[to be continued.]
[SAMUEL A. ANDRÉE, THE NORTH-POLE BALLOONIST.]
BY WILFRID DE FOUVIELLE.
The year 1881 was a great date in North Pole exploration. The most influential civilized nations sent out a dozen scientific parties to study the peculiarities of those desolate regions as accurately as can be determined without paying a visit to the centre of that mysterious territory.
The Swedish explorers made their headquarters at Cape Thorsden, on the southeastern island of the Spitzberg archipelago. This expedition, led by Mr. Elkholm, a distinguished physicist attached to the celebrated Upsal University, achieved considerable success. The members returned home in good condition, after having wintered in an excellent observatory, collected a large number of important readings, and carrying back hundreds of photograms, minerals, and specimens of vegetable and animal life in that far northern land.
The youngest member of this party was Mr. Samuel A. Andrée, son of an apothecary in business near Stockholm, and a graduate of the Swedish Polytechnic School. At that moment Mr. Andrée had not completed his twenty-fifth year. He had been appointed a member of the scientific staff through the influence of the Baron Nordenskjöld, the greatest living Scandinavian polar explorer, and an intimate friend of the Swedish King. Mr. Andrée's special duty on this first expedition was to keep track of Sir William Thomson's (now Lord Kelvin) electrometers, and to report on other scientific peculiarities.
Mr. Andrée is a genuine offspring of the famous sea-kings. He is very tall, powerfully built, with a prominent forehead, blue eyes, and a forest of fair early hair, and is endowed with great muscular strength. As for his mental capacities, he is a talented writer and speaker, and can converse in German and English as fluently as in his native tongue, while he speaks French well enough to make himself easily understood by an audience. Mr. Andrée's practical education has not been neglected, and he knows how to use a hammer, a file, or a chisel as well as any trained workman. On account of his manual acquirements he was selected by the chief of the exploring party to keep the registering apparatus in order, a difficult and painful operation during the terrific cold of the dreary polar nights.
Before he had attained his thirtieth year Mr. Andrée received the appointment of chief engineer of the Swedish Patent-Office. It is probable that he would have devoted the whole of his life to the performance of these attractive official duties had he not felt, during his wintering in the northern regions, the irresistible spell of a more risky and enticing vocation. When he visited me in Paris last summer on his way to the International Geographical Congress, held in London, he confessed that it was in the presence of those grand and impressive scenes he had resolved to win for his native country the fame of having reached the North Pole first.
It was in 1889 that Mr. Andrée decided to make balloon ascensions. Receiving aid from a Swedish scientific fund and from the Stockholm Academy of Sciences, he had the Swea built in Paris, under the supervision of the Swedish Minister. (Swea is the poetic name for Sweden.) This balloon measured 30,000 cubic feet. Mr. Andrée's first ascension took place from Stockholm on July 15, 1893. He was quite alone in the car, and this enabled him to reach an altitude of 11,000 feet, after having passed successively through two layers of clouds, accurately ascertained the direction of the wind prevailing at several levels, and studied other important scientific matters, which have proved valuable to students in all branches of science the world over. He published a graphic account of his first experiences in the Aftonbladet, one of the most influential papers in Sweden, to which he had previously been a popular contributor. In this account he described his sensations as soon as he had lost sight of land, and also when he perceived that he would be immersed in the sea unless he found a serviceable breeze that would carry him towards land. Fortunately the breeze came in time.
ANDRÉE'S GUIDING SAIL.
On October 19th of the same year Mr. Andrée made another ascension, in the course of which almost any inexperienced aeronaut would have been lost. As soon as he had passed through a layer of clouds, which up to that moment had entirely concealed the earth from view, he saw that he was passing at an immense distance from land over the very centre of the Baltic. With a calm hand he gently lowered his guide-rope, and observed that the friction on the water was greatly diminishing the velocity with which the wind was carrying the Swea away from the sea-ports, where he could reasonably expect to be rescued by casual ships. Then he tried to reduce the velocity even more by attaching two sacks of ballast to the end of his guide-rope. This simple combination, conceived under the pressure of a great danger, led him to a discovery. He found that he could make the balloon turn slightly to the right or left by using a sail when lowering the guide-rope, not only on sea, but on a vast expanse of land. Mr. Andrée tried this important experiment during an ascension made on July 14, 1894, at Gottenburg. The change of course that he obtained with a moderate-sized sail and a heavy guide-rope was estimated from ten to thirty degrees, not only as shown by his compass, but also according to the testimony of competent persons who had witnessed this extraordinary ascension, when, for the first time, a man had made a balloon sail on the wind.
