A Little gipsy lass

MYSIE: A Highland Lassie	5/-
With Eight Illustrations by A. S. Boyd.
PEG'S ADVENTURES IN PARIS	5/-
With Eight Illustrations by W. Rainey.
THE SUNSET ROCK	5/-
With Eight Illustrations by Harold Copping.
DORA: A High School Girl	3/6
With Six Illustrations by Mabel L. Attwell.
THE GIRLS OF ST GABRIEL'S	3/6
With Six Illustrations by Percy Tarrant.
THAT AWFUL LITTLE BROTHER	3/6
With Six Illustrations by Chas. Pears.
SIBYL; or, Old School Friends	3/6
With Six Illustrations by W. Rainey.
A PLUCKY GIRL; or, The Adventures of 'Miss Nell.'	3/6
With Six Illustrations by Jessie Macgregor.
A POPULAR GIRL; or, Boarding School Days	3/6
With Six Illustrations by Jessie Wilson.
THAT LITTLE LIMB	2/-
With Four Illustrations by Mabel L. Attwell.

W. & R. Chambers, Limited, London and Edinburgh.

THE young man stood on the deserted platform of the small, north-country station, just where the train had left him, on that bright August evening. Yonder she was speeding east-wards against the breeze.

Against the breeze, and along towards the cliffs that o'erhung the wild, wide sea, the end of the last carriage gilded with the rays of the setting sun, the smoke streaming backwards and losing itself over the brown-green woods that stretched away and away till lost in a haze at the foot of the hills.

He hailed a solitary porter.

'This isn't a very inviting station of yours, Tom, is it?'

'An awful good guess at my name, sir,' said the man, saluting.

'Your name is Tom, then?'

'No, sir—George,' he smiled. 'But any name does; and as for the station, weel, it's good enough in its way. We only tak' up or pit doon by signal. But you'll be English, sir?'

'That's it, George; that's just it. I'm only English. But, so far, I am in luck; because I understand your talk, and I thought everybody here ran about raw, with kilts on and speaking in Scotch.'

'So they do, sir, mostly; but I've been far south myself. No, sir, no left-luggage room here; but if you're going to the inn I'll carry your portmanteau, though ye'll no' find much accommodation there for a gentleman like yourself. Besides, it's the nicht of the fair, and they'll be dancin' and singin' in the road till midnicht.'

'But,' said the stranger, 'I'm bound for Loggiemouth, if I can only find the way. I'm going to a gipsy encampment there—Nat Lee's or Biffins'. You know Nat Lee?'

'Well, and curly-headed Lotty too. But, man, you'll have ill findin' your road over the moor the nicht. It's three good Scotch miles, and your portmanteau's no' a small weight—a hundred and twenty pounds if an ounce.'

This young man, with the sunny hair, square shoulders, and bravely chiselled English face, seized the bag with his left hand and held it high above his head, much to the admiration of the honest porter.

'You're a fine lad, sir,' said the latter. 'An English athlete, no doubt. Weel, we all love strength hereabouts, and Loggiemouth itself can boast of bonny men.'

'Here!' cried the stranger abruptly, as he looked to the west and the sun that was sinking like a great blood-orange in the purple mist of the woodlands, 'take that portmanteau, George, in your own charge. I suppose you live somewhere?'

'I'll lock it up in the lamp-room, sir. It'll be safe enough there.'

'Well, thanks; and to-morrow I'll either stride over for it myself or send some one. Now, you'll direct me to the camp, won't you?'

'Ay, ay, sir, and you've a good stick and a stout heart, so nothing can come o'er ye. But what way did nobody meet you, sir?'

'Nat Lee said he would send some one, but—hallo! who is this?'

She ran along the platform hurriedly but smiling—a little nervously perhaps, blinking somewhat moreover, for the sun's last beams lit up her face and eke her yellow hair. Her colour seemed to rise as she advanced. Blushing? No. Lotty Lee was barely twelve.

'Oh, please, sir, are you Mr Blake?'

'I am. And you?'

'Me? I'm only Lotty Lee, and that's nobody. But father sent me to meet you, and lead you home to our pitch across the Whinny Moor. You couldn't find the way by yourself, never, never, never!'

'Good-night, sir.—Good-night, Miss Lotty,' cried the porter, throwing the portmanteau on his shoulder and marching off with it.

'Well,' said the young fellow, 'I have a sweet little guide anyhow; but are you sure that even you can find the way yourself, Lotty?'

'Oh yes, Mr Blake, please.'

Hers was a light, musical, almost bird-like laugh.

She tossed back her head a little, and all those impossible little crumply curls caught by the evening breeze went dancing round her brow and ears.

'If you have any—any big thing, I will carry it for you, sir.'

It was his turn to laugh now. 'Why, Lotty,' he said, 'I shouldn't wonder if I had to carry you before we get to camp.'

'Come,' she answered, with an uneasy glance at the west. She took his hand as if he'd been a blind man. 'Father said I was to lead you, sir.'

'But I don't think he meant it in so literal a sense, Lotty. I think I can see for quite half an hour yet.'

He kept that warm hand in his, nevertheless. So on they went, chatting together gaily enough now, for she did not seem a bit afraid of her tall companion.

'I would have been here much sooner, you know, but Wallace followed me. Wallace is a very naughty boy sometimes, and father doesn't like him to be out of camp at nights.'

'And where is the young gentleman now?'

'Oh, I had to take him back, and that is what kept me.'

It was getting early dark to-night, and one great star was already out in the east. Whinny Moor was beginning to look eerisome enough. The patches of furze that everywhere hugged the ground were like moving shapes of strange and uncanny antediluvian monsters, and here and there stood up the dark spectre of a stunted hawthorn-tree waving black arms in the wind as if to forbid their approach.

Sometimes they had to creep quite sideways through the bushes of sturdy whins and bramble; sometimes the moor was more open, and here and there were little lakes or sedgy ponds of silver sheen, where black things swam or glided in and out among the rustling rushes. Flitter-mice darted over their heads or even between them, and from the forest now and then came the doleful cry of the great barn-owl.

'On the whole,' said young Blake, 'I'm glad you came, Lotty. I doubt if ever I could have made my way across this moor.'

'Nor through the forest yonder. Ah! the forest is much worse, Mr Blake.'

'Dark and dismal, I suppose?'

'It is dark; I don't know about dismal, Mr Blake. But I know all the road through this moor; because when things come to the station father often sends me for them.'

'At night?'

'Oh yes, often at night. Only, there is a little winding path through among the pine-trees, and one day Chops went in daylight and marked all the trees in white paint for me. But father thrashed him for it, because white paint is one of the show properties, and we mustn't waste the properties. But I cried for Chops.'

'And who is Chops, Lotty?'

'Oh, Chops is the fat boy; he is a property himself, but nobody could waste him.'

'No?'

'No; and Chops is fifteen, you know, and so good and so fond of me; but he is so fat that he can't look at you, only just blinks over his cheeks. But Chops is so kind to me—quite loves me. And so does Wallace. But I love Wallace better than anybody else, and everybody else loves Wallace.'

'And Wallace and everybody love Lotty, I'm sure of that.'

'Oh, Wallace loves me, and would die for me any day. But, of course, everybody doesn't. I'm only just a property, you know.'

'But your father and mother?'

Frank Antony Blake felt the small, soft hand tremble in his.

'There is no mother, sir. Never was a mother in my time. But father'——

The child was crying—yes, and sobbing—as if her heart would break.

Then, though Frank Antony was tall and strong for his eighteen years, he didn't really know what to do with a girl who burst into tears at night on a lonesome moor. He could remember no precedent. It mightn't be correct, he thought, to take her in his arms and kiss her and try to soothe her, so he merely said, 'Never mind, Lotty; never mind. It is sure to come all right somehow.'

For the life of him, however, he couldn't have told you what was wrong or what there was to come right. In the fast-waning light Lotty looked up at him ever so sadly, and he could not help noticing now what he had not noticed before—Lotty was really a beautiful child.

'You talked to me so kindly like,' she said, 'and hardly anybody does that, and—and that was it. Don't talk to me kindly again, sir, ever, ever, ever!'

He patted her hand.

'That's worse,' said Lotty, feeling she wanted to cry again, and she drew the hand away. 'You'll have me crying again. Speak gruff to me, as others do, and call me "Lot!"'

But at that moment Antony had a happy inspiration. He remembered that in his big coat-pocket he had a large box of assorted chocolates, and here close by on a bare part of the moor was a big white stone.

'Come,' he cried, 'there is no great hurry, and I'm going to have some chocolates. Won't you, Lot?'

Down he sat on the big white stone, and Lotty stood timidly in front of him. But Antony would not have this arrangement, so he lifted her bodily up—'how strong he is!' she thought—and seated her beside him, then threw a big handful of the delicious sweets into her lap.

She was smiling now. She was happy again. It was not the chocolates that worked the change; but the chance companionship of this youth of gentle blood, so high above her, seemed to have wakened a chord long, long untouched in that little harp of a heart of hers.

Was it but a dream, or had there been once a time, long—ever so long—ago, when voices quite as pleasant and musical and refined as Antony's were not strange to her? And had she not, when young—she was twelve now, and that is so old—lived in a real house, with bright cushions on real sofas, and lamps and mirrors and flowers everywhere? No, that must have been a dream; but it was one she often dreamt while she swung by night in her cot, as the winds rocked the caravan and lulled her to sleep.

The autumn evening was very beautiful now; bright stars were shining so closely overhead that it seemed as if one could almost touch them with a fishing-rod. Besides, a big, nearly round moon had managed to scramble up behind the bank of blue clouds in the east—a big, fat face of a moon that appeared to be bursting with half-concealed merriment as it blinked across the moor.

It wasn't the lollies that had enabled Lotty to regain her good spirits; but she felt quietly happy sitting here on the stone beside this newly found friend. Oh yes, he was going to be a friend; she felt certain of that already. Young though Lottie was, she had a woman's instinct. Perhaps she possessed a woman's pride as well, though only in embryo; for she felt half-ashamed of her awkward, bare brown legs that ended not in shoes but rough sandals, and of the pretty necklace of crimson hips and haws that she had strung for herself only yesterday.

They had been sitting in silence for some time, both thinking, I suppose, when Lotty's keen ear caught the weary call of some benighted plover.

'They'll soon be away now!' she sighed, more to herself than to her companion.

'What will soon be away, Lotty?'

'Oh, the plovers and the swallows and the greenfinches, and nearly all my pretty pets of springtime, and we'll have only just the rooks and the gulls left.'

Antony laid his hand on hers.

'Lotty loves the wild birds, then?'

'I—I suppose so. Doesn't everybody? I wish I could go south with the birds in autumn, to lands where the flowers are always blooming.'

'Who knows what is before you, child!'

The child interested him.

'Look, Lotty, look!' cried Antony next moment; 'what on earth can that be?'

He was genuinely startled. About two hundred yards from the place where they sat a great ball of crimson-yellow fire, as big as a gipsy pot, rose slowly, waveringly, into the air. It was followed by five others, each one smaller than the one above it. They switched themselves towards the forest, and one by one they went out.

'It is only will-o'-the-wisps,' said Lotty, 'and they always bring good luck. Aren't you glad?'

'Very,' said Antony.

Then, hand in hand, as if very old acquaintances indeed, they resumed their journey. And, as they got nearer and nearer to the forest, the tall pine-trees, with brown, pillar-like limbs, grew higher and higher, and finally swallowed them up.

ANTONY BLAKE—or Frank Antony Blake, to give him the benefit of his full tally—was the only son and heir-apparent of Squire Blake of Manby Hall, a fine old mansion away down in Devonshire; thousands of acres of land—no one seemed to know how many—rolling fields of meadow-lands divided by hedgerows and waving grain, woods and wolds, lakes and streams, and an upland of heath and fern that lost itself far away on the nor'-western horizon.

The mansion itself, situated on a green eminence in the midst of the well-treed old park, was one of the stately homes of England; and though antique enough to be almost grim—as if holding in its dark interior the secrets of a gloomy or mayhap tragic past—it was cheerful enough in summer or winter; and from its big lodge-gates, all along its gravelled avenues, the wheel-marks bore evidence that Manby Hall was by no means deserted nor the squire very much of a recluse.

The gardens of this mansion were large enough to lose one's self in, silent save for the song of birds, with broad green walks, with bush and tree and flower, and fountains playing in the centre of ponds only and solely for the sake of the waterfowl or the gold and silver fish that hid themselves from the sunshine beneath the green, shimmering leaves of lordly floating lilies, orange and white.

A rural paradise was Manby Hall. Acres of glass too, a regiment of semi-silent gardeners, and a mileage of strong old walls around that were gay in springtime and summer with creeping, climbing, trailing flowers of every shape and shade.

If there was a single grim room in all this abode it was the library, where from tawny, leather-bound shelves the mighty tomes of authors long dead and gone frowned down on one, as one entered through the heavily draped doorways.

Whisper it! But Antony was really irreverent enough to say one day to a friend of his that this solemn and classic library was a jolly good billiard-room spoiled.

Anyhow, it was in this room that Frank Antony found himself one morning. He had been summoned hither by his father.

The squire was verging on fifty, healthy and hard in face, handsome rather, with hair fast ripening into gray.

'Ha, Frank, my boy! come forward. You may be seated.'

'Rather stand, dad. Guess it's nothing too pleasant.'

'Well, I sent for you, Frank'——

'And I'm here, dad.'

'Let me see now. You're eighteen, aren't you?'

'I suppose so, sir; but—you ought to know,' replied Antony archly.

'I? What on earth have I to do with it? At least, I am too busy a man to remember the ages of all my children. Your mother, now, might; but then your mother is a woman—a woman, Frank.'

'I could have guessed as much, dad. But as for "all" your children, father, why, there are only Aggie and I. That comprises the whole lot of us; not very tiresome to count, I reckon.'

'There! don't be quizzical, boy. I sent for you—er—I sent for you to—to'——

'Yes, father, sent for me to—to'——

'I wish you to choose a career, you young dog. Don't stand there and to—to at me, else I'll—I don't know what I mightn't do. But stand down, sir—I mean, sit down—and you won't look so precious like a poacher.'

Antony obeyed.

'You see, lad, I have your interest at my heart. It is all very well being an athlete. You're a handsome young fellow too—just like me when I was a young fellow. Might marry into any county family. But cricket and football and rowing stroke aren't everything, Frank, and it is high time you were looking ahead—choosing your career. Well, well,' continued the squire impatiently, 'have you nothing to say?'

'Oh yes,' cried Frank Antony, beaming now. 'I put that filly at a fence to-day, father, and'——

'Hang the filly! I want you to choose a career; do you hear?'

'Yes, father.'

'Well, I'm here to help you all I can. Let us see! You're well educated; too much so for the Church, perhaps.'

'Not good enough anyhow, dad, to wear a hassock. Whew! I mean a cassock.'

'Well, there are the civil and the diplomatic services.'

Antony shook an impatient head.

'And you're too old for the army. But—now listen, Frank. I expect your eyes to gleam, lad, when I mention the term: a parliamentary career! Think of it, lad; think of it. Just think of the long vista of splendid possibilities that these two words can conjure up before a young man with the blood of a Blake in his veins.'

Frank Antony did not seem at all impressed; not even a little bit.

'I'm afraid, father, I'm a lazy rascal,' he said, almost pitying the enthusiasm which he himself could not appreciate. 'I'm not so clever as my dear old dad, and I fear the House would bore me. Never could make a speech either, so'——

'Speech!' roared the squire, 'why, you'll never be asked to. They wouldn't let you. They'd cough you down, groan you down, laugh you down. Besides, clever men don't make speeches nowadays—only the fools.'

Young Antony suppressed a yawn.

'Very good, my boy, very good!'—his dad was shaking hands with him—'and I honour you for your choice. And I'm of precisely the same opinion. There's nothing like a seat in the House.'

'Rather have one on the hillside though, daddy, all among the grouse.'

His father didn't hear him.

'And now, Frank, I'm not an ordinary father, you know; and, before entering the House, I don't see in the least why you shouldn't have your fling for a year or two. I maintain that all young fellows should have their fling. A hundred years or so agone I had my fling. Look at me now. Am I any the worse? Well, I've just put a bit in the bank for you, lad, so go and do your best.'

Frank was laughing merrily.

He put his hand in what he called his rabbit-pocket and handed out a book: The Gamekeeper at Home. 'That is my lay, dad,' he said. 'I only want to potter around and fish and shoot, or hunt in season. Don't like London. Hate Paris. Not at home in so-called society. I'll just have my fling in my own humdrum fashion, daddy, thank you all the same. I'll have my fling, depend upon it.'

The young man was smiling to himself at some recollection.

'What is it, Frank?'

'Only this, dad. The black keeper—Tim, you know—weighs two hundred and twenty pounds. The other day he was stronger than I. I threw him last eve—Cumberland. This morning I lifted him with my left and landed him on the west side of the picket-fence. How's that for a fling, daddy?'

'Go on, you young rogue. Listen, I hear Aggie calling you!'

'Oh, but you listen to me, father. I really don't see enough life down here.'

'Well, there's London, my lad. London for life!'

'No, no! For the next few months, with your permission, I'm going to live a life as free as a swallow's. I'm going on the road in my own house-upon-wheels. I'll see and mingle with all sorts of society, high and low, rich and poor. I'll be happy in spirit, healthy in body, and by the time I come back my mind will be quite a storehouse of knowledge that will better fit me for Parliament than all the lore in this great library, father.'

'You're going to take up with gipsies, Frank?'

'Be a sort of gip myself, daddy.'

'Bother me, boy, if there isn't something really good in the idea. But how are you going to set about it? Build a caravan for yourself?'

'Not build one, father. Nat Biffins Lee—a scion of the old, old gipsy Lee, you know—owns a real white elephant'——

'Bless my soul! is the lad going mad? You don't mean seriously to travel the country with a real white elephant, eh?'

'You don't understand, daddy. This Nat Lee has a splendid house-upon-wheels which belonged to the Duchess of X—— She went abroad, and Lee has bought it. But as it needs three powerful horses to rattle it along, it is quite a white elephant to Nat. So I'm going up north to Loggiemouth in Nairnshire, and if I like it I'll buy it. Is it all right?'

'Right as rain in March, boy. Go when you like.'

'Coming, Aggie; coming.'

. . . . . . .

Deprived of its detail, this is pretty much the story that Antony Blake told Lotty Lee that autumn night as they sat together eating chocolates on the big white stone on Whinny Moor.

And that is how Antony happened to be there.

BRIGHTER and brighter shone the moon, yet it was dark in that great wood, into which the light could hardly penetrate. Solemn as a cathedral, too, with far above them the black roof of interlacing pine-trees.

Only here and there the chequered moonlight streamed downwards on the soft carpet of needled foliage that lay beneath.

Pathway it could scarce have been called, save for the blazed trees, for the boy Chops had done his work well, albeit he had wasted the properties. There were places where the gloom was so complete that Frank Antony had to feel for Lotty to make sure she was still by his side. And neither seemed inclined to break the stillness just then.

The owls and other birds of prey were in evidence here, and once when a pigeon was scared, and flew flapping upwards from its flat nest of heather-stalks or its perch among the pines, some night-bird struck it speedily down. No, not an owl; for owls do feed on mice and rats.

Then they came to a glade, and once more the moon shone merrily above them, and the black shadows of Antony and his companion pointed northwards and west.

'More than half-way home,' said Lotty.

'A strangely impressive scene,' said Antony.

'Are you very heavy, sir?'

'For my inches I scale a good deal, Lotty.'

'Well, you must walk round by the white stones yonder. All the centre is a moving bog, you know. It bears my weight and Wallace's easily, and we like to swing up and down on the turf. You'll see me swing in a minute. But you might go through, then you would sink down and down and down among the black slime, and not be seen again, never, never, never!'

'A very pretty prospect indeed, Lotty; but I think I'll go round by the stones. I have rather an interest in myself.'

Lotty had her swing on the green, moving turf that covered the awful abyss, and appeared to enjoy it very much; but presently they met again on the other side. Antony paused for a moment to gaze into the star-depths.

'How beautiful!' he murmured.

'Are you very hungry, sir?' asked matter-of-fact Lotty.

'I could do with a bit of supper, I believe.'

'Because,' said Lotty, 'the light you see up yonder comes from Crona's cottage. Crona is a witch; but she loves me, and often, when I am hungry, she gives me milk to drink and sometimes an egg.'

'Well, by all means let us see this witch-friend of yours. Is she very terrible, Lotty?'

'She has such kindly eyes!' Lotty answered. Then she guided Antony up to the long, low hut on the cliff.

The girl simply lifted the latch and entered without ceremony. A peat-fire was burning on a rude stone hearth, and near it sat Crona, warming her skinny hands. A tame fox by her side yapped and howled, and a huge cat put up her back. Crona closed the big Bible she had been reading, and laid it reverently on the window-sill, with her spectacles above it.

'Oh, come your ways in, my bonny Lotty. But wha have you wi' ye? In sooth, a bonny callant. And, oh me, Lotty, there is something tells your old mammy this night o' nights that this callant, this bonny English callant, will'——

She stopped suddenly.

'Forgive an old woman, sir,' she said to Antony, 'who is well-nigh in her dotage.'

She hastily dusted a chair with her apron, and signed to Antony to sit down.

The fire threw out a cheerful blaze, quite dimming the light of the wee oil lamp that hung against the whitewashed wall.

Not very many miles from this same pine-wood is the 'blasted heath' of Shakespeare; and this old woman, Crona, but for the look of kindness in her eyes, might well have represented one of the witches in Macbeth. A witch? Nay; but despite her high cheek-bones and wrinkled face, despite the gray and elfin locks that escaped from beneath her white 'mutch' or cap, let us rather call her 'wise woman,' for witches—if there be any such creatures—never read the Book of Books.

Any age 'twixt seventy and ninety Crona might have been, or even more than that; but Antony could not help noticing that she herself and all her surroundings were wonderfully clean, the fireside tidy, and the delf that stood on shelves or in cupboards shining and spotless. Her clothing, moreover, was immaculate; and Antony, though a mere man, saw that some of her garments were silk and almost new, so that they could not have been cast-offs or misfits from the gentry in the neighbourhood. Indeed, old though she was, she looked aristocratic enough to have repelled any well-meant offers of charity.

But humble though the abode, there were several strange, richly inlaid chests in it, and a cupboard or two in the antique that certainly would have been valuable to the connoisseur.

Antony loved nature, but he also loved a mystery, and here surely there was one.

The mystery was deepened when a remark that the young man made, or a phrase used, in good French led the conversation into that language. But when Antony made a somewhat awkward attempt to learn something of the old lady's history she adroitly turned the conversation.

Crona's creamy milk, those new-laid eggs, and the real Scottish scones with freshest of butter, made a supper that a prince would have enjoyed.

Crona now heaped more logs and peats on the hearth, for in these far northern regions the early autumn evenings are apt to be chill.

The peats blazed merrily but quietly, the logs flamed and fizzed and crackled, the jets of blazing gas therefrom lighting up every corner and cranny of the old-fashioned hut. Fir-logs were they, that had lain buried in moss or morass for thousands of years—had fallen, in fact, before the wintry blast ages before painted and club-armed men roamed the forests all around, fighting single-handed the boars and even bears in which these woods abounded.

Frank Antony really felt very happy to-night. The scene was quite to his taste, for he was a somewhat romantic youth, and everything strange and poetic appealed to him. With Lotty, beaming-eyed and rosy with the fire, sitting by Crona's knee listening to old-world tales and the crooning of old ballads, the fox and the cat curled up together in a corner, the curling smoke and cheerful fire, the young man was fascinated. Had London, he wondered, with its so-called life and society, anything to beat this?

'Some one's knocking at the door,' said Lotty, whose hearing was more acute than Crona's.

'It must be Joe,' said Crona. 'Poor Joe, he has been away in the woods all the evening, and must be damp and cauld!'

Lotty hastened to admit a splendid specimen of the raven—or he would have been splendid had not his wings and thigh-feathers been so draggled with dew. He advanced along the floor with a noisy flutter.

'Joe's cold, and Joe's cross,' croaked the bird, giving one impudent glance upwards at Antony, as much as to say, 'Who on earth are you next?' He was evidently in a temper. 'Joe's cold, and Joe's cross—cross—cross!' he shrieked.

Then he vented his passion on the hind-foot of the poor fox, which was thrust well out from his body. Reynard quietly drew in that leg and showed his teeth in an angry snarl. But the raven only held his head back, and laughed an eldritch laugh that rang through the rafters. His next move was to dislodge the cat and take her place on the top of Tod Lowrie, as the red fox was called. Joe felt warm there, so he fluffed out his feathers and went quietly to sleep.

When presently 'a wee tim'rous beastie' in the shape of a black mouse, with wondering dark eyes nearly as large as boot-buttons, crept from a corner and sat quietly down with its front to the fire and commenced to wash its little mite of a face, Frank Antony thought he must be dreaming. The cat took no notice of Tim (the mouse), and when Lotty bent down and stroked tiny Tim with the nail of her little finger he really seemed to enjoy it. Antony was prepared for anything that might happen after this.

When they were out again in the open moonlight, Antony said, 'Do you often go to Crona's cottage, Lotty?'

'Oh yes, when I can spare time. Crona is a granny to me, and I love her and Tim and Joe, Pussy, Tod Lowrie, and all.'

'A very happy little natural family.'

They were high on a hill by this time, and far beneath them, near the sea, its long lines of breakers silvered by the moonbeams, white canvas tents could be seen, and many moving lights.

'That is our pitch,' said Lotty. 'The big caravan is yours, sir; the little one not very far off is mine. That long, black, wooden building in the centre is the theatre and barracks.'

'How droll to have a theatre and barracks in a gipsy camp! I think I've come to a strange country, Lotty.'

'Oh, you won't be sorry, I'm sure. Father can't thrash you, and Wallace and myself will look well after you.'

'Thank you, Lotty.'

'I wonder who on earth Wallace is?' he thought.

He did not have long to wonder.

'I'm going to signal for Wallace,' said Lotty.

She stood on the very edge of a rocky precipice that went sheer down to the green sea-links below, full three hundred feet and over. Close by was the mark of a former fire.

'I always signal from here,' she said, 'and Wallace always comes. He is never happy when I am far away, and keeps watching for me.'

It didn't take the little gipsy lass long to scrape dry grass and twigs together. A leathern pouch hung from her girdle, and from this she produced a flint and steel, with some touch-paper, and in less than half a minute the signal-fire was alit.

A most romantic figure the girl presented as she stood there on the cliff, looking straight out seawards, one hand above her brow to screen her eyes from the red glare of the flames, her sweet, sad face a picture, with the night wind blowing back her wealth of soft fair hair and the silken frock from off her shapely limbs.

It was not the beauty but the sadness of Lotty's face that appealed to Antony most.

Why sad? That was the mystifying question.

He had taken a strange and indefinable interest in this twelve-year-old gipsy child. He had come down here to take away the caravan for which he was to pay a solid five hundred guineas, and had made up his mind to stay only a few days; but now on the cliff-top here he suddenly resolved that, if he could be amused, he would remain at the camp for as many weeks. He had no intention of travelling in the caravan during the wintry months. He would take the great carriage south by rail, and, starting from Brighton, do a record journey right away through England and Scotland from sea to sea, starting when the first green buds were on the trees and the larks carolling over the rolling downs of Sussex. So now he lay on the grass, waiting, and wondering who Wallace would be.

Hallo! Lotty has gone bounding past Antony to meet some one, her face transformed. No sadness now; only daft mirth and merriment, her arms extended, her curls anyhow all over her face and neck. A scream of delight, and next moment two very young and beautiful persons are rolling together on the half-withered grass.

One is Lotty, the other is Wallace her Newfoundland. Jet black is he all over, like the wings of Crona's raven—jet black, save for the glitter of his bonny eyes, the pink of his tongue, and alabaster flash of his marvellous teeth.

. . . . . . .

'See your room first, Mr Blake, and then come in to supper?'

The speaker was Nat Biffins Lee, master and proprietor of what he was wont to call 'The Queerest Show on Earth,' a broad, square, round-faced, somewhat burly man, with even teeth and a put-on smile that was seldom unshipped. Dressed in a loose velveteen jacket, with white waistcoat (diamond-mounted buttons), with an enormous spread of neck and upper chest. His loose cravat of green silk was tied in a sailor-knot so far beneath his fat chin that it seemed to belong more to the vest than to the loose shirt-collar.

'Here, hurry up, you kinchin, Lot!—Down, Wallace; kennel, sir.' Biffins cracked a short whip, and Lotty flew to obey.

The look of sadness had returned to her face. Her father's manner seemed to frighten her. But she tripped like a fairy up the back steps of the 'Gipsy Queen,' and stood waiting him while he entered.

Antony stood for a few moments on the stairtop. He was dazzled, bewildered. He had never seen so large a caravan, never could have believed that the interior of a caravan could lend itself to such art-decorations and beauty. This was no ordinary gipsy wagon, but a splendid and luxurious home-upon-wheels. The curtains, the hangings, mirrors, brackets, bookcase with pigmy editions of poetry and romance, the velvet lounge, the art chairs, the soft carpets, the crimson-shaded electric bulbs and the fairy lights gleaming up through beds of choice flowers above the china-cupboard in a recess, all spoke of and breathed refinement.

But no sign of a bedroom, till smiling Lotty stepped forward and touched a spring; then china-cupboard, with fairy lights and flowers and all, slowly revolved and disappeared, and, in its place, gauzy silken hangers scarce concealed the entrance to a pretty cabin bedroom, with curtained window and white-draped couch which seemed to invite repose. A cosy wee grate in a brass-protected corner, in which a cosy wee fire was burning, a small mirrored overmantel—making the room look double the size—table, looking-glass, books, pipe-rack, wine-cupboard, and a little lamp on gimbals that was swinging even now, for the wind had commenced to blow along the links, and the great caravan rocked and swayed like a ship in a seaway.

There were wild-flowers in vases even here, and a blithe little rose-linnet in a golden cage; but everything was so arranged that nothing could fall, rocked and swayed she ever so much.

Frank Antony was more than pleased; he was astonished and delighted. But who was, or had been, the presiding genius of all this artful beauty and elegance? Ah! there she stands demurely now, by the saloon cabin, herself so artless—a baby-woman. He drew her nearer to him to thank her. He kissed her shapely brown fingers, and he kissed her on the hair.

'Good-night, Lotty. Oh, by the way, Lotty, tell Mr Biffins—tell your father, I mean—that I am going to bed, too tired to take supper. Good-night, child.'

Five minutes after, the little brass knocker rattled, and Lotty peeped in again to say, 'All right about father, sir; and Chops will call for your boots in the morning.'

Frank Antony switched off the saloon light, and, retiring to his small cabin, helped himself to a glass of port and a biscuit, and then sat down by the fire to read.

As he smoked his modest pipe, which soothed his nerves after his long journey of over seven hundred miles, he felt glad he had not gone in to supper.

Whether or not love at first sight be possible I cannot say—cannot be sure; but no doubt we meet people in this world whom, from the very first, we feel we cannot like. Nat Biffins Lee seemed to be one of these to Frank Antony, at all events. There was that in his manner which was repellent, positively or rather negatively repellent. The man was evidently on the best of terms with himself, but his manners were too much of the circus-master to please Antony. And the young man was discontented with himself for feeling as he did.

Yet how could a man like this Biffins possess so gentle and sweet a child as Lotty for a daughter? It was puzzling. But then, Mrs Biffins Lee, the girl's mother—well, Lotty might have taken after her.

Perhaps Antony's thoughts were running riot to-night; one's thoughts, when very tired, are very apt to. He had read a whole page of the little volume he held in his hand without knowing in the very least what he had been reading. He shut his eyes now very hard as if to squeeze away drowsiness, then opened them wide to read the passage over again. It was a translation from the writings of some ancient Celtic bard which he had got hold of, strangely wild, almost uncouth, but still it seemed to accord with the situation, with the boom of the breaking waves and soft rocking of his home-upon-wheels. It was the lament of Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, for the death of her lover Oscar:

'It was the voice of my love! Seldom art thou in the dreams of Malvina! Open your aerie halls, O father of Toscar of Shields! Unfold the gates of your clouds; the steps of Malvina are near. I have heard a voice in my dream. I feel the fluttering of my soul. Why didst thou come, O blast, from the dark rolling face of the lake? Thy rustling wing was in the tree; the dream of Malvina fled. But she has beheld her love when his robe of mist flew on the wind. A sunbeam was on his skirts; they glittered like the gold of a stranger. It was the voice of my love! Seldom comes he to my dreams.

'But thou dwellest in the soul of Malvina, son of mighty Ossian! My sighs arise with the beam of the east, my tears descend with the drops of night. I was a lovely tree in thy presence, Oscar, with all my branches round me; but thy death came like a blast from the desert, and laid my green head low. The spring returned with its showers; no leaf of mine arose. The virgins saw me silent in the hall; they touched the harp of joy. The tear was on the cheek of Malvina; the virgins beheld me in my grief. "Why art thou sad," they said, "thou first of the maids of Lutha? Was he lovely as the beam of the morning, and stately in thy sight?"'

. . . . . . .

The 'Gipsy Queen' lay somewhat nearer to the cliffs than the barracks and the other caravans and tents. She had been placed here probably that Antony might have quietness.

Tall, rocky cliffs they were that frowned darkling over the northern ocean—rocks that for thousands of years had borne the brunt of the battle and the breeze, summer's sun and winter's storm. Hard as adamant were they, imperishable, for ne'er a stone had they parted with, and the grass grew up to the very foot.

The 'Gipsy Queen' was anchored fast to the greensward where the sea-pinks grew, and many a rare little wild-flower. And this sward was hard and firm, so that though gales might sweep along the links and level the tents it could only rock and sway the 'Gipsy Queen.'

Silence gradually fell over the encampment. Guys had been slackened round the tents, for the dews of night and the sea's salt spray would tauten the canvas long ere morning. The shouting of orders ceased and gave place to the twanging of harp-strings, the sweet strains of violin music, and voices raised in song. But these also ceased at last, and after this nothing could be heard save the occasional sonorous baying of some great hound on watch and the drowsy roar of the outgoing tide. But soon

It occurred to Antony to look out just once before retiring for the night. So he passed through the saloon and gently opened the door. The white tents moving in the moonlight, the big black barn of a theatre, the gray, uncertain sea touched here and there with the sheen of moon and silver stars. Was that all? No; for not far from his own great caravan was a cosy, broad-wheeled gipsy-cart, from the wee curtained window of which a crimson light streamed over the yellow sand.

It must be Lotty's and Wallace's he believed. And there was a sense of companionship in the very thought that they were so near to him. So Antony locked his door and retired.

. . . . . . .

'Hallo! hallo!' roared Antony. 'What on earth'——

Then, remembering where he was, he jumped out of bed, flew through the saloon, and opened the back-door.

A great, fat young face beamed up at him from the foot of the steps like a setting sun.

'It's only me, sir. It's only Chops, come for your boots, sir.'

'Here you are, Chops lad. But mind you don't black these; they're patent leather.'

'Lo'd love ye, sir, I knows to a nicety. I never does black patenters. Only just spits on 'em, sir. Back presently, sir, wi' your cup o' tea.'

The figure retreated, taking the fat face and the patent leather boots with it, and Frank Antony Blake yawned a bit and then proceeded to dress, wondering to himself what pleasure, if any, the coming day might bring him.

BUT the boy Chops returned almost immediately. 'Which I told Skeleton,' he said touching his forelock with his left hand by way of salute, 'to bring yer a cup o' nice tea, sir, an' breakfus is at eight; an' I brought ye these, as I doesn't like to see a gent in 'is stockin'-soles like, an' mayblins ye 'asn't got another pair o' shoes to yer name. These will fit, sir, I thinks, thinks I.'

Antony had been standing in the back-door of the caravan, looking out upon the brightness of a beautiful morning and the sunlight on the sea.

As the boy spoke he deposited a pair of huge, ungainly yellow slippers close beside the young man's dainty feet.

Antony glanced but once at them and stepped back, almost appalled.

'Goodness!' he cried. 'What are these? Take the horrid—er—take them away, boy.'

'A pair o' slippers wot belongs to the boss, sir. Oh, I'm sure 'e wouldn't mind yer awearin' of 'em. Boss ain't a bad sort—sometimes.'

'There, there, you're a thoughtful lad, I'm sure; but—er—if you don't mind, I'll wait for my boots.'

'Gemman wants ter see ye, sir,' said Chops a minute after.

The 'gemman' was the porter from the station, carrying Frank Antony's bag on his left shoulder. He was smiling and pleasant, quite in keeping with the sunny morning.

'I thank you, porter. This is ever so kind of you.'

'First train no' due yet, captain, for an hour and mair. Thought ye might be needin' something oot o' the bag, and so here it is. No, as sure as death, I'll no' tak' a penny. Weel, captain, as you are so pressin'. Thanks; and I'll drink your very good health as soon's the train's oot o' the station.'

The porter had barely gone ere Skeleton hove in sight with a small tray and the morning cup of tea.

Skeleton was very tall, very thin, and so sloping were his shoulders that his jacket seemed slipping off him. His poor face was like that of a snipe, and his eyes the eyes of an owl; two little spots of red were on his high cheek-bones.

No need to be told that this was the Living Skeleton of Biffins Lee's 'Queerest Show on Earth.'

'Are you very ill, poor fellow?'

'What, me? No, sir, I'm first chop. Could get stout in three weeks.'

'Then, for pity's sake, take a three weeks' holiday and fill yourself out.'

'What, me? And spoil the whole show, and lose my income?'

His voice was like that of some one speaking up from a vault.

'I know what you 're thinking, sir.'

'Well?'

'I could see your lips moving, and you seemed to be mumbling a morsel of the Immortal William to yourself. Would you like to have a look at my wife, sir?'

Antony was sitting on a camp-stool, enjoying his tea.

'No, I don't want to have a look at her. What should I want to have a look at your wife for?'

'Oh, she would please you all to pieces.—Mary, my sweet little darling,' he cried, 'flutter this way a moment that our newly come Gipsy King may feast his optics on thy fairy form.'

