Chapter X…

Chapter X

While all her relations were mourning for her; while Aunt Betty was lying at death's door, stricken down by anxiety and sorrow; while Lord Lynwood scarcely dared look on the faces of his brother's children because they reminded him of his own lost darling--where was Estelle?

It was now more than a month since she had been missing, and no news had been received.

Without one moment's thought for her own safety, without any remembrance of Lady Coke's desires--nay, positive orders--she had plunged into the ruined summer-house after Bootles. Darting down the dark passage, in eager chase of the cat, the dog was deaf to her cries to him to come back. Hardly knowing what she was doing, she followed him. The passage grew darker and darker, and she could not even see the faint light from the open door. A fall over a heap of stones first made her realise she had better return, since no one knew where the passage led. She did not like to leave the dog, but, nevertheless, she hesitated a moment to call again to him before retracing her steps. She was surprised and horrified to find that her shout had the effect of bringing down some loose stones and earth on her head. It frightened her sufficiently to make her set off in earnest towards the door.

'I shall tell Georgie I have been down the passage, and that it is dreadful, and not at all interesting,' she thought, as she felt her way with a hand on the wall.

A glimmer of light, as she turned the corner, comforted her, and she stopped a moment to call gently to the dog, afraid to raise her voice too high for fear of the falling roof. Scarcely had she paused, however, when a great crash came, followed by a long mingled sound of many stones and much earth falling. It seemed as if the whole roof must be coming down. A shower of damp soil descended upon her head, and one clod larger than the rest knocked her over. Happily she was more stunned and frightened than hurt. The glimmer of light had disappeared, and she began to realise that the door must have shut. Terrible as her position was, the full horror of it did not dawn upon her at first.

Shaking herself free from the clinging mould, she got up, very much inclined to cry, till a wet nose thrust into her hand startled her. Bootles was not happy; his whines and the trembling way he pressed close to her added to her alarm.

Taking him into her arms she hugged him, while he tried to lick her face. He was some comfort after all, and his presence gave her courage.

'Oh, if I had only remembered what Auntie said, and not come here,' she sobbed, hiding her face on the dog's back. 'We must try, but I don't believe we shall ever get out of this dreadful place! Oh, I do wish I could tell Auntie I am sorry! I did not stop to think that it was wrong to follow you, poor Bootles.'

The thought that she was shut into the ruin was very terrifying, and after a little effort to move, which resulted in a fall over a mound, she sank upon the damp ground, sobbing in despair. Bootles, as if he understood, struggled free and whined. It was too dark for her to see his efforts to show her a way out of the mass of fallen rubbish.

(Continued on page 182.)

SIR RALPH ABERCROMBY.

In the battle of Alexandria, Sir Ralph Abercromby was mortally wounded. He was carried on board a man-of-war in a litter, and a soldier's blanket was put under his head as a cushion, so that he might lie more easily. The ready-made pillow was a great comfort to him, and he asked what it was.

'A soldier's blanket, sir,' was the answer.

'Whose blanket?' he asked, raising himself on his elbow.

'Only one of the men's.'

'Which of the men does it belong to?' he asked again.

'To Duncan Roy of the 42nd.'

'Then see that Duncan Roy gets his blanket this very night.'

MAY DAY.

A long time ago a great many strange things used to happen on May Day. It used to be the jolliest day in the year; boys and girls used to be very happy looking forward to it, and as the day drew near, very busy in getting ready for the festival that took place.

I expect you have all heard of the May Queen. The prettiest little girl in the village was chosen 'Queen' by her companions. She was crowned with flowers, and sat on a throne in an arbour, while all the other children used to treat her just as if she were a real queen. In the evening they used to have a Maypole dance, while the little queen sat and watched them.

Another May custom was the Maypole. Other countries besides England have them. If you went to France, Holland, or Austria, you would see them there even now--much prettier than the English ones. The French ones are sometimes painted, and they have garlands round the top arranged on hoops, from which hang little golden balls. In Holland the Maypoles are quite different: they have a big flower-pot on top with a tree inside it; round the tree flags are arranged. The pole itself is painted blue and white. But the funniest Maypole of all is found in Austria. There is a flag at the top, and then a big bunch of green leaves and flowers, then more flags, and after that figures of little men and women and animals in wood nailed on to the pole so as to look as if they were climbing up it. Sometimes there is a stag nailed on, with a pack of dogs after it, all in wood.

In England, on the morning of May Day, the boys and girls used to get up very early and go into the fields, where they picked flowers and green branches from the trees and hedges. These they brought back to the village, and made into wreaths to trim the Maypole. When the pole was quite ready, the biggest boys fixed it in the ground. There were long garlands hanging from it, and each boy and girl took one and danced round. The dance was called the Maypole dance, and it had proper steps of its own, just like any other dance.

Those of you who live in London may have seen a funny-looking man walking about on May Day wrapped up in a bush, with flags and paper flowers on him, and making a noise with drums. If you ask who he is, you will be told that he is a chimney-sweep, called 'Jack-in-the-Green.' All chimney-sweeps used to keep May Day, and some do so still, and there is a story told to explain the custom.

A long time ago, little boys used to be sent up the chimneys to clean them. It was very dangerous, and they were often killed at their task. Of course, it was not easy to get little boys to be chimney-sweeps, and so wicked men used to steal little children from their homes for the purpose.

There once lived in London a very rich man, who had one little son, whom he loved very much. One day the child was missing, and nobody could find him, though a search was made everywhere, until at last his parents gave up all hope of ever seeing him again. Two years afterwards it happened that while the chimneys of the house were being swept, one of the servants went into the lady's room and found a little boy, all black with soot, lying on the clean white bed; he was fast asleep. She left him there and told her mistress. The lady came and looked at the boy, and, in spite of the soot and the dirty clothes, she recognised her little son, whom she had lost so long ago. A man had stolen him and made him become a little sweep; the boy was so young that the sweep fancied that after two years he would quite have forgotten his father and mother and home, and that it was quite safe to send him to the house when he was all black with soot.

So the little boy was sent down the chimney, for in those days they were cleaned from the top. When he got into the room, which was his mother's bedroom, he looked about and seemed to remember it. Then he knew that he was very cold and tired and hungry, and he went and lay down on the bed and fell fast asleep, till his mother woke him.

That is said to be the reason why the chimney-sweeps kept May Day--in remembrance of the boy who was stolen. But Jacks-in-the-Green are not often seen now, and that horrible way of sweeping the chimneys has disappeared.

If you do not see Jack-in-the-Green on May Day, you are sure to see the cart-horses all decked out in braid and ribbon of different colours; and if you live in London, you ought to go and see the procession of carts, which look very grand indeed, being decorated even more than the horses.

ONE THING AT A TIME.

A great landowner was remarkable for the pompousness of his manner. He was one day riding leisurely through a small village, when he happened to meet a rough-looking farmer's lad, who was pulling a calf along with both hands, by means of a rope attached to its neck. When the boy saw him approaching, he stood still, and, opening both eyes and mouth, stared him full in his face.

'Do you know me, boy?' asked the great man.

'Yes sir,' answered the boy.

'Then what is my name?' he asked.

'Why, you are Lord X----,' was the reply.

'Then why don't you take off your hat to me?' said Lord X----, pompously.

The rustic, still tugging at the rope, replied, 'So I. will, sir, if you will hold the calf!'

CONSCIENCE AND THE CHINA FIGURES.

Only that morning, Mother had said she was proud of her boy, and Hugh had felt he deserved her praise. He was very rarely naughty, and he loved to see his mother's face light up with joy, when she heard how pleased his teacher was with him. But, somehow, since the morning, all had changed. Mother had gone to town, and Hugh was wandering about the garden, looking miserable. 'I didn't mean to break it,' he kept muttering. 'Mother was so fond of that vase, with all those pretty china figures round it. It was stupid of that tall one to break its head in the fall. It is simply because it doesn't feel anything. If it could feel as I do, it would have taken more care--- spiteful thing!'

Hugh was not really so silly as you may imagine from this speech, and I am sure he felt half inclined to laugh at himself even then; but you see, he knew that he did not deserve his mother's praise any longer. Not that she ever gave too much importance to the fact of his having broken something, though she disliked carelessness and reproved him for it; and she certainly would be vexed at his having damaged the dainty porcelain vase. But you see there was something more. Hugh was not allowed to go into the library without special permission, and during mother's absence he had gone, just to look at a book of butterflies which Father had shown him one day. In pulling the book down, he had let another book fall on to the precious vase. Now the headless china shepherd was turned round so as to be on the shady side of the vase, and the head was in Hugh's pocket. And oh! how heavy it seemed, and what horrid lumps Hugh felt in his throat, and what a queer feeling at his heart! His conscience, you see, was very tender, and though he had been naughty, he was not really a naughty boy.

Well! a strange thing happened then. Father came home and went straight to the library. A few minutes later Hugh heard his father calling, 'Hugh! Hugh! Are you there? Please come here!'

Hugh went at once, pale and trembling, as he knew punishment inflicted by Father would probably be severe. 'My boy,' said Mr. Grey, as he opened the door, 'creep under that bookcase and see whether you can find the head of that china figure I have broken. I knocked against the vase, not knowing that its place had been changed. I did not hear the head fall, but it must have rolled away. If we find it at once, we will mend the figure, for Mother will be sorry to see it damaged. Now, don't look so dazed, boy. Hurry up and find the head.'

What an opportunity for Hugh to own up! But he did not take it.

Instead of undeceiving Father, 'Mother's brave boy,' of whom she was so proud, crawled under the bookcase, and in a moment the china head was in his father's hand. 'That's right,' said Mr. Grey, gladly. 'It's not broken badly. I will mend it nicely, and then ask Mother if she can see the place where it has been mended.'

Still Hugh said never a word.

* * * * *

At last, Hugh had fallen asleep. But his conscience was not asleep. Always wakeful, it was without doubt she who called into her service the figures on the vase, giving them, for the moment, life. There they were, stepping down from the vase and crowding round Hugh's bed, not with their usual smiles, but with frowns and threatening gestures.

'Shall I remain a headless trunk?' asked the damaged youth, indignantly; and Hugh was so terrified he did not even find it strange that the figure should talk without a tongue, and that though his father had mended it, it still had no head. 'He keeps mine in his pocket. Cut off his and give it me.'

'Why not?' asked the other figures, growing bigger and bigger as they drew nearer Hugh.

'Or turn him into a china shepherd and put him into my place,' continued the figure.

'Why not?' asked again the other figures. But one, a girl crowned with flowers, who on the vase had looked so sweet, began to pout, and exclaimed, 'No, please, I don't want a little coward near me. A boy who wants his mother's smiles and praise and love without deserving them at all! No, indeed.'

Hugh, who, just before, had been horrified at the idea of being turned into a china figure, was now distressed at not being thought fit even for that!

'Of course,' continued the girl, sarcastically, 'it was his father who knocked the head off. Of course, nobody will ever suspect that it was Hugh. Why should he tell? Why should he be punished? He is his mother's dear, brave, good boy. But don't let him come near us, though he is so fine outside.'

'Mother's dear, good, brave, darling boy!' giggled all the figures. 'Mother's loyal, courageous son!' And Hugh's shame knew no bounds.

'Don't, please,' he begged, humbly, in vain trying to restrain a sob. 'I don't mind being punished now. I will tell Mother I am not good. Please--please go away!'

'Yes! yes! we will go away,' answered they, still giggling. 'Why should we trouble about you? What does it matter, after all, if you grow up a careless, disobedient, untruthful boy? It's really not worth while troubling to punish you.'

'Of course,' went on the girl. 'Find your head, shepherd lad, and let's go.'

'Listen!' said one of the stately dames. 'Let's give a bit of good advice to his mother. Let us ask her to allow the boy to do as he likes. Why should she think so much of correcting his faults? He doesn't care to let her see him as he really is.'

'A capital idea!' exclaimed all the others.

'It's not!' exclaimed Hugh, jumping up in his bed. 'You shan't go! You shan't go! And my mother won't listen to you. I will throw my pillow at you and break you all, if you say that again. My mother shall punish me when I'm naughty.'

He did throw his pillow, and the figures vanished. In an instant he was wide awake, and wondering where the figures had gone: and then he knew that it was all a dream, and that his Conscience had been using the figures for her purpose. They had done her work well. The boy slipped quietly into Mother's room, and I think you can guess what happened there. I know that Mother is still proud of her little boy, because she still sees him just as he is.

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

7.--ANAGRAMS (Eatables).

1. I am a corn. 2. Area, Vic 3. Esau, Turk, R.A. 4. Blew, rash, Tib. 5. Cool car, cheat me.

C. J. B.

[Answers on page 214.]

* * * * *

6.--KEY TO GEOGRAPHICAL LETTER ON PAGE 147.

Dear Adelaide,--This morning, being up betimes, and having had an early Bath and breakfast, I take the opportunity of writing to you. Yesterday, my Uncle Adrian and his daughter Florence came to see us. Two slight accidents marred their visit: to begin with, my cousin fell upon the Stair, and afterwards, while we were out driving, a Stone caused the horse to slip. We were then obliged to walk, but the way was rough, and presently a stream barred all progress. However, we discovered an Iron bridge, which enabled us to go Over. After eating an Orange and a Sandwich apiece, we felt refreshed, and went on until we came to a tall Poplar. Here we sat Down, and uncle amused us by Reading. The rest I will tell you later; till then believe me,--Your affectionate friend, Victoria Ross.

THROWING AWAY A FORTUNE.

A fisherman, rowing along the Bay of Fundy shore, in Nova Scotia, noticed what he took to be a very large lump of tallow floating on the water. He picked it up, took it home, and presented it to his wife. She was busily engaged in a local industry, the making of soft soap, and used the 'tallow' for it. The find, however, failed to behave as tallow should, and the fisherman was reproached by his wife for interfering and spoiling the soap. In a fit of disgust he threw the remainder of the supposed tallow away.

He talked the matter over at the country store, and it was suggested that his tallow was possibly the very valuable substance known as ambergris. The man went home in haste, and managed to collect six pounds, all that remained of the large quantity he brought home! The local chemist identified it as ambergris, and showed the astonished fisherman the price list, where it was quoted at thirty dollars an ounce. His dismay can be imagined when he learned that, through his ignorance, he had literally thrown away a fortune.

Ambergris is a secretion formed in the intestines of the sperm whale. It is of a dull grey colour, and resembles tallow, excepting in the odour, which is sweet and strong.

ROSS FRAME.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1806.

VI.--JOHN COLTON'S DILEMMA.

Cape Colony in 1806 was a very different country from the Cape Colony about which, of late years, we have heard so much. It was then a quiet, sleepy place under Dutch rule, having been given up to Holland by the British, after the Peace of Amiens, in 1801. There were a few farms, sparsely scattered over the country, and farmed in a most slovenly manner by the Boers, or rather by their Hottentot slaves, for a true Boer then thought work of any sort beneath him.

One of these farms, however, bore a great contrast to the rest; it was about seventy miles from Capetown, and was known as the 'Garden Farm,' from the rare fact of its possessing a well-stocked garden and a large orchard of peach and apricot trees, all fenced in with a stout wooden railing to keep off the pigs and cattle that were allowed to root and rummage around the other homesteads at their own sweet will. The owner of this farm was an Englishman, named John Colton: but he was a naturalised burgher and married to a Dutch wife, so that every one--perhaps even Colton himself--had long forgotten that he had not been born and bred in his adopted country.

The year 1806 was, however, to change all this. Great Britain was at war with France, and as the Cape was then the great highway to India, it was felt that Capetown must be secured at all costs, for it was too important a place to be allowed to fall into the hands of Buonaparte.

So a British force of some five thousand men, under Sir David Baird, was at once sent out, and on a sultry January day was marching from Leopard's Bay, over scrub and veldt, towards Capetown.

All this, however, was undreamt of by honest John Colton as he sat with his wife on the verandah of his house, watching the antics of a puppy that was playing with the children in front of them.

Suddenly the man's quick ears caught the sound of horses' hoofs in the distance. He strained his eyes across the veldt, and, after a minute or two, could make out a man riding at utmost speed.

'There's something amiss somewhere,' he told his wife; 'maybe some one is injured, and he is coming here for help.' For accidents from wild beasts were common in those days, and John had a certain fame as a binder-up of broken limbs.

Now the rider had come up to the farm, but though he drew up, he did not dismount. 'You are to be in Capetown market-place, with horse and gun, by sunset on Thursday,' he said as he handed John an official blue paper. 'The British have landed, and General Janssens is summoning all the burghers. There will be a big fight, but we shall drive the red-coats into the sea.'

The man could not stop for a meal, though he was glad of the refreshment which Mrs. Colton handed to him in the saddle; and then he rode away as quickly as he had come, leaving Colton almost dazed by the news.

'The British have landed!' he repeated, looking at his blue paper, 'and I am to go to Capetown to fight them!'

'Oh, Jan!' said his wife, 'don't let those red-coats shoot you!'

John did not answer. He took down his gun from the wall and looked gloomily down the barrel; then he threw it on the table, and, looking at his wife, said sternly, 'I cannot fight against my own countrymen, and I do not wish to fight against yours.'

'But you are a burgher, Jan,' said his wife, timidly, 'and all the burghers are summoned.'

I shall go,' said John, shortly. 'I shall give myself up, but I cannot fight against my own people.'

'Don't go, Jan,' urged his wife. 'Hide yourself in the mountains, they will never find you there--and I will manage the farm till things are quiet again, and you can come back.'

'That would be acting as a coward, and I am no coward,' said the man. 'I must go to Capetown, but what may be done to me there I cannot say. It is a puzzling piece of business! I never thought to see the British here again.'

'They will put you in prison for life--or perhaps shoot you,' sobbed his wife. 'Jan! Jan! for love of me stay away!'

But John shook his head, and went on with his preparations for the long seventy-mile ride to the town. It was a great struggle, for he loved his home, and knew that very likely he might never see it again; but he felt he was doing right, and John was not a man to go against his conscience.

It was, however, a melancholy ride, and John felt more down-hearted than ever before in his life as he entered the market square of Capetown. Here all was in confusion, burghers were galloping hither and thither, and every one seemed too busy and excited to notice Colton as he rode wearily towards the Field Cornet's quarters to give himself up.

At last one man called out as he passed, 'A bad business this, friend! I little thought to see the red-coats in Capetown in my lifetime.'

'What has happened?' asked Colton, eagerly dismounting from his horse.

'Our burghers have had a battle with the British, but the red-coats outnumbered them, and General Janssens has retired to Lawry's Pass. Folks say he will have to make terms at once, or the guns will open on the town. Anyway, all fighting is at an end for the moment.'

John Colton said nothing, though in his heart he was almost singing for joy at this unexpected ending of his difficulties. In a few hours it was known that Capetown had surrendered to the British, and on January 8th, 1806, the 'red-coats' marched in, and John cantered back to his farm, where he lived hereafter in peace under the British flag.

THE DUCK-BILLED PLATYPUS.

So far as we know at present, the platypus duck-mole, or water-mole, is the strangest of all animals. Its home is in Australia, but, owing to the progress of civilisation, it appears likely to die out before long, for many of its haunts have been disturbed by the advancing white man.