IN THE CAR OF THE SWEA.
An eventful ending was reserved for this ascension, during which the young Swedish engineer had so cleverly combined the force of the wind with the friction it generates, and utilized both for varying at will the direction of the balloon to the right or left from the air current. The sun was fast declining when Mr. Andrée conceived for the first time this great idea, which may prove so useful for reaching the North Pole. He soon observed a small island straight ahead in the direction he was then following, and at once threw out a sack of ballast. His guide-rope was freed from the waves in an instant, and the Swea darted forward at a rapid rate for the desired land. Ten minutes had not elapsed when Mr. Andrée saw, with a feeling of deep satisfaction and even rapture, the shore lying about a hundred yards directly under his feet. Then he threw his whole weight on his valve-rope, hundreds of cubic feet of gas instantly escaped, the Swea struck land with a shock, and the car was overturned. Our aeronaut, to his great satisfaction, was thrown, at full length on the ground.
Being young in the art of balloon management, Mr. Andrée could not imagine how quickly events happen in aerial navigation. Before he could grasp a rope the Swea had vanished in the air, and he was left alone on the island, without any food or covering, exposed to the cold of those latitudes during a long and dismal October night. Naturally enough, he found in his pocket a box of matches, for the manufacture of these useful objects is a specialty in his native country. He gathered a few dry weeds and dead shrubs and lighted a fire. While warming his tired and hungry body he had plenty of time to meditate over the hardships of his unenviable position. The island, which seemed allotted to him by fate, was not two furlongs long and one wide, and had no water. It was one of the thousand rocky and barren islets composing the Finnish archipelago, and there was but slight possibility that any vessel sent from Sweden could discover his retreat in time to save him from the most terrible of fates, death from hunger and thirst.
As soon as the sun was up on the following morning Mr. Andrée ran to the crest of a little rocky eminence, and kept screaming at the top of his voice for more than an hour. Then he sat down exhausted and burst into tears. Finally his swollen eyes perceived a cloud of smoke upon the horizon. Surely it must be a steamer! No doubt the steamer was rapidly nearing the island! The unfortunate aeronaut wrecked from the skies was about to be rescued! In his joy he danced and resumed his screamings. For a while he was elated. He had some right to believe that he had been seen from the deck, as the ship was steering straight towards the island. But the vessel changed its course, and in spite of the balloonist's piercing cries, disappeared.
This unlucky departure would have driven many a resolute man to despair. For Mr. Andrée it was a lesson. He at once understood that it was impossible for any one on a vessel to see a human figure on this desolate island, and that he must contrive a more showy signal than his body, notwithstanding he was tall and strongly built. After having meditated for half an hour—an eternity under the circumstances—he made a sort of stout stick by tying together with weeds a lot of branches torn from the shrubs. At the end of this stick he attached his trousers, and waved them wildly over his head, after having mounted to the top of the hill.
ANDRÉE'S ESCAPE FROM THE ISLAND.
This unnamed island where Mr. Andrée was left is situated a few miles from Brunskär, which has two houses. One of the two is owned by a tailor, who goes around once or twice a week in a boat to visit his customers, who are dispersed over the archipelago. Of course the tailor's eyes were attracted by the sight of a pair of trousers floating in the air, and he rowed to the spot to see what such a signal meant. And this is how Mr. Andrée was restored to life, and thus enabled to pursue his grand idea of reaching the North Pole in a balloon.
Having given some idea of Mr. Andrée's career, and shown a few traits of his energetic character, I purpose, as soon as possible, to tell my young readers the story of the preparations he is now making for this great aerial voyage, which is attracting the interest of scientific people all over the world. Mr. Andrée will start on this perilous voyage some time this year, probably in July, if he can get all things ready by that time. His friend, Mr. Elkholm, will accompany him, and it is not impossible that the explorers may land somewhere in America, after having passed, perhaps, over the North Pole, or at least very near it.