And Mary did flutter in sight, and presently stood beside Skeleton, smiling and comely.

And this fairy must have turned the scale at five-and-twenty stone! But, so merry her smile and the twinkle in her eyes that, rude though he felt it to be, Antony could not help bursting into a hearty laugh. And she kept him company too.

'I'm really not laughing, you know; but—ha! ha! ha! I'——

'And I'm really not laughing,' cried Mary. 'But—he! he! he! I'——

'This isn't your wife, Skeleton? Now, really, is it, you know?'

'In course she is,' cried the Skeleton. 'You don't mean to go for to think that I'——

'No, no, my good sir, I shouldn't think so for a moment.'

Mary now hit her memento mori of a husband a ringing slap on his bony back.

'Go and do something,' she exclaimed.

Skeleton was evidently accustomed to obey, and bolted at once to do something.

Mary looked after him with a satisfied sigh.

'I've taught my hubbie what man's chief duty is: to do what his missus bids him. Beautiful morning, isn't it, sir,' she added.

Antony made no attempt to deny it.

'You seem very happy here, on the whole,' he remarked.

'Oh, very, sir. But, of course, we all look forward to something better.'

'Beyond death and the grave, eh?'

'Who said anything about death and the grave? Who's going to talk about graves on a day like this? No, sir; but hubbie and I, after a time, look forward to retiring from the show-line and taking a little poultry and milk farm. Then he'll grow fat and I'll grow lean, till we meet like, and live happy ever after. But here comes Chops.'

And Mary floated away.

‘’Am an' heggs, sir; grilled salmon, sir; an' 'spatch-cock! An' w'ich will yer 'ave?'

'What is 'spatch-cock, Master Chops?'

'First ye catches yer little cock, sir, no matter w'ere. Then, w'en 'e's dead an' trussed, ye divides 'im down the back like a kippered 'erring, an' does 'im over a clear fire—gipsy fashion.'

'I'll have 'spatch-cock, Chops.'

'An' please, sir, I was to take the boss's compliments, an' would ye like to 'ave yer meals in the big marquee or in the caravan all by yerself like?'

'My compliments to your master, and please say I'm too shy yet, and so I'll feed where I am for a day or two.'

'Right ye be, sir, an' I was to 'tend on ye like. An' Mrs Pendlebury will make yer bed an' tidy up, an' Lotty Biffins Lee 'erself will put in the wild-flowers.'

'Capital! But who is Mrs Pendlebury?'

'Why, she as 'as just gone hoff—Skeleton's wife.'

'Oh, I see.'

After breakfast Antony was wondering what he should do with himself when there came a rat-tat-tat to the little brass knocker, and, without waiting for a 'come in,' enter Biffins Lee.

'Morning,' he nodded.

'Morning, Mr Lee. Take a seat.'

'That's what I came to do.'

He excavated a huge cigar and was just about to light up, when——

'Hold a moment,' said Antony. 'If ever I become master of this charming palace-on-wheels I will not permit even a duke to smoke and spoil the beautiful curtains.'

'Right ye are, Mr Blake. I desists. Now,' he added, 'I want you to do just as you like in my camp.'

'Thanks, old man! But I should have done what I liked anyhow. Always have done. Always will.'

One does meet men sometimes, and women too, that one feels it impossible to take to at first. From Antony Blake's point of view, this Biffins seemed to be one of these.

In his heart of hearts he trusted he was not wronging the camp-master. Rudeness young Blake could understand and forgive, but offensiveness never. He, Antony, could not forget that he was a gentleman and one of high-caste compared to this showman, and so he was prepared to keep him in his place. Skeleton was a king compared to Biffins, and Mary was a queen.

The man began to whistle an operatic air to himself—more of his ill-manners—and Antony felt he should like to pull him up off his seat and give him one good kick that should land him on the grass among the sea-pinks.

But at present the caravan really belonged to Biffins Lee, and one must think twice before kicking a man out of his own caravan.

'Well, Mr Blake,' said the showman presently, 'whether you buy the "Gipsy Queen" or not, you'll make yourself at home with us for a week or so, won't you?'

This was more kindly spoken, and Antony began to think he was behaving like a cad to Biffins.

'Certainly, certainly, Mr Lee. Excuse my horrid cantankerous bluntness. But I'll buy the "Gipsy Queen." There! That's settled. Cheque when you like.'

'Spoken like a man, young fellow,' and Biffins held out his hand to shake.

Antony could not well refuse this, but the grasp was not a warm one on either side.

'Morning, Mr Blake. Must be going.'

'Morning, Mr Lee. Pray don't mention it.' And, whistling again to himself, Biffins tripped down the stair and walked off.

Antony opened all the windows.

'How that man,' he said to himself, 'can be the father of that sweet lady little Lotty is past all comprehension. However, the caravan is mine now.—Yes, Mrs Pendlebury, come up and do the rooms. I'll walk by the shore for half an hour.'

The tide was running in upon the yellow sand, each tiny wavelet wetting it higher and higher up the beach, its long wavy line showing the tide was beginning to flow. Scarce a whisper from the sea to-day, and its oily reflection almost pained the eyes that received it. Out yonder on this glassy mirror a little boat was bobbing, but so indistinctly that Antony could not at first tell whether it was on the horizon or nearer hand. Presently, however, he could see an arm raised and something flutter. A cry, too, or 'coo-ee!' came across the water, plaintive almost as that of a sea-bird.

Antony waved his handkerchief in return, and almost immediately noticed that the boat had changed its direction, and was putting back towards a point of dark rocks that stood out into the sea about three hundred yards to the west. Thither he bent his steps, the little craft appearing suddenly to get very much larger and more distinct, and he could see now that the single figure who sat therein was Lotty herself.

Next moment he was out on the point-end, the dingy's bows rasping on the black, weed-covered boulder on which he was standing.

'Good-morning, dear. How well you row! Can I assist you up?'

'Oh no, Mr Blake, I am not landing yet. I have had breakfast ever so long ago; and, look, I have caught all these fish! Mind you don't step on them.'

'Am I to come on board, then, and take the oars?'

'You may come on board, but not take the oars. You are just to sit in the stern-sheets and be good.'

'Be good?'

'Yes, Mr Blake; you must not wriggle about, because the Jenny Wren is small, and you are big. If you wriggled much you might capsize.'

'I won't wriggle a bit, Lotty. You are so good!'

'Well,' she told him, 'sit right in the centre aft there, and lean forward, so that your weight may be divided.'

'This way?'

'That way, Mr Blake. Thanks.'

'It isn't a very comfy way to sit, Lotty, and I can't see you without bending back my head.'

'You needn't see me. Keep your face down if you like, and look at the fish. Once,' she continued, 'I took Chops out; but he wobbled and wriggled so much I had to tell him to go; and, of course, he went.'

'What! Jumped into the water?'

'Yes, Mr Blake; he could see I was cross. But Chops is the best swimmer in the world, so he soon got back to shore.'

'I hope, Lotty, you won't tell me to go.'

'Not if you sit still. That's it. Now, you can raise your head and shoulders just a little, so that I can see you talking. Speak!'

'I've nothing to say, Lotty.'

'If you don't speak you'll have to sing, and that will be worse for you, perhaps.'

'Well, child, I'm sure you love the sea.'

'Oh,' she cried enthusiastically, 'I love it! I love it always! I love all of it! It is always speaking to me and saying things in calm and in storm. And all the birds too; they are mine, you know. Watch that gull, Mr Blake, with his clean, clean white wings. He knows me, you know, because I feed him. He is coming nearer and nearer, tack and half-tack. You hear his wings now, don't you? Whiff—whiff—whiff they say. Now, look, but don't move.'

This little gipsy lass lay on her oars for a moment, put half a tiny milk-biscuit between her red lips, and held up her face. It was a sweetly pretty picture. Bare arms, feet, and neck; tiny red hands that held the oars; hair like dark seaweed afloat on her shapely shoulders.

Whiff—whiff—whiff went the clean white wings—it was underneath they were so radiantly white, and ever and anon turned the bird's graceful head to gaze red-eyed at Antony. Next moment the biscuit was whisked from the child's lips, and the bird was sailing for the rocks.

'You have been very good to sit so still, Mr Blake. The birds will know you now. I may take you out some time again. Sometimes I hoist a mainsail, but not a gaff. You know what the gaff is, don't you, Mr Blake?'

'Oh, yes, a hook-thing you land salmon with when you'——

Lotty was laughing merrily. 'I see you've never been much to sea,' she said. 'If I shipped the rudder and hoisted sail I suppose you couldn't manage the tiller and the sheet of the main as well. You know in a little bit of a skiff like this it wouldn't do to make fast the sheet, else if an extra puff came, then, before you could ease off over she would go.'

'Precisely, Lotty, precisely.' He didn't know what else to say.

Lotty was silent for a moment. 'You know so little about boats, Mr Blake,' she said demurely; 'but I know what I can do with you if I take you for a sail.'

'Yes?'

'I should make you lie down fore and aft right along the keelson, on your back, head to the bows so as I could see you. But quite still you know.'

'Certainly, quite still. I understand that.'

'Then I would have you for company, and you would do for ballast as well.'

'Quite a charming arrangement, Lotty. But I wouldn't see much, would I?'

'You would see me managing the sail and holding the tiller as I tacked or took her about.'

'But tell me this, Lotty. Aren't you afraid of catching cold without shoes or stockings?'

'Oh no. Besides, you see, shoes and stockings are properties, and I mustn't spoil properties with salt-water and fishy slime.'

'No, that would never do, dear.'

'You're not making fun of me, are you?'

'I shouldn't dream of such a thing.'

'Very well. Now you may sing. "Row, brothers, row" will do.'

Luckily, Antony knew this beautiful hymn-like song, and he had a splendid soprano voice. Lotty joined him, and there were tears in her eyes. She lay on the oars again to wipe them.

'I think I must have caught a cold,' said this queer little gipsy girl. 'I say, Mr Blake, have you ever been a freak?'

'A freak? Well, not at a show. My father called me a freak once, I think.'

'I'm a freak now, Mr Blake, and have been for many, many long years. Heigh-ho!'

'Where does the freak come in, child?'

'Oh, I am a violinist, you know. Father says I used to sit up and play in my bassinette. Then I'm a freak telling fortunes; but father takes the money.'

'No doubt.'

'Have you ever been an infant prodigy?'

'No, only an infant prodigal.'

'But when I was only four—ages and ages ago—I used to stand on one leg on my father's hand when he was galloping round the ring on his Araby steed. Then he would jerk his arm, and I would spring high in the air, turn a somersault, and alight in the hand again with my arms turned up and my eyes looking to heaven. And the people cheered, and I used to be handed round for the ladies to kiss. I hated that part. Heigh-ho! We've only a little show now, and if it wasn't for the merman we couldn't live.'

'Have you a real merman?'

'Father must tell you all about that,' she answered hurriedly. 'But mind, Mr Blake, you must never ask me anything about the show. You promise?'

'I promise.'

'Never—never—never?'

'Never—never—never,' said Antony.

She quickly put about the boat. 'You see the flag half-mast, don't you? Well, that is my recall. It will only be an hour's rehearsal to-day. Then, if you please, Mr Blake, we'll go for a walk with Wallace.'

HAD Frank Antony Blake not been one of the least inquisitive young fellows in the world several things connected with Biffins Lee's Queerest Show on Earth might have struck him as curious. He might have asked himself why the show should have settled down here, in this comparatively out-of-the-way part of a wild north coast. He might have wanted to find out the secret of the merman which Lee advertised so freely as the only creature of its kind ever captured. Why didn't this business-like showman journey south with it, or rather him or her, whichever sex the animal may have represented?

If such questions did present themselves to Antony's mind they were very speedily dismissed again.

'It is no business of mine,' he told himself. 'I like a little mystery so long as there is poetry and romance in it, and so long as I am not asked to solve it. Elucidation is a hateful thing. Let me see now. I used to be good at transposing letters and turning words into something else. "Elucidation?" The first two syllables easily make "Euclid," and the last four letters "not I." There it is: "Elucidation—Euclid. Not I." Suits me all to pieces, for I never could stand old Euclid, and I was just as determined as any mule not to cross the pons asinorum' (the bridge of asses).

There was a quiet but heavy footstep on the back stairs, and when Antony opened the door the beautiful Newfoundland walked solemnly in and lay down on the saloon carpet.

'Hallo! Wallace, old man, aren't you at rehearsal?'

Wallace never moved, nor did he wag even the tip of his tail; but not for one moment did he take his wise brown eyes off Antony. The dog was watching him, studying him, and without doubt trying to get a little insight into his character. The scrutiny grew almost painful at last, and Antony, to relieve the intensity of it, went and fetched a milk-biscuit from his little cupboard.

'Wallace hungry, eh? Poor dog then!'

But the 'poor dog' would look neither at the biscuit-box nor at the biscuit, only quietly at the young man's face.

Antony laid the biscuit on the poor dog's nose. The poor dog did not even shake it off, so that Antony, half-ashamed, took it off again and even dusted the soiled part of the nose.

'I wonder if he thinks me a fool?' said Antony half-aloud. 'Of course, I know I am; but how should a dog know it?'

But, much to his relief, Wallace gave vent to a satisfied sort of a sigh at last, and sat up. Presently he put one enormous paw on Antony's knee, and from that moment friendship was established.

'Will you take the biscuit now, Wallace boy?'

Wallace boy showed his condescension, and took it and two more, and two more after that.

He licked Antony's knuckles with a soft, warm tongue, then asked to be let out.

Down the steps he trotted, but was not gone three minutes before he returned, accompanied by a huge red-and-white cat. There was no shyness about puss. He took Antony for granted or at Wallace's recommendation, and rubbed his back against Antony's gaitered legs.

Then, as the cat cared not for biscuits, but must have something, Antony opened a tin of sardines which he found among his stores. Perhaps they had belonged to the Duchess. Pussy liked them anyhow, and jumped on the sofa now to lick and wash his great paws, as cats always do when they've had anything greasy.

Wallace wanted to get out again.

'I wonder,' said young Blake, 'if he is going to bring some more of his friends? Shouldn't be a bit surprised if he turned up with the merman.'

It wasn't the merman he came back with, however. Only about five minutes after he had gone there was Wallace's sonorous voice, and Antony's glasses rang in the cupboard, so loud and strong was it.

At the same moment there was the sound of the bagpipes, and once more Antony looked out.

But he drew back quickly. For here, at his very door, was a huge bear on his hind-legs, wearing no muzzle, though he had fangs like fixed bayonets. He wore an artilleryman's pork-pie cap very much on one side, and had a very droll, half-drunken leer on his huge face.

Skeleton stood by with the pipes.

'Gee hup!' he cried, and played.

Then that huge brown bear began to dance, and evidently did so for fun and love. No torture had been applied to him, it appeared afterwards, to make him caper.

But as soon as the music—well, the bagpipes—ceased, Bruin faced round towards the back-door and opened a mouth wide enough to have taken in a Dutch cheese.

Antony threw all the rest of the sardines in, and all the biscuits; but as the red mouth was still open he went back to the cupboard and discovered a loaf of bread, and rammed that well home. Bruin gave a hoarse cough of satisfaction, and, lowering himself on all-fours, went shambling off.

. . . . . . .

The whole of the Queerest Show was surrounded by a rough kind of palisade just enough to

insure privacy except from the ubiquitous boy of an inquiring turn of mind. But Lee had fallen upon a good plan to get rid of this nuisance.

Had the urchins merely come to have a look across the fence and gone away quietly it would not have mattered very much; but it had been their custom not only to look but to settle down to games, and shout and scream. Wallace had often been sent to reason with them; but they got used to him at last, and even Bruin lost all petrifying power over them. But one day, behold a placard stuck up some distance from the camp, which read thus:

BEWARE

OF THE

DREADED DOOROOCOOLIE.

The usual crowd of urchins seemed to gather that afternoon from all directions simply to read this notice, and various were the theories advanced concerning it.

'Mebbe there's nae dooroo—— What is't ca'ed, Jock?'

'The dooroocoolie, Wullie,' said Jock, spelling it out.

'Maybe it's just put up there to frighten us,' said another boy. 'I'm gaun to stop and ha'e some fun. I'm nae flegged at [afraid of] dooroocoolies.'

'And so am I.'

'And so am I.'

Presently Skeleton was seen coming towards them, with a face about a yard long.

'Hallo, Skelie!'

'Hallo, cheeks-o'-branks!'

'Hallo, auld death's-heid!'

'I've come to warn you boys to go away quietly. The dreaded dooroocoolie hears you, and at any moment he may break his clanking chains and devour you.'

'Bah! Skelie. Boo! Skelie. Gang aff an' bile yer heid, Skelie. We're nae feart at your dooroocoolie.'

'See that heap o' stanes?' said a bigger ragamuffin. 'Weel, if you let your doorie oot we'll brak his banes, and maybe ye'll get a stane behin' the lug yersel', into the bargain.'

'Hoo mony o' us could the doorie eat at a time? He maun be gey [very] big an' gey hungry to eat a hale [whole] laddie.'

Said Skeleton, 'I'm your friend, boys, and I wouldn't like to see your life's blood "dye the heather." The dreaded dooroocoolie is a species of antediluvian alligator. He is as long as the Kirk of Hillhead. He would devour one boy easily, and kill all the rest for to-morrow's consumption.'

'Gang hame to your wife, Skelie; ye have consumption yersel.'

'Ha'e ye a pictur' o' the doorie?'

'I have that. Wait a minute.'

They did wait, while two men came forward and proceeded to put up a poster of a terrible-looking dragon, bigger and uglier than that which St George of Merrie England was supposed to have slain. When about the same time the roaring of some strange wild-beast was heard coming from near the bear's enclosure the boys were awed into silence, and one or two proposed going off to play in a neighbouring field. But presently, with a strong rope about its neck, the end of which appeared to be held back by all the men in the camp, the fearsome monster himself stalked awkwardly forth into the open—an alligator or dragon-like animal, with a mouth that could have swallowed a calf. The noisy boys were now paralysed with fear. They found their feet, however, when the beast opened his great red mouth, with its rows of sabre teeth, and roared like a lion. The workmen dropped their hammers and bolted, two fisher-wives with creels on their backs fled screaming, and the boys were off like March dust.

The dooroocoolie was a dread reality then. And never after this was the camp annoyed by the yells of naughty boys at play.

The dooroocoolie was often to be heard but very seldom seen. It was firmly believed in, nevertheless, by the good country people far and near, and had become in time a capital advertisement for the show.

Stronger palisades were placed round what was supposed to be the animal's enclosure, but he was not allowed to come out. There was a peep-hole, however, through which any one coming to the show about dusk and staying for the evening's entertainment could have a look at the awful monster lying apparently asleep.

How many of Biffins Lee's company, or his 'properties' as he called them, were in the secret it is quite impossible to say; but in case this part of the story should seem to be mere romance it is as well to explain how the dreaded dooroocoolie was got up and placed on the boards, so to speak.

The antediluvian reptile, then, was merely an automaton, its skin pumped full of air like an india-rubber tire, and its springs wound up to set him agoing. Lee had a large gramophone with a very loud lion's roar record on it, and this was the dreaded dooroocoolie's voice. It had cost Lee some money and trouble to get that record from a German Zoo, but it must be confessed it was very effective.

On this lovely August forenoon Antony had heard the wondrous beast roaring, and marvelled not a little.

But Lotty was sent off to tell him, and explain all about it, after enjoining secrecy.

The child patted his hand as if she had been some old aunt of his.

'You were not afraid, were you, Mr Blake?' she said.

'Well, Lotty, a voice like that isn't calculated to raise the drooping spirits of a lone man like me. Have you done rehearsal?'

'Oh yes, and now, if you please, we can ramble off to the hills with Wallace. But we could ride, Mr Blake, if you prefer it. There is one big, wild black horse that only I can manage; but I have taken Skeleton up behind me sometimes, and I'm sure I could manage with you.'

Antony laughed. He didn't quite fancy this style of riding, being really a good cross-country man, and having taken part in many a steeplechase.

'I'm a little afraid,' he said modestly. 'Had we not better walk?'

Lotty was dressed for the hill, and very charming she looked in her bright but light half-gipsy cloak, her kirtle of red, and silken bandana gracefully worn on the head, which did not hide her marvellous hair, however.

She carried a long but pretty shepherd's crook; and, with the huge raven-black Newfoundland with the pink tongue and alabaster teeth bounding and flashing round her, Lotty was really a picture.

Everybody, fisher-folks and farmer-folks, had a kind word and a smile for the child, and doubtless they meant what they said.

Here are the remarks Antony could not help hearing from two fisher-wives:

'Oh my! does it no' do your heart good to look at the lammie?' [little lamb].

'An' what a bonny callant yon is! He'll be fae [from] the sooth, I'se warrant ye.'

There was one tall hill rising up behind the forest, and it was towards this they bent their steps. They were going to climb it, to look around them on the landscape and seascape.

But they had not journeyed more than two miles, and were high up on a heather-clad brae, when Lotty stopped and called Wallace. At the same time she took a satchel from her shoulder and strapped it round the dog.

'Go to granny's,' she said. 'Good boy—away!'

Wallace trotted off. But he stopped when at a little distance, and looked back.

'Yes, Wallace, we'll wait,' cried Lotty, and the noble fellow disappeared.

'Where has he gone, Lotty?'

'To the witch's cottage—my fairy godmother's.'

Lotty threw herself on the sward, and Antony too sat down.

She culled a bunch of bluebells growing near, and tying them deftly with a bit of grass, she pinned them to her kerchief. They were just the colour of the child's eyes. As she did so she sang:

Lotty was not an affected child; perhaps in culling the bouquet she hardly knew what she was doing; only beauty is ever attracted by beauty and to it.

See yonder great velvet droning bee. Fox-glove-bells are swinging crimson against the green of tall fern-leaves. He enters a bell to drink of the honey. Beauty to beauty. And yonder again a splendid steel-blue, gauzy-winged dragon-fly has alighted on a pink bramble-blossom, and is trembling all over with the joy that is in him; and there are bees on the white clover, bees on the reddening heather-bloom, and a blue-butterfly on the flat yellow blossom of a frog-bit, while a hawk-fly has just alighted on the blood-tipped orange of the bird's-foot trefoil.

But the charm of the early August day who dare to try to paint! Afar away the blue sea dotted with brown-sailed boats here and there, a sea calm as the sky above it, only breaking here and there into circling snow where a rock lifts its dark head; a beach that is all green because the tide is high; sailing sea-birds everywhere; dark rooks in crowds, for the love-time has long gone by; nearer and beneath this brae-land the heads of swelling, stately pine-trees; forest to the right and left, forests in the rear, and afar off the brown mountain raising its stern and rocky head up into the heavenly ether; and a gentle breeze fanning all the flowers. 'An' it's oh to be young!'

IN this day's climb Antony could not help admiring the strength and agility of his child-companion; she was indeed an infant prodigy, thanks perhaps to her very extraordinary training. With her, or compared to her, Blake hardly felt fit. Perhaps neither did Wallace, who zigzagged back and fore to make the ascent more easy, as dogs always do when climbing. But they gained the summit at last, and only mountaineers know the joy of resting a while on a hill-top.

Wallace lay down to pant, with half a yard more or less of pink tongue hanging over his right jowl, and Antony threw himself on the ground. No heather here, hardly even moss, and a strong wind blowing.

Antony was for a time too tired to talk much; but he asked a question now and then, and Lotty answered him often quaintly enough—for instance, when he said, 'I have not seen your mother yet, Lotty.'

'I never had a mother, Mr Blake,' she innocently made answer.

'But, child, everyone must have had a mother.'

'Ye-es. At least I suppose so. But I think my mother must have ceased to be a property some time before I came.'

'Do you love your father, Lotty?'

'Except when he beats me.'

The child was lying back against recumbent Wallace, and on her bare arm above the elbow Antony thought he saw a wale. He seized her by the hand and uncovered the streak.

'Lotty,' he said, 'who struck you with a cane? And, Lotty, I saw a blue mark on your leg while in the boat. Who kicked you, child?'

'Father. Oh, don't tell! He'd kill me. And I'm only a property, and sometimes so awkward and naughty.' Her eyes were swimming in tears. 'I'm sure I have a cold,' she said, wiping them. 'But you won't tell father, ever, ever, ever?'

'Never, never, never,' promised Antony.

She grew calmer and happier now, and told him all the story of her young life as far as she knew it, and a deal about her many strange wanderings from the silvery Tweed to the rapid Spey with the Queerest Show.

It was a fascinating story, but there was much sorrow in it; and the tiny lace handkerchief was quite wet before she finished.

'How old is Wallace?'

'Oh, only a year; but he is mine—my friend, although of course he is only a property.'

'And Skeleton and Mary?'

'They've always been with us. I should die if they left. Will you stop long, Mr Blake? Do; and Mrs Pendlebury and I will try to make you happy—especially I.'

'You droll child! But won't your fairy godmother be expecting us?'

Crona came to her cottage-door to welcome them. She wore the 'mutch,' but was daintily dressed to receive company. Close by was a little shed or bower entirely thatched with green rushes; and underneath this, on a table covered by a snow-white cloth a most dainty repast was laid out, and the witch herself was asked by Antony to preside.

Tod Lowrie hid himself into a ball, and was asleep in the sunshine, with his tail right over his face. Perhaps Wallace thought he was in the way, for he got his nose under the fox and rolled him right away into a dark corner. No doubt Tod Lowrie was awake; but, fox-like, he pretended not to be.

Joe the raven was perched on a rafter, looking sly and demoniac. Every now and then he would say with a sigh, 'Well, well, such is life!' then hold back his head and laugh weirdly.

At first Tim the tame mouse was not to be seen, but Lotty pointed him out to Antony. Tim was seated on the edge of the cat's dish, and every now and then he stretched a little white hand or paw down into pussy's milk, then drew it up and licked it clean.

Crona's white scones and butter, and the meatpies which no doubt had been in the parcel that Lotty sent by Wallace, were very delicious. But there were fried mountain-trout also, and fruit to follow. But the wine was the water from a neighbouring rill.

There was something so very unreal about all Antony's present surroundings, and one thing with another, that more than once he thought he must be dreaming, especially when Tim suddenly appeared on the table, and Lotty quietly fed him from a teaspoon.

The raven kept on saying things with that eldritch, screaming laugh. Presently it was, 'Joe, Joe, don't you!' He had hopped down to the ground, and was slyly approaching a hassock placed there for pussy, and the cat was asleep on it, but her tail hung down.

'Joe, Joe, don't you. He! he! he! Joe, go back to perch. Joe, see what you'll catch!'

He was near enough now, and gave the floating tail a most cruel pinch.

Pussy screamed. Joe only backed astern and was beginning to laugh when he received a smack on the face that made him stagger.

'You—you—you wretch!' he screamed; but he flew back to his perch and laughed now till the welkin rang.

Tim disappeared.

The cat was angrily wagging her tail, and no doubt making up her mind to pay Joe out first chance.

Tod Lowrie got up and stretched himself, and Wallace placed his great wise head on the tablecloth close to Crona's elbow. Then every pet had a tit-bit, and peace was restored once more.

'Come over often to see poor Crona,' said the witch to Antony when leaving. 'There is that in your eye which Crona loves.'

He held out his hand to shake 'good-bye.' Crona took it and looked at the palm. Then her face clouded.

Antony Blake was not slow to mark the change, and laughingly asked if she saw anything strange in his palm.

'It was but a cursory glance,' she said. 'I could not say. There may be nothing in palmistry, but, again, there may be something. Come again, and come alone.'

The last words were spoken in almost a whisper, and Antony went away wondering.

. . . . . . .

Biffins Lee was an up-to-date gipsy, and did not trust entirely to horses to take the Queerest Show around the country when he made up his mind to change ground. He had a very smart and pretty steam-engine, which hauled three immense vans. Others came on behind with horses.

The engine at present was stored on his own camping-ground here—which, by the way he rented from a neighbouring 'laird'—and was carefully housed and taken care of. His horses were farmed cheaply enough. Whatever the man's character may have been, one could not help admiring his business capabilities—that is, if admiration can be bestowed on mere cleverness in making money.

Frank Antony was not long in finding out that the man had one other reason for pitching camp so far north as this: he did a roaring trade in Shetland and Icelandic ponies, and had agents even in Shetland and Iceland picking these up and shipping them south.

But the Queerest Show paid even here, because seldom a week in winter passed that he did not have some strange addition to it; and when he got tired of this he let it go and had a change. Once, indeed, during the summer holiday season—so Mary the Skeleton's wife told Antony—he hired for exhibition purposes the whole of a celebrated hunter's trophies in the shape of skins of lions, elephants' skeletons, and marvels no end from the far interior of Africa. He had dwarfs too, sometimes, and wild men from every region on earth.

Biffins Lee knew the secret of making his dwarfs look still smaller and his wild men wilder.

In brief, everybody visited the Queerest Show from every town within a radius of a hundred miles, always certain they would see marvels well worth looking at and remembering afterwards.

But he had palmists as well, and nearly every one in the camp did a little bit of fortune-telling. Girls from cities and towns afar off came to have their future told, and, strangely enough, many of the forecasts came true.

Over and above all its other attractions, there was a 'grand ball' every fortnight in the large marquee, and lads and lassies came very long distances in order to attend it, for even the youngest English schoolgirl must know how very fond the Scots are of music and dancing.

The camp was well situated for this sort of winter entertainment, as it lay half-way between two rather important towns, the 'longshore pathway being shorter far than the journey by train, and ten times more pleasant.

These neighbouring towns were on very friendly terms with each other. They challenged each other to games of cricket, 'gowf,' football, and to curling on an adjoining lake when the ice was strong. Moreover, the weekly half-holiday was not on the same day in these towns, so that visits could be more easily exchanged.

Antony had not been more than a week here before he formed a resolve, a strange one perhaps for a young Englishman; but then he was no ordinary young man, hating London society as we have already seen, and with it everything Cockney. He loved Nature in all her shows and forms—quite as much so, perhaps, as the poet Burns or that divine naturalist Richard Jefferies. To Antony Blake the most modest, wee, God-painted beetle that crawled on the grass or cornstalks was not a 'creature' but 'a little person,' with its own living to make in its own way—all so different to our own ways—its own loves and fears, and troubles and trials quite as hard to bear, perhaps, as those of human beings. He was not of their world, but that did not prevent him from sympathising with them. There was one other trait in Antony's character which surely was an honourable one: he was careful not to inflict pain.

So the resolve he made was to stay in his caravan all winter; not quite close to the gipsy camp though. He had his palace-on-wheels removed to a pitch about five hundred yards off, and had his own little enclosure. This would be quieter, and enable him to study more of the seaside flora and fauna.

'If you like, captain,' said Biffins Lee, 'to have a little quiet companionship at times of a winter's evening, you know, I'll tell you what I propose.'

Antony would listen.

'Well,' said Biffins, 'I don't mind the "Silver Queen" lying at anchor in your enclosure. There will be nobody in it but Mary the stout lady and little Lotty. They'll do for you in the way of cooking and that sort of thing, and the child can thrill you with her violin whenever you long to be thrilled.'

'This is really kind of you, Mr Lee,' said Antony, 'and I gladly accept. And I suppose Wallace can come too?'

'Oh yes; Wallace is as much a property of Lotty's as Lotty herself and Mary are properties of mine.'

Antony smiled faintly. It was the first time in his life he had ever heard a daughter designated as a property. And at this moment he could not help thinking of those wales on Lotty's arm and leg.

So the 'Silver Queen' and the beautiful saloon caravan 'Gipsy Queen' were both anchored together inside Antony's compound, and he settled down to enjoy a life that promised to be almost idyllic.

The word 'anchored' used in the last sentence is quite the correct one, because, on this wild coast, so terrible are the storms that at times sweep inland from the sea that no caravan not firmly attached to the ground by pegs and ropes could stand the wind's fierce force.

Chops himself could be spared to run messages, and could often visit the little camp to see how things were going on.

Bruin, it soon appeared, was also going to be a pretty constant morning visitor, for no animal ever seemed to enjoy a hearty breakfast more than that great bear did.

Had Antony Blake desired to enter society there were many old and wealthy families in the neighbourhood who would have given the youthful Englishman a right hearty welcome; but he determined from the very first to be the recluse and the student, so mildly and pleasantly, but firmly, refused all invitations.

Not far from the camp, almost running past it indeed, was a stream which flowed right into the sea; and in the sea, some distance beyond, our hero was fond of having a morning swim. Wallace the Newfoundland used always to go with him; and once, but for this strong and faithful fellow, he would never have reached the shore. For he had swam out that day as far as his strength would permit, and foolishly attempted to land against the current of the river, not knowing that it was of great force a good way out to sea.

The dog did not, on this occasion, seize him and drag him in, but permitted Antony to lay hold of his collar and so be assisted or towed.

But only a week after, this athletic young Saxon had an adventure which, as it has a bearing on the progress of this 'ower true tale,' must be related in the next chapter.

THE small river or streamlet close to Antony's camp was called the Burn o' Bogie, and here in a pretty little boathouse, thatched and cosy, which Chops had built with his own hands, lay Lotty's yacht the Jenny Wren.

A seaworthy morsel of a boat it was, but certainly not broad enough in the beam for safety, though she suited Lotty very well indeed.

Nay, more, Wallace often went with his little mistress. For so very young a dog he was wondrous wise; he used to sit or lie amidships exactly in the spot where his Lotty placed a shawl for him. And Wallace must have weighed nearly nine stone, so he might easily have capsized the skiff, especially when under sail.

On such occasions Lotty would only have to say very quietly before she hauled off the sheet, 'Trim boat, Wallace,' and some instinct taught him he must keep well up towards the weaker side.

But, athlete though he was, Antony was no sailor; nevertheless he wished to be, and was glad enough to be taught even by so young a little skipper as Lotty. On fine days she took him out with her on purpose, and with a very few lessons he could manage, or thought he could, fairly well.

Well, one forenoon he rashly determined to have a little cruise all by himself.

He forgot that with Lotty in the bows the yacht was not so much down by the stern as his weight, when alone, placed it. Indeed, while sailing, if she entrusted the tiller and sheet to him, she herself—the little skipper—crept right for'ard into the bows and issued her orders from that position—orders which he took very seriously indeed, for if he had not done so the Jenny Wren might have broached-to or gone slick on her beam-ends.

It was some considerable time before Antony got up to obeying all orders, or even understanding them: 'Ease sheet!' 'Down helm!' 'Luff a little!' &c. And indeed it is not certain that Lotty, mischievous little mouse, didn't sometimes invent an order for the sake of confusing her charge somewhat.

'What is it? How is it?' he would cry. 'Tell me in plain English, Lotty. What am I to do with this bit of stick?' The bit of stick was the tiller.

Sometimes she would laugh right out at the serious aspect of his face; but she would praise him when he did well.

That was an unfortunate forenoon for Antony, when, confident in his own seamanship, he made

up his mind to venture to sea alone in the Jenny Wren.

Lotty was at a rehearsal of some kind, else I'm sure she would not have permitted him.

There was a slight but delightful breeze that day, and he did not mean to go far. The wind seemed very steady too, so he gained heart as he went out. 'It is so easy,' he said to himself, 'and so jolly, that'—well, yes—he would smoke.

Then he made the all but fatal mistake of fastening the sheet until he should light up.

It wouldn't matter for a minute or two he thought, and surely a boat is no more difficult to manage than a bicycle.

But a boat really seems to be like a horse, and knows when there is a lubber at the helm.

It was not a squall—a real squall—only a bit of a puff, but Antony couldn't let fly the sheet in time, and the tiller got in the way. It is to be feared that he said, 'Hang the thing!' but he found himself in the water next moment in a dreadfully awkward position, with the Jenny Wren on her side.

He sank, and perhaps it was well for him he did, for he managed to clear his feet; and although the water was roaring in his ears, and he had swallowed a lot of it, he got to the surface and at once struck out for the boat, which was only a short distance off.

He thought he could right her. He was mistaken, for he only puffed himself, and the Jenny filled and slowly sank, sail and broken mast and all.

Antony could not have believed it was so difficult to swim a long way with clothes on. At first it appeared to be so easy. But, instead of getting nearer to the shore, it looked receding from him. He tried floating. Oh, it was horrible, so he began to swim again; but soon got excited and put more strokes into it than there was any necessity for.

He tried treading water, but the cruel waves lapped up over his face and almost suffocated him. Poor Antony was drowning!

He knew not that, at this very moment, two men in a camp-boat were dashing rapidly on towards him.

Drowning!

Did the events of his past life come up in review before him? No, that is but landlubbers' nonsense. There were the horrid noises in his ears, flashes of bright confused light in his eyes, a terrible sensation of choking, and a feeling of pain in the top of the head, then—nothingness.

. . . . . . .

Mary and Skeleton and Chops, with others, were on the beach when, through the surf, the rescuing boat sped in and grounded. The two men leapt quickly out and dragged her high and dry, then, to poor Lotty's horror and anguish, the apparently lifeless body of Frank Antony Blake was lifted out and laid on the sand.

One of his arms fell right over a tuft of green benty grass whereon a bush of sea-pinks was blooming. It looked as if in death he was hugging the flowers.

'He is dead!'

That was Biffins's remark. And he stood there callous-looking, touching the body with his toe.

The terrible truth is that this matter-of-fact gipsy was wondering how much he would get for the 'Gipsy Queen' caravan when he resold her.

'No—no—fa—father, he is not dead!'

Lotty could hardly speak for the time being. She felt choking, and tore at her neck, while her face grew hot and flushed.

But in a few seconds she gasped and recovered self-possession. She now remembered that she had a book in the caravan which gave instructions how to restore the apparently drowned. Part of the instructions she could repeat, and did to the men.

'Do that,' she cried, 'till I come back with the book.'

Then she tore off to the 'Silver Queen,' and, book in hand, when she returned, she proceeded to issue instructions to the men, which they tried to obey to the letter.

But she had time to call Chops. 'Mount,' she said, 'mount my horse Renegade and fly for Dr Wilson.'

In a minute or two more, though white and breathless, Chops was off like the wild wind along the sands.