When the first specimens reached England, dried, the creature puzzled the naturalists, who were almost inclined to think it was not genuine. The animal is about twenty inches long, covered with thick soft fur, which is brown on the back, and white below. The curious muzzle is lengthened and flattened, much resembling the beak of a duck; its edges are hard, and at the back part of the mouth are four teeth. But it cannot grasp anything very firmly with the bill, which shows that its food must be of a soft nature. The feet of the platypus are five-toed and webbed, being, like the rest of the body, suited for an aquatic life. Another singular fact is that the animal has a spur on each hind leg. This spur is connected with a gland, which resembles those of serpents, and may contain poison. Certainly it appears as if this spur is a sort of weapon, though the animal is of peaceful habits.

Before sleeping, the platypus curls round to keep itself warm, and brings the flattened tail over the back. It is very particular about the fur, which is kept smooth and clean by means of the beak, and is also brushed with the feet. Much of the animal's time is passed in diving and swimming, the food being mostly water insects, or such as are to be found on the banks of streams. The platypus is an excellent digger, and forms deep burrows or tunnels, the opening being hidden by the herbage of the bank. At the bottom there is generally a nest, carefully lined by the animal with grass and leaves. There the young ones are brought up by the parents.

J. R. S. C.

A MERMAID'S SONG.

Waly woe, waly woe, My song is of a mermaid, O! A tearful little mermaid, who Dwells deep below the ocean blue, Sighing many a sad heigho, And singing songs of 'waly.'

Waly woe, waly woe, She was not always weeping, 0! Until she sadly fell in love With one who sailed the seas above While she was sporting down below. Not singing songs of 'waly.'

Waly woe, waly woe, He was a handsome Prince, and O! She watched him when the stars were seen A-twinkling blue and gold and green, And other pretty colours--so Began her songs of 'waly.'

Waly woe, waly woe, Lack-a-day, a-deary O! For blighted love. But 'tis a fault To make the sea so very salt With bitter tears that still do flow While she is singing 'waly.'

REED MOORHOUSE.

CHINESE PHYSIC.

The Chinese are a clever people, very clever indeed, and in some things they must be acknowledged to show more wisdom than the nations of the West; but they are decidedly peculiar in their way of treating the sick. Progress is not the rule with the Chinese, and, while medical art or skill is quite different now in England from what it was, the Chinese have made hardly any improvement. Matters come rather hard on the Chinese doctors, for we are told that sometimes they are punished if a patient dies, or when he does not seem to be getting better. This certainly is unfair to a doctor, for he cannot cure everything. With accidents, of course, much may depend upon how the doctor acts, and it is generally agreed that the Chinese are bad surgeons, so that in an emergency it would be better to trust to nature than be treated by a Chinese doctor, if other help was not to be had. We cannot wonder, therefore, that some of them refuse to visit sick people, if it is likely there will be danger in the case. Chinese books tell us that their system of medicine is exceedingly old, in fact, nearly as old as the monarchy, and it is attributed to a husbandman, whose name was Shin-nung. He studied what plants were the best food for the body, and what would cure it when 'out of sorts.' By him, or by some one soon after him, a list was prepared of the different complaints, and the proper medicine for each, with the dose to be given, so that any one can start upon being a doctor if he follows the instruction given. But should he try giving medicine on a plan of his own, he is likely to get into trouble.

The fees are mostly small, and the large cities have what we call dispensaries, where the poor are treated free. Still, there are a great many doctors in China; some are settled in one place, but hosts of them travel about, offering to the people quack physic. Boluses or large pills are favourite medicines, so big that sometimes persons are nearly choked in swallowing them. Much of the liquid medicine given is thick, and most nauseous to take; but usually the Chinese drink their potions without any sign of disgust. There are, however, various aromatics and perfumes prescribed, which the patients do not have to swallow; they have only to sniff them, or inhale their vapour. Dried and powdered bones of many animals are taken as physic; thus, the bones of a tiger are believed to give strength and courage. An elephant's tusk will furnish medicine for several complaints. Of the vegetables used, none is more highly esteemed than the ginseng root.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 174.)

At length, worn out and with a violent headache, Estelle tried to collect her senses. Something must be done. No one could help her. If she was ever to get out of this terrible passage, it must be by her own exertions. There must be a way--yes surely! The hole in the cliff suddenly occurred to her and almost at the same instant she thought of the two men in the cellar. Her spirits revived as she remembered that there was an entrance to the ruin through her aunt's cellars. Once there, she could bang on the door till she was heard.

Springing up with renewed hope, she proceeded to grope her way in what she fancied might be the proper direction. She had lost her bearings, she feared, when she was knocked down, but it would not be difficult to find them again. The fallen mass was, as far as she could recollect, behind her, and she had only to go ahead to make her way to the cellar. If only she could be sure she was in the right passage! Alas! a few steps brought her up against a barrier, which no efforts at feeling or climbing seemed able to pass. A wall of earth met her everywhere.

A great terror seized her. Had the crash completely blocked the passage on all sides? Was she a prisoner without hope of escape? Trembling so that she could scarcely walk, she called the dog to her, and, holding him by the collar, began to feel all round the walls of her prison. Bootles, not approving of this plan, pulled vigorously in an opposite direction, and, obeying his lead, she was relieved to find herself able to get along fairly well, without many falls over stones or mounds. The first horror of her position passed away.

Releasing the dog, she struggled bravely on, imagining every moment she would come up against some door.

'We shall get there soon,' she cried cheerfully to Bootles, who was trotting at her side, uttering an occasional whine.

He gave a bark on being addressed, and sprang up to her, but it appeared to her he was uneasy. Had she made a mistake? It was no great distance to the cellars; but she had been toiling along for an immense time, and was getting very tired after her numerous falls and bruises. The terror she had felt at first began to creep over her again, but she would not let herself give way to it. Struggling blindly on in the total darkness, she was suddenly startled by the sound of running water. Very soon she was floundering in a stream which bubbled round her feet, while all about her was a sound of faint trickling. Moreover, she had not gone on many steps before another fall sent her headlong into a pool, from which she scrambled to her feet soaking wet. With a terrified cry, she sought in vain for the friendly wall, but could not find it. Chilled to the bone, shivering, and hopelessly bewildered, she dared not move another step for fear of unknown consequences. Every breath was now a sob, as wearied, aching all over, terrified, she stood still, afraid to stir.

'Bootles! Bootles!' she cried, stooping to feel if he were anywhere near.

Instead of a caress, or even a whine, she heard his feet pattering about for some seconds, as if he were sniffing out their position. A moment later, a thud showed he had either jumped or fallen down somewhere. Fearing he had deserted her, and that she was now absolutely alone, her self-control gave way. She began to scream with all her might. He did not return, nor was there any answer to her cries. Instead, the air seemed full of loud shouts, which gradually died away as she ceased to scream. Listening to them, her excited state made her imagine they were the mocking chorus of invisible creatures, who were flocking round her. Oh, if she could only move! If she could dare to run away!

'Bootles! Bootles!' she cried, her voice broken by sobs; 'where are you? Oh, do come back!'

' ... come back!' echoed the voices.

' ... come back!' repeated the fainter chorus behind.

It was plainly of no use to call. The dog had vanished. The voices only mocked her. She was very tired, too, and her throat ached so that her voice was hoarse and almost gone. She felt she must either move on or sit down; standing any longer was impossible. Her knees were trembling, but she felt her steps carefully as she moved forward a few paces, with the hope of coming upon a piece of dry ground. Suddenly she found herself turning round a corner; before her lay a passage which sloped steeply down to a faint light, sparkling far below her. Half wild with hope and terror, she ran still further, the rocks opening out as she went.

Into her dazzled eyes came the great crimson blaze of the setting sun, making a fiery path on the waters. She was going at full speed down the sharp incline, terror lending wings to her feet. Before she realised her danger, she was at the opening in the cliff, and, unable to stop herself, had fallen into the sea. A faint scream, a splash, and the waves closed over her.

The tide, still high, covered the lower rocks: the strong current carried her over them out to sea within a very few minutes, though, alas! not without serious injury from jagged points against which she was whirled in her passage.

Cruising about, waiting for some sign of the two men whom they had orders to bring off, the French sailors were not far from the bay. Among them was the smartest of their crew, an Englishman, whose keen sight very little ever escaped. Just as the signal for their return was flown, his attention was caught by something being swept past the boat by the strong current. In spite of much opposition he insisted on looking more closely at the object, and seized it with a boat-hook just as it was again sinking out of sight. To the amazement of the crew, the bundle proved to be a little girl, whom Jack took into his strong arms, and would have carried ashore had he been allowed his own way. But this was a point beyond even his power to enforce. For one thing they were sure the child was dead, the little face looked so wan. Secondly, if they were caught by the English gunboat it would mean heavy fines, and the men had no notion of throwing away good money in that manner.

Jack had, therefore, to do the best he could for his little waif, and take her back with him to the ship. He did not know who she was, nor whence she came, and as she needed immediate attention, it was perhaps as well he did so.

(Continued on page 186.)

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 183.)

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter XI

'Asleep still? Is there any hope, Mother?'

'Sh! The doctor thinks she will wake about four o'clock, and I am on the watch to give nourishment as soon as she can take it.'

'I asked the doctor what he thought, and he says, if the poor little thing comes to herself and speaks collectedly, why, there's every hope of her getting on fair and bright. But it all depends on that.'

'I am that anxious I don't know what to expect, and I don't care to look one way or the other. But we must not be talking so close to her, or she will be waking before her time. You stir up the fire, Jack, and just see that the soup isn't too warm for her to drink, and I will watch here quiet a bit. It will be hard to lose her after such long weeks of nursing.'

Jack went away to do as he was bid, in the silent manner of one experienced in sick nursing; as well as in many another work to which the 'handy man' is so often called during a life spent at sea. Mrs. Wright, seating herself on a chair close to the little bed, took up her work, and soon nothing was heard in the room but the click of the rapid knitting-needles.

Jack, having put the soup where it would keep just warm, slipped out of the room, letting the curtain at its entrance fall behind him. The sun was touching the white bedclothes with a lingering ray. Passing softly away, it left the room in shade which felt pleasant after the hot day.

The sick child moved. Just a faint motion of the head, a trembling of the eyelids, and a sigh. Mrs. Wright stopped her work to look. Estelle stirred again, slightly.

How long she had slept she did not know. She felt warm and comfortable, but not in the least inclined to get up. It seemed to be morning, too, for the light appeared quite bright. How weak she was! It was an effort to open her eyes. Not even to save her life could she have raised herself. Somebody came to her and put something in her mouth with a spoon, but she was too tired to see who it was; so, without trying to think, she dropped asleep once more.

When she awoke again she felt stronger, and, hearing a movement, opened her eyes. A strange face was bending over her; a sweet face, though old, wrinkled, and weather-beaten. Estelle stared at it in amazement. A poor woman, evidently, but clean and tidy in her coarse blue serge dress and white apron. A black lace cap almost concealed her grey hair, and in her hands was a great bundle of knitting. Seeing the child was awake she hastily put this down, and brought some broth from a little saucepan over the fire.

'Now, my dearie, you just swallow this,' she said, 'and we shall have you about in no time.'

So gently and cheerily did she speak that Estelle smiled, and made an effort to lift her head to take the soup, which smelt most delicious.

'We have not come to that yet, my dear,' said the old woman, smiling. 'But it will come! it will come! You will be running about as blithe and strong as ever, please God, in a week or two. But there's no hurry. Lie still and rest now. You'll get up all the better for it.'

Putting her arm round the child, she held the cup to her lips with the skill born of long practice in nursing.

'What! every drop?' she cried, as she arranged Estelle comfortably on her pillows. 'That's something like, and better than you have done for a very long time. Do you know that? If you go on as well as this, we shall have you up in no time.'

'Where am I?' whispered the child; then wondered at the faint, far-away sound of her own voice.

'With those who will care for you till you are well again,' returned the old woman, smiling encouragingly, and smoothing the closely cropped head tenderly.

All Estelle's lovely curly locks had been cut off. Her thin face looked thinner than ever.

'Have I been ill?'

'Indeed you have. But you're getting better every day. Now, you must not talk any more. Try to sleep.'

When Estelle next awoke it seemed to be night. A candle, shaded by an open book, was burning in one corner of a low room, a fire of logs smouldered on the hearthstone, and in the light they gave she could see the woman asleep in an old-fashioned armchair, which had head-rests on each side of its upright back. She looked very tired, Estelle thought. There were deep shadows on her face, and the flickering firelight gave it a very sad expression. Estelle wondered why she did not go to bed instead of sitting up in a chair, wrapped in a blanket. Her eyes wandered from the woman, round the room. She could not imagine where she was. Never in her life had she seen such a room. It was very low, the black ceiling making it appear even lower than it actually was. The window was merely a square hole, without curtain or blind. The furniture was scanty--indeed, she could see nothing but a cupboard and a table with a basin and jug on it. The walls were black and grey, like rock, and a thick curtain hung over what might be the door.

Staring at this curtain in puzzled astonishment, Estelle saw it move and sway. A man entered the room with the noiseless tread of a sailor. He was so very tall, with shoulders so broad, that he seemed to till the little room; his head almost touched the ceiling. A neatly trimmed sailor's beard of dark hair gave him a fierce aspect, but he did not appear to be really fierce, for he bent very tenderly over the sleeping woman without rousing her. Estelle watched him with great curiosity. What did he want there? To her dismay, he soon turned round, and, approaching the bed, looked down at her. Seeing she was awake, he put his finger to his lips for silence; then slipping away in the same noiseless fashion, he quickly brought her some warm milk, which he gave her most deftly.

'Poor Mother's quite worn out,' he whispered. 'We will let her have her sleep out. Do you want anything more? Shall I move you?'

Estelle smiled, but shook her head. She thought he would leave the room when he found there was no more to be done, but he lay down at full length before the fire, after putting on an extra log or two. Once more silence reigned, and Estelle fell asleep.

But though she was able to rouse herself a little now and then, she lay for the greater part of the day in a dreamy state, often dropping asleep, and having to be coaxed to take the necessary nourishment. Very white and frail she looked, as if it would not take much of a puff to blow her away. Nevertheless, each day brought an increase of appetite and strength, and each day she grew fonder of her careful, tender nurse, as well as of Mrs. Wright's giant son. As Estelle grew stronger, she began to notice how the two loved each other with no ordinary love. 'Her Jack' was everything to his mother; yet Estelle, listening in the dreamy, half-conscious way produced by extreme weakness, was sure she heard a sigh sometimes when Mrs. Wright was speaking of him. Jack's manner, too, often made Estelle think he had hurt his mother in some way, and was trying his best to make up to her for it by love and devotion.

(Continued on page 198.)

MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.

VI.-PLYMOUTH BREAKWATER.

Through Mr. John Rennie, the builder of London Bridge, was the chief designer and engineer of the Plymouth Breakwater, the waves of the English Channel gave him great assistance; and unlike other workmen, they asked for no pay. We shall see presently how they worked. In 1806, the Lords of the Admiralty made up their minds, for good and all, that something must be done to make the splendid harbour of Plymouth Sound a safer place of refuge in case of storm. Mr. John Rennie and another engineer, named Whidbey, were asked to go to Plymouth and look at the Sound, and then say what they thought should be done.

The authorities took five years to make up their minds. But Rennie persistently called attention to the map of Plymouth Sound.

'If you build a long stone pier out from either shore so as to break the force of the waves,' said he, 'you will interfere with the free flow of the currents from the river-mouths, and cause them to drop the sand and soil, which they are ever carrying out to sea, until the harbour-mouth is choked by them. The harbour has been formed into its present shape by the free actions of current and tide, and if these be altered by artificial means, the shape and safety will be destroyed.' Then he went on to explain that the proper thing to do was to build a wall in the Sound itself, without letting it touch the land at either end. The tides, thus only slightly confined between the shores and wall-ends (but allowed to run in their old accustomed channels), would keep their channels free. The Lords of the Admiralty thought it all over, and on the 22nd June, 1811, issued an order for the work to begin.

Then no more time was lost. Down to Plymouth went the engineer and his staff again. They searched for a quarry to dig the stone from, and found it at Oreston, in the north-east corner of the Sound. In March, 1812, crowbar and gunpowder began to be busy there. Meanwhile, on the water of the Sound, two and a half miles south of Plymouth Town, a number of buoys were moored in two parallel lines, extending over a distance of one thousand two hundred yards, east and west. They marked the place where the great barrier was to be built, and their anchors partly lay on a reef of dangerous, submerged rocks, and partly in deep water. By the time they were safely fixed, the first shiploads of stone were ready. But ten of the ships were not like other ships. All along the deck and all down the middle of the lower part of the vessel, ran lines of rails, and on these were small trucks each carrying one large stone. The stones varied in weight from half a ton to ten tons and more. They were rough-hewn from the quarry, for as Rennie was going to let the sea build the wall, it was better that the stones should be irregular in shape. Each ship, being loaded, sailed to the line of the buoys, and, safely moored to one of them, proceeded to unload. This was done by wheeling the trucks, one after another, to an opening in the stern, where the truck was tilted on one end and the huge stone toppled into the water. The process of unloading took each ship about three-quarters of an hour. There were forty-five other ships, each capable of carrying some fifty tons of small stones and rubble. These latter cargoes were shot into the water in much the manner that ordinary ballast is unloaded.

The first large stone, marking the beginning of Plymouth Breakwater, went gurgling to the bottom of the Sound on August 12th, 1812, amid the flutter of flags and the booming of cannon. It was the Prince Regent's birthday, and Lord Keith, commander of the Channel Fleet, came to witness the beginning of the great task. The stone fell on a spot called the Shovel Rock, near the centre of the lines of buoys, and was very soon covered by rubble from the next ship. Then the procession was kept up with such diligence that by the end of the following March, the top of the pile peeped above the water at low tide--forty-three thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine tons had been dropped! Bit by bit this point of new land grew longer and longer, until it became possible for workmen to disembark upon it, and when a storm broke in March, 1814, a number of ships were glad to seek its shelter, among them being the famous warship, Queen Charlotte. So satisfactory was the protection it even then afforded, that the engineers decided to raise it higher than was originally intended, not stopping until two feet above high water was reached; thus rendering the water between it and Plymouth calm enough for small vessels.

When making his survey, Rennie had come to the conclusion that the slope of his great bank of stones, where it faced the open sea, should be at an angle of five feet to one. That is, in climbing from the bed of the sea, it should rise one foot in every length of five. But others did not agree with him, and the slope was made three feet to one, until the waves themselves took up the argument, and proved that John Rennie was right. In 1817, they broke over the bank in such a storm that large quantities of stone on the seaward side were swept over the top, and littered down the opposite side. When the gale was over, examination proved that the sea-slope was five to one. Yet for seven years more this curious dispute was kept up, and not until 1824, when Rennie had been dead for three years, did the sea at last have its way, and convince those in authority that it (and Rennie) knew what the proper slope should be. On November 23rd, 1824, so fierce was the storm that it hurled several thousands of tons of ponderous stones from one side of the Breakwater to the other. That was the final word, and the Breakwater stands to-day as the sea ordered it.