SAMUEL A. ANDRÉE.
[A BATTER THAT WORKS THREE WAYS.]
With very slight change one may convert the same material into several varieties of fancy bread. Southern cooks understand this so well that they frequently set aside a mixture, after having supplied the breakfast-table with griddle-cakes, only to have it reappear at luncheon in quite different guise—as "pone," muffins, egg-bread, or "pop-overs." If kept in a cool place an ordinary batter will remain sweet for twenty-four hours, and the addition of an egg or a spoonful of baking-powder will quickly restore its lightness.
By way of proving the many-sidedness of certain mixtures, let us see how the use of muffin-cups, waffle-irons, and frying-pan will alter results, and turn out for us "Virginia puffs," "Aunt Sally's waffles," and "bell fritters." The necessary ingredients for all three dainties are: 1 quart of milk; 1½ pints of flour (half a pint to be set aside for fritters, which require more than puffs or waffles); 4 eggs; a table-spoonful of butter and lard combined; a heaping teaspoonful of baking-powder; a small teaspoonful of salt.
The Virginia puffs will require everything except the half-pint of flour reserved for fritters.
Set aside a coffee-cup of milk, and put the rest in a farina-kettle over a brisk fire.
Sift a pint of flour into a bowl. Gradually pour over it the coffee-cup of cold milk, heating until it becomes a smooth paste. By this time the remainder of the milk will be hot enough (it must not boil) to stir little by little into the paste. Next add the butter, lard, and salt, then the baking-powder mixed in a little dry flour.
Now beat, beat, beat with a big spoon and plenty of muscle, for the success and puffiness of your puffs depend largely on the amount of energy expended on them.
Whisk the whites of two eggs to a stiff froth. Beat the whites of two and yolks of three together, very light, and beat them into the batter, the frothed whites last.
Have your muffin-cups hot and well buttered. Pour in the mixture, and bake twenty to twenty-five minutes in a quick oven. Serve the moment they are up to the top of the cups and a nice brown color, otherwise they will fall and grow sodden.
The same receipt, minus baking-powder and lard, makes excellent waffles. If you like them thick and soft, fill the irons well with batter. If they are preferred thin and crisp, use less. Should they still seem too solid, thin with a little milk.
The secret of good waffles is the cooking. The irons must be constantly turned over a steady fire to prevent blistering or scorching and to give to both sides an appearance of evenness. Never wait to bake a quantity, but serve as fast as the iron turns them out.
When you have reached the point mentioned in directions for Virginia puffs where the quart of milk has been stirred into a pint of flour, leave the paste to grow cold. Before dinner beat in the four eggs and a half-pint of dry flour.
These fritters are delicious with a hot sauce for dessert, but may be metamorphosed into an entrée by the addition of bananas, apples, or apricots, cut small and stirred lightly into the batter at the last moment before frying.
Put a pound or more of best leaf lard in a deep iron skillet, and let it come to a boil. Dip the fritter mixture up in a large kitchen spoon. Hold over the skillet, and cut it from the spoon with a knife. It will fall into the hot lard somewhat in the form of the bowl of the spoon. The name "bell" implies that they should not be flat and shapeless, but nicely rounded.
[AN AWAKENING.]
BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.
I used to think that Fido was a most exciting pet;
He'd come up in the morning and beneath the bed-clothes get,
And play that he was savage, and go biting at my toes;
But now he doesn't scare me—little Fi no longer goes.
I used to think our gardener a hero great and grand,
The biggest man of all the big in all our great big land;
But now I take no stock in him; he doesn't interest,
Although to make a wonder he just tries his level best.
You see, somebody gave me, not so very long ago,
A little book of fairy tales—it's wonderful, you know,
To read about the fearful things they do in books like that.
And it's what's made old Fido and the gardener seem flat.
I want a dragon for a pet—a dragon big and fierce—
That feeds on fire and powder, with a glance that seems to pierce,
I sort of don't get wrought up by old Fido when I read
Of how that fierce old dragon takes in lions for his feed.
And as for John the garden man, he doesn't seem to me
One half the hero that one time I thought that he must be,
For he don't kill off giants, like Hop o' my Thumb and Jack,
And all my liking for his tales is growing very slack.