On how very small a thread the life of a human being sometimes—nay, but often—hangs! Lotty, it is true, was doing her best by the rules to revive the English stranger, if indeed there were the slightest sparks of life remaining in his heart; and wonderfully calm and determined she was, determined to do her little utmost until the doctor might come. And this, too, in spite of the words of discouragement cruelly meted out to her and her assistants every now and then by Biffins Lee.

'I don't think, boys, you can do much more. It is easy to see the man is dead. Better carry him up now. Poor fellow, he is in a better world than we are!'

Long after this these very words seemed to come back to Lotty in all their heartless force. But at present, hoping against hope, she bade the men persevere.

'The chances are'—this was Lee's last shot—'that Chops won't find the doctor at home at this time of the day.'

Now, the fact is, that at this very time good Dr Wilson was on his way walking to see a case about a mile from the camp.

Chops met him. He slid rather than jumped off the good Renegade, and the well-trained horse stood instantly still.

Chops had just strength enough to slip the bridle quickly into the doctor's hand. 'Ride,' he cried. 'Ride, doctor, for the love of our heavenly Father.'

The doctor was mounted.

'Back, sir, back to our camp. The beach—drowned—Lotty is'——

Dr Wilson was off at the gallop. And such a gallop, for the good animal appeared to know that it was a case of death or life.

But Lotty—that was the last word he had heard—was a favourite with the doctor, as with every one who knew her. Oh, to think that she, in her beauty and youth, should be lying stark and wet and stiff upon the sands!

Neither whip nor spur needed Renegade, and a real shout went up from those on the beach as soon as the rider appeared.

He rushed into the crowd. It was only Mr Blake, and he felt relieved. But he was to do his duty, and had it been Biffins Lee himself, whom the surgeon neither respected nor loved, he would have done that duty faithfully and well.

'Back, men, back!' he cried.—'Biffins, keep your people away,' he added almost angrily, for he could see callousness in this gipsy's hang-dog face. 'We want air—air.—Mary, go at once and prepare the gentleman's bed. Heat blankets and boil water.—Lotty, my darling'—this was spoken most tenderly—'run and assist Mary.—Now, off with your warm coats, men; strip off the poor gentleman's things; roll him up and keep rubbing. I'll do the rest.'

In two minutes' time there was blood mantling in Antony's face and a gasping sigh. In a short time natural breathing recommenced, the pulse was beating, and slowly, though somewhat irregularly, the wheels of life were once more moving, and he was able to swallow.

Next morning, though hoarse and in a little pain, Antony was well enough to be up. He had been very bad during the night, however, and fat Mary had taken it in turns with the child Lotty to watch by his bedside all throughout the long, still hours.

Chops brought in his breakfast. Lotty, he told our hero, had gone to lie down, so he was a little anxious. But about twelve o'clock, lo! the little gipsy lass herself came tripping up the steps with a lapful of autumn wild-flowers. Then Antony thrust out both his great strong arms and pulled her right up and pressed her, flowers and all, to his heart.

'You dear, sweet child,' he said, 'I'll never know how to thank you for my worthless life. You're the cherub, Lotty, who sits up aloft to—to'——

'But I mustn't sit up aloft,' she said naïvely, and wriggled down.

Yet in his gratitude he had kissed her brow and her bonny hair, and now he set her to arrange the flowers, watching her every action as she did so.

There would be nothing doing in Biffins's camp to-day; and as the doctor forbade Antony to go out, that same afternoon Lotty and Wallace came to the 'Gipsy Queen' with the violin. Wallace did not play, though he looked clever enough for anything; but during the performance of his little mistress he lay on the sofa on a rug which Antony had put there for him and never took his eyes off the child, often heaving big sighs, and one cannot really help wondering what dogs are thinking about when they behave in this way. Does the playing actually bring them pleasure, or do they but suffer the music in silent sorrow? Who can answer? One thing at least is certain: man's friend the dog knows far more than people who do not know him would give him credit for. But Antony was really and truly thrilled by this child's remarkable performance. He was much surprised, however, when presently she suddenly laid down both fiddle and bow and burst into a flood of tears. Antony was astonished—thunderstruck, one might say; and if there was anything more than another that could appeal to this young fellow's manly heart it was the tears of grief. But she was quickly better and smiling again; only, although he tried to find out the cause of the sudden outbreak he utterly failed. All she would say was, 'It is nothing. I will tell you some time, or Mary or Crona will tell you.'

But the truth was not far to seek; for, just as she was playing, she happened to look out of the window and her eyes fell on her father. His face was hard-set and stern; and this, coupled with his language at the time when Antony was brought to the beach apparently dead, caused Lotty to believe now that he was really not over-well pleased that his guest had been brought back to life again.

IT is around the unknown and the unknowable in this world that terror and superstition mostly cling. Had any one invented the telegraph, the telephone, or any other of the wonders developed by a proper knowledge of the powers of electricity, three hundred years ago, ten to one that individual would have been condemned to the stake as being in league with the Evil One.

We have all of us heard tell of or read about mermaids and mermen, but few perhaps of the cultivated believe in such beings nowadays. People in the far north of Scotland, especially those born and bred among the wild, weird mountains and glens, and the misty and awful gloom that often settles over these for days, are different. No wonder that in such localities ghosts are often said to be seen, and mournful cries are heard by night or while storms of wind and rain are raging. But it was more among the lone Hebrides that mermaids were believed in, and it is not so very long ago that an old laird lived who credited the notion that these semi-fairies had really been seen and heard.

It remained, however, for the king of the gipsies, Biffins Lee, not only to see one, not only to capture one, but to exhibit the creature in a huge tank at the Queerest Show on Earth.

It was many months before Antony Blake came north here to buy the beautiful saloon caravan 'Gipsy Queen,' and upon an evening in summer, when two fishermen were slowly pulling their boat across a rock-girt bay, that a mermaid suddenly appeared to them.

The reader must understand that two sides of this deep-water bay are entirely walled in by precipitous rocks without any shore or beach big enough for even a bird to perch upon. When it was low-tide the water was still deep all along the base of these cliffs, for it simply rose against the rocks when the tide was in and fell again at low-water.

The place where the strange being was seen to rise from the dark, watery depths was far away from any place from which a human being could have swam, except on the surface of the water. Hardly even a seal could have remained under long enough to have enabled it to swim to a distant point.

But one boatman had clutched the other. He was pale as death with the fear that grasped his heart.

'Oh—look—John! lo—ok!'

And yonder, sure enough, had suddenly come to the surface a figure all draped in dark seaweed apparently, but with the bare arms and face of a woman or mermaid. It was not more than a hundred yards from the boat, which at first it did not appear to see. When it did, after one wild, frightened glance, it uttered a strange, terrified cry like that, the men said, of a lost sea-bird. It should be remembered that a sea-gull at night, when out on the waves, utters a very plaintive cry or wail. But now, after making a few evolutions, the creature suddenly dived and disappeared, showing, as it did so—both men swore to this—a tail like that of a monster fish. They gazed and gazed again at the spot where the apparition was last seen, but it never returned. Then the fishermen rowed as perhaps they never in their life had rowed before, and in due time rounded the point into the bay, which opened out into the sandy beach where a cottage stood. As soon as they set foot on shore, it is said, both fainted or swooned.

Now, neither of these men ever drank anything stronger than water, and both were hardy young fellows, very unlikely, indeed, to be the victims of optical illusions. Moreover, they were churchgoers and highly respected. But in spite of this their story gained but little credence, and it was believed they were only trying to have a joke at other people's expense.

Yet, just three evenings afterwards, and at the self-same time and place, as a boat was coming from B—— with no less than five men on board, they were startled by seeing the apparition not seventy yards from the bows. It was precisely as the first two men had described it. After it screamed and disappeared the boat was rowed right up to the very foot of the cliff, but nothing was observed that could possibly lead to a clue to the strange mystery.

A whole week passed, and though the cliff was watched almost the whole time there was no further appearance of the mermaid. Then it suddenly appeared again; but this time it had a very much changed appearance, for its hair was not long and dark nor its face beautiful. On the contrary, it was so hideous in its grinning ugliness that some who saw it shrieked as if in a nightmare. Then the old fisher-folk shook their heads and said that the first apparition was evidently the mermaid and this the merman.

This explanation was accepted all round the coast, and soon so-called scientists got hold of the story and visited the village and the bay. They tried in vain to get the men to confess it was but a huge practical joke. Then they set themselves to watch, and were rewarded in time by a glimpse of the terrible merman. The creature even went so far as to show a dreadful mouthful of teeth, and to shake a very human-like fist at the scientists before it plunged and was seen no more.

So the scientists returned sadder, if not wiser, men, and wasted quires of paper in trying to account in a natural way for what they had seen. But no theories of theirs would sufficiently account for the dread apparitions, not even that of the manatee. This is an Arctic seal that has some semblance to a human being; but a manatee has not a real human face nor a long skinny human arm.

The people in that beach-village were now in a state of mind to believe almost anything, and the minister had his 'ain adees' trying to restore them to a state of something like equanimity. But no youngster would now venture out of doors after gloaming fell for fear of seeing or meeting anything 'uncanny.' The cry even of an innocent sea-gull flying home at night to its nest on the cliffs made them tremble with fear.

'A mermaid or merman couldna hairm ye, 'oman,' said Tammas Reid, endeavouring to allay his wife's fears, 'even if it cam' on shore.'

'Augh!' she cried, 'fat [what] ken ye? Didna that awfu' apparition wodge its neive [shake its fist] and spit fire at the hale [whole] boat's crew?'

Tammas said no more.

But one night, not long after, a late boat came in and reported terrible and fearsome doings in the bay. They had clapped on extra sail and sped homewards, and they would not go out again that night for anything in the world.

What had they seen?

'Fat [what] is't we ha'ena seen?' was the reply. And then they described blue lights and red lights gleaming against the cliffs around the bay, and things like fiery serpents running across the surface of the water, and fearful screaming and shouting and firing of guns, and a 'scomfishing' [stifling] smell of burning brimstone, followed by a silence deep and awful! And here they were alive to tell their story!

But early next morning came wonderful tidings to the little village, and it was soon spread from mouth to mouth to every place round about.

The news was brought by Skeleton himself, who was riding Renegade like, the old wives said, 'Death on a black horse.'

It was to the effect that after a tremendous battle which no tongue could describe, he himself, with Biffins Lee and Chops, had succeeded in capturing the merman, and had taken him to camp and placed him in a large tank of sea-water. The creature, Skeleton said, had made a terrible resistance, and he was now wounded and sulking in a corner under water; but as soon as he was better and became tame enough to eat fish he would be exhibited almost every night.

A whole week passed by. Neither the mermaid nor merman were again seen, so Skeleton's story was believed. It was believed also that the mermaid had either died of grief or been so frightened that she had left the coast.

Hearing the story, the scientists came back, determined not to believe even their own eyes. To them in the gloaming of a summer evening the merman was first shown. The tank was about fourteen feet deep, and electric light was flashed down from above, and there, sure enough, the awful creature could be seen crouching in a corner at the bottom.

'But,' the scientists said, 'that might be a mere doll or dummy.'

'No, Mr Biffins Lee, we can't swallow your mermaid, or rather merman.'

'Gentlemen,' replied Lee in his grandest manner, 'I should be very sorry indeed if you did swallow him. There he is, nevertheless; and if you will be kind enough not to swallow him I will have the honour and pleasure of showing him to all the crowned heads in Europe.'

'Has he ever been to the surface of the tank yet?' asked a disbeliever.

'That he was, sir, only this morning. He swam up and took down two fish, and'——

At this moment these savants were standing, confronting Biffins, about ten yards from the tank, and with their backs thereto.

Suddenly, 'See! see!' shouted Biffins. He seized the foremost scientist and wheeled him right round; and although the man evinced a strong inclination to fly, Mr Biffins Lee held him there as in a vice.

The other scientists retreated in a body many yards away, and stood staring at the tank in terrified astonishment.

And no wonder. For, above the surface, the head, shoulders, and bare arms, with fingers ending in claws, had appeared. The face was very old-looking and wrinkled, but the scream it gave would have done honour to a mountain curlew. Then it swam to the side of the tank.

The scientists were shaking with dread.

'Se—se—send him d—d—down, Mr Lee. Have you no co—co—co—control over him?'

'Not a bit,' cried Biffins. 'Serve you right if you're frightened, I say.'

But Skeleton now rushed in with a live fish and threw it towards the water. The merman caught it and disappeared. Then the scientists stood there for ten whole minutes as if turned into stone, with their watches in their hands.

'If you care to have him up again, gentlemen,' said Lee, 'I think I have only to throw in another haddock.'

'No, no—not for the world. We mean, we are perfectly satisfied, Mr Lee.' It was the mouthpiece of the party who spoke.

'I think, my friends,' he went on, 'that we must now thank Professor Lee for his great kindness, and—and retire; for verily, verily, gentlemen, there are more things in heaven and earth than—er—we dream of in our—er—philosophy.'

Biffins followed them out beyond the compound, and as he bade them good-night he said, 'You'll give me a paragraph in your papers, won't you, my friends?'

'My good fellow, we will give you a leading article. You are a benefactor to science!'

The scientists then had had the honour of the first view. The clergy came next. They said but little, were a trifle timid, but evidently satisfied.

Then Biffins Lee had set about completing the great show that he felt would draw visitors from all parts of the country. He erected a wire fence a few yards back from the tank, and surrounded the whole with a strong high wooden palisade, and placed a pay-box by the door, at which Mary sat to collect the half-crowns and shillings, and it was between the palisade and the wire fence that the onlookers had to stand.

But wise Biffins made a proviso that no batch of sightseers were to remain longer inside than a quarter of an hour, and that even if the monster did not appear on the surface during that time it was not his—Biffins Lee's—fault, so he would not return the money. However, as the merman usually appeared two or three times during the night, and as when not on the surface he could be seen at the bottom of the tank, the people were content, and the great show became a marvellous success.

But the creature, it soon turned out, would only please to appear once a week, when hungry, and so the merman's night had to be duly advertised. Beyond this, Biffins said, he could not go. Only, strangers from afar could visit the Queerest Show any time by appointment made a day before, and take their chance of seeing the 'great sight of the century,' as Lee called it.

Even in the middle of the summer, when the season was at its height, and everybody went to see the merman once at all events, there were doubters as to the genuineness of the affair. All admitted that Biffins Lee was exceedingly clever, and the show was anyhow worth the money even without the merman.

One individual from the Granite City was known to have stated at a public dinner that the merman, whoever personified it, had no doubt a tube, artfully concealed in the corner of the tank, through which it breathed air. This man was soon sorry he had spoken; because not only were there people at the dinner who had watched the sleeping monster with its face upturned for more than twenty minutes, and could swear that during all that time no tube or pipe that could conduct air was anywhere near to it. 'Besides,' they said, 'the merman and a mermaid had appeared to dozens of fishermen up from the depths of the dark sea itself.' And so the mystery of the merman remained unsolved.

Antony Blake, when he first came on the scene, was duly introduced to the merman, and was so mystified that he became, like everybody else, a believer—for a time. But before the winter passed away he fancied he had discovered a clue. He thought, moreover, that Lotty knew more than she dared reveal. But he had promised never to ask her—never, never, never!

ONE beautiful morning in the fa' o' the year Lotty set out soon after breakfast—which, so short were the days, had now to be taken by lamplight—to feed the sea-gulls. Wallace went bounding along with her, and Chops came puffing up behind, carrying the basket. But, do what he could, or pant and blow as he might, the fat boy could not keep pace with the nimble gipsy lass, especially as it was nearly all uphill until they reached the summit of a knoll rising green among the glorious woodlands.

'Wish I wasn't so fat, Miss Lotty,' he said, putting down the basket.

'If you had been an infant prodigy like me, Chops, you would not have got so stout.'

'No, w'ich I knows that; but, lor'! in our line o' business, Lotty, there must be some o' all sorts, mus'n't there, miss? Look at Mary, f'r instance; she fills a niche, an' fills it well, as the boss says. Look at Skeleton; 'e drops intil another niche. An' look at me. If I was gettin' thin, an' Skeleton a-puttin' on o' flesh, the show would be ruined. That's wot I says. Is not them your sentiments, Lotty?'

'Exactly, Chops; but—what were you saying?'

'I was a-sayin’’——

'Oh, look at those woods, how lovely they are, Chops. Don't they inspire you, boy?'

'Ah! you've been a-readin' o' Shakespeare again; but I'm a bit o' a pote myself, Lotty, and prisintly, w'en we feeds the gulls'——

Woods and forests are romantic everywhere and at all seasons of the year: on the banks of quiet streams in summer time, where in their shade the wild-flowers hide and kingfishers dart to and fro; by the lake-sides, in rolling clouds, their greenery mirrored in the dark water; spreading over valleys and climbing over hills or high up the mountain's side itself, till checked by Nature's warning hand. But far north here, November is the artists' month par excellence, because, though touched with the frosts, the forests are not yet bare, and on the braes rising in loveliness on every hand the foliage, touched by the sunlight, gleams with every hue and tint, crimson of maple, bronze of beech or oak, brown of the elm, and dark-green of the waving pine, with higher up the silver stems of the weeping-birch.

No wonder that this enthusiastic little gipsy lass stood for a while with face upturned, the wind lifting and toying with her hair, to gaze around her and admire. But yonder, sailing tack and half-tack, and coming nearer and nearer to her, were her friends the gulls—sea-birds of every size and species. During the summer months they might have been seen far up the rivers and streams, sometimes seventy miles from their native ocean, whitening every stone or boulder, or in rows on fences around farmyards patiently waiting until it was feeding-time with the fowls, that they might share their meal. But even in the fa' o' the year, up among the mountains, storms and blizzards howl and blow, and the sea-birds are glad to seek the sands by the shores.

Chops opened the basket. Here were all the morning scraps from the camp, enough to feed a thousand wild-birds, and down they now crowded, swaying and screaming around the maiden as she tossed the pieces in every direction of the compass, that all might have a share. Among them were many of her own particular favourites or pets, and they had special tit-bits which they took from her hands or shoulders and even from her lips. But not all sea-gulls were they, for a sprinkling of rooks flew amongst them, and even warty-headed old carrion-crows and hoodies. These, however, had none of the dash and daring of the more elegant and shapely gulls, nor would they approach so closely to be fed. But the last particle had been distributed and devoured, and the birds went circling farther and farther off, until they seemed to melt away in the gray haze of distance.

Then Lotty threw the basket on the benty grass, and sat down for a few moments to look at the sea. It was of a darker blue to-day, because

white clouds were casting great shadows down, and the breeze blowing from the east so rippled the surface that it had the appearance of some mighty river rolling on towards the land of the setting sun.

'But w'ich I were a-sayin' of, Miss Lotty, w'en you spoke like Shakespeare, I'm a bit o' a pote myself.'

'Indeed, boy!'

'I isn't so much o' a boy as I looks, Lotty. Lor' bless your innercent soul! I be sixteen an' carried for'ard again. Yes, I be a bit o' a pote, and 'as my dreams, just as the Immortal Willum had his'n.'

'And what may your dreams be, Chops?'

'Oh, I dreams, Miss Lotty, wot I du's'n't 'ardly tell you.'

'I've known you for long, long ages, Chops, so you needn't mind what you tell me.'

'Yes, Lotty, for long, long ages. Lor'! don't I remember, w'en you was a wee kinchin, a-carryin' o' you on my back, an' sometimes a-buryin' o' you, kickin' legs an' all, among the 'ay or among the 'eather.'

'But that isn't your dreams, Chops?'

'No, miss; but I've often dreamt when a-carryin' o' you on this 'ere back o' mine that w'en you growed hup, and w'en I growed hup an' I'd saved a bit o' money like—you—you won't be angry, will you, Miss Lotty?'

'No, no, Chops; but it is nearly time for rehearsal, so be quick.'

'That I might lead you to the haltar, miss.'

Lotty burst into a childish fit of hearty laughter. Then, afraid she might have hurt his feelings, this strange infant prodigy grew suddenly serious, and patted Chops's brown, fat fingers.

'You're a good boy,' she said, 'but dreadfully foolish and funny. You won't mind me laughing, Chops, but you do look droll like that. Have you written some verses, Chops?'

'Oh yes. I began a whole pome, an' some day I'll mebbe finish it, like the Immortal Willum finished his'n.'

'And how does it begin?'

'It begins—ahem!—ahem!'

'What! begins "Hem, hem"?'

'No, no, Lotty. I were honly a-clearin' o' my throat. Let me see—yes, this is it:

Lotty had to laugh again in spite of herself.

'Wait a bit, miss,' said Chops. 'I think I've got 'em a bit mixed. It were the cheeks—no, the lips, that was'——

'Chops, look down yonder. The recall is hoisted. I'm off for rehearsal.'

And away ran Lotty down the brae, singing, with Wallace barking in front, and poor Chops nowhere. She hadn't got half-way down the knoll, however, before she stopped, and, shading the light from her eyes with her upraised hand, gazed seawards. By her side hung in their case a pretty pair of small field-glasses, a present from the whole strength of the company on her last birthday. These she now speedily focussed on a boat that was just rounding a point of land and standing in for the bay—a tiny dingy skiff of yellow polished oak or teak apparently, and under snow-white sails: a main, a gaff, and a saucy bit of a jib.

'What a darling little boat!' cried the child, clapping her hands with delight, 'and coming towards our camp too!'

Lotty, when glad, could no more help bursting into song than the mavis can on a bright May morning.

Not very grammatical verse, it must be owned, but poets are allowed liberties with the English language. Anyhow, Lotty took some.

Chops was by her side now, looking seaward also. She handed him the field-glass, and he took but one 'squint,' as he termed it, and immediately his behaviour became most mysterious. He suddenly doubled himself up like a jack-knife in a seemingly uncontrollable spasm, straightened up again, thrust his handkerchief into his mouth and laughed 'in'ardly,' as he would have called it, until his fat face grew as purple as a pickled cabbage.

Lotty, quite alarmed, smote him on the back and hurt her hand. 'Chops, Chops, what can be the matter?'

'W'ich it's me as knows all about it, Miss Lotty; an' I told Mr Blake as 'ow I wouldn't tell you, no more I won't if I goes to death on't, Lotty.'

But the girl was far enough away by this time, leaving him to finish the sentence to the wind. Lotty and her companion, Wallace, who was quite as excited as she, never halted until they reached their own little caravan; and here, coming down the back steps, every step creaking with her weight, was good-natured, rosy-cheeked Mary herself.

'Have you seen it, Mrs Pendlebury—seen the lovely boat?'

'Just been looking at it, my dearie; but it's time for rehearsal, and there's going to be a ploughman's ball to-night, and rare doings, so'——

'Never mind rehearsal,' cried Lotty; 'rehearsal must wait. Come to the beach with me, Mary. I'm all in a twitter and fluff.'

She made the fat lady almost run, but both were in time to see the bonny wee craft lower sail and come floating up the stream. Two well-dressed sailor youths in blue worsted nightcaps manned her, and the foremost had his boat-hook up and caught neatly on to the small shed in which Lotty Lee's skiff used to repose. The steersman touched his forelock a little shyly to Mary.

'This is Biffins Lee's camp, I'm thinkin'?'

'Ye dinna think wrang,' said Mary, in the broad Scots.

'Weel, 'oman—that is, ma leddy—ye'll be Lee's guidwife, I suppose?'

'Wrang this time, for ance; but what want ye, laddie, and fas [whose] bonny boat ha'e ye gotten beneath you?'

'This is the boat, ma'am, that Maister Blake ordered weeks ago. An' we've brocht her roun', and that's a' there is aboot it. Hiv ye a dram in the camp?'

'Oh, here comes Mr Blake himself, laddie.'

Antony's eyes were sparkling with pleasure. He took Lotty by the hand—she had been standing on the beach near to the boat's bow, which was now broadside to the shore—and led her aft, pointing as he did so to the boat's stern; and there, in well-scrolled letters of vermilion and gold were the words—

'THE NEW JENNY WREN.'

The heart of that gipsy lass was too full to permit her to speak and thank the donor. But her blue eyes were aglow and her cheeks had flushed a deeper pink, and Antony knew what she would have liked to say. That was enough.

While the three stood talking there, Biffins Lee came hurrying towards them. He looked admiringly at the bran-new boat all over, then, turning towards Antony, thanked him most profusely.

'Pon my word,' he said, 'a most charming present. Must have cost you a pot of money.' He glanced at the boat again. 'Really a handsome—er—property, Mr Blake.'

'My good Mr Lee,' was the reply, 'I'm glad you admire the shape and my taste; but as to a property, friend, take my word for it that no one shall ever own or touch her save Lotty Lee herself.'

Then Antony turned upon his heel and strode briskly off.

NEVER a week passed that Antony did not receive a nice long letter from his sister Aggie. The two had been all and all to each other, and he never had a secret that he did not tell her. And the same may be said for Aggie. However, as neither he nor she ever had any secrets, this statement loses half its value.

Sometimes his father also wrote, but this was seldom. He was a magistrate, and a man belonging to one of the best old county families, and gave himself quite up to the management of his large estate. So his letters were somewhat stilted in style and very brief and business-like.

Aggie had, however, recently communicated to her brother the fact that their father was none too well pleased at his staying so long in one place. 'And among a gang of gipsies too,' the letter went on. 'These are father's own words, dear brother. As for myself, I think you must be enjoying yourself in a way that is most idyllic. I only wish I could join you for a few weeks. But, mind you, Anty, when you fairly set off in your own "Gipsy Queen" in the sweet summer-time you must get a sweet little caravan for me and my maid, and we will join you. That is settled, so don't you forget.

'By-the-by, dear brother, I had almost forgotten to tell you that our big, handsome, man-of-the-world cousin Gustie Robb has been here nearly all the time you have been away. Father seems very much struck over him; told me the other day he was a young man after his own heart, and bound to be a power in Parliament when returned on the Conservative ticket for South S——

'But father has a dream that I will marry Gustie some day. It will be like all other dreams, dear, for your sister Aggie is too fond of her liberty to give her hand to anybody to lead her through life. She thinks she knows the way without a guide.'

There was a postscript to this particular letter, which ran as follows:

Antony read the letter three times, lit a cigar, and sat down on his back-steps to smoke it while he glanced dreamily away over the blue sea. Then on the leaves of his note-book he wrote:

Frank tore the leaves of the note-book containing the above right out, and just posted them, gipsy fashion, to Aggie as they were.

. . . . . . .

Before going further in this story it may be as well to say a word or two concerning the effects of that letter at Manby Hall.

If Gustie Robb told Aggie Blake once that he loved her and had made up his mind to live so as to win her for his wife, he told her twenty times.

Now, Gustie was not a bad-looking fellow. Tall, dark as to eyes and hair, a half-aquiline nose which gave him a somewhat Jewish cast of countenance, a sweet, persuasive tongue, and groomed to perfection. He was a trifle solemn, however, and in this way so different in character from Aggie, who in manner was very like her brother—always merry, and as often as not singing like the happy bird she was.

Gustie was as poor as lobster-shell when there is no more lobster left in it. But that would not have mattered anything to Aggie could she have cared for him. But she did not, and told him so laughingly.

'I don't believe,' she said, 'in marriages between cousins, so I won't marry you. I don't believe in marriage at all, so I won't marry any one else.'

'Ah, Cousin Aggie, then I shall live in hope.'

'In hope of what?' she asked.

'In hope of getting'——

She didn't let him finish the sentence—in fact, she finished it for him, for she was feeling full of mischief just then—'In hope of getting my fortune. That's it, isn't it, Gustie?' Her fortune, by the way, was in her own right.

Then she seated herself at the piano and began to sing a verse of an old Scots song which her grandmother had taught her:

'I don't really know, Cousin Aggie, what should be done with a girl like you.'

'Oh, I do, Cousin Gust.'

'Well?'

'Why, leave her alone.'

'Just so. You are very provoking, though I must allow you are pretty when you are provoking. But, really now, dear, I shall never marry until the day when'——

'When what?'

'When I marry you.'

'And you think that day will ever come?'

'It is certain to. Let me see—you are twenty I think?'

'Twenty, yes. No use calling myself any younger for the next ten years.'

'Well, and I am five-and-twenty, possessed of a moderate share of good looks, have a little money, the entrée to good society, and splendid prospects.'

'Your elephant isn't dead, is he, cousin?'

'Oh, I'm not trumpeting, I'm only pleading my own cause, Aggie. And I know that our union would be—nay, but I shall say will be—a very happy one. And what is more, dear cousin, and what may appeal to you as a sensible girl, your father would not be averse to our marriage.'

'Did you ask him?'

'No. That is—well, I didn't quite ask him, but I seem to feel that he wouldn't object.'

'And I suppose you think this is the correct way of wooing a young girl and gaming her affections, do you?'

'A sensible girl, yes.'

'But I'm not a sensible girl, and I wouldn't be a sensible girl for all the world. Sensible girls went out long ago with crinoline and that sort of thing. Probably there was a time when, if a man wanted to marry the daughter, he began by making love to the father. But that sort of thing is quite out of date.'

She touched the bell as she spoke.

'Oh, Dobson, I'll have my horse round in half an hour. The chestnut with the white feet, tell the groom.'

'You are going to hunt?' said Gustie.

'Yes; but I'll go to the meet without a cavalier. My chestnut is in fine form, I'm told, and I do long to have the dust blown out of my hair.'

'I cannot go with you, my pretty cousin.'

'Nobody axed you, sir,' she said, or rather sung.

Now, it happened that Antony's letter had come among others that very morning, and she had left it in her boudoir to read it a second time, but had forgotten it. It is not pleasant to write about shabby actions or disagreeable people, but at times there is no help for it.

Gustie, going to the room some time after in search of his cousin, found she had left. He lingered a little here, and his eyes fell upon the letter. He was quite unfamiliar with Antony's calligraphy—indeed, the two did not correspond, for they had nothing in common.

'Hallo!' he thought, 'a letter to Agg, and from a gentleman too! Perhaps I have a rival.'

He was fingering it now.

'Would it be a breach in my dignity were I to open it, I wonder?'

Footsteps were approaching, so he hurriedly dropped it into his pocket and was studying a picture when the maid entered. She would have retreated at once, but he called her.

‘’Pon my word,' he said, catching her hand, 'a charming little puss. Should like to'——

'Better not, sir.'

'Let me see, I think I have a loose half-crown somewhere.'

'Do you let them run loose, sir?'

'I was just looking for my cousin, but find she has gone. There, you need not mention our little tête-à-tête to your mistress.'

And off he went to his own room, and some time after strolled into the library, where he found Mr Blake, senior, studying Debrett. They talked somewhat indifferently for a time.

Then Mr Blake said, 'You look preoccupied, Gustus. Have you anything particular to say?'

'Well, I have; but it is sometimes difficult to reconcile apparent duty to one with friendship for another.'

'Explain.'

'Well, the letter I found in the hall. Cousin Aggie must have dropped it when going out. I suppose at the time my thoughts had gone a wool-gathering, for I read part of it, enough to cause me to come to the conclusion that you should see it.'

He placed the letter on the table and retired, and there it lay until Mr Blake threw himself into his easy leather-backed chair to smoke. At first he was rather amused, then a shade of disappointment stole over his face, but no anger.

'Stupid boy!' he said. 'When I told him he might have his fling, I didn't mean he was to make a fool of himself.'

Then he got up and paced the floor for a few minutes. Already the evil seed that Gustus had sown so artfully was beginning to swell.

'Confound it all!' said Blake, half-aloud, as he tossed away half a cigar and proceeded to light another, 'that boy can't have much of the real blood of the old Blakes in him. 'Pon my soul, I'd rather he was a trifle wicked than a downright fool. Let me see—he hopes the old dad (that's me) won't take on about this when I (that's Frank) tell him. And it's just "dad," doesn't even honour me with a capital D. No, Frank Antony, the old dad is not going to lose his hair over this. Ah, well, he's only a boy!'

He smoked for a while, then got up to write, for he was a busy man. Presently he took the letter and went to his daughter's room and placed it on the table, meaning to tell Aggie all about it when she returned. But Polly her maid was before him.

'Oh, miss, w'at do you think?'

Aggie was dressing for dinner.

'Think about what, Polly?'

'Oh, miss, Mr Gustie gave me a kiss.'

'Well?'

'Yes, and a 'alf-crown.'

'Where, and when, and what for?'

'In your budd-oyre, miss, soon's you were gone, not to tell he stole your letter from dear Master Antony.'

'But I found the letter on the table where I left it.'

'Yes, miss, cause master hisself put it there.'

'Did my cousin, Mr Robb, give it to father?'

'That he did. I see'd him with these beautiful eyes, as Mr Gustie called 'em. And I 'eard all 'e said, and master too.'

'Ah! Polly, never mind; but I'm afraid you have neither earned your kiss nor your half-crown. There's a dress of mine, Polly, you can have for the servants' ball next month. It only wants altering.'

'Oh, thanks; and I won't ever let Mr Gustie kiss me or 'alf-crown me never no more. Yours until death do us part, Polly Smiggins.'

Then Aggie Blake went down to dinner.

'Oh, by the way, Aggie,' said Mr Blake, 'did you find your letter? You had dropped it on the hall-floor, and then it was picked up, and I placed it on your desk.'

'Thank you very much, papa. It was only from Antony. He is enjoying himself very much, and is going to travel soon. Shall I give it to you?'

'Oh, you needn't, Aggie. Fact is, seeing it was in Frank's handwriting, I'm afraid I was rude enough to read it.'

'Was it the butler who found it, daddy?'

'Ye—ye—es,' Gustus Robb interjected. 'The fellow picked it up just as I was entering the library, and I handed it to you, Mr Blake.'

The only reply Aggie made was, 'Um—m—m!'

And that might have meant anything.

UP in the north the weather continued clear and calm and beautiful; woods and forests, now bedded with fallen leaves, a carpet on which those feeble folk the coneys played and gambolled all day long, but ready, aye ready, to dart into their burrows should their 'cute, alert ears detect the sound of a footfall or snapping of a twiglet in the distance.

The sun went down about three in the afternoon now, but the gloaming was long, and the stars ever so large and near and brilliant. Indeed, the tallest spruce-trees seemed high enough to move amongst them, one would have thought. The aurora borealis danced and flitted on the northern sky above the sea every night, their marching spears of light sometimes darting upwards as far as the zenith.

There was but little doing in camp at present. The show was seldom visited except when some new feature was advertised in the neighbouring towns. The merman, it was stated in the Murlin and Creel, was hibernating, but sometimes awoke and came to the surface, ravenous for want of food. The dreaded dooroocoolie gave voice but seldom now, but was quite prepared to swallow any boy under fifteen that came within reach of its fearful jaws.

It must not be supposed, however, that there was any such thing as idleness in the camp. No, for every one under Biffins Lee had to work hard for his 'screw.' Moreover, there was to be great doings about the New Year, and when these were over the Queerest Show would be preparing for the spring campaign. But New Year's Day was some distance ahead yet, so Lotty had plenty of time to row, to sail, and manœuvre her New Jenny Wren. She took the skiff out first all alone by herself, but did not venture to sail. So pleased with her seaworthiness was she that she next took Chops with her, and this youth was even a better sailor than Lotty. They tried the Jenny Wren with the mainsail, then with mainsail and jib, and in a second and third cruise also with the gaff most tentatively. The ballast was well secured so as not to shift, and Lotty clapped her hands with delight to see how close to the wind the pretty craft could sail, and how like a 'puffick hangel,' as Chops called her, she behaved.

Then after this Lotty ventured out alone with Wallace, bending what she called her storm-jib, and having a reef in the mainsail, but no gaff. With so well-ballasted and nicely built a boat this was a very safe rig. Last of all, she took Antony himself for a sail, and tried the experiment of having Wallace at the same time lying on a lot of tarpaulin for'ard towards the bows. Everything went well, and young Blake expressed himself as delighted beyond measure.

Lotty's experiments were not nearly all over yet. But the thoughtful child always went alone when there was the slightest danger, and there was always a spice of this when there was a bit of a breeze on. On such occasions the marvel was that the Jenny Wren did not capsize; but her little skipper evidently knew what she was about. She went round, too, with the greatest caution; and sometimes, had she not been one of the strongest girls for her age that ever swung an Indian club, her boat-sail would have defeated her. She always kept her craft well trimmed, and had an eagle eye to the ballast before she put to sea. And such confidence did Lotty gain at last, not only in her own prowess and management, but in the seaworthiness and good qualities of the Jenny Wren, that she feared nothing, and never seemed to be so much at home as when out on the open sea.

Biffins Lee, to tell the whole truth, rather encouraged her in rashness than the contrary. This man was inordinately fond of money, or rather perhaps the making of it. To him this was a species of gambling that he could never tire of; and now—at times when Lotty was out in her boat, 'evoluting,' as she called it—he used to walk the beach, watching her through his spyglass, and wondering whether he could not make this infant prodigy of his pay as a daring child-sailor.

It is doubtful whether he had any real love for Lotty apart from the money she brought to his purse, the grist to his mill. Her feats of strength were certainly marvellous enough in all conscience for one so young. Somehow, Frank Antony did not like to see his little friend on the stage performing any of her 'tit-bits,' as she laughingly called them. He had seen her once swinging the clubs to music with a gracefulness of strength and attitudes such as he had never believed possible. But he had not gone a second time. He used to hear the wild shouts of applause sometimes when he knew her to be acting, and was satisfied with that.

There is, of course, a deal of art and artfulness in feats of strength. Every muscle of the body must be made the right use of at the proper time, and every nerve and sinew has to perform its own duty in its own place. There must be method, else, to put it in plain language, one muscle may get in the way of the other.

It was very easy for Lotty, after getting gracefully into position, to have Skeleton to leap nimbly on her shoulders and stand there, a trained cat running up his back and sitting down on his head, and finally a white rat to run up over all, and, standing on pussy's back, wave the Union-jack. It was more difficult for Lotty to balance herself with one foot on Wallace's shoulders and one on his rump, her arms extended, and thus permit Skeleton to take his place on her shoulders. But the main feat of strength undoubtedly lay in rising off the stage, on which she had crouched, with all the weight of Mary the fat lady on her back. This was not only wonderful, but it was positive cruelty to the child. Only, it brought down the house, and that was all Biffins Lee cared about.