When this huge pile of loose stones and rubble more than a mile long, rising from a broad base at the bottom of the sea, had been formed into a close mass by the action of the waves, a coating of masonry was laid over them. At either end, east and west, the great wall bends slightly for a short distance northward, and is finished in a circular platform of solid masonry. At the west end stands a handsome lighthouse; at the east, a beacon, and between these and the shore are the two entrances to the harbour--one a quarter of a mile wide, and the other three-quarters. The width of the wall at the top is forty-five feet, but at the bottom it is three hundred and sixty feet, and weighs nearly four million tons. Surely it would be a boisterous sea that would carry this away. Its total cost was about one million five hundred thousand pounds, and it was finished in 1848.

Before the lighthouse was built, it became necessary to warn vessels of the position of the new sea-wall, and for more than twenty years a lightship burned a signal there. This was the state of affairs when that terrible storm of 1824 swept up the Sound, and among the wrecks it caused was one of an unusual character. A small vessel, laden with cork, was nearing the mouth of the Sound, when she was suddenly struck by a violent gust of wind and turned completely over. The captain, a boy, and two passengers were the only ones below at the time, and these, finding the water rushing in, sought refuge in the ship's coal-hole, which, owing to the reversed position of the hull, was now above them instead of below. In total darkness, and lapped by the encroaching water, they floated thus for six hours. In the early morning they struck against the west point of the Breakwater, heeled over it and drifted toward the lightship. Those on board the latter, little thinking that the wreck had life on it, pushed the hull away with poles, and, caught by the tide, it soon drifted from sight. Three hours later it appeared again. The return tide had washed it back, and a little later a larger wave than usual carried it on to the rough stones of the unfinished Breakwater, where it held fast. The water receded, and the four unhappy voyagers crept out on to the rocks, to be rescued half an hour later by a pilot boat. Such was one of the unexpected services rendered by the Breakwater at Plymouth; but its expected benefits, worthily accomplished, have been too numerous to record.

JOHN LEA

UNION IS STRENGTH.

A True Anecdote.

A water-hen, seeing a pheasant feed out of one of those mechanical boxes which open when the bird stands on the rail in front of the box, went and stood in the same place, as soon as the pheasant quitted it. Finding that its weight was not sufficient to raise the lid of the box, it kept jumping upon the rail to try to open it. It could net succeed in lifting the lid sufficiently high, and so the clever bird went away, and returned with another bird of its own species. The weight of the two had the desired effect, and they both enjoyed the reward of their sagacity.

LITTLE WORKERS.

I saw a little flake of snow Fall down towards the land; 'Twas such a tender little thing, It rested on my hand. But after, when I went abroad, And looked on field and hill, The snow had covered everything, And all the land was still.

I saw a little daisy-bud Peep upwards through the green; It was a tiny little flower, And yet it promised spring. And when the summer days had come, The little blossoms fair Had made a carpet red and white That covered everywhere.

A child--it is a little thing, How weak its hands! how small! What tiny footsteps it doth take, How soon 'twill slip and fall! Yet all the wonders of the world. The towers and castles fair, Were thought and planned and built by men, Who once small children were.

A NEGLECTED SALUTE.

An anecdote is told of one of the sons of the German Emperor which shows that the faults of youth are common to all ranks, and that princes, no less than ordinary boys, require to be trained in the way they should go.

This little prince was a great favourite, and his winning ways made him very popular. It was always his delight to receive the military salute when he passed through the palace gates, and for this reason he looked forward to his daily walk with his tutor.

But in the nursery he was inclined to be unruly, and there was at one time great trouble in making him take his morning bath. One day, to his surprise, when he rebelled he was allowed to go without it, and he thought he had certainly gained the upper hand.

Later in the morning, when he passed the sentinel, the usual salute was not given. He stormed and raged, but no notice was taken. At luncheon, the little prince, with tears of wrath, complained of the insult which had been offered him, fully expecting the immediate punishment of the sentinel.

But the Emperor only shook his head. 'What else could you expect' he said. 'Surely you did not imagine that the guard would salute a dirty boy?'

After this there was no more trouble about the morning tubs.

A STORY OF THE UNFORESEEN.

'It's no good, Baker, the thing we must decide is whether Billy or Pottles will give us the most lines; for we shall get them from one or the other, and that's certain.'

'Bosh! there's another two days yet before we must have the books back, and, at any rate, I know where Billy has put them.'

'What's the good of that? We are not allowed in the school buildings except in work-hours, and then, if his study is not locked, it's because Billy himself is inside it. If you could get him out without locking the door, in the lunch-hour, there would be some use in all your ideas.'

'If I could make him put his head out of the window, that would do quite as well,' said Baker, meditatively. 'The books are on the cupboard just inside the door.'

Paynton laughed. 'It would take an awful uproar in the quad to wake Billy, and if we are creating an uproar, how are we to fetch the books out? It is all your fault. Whatever made you say Billy's window was the window of our class-room?'

'Well, I thought it was.'

'You shouldn't think, you should be sure. If only we'd thrown in anything but the algebra books it would have been all right; but Pottles promised to teach us a lesson next time we came to class without them, and you know what that means.'

'Shut up, Paynton--I've got an idea.'

'I hope it's a better one than throwing books in at wrong windows,' said his friend, and the two boys went along together still arguing busily.

Baker and Paynton were the despair of Mr. Potter, the master of the Lower Fourth, rudely called Pottles behind his back; and even Mr. Wilson, the somewhat absent-minded Head Master, nicknamed Billy by his irreverent scholars, was beginning to wonder whether it would not be better to suggest to the parents to try whether sending them to a fresh school would have any effect on them. It was useless to cane them, it was useless to give them 'lines.' They took their punishment as the natural part of a day's work that was otherwise devoted to 'scoring off' the masters and avoiding the pursuit of knowledge. On this occasion Mr. Wilson had by no means forgotten that he had ordered the two boys to come to his study to claim the books that they had thrown in there by mistake, but he was rather glad that they did not arrive at once, as he wanted to think of some fresh means of impressing them.

* * * * *

The following morning when the upper school began its lunch interval, the lower was being drilled in the 'quad,' round three sides of which ran the school buildings. On the fourth was an iron railing with the big school-gates in the middle, and at one of the windows appeared Baker and Paynton as soon as the bell rang. At the next window Mr. Wilson's back was visible as he wrote at his study table.

'Right, left; right, left!' drilled the sergeant, and the small boys marked time steadily. But his instructions were suddenly cut short, for something charged through the gates behind him and stretched the unfortunate man flat on his back. By the time he had raised himself again to a sitting posture and had begun to wonder what could have happened, he found that the orderly lines had disappeared, and that the whole of the lower school, headed by a rough-looking farm-boy with a piece of broken rope in his hand, was engaged in chasing the most wily and cunning black pig that ever made his escape. He dodged and doubled turned and twisted, charged down the small boys and avoided the large ones, till the whole 'quad' resounded with cries of 'Catch on to his tail!' 'Don't let him pass you!' 'There he goes!' and the windows began to fill with interested spectators. At last Mr. Wilson himself threw open his own window to see what was happening.

A few minutes later Baker and Paynton sauntered into the 'quad' and joined in the chase, which was ended, eventually by the pig being driven into a corner, so as to allow the farm-boy to refasten the rope.

By that time Mr. Wilson had also descended, and was inquiring sternly into the meaning of the pig's presence in his school-yard.

'Well, it's this way,' drawled the boy stolidly, 'it's no use trying to keep this pig shut up, and a pig that isn't shut up puts on no fat, so Farmer Jones says to me on Monday, "Bill, that pig's no good; take him into market on Thursday and see what you can get for him," and just as he was passing your gate he broke his rope and in he bolted.'

'Well, another time see that he breaks his rope somewhere else,' said the Head Master.

'He won't have another chance of breaking ropes with me,' said the boy as he touched his hat and turned away. Then he caught sight of Baker on the outskirts of the crowd.

'Oh, there you be, Master Baker,' he said with a grin;' if so be as you could give me that sixpence now it would save me another walk into town.'

'Why does Master Baker owe you sixpence?' inquired Mr. Wilson with interest.

'Oh! he lives next door to Jones's, he does, and he says to me yesterday when we was talking together, "Bill, if you do a job for me, I'll give you sixpence," and I've done it and I want my money.'

'The job in question being to drive that pig into the school-yard?' said the Head Master sharply.

'I said I'd say nothing about it and I won't,' answered the boy stolidly.

Mr. Wilson eyed Baker with an air of meditation that took in everything from the guilty expression on his face to the algebra book under his arm.

'Give the boy his money, Baker,' he said, 'and I should like to see you and Paynton in the study after afternoon school.'

'You won't catch me following any more of your precious plans,' said Paynton, as, having paid the sixpence, the two boys hurried back to their class-room.

* * * * *

When they entered the Head Master's study in the afternoon, a surprise awaited them. Tea, accompanied by the most delicious cakes, was prepared on the corner table, and Mr. Wilson talked to them and pressed the good things upon them as if there were no such thing as a cane in the cupboard behind the door. Under these strange new circumstances, their awkwardness wore off, and they were soon talking to their Head Master in a manner that surprised themselves.

It was not until tea was over that Mr. Wilson mentioned either the pig or the algebra books, and then he did it in such a friendly way that he astonished them more than ever.

'Well, now, about the pig this morning,' he began, 'suppose you arranged the whole business in order to make me look out of the window, and give you an opportunity of regaining the algebra books which you thought I had forgotten?'

'Yes, sir,' said Baker, feebly.

'And I expect it was something to do with you two boys that the school fire-brigade was summoned out by a false alarm last week, and that no one could go into your class-room without the most frightful attacks of coughing, one day in the week before.'

Baker nodded, but said nothing. He was wondering why he had ever considered the Head Master absent-minded. Even Mr. Potter had not connected him with either of these two exciting events.

'Well, these things all show a very high power of organization. You evidently possess the abilities which, well trained and properly disciplined, would be capable of manoeuvring an army, or at any rate, of carrying their owners to a high rank in the Service.'

The boys stared in astonishment. They had never worried themselves as to the particular nature of their abilities, but the idea of leading armies appealed to them.

'I see that both your names are down for Sandhurst,' went on Mr. Wilson; 'but unless you can get through the classes much faster than you have done as yet, there is not the smallest chance of your being ready for the examination. With really hard work, you might still get into the Army Class at the proper time, and I must leave it to you to decide whether you consider it worth while to do so or not. You can think it over, boys. Good-bye for the present,' and Baker and Paynton found that the dreaded interview with the Head Master was over, and that he had given them a great deal to think about.

The result of their meditations may be summed up in the remark Paynton made to Baker as they went into school next morning.

'I almost wish Billy had caned us,' he said in a regretful voice. 'It will be all right to end up as celebrated generals, but it will be jolly slow in school if we're not going to have any more larks.'

ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.

By HAROLD ERICSON.

V.--SAVED FROM THE MATABELES

'Look here, Teddy,' said Rolf Denison, addressing Vandeleur, whose turn had come round again for a yarn, 'You promised to tell us more about young what's-his-name, the Matabele boy who was half English, or something of the sort, and said he was a White Witch; you left him disappearing into the jungle, offended, and promised you would tell us about him reappearing "at a critical moment." I want to hear about that critical moment.'

'So do I,' Bobby chimed in; 'I was rather interested in that chap--what was his name--Um something---- '

'Umkopo,' Vandeleur laughed. 'All right, here goes, then, for my yarn; I fancy you'd be still more interested in Umkopo if you knew as much about him as I do; I didn't know then, mind you, when all this happened, nor did Umkopo himself; maybe I will make that into a yarn too, one day.'

* * * * *

Well, it was just at the beginning of the first Matabele war that I first came across Umkopo, and it was not until the middle of the second war--the rising in Mashonaland--that we met again. I was out hunting again when the new troubles broke out, and finding myself not far from Bulawayo when the rumour of war reached me, I made all haste to reach the town before I should be cut off by one of the large bands or impis of natives at that time prowling about in search of defenceless foreigners in outlying farms.

I was about thirty miles from Bulawayo, when a couple of Kaffirs, flying south, came across us and gave us news. The Mashona boys were 'up' everywhere, full of fight and full of mischief; already many farms had been attacked, and though the alarm had been sent east and west, and south and north, yet there were many of the new settlers in great danger, and--so far as human probability went--all or most of those who were not safely in Bulawayo would be cut off and murdered, and their homes pillaged and burned.

'You are as good as dead already,' they cheerfully informed us, 'unless you can somehow get safely into the town, and that is very unlikely indeed, because the Matabele are all round it, preventing people leaving or arriving.'

Of course this was said in Kaffir English, and certainly our informants looked frightened enough to warrant the truth of their news.

'Aren't they doing anything at Bulawayo to help the outlying farms?' I asked. 'Surely the towns people are not leaving them all to be murdered in cold blood?'

'They expect to be attacked themselves--the town is going to be besieged,' said the frightened Kaffirs; 'they are fortifying themselves and forming an army, but they are sure to be killed, every one of them.'

This sounded cheerful, indeed. Of course, so far as Bulawayo and its population were concerned the news was only partially true. Bulawayo, as probably you will remember, behaved most excellently; it not only defended its own women and children from attack, but contrived to send out parties of rescue to many of those known to be exposed to danger in outlying parts of the country, saving numbers of British men, women and children, who would have otherwise perished.

The Kaffirs continued their flight southward, and I found myself suddenly called upon to make a very important decision.

Twenty miles away, northward and eastward, lay the farm of a man who had offered me hospitality quite lately. This was Gadsby, a man of some thirty-five years, married and with three small children. His partner, Thomson, lived with him. In all probability these two men, Mrs. Gadsby, and the three little ones--dear little people, two girls of six and five, and a boy of about seven--were all, at this moment, in deadly danger. Surely the least I could do would be to hasten to their assistance; what with my two rifles, a few Kaffirs to keep watch and so forth, and my humble self to help with the shooting I might be of the greatest service--possibly even turn the scale against their enemies.

If I were to decide to take this course instead of making for Bulawayo, I should, of course, run the risk of encountering an impi of natives on the warpath, and I should then have my work cut out to come safely through the danger. But, on the other hand, the journey to Bulawayo was beset with equal risks, and Bulawayo was farther from this spot than the farm.

Naturally, there was in reality only one course open to a self-respecting man, and I decided at once that I would go to the Gadsbys.

I thought it right, however, to explain the matter to my Kaffirs; for it was clear to me that the news had greatly alarmed them, and some of them might prefer to go southward out of the danger-zone.

Three of the five decided to take this course; two--much to their credit--decided to stand by me; one was the driver of my ox-waggon; the other my chief hunter, a man who called himself Dicky Brown, a far better fellow than the Kaffir Billy who figured in the rhinoceros adventure, and who did not then greatly distinguish himself.

So we three set our faces towards Gadsby's farm, and we had not travelled five miles before trouble began.

We had stopped at the bank of a small river in order to search for a ford, when, sitting on a rock, awaiting the return of the Kaffir I had sent to prospect around, I heard a peculiar sound: a kind of rhythmical tramp as of many feet working together, walking quickly or trotting, accompanied by curious noises as of grunting, groaning, coughing, and so on.

'Matabeles--an impi!' said the Kaffir Dicky, his dusky skin looking an unwholesome ash-colour with terror.

Probably they had struck our trail and were in pursuit; it was a bad business at the best!

Well, there was not much time for preparation--five or ten minutes, perhaps, which we spent in fortifying ourselves as far as possible. That is, we placed the waggon along the river-bank in order to protect ourselves against an attack in the rear. We got the oxen tethered behind the waggon, and so we awaited developments.

The impi was now in full view, the whole five hundred or so of warriors trotting over the ground in step, going at a business-like pace--something like seven or eight miles an hour, the usual speed of a Matabele 'regiment' on the warpath.

Two hundred yards or so from us they pulled up, and one or two indunas or officers came forward. The Kaffirs were able to converse with the men, at any rate to understand their demands, and it appeared that I was summoned to give up my oxen, my stock of provisions, and my rifles and ammunition. When I should have done so to their satisfaction, I should be permitted to proceed to Bulawayo.

'To get my throat cut long before I got near the town!' said I. 'Tell them if they want my property they had better come and take it.'

This reply evidently did not please our friends, who returned to their main force looking wicked, and muttering I don't know what threats. Then I saw the entire impi spread itself out in a kind of semi-circle as though in preparation for attack; but instead of attacking us at once, as I expected, the men all sat down and ate the provisions they had brought with them. Doubtless it was their dinner-time and they saw no reason why they should not refresh themselves. We were caught all right--they had us in their power and they knew it. It was the delay that saved our lives, of course; for if they had 'rushed' us then and there, nothing in the world would have saved us from destruction.

We employed our time in attempting to strengthen our defences; that is, we brought stones from the river and built up a kind of little wall underneath the waggon so that at least no one should attack us from below; as for ourselves we got into the waggon, and I was busy teaching Dicky how to load my Winchester quickly, when the second Kaffir uttered an exclamation:--

'See--see!' he cried. 'See, master, a Matabele coming over the water!'

I looked up. Sure enough a 'nigger' was swimming the river, which was deep just at this place and about thirty yards in width.

I was about to raise my rifle to shoot the fellow, for at first sight it appeared to be an attack in the rear; but something about the man caused me to look closer; I seemed to know the face, which, though dark, was not quite so dusky as the usual complexion of the Mashona fellows, neither was the type of face that of the Matabeles.

I set down my rifle and waited until he should land. It had occurred to me that this might be Umkopo. A moment or two later he climbed ashore--it was Umkopo, sure enough.

'Umkopo!' I hailed him--'it is you!' I saw the youth stand and gaze at me. He was taller now than two years ago, and he wore--in spite of his soaking condition at this moment--an air of much dignity. He had on a Norfolk coat and trousers of obviously English make, though they were none that I had given him. Moreover, when he spoke to me in English, though he was by no means proficient in our language, yet he certainly spoke it much better than when I last saw him.

'Come up here and speak to me,' I said. 'Why are you there?'

Urnkopo laughed. He pointed in a dignified way towards the Matabele impi in the distance. 'I am here,' he said, 'because these fools are here. If I was not here you would die.'

(Continued on page 205.)

THE GLOW-WORM.

It lights its little lamp each night Upon the leaf or ground, And sheds abroad its tiny light, Till day again comes round. Though it is but a tiny spark, It makes the darkness seem less dark.

So gentle deeds of kindness done, By little hands like mine, And kind words spoken one by one Like to the glow-worm shine; They shed abroad a tender light, And make earth's brightness seem more bright.

THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.

VII.--IRISH, SCOTTISH, AND WELSH HARPS.

From very early times the inhabitants of our islands were skilled in the use of the harp. In Ireland the harp was called Clarsach, and in Wales, Telyn; in both countries it was the national instrument. Perhaps the oldest Irish harp known is that said to have been used by King Brian Boru. The story goes that his son left his native country for Rome, taking with him his father's harp and crown. These he presented to the Pope, hoping to induce him to grant his forgiveness for a murder he had committed. Whether he won forgiveness we do not know; but it is certain that a very old Irish harp remained at the Vatican until the reign of our Henry VIII., when the Pope sent it to England. Finally, after passing through various hands, it attained its rest in the library of Trinity College, Dublin. The instrument is about three feet high, and broad and strongly made, which no doubt accounts for its long existence.

