of good thoughts as to a Christian's life and duties. The story is naturally told."—British Weekly.

BETTY'S BRIDESMAIDS. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 1/6; cloth, gold back, 1/-.

THE BOYS OF ALL SAINTS'. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 1/-.

SID'S PICKLE. With coloured frontispiece. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 9d.

THROUGH THICK AND THIN. With coloured frontispiece. Cloth boards, 6d.



By ALICE LANG.

CHUMS OF OLD ST. PAUL'S. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 2/-.

A BROTHER'S RANSOM. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 1/-.

THE END