There were performing Shetland ponies at the Queerest Show on Earth, and with these not only Lotty, but Chops, Skeleton, and Mary performed in a marvellous way. One pony was but little bigger than Wallace, and the two together never failed to create quite a sensation, so numerous were the tricks they tried. The strange thing is this: in their play not even Biffins Lee himself knew beforehand exactly what was going to take place. There appeared to be the most complete understanding betwixt dog and pony. Sometimes it was Wallace who suggested a new antic, and sometimes it was evidently the pony. But it was certain that both of them were delighted with the roars of laughter they succeeded in eliciting from the audience. At the conclusion of a performance like this Lee would come to the front of the stage, leading Wallace with his left hand and Tony the pony with his right. Both animals bent low their heads and forelegs by way of making a bow, then Lee would put to his audience the question: 'Which is the nobler animal?' and asked for a show of hands, first for Wallace, and then for Tony. It was not always apparent who had it. Only, Wallace was not yet eighteen months old, while Tony scored ten years.

No, it was not Lotty the show-girl whom Antony loved—well, liked, then—but Lotty, his dear, delightful little companion of the woods and wilds.

. . . . . . .

Terrible are the squalls that sometimes rise suddenly during the winter over this far northern sea, and frequently they break the weather for days. Probably Lotty had become too confident in the sailing qualities and prowess of her tiny yacht and in her undoubted abilities as skipper; and she thus grew almost foolhardy. But then she was only a child, albeit an infant prodigy.

There is a long twilight even in winter up in these latitudes; but one afternoon the sea was so inviting, the sky so serene, that Lotty had been manœuvring the Jenny Wren farther from shore than probably she believed herself to be. Suddenly she noticed a huge black cloud rising rapidly up in the south-west. So dense and dark was it that, though fringed along its top-edge at first by the yellow-gold light of sunset, it speedily assumed the appearance of a huge pall obscuring the sky and obliterating every vestige of twilight from the surface of the sea. Lotty could see a line of foam approaching, and for the first time in her boating career she felt nervous. She never lost her presence of mind for one moment, however.

The wind had changed a bit, and well she knew it would soon blow almost a hurricane off the shore. But she was ready. Down went the helm; she lowered sail quickly. The danger was in broaching-to, and she had to act as skipper and crew as well—ay, and the man at the wheel—for she must try to keep the skiffs head to the wind and seas. Only her extraordinary strength enabled her now to unstep the mast, and this with the oars and sail she quickly tied together with some spare rope and the sheet. She worked cautiously, yet with a speed that was wondrous, tying everything securely and with the best of sailor's knots, and finally crawling aft and fastening the boat's painter firmly to the whole as near to the centre of the jib as possible.

Then overboard with a flash went the lashed oars and spar, but not a second too soon. The squall drove down on her with tremendous force, and had the painter snapped nothing could have saved the gipsy lass from a watery grave. But that painter held, and next moment she was crouching in comparative safety between the bows of the Jenny Wren.

There was driving scud and spray, almost whole water at times, and a constant lifting of the after-part of the boat, which seemed to flog the seas with a noise that made Lotty think the timbers were snapping. But as the tiny yacht filled up with water till she was nearly swamped both this movement and the noise became less apparent. Lotty had no intention, however, of letting the Jenny Wren get wholly swamped, so as soon as the first force of the squall had abated a little she set herself to bail the boat. The bailer was semi-shallow and a very useful one. It was lashed so that there could be no danger of losing it.

Both water and wind now were bitterly cold, and the work of bailing put some life in the girl. She did not mind that she was drenched as far as feet and legs went, for she was well used to that, and her body was well protected by a smart oilskin, her head by a natty little sou'-wester tied with a ribbon firmly under her chin. It was the girl's pride to have everything on board the Jenny Wren ship-shape and Bristol fashion. Attached to a girdle round her waist she had even a small compass, and in a waterproof bag lashed under a thwart was a strong electric flashlight. In this bag also were stored provisions and a bottle of milk, to say nothing of a bagful of hazel-nuts and a box of chocolate which Chops had bought her when last at the neighbouring town.

She was thankful that she had not brought Wallace, for he might have got excited and swamped the boat.

It was now very dark, and every now and then the squall came down with merciless force upon her, so that, with the chance of the painter snapping when extra strain was on it, or the lashed spars being driven down upon the bows and staving them in, Lotty's position was that of exceeding great peril. In the midst of it all, however, she felt hungry, and presently crept farther aft; and, in spite of the intense darkness that now reigned, managed to open the bag and secure her supper. At the same time she took out her flashlight and hung this by its ring on to her girdle. She had a long draught of milk and returned the bottle, then—with a portion of food, a few nuts, and all the chocolates—she got forward again and resumed her place under the bows.

Her supper revived her spirits and courage, although as yet she had not taken into consideration the chances of her being able to ride out the storm to leeward of her bundle of oars and spars. It was well for her she did not think much, for she was entirely at the mercy of the wind and the waves, and drifting nor'ard and east into one of the wildest seas anywhere around our coasts. More than a sea was this; it was part of the great Atlantic Ocean, that extended in one unbroken line or expanse till it reached the Arctic and thundered upon the wintry bergs of the sea of ice itself. But, more betoken, the farther away the boat drifted from the shore, the higher became the waves, the less the poor wee gipsy lass's chance of keeping above the stormy waves.

THERE was not a pulse in the gipsy camp that did not beat more quickly with anxiety on this sad winter's evening when the sudden black squall came roaring over the hills, bringing with it the darkness of night and obliterating both sea and land. Hardly did any one dare to ask another what would become of the helpless child in her little boat. Dread fear and uncertainty seemed at once to kill all hope.

'Were the Jenny Wren a strong man-o'-war pinnace,' said one old sailor, 'or the sturdiest herring-boat that ever turned head to wind, there could be but small chance for her in the teeth of the gale that is now beginning to rage.'

To young Blake the whole affair was too frightful to contemplate. To have tried not to think of it would have been an act of cowardice, and to hope against hope seemed folly. Never till now had he known how his little companion had, with her innocence and winsome ways, wound herself round his heart, entwined herself into his affections. Strong he was, it is true, but in character most gentle and loving. He almost cursed the day now on which he had ordered the new boat. The old one that he had been so awkward as to sink was less safe in reality. Yet Lotty knew it, and would not have dared so much in it.

In about half an hour after the first fierce squall the darkness lifted just a little; then with his best telescope anxiously did Antony sweep the sea, while Biffins with his did the same. Not a speck of anything was to be seen.

'She has gone down,' raved the gipsy Lee; 'boat and all has sunk. And Lotty was the best property of the show. I am ruined! I am ruined!'

Antony was looking at the man hard and angrily.

'It is only the show you think of, Mr Lee. Have you neither love nor pity for the lost child—your daughter?' It was with difficulty Antony could utter the last two words.

'True, true,' Biffins replied; 'it is a pity about the lass; it is a pity all ways of it, and—I'll never get another like Lotty.'

Blake walked away. He felt that had he waited another minute he would have been tempted to fell the man on the beach where he stood.

He met Mary. Poor fat soul! she was wringing her hands in the anguish of really womanly grief.

'Oh, my bonny bairn!' she was crying. 'Oh, Mr Blake, you loved her, but will never see the lassie mair.'

'Cheer up, Mrs Pendlebury; cheer up, we may still hope.'

'Hope, sir; hope? Na, na; there are few ships on that dark sea at this time of the year. Oh, the cruel winds and the cruel, cruel waves!'

Chops was huddled up beside the great caravan, silent, dumb with the great sorrow that had overtaken him. Having no word of comfort to utter, Antony entered the 'Gipsy Queen' and lit his lamps. Wallace was on the sofa. He whined and cried when Antony came in. Well did he know his mistress was gone. The young man sat down beside him and took his great head in his lap; but the dog refused consolation, and at every outside sound lifted his head, holding it a little to one side as he listened and watched the door.

All this was more than Antony could endure, and he formed a sudden resolve. He would go right away out into the night, and, if he could but find his way through the upland woods, pay a visit to Crona in her lonely cottage. Battling with the wind would help to assuage his grief.

'Yes, Wallace, you may come. We are going to the house of Crona, dear boy.'

The dog sprang down off the couch at once and shook himself in readiness. No doubt he thought he was going to find Lotty.

Antony took a strong flashlight with him, and after telling Mary of his intentions, started off at once. Until well into the very depths of the forest the road was by no means difficult to follow; but it was dangerous from the falling branches, while the roar of the wind among the lofty pines was bewildering. But for Wallace he would certainly have failed to keep upon the little winding footpath. But the trees that Chops had blazed assisted him considerably, and after a tiresome march he came out into the open and could now see the blinking light in the witch's window. He was soon near enough to hear the yapping of the startled fox, and when he reached the door and knocked he speedily heard Crona behind it asking in Scotch, 'Fa [who] be ye that knocks sae bauldly at an auld body's door at this untimeous oor o' nicht?'

'It is me, Crona. Me—Antony Blake.'

Then the door was opened, and the light of the blazing fire fell upon his face.

When he told his story she was not nearly so much astonished as he expected she would be.

'Something told me what would happen,' she replied smiling; 'and I tell you now, Frank Antony Blake, to keep up your heart, for Lotty will return.'

'Oh, Crona, if I could but believe it! But tell me, now that we are alone, have you really the gift of second-sight?'

Said Crona in reply, 'There is no gift about it, dear boy, though to ignorant people who consult me on their future I might put on airs of mystery, and say:

Antony held his peace.

'To you,' she added, 'I tell the truth, that palmistry, even prophecy, if you like to call it so, is only the outcome of long study and science. I know you are fond of your playmate, boy, for you are little else; well, pray if you like, for there is One who heareth prayer.'

'Oh, I have prayed, Crona, ever so much, all the way through the forest. But you give me a little hope, and I am so glad I have come.'

'Lotty will return,' Crona said again.

And Antony was now smiling.

'Think you she has been picked up by some vessel already?'

She did not answer immediately. The blazing peat and wood sent darting tongues of flame up through the blue-white smoke, and it was at these the witch was gazing.

'I can see the dear bairn at this moment,' she said. 'Lotty is crouching under the bows of her boat, and this is riding to the lee of something, I cannot tell you what. That is all you or I will know to-night.' Then she placed her hand on the back of his, and smoothed, patted, and stroked it.

It may have been some magnetic influence, or it may not; but true it is that from that moment Antony mourned no more for Lotty, only hoped.

But now she began to speak of himself, and told him much as she looked at his palm about his past and not a little about his future.

'Have you an enemy,' she said abruptly; 'a tall, dark man?'

'Oh, there is nearly always a tall, dark man in fortune-telling, Crona.'

'I am not fortune-telling, dear, foolish boy.'

Then Antony suddenly remembered his cousin Gustus.

'That man,' said Crona, 'will work you and yours evil. Beware of him.'

The fire was making Blake drowsy perhaps. He could see Tod Lowrie curled up in a corner into which Wallace had quietly rolled him, as he always did; pussy nodding in the binkie; and, not far off, Joe himself with his head buried underneath his ragged wing. Then he knew nothing more until daylight. But he went back home to camp with a new hope in his heart that nothing could entirely extinguish, and told poor Mary all his adventure.

. . . . . . .

Perhaps at the very time that Antony awoke in Crona's cottage, Lotty also awoke, but under sadly different circumstances. The wind was still roaring across the sea, but the boat was almost empty of water, and, crouched up as she had been, she was fairly dry and warm. But she noted now that one of the lashings of the sail she had fixed around the oars and mast was coming undone. She got hold of the painter and commenced, against the scud of the sea, to round in the slack of it, thus working the little boat at great risk up to her floating moorings.

It took her a whole hour to make things taut and trim and safe. But they were so at last, and now the child discovered that she was very hungry. So she opened the bag and looked over the stores, as she termed the food. Quite as wise and provident was Lotty as any skipper who had been to sea all his life. She found that the food would last for a whole day, and the milk longer. Then there would be the nuts—Chops's nuts.

'Poor Chops!' she sighed. 'Why, the stupid boy loves me so much that he will be half-dead with grief.'

She had a meagre breakfast and a little sup of milk, but felt very cold after eating, and her legs were cramped. But Lotty did not dare to stand up, the wind was so high. She simply stretched her numbed limbs, and this relieved her a little.

The whole of that day, whenever the boat was on the crest of a high wave, she kept looking out. But nothing saw she until the red sun was nearly setting and turning the spray into frothy blood; then, oh joy! a steamer bearing right down towards her. Oh joy! and oh hope! but oh grief and collapse when it passed on its way and never saw the Jenny Wren!

Then down went the angry sun, and, slowly to-night, came darkness on. But although the spray dashed inboard so much that she scarce could look to windward, the sky was clear and a thousand bright stars were shining.

Later on there was the aurora borealis. Later still, and after eating a few nuts, the gipsy lass, still crouching in the old place, fell into a deep, sound sleep while saying her prayers.

. . . . . . .

'But I tell you it is, sir. Just out yonder on the lee bow, sir; my night-glass never told me a fib yet.'

'Well, mate, if you like to keep away a bit and maybe save a life, as you suggest, you may do so; only, don't let her get stove on top of some floating wreckage.'

'The wind is nearly down, skipper, though the seas are a bit high.'

'Hard a-port!'

'Hard it is, sir!'

'Easy, steady as you go!'

A short, sturdy sailor was this mate, a bearded man with a kindly eye, who had roughed it far away in the Greenland Ocean even from his boyhood, and the bark he was now on board of was the Nor'lan' Star of Hull, on a voyage now to Archangel for timber. Few vessels dared so dangerous a voyage at this season; but those brave fellows who did managed to make a very good thing of it. There was a big lump of a boy standing by his side in the starlight.

'Take a look through that glass, Ben, my lad.

Focus her to your own tune, and squint ahead. See anything?'

'Ay, that do I, mate. Summat dark but dippin', dippin' ahind the seas like.'

'I thought your young sight was better than mine. See anything else?'

'It is a small boat, sir, and she is moored to leeward of something floating. And oh, sir, I can see a figure for'ard. Now, now I see a hand raised!'

Lotty's hand might have been raised in a dream, yet was she fast enough asleep.

'Ben, hustle aft with all your might and fetch me a Roman candle.'

There was a bright dazzling light all around the little boat, and Lotty awoke with a start, very much bewildered to see stars, bright crimson, blue, and green, falling all about her in the sea.

But she had sense enough to know it was a rocket of some kind, and quickly pulled herself together. A noise of voices shouting came down the wind, and she flashed her light over and over again to show the sailors of that huge, dark ship that someone was alive in the boat. Presently the black hull of the bark was looming within fifty yards over her, and she could see her masts waving back and fore among the glittering stars. She did not forget to thank God for the deliverance that was close at hand. She, too, had been praying until, childlike, she had fallen asleep in the middle of 'Our Father, who art.'

The rough sailors carried her tenderly on deck and aft, and even the Jenny Wren was hoisted. Then sails were filled, and northwards once more sailed the Nor'lan' Star.

The skipper had his wife on board, and she hardly knew how kind to be to poor Lotty, who was soon sound asleep on the saloon sofa, all her cares forgotten for the time being.

. . . . . . .

The time in camp went wearily by—oh, so wearily!—day after day, a whole week, and there was no word or sign of Lotty.

Antony got all the newspapers he could think of, and read them, inch by inch, handing them quietly to Biffins Lee to glance at after he had finished. As long as he found nothing about Lotty in the paper hope lived in his heart, but again and again, to keep it burning, he had to recall the words of Crona. He feared, somehow, to go back there again notwithstanding, lest she might have received some second revelation that would dash all that hope aside.

Wallace followed him everywhere and slept in his caravan at night. But the dog seemed very nervous at times, and would start as if with fear when he heard the slightest unusual sound. Antony avoided Biffins as much as he possibly could, because the man appeared to have but one string on which he cared to harp—namely, the utter ruin to the Queerest Show that the loss of Lotty Lee was bound to entail.

But one day a strange thing happened. Antony Blake was walking sadly enough by the seashore at some distance from the camp, and Wallace himself quietly followed. Suddenly the great dog gave a yap of impatience, and, looking about, the young man saw him rush seawards, and, with a howl of mingled joy and despair apparently, take the water with a splash. And to his horror Antony noticed that the dog was making for some sort of cloth or garment that was rising and falling on the waves a long distance out. His heart almost stood still, and there were beads of cold perspiration on his brow as the dog seized the fearful something and was seen making his way inshore with it. It must be, young Antony thought, poor Lotty's dead body. He placed his hand over his eyes and kept it there for quite a long time, until he heard the dog bark again close beside him on the beach. What he had brought in was the mast and sail of the Jenny Wren. And Antony could breathe more freely now. But that night he made his way again to Crona's cottage, and, strangely enough, the old lady was waiting to receive him.

THE little gipsy lass was in a very pleasant dream—at least she firmly believed it was a dream. Her dreams were nearly always nice, so much so indeed that she never cared to waken too soon out of one. She did not mean to, out of this one, for she was very warm and comfortable, and she would be aroused far too speedily presently, and find herself in the little caravan with hardly time for breakfast before Biffins Lee would be shouting for all hands to come to rehearsal.

Yet she could not help wondering what o'clock it might be, so she just opened her eyes wide enough to look lazily through the lashes at the wee clock that ticked up in the skylight. Lo! the clock was not there. That was a skylight sure enough, but not Lotty's, and—why, surely it was moving, and everything else seemed moving, even her bed and her body. What a droll dream to be sure! Then the sound of voices close beside her, and the music of knives and forks and plates fell upon her ears, and the whole appeared to be very real. What could have happened? Where could she be? She remembered nothing.

'Wasn't it a blessing, mate, that you discovered that bit of a boat?'

'It was a 'tarposition of Providence, and that's what I calls it. God is ever kind, and those that has got to live He will bring again up out of the depths of the yawning deep itself.'

'That's so, mate; that's so.—How sweet and pretty the child looks asleep there. I declare, wife, I would like to go and kiss her.'

'Then why don't you, dear?'

'Well, Maggie, at present my mouth's about half-full of kippered herring, and it seems to me that kippered herring and kisses are not on the same quarterdeck like.'

Lotty was beginning to think this surely could not be a dream, so she opened her eyes a very little way again and looked round her. She appeared to be inside a large German concertina, for this saloon was perfectly octagonal, but very cosily curtained and pretty, with plenty of pictures and photographs on the bulkheads. At the round table in the centre were seated four red people all looking her way—a rosy, motherly-like lady; a red-faced, good-natured-looking sumph of a lad, somewhat like Chops, but not so fat; a redder-faced, brown-bearded figure, jolly-looking, and dressed in blue pilot; and another man dressed similarly, the jolliest-looking and reddest of all—painted red by the sea every one of them, and by the spray of salt waves and the wild winds that had brushed their cheeks for many a long year.

Perhaps the skipper's wife had seen the flickering of the child's eyes, for she got up now and knelt down beside the sofa, taking Lotty's hand.

'Are you better, darling? You've had such a nice sleep.'

The bonny blue eyes were wide enough open now.

'It isn't a dream then?'

'No dream, little un,' said the skipper across the table. 'You are saved.'

'Oh, I don't like Salvation Army people,' cried Lotty; 'the band is vile. But this can't be heaven surely?'

'A long way off that port, my pretty. But you are saved, all the same, from a watery grave.'

'It were a 'tarposition of Providence, it were,' said the first mate. 'Hadn't been for the boy Ben, here, who is doin' dooty as second-mate, I wouldn't have seen Miss Mite. It's 'im ye've got to thank, little missie—nobut Ben.'

'And God,' said the skipper reverently.

'And God,' assented the mate.

'I remember all now,' said the gipsy lass, 'and I am very thankful; but they will all be so sad on shore, Chops and Mary and all. You couldn't land me, could you?'

'Ay, little dear,' laughed the skipper, 'we'll land ye; but it will be in Trondhjem. But we've made up our minds to make ye as happy as Arctic summer days are long.'

Having once comforted herself with the thought that, although Antony and Chops and all the rest would mourn for her for a time as dead, there would be such a joyful meeting to make up for all when she got back again, she settled herself to be happy and to enjoy her strange, new life. When the captain and the mate and the boy Ben went on deck, the motherly lady dressed her and tidied her hair as much as it ever would tidy—for it was, like Lotty herself, very irrepressible—she sat down to breakfast. Lotty was not shy, no well-brought-up child of the world ever is. She could not even be timid beside so kindly a soul as the skipper's wife.

No, she did not care for fish. 'It was nearly all fish in the camp,' she told Mrs Skipper Paterson; but the English bacon was a treat, and the English toast, and, 'Oh those eggs, how beautiful! What are they?'

'Sea-gulls', dear, from the rocks of Tromsö.'

'How large and pointed they are, and so sweetly green; and what are those curious streaks of black and brown, like a baby's writing, all over them?'

'Well,' said Mrs Skipper, who was just a little romantic, as all true sailors are, 'well, Lotty, I think that every egg is a love-letter written by a gull to her charming mate.'

'It seems such a pity to break them though.'

'So I have often thought, but one doesn't mind so much when one is hungry.'

'I love the sea-gulls,' said Lotty, 'and they all love me, and don't mind coming close up; and then they are so neat and so clean, never a feather awry, and with eyes ever so clear and bright. I think they are just little bits of the waves with souls put into them.'

When Lotty got on deck she could hardly keep upright, for it was blowing half a gale from the west, and now the bonny bark, with her close-reefed topsails and storm staysails, was standing nor'-east, and away where black clouds had painted the sky from zenith to horizon. The girl looked a queer figure—a wee sou'-wester on her head, which could not hide her hair nor her beauty, and a huge pilot jacket belonging to Ben, the sleeves a bit too long and the garment itself coming right down to her heels. She swayed and swayed till the red-faced mate came to her assistance, tucked her under his arm, and trotted her off for a stroll under the weather bulwarks. Then she felt as if she had been at sea all her life.

Kaye—kaye—kaye! screamed the birds, for there were sea-gulls even here, playing at tack and half-tack around and over the quarterdeck, darting through the fountainheads of wind-vexed seas, circling, swirling, swishing in every beautiful attitude conceivable—kaye—kaye—kaye! Oh, how happy, how glorious, those feathered children of the ocean!

Lotty just longed to catch one, tie a message to its leg, kiss it, and tell it to fly home with this to the little gipsy camp by the lone seashore.

Up and down, fore and aft, the two walked together, and the girl thought she could never tire listening to the mate's strange stories of the sea, while he was quite as pleased to have so innocent and sweet a listener.

So a whole hour passed quickly by, and then something happened. A full-rigged ship was seen bearing towards them from afar, very close-hauled and with snow-white sails.

'A Yankee from Bergen, I'll lay my last sixpence on that. I'll try to speak her if she crosses our hawse, and tell her you are safe.—Ben!' he shouted. 'Ben, my boy, look lifty.'

'Ay, ay, sir.'

'Bring my megaphone.[D] Sharp's the word, lad; quick's the action.'

Next minute Ben had hurried aft, and presented his superior officer with a large tea-tray and a lump of chalk.

'A very old-fashioned arrangement,' he said, 'but does well enough for us.'

In huge letters on the back of his 'megaphone,' as he grandly termed it, he hastily wrote:

Then he took his stand on the grating right abaft the wheel, and held the tea-tray aloft.

With her cloud of snowy canvas on came the Yankee. Then, as she was passing, a real megaphone roared out the words: 'The Louisiana of Baltimore, U.S.A., bearing up for London, England, en route for the States. What is that?' continued the awful voice. 'Hold your bally old tea-tray higher. Captain Peters, eh? Little girl born at sea. All right, I'll report it. Hope mother and daughter are doing well. Love to the missus. Good-bye, old grampus; bon voyage.'

Next minute the Louisiana was past and away, and the mate dashed the tea-tray on the deck with a rattle and a word that made Lotty jump.

'Hang the fellow!' he cried; 'he couldn't read plain English, and now he's off, and may all the bad weather go with him, for he'll report that Mrs Paterson—— Ha, ha, ha!'

He laughed louder than the west wind as he jumped down.

'Never mind. Come along, Lotty, and we'll have another stroll. Merrily does at sea, little lass.

The gale moderated considerably in the first dog-watch, and the sea became smoother. Reefs were shaken out, and as the sun set red in the nor'-west a heavenly starlit night succeeded the stormy day.

Ben went on watch at eight o'clock, and the rest settled around the stove in the cosy octagonal cabin.

They were plain-living people in the Nor'lan' Star, as all true sea-folks are. The skipper smoked in his easy-chair, Mrs Paterson sat knitting in hers, with Lotty on a footstool by her knee, and the red-faced mate between. The steward brought tumblers to these two men-people, so they sipped their grog and then settled to yarning and singing.

So soft, so sweet, yet so ringing withal was the good mate's voice as he gave his rendering of the 'Bay of Biscay' and 'Tom Bowling' that Lotty had tears in her eyes; but she clapped her little hands as he finished.

'Oh, how much I love that!' she cried with real enthusiasm; 'and oh, Mr Mate, how delighted my daddy Biffins Lee would be to have you in our camp! People would come from all directions to hear you sing real sea-songs like that.'

The mate laughed. 'I fear,' he said, 'I should make but a poor gipsy. But why do you like my songs, little lass?'

'Because I hear things in them.'

'Hear things in them?'

'Yes, oh yes, for as you sing I can hear the woesome wail of white-winged gulls as they beat to windward in the dark-cloud sky, dipping now and then down, down till they touch the darker water and dive through the spray, then up and up, screaming, till the haze hides the silver of their flight. And I can hear the storm wind too, sir, rising and falling, falling and rising, so mournful-like because of the quiet sleeping dead that lie so far beneath the waves upon the yellow sands.'

Lotty was blushing now at her own youthful enthusiasm, and was fain to hide her face on Mrs Skipper's lap. And Mrs Skipper patted the shapely yellow poll.

'So we've really picked up a little poet, have we, from off the stormy main? said Mr Mate.

'Lotty,' cried the captain suddenly, 'you can sing I'm sure!'

The blue, sparkling eyes glanced upwards through the tousled hair. 'Yes,' she replied, 'I sing always in the show. I have a mandoline. Have you a mandoline?'

'No, just the fiddle.'

'Oh, that will do. It is tuned the same. Thanks, not the bow, only my fingers.'

The child's voice was very beautiful, and almost sad were the songs she sang.

The skipper beckoned to the steward and pointed to the empty tumblers. Then he threw back his head in his easy-chair and shut his eyes.

'Sing again, my sweet,' he said.

Lotty did, and once more too.

And the ship swayed and swung in rhythm, while Mrs Skipper, though her eyes were on her work, forgot to knit.

'Maggie, lass,' said the captain as a song was ended, 'Maggie, dear wife, I feel sure, quite sure, I saw a tear drop down upon your wool. There! I was sure of it. Your eyelashes are wet.'

Well, maybe—who knows?—this kindly, homely skipper's wife had a bit of romance buried away back in her past.

But that evening was a happy one to all, and so were many more that followed.

'SOMEHOW, husband,' said Mrs Paterson to her spouse next day when they were alone together in the cabin, 'I feel strangely drawn towards that child, Lotty.'

'She's a charming little thing, I must say. Glad we picked the mite up.'

'But,' continued his wife, 'with me there seems something more than mere interest, George.'

'What mean you, wife?'

'I wish I could explain to you, but I can't even to myself. But did you never think, dear, that the very expression of someone, a long time dead and gone, may be seen again in the face of the living?'

'I can't quite follow you.'

'Neither can I follow myself,' said the good woman, smiling somewhat sadly; 'but'——

. . . . . . .

This was going to be a real holiday for Lotty, and in her youthful capacity for pleasure she was going to make the best of it. She had not to beckon pleasure to come to her, it was coming, and would come without being asked. The very novelty of her situation and surroundings was enthralling. She had come or been brought into an entirely new world. It felt as if Providence or Chance had staged for her a fresh and startling drama—new scenery, new acting, new everything—and she had nothing to do but wait and look on and be glad.

The weather got wilder, the skies harder and clearer, each wave that passed, as it swirled and broke, sang to itself in the blue and frosty air. Even the spray that dashed inboard fell rattling on the skylights like hail, and sometimes quite a little snowstorm raged on the deck, the powdery snow forming into small, shapely drifts against the coiled ropes or the green-painted lower bulwarks.

For the first day or two Ben appeared shy and half-afraid of Lotty. To him she was a being from another world, such as he had only read of in fairy-story books. But he soon got over his timidity, and was bent apparently on becoming her slave, was pleased to explain things to her, and assist her in every way his somewhat slow nature might suggest. Then when she went off to stroll arm-in-arm with the mate, whom she liked much better, he would lean himself slantingly—as you might lean a garden-fork that you didn't want to fall—against the lee bulwarks amidships, and dreamily watch her every look and movement.

When she would come towards him at last he was all alive again, and as eager-eyed and sprightly as a sheep when she sees the lamb she has to protect. Perhaps the conversation was a trifle slow, because she had to pull him into it. Ben wasn't very suggestive. Nevertheless, his somewhat dull eyes sparkled with delight, and his face became transformed, in a manner of speaking, when he found that he could give Lotty information and interest her in things. Beauty has a wonderful power if it be beauty of the right sort, consisting not merely in a lovely complexion, eyes, hair, and features, and a nice figure, but all these etherealised—nay, but glorified—by refinement, intellect, and innocence. Such a child as Lotty, wholly insensible of the charm that surrounded her, was likely to, and did, make friends wherever she went. And it is better to make friends than conquests.

'You've been up this way before, Ben, haven't you?'

'Ah! lots o' times.'

Silence for some seconds.

'Have you a full name? Ben isn't surely all.'

'A fool name, little un?'

'I mean what more than Ben is it?'

'Ah, lots, but I doesn't trot 'em out every day.'

'Ben what, then?'

'No, not Ben Watten, but Benjamin Thorley Metcalfe Evans Bradley; only they's all melted down to Ben aboard ship.'

'Have you ever been farther north, Benjamin Thor'——

'Oh don't, little missie. Ben's the 'andle they allers lifts I by. Yes, been to Archangel an' Iceland an' Spitzbergen 'arf a dozen times.'

'Were you always second-mate?'

'Lo'd no! Dog-boy fust, then slush-boy, then dirty-devil all over the ship, then stooard's boy, then doctor'——

'Doctor?'

'Ay, missie, wot cooke the 'orse, an' fries the panhaggledy, an' biles the spuds an' the dollop o' duff.'

'How very interesting!'

More silence.

'It must be wild and dreary on the sea of ice and snow, and so cold I should freeze to death.'

'Bless yer little 'eart, I tells ye it's just skir-r-rumptious up near wot they calls the Pole, though I never did see un—nary a pole.'

As he spoke Ben hung himself up, as it were, on a belaying-pin against the bulwark, and Lotty stood looking at him. But he didn't look at her, only beyond her or over her, for if he had looked right into her face or eyes I'm certain the boy couldn't have spoken a sensible sentence.

'Just skir-r-rumptious! An' those hartist chaps wot 'drors pictures o' hicebergs in books knows nuffin' whatsomediver about it; no more nor they does about their Bibles. Goin' out north that way it's cold enough at fust, like to freeze yer face like heverythink, an' if yer didn't watch the barber 'e'd precious soon cut yer nose right clean hoff.'

'Do you carry a barber?'

‘’E comes an' carries 'isself—comes on board w'en the fermometer's worked away down zero-ways. 'E ain't no man this barber, honly a white mist wot rises off a calm an' frosty sea like the steam from a pot w'en she's beginnin' to boil; an', oh, 'e's a sneezer! 'E 'ardens the beef in the riggin', an' the sheets an' the stays as well, an' 'e 'eats the brass-work an' steel till they burns worse nor 'ot pokers if ye're grampus enough to touch 'em. An' 'e covers the decks an' the skylights an' the boats an' bulwarks, an' man an' beast as well, till the dog's like a Polar bear, an' all 'ands looks like Methuselahs, with white beards an' 'air an' heyelashes. That's wot the barber does, does 'e. But mebbe the sun shines after this. Then heverybody grows young again hall of a suddint, an' the barber flies north to the Pole.'

'Is the ice all like castles and steeples and pinnacled mountains?'

'Honly in pictur'-books, missie.'

'Plenty of skating, I suppose?'

'Lo'd love ye, no. 'Cause as 'ow the big flat or round-topped bergs is hall covered feet-deep in snow.'

'Beautiful white snow, Ben?'

She was looking at him eagerly, earnestly. Little though he knew it, this rough, illiterate sailor-boy was showing her glimpses of a new world, which to her young poetic imagination must be all a kind of fairyland.

He cast one glance at the sweet face beside him, then hitched himself more firmly on to the belaying-pin and swayed about for a moment in evident shyness.

'Beautiful white snow, Ben, boy. It must be like Elfinland.'

'Never been there myself, missie—to Helfinland I means, though I've 'eard speak o' it. Ye lands from a ship in a boat like, an' as ye gets nearer an' nearer to the pack-edge o' the big drearisome floes the sea hall around yer gets blacker an' blacker till it's just like ink w'en it laps an' laps ag'in' the rainbow ribbon o' icy shore.'

'But it isn't really black, Ben? Don't say it's really black, Ben—the water, I mean.'

'Oh no, missie, it is clear as dew on a rose-leaf, an' it trickles from the oar-blades like diamonds in the sun. Then there is the sky, as blue an' clear it is, just like the 'eaven th' ould pa'son speaks about, only brighter. An' there's the birds—they's beautiful too, 'specially the snow-birds that come so close ye can look into their clear, red eyes, an' could almost shake their cold feet.

'An' w'en ye does land an' goes wanderin' hall by yerself away over the 'ard, crisp snow, ye mebbe meets a bear; but the bright sun's in 'is black eyes, an' 'e just looks at ye an' goes on, for there be seals to catch, an' bladders an' wallies,[E] an' 'e don't want to eat no hooman bein' s'long's 'e can get wallies. But ye goes on an' on.'

'All by yourself, Ben, of course.'

'Well, if ye likes to put it that way. On an' on over sparklin' snow, with the black sea away somew'ere behind, ye don't seem to ken nor care 'ow far, 'cause hevery breath ye breathes is liquid life, an' ye'd raither not look back. There ye sits ye down on a 'ummock an' startles now to find the sea 'as gone. That's the wu'st o' walkin' on the hice, ye walk so far an' never gets tired. Ye doesn't min' bein' alone at fust, but after hours it begins to pall on ye, for the silence is fearsome, an', like the cold, creeps up about the 'eart; the sun won't speak to ye, the snow won't talk, an' the birds 'as flown away.'

'But the sea,' said Lotty, 'the sea, Ben?'

'Just like a whisper o' a far-away wind. But the sea is away, an' ye shades yer eyes to look for it. It's gone, an' yer ship. Only a white mist lies yonder, an' it rolls up an' creeps up slowly but sure, an' ye know the mist means death. At fust ye're frightened, an' wish to run to'ards it an' fling yerself at it as a man does at a ghost. Then ye screams an' wants to run, then ye sees snowflakes a-fallin' at the other side o' ye, an' ye know then ye're in it, an' 'elpless. But something is shuttin' down yer heyelids, an' a sleep an' a dream ye thinks would be very pleasant—especially the dream. It's the dream that does it, the dream that drags ye into death.'

'Into death, Ben? Death in your fairyland?'

'Ay, death, missie, as sure as hever it came to a barn-door fowl, unless they finds ye. Then, missie, the fust-mate brings ye up out o' the dream an' out o' the death with a bally rope's-endin' for leavin' the boat.'

. . . . . . .

The ship sailed northwards and north, and King Winter now met the Nor'lan' Star in icy earnest, for they passed through great fields of half-melted snow that took the way quite out of her, and caused the sails to flap, despite the wind, which, however, was none too favourable. Then there was more blue-black polished sea, rendered blacker still when streams of icebergs, mostly snow-clad, met them and bombarded the ship on both sides with deafening noise as they sailed through. But there were bigger pieces, and one was a gigantic white berg with clear, icy sides glittering green and crimson, and on this lay a poor little lost sealkin.

Kind-hearted Paterson lowered the dingy after getting the mainsail aback, and Lotty jumped with joy when she was asked if she would like to go. How very large and dark the hull of the Nor'lan' Star appeared as they pulled away from her quarter, and the waves now seemed higher than Lotty could have believed possible! They rose and fell, playing such queer capers, racing the dingy, pretending to poop her, changing their minds, and lifting her sky-high only to hurl her down again into the blackness between two seas! So Lotty had to keep her eyes fixed on the berg and the sleeping sealkin to make sure they were advancing. But when she looked about, the Nor'lan' Star seemed miles away.

The mate was steering.

'She won't forget and sail away and leave us, will she?' said Lotty.

'I don't think so, my dear, else we'll have to do what four of us did once when we were cast away on an iceberg like that, only a trifle bigger. And there was a seal on it too, else we couldn't have lived for three long weeks as we did.'

'Did you kill it and eat it?'

'Oh dear no, Lotty. We found out a trick worth two o' that.

'We hauled up the boat after capturing that saddle-back, not that she was much use, but she would do as a kind of bedroom you know, although she wouldn't float. She would keep the cold wind off us, and it is warmer sleeping on planks than on snow.

'Well, Lotty, we hadn't much to eat the first day, and slept but badly after it. The second day we had less, and then we began to starve—ay, and would have starved, too, but for an idea that Nat Pringle got hold of. For the saddle-back had gone. "I have it, mates," he said. Then he got straight up and walked to the boat, and back he comes with a big net and a long rope. We lay and watched after sunset, for it was early in the Greenland year, and by-and-by up comes the seal, and Nat lays hold on it quick, and in two minutes it was dressed in the net, as you might dress a doll, nothing out 'cept the head, the flippers, and the tail. That was a weary night, but joy came in the morning. "I'm off," says the seal, turning head on to the water. "Oh, are ye?" says Nat. "Well, good-day, and pleasant voyage to you."

'Away goes the seal, but the long rope was fastened by one end to the net behind its shoulder, and Nat kept firm hold of the other. "Hallo!" says the seal to himself after he had swam about thirty yards, "I'm fast, it seems. Well," he says, "I may as well have my breakfast anyhow."