One of the oldest and most beautiful of Scotch harps is known as Queen Mary's harp. The carving is still very fine; in former times it was also adorned with the portrait of the Queen of Scots, and with the arms of Scotland set in gold with jewels; but during the rebellion of 1745 the latter ornaments vanished. The harp is only thirty-one inches high by eighteen inches wide, and was played resting on the left knee of the performer, leaning against the left shoulder; the upper strings were played by the left hand. These harps were strung with brass or steel wire, and plucked with the finger-nails, which were kept long on purpose. Queen Mary took her harp for a tour in the Highlands, and while there gave it to a lady who, by marriage, passed it over to its present owners, the Stewarts of Galguse.

No amount of repression and misery during the ceaseless rebellions against their English masters seems to have affected the Welsh love for their national instrument. In the year 1568, Queen Elizabeth herself brought her mind to bear upon the matter, and ordered a congress of bards to be held at Caerwys. Here the really good players received degrees and rewards, whilst the indifferent performers were invited to seek some other honest profession; failing this they were liable to be apprehended and punished as rogues and vagabonds. From this meeting the Eistedfodd seems to have arisen, though after awhile Welsh music suffered an eclipse, only reappearing in force during the nineteenth century. The chief prize for many years of the musical contests was a model of a harp in silver, about six inches high, and beautifully executed.

England also had its harpists, and we all remember that King Alfred visited the camp of Guthram and delighted him with his music. Chaucer, in his Prologue to the 'Canterbury Tales,' speaks of one who played a sort of harp so well that when he sang,

'His eyes twinkled in his head aright, As do the stars upon a frosty night.'

HELENA HEATH.

THE KESTREL'S EGGS.

Ralph Norton was home on leave from the Britannia, and it was not easy to find a sufficient outlet for his energies in the quiet neighbourhood where he lived. So when his sister Marjorie told him that she wanted a kestrel's egg for her collection, he explored a wood not far away, and discovered a nest which would give him a good piece of climbing.

'Don't take more than one--or two, at the most,' Marjorie said. 'I can't bear to make the birds miserable, but I don't think they can mind losing one egg out of a whole batch.'

It was a lovely spring morning and Ralph stood at the foot of the tall fir and looked up at the nest, which was built on a branch quite near the top.

'It is a stiff climb,' he thought, 'and it's a good thing I am not heavy, or that branch would never bear me.'

But he was not a Britannia cadet for nothing, and the harder the climb the better fun he would think it, so up he scrambled.

A few minutes later a game-keeper came along, and stopped when he got near the fir-tree.

'I will just put a charge of shot into that hawk's nest,' he said to himself. 'Hawks do too much damage. I may catch the bird sitting there, and at any rate I can smash the eggs.'

He raised his gun to take aim when a piercing yell seemed to come from the sky. He lowered it hastily, and it was fortunate the shock did not make him discharge it.

'Hold hard there!' came a shrill voice from the direction of the nest. 'If you don't look out, you will bring down a bigger bird than you reckon for.'

The kestrel at this moment flew swiftly away, and the keeper was so perturbed he missed his opportunity of bringing her down.

'Oh, it's you, is it, Master Ralph?' he shouted. 'I declare I never can tell what prank you will be up to next. You do frighten a man most out of his wits.'

'And what about me?' Ralph retorted. 'I have had about as much of a scare as I want. It was hard-enough work getting up, without seeing the ugly muzzle of a gun pointed at me. And a jolly good thing I did see it, or you might have been had up for manslaughter.'

'Well, I like that!' muttered the game-keeper. 'I wonder who is about his proper business--that daring young scamp, or a harmless man like myself?'

But he knew from experience he did not often get the better of Ralph in a war of words.

'As you are up there, sir,' he called, 'you might take all the eggs, and then I need not waste my shot.'

'Right you are!' was the answer; but Ralph found there were seven, and he thought of Marjorie's injunctions.

'I will leave a couple,' he decided, and even then he hardly saw how he could get the others safely down. Two could be carried in his mouth in the orthodox fashion, and the other three must take their chance in his pocket; not much of a chance though, considering the scramble before him.

However, he was soon on the ground beside the keeper, displaying his treasures.

'A good set too,' he said, 'from rusty red to one almost white. But you did give me a turn with that old gun.'

'I'm sure, sir, I am thankful enough I didn't fire it off, but I should have been doing no more than my duty, and that's more than you can say, seeing that this wood is strictly preserved.'

Ralph laughed, and they sauntered off together, and the kestrel sailed back to her despoiled nest. If only she had known it, she had reason to be grateful to Ralph, for if he had not been in the act of robbing the nest, she might have been shot herself, and at any rate her eggs would have been destroyed. As it was she had in time two little downy fledglings to console her, and this fact was a comfort to Marjorie, though perhaps Ralph thought more of the fun of the little adventure than of the bird's feelings.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 187.)

Having seen Mrs. Wright and her son about her from the earliest moment of consciousness, and after the first feeling of strangeness in her surroundings had worn off, Estelle took everything quite naturally, as if she had never known any other life. With the experience of the child's terrible illness to frighten her, Mrs. Wright dared not perplex her mind with questions, or attempt to rouse her memory. Till she had strength to think and realise under what altered conditions she was living, the child had better be treated with simple love and care. Being naturally healthy, Estelle soon began to gain in strength steadily. The headaches from which she suffered gradually grew less distressing, and as soon as she was able to sit up, she was carried in Jack's strong arms into another room, and laid upon a great soft couch.

Estelle looked about her with a growing wonder and delight. She was in the queerest and quaintest room she had ever seen. It appeared to be a little of everything: a sitting-room and a kitchen and a cave. There was a big fireplace, in which huge logs of wood were burning on the floor, partly supported by iron dogs; the floor of the room was of sand, with a rug here and there. The ceiling and walls were of rock, the light being admitted through an opening at a great height above the ground. Very large, high, airy, and beautifully clean, it was yet very marvellous. A long dresser covered with plates and jugs stood against the end wall; an old-fashioned oak settle occupied one side of the fireplace, and the couch on which she lay the other side, thus forming a sort of cosy encampment in the great cave. A big round table stood in the centre, decorated with a bowl of wild flowers, in honour of Estelle, arranged by Jack's deft fingers. A number of books, some work, and a few photographs were scattered about on this table, for no meals were ever served on it. Another and smaller table close to the settle was used for this purpose, in front of the wall on which all the brass and copper pans were hanging in shining rows.

Curious and wonderful relics of a seafaring life were visible everywhere: from Japanese cabinets to nautilus shells; from flying fish to the sargasso weed in bottle; from the wedding dress of a Solomon Islander to the exquisite models of the ships he had sailed in, executed by Jack's skilful fingers. He had also rigged up shelves, or made cupboards into which to put his curiosities; and every addition of his handiwork increased the air of quaint comfort in the room.

Estelle was never tired of asking questions about all she saw, and Jack never showed any weariness in answering them, and showing her his treasures. He would tell her long stories of his sea-life, and describe many a curious scene and object he had seen in the wild islands he had visited. But in all his tales Jack never said a word that Lady Coke would not have liked; and there always seemed some good in every person he had met, even the roughest and toughest. Estelle delighted in his stories. They served to beguile many an hour of weakness and weariness. When, however, even these did not please her, Jack would carry her round the room, and point out various little things she had not noticed. He would tell her how he had found them, or he would take down one of his ships, and show her how to rig them, while he taught her the names of the spars and ropes. As she grew stronger, Estelle would read aloud to Jack and his mother, while the latter knitted her jerseys and sea-stockings for sale, and Jack made or mended sails and fishing-nets, or carved little trifles for Estelle with the view of teaching her. She was an apt pupil, enjoying these lessons and showing much ambition to out-rival her master. Thus her strange life and surroundings occupied her thoughts fully, and very seldom did she appear confused by any chance word recalling a forgotten memory. Mrs. Wright, watching her carefully, would not as yet risk any suggestions. The child appeared to be quite happy and contented, and evidently loved the friends who had shown her so much kindness. That was enough for the present.

'Such pretty ways as she has!' said the good woman one day. The little girl having fallen asleep on her couch, she covered her carefully with a rug. 'One would think she had known us all her life, she's that fond of us.'

'I shall be sorry enough when she goes,' returned Jack, in a hushed voice. 'So will you be. You haven't been nursing her for so long, and loving and caring for her as none knows better how to do, without feeling as if she was a bit like a child of your own. Oh, I know you, Mother! She's a little lady and no mistake; but come what may, neither you nor I will ever look upon her quite as we do on other people, nor she on us--I'll be bound. That's Jack Wright's opinion, right or wrong,' he wound up, laughing noiselessly.

Mrs. Wright smiled. It was evident she agreed with him, having just as soft a spot in her heart for the little waif as he had.

'I'm sorry in one way,' went on Jack, sitting down on the settle and lighting his pipe; 'sorry we can't find the little Missie's friends. But somehow I can't be properly sorry either. It is funny how one has a double sort of feeling about it. I'd be really anxious about her if she was taken away from us before she was well, and I'd miss her pretty eyes and her "Thank you, Jack!"'

Mrs. Wright was bending over the fire, cooking their mid-day meal of Scotch broth, and apple dumplings, while keeping a watchful eye upon a dainty dish of fish for the child. She smiled at her son, but a little sigh escaped her also as she shook her head.

'I won't be saying that you did not take trouble enough to find her people,' she remarked. 'I should love to keep her here, but it makes me all the more grieved for her friends. It's hard on them to lose a dear little girl like that. I suppose your skipper had such a fright with that gunboat that he will not be likely to take another trip to English shores?'

'We only got off by the skin of our teeth as it was,' replied Jack, with a grin at the recollection. 'After all, the Frenchman owed his escape to an Englishman being at the helm. He looked pretty grim about it. He has no taste for fines, but it's a jolly sight worse when they have to be paid into British pockets. He never had quite such a narrow shave as this one, and I fancy he will not be in a hurry to cruise in that direction again.'

'What will you do, then?'

'Wait. There's nothing else for it. I have no money, and I don't know where the child came from, nor how far she floated. I don't know the coast, nor anybody living about there. The child will be able to help us by-and-by.'

'What were you saying about me, Jack?' asked Estelle, waking up just in time to hear the last few words.

'"Ask no questions and you'll hear--" You know how that proverb ends, Missie,' laughed Jack, getting up to place a chair for her at the table. 'Here's dinner ready, and Mother only waiting for you.'

Mrs. Wright was indeed in the act of carrying the steaming dishes as Estelle went to her seat. She was so much stronger that she could manage to sit through a meal, supported by cushions and the arms of her chair. Jack told her he had a great treat in store for her, provided she ate a good dinner. Watching her face as he spoke, with its varying colour and delicate outline, Mrs. Wright felt anxious.

'I fear whether it isn't a risk, Jack?' she said.

'Not a bit, Mother. It's a lovely day--calm as a mill-pond, and will do you good as well as the little lady.'

'For half an hour only, then,' said Mrs. Wright, still doubtful of the wisdom of Jack's proposal.

'What is it? Oh, do tell me!' cried Estelle, flushing and paling with eagerness.

'Perhaps, if you eat a good dinner, I will take you out,' returned Jack, smiling. 'Now, if you want to hear any more, you will finish that plateful of fish.'

'Am I going out for a walk? Oh, how lovely! You will come too, dear Goody?' Estelle had learnt to call Mrs. Wright by this pet name.

'Well, you see, we have all to wait till that plate of yours is clear,' answered the old woman, laughing.

Estelle laughed also, and set to work. Her appetite had scarcely begun to be keen as yet, and Jack and his mother agreed that a little fresh air and sunshine might be good for her, if it could be managed without fatigue. Estelle was persuaded to eat all that was expected of her, and promised to lie still upon the couch till Mrs. Wright had cleared the table. Then, while Jack went out to make his preparations, his mother put on her bonnet, and collected some cushions and rugs.

(Continued on page 202.)

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 199.)

It was not very long before Jack returned to tell them all was ready, and to laugh at Estelle's eager face and sparkling eyes.

'I don't want you to tell me what it is,' she cried. 'It will be a real surprise. I love surprises!'

Jack called her a 'contrairy' young lady, who wanted to know every thing one moment and nothing the next. Mrs. Wright, in a wonderful black bonnet, appeared at that instant, her arms full of warm things. Estelle sprang to her feet in delight, scarcely able to stand still a second to have her hat put on, and the big cloak wrapped round her slender little figure.

'Gently, gently, dear,' said Mrs. Wright, as the child bounded towards the door the moment she was released.

Jack laughed. 'That will never do,' he said; 'you must walk before you can run, Missie.'

As long as she went out, she did not care about the manner of her going, and willingly allowed Jack to lift her in his strong arms. Mrs. Wright opened the door at the end of the kitchen, and Estelle found herself on a terrace, where some high shrubs hid the view beyond, and a few flowers had been planted wherever there was soil enough for them. A steep path led down the cliff till they came to a wider place, whence there were two routes--one which Jack pursued, narrow and rough; the other, broader and paved here and there with cobble stones, in order to keep the earth from being washed down the hill.

'That's the way to Tout-Petit, our little fishing village,' said Jack. 'You may walk miles before you will see anything half so pretty. But oh, the dirt!'

'Everything is thrown out into the middle of the street,' added Mrs. Wright, making a face as if the remembrance of certain sights was not pleasant. 'It takes a good heavy rain to wash them places clean. Oh!' as a stone rolled under her feet. 'I do believe, Jack, this path gets worse and worse.'

'I wish I could carry you, dear Goody!' said Estelle, smiling at her over Jack's shoulder, and brimming over with a happiness which made her long to impart some of it to others.

'Or that I could carry you both at once,' laughed Jack. 'Mother is an independent body, Missie, and many's the time I'm obliged to take the law into my own hands, when it's a matter of helping her for her good. She does not like to be done good to against her will.'

'And Jack takes after his mother if that's her character,' retorted Mrs. Wright, laughing.

'Then you would not wish him to be different,' said Estelle, with a look of affection at Mrs. Wright.

'Yes, she would!' exclaimed Jack. 'I've got some ugly faults, and she'd rather see me without them: wouldn't you, Mother?'

'Have you faults?' asked Estelle, in such an incredulous tone that both her listeners laughed.

'He's getting the better of them by degrees,' answered Mrs. Wright, suddenly becoming grave, as if some thought troubled her.

They had now reached the end of the path, and, turning round by a group of pine-trees which grew at the foot of the hill, came out upon the sandy beach. Oh, what a sight for the enchanted eyes of the little girl who had been a close prisoner for so long!

The sun was shining in a sky flecked with soft, fleecy clouds. Before them was the rippling, dancing sea. Far in the hazy distance the grey smoke of a passing steamer could be seen, while white-winged boats or brown-sailed fishing smacks dotted the wide bay. Estelle's eyes were full of tears as she uttered exclamations of delight and surprise.

'How lovely! How lovely! Are we going to sit on the beach?'

'Better than that, Missie,' replied Jack, marching down the pebbly slope with long, easy strides. 'Don't you see the skiff down there on the sands? It's a trip in her you will have, where you will get fresh air, with nothing to tire you.'

'Dear Jack! How delicious! Are you not very happy, Goody?'

'I am if you are, dearie. But if you go and get excited, you will have to come back. It will never do to have you ill again.'

Declaring she was not excited, only happy, Estelle clung to Jack as to a tower of strength against any return. He laughed.

'Obey orders, little Missie,' he said; 'be happy, but keep quiet. There's no call to tire yourself.'

'Why, you silly Jack, you are carrying me! How can I get tired?'

The boat had been drawn up on the beach, and Jack now put Estelle into it, making her a comfortable nest among the cushions and rugs, and erecting the umbrella over her head. Then, assisting Mrs. Wright to a seat near her, he ran the boat into the water, springing in as it slid off. With a 'long, long pull and a strong, strong pull' he rowed them out of the shadow of the rocks into the open sea. There he ran up the sail, while Estelle lay quite still in an ecstasy of pleasure. It was one of those golden moments which are seldom forgotten in a lifetime, when mere living and breathing are a delight; when the tongue is silent, because the eyes and thoughts are full of the beauty of the light, and the colour of trees, sea, rocks, and sky! With anxiety Mrs. Wright watched her little charge, as, speechless with delight in the sunlight and sweet air, she lay drinking in health with every breath. But Mrs. Wright was no longer young, and believed in moderation in all things, especially first things. She insisted that the sail should be a short one. Jack, therefore, put back at the end of the allotted time, in spite of Estelle's imploring eyes. She gazed at him as he lowered the sail, and took up his oars, till he almost fancied there were tears in her eyes.

'I did so want to go on!' she sighed. 'It may rain another day, and it is so long since I have seen the sun.'

Mrs. Wright shook her head, however, as one who is deaf to appeal.

'No more to-day, dear,' she said. 'If it is fine to-morrow you shall go again--that is, if you are none the worse for what you have done to-day.'

Jack, who could not bear to see his 'little Missie' distressed, assured her it would be fine to-morrow, and probably for some time longer. April would soon be upon them, and the time for the singing of birds begin. That meant fine weather.

'He ought to know,' added Mrs. Wright; 'it is a sailor's business to understand the sky.'

The words appeared to rouse some train of thought. After gazing earnestly at Jack's smiling face, Estelle knitted her brows, as if puzzled, saying, with some hesitation, 'A sailor? Yes, I know a sailor--now, where did I see him? He had something about him. Oh, what was it? You must remember, Goody. Will you tell me?'

'I have known a good many sailors, dear, in my time, being the wife and mother of sailors; and this one,' putting an affectionate hand on Jack's knee, 'is the biggest of them all.'

But Estelle was not diverted from puzzling over where she had seen the sailor she wanted to remember, whose name and circumstances she was conscious had something especial about them.

'I can't recollect!' she exclaimed, putting her hand to her head. 'Somebody said something, and we were sorry--what could it have been?'

'Don't try to remember, dear. It does not matter. As likely as not it was only a story somebody told you,' urged Mrs. Wright, alarmed at the flush and distress this first effort to recall anything in the past had produced.

'Here we are!' cried Jack, cheerfully pulling round into the bay, and running the little boat as high as possible up the shelving beach.

The tide coming in fast had already covered the sands, and was roaring on the pebbles. Holding the painter of the boat in one hand, Jack sprang out with Estelle in his arms, and, after putting her down on the dry shingle, proceeded to haul the little craft sufficiently high out of the water to enable his mother to land.

'Sit still, Missie,' he called to Estelle, 'and I will carry you up in a jiffy.'

(Continued on page 214.)

A WONDERFUL WEIGHING MACHINE.

The Bank of England has in use a machine so delicately adjusted that it can give the accurate weight of a speck of dust, whilst the same machine will also weigh metal up to four hundred pounds. A postage stamp placed on this scale will swing an indicator on a semi-circle a space of six inches.

PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.

VII.--SOME CURIOUS NURSERIES.