'So he dives like an eel, and up he comes with a fine big cod in the jaws of him, and Nat and another hand bent on to that rope, and before you could have said marling-spike they had landed seal and cod all complete.

'The saddler put down the cod, looking a kind of discomfited like. "Oh, ye can go back again, my birkie," says Nat, "and have your own breakfast. This will last us for the day."

'And sure enough we killed and cooked the cod, and the seal had fair enough play, for he was left to fill himself in the sea till we had picked the last bone. And every day we did the same, all the time we lay on that berg. And it wasn't cod every day either; oh no, as often as not 'twas salmon, or hal'but, or young sturgeon.

'But all the while that iceberg was getting smaller and beautifully less, but at long last a merciful Providence sent a steamer our way, and so you see—— Easy pulling, boys! Way enough. There we are!—Jump on shore, Ben, and hand up the little lady.'

The seal was a baby one, and as lovely as a young lamb, and looked for all the world like a pretty infant swathed up to the eyes in soft white flannel. Only, no baby in all the wide world ever had such large and melting eyes.

'You've pulled well, lads,' said the mate, 'and all against the current too. So you can have fifteen minutes of a rest, a smoke, and a tot of rum each, then we'll start for off again.'

Lotty was charmed. She wanted to play at a game of romance, so she lifted the baby seal in her arms and went away with it to a hummock of snow on this great berg, quite out of hearing of anybody, and sat down with nothing before her except the world-wide waste of ocean that went stretching away without break to the haze of the limitless northern horizon.

She was trying to fancy herself all alone on the sea of ice, with only her fairy godmother who had for the time being turned herself into a beautiful wee baby sealkin.

THE baby sealkin became a great pet on board and a kind of bond of union between Ben and Lotty. This sailor wasn't much over sixteen, just young enough still to delight in a game of make-believe. So he was papa and Lotty was mamma to young Norlans. And without a doubt, Norlans was the sweetest and the prettiest and the best-behaved baby that ever lived, and boy and girl nursed it time about—that is, when Ben's watch wasn't on deck Norlans's fur was so long that it had to have a bib when it was being fed. There wasn't a cow on board, but there were lots of condensed milk and gulls' eggs, and a sop was made of these, which his little lordship condescended to suck up as long as Lotty kept a finger in his mouth and his nose in the bowl, but no longer. But he also had fresh fish, for they got becalmed on a sandbank, which no doubt had been an island once upon a time in the world's history, and Norlans's daddy got out his lines, and, baiting his hooks with only little tufts of gulls' white feathers, soon caught a tubful. The small ones were all kept alive to feed Norlans, and the pretty mite seemed to grow in strength and even size every day after this.

As the captain's wife was fond of pets of all kinds she made no objection to Lotty's taking Norlans down to the saloon and to the stateroom or sleeping-cabin every night. The latter was occupied now only by Mrs Skipper—as the men called her—and our heroine, Ben having been banished forwards, so that the mate had his bunk, and Paterson had the mate's cabin.

It is a fine thing for a sea-captain to be allowed to take his wife with him. It is romantic too, and makes a honeymoon last for years, if not for ages. Before getting spliced, which he was wise enough not to do until he was a full-blown master-mariner, Paterson had always looked forward to having his Maggie with him at sea. It had been the dream of his life, and lo! it was fulfilled, the fact being that the sailor had worked out its fulfilment. When visiting his fiancée while only a mate he used to sing to her snatches of an old song which I have almost forgotten; but one verse runs through my brain as I write:

Well, Norlans had any amount of nursing and really appeared to like it. If Lotty put him down on the quarterdeck he used to make the most ungainly efforts to waddle after her, often rolling over on his broad back in a very ridiculous attitude. He liked to be scratched under the chin and beneath the ear. He liked better to be nursed by his ma than his daddy; for when Lotty would say to Ben, 'Here, papa, you take Norlans for a bit,' the mite would roll those marvellous eyes of his round at the rough boy, then back pleadingly towards the gipsy lass's face; and if she said, 'Well, well, then, he sha'n't be taken by daddy,' he would nestle closer to Lotty, and soon be fast asleep. As Ben said, he could do with bucketfuls of sleep.

With fur four inches deep, one wouldn't have thought Norlans could have felt cold at night; but he was not averse, nevertheless, to be put to bed in his small tub rolled up in a red blanket. Then Lotty would sit down on a footstool beside him, and sing a cradle-song till he dropped off into 'little sweet snores' as she called them, and he never stirred till morning. Was he not, therefore, the best baby that ever lived?

The days were very short up north in these seas. A steamer would have been into her port long ago; but the Nor'lan' Star had to wait for the wind. Only, Lotty rather liked the length of the voyage than otherwise. By the time Saturday came round she had been nearly a week on board. Well, the skipper was fond of old-fashioned seaways, so he was wont to splice the main brace on this night, which means that all hands have extra grog and spend the evening singing and yarning and drinking to wives and sweethearts.

But Lotty had put Norlans to bed early, and was going herself soon after she had a warm bath. It was while assisting her that Mrs Paterson made a discovery which caused her to start and turn first red and then pale.

'Dear Mrs Captain, you're not ill, are you?'

'Oh no,' said the good lady, 'only a momentary spasm. Now it is gone.'

There was electric light in this cabin, which was really one of the prettiest staterooms any master-mariner could have wished to have. Of course his wife was the presiding genius; but without being at all overcrowded, because all the fittings were of fairy-like dimensions, it was really home-like and charming. Besides, a dear wee brass-domed stove burned cheerily in a corner, and altogether it was as much like the interior of a caravan as anything else.

To-night, after Lotty had got into her dressing-gown and hammock-socks, Mrs Paterson sat down on a low rocking-chair close to the fire, and took her on her knee. And there was a nice drink for both of them keeping hot on the stove-top, so one may easily guess they were cosy.

The skipper and mate were smoking and yarning outside in the saloon; but from the stateroom their voices sounded only like the happy murmur of the sea on a summer's beach.

What was the discovery the good lady had made? It was a birth-mark—nay, but two. And although such marks might be similar on two different people, so strange a coincidence has never, perhaps, been known. And so Mrs Skipper thought she knew now some secret of Lotty's history that the child herself was ignorant of.

A rocking-chair at sea is a delightful contrivance when the weather is fine, as it was to-night, and this one was swayed or swung only by the vessel's gentle motion. It is a dreamy, drowsy movement; but there was no thought of sleep in Lotty's mind at present, nor in Mrs Paterson's. Lotty would have preferred to listen to a story or to hear a song.

'Sure I'm not too heavy, nursie?'

'Oh no,' was the answer, 'you are very light. Besides, darling, it is not the first time that'—— Then she checked herself, and Lotty undertook to finish the sentence.

'Not the first time you've nursed a little girl, you were going to say.'

'Ye-es,' assented the other.

Lotty snuggled closer to her.

'I wish you were my mother. But I never had a mother, never, never, never. May I call you mammy?'

'You may call me mammy.'

Lotty had not seen that tear. This strange child had her sentimental moments, and had come through grief enough, goodness knows; but somehow mirth was never far away from sorrow.

'So now,' she cried, 'I have a ma, and Norlans has a grandma.'

'Lotty, think now,' said Mrs Skipper, 'were you always, always a little gipsy lass? Think back child.'

The girl sat up more, to look the better at the kindly face and eyes.

'Always,' she said slowly. 'Only,' she added, 'there have been times when, if I happened to be in the house of some rich and beautiful lady, reading her palm you know, mammy, I've thought it strange that many things I saw, which most gipsy girls might not have known the use of, were to me quite familiar.'

'Yes?'

'The first harp I saw did not seem to have been the first. When asked to play the piano, nothing about it struck me as new, and I felt familiar with even the smallest of my drawing-room surroundings.'

'Yes?'

'But I know how to account for all that.'

'Well, dear?'

'It all comes, mammy, of reading books of romance and stupidity; and some such stories I quite believed when quite a little tot, especially about the baronet's baby-boy who was stolen by a bad sweep, and who, years and years afterwards, was called to a great house to sweep chimneys and found his real mother, and lived happy ever after. But I'm wiser now, mammy dear. Now, mammy, will you do the first thing I ask you?'

'Yes, child.'

'Well, look there! I've finished my nice drink, and now sing me a song, and I'll fall as sound asleep as your grandchild Norlans. Then don't wake me, but just lift me into bed.'

Mammy had a sweet voice, and knew also how to modulate it, so softly, tenderly she sang:

If you know it not, oh reader! take lute or viol and learn it.

At the second verse Lotty had really dropped off to sleep; but as the last words died in cadence soft and sad away she started and shook back her yellow hair. Her open eyes had a strange wildness in them.

'Where—oh, where am I?'

Then she smiled and seemed to recover consciousness wholly; but she squeezed mammy's arm against her chest with a vice-like grip as she gazed into her face.

'Mrs Captain,' she cried, 'mammy then, I've had such a strange, strange dream. I thought—but never mind, only tell me this: Did you ever sing that strange song to me before? I have never heard it, and yet, mammy, I have. How is that? Can you explain?'

Mammy did not reply at once.

'I think—I—can—Lotty, child,' she answered slowly. Then more quickly, 'Oh yes, dear, when you have been asleep, I dare say I did sing it to myself, and you have half-heard me.'

'Yes, mammy, yes. That must be the explanation. But now, kiss me and put me to bye-bye. I want to dream that dream again.'

THERE are such things as happy ships still in the merchant service of this country, in which the crew are all, or nearly all, British men, and the captain and mate honest fellows and not tyrants. English or Scotch sailors work well for officers like these, and a bad word is never heard on the ship's decks.

The Nor'lan' Star had scarcely changed a hand of her crew for several years. They were like a family in fact. Every one knew his duty and did it. When any dispeace occurred the matter was brought before the captain—of course his word was law; and if there existed a malcontent on board he was very speedily got rid of, for a tainted sheep affects a flock.

But, somehow, when a captain takes his wife with him the whole tone of a ship is raised many degrees. But, over and above all this, Captain Paterson owned the ship, or most of her, for the mate and some others had shares, and this arrangement caused things to pull together better. This honest skipper was a good example of what industry and carefulness in business can accomplish, and love with honour, I may add; for he would have told you that the best thing ever he did was marrying Maggie, and taking her to sea with him.

Well, the Nor'lan' Star reached Trondhjem at last; and as the men were not drunkards, but knew how to use without abusing God's gifts, every man settled to work, and with the help of dockmen the unloading and the loading-up again proceeded regularly and peacefully enough, and was all over in a week. Then the orders were to clean ship before the granting of a few days' leave off and on to the watches. In a very short time all signs of the loading-up were obliterated, and from stem to stern the Nor'lan' Star looked as sweet and clean as a new half-crown.

Ben and the mate had been very busy up till now, but Mrs Skipper had taken Lotty on shore several times. The town, with its great cathedral, was in its winter garb; but they found the streets regular and wide, and even pretty, the older houses being of wood, plain in architecture, but very quaint. There were many fine shops too, and the people therein were kindly in the extreme. Everything here, especially about the suburbs, was very strange and foreign-like, but with none of the fussiness found in French ports, where it is mostly all palaver and insincerity. All her life at present was what, in the case of busy men who have been laid aside for a time by illness, doctors call 'an enforced holiday.' But it was a very delightful and restful one. She was free for a time from the drudgery of show-work, of having to sing and act to crowds of gaping rustics and others; free from the bullying and ill-treatment of her father, Biffins Lee. She only wished that Wallace had been with her now. As for the others—well, they would like her better when she came back from a watery grave, or, more plainly, when the sea gave up the one they all believed dead and gone.

But Wallace, what fun he would have had with little baby Norlans, and how he would have rolled him up and down the deck, but gone to sleep afterwards with the sealkin in his arms, like the good dog he was! A tub, both she and Mrs Skipper admitted, was an awkward and somewhat unsightly cot for the sealkin, so they had a look round the toy-shops, and at one they found an assortment of dolls as big as the baby-children of Anak must have been.

The shop-mistress curtsied and smiled, and felt certain the young lady would buy one. She raised a garishly dressed specimen as she spoke, which was half-doll, half-golliwog, and hideously ugly. But Lotty was not impressed. She was too old, she said, for dolls like that; but had the good woman bassinets for these?

'Oh yes,' she had, 'lovely little cradles, with rockers and all. Look!'

Lotty did look, and was delighted. These were just the thing for Norlans. How sweet he would show in one of these, with its tiny cushion, its muslin drapery, and its blanket of blue! And so one was bought and sent on board. That night Norlans was put to bed in it. Lotty sat down and rocked her baby; and as she rocked she sang a pretty cradle hymn:

And baby Norlans was willing to give himself up entirely to the luxury of the situation, and was soon sound enough asleep.

Then daddy Ben was called in—he had to walk on tiptoe—to take just one peep at him.

'Isn't he just lovelier than anything on earth, papa?' said Lotty.

'Lovelier,' replied Ben, 'than biled cockles, and every bit as white and clean.'

A day or two after this Lotty ran on deck when Ben was hung up as usual on a belaying-pin, the ship having been put to sea again, and it being the lad's watch off.

'Oh papa,' she cried, pretending to be awfully excited, 'you are to run down below at once. Grandma says Norlans has cut a "toofams."'

Of course a 'toofams' meant a tooth; and Ben, keeping up the game, went below at once and found it was the truth, and was wise enough to go into raptures over the pearly little appearance.

But, happy though his home was, it was evident enough that the sealkin retained a good deal of nature about him, and would fain have obeyed the call of the wild, and plunged right away down into the clear sunny sea, a blink of which he could catch through one of the scupper-holes on the lee side. And always now, when taken on deck for what Lotty termed his constitutional, it was towards a lee scupper-hole he crawled or waddled his way, and seemed never to tire watching the waves. Sometimes when there was a freshening breeze, with plenty of sail on her, the sea would gurgle up as she dipped to leeward, and some portion would be under water. Then Norlans spread his flippers at once and made pretence to swim, and had to be taken away to be towelled and placed in the sunshine to dry.

It was about this time that Mrs Skipper had a quiet talk with her husband, and told him about those curious birth-marks, and what she half-suspected, and what she was going to do about it. Even the mate was taken into confidence and his advice asked. But he had not much to give. He really was both innocent and good, but knew more about handling a ship than anything else.

'Seems to me, Mrs Captain,' this was all he said, 'as how it is a 'tarposition o' Providence from first to last. And He—the great Power above us all—does move in a mysterious way His wonders to perform.'

'Well,' said Mrs Paterson, 'you are both men-people and have your reason to guide you. I am only a woman-person, and have merely my instinct; but, Providence here or Providence there, something tells me that a great wrong has been done to that dear child, and mebbe we may be put in the way to redress it.'

'That is,' said the mate solemnly, 'if your suspeecions is right, Mrs Captain. If they's wrong, then'——

'Well, then, of course, there will be no harm done, only we must take good care to say nothing to Lotty one way or another till we see.'

'That's right, that is right, Mrs Captain; and I'm truly glad I've given you good advice, which I hope you won't be above thinking over.'

As the honest mate had given no advice, one way nor another, it certainly would not take very long to think it over.

That was a somewhat rough and stormy passage homewards; but the wind was for the most part fair, and under such circumstances she 'skeeted' along like a water-witch, and in due time the cliffs of Old England hove in sight far off on the lee-bow, lying along like a gray cloud on the horizon.

Lotty could scarcely believe she was so near, for the voyage out had been a lengthy one, and so many things had happened since she was picked up by the Nor'larn' Star that she felt quite a year older at the very least.

That last evening the boy Ben was very sad indeed.

'Which,' he said to Lotty, 'we've 'ad a 'igh old time of it, missie; but lor! it's gone now, and we'll maybe never see ye in life again—no, nor Norlans either.'

'Oh,' said Lotty, with an attempt at good-humour, 'Norlans will be a big boy before he sees his papa again. I'm going to take him to camp, and some day, perhaps, his daddy will come right away down to see him, and his mammy also.'

'Am just a-goin' to live an' dream about that day, Miss Lotty; an' who knows but that when I'm a capting of a big ship you may not sail along o' me again.'

'Who knows?' answered the gipsy lass.

And the last thing the girl saw as she left by the gangway, which led over several vessels before she could reach the quay, was second-mate Ben gazing sorrowfully after her. There were tears in his eyes, too, that he had no need to be ashamed of.

And there was more than he looked after the little gipsy lass, and waved her a hearty good-bye, for her presence on board had really brought light and joy to many a man of the Nor'lan' Star.

There was nothing at present to keep Mrs Captain Paterson on the vessel, so she went with Lotty back home to her house in the outskirts. About all Lotty's luggage was Norlans in the bassinet, and that had been sent on before by a trusty messenger. There was a beautiful garden here, but just exactly what Norlans thought of it may never be recorded; for he was to be taken to the camp anyhow, and would be more at home within sound of the sea.

. . . . . . .

Just two days after this, Frank Antony Blake received a letter, and was a very happy man. It enclosed a note for Mr Biffins Lee. The letter to Antony was quite a girl's, round-hand, language, and all; but so innocent, for it gave Antony orders which he was to pass on to Mary, with a detailed list of the articles of clothing she was to forward to care of Captain Paterson of the bark Nor'lan' Star, Hull, and the amount of money Mary was to ask Biffins for and send with the things.

It is needless to say there was joy now in the camp, and somehow it seemed to communicate itself even to Wallace the Newfoundland. We never know just how much a dog understands. Mary was daft with delight. Chops was 'blubbering'—an ugly word; but it was one of the fat boy's own, and when interpreted means 'weeping.' For it is not grief only which is capable of bringing salt tears to one's eyes.

Frank Antony Blake did not take long to make up his mind as to what he should do on this occasion. He thought, anyhow, that a railway journey would do him no harm; but really, when he arrived at last, and Lotty threw herself right into his arms to do a good cry, he thought it was the most natural thing in the world to fold her to his breast.

He did not like Hull, simply because he did not like cities; and so, after thanking, and more than thanking, the captain, his wife, and mate for all their kindness to Lotty, and hoping to meet them again, he took first-class tickets, and soon the fast train was bearing them back to the north, baby Norlans and all. He had wired to Crona to have Wallace at the cottage, and she had gone over on purpose to bring the faithful dog to her hut.

But no pen could portray the delight of this dear fellow when he was sent off with a rush and a run to meet Lotty and Antony slowly winding their way uphill to Crona's cottage.

FRANK ANTONY BLAKE had certainly not been hard upon the handsome banking account which his father had so generously placed at his disposal when he told him to go and have his fling for a few years, or until he should come of age. Perhaps Antony was neither better nor worse than the average modern son. For, of course, there are modern sons as well as modern fathers; but the sin of extravagance was not one that could be laid to this young fellow's charge. He liked to have one penny to rattle against another simply for comfort's sake. Luxuries he considered rather effeminate, and could do without them.

Now, however, he was going to let the wind into his banking account to the extent of purchasing a team of four as good horses as could be had in the Granite City, to which he paid a visit. He had been among horses all his life, and knew a horse at sight, and to him a horse was not merely 'an animal with a leg at each corner,' as it is to some. He advertised for what he wanted.

'That's biz, my son,' Biffins Lee had told him. 'Nothing done without advertising.'

He had swarms of answers, from 'legs' and others. It may be of some interest to know that a 'leg' is a worthless kind of scoundrel, with a straw in his mouth, who deals in horses and everything else that will enable him to turn a dishonest penny over. He calls his innocent victim a 'mug,' and when he finds one, he sets about the operation of playing him at once. There was very little of the 'mug' about Antony, and the fellows who tried to cheat him had to retire early, defeated. He succeeded at last in securing a team which it would have been difficult to beat anywhere, also a capital coachman as well as a groom. This last was a young and modest young fellow, whom, from his very looks, Antony concluded he could easily put up with, and he was not disappointed. He was to follow the caravans or be with and about them on his bike, assist the coachman, and with the latter put up every night at the hotel or inn at which the horses should rest.

Antony returned from the city bringing his nags and servants with him, and the whole were put under canvas until things were ready. And Biffins Lee did not in the least object to the 'Silver Queen' accompanying the saloon caravan. Indeed, had the whole British Empire belonged to this man he would have had no hesitation in selling it—for a consideration.

Antony would have taken Chops with him as well as Mrs Pendlebury and Lotty; but, as will afterwards transpire, the fat boy was a vital portion of the Queerest Show on Earth, and could not be dispensed with. He was a prop in more senses than one.

. . . . . . .

If there is any one thing more than another that youth is to be envied for it is its capability for enjoying life. Ah me! what fools those men and women are who set themselves to make vast sums of money against 'a time of pleasure that is to be,' which seldom comes. And even when the fortune is made, whether it be a million or a modest ten thousand, lo! when they proceed to settle down to lead a happy life they find that all power of enjoying anything is clean gone—and for ever. They find out their mistake when it is too late. They are on a par with the man who orders for himself a splendid repast, and after sitting down to table finds that he has not got the least bit of appetite; that, on the contrary, everything is distasteful to him. This is a sad state to be in. Young folks should glory in their youth, especially girls still in their teens. Yet it is ever the same saying with them: 'I wish I were away from school,' or 'I wish I were a grown-up girl;' and then, when the days come, as Solomon says, when they have no pleasure in them, how different is the tune they pipe! 'Heigh-ho!' they sigh, 'my happiest time was my girlhood, and I did not know. Will these delightful days never come again?' 'Never again!' answers echo; 'never again!'

There are many poems in our favourite Byron that bubble over with youth and life and freedom. Freedom ought to be the birthright of all. Hardly is there any one too old not to rejoice in it. But true freedom is probably only to be felt and enjoyed at sea or on the road in a caravan. It is much the same, and the writer of these lines should know, his earlier life being spent upon the ocean wave, his later on the road.

But do not the following lines from Byron's 'Corsair' sparkle with youth and life?

. . . . . . .

It was only going to be a tour of a few weeks if all went well; but when once out and away on the road in his splendid palace-upon-wheels, with the glorious bracing breeze blowing, wild romantic scenery all around him, and the sun shining on the sea, he took a deep and satisfied breath. He was inhaling freedom itself. He felt at that moment, as did Byron's Corsair, 'his heart awaken and his spirit soar.'

Not far in the rear was the beautiful little 'Silver Queen,' the fat lady looking ever so pleasant as she drove the one willing horse with his glittering harness all decked out in polished brass. This caravan was called the 'Silver Queen' because, for lightness' sake, much of her outside was built of aluminium, and its sheen on this bright January morning was, like stars on the sea, resplendent. Behind her, on a rocking-chair, sat Lotty herself, quietly knitting. Still more in the rear was a large light wagon with stores, tents, and baggage of all sorts.

No wonder that the children in the little romantic towns through which they passed—many of them hardly yet dressed, so early was it—rushed to their doors to wave their caps or stockings at the show as it passed.

The 'Gipsy Queen,' with her large windows chastely but brightly curtained, her varnish and her gilding, looked as elegant and beautiful outside as she did inside. And not a single article had been forgotten that might conduce to comfort or luxury. There was even a small yacht-piano in one corner of the large caravan, and bright fires of coal and coke burned in each.

When they drew rein in the square of a small market-town to water the horses, quite a crowd of well-dressed, wondering people gathered round to see the sight. But one glance told them that this was no ordinary show, but gentle gipsies on a tour.

Antony lifted Lotty down from the coupé of her carriage after he had given orders to put the nose-bags on the horses and cover up their loins. Then, while Mary entered the large caravan to see about things generally, youth and beauty went gladsomely off hand in hand to look at the shops and make little purchases, for souvenirs in the shape of photos of scenery would be bought wherever they went.

But every village all around and about here had a strange, romantic interest. It was, or had been, a Jacobite country, and the sturdy races still dwelt up among the mountains yonder whose forefathers had fought and died for bonny Prince Charlie. Though more than a hundred and fifty years had passed since Culloden, that unfortunate Prince, Antony soon found out, still held a place in story and song and deeply down in the hearts of the people. At one shop where our young folks called, Antony happened to allude to Charlie as the Pretender. He could see from the mantling blood in the shopkeeper's brow that he had made a mistake.

'Pardon me, sir,' he said, 'but you must not use that word in this part of the country, and still less up in the hills. Charles was the rightful king by descent from the ancient Stuart line, and no pretender.'

The weather was certainly cold, but it was gloriously fine for the present, and one beauty of the tour lay in the fact that there was no need to hurry, and no rehearsal at midday for exhibition at nightfall. The midday halt for luncheon was made by the roadside, deep down in a pine-shaded glade, and near to a clear stream that ran seawards over a bed of yellow sand. They were lucky enough, moreover, to secure at night a pitch for the caravans in a delightfully quiet and level little meadow, and no sooner had they been drawn in than Mary proceeded to cook dinner. This was done partly on the large oil-range in the pantry of the 'Gipsy Queen,' and partly outside on a fire built in the real gipsy style on the sward.

Lotty had disappeared, and Antony was wondering where she was, when she came tripping along with her lap full of beautiful flowers and foliage.

'Why, Lotty, wherever did you get these at this time of the year?'

'I only mentioned to the hotel master,' said the girl, 'that I loved flowers, and that you, Mr Blake, did. That was all; and he went straight away to his glass-house and gathered me all these.'

'Oh, won't we be gay?' said Antony.

'Yes; and now I shall go and arrange them.'

What a quiet and pleasant evening was spent after dinner, eaten with an appetite that only sailor-folks and gipsies ever know anything about!

The small caravan was drawn up so close to the big one that, although Mary would not have presumed to come and sit in the 'Gipsy Queen,' she could hear the music very well; for Antony was a good pianist—'good at nothing else earthly,' he used to tell his friends—and piano and violin go well together.

There had been cows and a horse or two in the field when they first drove in, but the kindly landlord took them all away lest they might annoy the wanderers during the night.

Wallace seemed very happy and contented; but though he kept in the big caravan all day he told Antony that it was his duty to be with his mistress by night; but if any attack should be made by evil tramps, he, Antony, had only to shout, and the tramps would be sorry they had come.

The camp cat had insisted on becoming the caravan cat, and a splendid fellow he was; and it may as well be stated here that never, during all this romantic tour, did pussy absent himself of a morning, although he might have been out all night long. On such occasions, just as the horses were about to start, and although there may have been no appearance of him before that, out of somewhere he would come rushing with his fuzzy tail in the air, and take his seat on the coupé. 'Sorry if I've kept you waiting,' he would seem to say, 'but I've been spending the evening with some friends, and time does pass so quickly on such occasions.' But puss made up for his want of rest by night by sleeping on the sofa all the forenoon. Happy cat, no responsibility and never a care!

The weather continued open and sunny for a whole week, and by the end of that time Antony found himself camping near to, and his horses stabled at, the great Highland Spa Hotel at Strathpeffer, with scenery all around him which, although the mountains were clad from foot to summit in driven snow, was charming in the extreme. But there is a charm about this romantic country in winter which does not exist when summer is in its prime, albeit then the trees are green, the wild-flowers are springing, and wild birds are singing in brake and bush and fern. Then during winter, though oak and elm and mountain ash are leafless and bare in the valleys, meadows are green, and if not borne down by a weight of frozen snow the pine-trees wave dark and glorious in the forests that clothe the hills and braes; and though lochs or lakes may be ice-bound, they afford opportunities for many a roaring game, and become for weeks at a time the paradise of the skater. But, more betoken, the rivers, which were high before the frost fell, became streams of fairy-like beauty, and the waterfalls were dream-like in their silent silver sheen.

Antony was not surprised when the kindly landlord emerged from the door of the great Spa Hotel and shook Mary by the hand and Lotty too.

'So glad to see you back again, my dearie'—this to Lotty; 'how bonny you look! And here comes Wallace to shake a friendly paw, and the same old cat to rub his bonny back against my leg.—How do, pussy?—How do, Wallace?'

'There are two Wallaces,' said Mary.

'Dear me, yes,' said the hotelkeeper. 'In the pleasure of seeing you, Mrs Pendlebury, I had quite forgotten that my name also is Wallace.'

He soon found out that Blake was travelling for his pleasure.

'Ah, but, sir,' he said, 'you should see this place in summer, when the lawns are all in their glory, the Italian gardens and banqueting-hall open, bands playing every night!'

'And fountains too!' said Lotty.

'Ay, my dear, and fountains, and well-dressed people from all ends of the earth. But come in, Lotty darling, and warm your toes. And you, Mr Blake, you must dine with us; a denial is out of the question.' Then striking an attitude he sang:

And Antony found it.

IT is easy getting to a Highland home or hotel home, but it is somewhat difficult to get away again, for hospitality to strangers is part and parcel of Scottish religion. So Antony and his people found themselves prisoners in the beautiful vale of Strathpeffer for more than a week. But he must journey on at last farther and farther into the wilds of Ross and Sutherland. Although he had already made an excellent record for a winter tour, he was determined to reach, if possible, a lonely central lake near which was a hotel.

Ben Wyvis, with its massive bulk, is in evidence everywhere here. It is about the third highest mountain in this land of mountain and flood, and there seems no getting rid of the giant Ben. It does not look so high as it is because it is nowhere peaked or coned like Ben Ledi, for instance.

Away they moved early one lovely, hard frosty morning, with the Ben to the left, sometimes seen, sometimes hidden by the dense woods they penetrated, past the romantic Falls of Rogie, and westward and north away.

Antony was a little anxious, however, about the weather. The wind was down. Hardly a breath moved the twigs. But strange banks of rock-like clouds began slowly to arise in the west. Like ships becalmed at sea, they were waiting for the wind. Even a little breeze would have sufficed to have carried them upwards and over the sky, obliterating the blue and bringing night and darkness on a full hour before its time. But that breeze came not for the time being; and as they champed their bits and jingled their harness—sweetest music to a gipsy's ear—the very horses seemed glad of the respite. But the country soon became lonesome in the extreme, and its aspect one of threatening dreariness. Never a soul did they meet on the road except one Highland shepherd with his dog and a few half-wild sheep. Antony pulled up his cavalcade to question this wiry old fellow, whose plaid was right over his head.

'What think you of the weather, my friend?'

And here is Donald's reply: 'Oh loshins! my good people, if it's going far you are, whip up your fine horses and make the quick and proper haste. For sure enough the snow will soon be down on you even more also. Get into shelter soon.'

'Much of a fall, think you, Donald?'

'Och, it may not be so much of a fall, my dear laddie, but it's the wild wind that will be roaring. The blizzard, the blizzard; and if it's only bits of English bodies you are, it will snow you up and smother ye!'

And so Donald went on with his shivering sheep and his hardy dog. It was but poor heartening he had left behind him. But there would be no going back.

About two miles farther on Antony could not help gazing uneasily at the moorland around him. It was very far as yet from the inn where they hoped to get stabling and a good pitch, and here there was shelter of no kind. But, above all, a low wind began now to sweep moaning over the veldt, the clouds had come up, had met the sun and obscured it, and, worse still, snow had begun to fall. Moreover, Antony was a fairly good student of nature, and knew that the little pellets that were now coming down, although no bigger than grains of mustard-seed, would soon be succeeded by huge dry flakes that would cover the ground inches deep in an hour and entirely impede progress. But in far less than that time, so thick was the storm, it was impossible to see many yards ahead. A milestone had not been visible for hours, nor was there a finger-post, and the force of the wind kept increasing almost momentarily.

Antony, like the good caravan-captain he was, sent his scout forward to prospect for a good place on which to draw up and form a gipsy laager. He was not long in returning. He had found just the spot, well sheltered by rocks on two sides. So Antony ordered him ahead to act as guide.

Yes, the ground was hard, and was but little likely to give way under the wheels; so, in the midst of the blinding drift and wind-whirled ice-dust, he drew off the road and formed as comfortable a pitch as was possible under the trying circumstances. The large caravan was positioned close to the little one to shelter it, the wagon was located handy, a stable-tent erected under the rocks with poles and canvas, to harbour the hardy horse that dragged the 'Silver Queen.' With this horse the groom was to sleep.

After things were made fairly snug, the coachman and his four good nags were sent off to fight their way to the distant hotel, the groom going along with orders to return if possible, and if it were not too dangerous, as soon as the horses were stabled and their comfort secured. Then, as the wind might change at any moment and wreck the 'Gipsy Queen,' Antony quickly got out his four strong iron pegs, and the ropes which were as thick as the painter of Lotty's yacht, and in less than an hour had the huge caravan safely anchored. She might and she would roll and toss and tug at her anchors, but hardly a hurricane itself would be strong enough to pull her from her moorings.

'Yes, Mrs Pendlebury, a good idea. We'll be glad to have dinner an hour earlier, even if we have to get some supper later on!'

After dinner, and as there was no chance of the groom returning that night, for darkness had already fallen, Antony went down the back steps to have another interview with his housekeeper, and to see that the one horse was snug for the night. He was nearly blown off his feet and half-suffocated with the choking ice-dust raised by the whirling blizzard before he was able to reach the back door of the little caravan. Being in comparative shelter, she was rocking far less than the large house-on-wheels; but Antony was glad enough to get inside.

'Sit down, Mrs Pendlebury; this is not a night to stand upon ceremony.' He held up his forefinger. 'Hark!' he said, almost solemnly.

Rising and falling in mournful cadence was the shriek of the wind. Hungry wolves howling on lonely Russian steppes, wild beasts in forest jungle, these seemed to be the voices that fell now on the listening ear. Anon they would lull a little, only to increase next minute with redoubled rage and force, while frozen moss torn from the rocks and mixed with snow was blown against the window-panes, threatening every moment to dash them in. It was difficult even to hear each other talking.

'I greatly fear, Mary, that we may be storm-stayed for days. I came to ask how we are off for stores and oil.'

Mary was understood to report as follows: Two gallons of oil in the kettle under the big caravan, groceries (including butter) enough for a week, milk (only condensed, but plenty of that), eggs a dozen; item, a leg of mutton uncooked; item, two cold roast-fowls (if Mary had said frozen she would have been nearer the mark); item, a roast-goose that the kindly proprietor at the Spa had insisted on putting inside the little caravan just as she started.

'And fixings, Mary?'

'Plenty of potatoes and green kale, and oat-cakes galore.'

Antony was understood to say 'Hurrah!' but the sound was drowned in an extra blast of the storm-wind which was now tearing through the camp with more than hurricane force.

'And I,' he said, when it lulled for a few moments, 'have among my stores, Mary, two unopened bottles of wine of the Highlands, which, before we get out of this we may be glad to dispense to keepers.'

It brightened a little after this, and Antony took advantage of the change to rush out and put up the shutters on both the caravans. He returned to the 'Silver Queen' almost immediately after, and glad enough was he to get inside, for the blizzard appeared to be now at its very height; and, curiously enough, the thermometer as well as the barometer had gone down with a run, and the former now stood at three degrees below zero, and the cold was intense.

'Shall I light the lamp, sir?'

The lamp, by the way, hung on gimbals, like that on board a ship.

'Oh, not for a while; I have banked my own fire in the 'Gipsy Queen,' and Wallace and pussy are lying snugly on the rug; but by your fire, if you will let me sit a short time, I think it will be ever so much more cosy without the lamp.'

The firelight in the pretty wee grate was certainly far more romantic, for it flickered and flared on their faces as they sat around it, while at their backs it was all shadows Rembrandtesque. Antony would fain have conversed, or even told stories, but the noise was every now and then so terrific that it was impossible to do so with any amount of profit.

But to sit and look at each other's faces, or the play of the light thereon, grew a little irksome at last; then quietly, and without being told, Lotty took down her violin-case and opened it almost with a species of reverence, for no little girl ever looked half so well after her doll as she took care of her beautiful instrument. There was a soft silk handkerchief over it, visible when the case was opened, and this carefully lifted off revealed the violin itself, its breast between the f-holes white with the powdered resin from bow and strings. That bow itself was worth more than many a good violin would fetch in the market.

The child smiled when she took this baby of hers out of its velvet-lined bassinet. She looked for a moment at her left-hand finger-tips as if to make sure the nails were correctly trimmed, then glanced at the fire as if fearful that a piece of coal might tumble out and dust arise. And now with exquisite tenderness she drew the bow across the strings before adjusting them to tune. Every string that Lotty possessed was well stretched before being tried, so that there was seldom much to do in the tuning way. Fastidious, indeed, would he have been who could not listen to-night with pleasure to the music this infant prodigy elicited from her favourite instrument.

But part of Lotty's power to please lay in the fact that she never played much on any evening, having apparently a latent dread of tiring an audience. To-night, at all events, Antony was not tired; in fact, he could have sat and listened to the sweet strains until long past midnight. And, oh! methinks that if harps are twanged as angels sing in heaven, the violin itself must lead. But the music, weird and dreamy, ceased at last, and Lotty put the child of her heart back again into its cosy case.

Well, all that fearful night the wind raged and howled with unabated violence, and it was probably owing to this, and to the rocking and tossing of his palace-upon-wheels, that Antony slept so long next morning, for when he flashed his electric light upon his watch, lo! he found it was nearly eight o'clock. He leapt out of bed and lit his lamp, and had just finished dressing when rat-tat-tat came to the back door. It was not until then that Antony noticed that the wind had gone down completely, the storm-spirit had spent its violence, and through the frozen panes of the skylight the beams of the rising sun were trying to struggle. So hard still was the frost that these panes of glass were not only covered by fern-fronds and flowers, but with powder.

'I thought, Mr Blake, it would be a pity to disturb you before.'

'Thank your kindness, Mary.'

'But breakfast is all ready, sir.'

'Well, ask Lotty to come in this morning and keep me company.'

He had, with his own hands, lit the stove half an hour ago, and the fire burned bright and clear in the frosty atmosphere.

'She will be delighted, I'm sure, but'——

'But what, Mary?'

'You'll have to carry her through the snow-wreaths.'

And when Antony looked out, lo and behold! he found that the 'Gipsy Queen' was embedded in a bank of snow as high as the steps themselves, and that a bank fully fourteen feet in height and shaped like a huge beach-comber separated the camp from the highway. A shovel and a spade were part of the caravan outfit, but this snow was far too powdery to be dug; so, enveloping himself in oilskin leggings and coat, Antony left Mary to put the caravan straight and lay the cloth, while he scrambled through to the back steps of the 'Silver Queen.' He found Lotty dressed as neatly and prettily as if she were going to be a Gipsy May-Queen. She gave him smiling welcome, and appeared quite delighted with this turn affairs had taken.

'Oh, isn't it beautiful and romantic, Mr Blake?'

'No doubt of that, dear; but goodness knows how many days, weeks, or months we may have to lie here.'

'And I hope it will be for quite a long, long time. What fun Wallace and I will have!'

There was a large kettle standing over the stove.

'Pray, what is in there, Lotty?' said Antony.

'Oh, that is snow cooking for tea, you know.'

And then Antony remembered that there was not a drop of water in either caravan.

'Breakfast is waiting, Mr Blake, and will soon get cold,' said Mary, bustling in.

'Come on, Lotty!' He was standing beneath the steps, the snow high above his knees, and holding out a pair of mittened hands. 'Jump into my oilskin, dear.'

'What! Have I to be carried like a baby?'

'Like the baby you are. Jump!'

Lotty jumped, and was soon deposited high and dry in the large caravan.

Wallace had gone away somewhere a jet black dog; he now returned a pure white one, and it took Antony full two minutes to make him presentable.

Real finnan-haddocks (hot, done to a turn, and served up between snow-white towels), oat-cakes, butter as sweet as spring primroses, new-laid duck-eggs, and coffee whose fragrance and aroma filled the whole saloon.

Antony was hungry, with a hill or mountain hunger, and gay with it all. So, too, was his little companion. Kind and generous treatment spoil some children; but Lotty was far too old-fashioned, pretty and lady-like though she was, to be spoiled.

'Isn't this life idyllic, my little pal?'

'I'm sure, Mr Blake, it is perfectly idyllic. But what does idyllic mean?'

'It means just this,' he answered with youthful rapture, 'it means all the beauty and the romance and peace and poetry we see around us both outside and in. That is idyllic.'

THE storm that imprisoned Antony's caravans will long be remembered in the Scottish Highlands for its renewal day after day for more than a week. Blizzard after blizzard blew, and even at last, when the snow ceased to fall and the sun brought a return of fine weather, winter held its tight grip upon everything. The roads were impassable, and for a time even snow-ploughs had but little effect upon the mighty wreaths and banks. But worse than these banks were the filled-up hollows and ravines in which some people averred it would take months to melt the snow.

Antony was a hopeful young fellow, however; and though a month in his snow-prison might not have hurt, he thought that in three months things would become a trifle monotonous, especially as they were a long journey from the camp of Biffins Lee. He need not have feared starvation, however, nor loneliness either, for when the sun began to shine once more he had many visitors who had made long pilgrimages to see the snow-bound camp and caravans. There were small lochs about moreover; and to one of these, in spite of the heavy walking, Antony and his little companion made frequent journeys. Both had skates and both knew well how to use them. Antony, however, had made one mistake: he had imagined he could show the northerners a thing or two, as he slanged it. It was quite the other way, for the northerners have practice almost all the winter through, and are therefore very expert at skating.

But on the ice, whether curling or skating, Antony could not help making acquaintance with some very nice people; and though at heart neither a hermit nor recluse—because, as he explained only to his sister Aggie, society bored him—he was not proof against some of the many kind invitations he received from really good families. The roads now were passable in most parts to light dogcarts and to sleighs, although the 'Gipsy Queen' dared not attempt them. He tried to stave off some of these invitations by saying that he could not leave his housekeeper and Lotty in the evening. But there was an easy answer to this objection.

'Let your big, beautiful dog stay with the caravan, and also your groom. These can protect your housekeeper, and you bring the child with you.'

Well, there was moonlight at present, and really—under a clear, star-studded sky, with hard snow under the runners and jingling bells at the horse's neck—sleighing, well wrapped up in warm furs, is a very delightful sensation, and Lotty enjoyed it immensely. Perhaps she enjoyed quite as much a ride in a swift motor-car, and some families had these, and they seemed to run along where the roads were open at about a hundred miles an hour, although they might have been doing barely forty. And wherever she went Lotty took her violin with her, so that it is no wonder this infant prodigy was an immense favourite. The verdict on her was very much the same wherever she went: 'So gentle and well-behaved, so lady-like, and so unlike all one's conceived ideas of a show-child.' For, of course, Antony had thought proper not to conceal what Lotty really was—just a little gipsy lass.

But there was one thing which probably accounted in some measure for Lotty's nice manners. Biffins Lee had not neglected her education; and this not out of any real kindness to the child, we may well believe, but because his desire was to have her an infant prodigy in every way possible. At places where a sojourn was determined upon, if of only a few weeks' duration, Biffins had seen to it that she had the best of teaching from the best of teachers in every branch of education that would tend to bring out her brightest qualities. Little wanderer though she was, Lotty loved knowledge, and learning was a delight to her. Everything taught her fell upon the best soil and took root, therefore rendering her mind not the barren and inhospitable desert we too often find it in children, who seem to regard teaching and education of all kinds as penal, as a kind of punishment from which they long to emerge and speedily forget.

Lotty knew English well, and so she read the best of English authors old and new, and her knowledge of French was the key that opened to her the doors of a great library which was stored with marvels.

And whenever Biffins had the chance he was fond of drawing Lotty out before people to show how much his child—he always put great emphasis on the possessive pronoun—knew.

With music it was the same. But, after all, her accomplishments were all meant to bring grist to his own mill and make Lotty more valuable as a property.

At one house a children's party was got up all for Lotty's own sake, and the little ones who met her were kept laughing at all her marvellous tricks till long past their usual bedtime.

So, upon the whole, being snow-bound in a caravan in the dead of winter Antony found was not such a terrible experience after all. He kept in touch with Biffins Lee, but only by telegrams, and these were just as brief as he could make them, and few and far between. One ran thus: 'Storm-stayed;' another, 'Snow-bound;' a third, 'Still snow-bound,' and so on and so forth. He took the trouble to prepay these, and the replies were always consoling enough: 'Don't hurry—all right in camp;' or 'Keep my properties as long as you have a mind.'

While storm-stayed among the beautiful snow, with pure air blowing around him, and the scenery of mountain, forest, and stream so fairy-like and enchanting, Antony could not help thinking of the kind of life that his father had half-recommended to him—namely, that of London. Comparisons are odious, it is true; still, for once in a way, Antony could not help making them.

'Frank Antony Blake,' he said to himself, 'I will tell you something, but you are never to let it go any farther. All around you here there are beauty and romance that nothing on earth could surpass, while yonder in the city are the black mire of muddy streets, bare trees dripping soot, darkness, and choking fog. Frank Antony Blake, you have the better of it, you lucky old dog!'

He had frequent letters from Manby Hall, from Aggie, for she was the only real scribe; and almost every one of these now breathed the wish that he might soon return. Antony's mother wrote but seldom, being very much of an invalid and taking but little interest in anything.

'Still frozen in,' he said in a telegram to Aggie.

Well, there were sports in winter here that were not to be despised, and one of these was white hare shooting. Antony thought himself fit, and he was fairly so; but he found that a twenty-mile walk over the mountains after these Alpine hares, and the same distance back, was trying to his heart as well as to his legs. Yet the sturdy fellows who went with him, and the hardy Highland keepers, thought nothing of it. One day in particular he felt so tired when nearing home that he scarce could carry his gun; but very much surprised was he to be told by a keeper that he was going to walk five miles to a ball as soon as he changed his kilt, and would no doubt dance all night and go to the hill after breakfast in the morning.

Heigh-ho! pleasure of every kind comes to an end in this world, and sooner or later the world itself will come to an end. So, after innumerable adventures on the road, Antony with his caravans found himself one forenoon rolling into Biffins Lee's camp once more. But never, never could he forget the joys and romance of that winter tour in the Highlands. All hands gathered round to hear them tell their story, and everybody was pleased to see them back once more safe and sound.

Although the real home of a dog is wherever his master or mistress is, still no one nowadays would be listened to who disputed the fact that the honest fellow thinks and remembers, and that he can no more forget the days of auld langsyne than can a human being. Indeed, on his return Wallace's behaviour was very human. He not only went a round of inspection all about the camp, as if to see that everything was as before; but he must say, 'How do you do?' in his own way to every animal in the show, especially Bruin the bear, whom doubtless Wallace looked upon as a hero. But Bruin was very glad to see him, and proved this by actually getting on his hind-legs and performing a wild dance of his own which would have looked very ridiculous had he not been so really sincere.

The springtime had commenced—that is, it was the middle of February, and this is Nature's spring, let astronomers rule it otherwise if they please. But the buds that had first shown life in November by thrusting off the old leaves, that fell withered and brown on pathway and bank, showed signs now of fullness and bursting. They but waited in silence for balmier breezes to blow and for the sun to shine more warmly at midday. Then the coy young leaflets would begin to show. On banks beneath the rocky cliffs and on old gray boulders the velvety moss assumed a brighter face, and wee olive-leaves appeared on the honeysuckle, which is ever the first to give show of life to wild hedge or copse.

Away in the woods the hoodies were building a nest here and a nest there in pine-tree or tall elm, for they are not social birds. These worked in silence; but high in the larches the magpies made more din and chattering.

Birds of all kinds were more gaily dressed now to welcome the incoming season of joy and love. The mavises and blackbirds sang loud and jubilant in the plantation's shade; they wanted all the world to know that they were happy. But even the tinier birds, songless as yet, that hopped from tree to tree, looked very busy and vastly important, for each little feathered bosom held a sweet secret that none but themselves should know.

The sea-birds came as usual to the knoll to be fed; but even their plumage looked cleaner, if that could have been possible, and more ornate. They were quicker on the wing too, and their voices were shriller and more musical. By the highway sides anemones began now to snow the turf, and many a little nameless yellow flower, and the gowans or mountain daisies spread wide their crimson-tipped petals to woo the sunshine.

To be out of doors at this season, in this romantic and beautiful sea-laved land, was heaven itself, a happy, hopeful time that Frank Antony, with his big poetic heart, could have wished would last for aye. It was better far, he thought, than the red rush of summer, with its floral glory that would end so soon in autumn brown and sear. But some hearts are built to love spring and only spring. They want to have the buds and flowers always springing, and birds singing their first and therefore their real songs of happiness and love.

Lotty would be thirteen this year.

'Dear me,' she said looking additionally wise for a moment, 'what a long, long life!'

Poor little gipsy lass, that long, long life had not been wanting in sorrow! And it was probably for this reason that it seemed to her so long.

They were bird-nesting among the yellow gorse that scented all the air around them and hugged the moorland in great golden patches; and it was here the rose-linnet had its cosy nest and sang so sweetly to its little brown mate so quiet on her speckled eggs. Both Antony and she loved to see birds' nests, but it is needless to say they touched them not.

'I'll soon be old, Mr Blake!'

Her companion laughed; and Wallace, fancying he saw the joke, gave Lotty's ear a friendly lick in passing.

'Soon be as old as Crona, won't you, dear?' said Antony.

'Oh, I don't know how long it takes to be as old as Crona, though somehow I never think that my fairy godmother is aged.'

'You are a happy girl to have so good a godmother.'

'Oh yes, and I feel cold sometimes to think how miserable I would be if there were no Crona. I have Chops—Chops comes next after Wallace; and then Mary, and then Bruin, and then Skeleton.'

'You put Bruin before Skeleton?'

'Yes, Bruin before Skeleton; because I've seen more of him, you know—more of Bruin than even Wallace, though Wallace is wiser. But, Mr Blake, I can remember a time when there was no Wallace, and then it was always either Chops or Bruin who came with me when I went to visit Crona. But I was never afraid of ugly men when Bruin was with me.'

'I should think not indeed.'

'And once, I mind, it came on too quickly dark in the forest—that was before Chops had blazed the trees—and I lost myself. The bear and I soon grew tired and lay down to rest. I would have been very cold if Bruin hadn't been so warm, so I soon fell sound asleep.'

'A very pretty pair of babes in the wood you must have looked!'

'It was very early when I awoke, but quite light, and I was so dreadfully afraid now, because Bruin was sitting and roaring loud and angry. Will Wisely the poacher was standing there not far off, and shaking with fear so that he could hardly speak.

'"Oh Will," I cried, "get up into a tree for fear Bruin kills you and eats you."

'It was a very tall, close spruce-tree, and up went Will as quickly as he could. I thought Bruin would not follow; but he did, because Bruin, I'm sure, believed that all the forest belonged to him and me, and that Will Wisely had no business up in one of our trees. So the bear roared more loudly than ever, and went off up the tree, and then Will was forced to slide out over the point of a big branch and lower himself to the ground.

'"Run, Will," I said, "run, Will, for your life, and I'll try to keep Bruin in the tree."

'So I climbed up a bit myself, and the bear growled and was very angry because I wouldn't let him down to get a piece of Will Wisely. But I wouldn't, and so Will got away, and Bruin and I soon found our way home to camp. Oh, I love Bruin! And, Mr Blake, when you go away'——

The child suddenly stopped speaking, and, to Antony's surprise, threw herself on the ground close beside the golden furze there, where the rose-linnets sang, and burst into a fit of sobbing and tears.

NEITHER children nor dogs think much about the future, and it would be wise sometimes if their elders resembled them in this respect, for surely even Lotty's honest and faithful friend Wallace was to be envied in being so perfectly happy and contented, and in believing—if he could be said to possess a belief—that the world for him would have no end, that his little mistress would always be with him, and that it would always be sunshine and spring.

But young folks like Lotty, who have come through the hard, do often wonder to themselves what will become of them in after years. And this gipsy lass had been so happy ever since Frank Antony had arrived in camp that the very thought of his going away and being to her as if he had never come to cheer her and make the days seem all too short, was one which loomed before her like a big dark cloud which ere long must engulf her, and from which her sun of life might never emerge. No wonder, then, that as she thought of this she shed bitter tears that morning on the moor. And what could Antony do but just try to comfort her as best he could? For there was sorrow and sadness even at his own heart. And the birds sang on, and the perfume of spring was all around them; only poor Wallace seemed much concerned and whined pitifully as he licked poor Lotty's hands and ears.

But the child's grief did not last a great while, and soon she was smiling through her tears, after heaving one or two half-heartbroken sighs.

'I'm such a little silly, amn't I?' she said.

Antony raised her from the sitting position and soon they were walking hand in hand across the moor towards Crona's cottage, singing as was their wont—she in her sweet treble, he in his bass—and the dog bounding and barking with joy, half-hysterically one might have said, to see his mistress happy once more.

They were always sure of a hearty and loving welcome at the witch's house. The cat met them to rub head against legs, even Wallace coming in for a share of her affection. Indeed, the great Newfoundland appeared to be a hero with pussy, though no doubt he considered himself somewhat superior to her in intellect. On this occasion she showed her affection for the dog by running off in front and whacking poor Tod Lowrie, who was sound asleep at the sunny side of the cottage door.

'Get up, you lazy Lowrie,' she seemed to say, 'and welcome a bigger dog than ever you'll be.'

Nevertheless, pussy kept her gloves on all the time she whacked the fox. So it was only play and fun, born of her sudden joy at seeing her friends Lotty, Antony, and big, wise Wallace. And when Joe with a craik-k! and a croak-k! his wings drooping on the ground, rushed forward and jumped nimbly on top of the fox and pecked at pussy, anybody could see this was also fun and play got up on the spur of the moment.

'Hurray—ray!' cried the strange bird. 'Joe's alive! Hurray—hurray—ray!'

When Joe did at last manage to land a dig in pussy's brow he held back his head and laughed as if possessed of something not canny.

'Ha—ha—ha! Ho—ho—ho! Joe's alive. Ha—ha—ha!'

Pussy shook her head, and retired to wash her face.

Well, Crona and her friends spent a very happy day together, and the sun was down before they even dreamt of parting. The sun went down, and then came a long twilight, with a gradually rising wind; so, bidding Crona good-night, they set out with all speed to get clear of the woods before darkness fell, and to-night there would be no early moon, for it was the neap.

Chops had come as far as the high cliff to meet them, and as he was looking unusually serious Antony asked him if anything was the matter.

'W'ich I don't go for to say there is,' answered Chops, 'not on my own like; only Kelly the coastguard tells us that the bark hout yonder isn't likely to weather the Partans' Rock.'

Before Antony and Lotty had got quite clear of the woods the wind had suddenly increased to almost the force of a gale, blowing right on to the land, with, if anything, a bit of eastering in it. And out yonder in the fast-gathering gloom they could see a bark under very little sail standing westwards, but perilously near to the shore.

The word 'partan' signifies a crab, and the rock out yonder was never visible except at very low tides, such as occur at the neap.

Presently Kelly himself came along. He was an Englishman and a good sailor, and he was stationed with a chum or two far along the coast here.

'Hallo, Kelly!' said Antony, 'from the little a landsman like me knows of the sea, yonder ship seems in a nasty place.'

'Ay, sir, that she be; and though the tide isn't out so far as it will be, the Partans' Rock, sir, is all awash. I mind,' he added, 'when the Fair Maid o' Wales went on shore on that same ugly rock three year and more agone.'

'Went to pieces, did she?'

'Went to pieces? Ay, that she did. A cat couldn't have lived out there that night.'

'Any one lost?'

'Nobody saved, sir—not a living soul.'

'Is there a lifeboat anywhere near?'

'No nearer nor B—— and it's there I'm going as fast's I can; but it's ten good miles yet.'

'Won't detain you,' said Antony. 'But could nothing be done to warn the station?'

Kelly was moving on.

'Ay,' he shouted up the wind, 'if the fools on the bark show a rocket or two; but they won't do that till they strike, and then'—— Kelly was supposed to have added the words 'too late,' but they were not distinctly heard.

Antony took Lotty's hand, so that together they might run down the distance that intervened betwixt this high outlook-cliff and the camp. The child was trembling all over.

'You're not afraid, are you, dear?'

'No—that is, not much, Mr Blake,' she replied; 'but, oh, wouldn't it be dreadful if the ship went to pieces on the Partans' Rock, and poor dear dead sailors were washed up through the firth to our camp?'

'But I don't think it will be so bad as that, Lotty. Those coastguards generally make the worst of things.'

'Did not Kelly say something about rockets?'

'Yes, dear.'

'And we have lots in our camp.'

'But, child, the bark may have some; anyhow, our sending up rockets would, I feel certain, only confuse the coastguard. They would know even in the dark that these were sent up from the shore, and imagine we were only just having some fireworks.'

'That is true; but, oh dear, it is terrible!' Then suddenly she added, 'I think we should light a fire just here; that would warn them off.'

'Yes, Miss Lotty.'

The child let go Antony's hand now, and he knew she meant business. There was dead wood, with withered furze, lying about here, and all hands commenced at once to collect it. Even Wallace brought piece after piece and wisely laid it down beside the rest. And in five minutes' time a red, roaring fire was gleaming through the darkness far across the sea.

Those on that devoted bark saw the fire even if they could not perceive the treacherous rock; and, knowing too well what it meant, tried to luff and get farther out to northwards. From the lights which now appeared upon her, Lotty could tell that she had put about and was trying to work into the wind's eye.

They left the cliff, and left Chops there to feed the flames, and by making all haste were not long before they reached the camp. It would now be about nine o'clock, or hardly; and so heavy were the clouds that nothing was to be seen, never a star above, and only the shifting lights in the camp. Little to be heard either except the wash and swell of the breakers and the occasional wild scream of a sea-bird. That was an ugly coast at night for vessels to get near when the shore was a lee one, and more especially in the dark o' the neap, with a falling tide.

As they were still gazing, with hands above their eyes, out into the pitchy gloom of that wild sea, suddenly there was a flash as of red lightning, then a gun roared out, awakening a hundred echoes among the rocks.

'Oh, Mr Blake, Mr Blake, the bark has struck!'

'I fear she has, Lotty. But nothing can be done. Why, I wonder, do they not fire a rocket?'

'Because, dear Mr Blake, perhaps they haven't one.'

'Well, calm yourself, Lotty. We can only pray for them, and before long the coastguard may come with the lifeboat crew.'

'Ay, but they will never know. Kelly will take two long hours to reach B—— and by that time, oh dear, oh! there may not be a soul left on board the bark, nor a plank for a drowning man to cling to.'

Biffins Lee himself had come up.

'A sad business out yonder in the dark o' the neap, I fear, Mr Blake.'

There was no sign of sorrow in the man's voice. In fact, he seemed but looking upon the whole affair from a spectacular point of view.

Another flash and another reverberating roar.

'One more gun!' said Biffins coolly. 'She can't hold together long if she be on the Partan,' he added, 'or even inside it, which is more likely. I'm going to tell Mary to heat water and to set men to watch the surf for dark things—bodies—coming in. We may save life, Mr Blake, and what a fine advertisement for the Queerest Show on Earth!'

Probably Frank Antony had never troubled himself to hate the man before, but he did now; and, though the young man's arm was held down by his side, he clinched his fist and gnashed his teeth. Then came the questioning thought to his mind, just as it had often come before: 'Can this brute really be the father of the sweet child who is standing by my side?'

And as Lee went out of sight, up out of the dark o' the neap seemed to arise the answer: 'He cannot be her father, be the mystery what it may!'

Antony turned now to speak to Lotty. He missed her. She was here not a minute ago, but now she was gone.

'Lotty, Lotty!' he called, and even Wallace raised his voice, barking a strange, querulous kind of bark, and that was Antony's only answer.

'She is off to light the lamps in the "Gipsy Queen,"' he said to himself. So he lit a cigar, and went smoking towards the caravan. But it was all in darkness.

He met Mary.

'Have you seen Lotty?' he said.

'A few moments ago. Yes, Mr Blake. She was going towards the big marquee.'

Ee-yowf barked Wallace again. It was the strangest sort of bark ever the young man had heard him utter—speakingly strange, in fact. Then he started off in the direction of the swinging, swaying petroleum lights of the camp.

He found the honest dog in the marquee looking for his mistress, and it was evident enough he was on trail. He went dashing out now with his head low towards the turf; and, as far as Antony could see him, he appeared to be making tracks for the river. And Antony followed as quickly as he could, a strange, wild thought having suddenly taken possession of his very soul. He felt it was foolish, but he could not help it.

He found Wallace standing by the little boathouse looking helplessly out towards the sea. Antony quickly opened the back-folding doors and threw the gleam of his flashlight inside. It was empty! The Jenny Wren was gone!

He had not a single doubt now in his mind as to what must have happened.

'Oh, how daring! how mad!' he said to himself half-aloud.

The little gipsy lass had evidently gone right to the big marquee to find rockets, and with these in her possession she had no doubt set out in the little boat towards the stranded bark, over that wild and stormy sea, in the dark o' the neap.

THAT next half-hour seemed to be the longest for Antony that ever he had passed in his lifetime. That is what he said to his sister Aggie when he wrote and told her all about the events of this fearful night. He first went back towards his caravan, closely followed by Wallace, who appeared to watch his every movement, certain in his canine mind that Antony would do something to find his mistress. For a master stands in the place of a god to his faithful dog, and the latter believes him omnipotent. Hardly knowing what he did, he lit the great lamps, and through their dark-crimson shades their light streamed like blood across the sand and on the surf.

For long minutes he sat beside Wallace, the dog giving vent occasionally to that long, sad sigh that shows every one who knows and understands such an animal that he is in grief—the dog sighing, the man chafing at his own helplessness.

Presently he got up, and descended the steps. He met Mary bustling around, and told her his fears.

All she answered was, 'Then God help our bonny bairn this dread and awful night!'

No comfort in that quarter.

'I fear the worst, Mary,' he said.

'Let us hope for the best, then,' said Mary.

Then he set himself to walking rapidly up and down the beach as if to work away his awful anxiety. And thus a good half-hour was passed. 'Had she succeeded in reaching the doomed ship,' he told himself, 'there would have been some sign ere now. Hallo!'

Another flash, another report, and almost immediately after the meteor-track of a splendid rocket rising high in air, turned a little towards the west, then bursting with a dull sound into brightest flame.

'Thank God!' cried Antony, 'the daring child has got safely on board.'

Something cold and damp touched his hand, and he found Wallace by his side; and the gentle touch gave him both comfort and hope. But just at that moment Antony made a strange discovery, which he put into words, though these were not spoken aloud, but to his heart, as it were.

'I love that child,' he told himself with the frankness of youth, 'more than is good for my peace of mind, more than is good for my future happiness or probably hers; for if she is spared this sad night to get safely on shore, soon now the parting must come, and I go away on my road in life and Lotty on hers. Heaven help the child and me!'

Just as he was communing with himself, the dark o' the neap was riven once more by a rocket's gleam that swayed and rose and burst as before.

It will be better to go back a little and follow the gipsy lass's movements as she went sweeping down the river that night and headed straight for that boiling sea. Surely she had more than the strength and skill of any two man-o'-war's men, and more than the daring of a Grace Darling to venture forth on such a forlorn hope.

But she had reasoned thus with herself: 'Even if I fail to reach the ship, I can, I think, sweep my light skiff quickly round and go rushing back to the river on the scud of the furious sea, and if I miss that the surf will rush me right up upon the beach, and I will not lose either my life nor Antony's Jenny Wren.'

Both wind and waves tossed the little boat about, but bravely did Lotty keep her head to the mountain seas. So high and wild were some of the breakers that they lifted the bows high in air and almost sank the skiff stern first. The first quarter of an hour's pull was the worst. After this, though the waves were higher, they did not break so much. Ah! but Lotty soon saw that they were sweeping high and horrible right over the stranded vessel, and for quite a long time she hovered near, hesitating how and when to approach.

At last she said to herself, 'It must be now or never.'

So high on a wavetop was she as the boat went dashing on from windward that the brave girl could see right down on to the wave-washed deck. Perhaps it was well for Lotty that the bark was so firmly, so steadfastly fixed on the rocks; bad for the ship, it is true, for from this position never could she move except in staves and broken timbers.

The sailors had seen the coming skiff, and three of them, at imminent peril, rushed to the side and seized it in time; and next moment Lotty, safe for the time being, was on the slippery upper deck of the bark, and even the Jenny Wren was hauled on board. Right aft in the skiff was a little locker, and it was in this Lotty had stowed the rockets.

On the beach, about an hour after this, shapeless black things were driven up by the spume and the rush of the waves, and these were quickly seized by the hands of the ready fishermen who had been attracted to the spot. Antony himself was there, in fear and trembling lest one of the bodies washed in might be—oh, terrible!—Lotty's own.

. . . . . . .

Bob Stevens was a hard, rosy-faced man, bold and blue-eyed, strong in muscle, without one superfluous ounce of fat. Those eyes of his had peered into the darkness overcanopying many a stormy sea, those hard brown hands were at home with either tiller or oar, and more than at home with tack or sheet; a fisherman by trade, a sailor bold as ever trod a slippery deck, and master of the B—— lifeboat. Bob had gone quietly into the bar-parlour of the 'Lovat Arms' on that evening, with three of his pals, all life-boatmen, and they were smoking and enjoying modest glass and yarn when a man in oilskins rushed hurriedly in.

'Bob, you'll be wanted,' he said. 'There's a ship on the Partan Rocks.'

'God help her if she's there to-night!' said one of Bob's crew.

'Up with your drams, lads, and we'll get the Maiden out at once.'

In an almost incredibly short space of time, and just as the second red rocket cleft the darkness of the sky, the Maiden was launched and standing out to sea. So quickly had they gone that the men's wives knew nothing of their going until they had made good their offing and were swallowed up in the dark o' the neap. The Maiden could sail as close to the wind as any boat on the coast; but it needed all her seaworthiness and all Bob's skill to-night to battle with these fierce and seething seas.

Never in this world will all the brave deeds done by our British lifeboats' crews be recorded. Perhaps—quien sabe?—their stories may be told on the shores of the Heavenly Canaan, where it is to be hoped we shall all meet.

But now, through the darkness, the ocean lit up by the white of the curling waves, the Maiden toils on, up the watery hills, down with a rush into the vales between, hit, buffeted, overwhelmed, and shivering, but still striving on and on and on.

Will she be in time?

Perhaps hardly not, for the last rocket has been fired, and out of the goodly crew of seventeen men and a boy that left London but two weeks ago only nine are now alive. The rest have been swept away into the black, yawning seas, and washed shorewards to death on the turn of the tide.

Lotty is down below, for here is the captain's wife and baby, whom the little gipsy lass is doing her best to comfort. And she is thus engaged when her quick ear is sensible of knocking and scraping along the leeside bulwarks, and presently she cries aloud with joy, her eyes sparkling, her face sweetly flushed in the light of the lamp in gimbals.

'Saved, dear lady, saved!' she says to the skipper's wife. For she has heard strange voices on the deck, manly voices shouting strange orders high above the wail of wind and dash of raging sea.

She and her companions are soon lifted by some of the rescuers and carried as if babies in the strong arms of the rough but kindly men; and in a few minutes all are on board the lifeboat, the last man to throw himself in being the brave skipper himself.

Bob Stevens presently feels a tug at his arm, and a young girl's voice says in his ear, 'Do not try to beach her; the sea is high and the bottom is rock. Up the Burn o' Bogie with her. I'm going forward,' continued the voice; and Bob said, many a time after this, it sounded to him like the voice of a seraph—'I'm going forward with my flashlight, and will guide you safe up the burn.'

It is needless to say that the voice was Lotty's, and next minute she was as far forward as one could get in a boat like this, with the light in her hand. She could see the fearful, roaring white of the seas that dashed on shore; but there were hills with their black heads yonder too, and it was by these she kept the course, till, with boiling waves high and threatening on both sides of her, the lifeboat glided into the still, deep waters of the Burn o' Bogie.

It was Antony himself who lifted Lotty from the bows and landed her safe on shore; and in all the vast crowd, that had gathered from every part of the country, hardly was there a dry eye or a heart that did not throb with joy in thinking of the brave deed done this night by the little gipsy lass.

. . . . . . .

'And to think, my dear,' said Mrs Oak the skipper's wife of the lost bark Cumberland, as she was leaving for the south two or three weeks after this, 'that I may never have a chance of doing you a favour for all your brave kindness to us! Oh surely,' she added as she pressed Lotty's hand, and would not let it go, 'the King himself will hear of your gallantry and pluck, and thank you. Good-bye, Lotty, oh good-bye, and God be with you aye!—Kiss the child, James,' she said to her husband; 'kiss the darling that saved our lives.'

Big, brown-bearded James did as he was told. And Lotty was made to promise that if ever she came to Shepherd's Bush she would pay Capstan Cottage a visit, where she, this burly skipper's wife, lived when her husband was far at sea.

But as she made this promise, little did Lotty think how soon she would meet this kindly woman once again.

. . . . . . .

They say it is an ill wind that blows nobody good. The storm that caused the sad and awful wreck of the good bark Cumberland had been by no means an ill-wind to the showman Biffins Lee. No one knew better than he did how to take advantage of a windfall. Immediately after the disaster his people had all to work extra time. No extra pay—that was quite another matter. But the Queerest Show had to be got into full swing, for hundreds of people from all directions flocked towards it, not only to see the scene of the wreck and to pick up souvenirs thereof on the beach, but to see Lotty the heroine, or to listen to the story of her daring and courage from the lips of Biffins Lee; for the girl herself was far too modest and shy to say one word concerning it. In fact, she thought very little about the matter, and could not have been made to believe that she had given evidence of any extra courage in doing what she had done. She knew from the first that in her Jenny Wren there would be no great difficulty in taking out a few rockets to the stranded ship, and she did so. Of course, it had been a little awkward getting alongside, and all that; but then—well, she was successful, and that perhaps as much by chance, she thought, as her own good management.

She shrank instinctively, therefore, from being made a hero of, and lionised; and when she saw newspapers effulgent with flowery language descriptive of her deed of daring, and calling her the second Grace Darling, and all that, she could have torn the pages out and burned them. Indeed, that is precisely what she would have done, only the papers belonged to the show and not to her.

But Biffins Lee had extracts made from these articles, printed in big, attractive capitals, and posted up near to the show, and great posters here and there at roadsides, with big black hands and pointing fingers on them:

THIS WAY TO THE QUEEREST SHOW ON EARTH.
————
GRACE DARLING,
WHO SAVED THE CREW OF THE 'CUMBERLAND.'

EVERY VARIETY OF AMUSEMENT,
SERIOUS AND COMICAL.

BEARS, APES, LIVING SKELETON, AND
THE DREADED DOOROOCOOLIE.
ONLY LIVING MERMAN IN THE WORLD.

Well, Lotty could not help this; but when told that she must appear on the stage in front of a specially prepared scenic screen—rocks, sea, and wrecked ship, with the little Jenny Wren bounding over the waves, and she in it; and that, moreover, she must dress as 'Grace Darling Redivivus' and describe her adventure, then for the first time in her life she became a beautiful but tearful little rebel.

'Father, father,' she cried, 'I cannot, will not do this!'

'Will not, eh? Well,' was the reply, 'and when I tell you that you must and shall, what is your answer to be?'

'That I sha'n't.'

The scene that followed is one which no author would care to dwell upon. But, losing all control over himself, the fat and burly showman advanced with his fist clenched and eyes aflame, and no doubt might have done poor innocent Lotty serious injury. But just at that moment came a fresh actress on the scene, in the person of Crona herself. Dressed as usual in the clean starched mob-cap or mutch, her tartan plaid and garments fluttering around her in the breeze blowing off the sea, a long staff in her hand, and Joe the raven on her shoulder, she appeared as suddenly as if she had sprung from the earth, and interposed her presence 'twixt the showman and child.

'Back!' she almost screamed, 'back, Biffins Lee. Lay but a finger on that child, and there is an end to your show and to your career as well.'

'How dare you, woman! Who are you that interferes with the legal right of a parent to reprimand a disobedient child?'

'Who am I, Biffins Lee?' she repeated. Then she made one step towards him and hissed something in his ear.

Lee started as if shot, and stood there before the witch, pale, perspiring, and trembling.

But Crona only laughed.

'Come with your fairy godmother, darling.' She placed an arm around Lotty, and together they left the stage.

'TO—run—away—Miss Lotty?' Chops was gasping. 'Miss Lotty, did ye say—run—away?'

'Oh yes, Chops, I fear I had to say—run away. But you won't tell anybody ever, will you?'

'Never, never, never,' said Chops with curious solemnity.

'Because, you know, Chops, I've always told you everything, and I dare not go away without telling you this. Mary is good, and so is Skeleton; but they would try to argue me out of going, and if he knew he would kill me I think.'

'Miss Lotty, who is 'e?'

'Mr Biffins Lee,' said Lotty quietly, sadly, with her eyes turned towards the stars, but seeing them not.

'Yer father, Miss Lotty?'

'The man who says he is my father,' she said slowly and deliberately. Then, 'Oh Chops, there is a mystery, a strange, strange mystery that I must not even tell you yet. But Crona knows it all.'

'Mustn't—tell—me yet? Ye said "yet," didn't ye, Miss Lotty?'

'I said "yet."'

'But then some day I'll know, won't I? So I'll live in 'opes o' that some day. An' some day,' this queer boy went on, 'some day summat helse be agoin' to 'appen. Ye know the song, Miss Lotty, "'E never told 'is love"? Well, that's me. An' I'm goin' to be honest an' straight with ye as ever was. An' till the day w'en by savin' an' savin' I makes a bit o' money, an' is old enough to lead ye to the halter, I'm goin' to be a helder brother to ye. So 'elp me, Billy-o.'

Who Billy-o was it would be difficult to say; but Chops's adjuration certainly sounded a strong one. But evidently the lad liked Lotty very much, and it would be wrong to laugh at love even in the crude.

Chops was silent for a time.

Wallace was lying down perilously close to the edge of the cliff—so close, indeed, that Lotty feared to call him lest he should miss his foothold and tumble over to destruction. But it was only the dog's way, and he was perfectly safe.

But Lotty's newly constituted elder brother broke the silence at last.

'Miss Lotty,' he said, 'Chops, yer friend, will neither give sleep to 'is heyes nor slumber to 'is heyelids until 'e 'as prayed hover an' thought hall about the scheme for runnin' away. If so be,' he added, 'that it seems best for ye, Chops will tell ye to-morrer mornin' has ever was. No more at present from yours truly till death do us part—Chops junior.'

Wallace had drawn away from the cliff, much to Lotty's relief, and come forward as if to listen to the conversation.

'Oh, Chops, by the way,' said the girl, 'you said Chops junior. I've been often going to ask you had you ever, ever a father, Chops?'

'Wot then, Miss Lotty? Think I 'ad two mothers hinstead? Or that baby Chops floated ashore on a 'urdle? My father, Miss Lotty, is a jobbin' gardener, as does hodd jobs in 'Ighgate 'Eath, as good a man, t'old pa'son says, has hever drew the breath o' life on a Monday mornin'.'

'And your mother, Chops?'

'Does laundryin'. 'As a sweet little cottage—three rooms an' a hattic, a porch afore the door, nice little garden, an' a nice wash'ouse behind. Oh! my people be swells in a way, Miss Lotty.'

'Any brothers or sisters, Chops?'

'Just one bit o' a sister o' ten, Miss Lotty, an' she be a girl like. There is no boys to be brothers. As sharp's they makes 'em Mariar is. W'en not at school she runs herrands, goes for poor father's 'arf pint o' cold fourpenny, an' takes the washin' 'ome o' Saturday nights to the haristocracy.'

'Chops, why didn't you ever tell me all this before?'

‘’Cause, Miss Lotty, t' old pa'son says to me, "Chops," 'e says, "it's allers manners to wait till you're haxed."'

'Highgate Heath, Chops—is that a nice part?'

'W'ich it's puffikly lovely, an' wot they calls a charmin' locality, an' freekwented mostly by the hupper-ten.'

After a pause, Lotty put her hand on her companion's shoulder.

'Chops!'

'That's me, Miss Lotty.'

'Did your mother ever take a lodger?'

'No, little sister—but—but'——

Then at that moment Chops began to dance and to caper so wildly there in the starlight that Wallace was forced to back astern to bark at him.