You will find--many of you have found already--that the longer you pursue the study of Natural History the more fascinating it seems to become. Now, a part of this fascination is certainly to be traced to the fact that the unsuspected is always happening; and this, too, happens even to those who have studied nature's ways long enough to know that what we call the 'rules of nature' are always subject to exceptions. That is to say, we know that it would be wrong to suppose that, after we have traced out the life-history of any particular creature, we have the key to the life-history of all its near relatives.

For example, you will remember that not long ago we described the complicated history of the starfish, sea-urchins, and sea-cucumbers. Strange and different as were the changes which these creatures passed through when young, we agreed that they were all cast by their parents adrift into the great world while yet so tiny as to require a microscope to see them; and each mother sent forth her young in this defenceless state by the thousand, so that, as a natural consequence, perhaps not more than a dozen of each family survived. But there is one species of sea-urchin which appears to assume some sort of responsibility and tender care for her young ones. This is the Hemiaster sea-urchin. She lays but a few eggs, and these she jealously guards in a number of pouches on her back. Here they hatch, and in due time become young sea-urchins (fig. 2). One of the starfish, again, carries its young on its back under a wonderful tent stretched across the tips of specially constructed spines; and, in order that water may constantly reach her family, the roof of this tent is pierced with holes! Even the unsightly sea-cucumber, or sea-slug, is not to be outdone. In what are known as the 'plated' sea-slugs--so called from the overlapping stony plate borne on the back--the young are housed in a nursery on the back of the mother, the plate referred to serving as a roof (see fig. 1). In another of the sea-slugs the young cling to the skin of the mother until they are big enough to shift for themselves.

In all these cases, you will notice, the extraordinary forms taken by their unprotected relatives during early life are dispensed with. The reason of this is clear after a moment's reflection. The peculiar shapes which we described earlier are so many special devices designed to aid the young in gaining a living until their full-grown shape has been developed. But when these are specially sheltered in nurseries, they have nothing to do but grow, for their food is brought to them.

The higher we search in the scale of animal life, the more numerous and striking become the instances of the love and care shown by parents for their children. Among the fishes and the frogs and toads, for example, there are such wonderful instances of this that we must deal with each of these groups separately.

When we come to birds and mammals, we find it hard indeed to select instances, because, with but few exceptions, these creatures are most exemplary parents. Let us take, by way of example, one or two cases among the mammals.

The ponderous hippopotamus carries her young one on her back when swimming, to save it from the jaws of the hungry crocodile. Some of the opossum family are remarkable for devotion to their young: one species, for example, though considerably smaller than a cat, cheerfully carries her large family about on her back, though each of them is as large as a full-grown rat! They maintain themselves in perfect safety, while the mother climbs about the trees, by twisting their long tails around hers, which is purposely turned forward over her back after the fashion shown in our illustration (fig. 4). Bats, again, undertake what almost seem impossible burdens, for the mother, though she has to obtain all her food when on the wing, refuses to leave her young one, as would seem but natural, in some place of safety, but carries it with her wherever she goes. The little mite clings tightly to the soft fur of the under side of the body (fig. 5). In some cases as many as four baby bats are carried in this way at a time!

The curious Koala, or native 'bear' of Australia, carries her young on her back (fig. 3), and apparently without serious inconvenience, though she has to make her way about the topmost boughs of the giant gum-trees. Finally, we must refer to the kangaroo, which carries its young in a special pouch, too well known to need description here. The point to which we would direct attention is the burden which all these animals are willing to bear for the sake of their young ones.

W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.

ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.

V.--SAVED FROM THE MATABELES.

(Continued from page 195.)

I looked at Umkopo in astonishment. What did he mean by that, die? Did he think that by his presence with us we should gain so much in strength that we should now beat off the enemy?

Umkopo laughed again. 'You shall see,' he said'; I am the White Witch; that which I say will be obeyed.'

manner of Umkopo, though his words sounded no better than conceited nonsense.

'Do you mean to go among them?' I asked; 'I warn you, Umkopo, it is a dangerous thing to do. They may kill you.'

'Kill me--these children?' he said, with scorn; 'you shall see.'

He strode straight away, with these words, towards the Matabele hosts.

'Stop, Umkopo,' I cried after him; 'you are unarmed--take a rifle, at least, or a pistol.'

'Give me a pistol,' said he, stopping a moment to think; 'a lion may show his teeth when a hyena yelps, that is no shame.'

I gave him a loaded revolver. 'What do you mean to do or say?' I asked.

'I will say "go away," and they will go,' he laughed; 'I will say "dare not threaten those who are of my race--I am the White Witch."'

'But if they refuse to obey?' I asked.

Umkopo gave me a glance brimful of haughty contempt. 'You speak foolishness,' he said. With which he strode away towards the Matabele fellows.

Well, I watched him with some interest and anxiety, as you will readily believe. The Kaffirs, too, watched him in fear and trembling.

'I have heard of the White Witch,' Dicky muttered. 'The Matabeles are like his children, so men say.'

Umkopo went among the indunas who squatted in front of the regiment and sat down with them. We could see that there was excitement among the black warriors when he was seen and recognised. We could even catch occasional exclamations, when loudly uttered. These mostly consisted of the one word, Umkopo. Men seemed to be going from group to group conveying the news that the White Witch had appeared.

The indunas and their visitor rose to their feet, presently, having, I suppose, concluded their arguments, but one man seemed still to be engaged in heated conversation with Umkopo. Suddenly a shot rang out, and the man fell.

With one accord the Matabele hosts sprang to their feet; they gazed for a moment at Umkopo, who seemed to give some order in raised tones, his arms outstretched. Almost instantly the entire regiment turned their faces and began to depart. First they walked, then ambled, then gradually they formed into lines and trotted in their former rhythmical fashion. In five minutes all were out of sight, Umkopo alone being left upon the field of battle--he and the dead induna.

Umkopo returned slowly towards my waggon; his dignity--'side' would be a more exact description--was indescribable; at any other moment it would have been actually amusing, but at this crisis I had no room for any feeling excepting one of deep gratitude, mingled with amazement. The lad had certainly saved us from immediate destruction--how in the world had he done it?

I met him and we shook hands. 'Umkopo, you are a wonderful fellow,' I said, most sincerely; 'how did you do it?--what did you say?--what is the meaning of it?'

'The meaning?' he repeated. 'The meaning is that I am Umkopo; let him disobey me who dares. There are few of the Matabeles who dare. One there was; I knew him before, the induna Gongula: he was jealous of Umkopo; he dared not once, not twice, only to speak in my face--see where he lies; the rest have gone; they will not return.'

'But why do they obey--what is your power over them?' I asked, in genuine surprise; 'I do not understand.'

'Bah!' he said, 'what matters? You are alive and not dead; that is better than to understand. I am the White Witch--it is enough!'

'No, it is not enough,' said I. 'You have saved our lives, Umkopo; you have saved mine a second time to-day; how shall I repay you?'

'Bah! we are friends, that is enough. Where do you go? To your death, that is certain, unless I know in time.'

'I go to Gadsby's farm--a day's journey north and west,' said I. 'Is the country clear between?'

'It is clear to-day. I know Gadsby's farm. It will be attacked presently, like others. If he has not yet gone when you get up there, tell him not to go until Umkopo comes. I cannot be everywhere. Where I am, they dare not touch the men of my race.'

'Have you now discovered for certain that you are English?' I asked.

'Since we met I have learned many things,' he said. Then, before I knew that he meant to leave us, he was in the river and half-way across.

Before long he disappeared in the jungle, which grew almost to the water's edge on the far side of the river.

We lost no further time, but found a shallow place, crossed the river, and trekked onward towards Gadsby's as quickly as possible. We reached the farm before dusk.

Here we found that the Gadsbys had had warning of the danger, and had conveyed the news to farms to right and left of their own. Within the house were assembled Gadsby and his family, his partner, two young bachelors, Morrison by name, from an adjacent property, twelve miles away, and a second family of children, with their parents, from a farm still further away from Bulawayo. They had thrown themselves into Gadsby's large house for mutual protection.

I was received with joy. My rifles and ammunition would be of the greatest service, for Gadsby and his brave companions fully intended to defend the house, and even had hopes of doing so successfully, until relief should arrive from Bulawayo, which, they were sanguine, would come in good time.

This being the case, an extra man, well armed and a pretty fair shot (spare my blushes) was a distinct acquisition.

I found every man in the place busily engaged, some in cutting down and removing everything within two hundred yards of the house which could serve the Matabeles for cover. Others were busy boarding up the windows, and some Kaffirs were saturating the lower portion of the house with a hose, in order that any attempt to set fire to it might be frustrated.

(Concluded on page 226.)

A BUTTERFLY'S WING.

O brother, do tell me,' a little ant said, 'What was it went flying just over my head? 'Twas caught in the sunbeam that pierces the yew; Its colours were crimson, black, orange and blue. It looked like a flag that the fairies might fly If leading an army from here to the sky. And out of the shadow it came from the lane To flit through the light into shadow again. O brother! dear brother! what could it have been? Such colours, such beauty, I seldom have seen. Look! there in the distance it flutters once more, Now right and now left by the summer-house door.' And like one bewitched he set off at a bound, Though jungles of grasses grew thickly around.

'Heed not,' cried the other, 'so simple a thing; 'Tis nothing on earth but a butterfly's wing. They flit through the garden all hours of the day, They turn to each bud in a purposeless way, And many a time have they halted to see What fun could be made of my neighbours and me. But who cares for them? On their way let them go. When the summer has passed they have nothing to show, While one of our efforts more profit will bring Than ten thousand strokes of a butterfly's wing. Come! back to our work.' And without more ado He dug 'neath the soil where an artichoke grew.

The little ant followed, and though I must say He worked in a rather preoccupied way, He owned that to duty 'twas better to cling Than follow the flight of a butterfly's wing.

'THOSE HORRID BOYS.'

Dora and Nellie were on a visit to their grandfather, and, as Nellie said, they might be having a lovely time if it were not for 'those horrid boys.'

'I wish Grandfather would not ask us all at the same time,' sighed Nellie. 'It quite spoils our fun.'

But Grandfather thought it was a good thing for the cousins to meet, though Tom and Frank were a few years older than Dora and Nellie. The two little girls would have thoroughly enjoyed their yearly visit to Grandfather's, if it had not been for Tom and Frank's unmerciful teasing. They could never play a peaceful game together without the dread of being discovered; but this particular afternoon they had taken their dolls to a new hiding-place, an old loft full of hay.

'Anyway, the boys won't dare to tease us much after what Grandfather said this morning,' Dora remarked.

'No, they would be miserable if they couldn't go to the circus, said Nellie. 'I'm very glad Grandfather heard them. Now he knows what they are like, and Tom will have to be more careful.'

'Doesn't Arabella look lovely? said Dora, who had just dressed her best doll in new clothes.

'Make haste, Nellie, we shall have to go and get ready ourselves very soon.'

Just at that moment the boys' voices were heard in the stable below, and the children stared at each other, dismayed.

'Come on, Frank, let's climb the ladder--I've never been up here before,' and Dora scarcely had time to bury Arabella under a handful of hay before Tom's head appeared.

'Hullo! here are the girls with their silly dolls. Let me have a doll to play with,' and he caught hold of one roughly.

'You had better leave them alone, Tom, if you don't want to get into any more rows,' Frank said, and the little girls begged them to go away.

'This is a jolly place! Come on, Frank, I will bury you in the hay,' and Tom snatched up an armful.

But there was something in the hay he had picked up. Dora gave a loud cry as she saw her beautiful Arabella flung into the air and through the trapdoor opening into the stable below. In her haste to get down and pick up her poor doll, she herself slipped and fell on the hard floor. By the time Nellie and the boys had scrambled down, she was weeping bitterly, not over her own hurts, but over Arabella's smashed face, and she took no notice of Tom when he declared again and again how sorry he was. Of course it had been an accident, but Dora felt too angry and too miserable to forgive him at once.

'Now then, what's all this fuss about? Have you broken that doll, boys?'

It was Grandfather's voice, and he looked very angry as he took in the scene.

No one answered. 'Well, of course,' Grandfather said, 'you boys cannot go to the circus this afternoon, after this. Don't cry over your doll any more, Dora, but run and get ready, and I will buy you a new one.'

But Dora had stopped crying already, and had caught sight of Frank's disappointed face. Now was her moment of revenge; should she take it? She had to decide quickly.

'Please, Grandfather,' she said,'it was an accident. Tom did not mean to do it, and I have quite forgiven him.'

'Oh, in that case, perhaps he may go to the circus,' said Grandfather, relenting; he was much too kind-hearted to wish to leave any one at home.

So they all went to the circus, and had a splendid time. The girls forgot their broken dolls, but Tom did not forget Dora's generosity, and he made up his mind to give up teasing them. Indeed, from that day they were all good friends, and Dora and Nellie agreed, when they went home, that their cousins were very nice boys, after all.

STORIES FROM AFRICA.

VII.--THE BEAUTY OF WOW-WOW.

We have mentioned the two companions who accompanied Major Denham to Kouka, and were left there while he made his campaign with the Sultan's army. But Lieutenant, afterwards Captain, Hugh Clapperton is far too delightful and interesting a person to be dismissed with so little notice. Before he joined Major Denham he had managed to get into his thirty-four years adventures enough to fill a volume, and after returning with the Major to England and contributing his part to the story of the expedition, we find him starting again, six months later, with Captain Pearce and Dr. Morrison as his companions, from Badagry, on the Bight of Benin, on the West Coast of Africa. But the deadly climate soon diminished the little party. It was only three weeks before Clapperton had to read the burial service over the graves of his two comrades, and found himself left to carry on their work, with his young servant, Richard Lauder, as his only companion.

But Clapperton was not the man to turn back from any task to which he had set his hand, and in Lauder he had a colleague ready to follow him through thick and thin. The two were as unlike in appearance as they could well be: Clapperton was six feet high and broad in proportion, a strong, genial, simple-hearted sailor, with a love of fun which must have helped him through many a dark day; and Lauder was small and slim, less robust, and probably less light-hearted than his master, but with a passion for change and adventure which had drawn him from his Cornish home, against the advice of friends and kindred, to volunteer for the expedition. And in Captain Clapperton he found a hero to match with any of those whose stories had delighted his boyhood. It is from him that we have the history of their journey together, and every page is full of loving admiration for the master whose courage no danger or suffering could daunt, and who was yet full of thought and consideration for his companion, carrying him on his back across the rivers when he was too weak to ford them on foot, and writing continually to cheer him when obliged to leave him behind to rest and recover. There are records of hair-breadth escapes, of suffering and homesickness and parting, as in most stories of African travel, but this tale has to do with laughter instead of tears.

The travellers halted for some time at a place called Wow-Wow, where the King, Mohammed, was friendly to them. There lived there a certain widow named Lyuma, or 'Honey,' very rich, and, according to Wow-Wow taste very handsome, though her portly figure, her hair dyed blue, and hands stained red and yellow, and the crimson teeth which gave the finishing touch, might not have been admired in England.

This great lady soon made friendly overtures to the two Englishmen, calling every day at the hut they occupied, arrayed in gorgeous garments of striped silk, and glistening with beads and ornaments. Great was the amusement of the jovial Captain when he discovered that the African beauty was greatly taken with Lauder, and most unmercifully did he chaff them both as he sat, puffing at his pipe, at the hut door, much to the confusion of the shy young Cornishman and the delight of the lady, Lyuma, who took all his remarks seriously. Poor Lauder at last got so alarmed that he called upon her, and solemnly informed her that he could not make up his mind to an African wife.

The beautiful Lyuma, however, was not at all disconcerted, but at once turned her attentions from Richard to his master, whom she tried to dazzle by the magnificence of her jewels and the number of her slaves. The Captain, fairly punished for his teasing, decided to pay a short visit to the neighbouring King of Boussa, whom he wished to conciliate, and left Lauder at Wow-Wow in charge of his luggage. But no sooner did Lyuma hear of his departure than she set off in pursuit, splendidly arrayed in red, with scarlet morocco leather boots, and attended by a body of slaves, who cheered the way by discordant music. She looked in before starting to bid good-bye to Lauder, who may well have laughed at this turning of the tables upon his master.

But the affair soon took a more serious turn, for King Mohammed, summoning Lauder to his presence, sternly informed him that his master and the lady Lyuma were plotting rebellion, and that he himself and the Captain's luggage would be detained at the King's pleasure. Richard found remonstrances and explanations of no avail; and, feeling that Clapperton must be warned of the King's suspicions, he managed to escape from his guards and hastened with all speed to Boussa. Here he was met by the news that the Captain had already started on his return journey by another route, still followed by the admiring Lyuma. The King and Queen of Boussa received Lauder with the greatest kindness; indeed, the Queen was so much touched by his pleasant manners and weak look (for he had but just recovered from fever), that she asked anxiously whether his mother were living, and sighed when he answered 'No,' because he had no one to watch and wait for him in far-away England. And when the weary young Englishman, in spite of desperate efforts to be polite, dropped asleep in the royal presence, the sovereigns, with courtesy which would have done honour to a more civilised Court, quietly withdrew, sending him a message that he must stay long with them and rest well.

But Lauder was anxious to rejoin his master, and, hurrying back to Wow-Wow, reached it just as Clapperton, who had outdistanced his fair pursuer, arrived there himself. The gallant Captain, hearing of his loss of favour, took the bull by the horns and went at once to the King. He quite disarmed that angry monarch by his frank greeting and assurances that he had not seen such a handsome face since his departure as that of the sovereign of Wow-Wow; but Mohammed, to make all sure, refused to allow the Captain to proceed on his travels until Lyuma was safely under supervision. So that the lady, when she arrived, found herself obliged to submit to the royal authority and stay quietly at home, while the Captain and Lauder, by no means sorry to escape, bade farewell to Mohammed, and left the poor beauty to find a husband among the gentlemen of Wow-Wow.

We might end the story there, with a laugh over poor Lyuma's disappointment, for the rest of the tale that Lauder has to tell is sad.

For weeks the two explorers were delayed by tribal wars, and the long inaction in the deadly climate broke down even Clapperton's hopeful spirit. When they sat together in the evenings at the door of their hut, and Lauder sang the old Scottish songs that had been familiar to his master as a child, the foreboding seems to have fallen upon the Captain that he would never tread his native hills again. He fell ill of the sickness that had claimed so many victims, and gave his papers and instructions, with business-like calmness, to his 'dear boy,' as he called the young servant, who tended him with the devotion of a son. The man who had before bidden Lauder never to forget his prayers knew where to turn for help when his own splendid strength and energy could avail him no more. But sorely desolate Richard Lauder must have felt, when he laid the British flag over the body of him who had been master and comrade in one, and, with broken voice, read the Burial Service, with its words of faith and hope, over the lonely grave.

He himself returned safely to England, and has left us the portrait of the man he served, the portrait of a brave, kindly Christian gentleman, one of the most gallant of the army of pioneers who have heard the 'everlasting whisper' which calls men into unknown lands.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1806.

VII.--CHARLES JAMES FOX.