'I 'ave it, Miss Lotty. Lor' love ye, I've got it!' he cried. 'Wonder it didn't strike me at onct.' Then he lowered his voice to almost a whisper. 'If so be as ye does run away, Lotty, an' does get as far as Lunnon town, my dear, it's straight to 'Ighgate 'Eath ye goes, to the 'ouse o' my parents, an' lodge there as 'appy as a May Queen till ye gets summat to do.'

'Oh,' said Lotty, 'this is so very kind of you, Chops. I hope I'll be able to thank you some day, Chops—some day.'

'W'en I leads ye to the halt'——

Lotty put her little hand on his mouth. 'You shall always be my friend, won't you?'

'Oh lor', wot a question to hax!'

'But if I go to London—if I get to London—I'll be sure to call on your parents at Highgate Heath. Then, Chops'—— she said somewhat anxiously.

'Me again?' said Chops.

'Does my father—does Mr Lee—know your parents, or know where they live? Did he meet you there first?'

'Miss Lotty, Biffins Lee, the man as was yer father, but ain't now no more, doesn't know nuffin', an' I wouldn't go for to trust 'im not the valuedom of a tin whistle. Biffins Lee picked me up at a penny gaff, w'ere I were a hactin' the horphan chee-ild.'

'Well,' said Lotty, thoughtfully but cheerfully, 'I think if I went to your mother's cottage till I got teaching or something, I would be very happy.'

This somewhat adipose lad had a very good-humoured face and a kindly eye; but he could have struck no one as being a devotee at the histrionic shrine. Yet, nevertheless, his one ambition was to become some day a tragedian, and strut the boards, perhaps even as Othello himself. At this very moment he must strike an attitude, and with arm uplifted towards the eastern stars give voice as follows:

'The lot in life o' this poor son o' toil 'as not been a joyful one 'itherto. Torn from the harms o' 'is weepin' parents at a hearly age, 'e was attached to the great conglomeration o' Biffins Lee. Though fed like a queen-bee in order that 'e might take the part of Roly Poly in the Christmas pant., or 'Umpty Dumpty on the Wall, with every bite 'e got to heat 'e received a buffet, an' on the cold, cold ground on w'ich 'e slept tears used to chase each other hover 'is face as large as limpet-shells.

'But who would pity the sorrows o' the poor fat boy? No heye was bedewed with tears to see 'im rolled across the stage as the livin' football, carried in a net as a string o' honions, trussed an' carried in a tray with carrots an' turmots on a baker's 'ead to represent "ye first-prize Christmas goose." An' no one wept w'en 'e was placed on the table to be carved by Prince de Gourmand—no, not w'en 'e swore 'e was old an' tough, an' then threw 'im at the 'ead o' the pantaloon. I've been a roast suckin'-pig with brown gravy, I've been a turkey with sassingers, I've been a pigeon-pie with my 'ead an' my toes a-stickin' through the crust, an' I've figured as cold side-dish at the board o' the King o' the Cannibul-high-lows. An' against these indignities my proud soul 'as burned within me, an' I kept silence honly because somefin allers told me my day would one day come. An' I see it now a-comin'. I see a glorious vista openin' up before my mental heyes o' triumph hafter triumph as Hengland's greatest tragedian.

'An', Miss Lotty,' he said, coming down to the terrestrial, 'if ye goes to Lunnon, who knows but what Chops junior will follow ye, an' in the fullness o' time strut the stage as a star o' the fust magnitude?'

'Don't you think, Chops, it is time we went to camp to dinner now?'

Next day—because it was after the 'fast,' and everybody in the parish had been to church—was a great one in the camp of the Queerest Show on Earth. Bruin danced his very drollest, the Skeleton performed the most wonderful tricks. The dreaded dooroocoolie, it was said, had got loose; there was the most fearsome roaring, and the struggle in surrounding it once more with its clanking chains was more dreadful than the battle of St George and the ten-clawed Dragon. But the performances of Lotty Lee were encored till the poor child was well-nigh tired to death. Then the whole strength of the band discoursed the sweetest selection while the limelights were turned on the merman's tank.

The astonished rustics gaped with dread and with curiosity when Biffins Lee, stepping forward, announced to the ladies and gentlemen that to-night they would see something that they would not only marvel at, but remember as long as their toes held together on the face of the earth. The merman, it was said, expected his daughter early next week, the real live and beautiful mermaiden who had been seen afloat in Partan Bay; and so her father to-night had determined to have a great spring cleaning of his cave. The public were requested to inspect for themselves; and, sure enough, there was the merman in all his hideous ugliness asleep in the corner of the tank. Then Biffins waved the audience back, and almost immediately afterwards they would have gladly gone still farther back if they had had a chance, for the awful old merman appeared suddenly on the surface of the tank, and began to eat pieces of fried fish that were handed to him.

'He used to eat this raw,' the showman explained, 'but he is far more civilised now.'

The trumpets brayed, the drums beat louder, the crimson light played across the tank, and with an eldritch shriek the merman disappeared. But presently, to the surprise of everybody, up to the surface of the water bobbed a cane-bottomed chair.

Now, there is not by any means a confusing amount of romance about a cane-bottomed chair. No one would go so far as to say that. And this chair was a very ordinary one, the seat of it even calling out aloud for repair. Nevertheless, it had been sent up by the merman in a business-like way, and the people with one accord lifted up their voices and cheered that old bedroom chair; and when a small deal table came to the surface next, followed by a somewhat dilapidated washstand, they cheered all the more, for the British public is certainly a strange animal; but when a three-legged stool next appeared the British public mingled laughter with its cheers. Meanwhile busy hands of supernumeraries seized article after article as it came to the top of the tank, and commenced scrubbing it with hot water and soap.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' said Biffins, with his most artistic bow, 'I feel constrained to apologise to you for the somewhat meagre, not to say shabby, appearance of the furniture sent up to undergo spring cleaning. I must admit that it is scarcely the sort of articles one would naturally expect in a merman's cave. We might have looked forward to a better display than this: furniture inlaid with gold and precious stones—the onyx, the jasper, the opal, and coral white and crimson—carpets of green sea-moss, and curtains of the velvety sea-weeds, with candelabra that would have dazzled the eyes, and articles of bigotry and virtue. But our merman came here in a hurry, and left his caves and his marble halls all behind him. I have not myself been down to the bottom of this mighty tank, and have not, therefore, had a peep inside the merman's cave; but, judging from these specimens, I should fancy the poor merman has had to "furnish throughout on the hire system."'

At this moment the merman himself came to the surface, puffing and blowing as if choking with dust. He was wearing an old flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and had a dust-pan in one hand and sweeping-brush in the other, while round his head was pinned a dirty old rag of a towel. He signed to Biffins Lee for a drink, and a tumbler of some brown liquor like rum was handed to him. This he tossed off, threw the glass at Biffins's head, and dived below to work again.

By-and-by he came up once more, and, receiving article after article, critically examined it for specks of dirt, then dived with it and appeared again to grasp another, and so on until all the furniture was down below. After this the creature came to the surface, tore off the old woollen garment and the disreputable-looking towel, rolled them together, and threw them disdainfully at the showman. Then it yawned in a tired way, stretched itself as if much fatigued, and dived below.

'Now,' said Biffins Lee, 'the great spring cleaning is all over, and next week I hope to have the extreme felicity of introducing to your notice the merman's only daughter, the beautiful mermaid herself.'

But Biffins Lee was too confident. He was at the height of his glory at present with his Queerest Show on Earth, and he little knew what was in store for him.

FRANK ANTONY BLAKE had gone! He had been summoned away suddenly—it is ever thus that sorrows come—to visit the sickbed of his mother. And this was the first dark cloud that had arisen on the horizon of Lotty's young life. It was sweet for her to know next evening by telegram that her hero's dear mother was better, and that a letter would follow. But—ah!—Antony had gone, and somehow everything was so changed now all about and around her.

It was springtime. Spring, indeed, was in its first fresh glory. The sea she loved, the sea out yonder stretching away and away to the illimitable north, may have lost none of its beauty—the blue of its waves when the sun had climbed the mountains, its opal and silver-gray on that cloud-streaked noon, its emerald streaks where sky's blue mixed with the yellow of half-hidden sandbanks, the pearl where the billows broke lazily over the brown-black of weed-capped rocks, its ineffable glory of sunset or moonlight clear gleaming. No, the sea must be the same, and yet it awakened less response, less sympathy, in the heart of the little gipsy lass.

Towards the forest, where she went wandering away alone with Wallace, because she wanted to think, things seemed strangely altered somehow. Was the moss that carpeted the beech-woods less soft and bright, or the bark of the birch-trees less snowy? Were the clouds of needled foliage on the brown-stemmed pines more black and solemn, and had the tasselled larches with buds of crimson lost already their spring-green tints? And where was the glory of the golden furze? Where the music of the rose-linnet? Ah! surely the fluting melody of the blackbird and the wild, ringing song of mavis, ay, and the bold lilt of the chaffinch, were less loud and stirring. Yes, and the cur-r-r and croodle of wood-pigeon in the planting's green shade, that used to thrill the heart, sounded farther away now and grown more sad and mournful.

The hero was gone. And, girl-like—well, childlike then—this wee gipsy maiden sat down upon a stone and burst into tears, much to the concern of ever-faithful Wallace, who did his best to kiss those tears away. But sorrow often ends in slumber; it is as if Nature needed the solace of sleep to make her forget. A colder breath of air appeared to sweep through the tree-trunks; and, drawing her tartan plaid up around head and dishevelled hair, Lotty lay down in the lee of the mossy stone, and, drawing up her knees, fell fast asleep, with Wallace at her back.

Crona some hours after this heard a low, ominous growl, and, looking in the direction whence it came, beheld the raven face and brown eyes of the honest dog. The witch-wife was doctor to half the fisher-families that dwelt in little villages by the sea, and she had been out wandering over the moors and through the forests looking for roots and simple herbs, when she came to the spot where Lotty lay.

'Poor Wallace, so your little mistress has gone to sleep? Yes, dear fellow; but it isn't on the damp moss it is safe to lie.'

Crona's cottage was but three hundred yards away, and when Lotty awoke she found herself lying in a gleam of sunshine on a wooden bench or dais by the cottage door. She sat up, wondering for a moment or two where she was, then back came all her grief, though she tried to hide it from her fairy godmother as much as she could.

This dear soul had spread a wee table with a white cloth, and placed thereon a cup of heather-ale—her own brewing, and she was famed for this—with barley-meal scones, butter, and honey. There was even a vase of fresh primroses on this little table, which she had drawn close up to Lotty's side.

'Eat, my lamb,' she was saying. 'If young folks would live, young folks must eat.'

She was smoothing Lotty's brow and hair. And the girl tried to eat and drink only just to please Crona, for she felt a little shivery and of appetite she had none. Besides, her fairy godmother's kind sympathy now touched her heart and made the tears stream down her face afresh. Indeed, unromantic though it may seem to say so, some of her tears fell among the heather-ale.

'I am not a witch, dear Lotty, though they say so; but this I can tell you, that you will, in course of time, see Frank Antony once again. So don't mourn for him, dearie.'

'But fa-fa-father has been so unkind! Do you know what he said, dear godmother? He sai-sai-said that by not being Grace Darling Redivivus I was the ruin of the show and all his prospects.'

But Crona laughed and talked so quietly and nicely that she soon had Lotty smiling also. After the witch's heather-ale and the scones the spring air felt warmer, and something of its freshness seemed to have returned to the greenery of woods and wilds, the crimson and yellow and white of the flowers, and the gold of the scented furze. She felt she could even take an interest in Crona's pets now, and was a little cross with herself for not having asked before how little Tim was, for this affectionate mite had been ailing; but her godmother said he was once more as hearty and robust as before his indisposition. She told Lotty that she had journeyed six miles to procure certain roots for Tim, and that from the very day he had begun to nibble these there had been a marked change in both his physical and mental condition. And he slept now every night under pussy's chin.

To-day Wallace had found Tod Lowrie just commencing to feast upon a fine fat fowl, but which particular farmyard it had come from inquiry by Crona had failed as yet to elicit, only she always paid for Lowrie's extravagances. Wallace stood over Tod Lowrie for a moment, looking down at him with his head a bit to one side.

'Dear me, Lowrie,' he said, 'you'll never get through that fowl all by yourself. Then the bones you know—just fancy how you'd feel if a bone stuck in your throat and you required to send for Dr Heron to take it out! But,' continued Wallace, 'I have an excellent method of dealing with dead fowls. Artistic in a manner of speaking. Permit me,' and he gently drew the fowl quite away from the fox, and retired with it under the dais.

Poor Tod Lowrie had simply to sit on his haunches and look on; and, truth to say, all his share consisted of the feet and the head and the feathers.

'Beautiful, isn't it?' said Wallace when he had finished.

'Beautiful!' said Lowrie with a deep sigh.

All Crona's pets loved each other, and agreed very well on the whole; but of course little differences will at times arise in the best-regulated families. Pussy and Joe to-day, for example, had a little dispute on the boards.

Cats seem cruel; but it is just their nature, and perhaps they are no worse than human beings. Anyhow, pussy to-day had returned from the forest with two baby hedgehogs; she had killed them both, and now kept one safely between her forelegs until she should finish eating the other. And Joe chose to be very nasty and sarcastic about it, though of course she wasn't bound to go and catch young hedgehogs for him. He stood, showing an attitude of impudent grace, some two feet from her.

'Joe's cross! Joe's cross!' he cried. 'Ho, ho, ho! Set you up indeed! Joe's very cross!' He was looking at her with one evil eye. But pussy took no heed. Her tail was spread right out behind her carelessly enough, and now Joe took one long hop towards it and gave a cruel pinch. This was too much for any respectable cat to stand; and, just as Joe was holding back his head to laugh, puss sprang at him and gave him a box on the ear that sent him spinning round like a feathered whirlwind. Then the cat went back to resume the feast.

'Hallo! Why, where is the other hedgehog?'

Not echo, but Tod Lowrie could have answered 'where?' But he didn't. He had swallowed it, and Joe was high up in a tree now, laughing that wicked laugh of his—sarcastic, almost sardonic—'Ha, ha, ha!' and 'Ho, ho, ho!' And the cat's ears were laid far back as she eyed him. 'Just wait till I catch you, Master Joe,' pussy seemed to say.

Ah, well, there is one good thing about cats and dogs—they bear no malice, and very likely at dinner-time Joe would be forgiven, and all Crona's pets eating out of the same dish.

Her fairy godmother, as Lotty always called Crona, kept the child that day as long as she possibly could. But duty was duty, and Lotty had to leave at last. It was already getting dusk, and she must try to get through the forest before the gloom of night came down over sea and land.

The girl feared nothing when Wallace was with her; the faithful dog would have laid down his life defending his little mistress. Nor was she afraid of losing herself; for, thanks to the foresight of her friend Chops, the trees were still blazed. Indeed, the boy had but lately renewed the markings. And he was to meet her to-night somewhere in the wood where the footpath went winding through it. Footpaths never go straight, and perhaps that is the chief charm of them. But this narrow beaten track was probably more winding than most of them. It wound in and out and round about clumps of the thicker, darker spruce-firs and big moss-covered rocks, down into gloomy dells, where in the season the capercailzie gave vent to his ghostly crow and cushat doves croodled mournfully on the tall larch-trees. Down into one dell, over a more open hill, and down into another, where one had to cross a brown, roaring, 'jouking' burn by a tree-bridge.

And this green hollow with the streamlet running through it was supposed to be haunted. Real fairies, they told one, used to dwell here at one time, before the ferns withered away. But five fairies used to be seen at once floating downstream on a plantain-leaf, which they used as a raft—pleasant little parties of five male and apparently rather reckless fairies, for they danced and sang and quaffed honey-dew from acorn-cups. But they were polite, and when a lady-fairy went floating past in a foxglove bell they never failed to lift their hats and hide their cups for the time being, as well as their pine-needle cigars.

But the fairies did not come back after the ferns were withered, only ugly warty toads, and they are not fairies. And the reason why the ferns withered in the dell was that a ghost had come to walk at midnight here. It was the ghost of a gamekeeper, and his story was a gruesome one. He was killed here, but the man who slew him was never found out, and that is why the ghost walks there. Some of the gamekeeper's blood, it is said, trickled into the stream, and that is how it has been brown ever since.

Well, something happened on this very night. At one side of the tree-bridge was a rail, and it was pretty dark by the time Lotty had her hand on it. And she was pausing here for a moment to listen to the gurgling song of the brooklet, and also to hear if Chops was coming. Chops always whistled to keep his courage up when coming through this wood at night. But she could not hear him, nor did Wallace, else he would have barked a half-hysterical bark of joy. She was just about to move on, when, lo! she was startled by seeing a light like that of a candle moving straight upstream towards her. She certainly was a little trembling, but she could not have been called frightened.

The light stopped not far off, and bobbed about and round and round, sometimes low to the ground as if the invisible thing that held it was looking for something that could not be found. Lotty tried to cry 'Who is there?' and was very much surprised that she could not say the words; all the sound, indeed, that she made was a little pitiful 'Hoo—hoo,' like what one hears from a dog when he is dreaming.

Then the light went suddenly out, and now Lotty ran quickly on up the brae, and some distance from the top thereof she listened again, and now she distinctly heard Chops whistling the air 'Fra poco a me,' and presently she met him.

Chops listened wonderingly to her story of the strange light.

'An' it were nought else, Miss Lotty, but a dead-candle. An' more's seen't nor you on still nights like this. An' they do say that dead-candle will never be laid till the man as killed the keeper is found an' 'anged on 'igh on a gallows-tree. An' ain't ye glad I've come, Miss Lotty?'

'Oh, so glad, Chops!'

'Oh Miss Lotty, I wish they was more ghostes if they'd allers make ye glad to meet yours truly, Chops, his mark.'

'You're a funny boy; but let us get home now as soon as possible. Poor Mary will think I'm lost.'

'Take my 'and, Miss Lotty, won't ye? It's a honest one.'

'I know that, Chops; you've always been good to me, and I'm never going to forget you, Chops, never, never, never.'

'Miss Lotty, ye speaks queer-like to-night,' said Chops.

'Yes, I think it is because Crona and I have been talking such a lot, and it was nearly all about Mr. Blake.'

'Ye won't hever forget he, Lotty, I'll lay.'

'Oh no, Chops, and I felt somehow that I could have dropped and died—like—like a dead mouse or something'——

'A dead rose-lintie, eh?' Chops suggested.

'When he told me he was going away, and we might not meet again for ever, ever so long. Ah, Chops, I've no right to think of him, even as my only brother, which he called himself, and me only a mite of a gipsy lass. I should have said "I only," Chops, but somehow "me only" seems sweeter.'

They had reached the cliff-top, and stars were out in the north and the east, and glinting on the sea.

'We've often stood here together, Chops, looking at the stars and the sea.'

'Us has,' said Chops.

'Well, Chops, I won't see them much longer now.'

'Miss Lotty, wot yer a-saying of? Cold water be a-tricklin' down my spine. Was it the dead-candle wot'——

'No, no, Chops. But I made up my mind to-night in the dark wood, when all alone with Wallace, to—to—— Eh, maybe I mustn't tell even you.'

'Oh, Miss Lotty!'

'Well, poor Chops, to run away.'

THE little gipsy lass was a girl who would have been easy to lead but was rather difficult to drive. A few kind words from the man whom up till this time she had always looked upon as her father would have sufficed to make her do anything in reason for him, and do it joyfully too. When one has no heart in one's work one cannot do even one's duty in the only way it should be done—namely, as a labour of love.

'It's love and it's kindness to all around us,' Mary had often told Lotty, 'which make the wheels of life go merrily round.'

And, young though she was, Lotty could see the truth of Mary's statement in nature everywhere around her, both in the camp, in the forest, and on the sea itself.

Big, rough Bruin, with his jacket like a motor-driver's coat, could never have danced so well and heartily had he not been encouraged by kindness. The blackbird in the copse would scarce have sat so eident, so patient, and so long on her grass-lined nest had not her beautiful orange-billed mate been trilling his song to her from morn till dewy eve, and if she did not know that the flute-like music was meant for her ears and her ears only.

Ay, and those sturdy, bare-legged fisher-dames, with their creels upon their backs, would not have worked so hard had it been for themselves alone; but their Jimmies were on the sea, and their lads of husbands loved them, and so they blithely sang:

Then Lotty's own heart was overflowing with kindness for all creatures. Yes, and she even had a bit of love to spare for Biffins Lee. That she was merely a property in his eyes she knew full well; he had scolded her too, he had pinched her arms, and several times almost dashed her from him till she had stumbled and fell and burst into piteous tears; but—well, she had known him so long, and perhaps he really could not help it. He had been more cruel to her since she had shrunk from making a vulgar exhibition of herself in the Cumberland wreck affair. She was going away though, and she would be sorry to vex even Biffins Lee. Happy thought: she would go and speak to him, and perhaps he would be a little more kind to her for the last few days or weeks.

Ah! perhaps she was wrong. She did not go actually into his presence as if she were seeking for an interview, she merely put herself in his way.

'Ah, Lot,' he cried gruffly, but not quite unkindly, 'you're there, are you? Rather wanted to see you. I think our merman made a bit of a hit last night'—he rattled the silver in his pocket. 'Now, if I could have you next week to pose as the mermaid'——

'What!' cried Lotty, aghast.

'It would be the best hit in the countryside. It would make a man of me—make a man of us all, so to speak. Another thing,' he continued without giving her time to reply, 'is this: I don't care any too much for that witch-wife Crona. I want you to stop going there, and I'll give Chops the same order. She is only putting nonsense and idle stuff into your head.'

'But, father, she has been such a good and kind friend to me, and I could not well go through the forest to the station or anywhere without seeing her. Besides'——

'No more, no more. I don't want to lose my temper, for I'm really a good-natured fellow.'

Again he rattled the cash in his capacious pocket.

Lotty said not another word, but went quietly back to her little caravan, to Wallace and to Mary.

'Mary,' she said, 'what do you think?'

'Couldn't guess, dear.'

'Mr Biff—my father, I mean—wants me to pose as mermaid next week, and he seems very determined. I wish he would tell me to go away and get work at some other show.'

'He won't do that, Lotty. But I'll see him for you, and let him know there will be a general strike if he attempts to make you mermaid. But it would not be for a fortnight anyhow.'

'A fortnight!' Lotty's spirits began to rise. She hoped to be far enough away before then. And now she was smiling as she said, 'Mary, couldn't you tell him that you would be happy to be the mermaid?'

'Me a mermaid, wearing a very low-bodiced dress, as I'm told mermaids do! Me a mermaid, Lotty, with my fragile, fairy-like form, twenty stone and over. Ha, ha, ha!'

And good Mary laughed till the cups and saucers rang in the caravan cupboard.

But Lotty grew a little serious again.

'Mary,' she said, 'I am going to be debarred from ever going to see my fairy godmother any more. What shall I do?'

Mary put one fat arm round Lotty's waist and drew her nearer.

'I cannot ask you to disobey your father,' she said; 'but in this case, I myself, with Skeleton, shall waddle over to Crona's to-night, and Crona will write through me to the boss, and I think this will alter matters very much, so that you and Chops can go to the cottage as often as you have a mind to.'

'Mary, did Crona ever tell you anything in particular?'

'No, dear; but I simply think that as a witch or palmist, or something, she can read the boss's future, as perhaps she has read his past, and has a great influence over him. Lotty,' she continued, 'did Crona ever tell you anything in particular?'

'She did, Mary; but I must not mention it even to you. Some day, though, I may.'

Mary was hard on herself when she talked about her outdoor movements as mere waddling, for once she started she could walk very well indeed, and at climbing hills she could make even Skeleton puff and blow a bit. Neither Skeleton nor she had been at the witch's cottage for six months at least; but she was made heartily welcome now, and so was her bony goodman. Even Tod Lowrie allowed Mary to smooth his triangular head, and pussy ensconced herself in Mary's lap and at once began to sing. 'It isn't often,' she appeared to think, 'that I have so comfortable a lap as this to lie on, so I'll make the best of it for an hour or two.'

Joe the raven was impudently criticising towards the Living Skeleton. He was perched on his favourite birch-tree branch when the bony one appeared, and chuckled low to himself. 'Ho!' he said, 'set him up! Ha, ha, ha! Well, well, well! Ho, ho, ho!'

Then, as Skeleton took no notice of his taunts, he grew even more insulting. He whistled like a 'glaud,' screamed like a curlew, and cackled like a hen that has just dropped an egg somewhere. Kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk, kay-ay-kuk! Tee-hoy-it! Tee-hoy-it! Whew-ew-ew! 'Tod Lowrie, Tod Lowrie! Have a bone, poor boy, have a bone, kuk-kuk-kuk! Have a bone, have a hen, a hen, a bone, a bone, bone, bone.' Scray-ay!

'Surely,' cried Skeleton at last, 'surely, Crona, that bird is possessed of an evil spirit?'

'It's just his exuberance,' said Crona, laughing; 'but I'll march him indoors, then we'll all have tea; for, dear me, I am pleased to see you. And, by the way, Mrs Pendlebury, here is a letter to our dear Lotty. I told Mr Blake to send it through me, you know.'

'Joe, Joe, come down here.'

'I sha'n't—I won't—won't, sha'n't, sha'n't, sha'n't, sha'n't. Ho, ho, ho!'

'Come at once when I tell you, sir!'

The bird came down obediently.

'Go directly into the house to your perch, sir.'

Joe obeyed and went waddling off with trailing wings. But just on the threshold of the door he looked up at Skeleton again, and laughed so derisively that if there had been a boot anywhere handy he would have shied it at him.

'Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho! Set you up!'

'We'll have peace now,' said Crona.

Said Biffins Lee to Lotty that evening: 'From the way Mary puts it, I find that Crona isn't a bad sort after all. You may visit her, and take Chops and your dog for safety. But mind'——

'What, father?'

'The mermaid—in ten days' time.'

Lotty did not care much. There was a joy at her heart to-night. She had just received such a dear, kind letter from her Mr Blake, and had still to read it—for the fifth time.

. . . . . . .

Antony's caravan was going to be taken to the district station, round by the road, with farmer Duncan's three sturdy horses, his own having been shipped to England days ago. And the duty of packing it so that nothing should be broken during transit was to devolve upon Mary, with the assistance of Lotty and Chops.

Now, it is really wonderful how little a great caravan, say twenty or more feet long, is moved or shaken during a long journey by train after the wheels have been taken off, and she lies snugly on the trolley, her weight supported on her own springs. Instead of going by slow luggage-train, on which her superb varnishing, gilding, and ornamental scroll-work would have the certainty of being smoked and soiled, however well covered up, she was to travel special rate, by passenger-train, so that she would not really be on the road—so the railway traffic-manager promised—more than four-and-twenty hours, from the far north through London itself to Bristol. And here Antony Blake had resolved to meet her himself, with his splendid horses, and drive down to Manby Hall, in order that his people might see for themselves what a palace-on-wheels the 'Gipsy Queen' really was.

The caravan would be protected by sheeting, soft and white but impervious to dust and rain. This was made in different pieces, not as one clumsy whole, nor did it hang too tightly, for if it had done so it would, with its various ropes, tauten up during rain and injure the sides.

The skylight itself was not covered, so that the saloon and the bedroom both had plenty of light. Indeed, the side-sheets and roof-piece had often been put over her when doing her great winter tour in the early part of the year; and, independent of these, the fore and aft coloured glass ports of the large domed skylight could be carried open for fresh air.

Mary determined that the caravan should be quite ready for Antony to step into as soon as it arrived at its far-off destination; so she carefully fixed every vase and glass and cup in the cupboard, so that, although they could not shift, they did not appear to be fixed. The same with his books, fairy editions of a great many of his favourite authors, in a fairy-like bookcase. It was Lotty herself who dusted and arranged these, and it was indeed a labour of love, a labour to linger over, thinking sadly as she did so of the kind and handsome friend she might never see again.

But everything was ship-shape at last, and she spent all the time she could spare in the dear old saloon so fraught with many happy recollections. But one night, not long before the caravan was going to start, while sleeping in her own little cot in the 'Silver Queen,' Lotty dreamt a dream, and woke early in the morning thinking of it. She thought that she was travelling all by herself, not in an ordinary third-class carriage as she had intended, but in his—Antony's—caravan.

Lotty was a brave girl, and the romance of that dream appealed to her so much that she determined it should come true. She would only be twenty-four hours on the road, and she could let herself out when it reached London, and, locking the door again, find her way to Highgate Heath. Oh! the plan was delightful above all things, if it could only be managed; and so she confided her plans to Chops, and between their two wise heads it was determined that carried out they could and should be.

Crona was also taken into their confidence, and so was the kindly porter at the railway station far away over the moor. Chops had been sent across to purchase the little lass's ticket, and told the honest fellow. He was, like everybody else, very fond indeed of Lotty, and delighted now that she had taken him into her confidence.

'It'll be all right, won't it, George?' said Chops.

'Ay, that it will. Lo', I wouldn't mention the matter even to the wife o' my boozum.'

Chops and Lotty worked together an evening or two before the 'Gipsy Queen' started as secretly as if they had been a couple of smugglers or pirates.

There was Lotty's big box to be sent away; but that would go after her, and he, Chops, would see to it. During her journey she would only have her best clothes on, and one bag that she could carry.

But then there were provisions and stores to be thought of—milk and water and fruit, and a big box of chocolates that Chops had bought her. Not even were candles and matches nor Lotty's flashlight forgotten.

As to Wallace—who was watching the pair of them, and no doubt wondering a good deal what was up—he was to be left in the charge of Chops until happier days came round, when she should meet them both again.

Well, the caravan was to start at midnight from the station, but she was taken away to that place in the afternoon. The very last thing that Lotty did was to gather a lapful of the wild-flowers he—Antony—loved so well, and bedeck the saloon and bedroom therewith.

At long last Lotty had one more look round the camp to say good-bye to Bruin. She dared not excite suspicion by saying good-bye to any one else; but Mary noticed the poor girl had been crying, and wondered much what was the reason of her sadness.

She only said, 'Good-night, Mary. Crona wants me to stop a while with her, and I want to see her again.'

'See you to-morrow, anyhow,' said Mary.

That was all. And if Lotty had really told a little white fib, and she feared she had, she was much concerned about it. She was very silent all the way through the forest, and permitted Chops to lead her most of the way. But just as they came in sight of Crona's cottage Chops stopped.

'Miss Lotty,' he said, 'which we've been good friends, hasn't us?'

'That we have, dear old Chops.'

'Well, ye wouldn't like to see me angry, just real angry, would ye?'

'Oh no, Chops.'

Then he popped a little paper-parcel into her bag. 'I don't want that,' he said. 'I saved it up for a rainy day; and, oh Lotty, the rainy day has come!'

Well, so far as the poor lad's face was concerned, it had, for Chops was crying.

IT was midnight drear, and Lotty was all alone in the dark of the caravan saloon. She dared not light a lamp or candle, so she was feeling very frightened and very much excited. There was much clanking of big chains and shouting of porters, and she knew the truck in which the 'Gipsy Queen' lay was being attached to the train that was to bear her far away from the camp which had been her home so long. Wallace reluctantly had been left at poor Crona's cottage till Chops returned.

The good station-porter George had sat up in the saloon with Lotty till he dared not sit a moment longer, then, telling her to lock her door and say her prayers, he said, 'Good-bye, darling, and God himsel' be wi' ye!' and so took his departure.

But presently the puff-puff-puff of the starting train resolved itself into a steady roar, and she knew she was off and away. But she was tired and sleepy as well as very heavy-hearted and sad, so she flashed her light a little and found a big plaid to cover her; and, arranging the pillows, she lay down on the sofa to think. With that plaid—a good Gordon tartan it was—around her she did not feel half so lonely. It was just as if its owner were sitting somewhere near to her in the saloon. She said, 'Good-night, Chops,' and Good-night, Wallace,' and 'Good-night, Mr Blake.' This, of course, was merely make-believe. In three minutes more she was as sound asleep as ever she had been in her life before, and it was quite daylight before she awakened. She looked her little watch—a present from Crona herself—and found it was nine o'clock, and past. She got up now, and, going away back into the pantry, permitted water to flow into the basin and had a delightfully cool wash. Then she felt hungry, and had a nice breakfast—a cold boiled egg, nice scones and butter, and a glass of milk.

After breakfast she put her hand into her bag to get the chocolates, and big, luscious ones they were. She found Chops's little parcel. It was rolled in a great many pieces of newspaper and tied ever so many times with pieces of wool; but at last it revealed two gold sovereigns, three half-crowns, and ever so many threepenny bits.

'Dear good Chops!' she could not help saying aloud, and her eyes were dim as she thought of him. She put it safely away, and sat down to think and wonder how soon she could pay it all back again. But then, of course, it wasn't spent yet, and Lotty resolved to save it all she could.

A small jewelled clock stood in a case right over the table, and this Lotty now wound up and put right. Sometimes, when the train stopped a few minutes at a station in comparative quiet, this clock could be heard ticking; but whether ticking or not it was really a great comfort to her. She was so glad there was plenty of light. What would she have done had the skylight itself, like the windows, been closed up?

Twenty-four hours; but it would be a long, long day to her with nothing to do! Only, she had been in caravans nearly all her life, and knew from experience that if one lies down the time seems to pass ever so much more quickly. So she found a nice book, and hauling the plaid up over her, for it was none too warm here without a fire, she lay down to read and think and dream day-dreams. But she dropped the book presently and thought she would count these chocolates just to make them last. Oh, what a nice big, deep box! And they were such good ones too, and coyly crisp to the teeth. She found there were twoscore and ten all told. Well, she would have five to begin with. But when these five were done for—five chocolates won't last for ever—she was afraid she must have three more.

Then she resolutely put away the box and as resolutely began to read. She was glad it wasn't a silly love-story, and felt sure that Mr Blake was far above books of that sort. This was a volume of startling adventures far, far away in the wild interior of Borneo. And there were terrible savages in it, who had big holes bored through their ears and their upper lips to carry ugly knives in; and there was much fighting with white men; and there was a poor boy who was carried off to be fattened and eaten by a real cannibal king, but a pretty black princess who took pity on him just as he was nearly fat enough and doomed to be killed, and cooked with curry and rice the very next day. So this princess cut the thongs that bound the poor boy, and took him into the forest, and bade him keep on and on towards the eastern sun, and after many weeks he would come to the big blue sea and be sure to find a boat. But there was a great chase after him, and he was nearly captured many times, and had most astounding adventures, all of which occupied fully two hundred pages; and then, lo! it was one o'clock and time for dinner.

Just one chocolate—no, two, and that would make the other five!

Lotty had a beautiful pie for dinner, which Crona had made for her, and she left the half of it for supper. She had a bottle of nicely made coffee too, though it was cold, besides some fruit. She felt ever so much better now, and took out of her bag some knitting and set vigorously to work.

But she didn't get on very quickly, she had to pause to think so often—sometimes about the camp, and Chops, and Crona, and Wallace, and sometimes about Antony. Also, she spent much time in wondering what sort of a home Chops's mother would give her, and if ever she would see the skipper's wife of the wrecked Cumberland any more.

She put away the knitting at last and had coffee for her tea, with bread and butter and some fruit. Then she sat down to write a letter to Mr Blake, and to confess how wicked it was of her, and how naughty above all things to travel in his beautiful caravan. After she had come to the words, 'This is all at present,' she thought how foolish it looked, so she tore it up and wrote another, and laid it down till she should address the envelope. Then she read it over and found she had spelt saloon with two l's—thus, 'salloon.' 'But has it one "l" or really two?' she said to herself as she began to chew the end of her fountain pen. 'Let me see—balloon has two "l's;" what has saloon or salloon ever done that it shouldn't have two. Oh, bother, I'll tear it up and write one more.'

She wasn't pleased even with that, but she put it in the envelope and dropped it into her bag to be posted. No, she wouldn't though; she took it out again and pinned it to a book, where he would be sure to see it. 'Second thoughts,' she told herself, 'are always best.'

She really hadn't meant to have any more chocolates; but somehow her hand went gradually towards them, and—she had six before she halted!

Lotty took her violin out of its case now. Luckily she had brought that with her, for it was light and easy to carry, so she fingered the strings, not daring to use the bow, and played thus to herself for two whole hours. This was by no means a fast train, and it made many very long stops. But something had happened during the previous night that Lotty was not aware of, being sound asleep. Part of the train had been detached and shunted into a siding somewhere up near Huntly, and it had not started again till nearly nine, when the girl awoke. She managed to hear the name of every station they passed through, and about one hour south of Glasgow, lo! the train stopped altogether, and Lotty could hear a stationmaster saying to porters, 'That truck with the gipsy wagon on it must be detached and lie here, to go down with the ten-fifteen passenger to-morrow forenoon.'

This was bad news for poor Lotty, but it could not be helped. She was angry on Mr Blake's account too, for he had paid special rates, and this was how he was being treated.

It was now nearly eight o'clock, and everything was still and quiet inside, for the 'Gipsy Queen' had been shunted into a siding. What was Lotty to do? Well, she had her supper, and then some more chocolates. But the night fell, and it was ever so lonesome, dark, and silent.

It might have been about half-past twelve when she awoke with a start and sprang to her feet. She was trembling now like the leaves of the aspen, for she could hear voices muttering outside the back door, and some one tried the handle. Most girls would have screamed. Lotty did not; she drew nearer to the door, and listened.

'This is the caravan, Lintie, a nobleman's, they say. Let's try those keys. I'll break the lock afore I'm beaten. Plenty o' swag in here, Lintie, and nobody'll know the crib has ever been cracked.'

Key after key was tried in vain, and poor Lotty was nearly fainting.

'Here, Lintie, the jemmy; hand it up. I'm going in whatever happens.'

There was glass in the back door; and, hardly knowing what she did, Lotty flashed her electric light through that, full in the hideous, grimy face of the would-be burglar. She stamped her feet at the same time, and rattled the door-handle. The next moment, with something like an oath and a smothered shout, the burglars made off.

But Lotty slept no more till daylight, and when she awoke the train was far on its way to the Border. It was moving very quickly too; she knew that from the motion. But, oh! how she hoped and prayed the train would go right on now to London, for she determined she would leave it anywhere rather than be shunted into the dark of a siding again. But, much to her joy, the train went rattling on and on, so after breakfast and some more of Chops's chocolates she forgot all her troubles, even opened the front door and went out to sit in the coachman's seat and gaze on the beautiful landscape gliding swiftly past her like some splendid panorama.

The sun was shining brightly to-day, the sky everywhere clear and blue, with only a few white clouds on the western horizon. It was the sunshine of earliest summer, a sunshine of promise, a sunshine, too, that seemed to find an echo in this little gipsy's heart. Even the train's rapid motion accorded with the girl's feelings, making her feel that she was leaving something of sorrow and darkness behind her and bringing her every hour nearer and nearer to a happier future.

Yet Lotty could not help thinking, while she sat here in the bright forenoon sunshine, how sad it was that so much of real joy should have been in her camp-life mingled with the embittering gall of misery. For, as far as her relations with Biffins Lee had existed, her life had been one long woe. She bore him no ill-will, however; he had been a hard taskmaster, and she merely a little white slave, useful to him in his business, a mere property, that was all. What her life as a show-girl would have been without Crona, Chops, and Mary she could not have told you. 'Oh,' she would have said, 'it would have been no life, for I would simply have died.'

She tried even now to think back to some little kindness of deed or even speech of Lee's that was not born of self-interest. She could not find even one; as regards her education, he had been most particular, and had paid her teachers well, but this was merely in order that as a property she might have more value.

And then, all at once, a cold hand seemed to clutch at her heart, and some evil thing appeared to whisper to her the words: 'Biffins Lee will find you wherever you go, and take you back by force to his show.' Poor girl! She did not know then that he had no legal right to do anything of the sort. But the thought, once implanted in her mind, took firm root, and grew and increased till it made her miserable. But for the time being only. Who could be miserable any length of time on so glad and bright a day as this? With the fresh air on her face, she began to feel drowsy.

'But,' she said to herself, 'I might drop off to sleep, and fall right down out of the caravan and be killed.' So once more she sought the interior, comforted herself with a few more chocolates, carefully counted how many were left, then got in under the plaidie to read. But to read was to feel drowsy, and in a few minutes' time this little gipsy lass was safe in the kind arms of Morpheus.

. . . . . . .

Chops, going back homewards through the moor and the woods, felt so lonesome that the evening actually seemed cold, for grief has this chilling effect at times. He was very glad, indeed, when at long and last the light from Crona's romantic wee cot blinked out through the gloom of the gathering night-shadows. It might have been this light that accounted for what immediately followed, for Chops had a sudden inspiration. Although he was a poet—or thought himself so, and few even of the best of us get much farther—it was seldom indeed that Nature vouchsafed him a sudden inspiration. And when this one came he stopped short at once, and a beaming, fatty sort of a smile illumined his face to such an extent that for a moment it might have been mistaken for a will-o'-the-wisp.

'I'll do it,' he said. 'Yes, I'll do it to-morrow mornin' right away. Wonder I didn't think of telling Miss Lotty. But w'ich it'll be a pleasant serprise for her.'

He hurried on now, and was soon inside the cottage; and Crona, knowing Chops's weakness, set about laying the supper.

'Just 'ad a henspyration, Crona!'

'And what is it, dear boy?'

'The henspyration,' said Chops impressively, 'is a tillygrum.'

'A telegram, Chops? There, you'll find that a nice bit of supper!'

'A tillygrum, Crona, to-morrow mornin' fust thing. Runs with it my single self to make sure. And that tillygrum will be to Mrs Oak, derelict of Capting Oak of the wretched ship Cumberland, Capstan Cottage, Shepherd's Bush, London. An' it will say—the tillygrum will say—"Meet Lotty at King's Cross in the caravan, on Friday first as ever was.—Yours to order, Chops."'

'Very good idea of yours, Chops; but you couldn't put all that in a telegram. Besides, Captain Oak isn't dead, so Mrs Oak isn't a relict, let alone a derelict. I'll write the telegram, Chops, this very night.'

. . . . . . .

The lights of London were beginning to spring up here and there in windows as the train drew into the gloom of King's Cross, and Lotty seized her little bag and fiddle-case, got out, locked her door, and leapt off the truck and almost into the arms of kindly Mrs Oak and the stationmaster himself. After the first greetings, the guard came hurrying up.

'We've got a little stowaway here, guard,' said the man with the gold band, laughing. 'Travelled all the way from Scotland in her own caravan!'

'Well, well, well! And a pretty little stowaway she is. 'Pon my soul, if I'd known she was with me, stationmaster, I would have been sorely tempted to neglect my duty, and travelled with her in the same carriage.'

'Thanks, dear,' he said when Lotty gave up her ticket.

'I suppose,' said the little gipsy, 'I was infringing orders.'

'I don't know really if we have a bylaw that would cover this case; but, depend upon it, that if your friend Mrs Oak hadn't come I should have made you a prisoner, and taken you home to my wife, if only for the sake of seeing a little more of so interesting and pretty a stowaway.'

For verily, verily, reader, even a stationmaster is 'gallantly personified' where beauty is concerned.

Lotty did think it so kind and thoughtful of Chops to send that telegram, and it certainly was a most pleasant surprise to her. She much needed rest, too, and so she gladly went home that night with Mrs Oak to Capstan Cottage, and was glad to meet her husband James once more. He was on shore for just a fortnight, then bound for the West Indies in a better ship than ever he had commanded before. But, tired though she was, Lotty did not go to bed until she had written both to Crona and to Chops himself. And next day Mrs Oak went with Lotty all the way to Highgate Heath.

BIFFINS LEE had really so much to do of a forenoon about the Queerest Show on Earth that unless some particular rehearsal was on he did not trouble much to look after any of his people, each one of whom had duties to perform. But about two o'clock in the afternoon of the day following that on which poor Lotty had fled, Mary sought audience of the boss.

'Lotty never returned, sir. She was to stay all night with Crona, and I fully expected her back to breakfast. I am very anxious.'

So was Biffins now.

'Start Chops off at once,' he cried 'to Crona's house to make inquiries.'

Chops was glad of the excuse, and so was Wallace; for the honest dog, at all events, made sure of finding the loved one.

When Chops returned he went directly to Lee's tent.

'Lotty be gone, sir—clean gone hoff.'

'Eh? What! are you mad, boy?'

'W'ich I don't think so, Mr Biffins Lee, an' sir to you.'

'Does not Crona know anything about it?'

'Twixt you an' me an the dooroocoolie, Mr Lee, an' you needn't let it go no furder, I think that it was Crona 'erself that sent Miss Lotty away to live with a great-grandaunt of hers.'

'Great-grandaunt of whom, you fool?'

'Why, Crona's as ever was!'

'Don't stand there and cheek me, or I'll break every bone in your ugly carcass.'

'An' that ain't callin' me my lord, is it, sir?'

'Go and find her, I tell you. Find her, find her. Can't you see I'm a ruined man if she returns not, and the show is ruined?'

'Not much it ain't, boss. You still has me, as Micawber's wife said to 'im. An' you has Bruin an' the Living Skeleting.'

'Go and find Lot, I tell you. You are in the plot. I feel sure you are.'

'Do you now?'

'You—you—you'—— Biffins couldn't find a word strong enough to fling at the fat boy.

'Suppose,' said Chops, with provoking coolness, 'that I says I sha'n't. An' suppose I sings like this 'ere:

Biffins Lee had a huge iron paper-weight in his hand, and this he launched at Chops's head with all his force. Had it struck the boy he never would have breathed again. But he ducked in time, and the weight shivered a huge flower-pot—a property. Chops picked up the paper-weight.

'Now, listen, boss. I gives you warnin'. I'm hoff, an' I takes this 'ere triflin' memento mori with me. An' if ye hattempts to foller'—— Chops balanced the terrible paper-weight on his palm by way of emphasising his words. 'Good-bye, Biffins Lee. Think of me w'en far away. No more at present from your confectionate friend an' lovier trew, Chops, 'is mark. W'ich I is hever a-thinkin' on you, Bill.' And Chops marched straight away and never once looked back.

Biffins threw himself back in his chair. 'Ruined! ruined!' he cried. 'Lotty, my infant prodigy and violinist, gone! And now Chops my merman!'

The very next morning the Belhivey Chronicle came out with a long article headed:

It commenced by describing what is still known as Mermaid Bay, entirely surrounded on three sides by tall, perpendicular rocks on which not even a seamew could find footing. Then it went on to say:

'It will be in the recollection of our worthy fishermen readers that it was here where the mermaid and merman appeared to many people. It was at the time impossible not to believe that these were real denizens of the deep, human though their faces and arms and shoulders were. They appeared suddenly, and as quickly dived and were seen no more.

'But now the bubble has burst, and it is we who have burst it. A curious cave has been found on the wooded grounds of D—— MacD——, Esq., which is always full of water, but which has a wide opening below its rocky side opening into the sea beyond. Any ordinary diver can easily, therefore, take a header, swim through the aperture, and find himself in the open sea under the cliffs; and, there disporting as a mermaid, or a sea-lion if he likes, quite as easily dive and make his way into the cave again.

'And this is precisely what occurred. Then the great tank in the Queerest Show on Earth was a divided one, and built on precisely the same lines. That is all.

'We are sorry for that enterprising showman, Biffins Lee, Esq. He is certainly clever; and if he does as well in his next venture as he has done in this he will be able to marry and settle down for life.

'We are sorry for Lee,' the article concluded; 'but we are still more so for those well-known scientists or savants, Professors A., B., and C., let us call them, who wrote such splendid papers on this mermaid question, and delivered lectures thereon all over the country, thus literally playing into the capacious and rapacious pockets of Biffins Lee. We heartily hope that these scientists may find some handy bag in which to hide their sorely diminished heads.'

Biffins Lee was reading this staggerer, as he called it, for the second time when Crona herself was announced. She had Joe on her shoulder. It was Mary who had ushered her in.

'I think, Mary,' said Biffins, not unkindly but sadly, 'Crona would like to see me alone.'

Mary curtseyed and retired.

Now, what passed between Crona and Biffins Lee at this time hardly affects this ower true tale to any great degree. So the chief details of the interview may be omitted. But towards its close Biffins Lee turned towards Crona.

'And,' he said, 'supposing that I refuse point-blank to do as you tell me, Miss'——

'Stop!' cried his interviewer; 'I am Crona, and you are Biffins Lee—er—for the present. As to your refusing my offer—for an offer, and a good one it is—when you have time to consider you will not dream of such a thing. I do not apprehend any obstinacy on your part, Mr—Biffins Lee. I will call again to-morrow for your answer.'

She was about to leave when Lee called to her. 'Stay, stay,' he said. 'I will not require to ask you to call to-morrow. I shall give you my answer now.'

'And that is?'

'I accept.'

'Wise man! Better is a handful with quietness than both hands full with vexation of spirit.'

. . . . . . .

A fortnight passed away. Chops was still staying with Crona and her pets. His bedroom was a very sweet little room, and it looked right away over the wide, heathy moor, where so often he had wandered with Lotty and Wallace. Ah, but Wallace was here his constant companion, and often the poor dog listened and seemed to know what Chops said when he told him that before very long they would both go and see Lotty herself, and be happy as the day is long.

About the same time, moreover, at a tiny but pretty village by the sea, on the south-west coast of England, a little unpretentious show was opened, and hither had you wandered, reader, you would have met more than one acquaintance: Mary, Skeleton, Bruin, the dooroocoolie, and even Biffins Lee himself.

How are the mighty fallen! Well, it is true that the showman had come down a bit in the world, and that the establishment could no longer be called the Queerest Show on Earth in the absence of those two most valuable properties, Lotty and Chops. Still, there was no visible difference in Biffins. He had neither lost his voice nor his pomposity, which would have been a pity—for Biffins Lee. He had sly ways of doing things, and he managed to have it believed by the fishermen and rustic population that he had run through a vast fortune, if not two, and had lately lost valuable property. The latter part of the story was true enough, but it was stage 'property.' However, he had set the ball a-rolling. They say a rolling stone gathers no moss. Well, that depends upon what the stone is. For instance, the boy or girl who has a living to make, if not possessed of staying-power and steadfastness, will never become honoured and rich—never, never, never, as Lotty would say. On the other hand:

No matter how good and generous one is in this world, nor how much good he or she does, people will be ungrateful. But set the stone of gossip or scandal a-rolling, and see if it doesn't gather moss. From being a man who had sustained severe losses, Biffins Lee was soon exalted to the dignity of a nobleman in disguise only amusing himself with keeping a show until such time as he could arise in all his strength and glory to sweep from its false foundation one of the highest aristocratic families in Britain.

'You might see by his looks,' said one female gossip to another, as they stood by the village well, 'that he is something above the common.'

'Ay, indeed, Mr Lee looks a duke in disguise at the very least,' quoth her crony.

So Biffins Lee's show began to look up again, and he managed to secure varieties every fortnight.

. . . . . . .

Lotty's new home in Highgate Heath was an ideal little place—for a London suburb, that is. There was nothing of the romance of the forest and moor about it, and the gipsy lass may have missed the glamour of the sea. There was a charming morsel of a garden that now in the sweet summer days was very pretty, and full of choice flowers. The forest was represented by two tall trees, which, as London smoke swept over even Highgate Heath, always wept wet soot after rain, and the ocean was a great stone saucer in which goldfish swam. But there was the nattiest morsel of a summer-house imaginable, all surrounded with honeysuckle and roses.

Chops, senior, was really a quiet, inoffensive, and kind-hearted man, and his wife the daintiest morsel of a laundry-woman ever seen. Then Lotty's parlour, as her one room was called, was very tidy, neat, and clean. Quite a girl's room, in fact, and never lacked flowers in it. It was

Apart from the fact that Antony, Wallace, and Chops were not here, the little gipsy lass was happier than ever she had been in her life before. No tiresome rehearsals, no scoldings when doing her best, no worry nor care. This cottage gave her perfect rest.

But it must not be supposed that Lotty was going to lead an idle life. Nothing could have been farther from the child's thoughts. She was determined to pay her own way—to pave her own way, in fact, and to walk thereon. Mrs Oak had wanted Lotty to make her house her home as long as she pleased. But while thanking her and promising to come and see her often, she could not see her way to accept the kind offer. Her spirit of independence forbade. She determined to become a teacher of French and music.

That word 'determined' is a strong one; but London is a stony-hearted mother even to the very cleverest of girls. Lotty stuck her little card in the parlour window inviting pupils. But, alas! pupils did not come. Chops's little sister Mariar was the only one she had at present; and although the child was clever and smart, and Chops's parents pretended that the tuition she was receiving was quite enough to pay for Lotty's board, our Lotty was not of the same opinion.

But she was not the girl to let down her heart. So one evening she took her violin case and walked quietly out. Quite a mile townwards walked she, and then in a quiet but genteel street she began to play. For a time not a soul came near her. Oh! but souls came at last, and perhaps they were really souls, for Lotty was playing her best selected things, and it was charming to listen to her. She turned as red as an adjoining postbox when her first money was pressed into her hand, and was a little astonished to find it was a crooked sixpence with a hole in it. It came from a horny hand too. 'That'll change your luck, my love,' said the sturdy giver, and went trudging off before Lotty could thank him.

Whether the crooked sixpence had anything to do with it or not, her luck did change, and she played every night after this in the same neighbourhood, and at the end of a week she had earned five-and-twenty beautiful white shillings, to say nothing of the bent sixpence.

One day she ventured forth in the forenoon, and while playing her sweetest an unsavoury-looking man, in a bowler hat and wearing an unwholesome-looking coat, walked up to her. He had not even the good manners to wait until she had finished her piece, but tapped her somewhat rudely on the shoulder.

'Beg your pardon—er—but what is your age, my girl?'

'Thirteen next week,' said Lotty, wondering what he meant.

'Ah, that means twelve. Ahem! I'm a board school officer. What standard?'

'What standard? I—I don't know what you mean, sir!'

'Ah, I thought not. Never been to school, eh?'

'N—no—that is'——

'That'll do. Now, your address? Don't tell me a fib, 'cause I'll find out. I can follow you.'

Lotty's cheek burned with shame. All the independence of her spirit rose in rebellion now.

'I shall not give my address, never, never, never. I don't know you, sir. Follow me if you please, but I never tell lies.'

A tall, rather handsome gentleman now stepped out of the crowd and took immediate charge of the situation. 'Have you got your card, fellow?' he said to the man in the bowler.

'Well—no, not exactly, but here's an envelope.'

Lotty's newly found friend recoiled a little when he looked at it.

'The child,' he said 'will permit me to go home with her; you, sir, may follow at a respectful distance.—Come, dear, give me your hand.'

When the board school officer did come to the cottage he was received with politeness, but—had his answer; and the gentleman who had come to Lotty's assistance was very much delighted to find that she had received the best of education. Indeed, he gave proof of this by engaging her as a day-teacher of music and French to his own children.

That crooked sixpence had surely brought luck in its wake.

IT was a happy day for Lotty on which Chops returned to the cottage abode of his parents after so many weary wanderings. Not so romantic, certainly, would his life be now as it had been in wayside camp or caravan—it might even be a somewhat prosaic one; for, instead of being a gipsy any more, Chops was about to become a citizen and end probably in becoming a man of substance. Well, he had been a boy of substance, at all events; and although it was nearly a month since Lotty had seen him, he did not appear to have lost flesh to any appreciable extent. But to find his little companion so happy, and so much at home at his mother's cottage, and even on a fair way to earn a good livelihood, made honest Chops beam with joy.

It was not long after this that the lad's father apprenticed him to a draper to get a thorough insight into the business. And the shop was not a long way off, so that Chops came home regularly every night, and when he had a half-day's holiday he spent it with Lotty. The girl was not ashamed, but glad to go out with him, despite the cheeky London boys, who were by no means dilatory in drawing attention to the fact that her companion had to a trifling extent exceeded the limits of the ordinarily obese. The crispness of their remarks, however, did not annoy Chops at all.

'W'ich I'm goin' to go in a buster,' he told Lotty in confidence, 'with athletics, an' work hoff this too solid flesh; an' so, has I grows, I'll put hon manly muscle, an' I think, Miss Lotty, 'ow hall my dreams an' ambitions is bound to come true.'

Then a happy thought occurred to Lotty: she would take Chops under her educational wing and try to teach him to talk grammatically, to put his 'h's' in their right places, and to read and write correctly. And this, she felt a certainty in her own mind, would be to help him up a step or two in the ladder of life. And Chops was delighted when Lotty bought his first books for him out of her own earnings. But she was well rewarded, for the lad became a hard student in his spare time, and a fairly apt pupil.

. . . . . . .

It will be seen further on how Augustus Robb got hold of still another letter written to Aggie by her brother, who was now away touring in his great caravan through Ireland. But Robb did find it, and took good care that the father should see it. And the epistle made an impression on the mind of the proud owner of Manby Hall which was very far indeed from being favourable to his son's future prospects in life. Robb pretended he had not read nor seen this letter, but this is highly improbable.

Mr Blake, senior, said nothing about it for a day or two, then testily, one morning, he remarked, while both he and Robb were riding home after a pleasurable survey of the beautiful estate:

'By the way, nephew, as we have no secrets, I may as well tell you that I feel sorry I haven't another son, and one who would meet my views more in accordance with the true spirit of a county man and a Blake.'

'You must take a more rosy view of things, uncle,' said Robb. 'I have noticed of late that you have not been your old hearty self. I really think, sir, a change for a month or two, say to Norway, with its bracing air, would do you good; and I'm quite certain that when you came back you would look upon Frank as a mere romantic boy who will grow up by-and-by into a sturdy, healthy, sober-minded man.'

'Sober-minded fiddlestick! I tell you this, Gustus, that the boy is father of the man. Now, listen. I have found out, quite by chance you know, that while travelling in his confounded caravan he has met some beautiful gipsy girl in Ireland, and is going to marry her. Loves her "distractedly," he says, whatever on earth that may mean.'

Augustus laughed. He had more reasons than one for laughing.

'She, the gipsy, it would seem, is only nineteen, so it will be, or would be, but a boy and girl match; but—well, I'm not going to stand it, Gustus. Just look around you as we pause on this knoll, Gustus. Did ever you see a more lovely landscape estate in your life? Gaze on those summer woods, the hills, the beeches and pine-trees, that charming lake asleep in the sunshine, and the noble old Manby Hall nestling down yonder among its waving foliage.'

'It is, indeed, very charming, uncle.'

'And to think that this will go to—to—an idiot who has so little reverence for his ancient lineage and the blood of the Blakes that he intends to marry a Romany rye.'

'Don't excite yourself, sir. It is too bad of Frank. Shall I write to him and put it strong?'

'No—perish the thought! Only, if he does make this mésalliance I shall disinherit him.'

Augustus Robb wanted to laugh again, but there was no excuse. So he leant over his saddle and grasped Mr Blake's hand silently. The apparent friendliness of the act was not lost upon the lord of the manor.

'Augustus,' he said presently, 'I believe I am a little low both in spirits and physique. I shouldn't really mind going to Norway for a month or two, now that Mrs Blake is well and strong again; but without a companion I should feel lonely and bored.'

His nephew did not reply. He knew better.

'Come, Gustus, we'll go together.'

'Oh, that would be very delightful!'

'And, mind, you must promise me this: you will stand for S—— at next election, in the Conservative interest, and, my good boy, I'll use all my interest to have you returned.'

An extract from a letter of Aggie's to her brother soon after this throws some light on Antony's intended marriage.

'I did, dear brother,' it ran, 'as you told me, and placed the letter in my boudoir desk, leaving the keys in it, and as I expected there was a mysterious disappearance. But I did firmly believe that father would see it was all fun. But he has taken it in earnest, and so has our beautiful cousin Gustie. He had the impudence to tell me the other day that when he was member for S—— he meant to enter London society in earnest, and have a large house, and that his establishment would be quite incomplete without a mistress.

'I know what he meant. And now, Frank, they are both off to Norway, and I sincerely hope father will return alone. The lakes in Norway are very deep, Frank, and the cliffs are very high.'

From this extract it will be seen that Antony had meant merely to play a joke on his cousin, but it was taken seriously.

When, after a long, delightful gipsy ramble in Ireland, Antony returned somewhat unexpectedly to Manby Hall, his father and cousin were still in Norway. He had come back without the 'Gipsy Queen.' In fact, so pleased was he with Ireland that he had made up his mind to return there some day and go roving once more. So he had stored his caravan and sold his horses.

He would have liked very much to have seen his father; but fate forbade, for, as he told his mother and sister, he, Antony, had broken out in a new place. In fact, a wandering spirit had gained an ascendency over his mind, and now he was going abroad, far away to the savage island of New Guinea in short, to see some of the most savage life that exists anywhere in the world. But, first and foremost, and as a mere matter of course, he went to visit the little girl who, young though she was, he cared for more perhaps than he had ever cared for any one. This may not have been wise; but—well, perhaps it was only natural under all the strangely romantic circumstances. And Lotty in her new character really appealed to Antony as much, though probably not more, than she had done as the little gipsy lass.

But now something was going to happen, and there would be a nine days' source of wonder and even amusement for society. A very curious case indeed was to be sifted before a well-known judge of the Probate Court. And so, for the very last time in this story, we will see some of its old actors on the stage, and one at least who is new.

IT surprised nobody who knew him well to be informed that Frank Antony Blake had left England in a sailing ship without bidding good-bye to any one except his very nearest and dearest, including the little gipsy lass, with whom his parting had been most sad and tender. Probably it had taken him only a few minutes to make up his mind, and only a few hours to get ready his kit or outfit, so much a creature of impulse was he. He needed an entire change, he told himself, and he would remain away for a whole year. In the long run, this really extended to four whole years and over.

He had not been gone more than a month, however, before the curious will-case, of which mention has now to be made, became for a short time the talk of the town. Law is a much drier subject to write about than either love or friendship; but even in a romance there are times when it cannot well be avoided.

Until this lawsuit came off—or came on rather, for it dragged out its wearying length for a week—few probably except people living in their own county had ever heard much about the Broxleys of Blankshire. They were a very old family nevertheless, and had as much right as any to say that they had come over with William the Conqueror. Be that as it may, the Broxleys were a county family noted for their love of true English sport—if following the hounds and hunting tame and innocent deer to death be sport—and all manly games.

The family was by no means a prolific one; and going into its back history it was found that there was seldom a direct heir to the estate. An owner would either die a bachelor, or if married leave the world a childless man, so that the rich lands and castles took now and then a leap, as it were, into side branches of the old family. But when the estates passed into the hands of Talbot Broxley, Esq., it was believed that they were at last settled, for he had a splendid healthy young son, the only member of his family, by the way, who was quite independent of the wealth that apparently nothing could keep him out of. He was a great favourite both in town and country, and was engaged to a charming young lady, a cousin of the Marquis of Kingslee. The two seemed very fond of each other, and were the admired of all the gossips on that day when together they rode off to a distant steeplechase. It was the last ride the happy pair ever had, for, mournful to say, young Stanley's horse shied at an urchin who had popped unexpectedly out of a ditch by the wayside; shied and bolted, and that forenoon the rider was carried home dead.

This terrible accident quite broke his father's heart, and so the estates fell into the hands of a comparative stranger, a bachelor who had previous to this been as poor as the proverbial church-mouse. His only brother had died some time before this man's succession, and his baby daughter was sent to a convent to be nursed and reared.

When this bachelor inherited the estates he naturally thought of the child who was then about two years of age, and had her brought from the convent to Broxley Towers. She would be the next heir, and she would be a comfort to him, he believed, as she grew up. And this child was the only one who would stand between the vast wealth of the Broxleys and John Crawford Broxley, a cousin of the bachelor, when that lord of the manor should die. As the owner of Broxley Towers was said to be suffering from some incurable ailment to which the doctors never put a name, the chance of his attaining to anything like old age was a very remote one. They say, however, that watched pots take long to boil; and just because John Crawford wished this man dead, and watched for his demise, he lived.

As to the child, she disappeared most mysteriously one afternoon, and on this disappearance hinges the dénouement of this story.

There was some one else watching until the bachelor should die, and she had waited and watched until at last, about one month after Frank Antony Blake had left the country, his demise was announced, and John Crawford Broxley had proceeded at once to assert his rights to the Broxley estate.

But to the astonishment of every one, suddenly an eminent counsel came forward intent upon proving that John had no more right to the Broxley Towers than he himself had. For till now no one dreamt of anything like opposition to John's claim.

Thus the nine days' wonder came upon the boards.

John Crawford sat in court that morning; no more confident nor self-satisfied individual was present. He was beaming and effulgent.

A man of about six-and-thirty, he was good-looking, well-groomed, and well set-up. He leant back in his seat and complacently watched the proceedings. He believed that these would utterly collapse after a witness or two had been examined.

But the other side had employed probably the most eminent counsel in this country, and the judge himself looked the quintessence of earnest justice. The counsel for the other claimant, John's opponent, was very calm and quiet. He began, indeed, by stating that there was no nearer heir to the estates than John Crawford Broxley, and if reports as to his character were to be credited, he was a vir probus et virtutis, or had been for many years. Unfortunately for him, however, there were certain antecedents that he, counsel, would have to mention for the consideration of the judge. But, nevertheless, the fact remained that John was the nearest heir to Broxley Towers——

The great lawyer paused a few seconds, and many in the court thought that he was about to surrender his case or throw up his brief—'Provided,' he continued 'there was no nearer heir.' He would now have the pleasure of bringing forward as the claimant a young lady whom he could prove was the daughter of the deceased's brother.

There was a buzz of excitement and admiration in the court when—led by Crona the witch, who leant on a long staff and had her raven Joe on her shoulder—Lotty herself, looking radiantly pretty, entered and took her seat shyly beside her fairy godmother.

'This,' proceeded the counsel, 'is the girl who, as a child of some two and a half years, was stolen from the lord of the manor and Broxley Towers.'

John Crawford at this moment lost a good deal of his nonchalance, and leant forward on the bench, eagerly scanning Lotty's face.

Birth-marks on the child's side and left arm were then described, and it seemed to be tacitly admitted that if Lotty had these marks, which were very peculiar, she was undoubtedly the long-lost child.

Captain Paterson of the Nor'lan' Star was a witness now called and questioned, but not cross-examined. He knew Maggie Dyer, nurse at Broxley Hall to the child who would be the nearest heir to the estates on the death of the then lord of the manor. He had known Maggie long before then. Whenever his ship was paid off he used to run down to Broxley, and a friend of his, now first-mate of the Nor'lan' Star, used always to accompany him.

'You were supposed to be wooing Maggie?' said the judge.

'There was precious little supposition about it, my lord.'

'Why did you take the mate with you? It is not usual for a man going a-wooing to take a male companion with him.'

'Only for company's sake, sir. Nothing a sailor hates more than a tedious journey by rail with no one to speak to.'

'Did you go to the Hall?'

'Certainly so, sir. And the mate knew how to pass the time at the village inn while I was away. He is a sailor as well as myself.'

'You saw your intended at the Hall?'

'Yes, in the housekeeper's room; the housekeeper herself being there sometimes—sometimes not.'

'Was this girl Maggie's character unimpeachable, Captain Paterson? She was really a good girl?'

'I'd have knocked the man who dared to doubt it into the middle of next week, sir; and she was good enough to make my wife.'

'You would have heard her speak of the child?'

'Oh yes, and she nearly went out of her mind with grief when it disappeared, and it was soon after this that we became man and wife.'

His brown-bearded mate was the next called. He testified to going down to Broxley with Captain Paterson, and indeed to all he said. Then he was asked about the finding of the little boat at sea, with Lotty therein, and her life on board, and of the captain's wife discovering on the little gipsy lass the birth-marks, and informing her husband and himself; and the witness concluded by informing the court that he considered the whole occurrence simply a ‘’tarposition of Providence, and nothing else.'

Then came good, kind Mrs Paterson herself. Her story took the court back to the time when she became nurse-companion to the child at Broxley Hall. She would willingly have married before; but Mr Paterson, whom she had known and been engaged to for many years, wanted first and foremost to be in a good position, and to walk his own quarterdeck as captain, because then he could take her to sea with him.

'Well,' said counsel, 'tell us briefly about the disappearance of the child. You had been nurse for some little time before this, hadn't you?'

'Yes, sir, and the child was much attached to me.'

'You gave perfect satisfaction?'

'Oh yes, sir, for I stayed on months after the child was stolen, and indeed, I may say, I was married from the Hall.'

'Was a hue and cry raised?'

'Yes, and rewards offered, but all to no purpose.'

'The mystery remained a mystery?'

'That's it, sir.'

'And about the birth-marks?'

'They were there on the infant I nursed, sir, and I found them on the girl Lotty whom we picked up in the North Sea.'

'Is it not possible'—this from the judge—'that the marks on Lotty Lee's side may only be of some fancied resemblance to those on the infant child and heir to Broxley estates?'

'There is no fancy about it, my lord; they are the same. I swear to that.'

'After ten long years and over?'

'Women can remember longer back than that, sir.'

'No doubt, no doubt.'

Mrs Paterson was cross-questioned at some length by John Crawford's counsel, but without causing her to deviate in the slightest from any portion of her strange story.

As to the actual stealing of the infant, it was simplicity itself. She had left her sleeping in a cot and in a room which opened by French windows to a shrubbery. When she returned about an hour later she found the room locked from the inside, and when she raised the alarm and the door was forced the child was gone.

An important witness was an old doctor who had attended the infant, and had examined Lotty as well. He swore to the identity of these strange birth-marks, and was then allowed to retire, being feeble.

That which is here being described so briefly took a very long time to go into, and days passed before the case was decided, even so far.

'We now come to the raison d'être,' the counsel was understood to say; 'but before going further into the case I shall pause here to give John Crawford a chance of withdrawing his claim in favour of my client, and for his own safety's sake.'

Lotty's counsel placed ominous emphasis on the last few words.

There was then an adjournment for luncheon that day; and after the court had reassembled, Crawford's counsel intimated that after what had been said in so pointed and even threatening manner he had advised that the case be continued.

When Crona entered the witness-box, and the raven still perched where he was, a titter of laughter passed round the court; but this was instantly suppressed, and gradually all her story was told in answer to questions put by Lotty's counsel.

She had been an actress on the French stage, she said and swore, about eleven years ago, and a great favourite with the public. Her parts were comedy, with singing and skirt-dancing, and it was at this time that she was introduced to John Crawford Broxley, the man sitting up yonder. He made love to her, and proposed marriage. She had left the stage to be married, and had even gone to church; but herself and party had waited in vain for the bridegroom, who had been married on the previous evening to a young lady with money.

She then described the stealing of the child by John Crawford, and the disposal of it to a common mountebank, who trained and reared her as an infant prodigy.

Crawford's counsel was sitting on nettles, and he thought he now saw his chance; and Lotty's lawyer allowed him to have it, and sat down to listen. There was a smirk of satisfied amusement on the face of the former as he told the judge he only wanted to ask the woman in the mob-cap a question or two.

'Probably,' he said, 'one question will be convincing enough. Ahem!'

Now the raven had been quite silent until this moment; but no sooner had this clever counsel risen and cleared his throat than Joe, bending back his head, gave vent to a low, derisive chuckle, 'Ha, ha, ha!'

'I think, your honour, that bird should be removed.'

Crona promised, however, he should keep quiet, and the counsel proceeded:

'You have told the court, madam, that only eleven years ago you were a gay actress and danseuse?'

Crona nodded.

'And that John Crawford, still a young man, made love to you—to you who are now ninety years old, if a day, so that he at the age of twenty-five must have made love to a lady older than his grandmother.'

Even the jury smiled, and John thought his case was won.

His counsel sat down with a satisfied smirk. But Crona kept standing, and whispered to Lotty's counsel.

'This witness,' said the latter, 'wishes to retire'——

'It is time,' said the other counsel.

But Lotty's counsel turned furiously on him. 'How dare you interrupt me, sir? Retire,' he added, 'not from the case, but for ten minutes to change her dress.'

Leave was given, and in less than five minutes Crona had returned, raven and all. But to the astonishment of all she now stood before the court a young and beautiful lady, much under thirty. She laughed a little.

'I think, my lord, that even John Crawford's counsel will admit that if I was no actress eleven years ago I am a very good specimen of one now.'

'Bravo! bravo!' cried Joe. 'Ha, ha, ha!'

She threw the bird high towards the roof, and there he perched on a bracket defiantly.

'John Crawford,' Crona went on, 'made love to me, promised me marriage, deserted me in a cowardly way, and I have to confess that I swore revenge. I found out about the child-stealing, and knew well that as soon as the lord of the manor died that low-browed man yonder would put in his claim. He thought, as every one else did, that I was a witch. It strikes me, your honour, I have bewitched him to good account.'

She sat down by Lotty, and even the judge could not prevent a buzz of applause.

'I will now,' said our heroine's counsel, 'produce the man who was paid to take away the child, Lotty Broxley—namely, the showman Josiah Radcliffe.'

Then Biffins Lee himself appeared, and at this moment those who had their gaze fixed upon John Crawford noticed that he turned suddenly pale, and, leaning towards his counsel, began to whisper to him in a somewhat agitated manner. His counsel immediately arose.

'My client,' he said, 'wishes to retire from the case.'

'It is time,' this from Lotty's legal adviser, for it was his turn now.

'Ha, ha, ha!' chuckled the raven. 'Set him up. Ho, ho, ho! Set him up. Joe's cross! Ho, ho, ho!'

As he left the court that day, John Crawford was tapped upon the arm by a detective.

'I hold a warrant for your arrest, John Crawford Broxley, for child-stealing.'

And so the nine days' wonder ended, and ends our story with it.

When Crona with her charge alighted from the hansom that had driven them from court to the little cottage of Chops's parents, the first to meet her was Chops himself. The second was Wallace. Ah! what a welcome that dog's was! From the tones of his voice it really seemed as if he were crying and scolding her lovingly at the same time. Why had she gone away so long and left him to break his heart? He would ne'er have gone away from her, and so on, and so forth in a dog's own way.

Distant but wealthy relations of Lotty's were constituted her legal guardians; but the girl determined—and had her own way too, for what is the good of being rich if you don't have your own way?—determined that Crona should be always with her; she and she alone would be her real guardian, her own dear fairy godmother.

It was fully four years after this before Frank Antony returned from his wanderings. But Aggie his sister had told him all the news.

It is needless to say that his father freely forgave the brave and dashing young man who came with firm step up the avenue one fine forenoon. He was now four-and-twenty.

'Father,' he said, 'I've had my fling, and you may do with me as you please.'

'I think, Frank, my boy, I shall choose a bride for you. That will be best, Frank.'

'I think, father,' said the son laughing, 'I'm almost old enough to choose one for myself.—What do you think, mother? Oh, dear old mummy, how sweet you look even through your foolish tears!'

'Well, anyhow, you shall see the young lady we shouldn't mind you marrying,' said his father. 'She is here on a visit; and, lo! yonder she comes.'

A beautiful young girl of nineteen was coming slowly up the garden-path hand in hand with Crona; and Wallace himself next moment had his paws on Antony's shoulder.

Antony made a rush to meet Lotty, with both hands extended.

'What,' he cried, 'my little gipsy lass! Father, you have chosen well. I accept the responsibility.'

. . . . . . .

The honeymoon was spent in the great saloon caravan 'Gipsy Queen.' And it was not one moon only, but many of them, that the happy couple spent in this idyllic and delightful way.

It is needless to say that honest Wallace was one of the party, and he seemed to have become younger than ever now he had all those he loved on earth together.

It would be positively unkind to finish this story without saying a word about good, faithful Chops. He may be found at any time of the day in a large emporium near to St Paul's, and behind the counter where many a good man has served before him, a suave, smiling, and obliging young fellow. It must be confessed that he looks remarkably well in his dark morning coat and patent leather boots, to say nothing of the yard-stick, as he puts the question: 'What will be next, please, ma'am?' There is even a possibility of his being in time to come thrice Lord Mayor of London town. But although he still looms large in private theatricals he will never be an 'Enry Hirving—never, never, never!'

THE END.


Edinburgh: Printed by W. & R. Chambers, Limited.

---