On the 10th of September, 1806, died Charles James Fox, a man of such talents that perhaps his age did not produce his equal. He was born in 1749, and was the second son of Lord Holland, who spoilt his child by letting him have his own way in everything. At nine years of age, Charles was in the habit of reading his father's dispatches, Lord Holland being then a Secretary of State; and one day Charles crumpled up the dispatch, saying calmly, 'Too feeble!' and threw the paper into the fire. Lord Holland, far from rebuking him, merely re-wrote the dispatch.

Perhaps no child ever received so bad an education from his father as did Charles James Fox. The result was that Charles grew up into a most confirmed gamester, losing immense sums at cards and on the turf.

He was always extreme in all he undertook. As a young man at college, he walked fifty-six miles in one day for a wager, and, when in Ireland, swam twice round the Devil's Punch-bowl, at Killarney. In dress, too, he was always noticeable--at first as a great dandy and a member of the famous 'Maccaroni' clique, who wore red-heeled shoes, carried muffs, and seemed only to live to make themselves talked about; and later on--in the days when he sympathised with the Republican movement in France--Fox affected great simplicity in dress, and at last became such a sloven that he did not even wear clean shirts.

But these were but the foibles of genius, for, notwithstanding all his fast life and many vices, Fox was hardly surpassed as a scholar, an orator, and a linguist; and, as a politician, Pitt himself--a life-long rival--frankly admitted that 'Fox was a magician, who laid a spell upon his hearers as long as the words issued from his lips.'

Once, in 1793, Burke was passionately addressing the House of Commons on the necessity of placing foreigners, who were then flocking into our country from France, under strict police supervision. It was the time of the French Revolution, and Fox, though regretting the crimes then committed, was yet in favour of the Republican Government for that country, as offering greater freedom, and was very firm against declaring war with France.

Burke, however, went on to declare that these foreigners would soon infect Great Britain with their revolutionary ideas, and (hoping to produce a startling effect) he finally drew a dagger from his bosom, and flung it on the floor of the House, saying: 'That is what you are to expect from an alliance with France!'

For a moment the House was startled, but Fox, with a readiness that never failed him, turned towards his opponent with a mocking smile, and, pointing to the dagger, said jestingly: 'The Honourable Member has given us the knife; will he kindly favour us with the fork?'

The House burst into peals of laughter, and the incident, which Burke meant to be so solemn, ended in making him a laughing-stock.

Perhaps the last years of Fox were his best years; he settled down and married, living very happily with his wife, and taking great delight in gardening.

On the death of Pitt, Fox was chosen a member of the 'Ministry of all the Talents,' but he did not survive his great rival by many months. He was a dying man when he made his last supreme effort to address the House on the suppression of the Slave Trade.

'If,' said the dying statesman, 'if this Bill becomes law, and I had done that, and that only, I could retire from public life with comfort, feeling I had done my duty.' He was never again able to leave his room, but his friends did not realise that his end was so near.

One nobleman called on him, and said he was making up a party for Christmas, and hoped he might have the honour of including Fox amongst his guests. 'It will be a new scene, sir, and I think you will approve,' he said, persuasively.

'I shall indeed be in a new scene by Christmas,' said Fox, quietly, and then he went on, 'My lord, what do you think of the immortality of the soul?'

The nobleman hardly knew what answer to make, and Fox continued, calmly: 'I shall know by next Christmas.'

A few days later he was dead, and, after a most imposing funeral, his body was laid to rest in Westminster Abbey, but eighteen inches from the spot where, but a few months before, had been laid the body of his great rival, Pitt.

THE ARBALIST, OR CROSSBOW.

Amongst the weapons used in early English times, there was hardly one so deadly and effectual as the crossbow. It is not familiar to us now, being different from the ordinary bow and arrow, which we still see sometimes. It gets its name because it has the appearance of a cross, and is a very interesting old weapon, for with its trigger and spring it led to the invention of the musket.

The Normans used the crossbow, and had also a sort of machine, not unlike it, that threw out showers of arrows, or even stones.

Another name for the crossbow was 'arbalist,' and its arrows were called quarils, or bolts. These were made of various sorts of wood; about a dozen trees were used for the purpose, but ash-wood was thought to be the best. Generally the arrows had a tip of iron, shaped like a pyramid, pointed, though for shooting at birds the top was sometimes blunt, so that a bird might be struck down without being badly wounded. One old writer says that a great difference between the long-bow and the crossbow was, that success did not depend upon who pulled the lock--a child might do this as well as a man--but with the long-bow strength was everything. In fact, during the Tudor times, the kings specially encouraged the archers to practise shooting with the long-bow, and people were even forbidden to keep crossbows. The crossbow, however, when it had reached perfection, carried much further than the ordinary long-bow.

The crossbow is said to have been invented in Italy, but it seems that the Saxons had this bow, though it was not used much until long after, when the Normans came over. According to an old tradition, it was by a bolt from a crossbow that King Harold received a fatal wound at the Battle of Hastings, For some reason or other crossbows were condemned by a Council in 1139, and Christians were forbidden to use them, but during the wars with the Saracens they were again made serviceable, by command of King Richard I. Strange to say, Richard himself was killed, we are told, by a bolt shot from the ramparts of the Castle of Chaluz, which he was besieging.

The pay of a crossbowman in the reign of Edward II. was sixpence a day, probably equal to three or four shillings of our money. There are old houses in England where crossbows are still to be seen; one among them is said to have been Robin Hood's. During England's wars with France the bow was an important weapon. At the famous Battle of Cressy the English had about three thousand archers, mostly armed with long-bows; the French had arbalists, or crossbows, and, on the whole, they were less successful, as, again, at Agincourt. During the reign of Elizabeth, however, the crossbow was once more popular, owing to an improved kind being invented in Holland. It then became the chief weapon of the Artillery Company of London, which still exists.

THE DISOBEDIENT MOUSE.

'O Mother,' cried a little mouse, Hurrying down the cellar stairs, 'As I was coming through the house I met the kitten unawares.

'And as I passed she called to me: "Come back! come back! I've much to tell. And most delighted I shall be If your mamma would come as well."

'So mother, let us hurry, do! To keep her waiting would be rude: And asking me, as well as you, I think was very kind and good.'

But mother mouse with terror cried-- Her eyes were round, her cheeks were pale, And leaping to her baby's side She held him by the paw and tail.

'No, no!' said she; 'you must not go! You should not trust a kitten's word. Her claws are sharp: she is our foe-- The direful foe of mouse and bird.'

But when an hour had passed away, The baby mouse said soft and low: 'I wonder what she had to say? I'll just creep out and ask her now.'

And heedless of his mother's call, In self-opinion sadly vain, He met the kitten in the hall-- And never more came back again.

CONQUERED BY LOVE.

A soldier in the American army was the terror of his company. He was disobedient, quarrelsome, and vicious. As a result he was often punished, but there was no reformation. In due time a captain from another regiment was placed in command of that company, and was informed of the bad character of this soldier. Very soon the man broke out, was arrested, and brought before the captain. He looked at him for a moment, and, speaking to the sergeant, said, 'Let him go to his quarters.'

'Shall I keep him under guard?' inquired the sergeant.

'Oh, no,' said the captain, quietly.

That evening the captain called his sergeant, and said: 'Go down to Blank's quarters and tell him to come up to my tent; I wish to see him.'

'Shall I bring him up under guard?' asked the sergeant.

'No,' said the captain. 'Just tell him to come.'

In due time the soldier stood inside the captain's tent, cap in hand.

'Take a seat,' said the captain.

The soldier obeyed, but all the time looked defiance. The captain inquired of his home and his relations, and then said: 'I have heard all about you, and thought I would like to see you privately, and talk with you. You have been punished often--most times, no doubt, justly, but perhaps sometimes unjustly. But I see in you the making of a first-class soldier--just the kind of a man that I would like to have a whole company of. Now, if you will obey orders, and behave as a soldier should, and as I know you can, I promise on my honour as a soldier that I will be your friend, and stand by you. I do not want you to destroy yourself.'

With that the soldier's chin began to quiver, and the tears trickled down his cheeks, and he said: 'Captain, you are the first man to speak a kind word to me in two years, and for your sake I will do it.'

'Give me your hand on that, my brave fellow,' said the captain. 'I will trust you.'

And from that day on there was not a better soldier in the army.

THE SYMBOLS OF JAPAN.

The Imperial House of Japan owns three symbols which are carried before the Emperor on all state occasions. These symbols are the Mirror, the Crystal, and the Sword, and each has its own significance. The mirror signifies 'know thyself;' 'be pure and shine,' is the message of the crystal; whilst the sword is a reminder to 'be sharp.'

HARE VERSUS PHEASANT.

Two friends while driving past a field of young grain observed a number of pheasants together, a couple of the male birds being engaged in a fight. A little way off they also saw a fine hare, which seemed to be an interested spectator of the battle.

The hare, to the astonishment of the spectators, began to hop towards the pheasants, and when a few yards off, charged them full with fore feet and head. One of the cocks sneaked off, but the other tackled the hare, and for a few seconds fought gamely, flying up and striking at the hare's head with beak and spur, the hare in return butting with his head. The fur, however, proved too much for the feather, and in the long run the pheasant had to retreat in an exhausted condition.

That the cock pheasants should have a sparring match is nothing unusual, but that the hare should interfere in the quarrel is not easily to be explained. Can any readers of Chatterbox who live in the country explain this strange scene?

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

8.--GEOGRAPHICAL ARITHMOREM.

British Isles.

1.--50, tears, e, 100. A Warwickshire market town. 2.--100, war, 1000, 50, bee, 50. A South London parliamentary borough. 3.--500, run, in, fee, 1000, 50. A city of Fife. 4.--100, no, 500, tears. A town in Yorkshire. 5.--500, u, yes, r, 50. A town in Gloucestershire, near the Cotswold Hills. 6.--1000, 500, 50, 500, 10, I see. A county in England.

C. J. B.

[Answers on page 254.]

* * * * *

ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 179.

7.--1. Macaroni. 2. Caviare. 3. Sauerkraut. 4. Welsh rabbit. 5. Chocolate cream.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 203.)

Looking back before passing through the gap in the scrub, Jack saw his mother was toiling very slowly up the shingle, as if the rolling stones and steep incline were a little too much for her rheumatic limbs. It gave him a pang to think how much better she had managed this same ascent before the severe nursing of the past three months.

'I must get back and help her,' he said to Estelle. 'The climb is a bit stiff for her now; so you won't mind if I just run up and put you down in the kitchen as quickly as possible?'

Estelle begged to be allowed to walk up, but of this he would not hear. His long legs soon brought them to the cave-door, where, unwinding the child from the folds of the rugs, he threw the cushions down, telling her to lie on the couch and rest. Then he ran off to his mother's assistance. More tired than she could have thought possible after her taste of fresh air, Estelle waited anxiously for Mrs. Wright and Jack, fearing some accident; but before long she heard their voices. Presently Jack appeared with his mother in his arms.

'I never thought he could do it. I am so heavy now,' said Mrs. Wright, half laughing, half crying, 'But he wouldn't take "no." It might not be a word in the dictionary for aught he cared. Was there ever the likes of him?' she added, looking up proudly into the strong face of her son. 'And he does not seem a bit puffed or blowed by the weight of me, does he, dearie?'

Jack, however, had disappeared to attend to his boat. Estelle thought she had never seen any one so strong in all her life, or so good or so nice. Mrs. Wright said but little more, however, and as usual ended her praises with a sigh.

'Why do you do that?' asked Estelle, wondering how she could sigh after Jack's kindness had pleased her so much.

'What did I do, dearie?' demanded Mrs. Wright, sitting down on the settle, and removing her huge black bonnet to fan herself with it.

'You always sigh when you speak of poor Jack! He is so good and kind. Is he going to die?' she asked, distressed.

'Heaven forbid!' cried Mrs. Wright, aghast. 'Why, what are you thinking of, child? My Jack die!'

'Why are you always so sad about him if he is not going to die?'

Mrs. Wright was unusually moved. Instead of answering, she hastily collected all the walking things, and carried them off to her room. Much astonished, as well as conscious that she had asked an unwise question, which must have sounded like prying, Estelle, in distress, ran into the bedroom.

Mrs. Wright was on her knees at the bedside, sobbing as she murmured her prayers for her 'dear boy.'

Horrified and startled, Estelle slipped away again without disturbing her, taking refuge among the cushions of the couch. Here she cried hysterically till she suddenly found herself lifted bodily up in Jack's powerful arms.

'Worn out, little Missie?' he asked, softly. 'It was too long for a first trip.'

'No, it is not that, you dear, kind Jack!' she sobbed. 'But I have made Mrs. Wright angry with me, and I didn't mean to--indeed, I didn't.'

'Angry!' returned Jack, surprised. 'Mother has not been angry for years, that I know of. I can't just believe that, Missie. Let's come and see what it's all about.'

'Oh, no!' cried Estelle, shocked at the idea. 'She is crying, and saying her prayers, and they are all for you.'

Jack's face flushed suddenly into a deep red.

'Oh!' he said in a peculiar tone. Estelle thought it sounded as if he were too sorry for words. He did not again offer to take her to his mother.

'I am sorry. I did not know I should hurt her, or I would never have asked her---- ' cried Estelle, looking up in surprise and dismay at the change in his face.

Putting her down, Jack arranged her couch more comfortably. She had tossed all the cushions into a heap in her agitation, and while replacing them he said quietly: 'You have made a mistake, Missie. Mother is not angry with you. She is sorry for me; I have not been what I ought, after all her love and good training. I will go to her now, and she will soon be all right. Poor Mother!' he ended, with a sigh like his mother's.

Before he had time, however, to get to the bedroom, Mrs. Wright appeared, and returned his look of anxiety by stretching up to give him a kiss. Estelle was glad to see how loving was the meeting. Neither said a word on the subject of their trouble. The understanding between them was too complete. Mrs. Wright put her arms round Estelle, and kissing her affectionately, said, 'Forgive me, dearie; I am tired and a little upset. It is so long since I have been out, and walked up that steep path, that it seems to have knocked me over. We will just have a cup of tea, and that will make us all bright and cheerful again.'

Estelle began to speak, but her old friend would not allow her to finish her sentence. The subject was over, and she bustled about preparing the meal, and chatting about the sea and the French sea-folk. Jack had left the room, and did not appear again till Estelle was in bed. Then she heard him say, as he wished his mother good-night, 'The past is past, and can't be undone. The future is in our hands, and it won't be my fault if I don't do my best to redeem it. Perhaps some day atonement may be possible.'

Being half asleep Estelle did not catch the reply. Tired out with the afternoon's expedition and the excitement following it, she slept more soundly than she had done since her illness. Morning found her more lively and vigorous than usual, and with a better colour in her face. The cloud her unfortunate question had occasioned appeared to have cleared off. Perhaps Jack was more quiet, as if some of his joyousness had gone; but no one but sensitive Estelle would have noticed anything amiss. Mrs. Wright was as cheerful as ever, as kind and careful towards her little girl, and even more tenderly loving to Jack.

The day was bright and clear, the weather spring-like, as Jack had promised. Taking advantage of it was the best medicine and tonic that Estelle could have. The trips in the boat became longer, and very soon there was even a talk of a walk in the village, which Estelle much wished to see.

This desire was greatly increased when one afternoon, on returning from their boating, she found 'la mère Bricolin,' as she was called, sitting with Mrs. Wright. Madame Bricolin was housekeeper to M. le Curé, and held herself a little above the fisher-folk, rarely stopping to gossip with them. But Mrs. Wright was different--as different as Jack was from the men with whom he went out to ply the nets.

'What do you say, dearie?' cried Mrs Wright, as Estelle entered the room. 'Here's Mère Bricolin telling me the great fair is to come off next week.'

(Continued on page 222.)

THE SINGERS YET TO BE.

Oh, touch them not, the loving toil Of wild birds fair; he surely wrongs Both Heaven and earth who seeks to spoil The promise of a thousand songs.

Think! in these fragile caskets lie The unborn singers who will give Day-long their sweetest harmony From dawn until the quiet eve--

The choristers, whose morning praise Is one glad psalm of hope and joy, Long, long before their heads upraise Each sleeping, dreamy girl and boy.

Grey larks, how often I have heard You singing in the golden noon, Until my heart within me stirred To thank you for your music's boon.

Yet sweeter still than all the rest, The last clear hymn at eventide, When, dropping to each well-hid nest, You gaze to where the sun has died.

Faced to the splendid purple West, You pour full-throated forth a lay, Giving to God and man your best, As come the shadows soft and grey.

So touch it not, this present home Of future singers: pass along-- They'll soon, from out the sky's great dome, Repay your gentleness with song.

CAUGHT BY A TREE.

A natural history student was one afternoon, during a prolonged drought, hunting for ferns in a dense wood. Towards evening, it grew suddenly dark, and a few drops of rain gave warning that a storm was coming. At that moment, the student's eye fell upon a big, hollow tree-trunk on the ground.

Striking a match, the man peered within, and saw, as he thought, a convenient place of shelter. With feet foremost and arms pressed closely to his side, he wormed himself into the log.

Presently the rain came down in torrents, and the student congratulated himself on having found so snug a shelter.

Fatigued with his long tramp, he fell asleep. How long he slept he did not know, but by-and-by he was awakened by a sharp pain in his head, and a feeling of cramp in his whole body. The rain was still falling, the darkness was intense. The bodily discomfort was, of course, due to the man's cramped position; the pain in his head was caused by a continual drip of water from above on to his forehead.

He drew his head back out of the way of the drops, and, in spite of his uncomfortable position, actually fell asleep again! But the next time he awoke, the pain in his head was intolerable. It seemed impossible to get out of reach of those maddening drops, and 'wherever they fell,' says the student, 'they seemed like a sharp iron boring into the skull.'

But the worst was yet to come. When the poor fellow tried to crawl out of the log, he was unable to do so! The opening by which he had so foolishly entered had been only just large enough to admit his body, and the wood, shrunken by the long drought, had in the rain swelled to such an extent that he was now caught, as he says, 'like a rat in a trap.'

Throughout the night the wretched victim shrieked, struggled, pushed, kicked, and wriggled in vain. He could not raise his hands to tear at the wood.

Happily, he was discovered the next morning through the good services of a sagacious dog, which led a search-party to the spot.

Even then, however, his sufferings were not at an end. Before he could get out of his prison, it was found necessary to cut away a part of the log with an axe.

A PAGE FROM AN AUTOGRAPH BOOK.

Count Ensenberg, who was formerly the Hessian Ambassador in Paris, was a collector of autographs, and there was one page of his autograph book of which he was specially proud.

This page contained the writing of three celebrated men--Guizot, Thiers, and Bismarck. Guizot had written: 'During a long life I have learned to forgive much and forget nothing.' Thiers, for many years Guizot's most bitter political opponent, wrote under this: 'A little forgetfullness is a great help to reconciliation.' Some years later Bismarck closed the page with the words: 'For my part, I have seen it best to forget much, and to let others forgive me.'

MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.

VII.--THE NILE DAM AT ASSUAN.

The waters of the River Nile have been put into harness and made manageable for the benefit of Egypt. The mighty stream, swelling to a flood and overflowing once a year, was wont to bring fertility, in its own way, to the fields on either bank. But too soon these refreshing waters sank away, and too soon the short harvest was followed by a period of drought. It was a case of having more than enough water at one season and not enough at another, and it was plain to see that if the supply could only be regulated, the bare, parched plains of Egypt would have abundant crops more than once a year.

The best way to accomplish this would be to get control of the flood waters, and to keep some of them back in a huge reservoir, until the rain-regions, from which they came, began to stop supplies, and the river sank to its usual size. Then the gates of the reservoir could be opened, and the pent-up flood be allowed to gush forth again to refresh the thirsty fields.

In 1898 the performance of this task was undertaken by the engineering firm of John Aird & Co.,[1] at a cost of two million pounds, and in May of that year the scene of operations was chosen, four miles south of the town of Assuan. Here it was proposed to erect a dam, or barrier, right across the Nile. It would stand on the crest of a cataract and would be one mile and a quarter long. But as the river at flood-time carries down large quantities of rich deposit which is extremely beneficial to the soil on which it settles, it would never do to erect any obstruction to check this in its flow. Therefore this Nile dam must be a barrier capable of letting the river pass until its treasure was safely delivered in Egypt. Then the waters must be checked and the great reservoir filled. This could only be done by means of a number of sliding doors in the dam, which could be opened and closed at will.

[Footnote 1: To whom we are indebted for permission to reproduce the illustrations of the Dam.]

The first examination of the cataract seemed to show that it flowed over sound, hard rock, and no difficulty was expected in finding a good, firm foundation. But when, to keep the water back while the work was in progress, sand-banks and temporary dams were built across the four channels through which the river flows to the cataract in the spring, it was found that the granite of the river-bed was 'rotten,' and in many places it was necessary to dig down thirty feet, before solid rock could be found. This was a sad surprise, for it seemed impossible to start building at such a depth, and carry the masonry to a sufficient height before the Nile in flood would come roaring down to Assuan. It was a race with time; and if the engineers failed to win, their temporary dams would be washed away, and would have to be built again next year before the great barrier could be gone on with. Already the Nile had more than once laughed at these temporary banks of sand and stone, and had broken through them and leapt upon its course as though jeering at human power. So persistent had been its attacks that the engineers almost despaired of finding anything heavy enough to hold its own in the opening which the water had made. At last two large railway waggons were filled with stones in wire cages, securely tied into the waggons with steel ropes. These, weighing altogether fifty tons, were pushed along a pair of rails on the top of the 'sudd' (or thick growth of weeds and flotsam) till they fell with a tremendous splash into the opening. Then the Nile was beaten. It could not move such a weight, and the masons worked on in peace--three hundred and fifty-three of them, night and day. Fortunately, too, the builders were encouraged by telegraphic reports received from stations farther up the river to the effect that the waters showed no signs of rising. The flood, in fact, proved unusually late that year, and by the time it came, the dam at Assuan was raised sufficiently high to be independent of the temporary 'sudds.' For three months work was suspended while the water roared through and over the stonework, but at the end of that time work progressed more rapidly than ever.

So cleverly had matters been arranged that no delay was caused by having to wait for materials. The granite was quarried in the neighbourhood, but was no more prompt in arriving at the scene of action than the coal and cement that came all the way from England. During the time of construction no less than twenty-eight thousand tons of coal were burned in the engine fires; and seventy-five thousand tons of cement were mixed to bind the granite blocks together, or to be formed into smooth slabs for facing the sluice-ways. In the long wall thus erected, which is seventy feet high in places (the bed of the river being so uneven) there are one hundred and eighty gateways or sluices, each nearly seven feet wide and twenty-three feet deep--except a few which are just half that depth. These openings are arranged on different levels, the bottom row being sixty feet below the surface of the water when the reservoir is full. They are all contained in a length of four thousand six hundred feet, the rest (one thousand eight hundred feet) of the dam being solid masonry. The sluice-ways are closed by iron gates which work vertically in grooves of steel, and can be raised or lowered from the top of the dam--a roadway sixteen feet wide. That these huge iron curtains may be lifted more easily, one hundred and thirty of them are fitted with rollers, and whatever the pressure of water, they rise and fall with great smoothness.

Five years were allowed for the accomplishment of this great task, but by diligence and promptness, John Aird & Co. were ready to pack up their tools and come away a whole year sooner than was expected. His Royal Highness the Duke of Connaught went to Assuan, in December, 1902, and declared the great dam fit to begin its important duties.

And this is how those duties are performed. Early in July each year, every sluice is opened to its widest, the iron doors being lifted as high as they will go. The Nile at that time is seen to be rapidly rising, and nothing must obstruct its passage. For five whole months it is allowed to rush in growing volume on its course. By that time, the rich deposit, of which we have spoken, has all passed through the sluices, and the time has arrived for checking the clearer and less turbulent water by which it is followed. The first gates are lowered early in December, being of course those in the lowest part of the dam. These are followed by fifty more on a higher level; and so on until all the sluices are carefully closed, with the exception of some which are left open for surplus water to pass through. The reservoir is not full until the end of February, and thus takes three months to collect its waters. But so vast is its extent, that the stoppage is said to affect the river one hundred and forty miles farther south. The water thus held back is not allowed to escape until May, when it is most wanted in the fields below the dam; and it is, of course, all gone by the beginning of July, when the sluices are gaping wide again to let the new floods pass. It need hardly be said that the order just described varies a great deal according to the moods of the river. The dam must be regulated to those changing moods, or the benefits it gives could not be relied upon. Thus from the fickle stream a constant blessing is drawn, and year after year, with the shifting seasons, those stately gates will rise and fall; the river channel will always have its water, so long as the gates last, and there will be corn in Egypt.

GREY-SKIN'S ADVENTURES.

But for an undue affection on my part for fruit of all kinds, you would probably never have heard my story; for I might possibly have been free, and the happiest lives, they say, are those which have no history.

What happy times we had in that far-away land over the seas--the gambols and the pranks we played! I was always fond of freedom, in fact I loved it beyond anything, and it was this that first led me into misfortune.

I disobeyed my good old mother, by going beyond the bounds appointed, and through this I was brought into captivity. An elephant-hunter caught me, almost before I knew where I was, and then, good-bye to freedom!

I was shipped on board a huge vessel. What a voyage it was to be sure! I trumpeted for hours in misery. Once I felt certain I was going to the bottom, but my fears were unfounded, for we reached England in perfect safety, none the worse for our stormy experiences. Shortly after landing, I was dispatched to my new home.

I should not have minded so much if I had been sent to the Zoo, for I hear some of the elephants there have fine times and are treated like royalty. But I was bought by a circus company. Fancy, taking me to a common thing like a circus! At first I moped; who would not, under such trying circumstances? By degrees, however, I got used to my surroundings, and learned to do all sorts of clever things. I was young and teachable, so they said. I could stand on a tub, sit at a table and dine, ring the bell for the waiter to come and clear away, after which I would eat my dessert with the air of a gentleman.

In fact, I was 'The Children's Delight,' 'The Elephant Extraordinary,' and 'The Marvel of the World.' That is what they said on the circus-bills! I used to feel proud, at times, of all the praise which was bestowed upon me, and gave myself airs. You see, it is not everybody who is 'The Marvel of the World.'

However, praise alone did not satisfy me for very long. Freedom was what I wanted, and one day, to my delight, freedom was what I managed to get.

And didn't I enjoy myself!

Never mind how I accomplished it; let me say simply that I eluded my keeper and got into a sort of forest (I suppose it was a country wood), and there I stayed all night, laughing in my trunk to think what a panic the circus company would be in. If only I could have made my way to some seaport town, and have been shipped off home again, I would gladly have endured the roughest voyage to be once more in my own dear native land.

Towards morning I got weary of my loneliness, and hungry too, I must admit. Feeling a bit more courageous than when I first escaped, I decided to take a walk, and I found my way into an adjoining town. Here it was, alas! that I came to grief.

I met a baker's boy on the road with a basket of rolls. I gobbled up every one, and so partly satisfied my hunger.

The boy was dreadfully scared. Had I not been so busy with my breakfast, I should have been quite anxious about him. For a few seconds he stood open-mouthed with fear; then he flew like the wind. What for, I did not know, for I had no intention of doing him any harm. All I wanted was his rolls.

Of course, after having appeased my hunger, I ought to have made my way back to the woods again. I realise this now.

But I saw, not far off, a greengrocer's shop, and the things there displayed were enough to tempt any one's appetite, I simply could not resist them. I broke the window, and upset the fruit over the pavement. What a feast I had to be sure! The people in the shop were afraid to interrupt me, so I had it all to myself. Two basketsful I demolished, and was prepared to attack a third, when suddenly, to my horror, I was caught.

My keeper, with two or three other men, who were helping in the search, happened to see me in the middle of my feast, and then--well, here I am, again in captivity.

I said I liked fruit. Yes, but that is a thing of the past, now.

I have pretty well settled down again to my life as 'The Children's Delight,' and 'The Elephant Extraordinary,' although at times I still yearn for the freedom of the forest. But this one lesson I have learnt--that if you cannot get the things you want, the wisest plan is to make the very best of the things you have.

THINK THIS OUT

An Arabian proverb, which contains a lot of meaning very closely packed, runs as follows: 'Who knows not, and knows not that he knows not, is foolish; shun him. Who knows not, and knows that he knows not, is humble; teach him. Who knows, but knows not that he knows, is asleep; wake him. Who knows, and knows that he knows, is wise: follow him.'

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 215.)

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter XII

La Mère Bricolin had a thin, brown, deeply lined face, but she herself was stout, and did credit to M. le Curé's table. Her coarse blue serge dress, white apron, and snowy, close-fitting cap, gave her a well-to-do appearance. Indeed, as housekeeper to M. le Curé, she was far better off than in the days when her husband earned a scanty livelihood as a fisherman in one of the smaller smacks of the cod-fishing fleet. Like so many other widows of the little village, she had lost him in one of the great storms off the coast of Iceland, and had to go out to service in order to support herself and her only son. The boy had grown up to follow his father's trade, and she lived in constant dread of hearing bad news of him. She was always one among the first to hasten to the cliff where all the women assembled to catch the first glimpse of the returning boats. Then there would be the rush to the tiny harbour, each woman's heart aching with anxiety to see if her dear ones had returned to her safe and sound. So Mère Bricolin's mind was never at peace, though she was not dependent now on another's earnings, and had no intention of being a drag on her son.

Her sunken black eyes had much humour and kindliness, despite the anxiety and shrewdness which was so apparent in them. She loved a gossip, too, with such a neighbour as Mrs. Wright; and as they both had similar anxieties when the boats were delayed by stress of weather, or when a flag was noticed at half-mast, it was no wonder that Mère Bricolin did not appear to mind the steep ascent to Mrs. Wright's dwelling. There was another reason for her activity. Was it not she who suggested that Mrs. Wright should live in that very place? She had not intended that the cave should be their permanent abode, and it was not her fault that Jack and his mother continued to live there; but she had suggested it on their arrival, and was flattered that they preferred it to any other place in the village.

Mère Bricolin gazed in amazement at Estelle. She had been disappointed, not to say a little hurt, in her secret heart when Mrs. Wright refused to allow her to help in the nursing of the little waif, nor even to see her, on the ground that the doctor had forbidden any visitors to the sick-room. By no word had Mrs. Wright let out her suspicions as to the rank of the little girl. Mère Bricolin expected, therefore, to see a child much like the other children in the village. Every one in Tout-Petit knew the story of the rescue. Every woman admired the tall, handsome English sailor, whose determination and good nursing had saved the little stranger's life at sea; but they would never have said so. Was he not a foreigner? Was there not some cause, hidden, but certain as the nose on the face, that a clever seaman like him must have something in the background which kept him from a far better position than that of a common sailor?

But Jack and his mother lived such simple lives, and Jack was such a first-class 'hand,' that any prejudices which might have cropped up died a natural death, and he never lacked employment.

'Look at our two old gossips!' he laughed, as he saw Mère Bricolin comfortably seated on the broad settle near the fire. He often wondered how they found so much to talk about, these two old dames.

Mère Bricolin's surprise as Estelle took off her wraps brought another smile to his face. He felt proud of his little flotsam from the sea when the Frenchwoman said, 'And this, M. le Marin, is the little Mademoiselle you picked up! The sea has its pearls, my friend.'

Estelle was touched. To her own surprise, as well as that of her friends, she understood and answered in French as well as any little Parisian. How she learnt it she was still unable to say, but she had not spoken French with her former nurses and governess from Paris in vain. It was a relief to all parties that she was not shut out from the conversation. The chief pleasure to good Mrs. Wright was, however, that the purity of the accent and diction proved she was of gentle training, at all events. She smiled and nodded approvingly.

'Will you tell me about the fair?' said the little girl, seating herself on the settle by Mère Bricolin's side.

The old dame nodded, her black eyes twinkling. Estelle's blue ones grew rounder and rounder as she heard of the wonders of the sword-swallowers, the celebrated fleas which could drive a coach, of elephants that fired guns, of the great circus of horses; and--dearest of all to the peasant heart--the dancing at the Fontaine des Eaux; dancing which was to begin on the eve of the fête, and to be continued on the night itself till break of day.

'And will you dance, Mademoiselle?' asked Mère Bricolin, smiling. 'There will be plenty of people ready---- '

'Never!' exclaimed Jack, shortly. The very idea annoyed him.

'I hope to see it all,' said Estelle, eagerly. 'But I'm not strong enough to dance. I would rather look on.'

'You are right, Mademoiselle. You would not care to dance either. Our lads are good, but they are rough. But it is a pretty sight even to me, who am old, and must be ready to leave this world whenever it shall please Heaven. But M. le Curé says it is not wrong, M. Jack. All these things are for our ease and pleasure, and the next day we work again.'

'I dare say you are right, Madame,' returned Jack. 'There's no doubt that people enjoy themselves. My mother and I intend our little guest to do the same.'

'Have you taken her to see the Treasure Caves?'

'Not yet.'

'They call M. le Marin the Giant of the Treasure Caves because he discovered them,' smiled Mère Bricolin, rising to go.

Mrs. Wright pressed tea upon her, but she said she must be back before M. le Curé came home from visiting the sick. He, too, was old, and never remembered to eat when he was tired, unless she reminded him. Jack accompanied her down the slope, while Estelle hindered rather than helped Mrs. Wright to lay the tea. She was wild with delight at the prospect of seeing a real fête. Then, suddenly remembering some such event in a dim, uncertain way, she paused painfully, saying, 'Have I ever seen one before, Goody? Where am I? In France? Have I been here before? How is it I can speak French?'

'It doesn't matter whether you have been here before or not,' returned Mrs. Wright, glancing uneasily at the flushed face. 'One fair mayn't be like another, and all you have got to do is to enjoy it. It will not be Jack's fault or mine if you don't.'

The sailor's return made a diversion, and as they took their places at the table, he proposed, if little Missie were not too tired, to take her to see the caves. Child-like, Estelle was only too delighted. Tired! She had only been in the boat, and had been carried up the steep path on her return. No, she was not a bit tired.

Mrs. Wright was glad she should go. It was still early in the afternoon, and some hours of daylight remained. She thought the little expedition would amuse the child, and occupy her mind. Jack would see that she was none the worse for it. He was going out all night trawling, and might be busy for some days to come. It would be a pity not to let Estelle have this little pleasure while he was there to look after her.

(Continued on page 230.)

ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.

V.--SAVED FROM THE MATABELES.

(Concluded from page 206.)

Those Matabele fellows (said Vandeleur, continuing his yarn on the following evening) did not allow the grass to grow under their feet. That very evening as we all sat at supper, the children having gone to bed, an assegai suddenly flew just over Mrs. Gadsby's head, and struck quivering in the wall behind her.

Now we had only left a square foot or so of window unboarded, for purposes of light, so that some fellow must have come very close to the house before throwing his weapon. Yet a trustworthy Kaffir had been put upon sentry-go outside to report any sound of approaching Matabeles. Evidently the man cannot have heard this native approach; we supposed he must have been at the other side of the house, but we afterwards discovered that the poor fellow lay killed with another assegai through him.

At sight of the spear quivering in the wooden wall, Gadsby's face went suddenly white, either with anger, or with the shock of his wife's narrow escape.

'They have come already--every man to his place at once--out with the lamp, Morrison. Thompson, run up and light the flare on top of the house: ladies into their rooms, please!'

Away went men and women to their places, the light was put out, a shutter was placed over the unboarded portion of the window, and for a few minutes there was silence within and without.

I went upstairs to my pre-arranged station, and stood at my loop-hole. My rifle and cartridges were all placed ready to my hand. The night was very dark, and it was impossible to see more than a yard or two in front of one's nose. But Gadsby had manufactured a fine oil bath, full of bits of floating wick, and when Thomson set this alight on the roof, a brilliant glare was shed around the house to the distance of fully fifty yards.

The movement surprised a score or so of Matabeles, who had approached very softly in the darkness--a kind of advance-guard, I suppose, sent to reconnoitre and report to the main body. For the moment the sudden light revealed their presence; they started to run like hares, hoping to reach the safety of the darkness before our 'fire-sticks' should speak. I am afraid very few of that advance-guard lived to reach the impi which was awaiting the information they were sent forward to gather and bring back; for a volley from half-a-dozen loop-holes made havoc of the runners, and doubtless those few who escaped had a terrible tale to tell of the destruction that awaited the unwary attackers of our hornets' nest.

This first surprise gained us several hours of respite. I suppose the enemy had not expected that we should be so well equipped for resistance. They had hoped to effect a surprise; to catch us unsuspecting and unprepared; to destroy us at discretion, and then loot and eat and drink and burn and demolish.

Gadsby was delighted with our success, 'I only wish they would come again,' he said, 'while the flare lasts; it may just hold out till dawn. Unfortunately there's no more oil for to-morrow night!'

'Then we must drive them away by daylight!' said Morrison, who was a sanguine youth, and as brave as a lion.

'Ah! if only they attack by daylight!' laughed Gadsby, 'but I doubt whether they will be such fools, now they have learnt that we can sting, and mean to sting!'

The flare-light did not last until daylight, however; it grew fainter and fainter, and at length burnt out between two and three o'clock.

This was a great disaster, as we were soon to find out, for it was but a few minutes after the last flicker had died away, and left the night looking all the blacker after the bright light to which our eyes had become accustomed, when we all distinctly heard the approaching of many feet. Apparently the impi was about to attack us in force.

Each man was at his position in a moment; Gadsby came round inspecting.

'I don't like this much, Vandeleur,' he said to me. 'How on earth are we going to stop their rushes in the dark? We can only shoot on the chance.'

'I fancy they will try and burn the house,' I replied. 'You will have to be ready with those dynamite cartridges, and drop one or two among them if they come too close.'

The cartridges referred to were used by Gadsby and his partner for blasting rocks upon the estate; there were signs of gold here and there on the land, and they were in the habit of making frequent investigations, believing that there was a fortune for them on the farm if only they could hit upon it.

'Yes,' replied Gadsby, 'I have them already. I think we had better not fire at them until they are within a few yards of the house; we may then catch a glimpse of them, and a volley may turn them.'

'They are the wrong colour for seeing in the dark,' I said, with a laugh.

There suddenly arose a fearful yell of hundreds of voices, seemingly quite close to the house, and Gadsby rushed quickly away to his station.

I looked out of my loop-hole, but it was still too dark to see anything further than ten yards or so from my eyes. I could hear the Matabeles running towards us, shouting and yelling furiously; the sound did not appear to be more than a very few yards away. Suddenly a black mass seemed to loom almost before my eyes. At the same moment, I suppose, the other defenders caught sight of the approaching natives, for as I pulled my own trigger, I heard the crack of several other rifles from different parts of the house, and with it the cry of frightened children awakened thus rudely from their slumbers.

It was an exciting moment. The yells redoubled at the sound of our fire, but seemed to die down a moment later, and the black mass came no closer. We could not see the result of our shooting, but we continued to pour into the scarcely visible masses of the enemy a fire which must surely have had deadly effect.

Suddenly the dark mass, which we had dimly seen, vanished. I heard a shout from Gadsby upstairs: 'We have beaten them off--good boys all!' he cried. 'But let no man leave his post--they may be back in a minute.'

They were back in a minute or two, but did not stay long within sight. Again we peppered them, and forced them back into the darkness which lay beyond our vision.

And a third time the plucky fellows charged, only to be stopped once more--half-a-dozen repeating rifles, fired as quickly as the trigger can be pulled, are capable of great things in an emergency. After this third attempt the Matabeles did not appear for half-an-hour. Had they finally retired? It seemed to be almost too good to be true!

Gadsby came round. 'Don't leave your station, Vandeleur,' he said. 'We have done wonders, but we must not be too confident or run any risks. We must watch the night out and see broad daylight in before we can consider ourselves at all safe.'

As though to belie any idea of safety, a voice suddenly came from Thomson upstairs: 'Gadsby,' he shouted, 'come up! I think I see a group of fellows coming along.'

Upstairs ran Gadsby like a streak of lightning. No one, however, could see anything, and it was decided that Thomson must have been mistaken.

But suddenly there was a tremendous scare. Morrison, at the back of the house, gave a shout and fired his rifle twice. At the same moment a glare of light shot up into the air. A Matabele fellow had crept right up to the house in the darkness and was endeavouring to set fire to the place with a bundle of dry grass. He was so close under the house that Morrison, from his loophole, could not get at him.

'Bring a dynamite cartridge,' shouted Morrison.

Gadsby brought a cartridge and lighted the fuse; then he dropped it out of the window, which he opened for a second in order to do so. It fell, presumably, close to the Matabele, who was busy over his fire; he would find it difficult, we know, to get the house to burn, for it had been well soaked with water. We ran more risk from the cartridge than from his efforts, for in exploding it might easily damage the wooden wall of the house. Then a startling and unexpected thing happened. I can only suppose that the Matabele fellow had seen dynamite cartridges in use at some mine in the district, and was acquainted with their properties, for the rascal suddenly seized our bomb and threw it up at the window. He was just in time, for the thing exploded in the air a few inches from the side of the house, making a large hole.

With wonderful speed and activity two Matabeles swarmed up to the breach, their assegais in their mouths, and their savage faces appeared almost as quickly as it was realised that a hole had been made. They were quickly shot, and the hole was instantly boarded over, but the incident was alarming, because it showed that the enemy were capable of effecting surprises upon us which might prove dangerous as time went on.

No more attacks were made before morning, and we were all at breakfast, well pleased with ourselves for having got through the night in safety, when some one came and told me that a 'funny-looking chap was asking for me outside.'

He was Umkopo, of course. Of course, too, his errand was striking and unusual.

'Tell Mr. Gadsby,' said he,'that the Matabeles are poisoning his water supply--with my eyes I saw it. You must leave the farm and go to Bulawayo--the farmhouse will be looted and burned, but you shall reach Bulawayo in safety; I say it.'

Well, Umkopo was first laughed at; then his story was partly believed; lastly he was fully believed, and the plan suggested by him was adopted, which was to march to Bulawayo, armed and ready, under his protection.

And under his protection the whole party actually walked and rode past the entire impi. within one hundred yards of the grim, scowling fellows, and not an assegai was thrown, not a word uttered.

What was more, we all reached Bulawayo in perfect safety, passing through throngs of the enemy under Umkopo's guardianship: through thousands of terrible fellows who would have cut us to pieces, without doubt, but for the haughty announcement by the White Witch, that we were 'his friends!'

I shall have more to tell you about Umkopo one day, if you like to hear it, Vandeleur ended. 'Meanwhile, good-night all, for if you are half as sleepy as I am, you must be glad that I have done for to-day.'

THERE ALL THE TIME.

It is told of Dr. Thorold that he was once asked to give away the prizes at a school belonging to the London School Board.

In the course of his opening address, he gravely asked the children, 'Which was the largest island in the world, before Australia was discovered?'

When the youngsters gave it up, he told them, in the same grave way, which made them laugh all the more, 'Why, Australia, of course; it was there all the time!'

STOP THIEF!

But yesterday he came, a small And lively pup--his cheerful face So innocent, that one and all Believed him best of all his race.

He crept beneath a chair--'to sleep,' I thought; 'poor tired little love,' Quoth I, and quickly stooped to peep-- And caught him chewing up my glove!

Since then he's worried all our mats, Upset the milk and smashed a cup; He's chased for miles one neighbour's cats, And nearly killed another's pup.

Three stockings and a pair of mits He dragged through all the muddy street; Besides a muff that lies in bits-- Except the parts I saw him eat.

And now the butcher has been down To say our puppy is a thief, Who visited his shop in town, And ran off with a joint of beef.

Yet here he sits and wags his tail, With goodness written on his face-- A little dog that could not fail To be the best of all his race.

THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.

VIII.--BAGPIPES OF MANY COUNTRIES.

I wonder if it has ever occurred to any of the readers of Chatterbox that the bagpipes of the Highland glen, and the mighty organ which peals through a Cathedral aisle, are one and the same instrument? When they are reduced to their simplest elements of wind-chest, pipes and reeds, there is practically no difference between the two.

The Bagpipe in its varying forms may be described as a portable organ, whether blown by the mouth of the performer or by a pair of bellows. The instrument is very ancient.

A curious old gem has been preserved, bearing the device of Apollo carrying a lyre in his arms and a bagpipe slung across his back, which takes that instrument right back to the days of ancient Greece.

Powerful bagpipes are used amongst the mountain tribes of Hindustan, and travellers meet with them both in China and Persia. The ancient Romans patronised this instrument largely, and the Emperor Nero was a skilled performer.

A celebrated Italian story-teller of the thirteenth century mentions that in his time the bagpipe was quite a fashionable instrument. Chaucer and Spenser both allude to it, and the former says, in Henry IV., that Falstaff was 'as melancholy as a lover's lute, or drone of a bagpipe.'

It is usually supposed that the bagpipe was brought from the East by the Crusaders; it was reckoned as a court instrument in the time of Edward the Second. In France, it was popular in polite society, up to the end of the thirteenth century, when it was gradually banished to the lower classes, and chiefly played by blind beggars. Two curious old pictures exist of that date, representing bagpipe-players, one on stilts, the other playing for a girl who is dancing on his shoulders.

In the seventeenth century, Louis the Fourteenth of France, casting about for new amusements for his favourites, rescued the bagpipe, or, as the French called it, the 'cornemeuse,' from its low surroundings, and introduced it into his Arcadian festivities. We may picture a dignified Marquis and Marquise, as Watteau has painted them, in the fantastic garb of shepherds and shepherdesses, frolicking to the music of the bagpipes, in the forest glades of Versailles or Fontainebleau.

The great bagpipe of the Highlands is inspiriting in war, and was first used in battle in the early part of the fifteenth century. Up to that date, warriors depended for inspiration on the war-songs of the Bards, but doubtless the piercing tones of the bagpipes carried further, and were more thrilling.

One of the amusements of a Scotch tour nowadays is to watch the pipers playing and dancing on the quays where the steamers touch. Their gay tartan attire and quaint instruments, with their gaudy bags and fringes, make a bright note of colour, and, judging by the money collected, bagpiping must be a fairly profitable employment.

The Irish bagpipe is a much more complete instrument than the Scotch, although it is steadily dying out. In the latter, only one of the pipes has notes. This one is termed the 'Chanter,' the other pipes (known as 'Drones') having only one fixed sound, and causing the curious droning sound which accompanies the melody, whether lament or merry dance, played on the 'chanter.' In the Irish form, the drone-pipes also have notes, ensuring much more variety; indeed, this instrument is capable, in good hands, of great sweetness and delicacy of tone. It is blown by bellows instead of the mouth, which probably prevents jerkiness and makes the sound steadier.

A peculiar bagpipe is used in Sardinia, called the 'Lanedda,' in which the unfortunate player is obliged to make use of three mouthpieces at the same time. It is not surprising to hear that the performance is exhausting, and that the players often die early deaths.

The 'Musette' was a softer form of bagpipes, and many of the great musicians have included in their 'Suites,' or collections of dances, special music for the instrument bearing this name. Such music had a lulling, dreamy tone, and greatly depended for effect on a clever use of the drone-pipes. Musettes were often of most elaborate construction, the covers of the windbags being of plush or velvet, richly embroidered in needlework, whilst the pipes and mouthpieces are inlaid with ivory, ebony, and silver.

HELENA HEATH.

OLD OXFORD CASTLE.

Old books describe clearly where Oxford Castle stood. It was close to St. George's Church, and not far from a water-mill; the stream that turned this mill flowed past the town, supplying water to the big moat which surrounded the castle, and which was crossed by a strong bridge. The most ancient form of the crest or coat-of-arms of Oxford shows a castle, a winding stream, and a bridge. There is a curious drawing of the castle, made by Ralph Agas, in 1538, during the reign of Henry VIII., though some people think he has put the round tower, or keep, in the wrong place. This keep is the last part of Oxford Castle to be left standing; the rest has gone.

It is difficult to find out when Oxford Castle was first built. It is certain that it dates from the time of the Saxons. There is a tradition that King Offa built the original castle, which would mean some date in the eighth century, and the great King Alfred was probably often at Oxford, staying at the castle. In the collections of Saxon coins, round in Oxford, there are some coins of his time. Then the son of Canute was crowned at Oxford, and lived for a while at the castle, but he reigned only four years. About 1791, the remains of old walls were found, immensely thick, with some remarkable wells. These walls were thought to be Saxon. Thus we pass on till the Normans conquered England, when there is proof that this castle was rebuilt by one Robert d'Oiley. The Conqueror divided the possessions of the Saxons freely among those who came over with him, and this man had Oxford Castle given to him. He rebuilt it in 1071, keeping, perhaps, some of the old fabric. In the year 1141, the Empress Maud, who had escaped from Devizes on a funeral bier, covered up as if dead, reached Oxford, and there she was again besieged. It seemed likely the castle would be taken, and she would be seized by her enemies, but we are told that she managed to escape again. Accompanied by three knights, she got out of Oxford to a place of safety.

At some date in the reign of Henry III., Oxford Castle had its walls strengthened, and the round tower was rebuilt. It was then, probably, that the towers were made along the embattled walls, and especially one of those peculiar towers called a barbican, contrived so as to give an outlook on approaching foes. These barbicans had a device by which hot water or stones could be flung down upon any enemy who succeeded in passing the bridge. King Charles I. was often a visitor to Oxford Castle, and after the wars between Parliament and King were over, some other changes were made in the defences of the castle. After the Revolution, it was allowed to decay gradually.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 223.)

As soon as tea was over, they started for the Treasure Caves, Estelle dancing along in front of the tall sailor, eager for the mysteries she was about to see in those gloomy-looking caves she had so often passed on her way to the boat. But Jack told her those she had seen were mere shallow affairs, not worth looking at. The Treasure Caves were at some little distance beyond the cliff which jutted out into the sea, but they could reach them at low water through an archway made by the waves in the rocks.

The cliffs near their home were not too steep to be covered by short grass, dotted with sea-pinks and stocks, with a shrub, here and there, of sea-holly. A solitary pine-tree now and again, and the little cluster at the end of the path, proved that this part of the bay was far above high-water mark. But the headland reached a greater height, and rose from the sea. Estelle found, on passing through the archway, that the coast-line beyond swept round in a grand curve, and the yellow sands stretched for miles.

The village was on the other side of the little bay. Where she now stood there was no sign of any habitation. The high, steep cliffs of the headland sloped gradually away in the distance, till the country could be seen green and fertile in the sunshine.

The opening to the caves lay in a narrow ravine. A great pool of water stretched from wall to wall, but Jack took Estelle in his arms, and made his way to the cave on upstanding bits of rock. Estelle thought it very dangerous, but it was very charming.

They found themselves in a vast vaulted place, from the roof of which there was a continual dripping sound. Dark as the rock was, bright patches of colour shone out here and there, almost like splashes of gaudy paint. Lighting a bit of candle he had in his pocket, Jack showed Estelle that they were not little dried cherries and green olives, as one might suppose, but sea-anemones.

Sea-anemones? Where had she heard of them before? Somebody wanted her to have some? But who?

'Come this way, Missie,' said Jack, interrupting her confused thoughts. 'Take care how you tread. It's slippery, I can tell you.'

Indeed it was, and very careful steering was necessary. The little girl clung nervously to her companion's hand, as they made their way through wet sand, over rocks covered with green seaweed and slime, and gravel lying under a thin stream of water. Jack appeared to be quite indifferent to all these inconveniences. Careful to lift Estelle over the worst places, he was utterly regardless of his own dripping condition.

At the further end they entered a smaller cave, quite dry, except for a little rivulet gurgling through it. So clean and white was the sand, so sweet and fresh the air from the great hole in the roof, whence the light came streaming in, that Estelle danced about in the merry fashion of her days at the Moat House. Jack watched her, smiling, and when she sat down quite tired, he dropped on the sand beside her, and told her of the great storms that drove the mighty waves into these caverns, and of the strange things they carried in with them--how ships were wrecked on the cruel rocks, and how he had once sheltered ten or twelve persons in this very cave, and others in the Hospice de la Providence, till the storm went down.

'Are these caves called----?' asked Estelle.

'The Treasure Caves. They are almost forgotten now, because the sea is so rough in these parts that folk seldom venture here. The tide, too, comes up quickly, and might cut them off, particularly if they don't know their way about. At full tide you could not see the entrance to that outer cave--the one we came into first--for it is below water.'

Estelle looked up in an alarmed manner, but he told her he was well acquainted with rocks and tides and currents, and would not be the one to run her into any risks.

'But, Jack,' said Estelle, gazing wonderingly at him, 'don't these great dark rocks and caves make you feel frightened and lonely sometimes, and perhaps unhappy too?'

'Why should they, Missie? I am used to the sea, and so is Mother. I don't think we could bear to be out of the sound of it.'

'Are you sorry you are not at sea now? Is it that which makes you look so unhappy sometimes?'

'It is, and it isn't; if you can understand what I mean.'

'No, I can't. You have such a dear mother, and such a nice home; why do you want to leave them?'

'I don't want to leave them, even if I could,' said Jack, sadly. 'But there are other things one can't tell little ladies about.'

Such a look of pain and sorrow crossed his face as he spoke, that Estelle instinctively turned away her eyes. She began taking up handfuls of sand to let it run through her fingers.

'Jack,' she remarked, presently, 'I think yours must be a very sad secret, for do you remember how I heard dear Goody crying as she was kneeling? She said, "Jack, my poor boy! Lord, have mercy upon him!" Then, sometimes at night, when she thinks I am asleep, she sighs so heavily, especially when she is saying her prayers.'

On hearing this, Jack suddenly threw himself at full length on the sand, burying his face on his arms. Much startled, Estelle gazed at him in wonder and sympathy. What had upset him so greatly? Why did Goody sigh over him? It was a bewildering puzzle to her, who knew Jack to be the kindest fellow in the world. She could not bear to see him so grieved. It was her fault. Why had she said a word which could hurt him?

'Oh, Jack!' she cried, putting her hand on his shoulder, her voice full of self-reproach, 'I ought not to have told you. I am so sorry! Do forgive me, dear, kind Jack. I wish I could do something for you, Jack--I do wish I could. But for Goody's nursing and care and all your kindness, I should have died.'

'So you would, Missie,' he said, sitting up and drawing the back of his hand across his eyes. He sat for some moments in silence, his eyes on the sands, then rising to his feet, he murmured:' After all, it is a life for a life.'

'What did you say?' asked Estelle, mystified.

He made no answer. He could not tell her that if one person had already lost his life through his means he had saved another's life, which, but for him, must have perished. He was not at all clear himself on the merits of the case; neither was it one to discuss with a child.

'Come and see the last of these caves,' he said, rousing himself. 'It is called the Mermaid's Cave, perhaps because it is the prettiest of them all. It has an echo you may like to hear.'

A very narrow passage connected the Cave of the Silver Sand with the Mermaid's Cave, and a pool of water filled it which reached to Jack's knees. Before entering it, Jack lighted a candle-end he had brought in his pocket, and put it into Estelle's hand.

'Hold it up high as we go along,' he said. 'I shall have to carry you; the water is too deep for you to wade through, but the cave is worth seeing as we step into it.'

And so it was. Estelle uttered a cry of delight as its beauties broke upon her. The roof was white with stalactites of the strangest and weirdest shapes, which reflected the light of the candle from their wet surfaces. A stream of water was flowing silently down one side of the sandy floor and into the pool they had crossed, which Jack told her was called the 'Rift.'

'I'll show you one of the wonders of this cave,' he said, as he drew her to one side. 'Now listen.'

In a clear, rich voice he sang a few notes, and in a moment a burst of harmony broke out, full and grand as the organ in a cathedral. The sweet tones echoed among the stalactites, lingering as if loth to die.

Estelle gasped. She had never heard anything like it. 'Again, again!' she whispered.

Once more the sailor's rich voice rang through the silent caves, and once more the echoes took up the chord in a flood of melody which, surged over their heads as the little girl and the sailor stood motionless, listening till the last tones trembled into silence. Even then they did not speak for some moments.

'I could listen to it for ever,' said Estelle, drawing a deep breath.

'We must not stay for any more now,' replied Jack. 'The tide will soon be on the turn, so we must move to the tune of homeward bound. We may be late--the tide will not be.'

'Will you sing to me some day?' begged the little girl, as she was carried through the Rift into the Cave of the Silver Sand. 'You have such a good voice.'

'That's as may be, Missie. I haven't much heart for singing now, though I used to be a grand one at it before---- '

He stopped, and they went on in silence.

'Dear Jack,' said Estelle, earnestly, as they came out of the gorge on to the beach, 'when I am quite big and old, you will let me help you to be happy again, won't you? Perhaps I shall be able to put all your unhappiness away then, and Goody's too.

Jack shook his head with a sigh.

'There are some things which can never be done away with,' he said, sadly. 'We cannot undo them, and their consequences will last as long as we live. Happy for us if they don't drag us down for ever. But thank you all the same, little Missie, for it's your kind heart that makes you wish it.'

(Continued on page 234.)

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 231.)

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us