So, daddy, get a dragon that will jump into my bed
Each morning when the sun comes up, and sniff about my head
The way old Fido does, and let the market garden go
To some real ogre-killer, like Great Jacky was, you know.
[A BLOW FOR CUBA.]
BY WILLIAM BANKS, JUN.
t was a very hot day even for Cuba. Every living thing moved listlessly. The great Spanish flag, hanging from the tall slender staff just inside the gate of the fort, drooped like the wings of a tired bird. The sentries were almost gasping for breath. In the barracks the men grumbled and railed at the fate which had brought them from home and friends to fight in a country where fever thinned their ranks far more effectively than did the bullets of the insurgents.
On a slight hill about a mile from the fort a man and a youth were lolling lazily on the ground. The lad was about eighteen years of age, tall, well-built, and unmistakably an American. His companion, a native Cuban, was at least thirty years old, short, but with a frame denoting immense strength.
They had been watching the fort for an hour or more through a powerful field-glass, and following closely the movements of the sentries on the wall nearest them.
"Pah!" said the lad at last, "they're only a lot of boys."
The man smiled at him meaningly, and the lad blushed.
"I know," he continued, hesitatingly, "that you're thinking I'm just a boy too; but," proudly, "I'm an American."
"So," answered the man, softly; "and had I a few score such lads as you in my command I'd strike a great blow for Cuba to-day."
"How, Captain Marto?" was the eager question.
"By taking yonder fort by storm," was the quiet reply.
The youth's father was a prisoner in the fort, and the incidents which led up to his capture may be here described. For five years Mr. Hinton, a native of Pennsylvania State, had resided with his son Ben in Havana, where he carried on business as a general merchant. His wife had died while on a visit to her old American home. Among Cubans Mr. Hinton was well known as a sympathizer in their cause. Immediately on receipt of the news in Havana that General Antonio Maceo had taken the field he decided to lend his active aid to the Cuban leader. Not wishing his son to share in the dangers of a struggle in which he knew that the Spaniards would show no mercy to any who took up arms against them, Mr. Hinton had suggested that Ben go back to relatives in America. This proposition the lad stoutly opposed. Ben knew by heart the stories of the brave efforts which the Cubans had so often made in their attempts to throw off the Spanish yoke. The names of Maceo, Gomez, Marto, and other revolutionists were held in high estimation by him, and, with that intense love of freedom inherited by every American boy, he had determined, long before he knew his father's views on the subject, to strike a blow in the coming struggle for Cuban independence. His father was at last compelled to consent to Ben's accompanying him.
Accordingly, one evening Mr. Hinton, Marto, and Ben left Havana secretly. By travelling at night, and lying concealed during the day in the huts of natives, and sometimes in the woods, they reached the outskirts of the province of Puerto Principe. Here, at the little village in which Marto was born, thirty natives joined them. Marto was elected captain of the band. Feeling somewhat secure, on account of their numbers, the band travelled through the country by day, taking the most direct route for Maceo's camp. But one morning they were suddenly surrounded by an overwhelming force of Spanish soldiers. With desperate courage, Captain Marto, Ben, and some twenty-five men cut their way out of the cordon of soldiers and sought safety in flight.
It was not until the Spaniards gave up the chase that any one noticed that Mr. Hinton was not with the party. Poor Ben was in a frenzy, and, but for Captain Marto and a couple of men restraining him by force, would have rushed back to the scene of the conflict to seek for his father. Wiser counsel prevailed, however, and towards evening a man who joined the party brought comparative happiness to Ben by the report that he had watched from the woods a party of Spanish soldiers marching along with an American prisoner in their midst. The description of the prisoner tallied so closely with that of Mr. Hinton as to leave no doubt of his identity.
Then Marto, who loved Mr. Hinton as a brother, had determined that, at whatever cost, his American friend must be rescued.
"Why," he had said to Ben, "I dare not go to Maceo without him, and I would not if I could. Tho General is expecting him, and will give him a command as soon as he arrives at the camp."
"Which," Ben had answered, gloomily enough, "will never be."
"Which," Marto had retorted, somewhat testily, "must and will be."
Two days after the fight they located the fort which was the headquarters of the soldiers who had attacked them, and it was this Ben and Captain Marto were watching when our story opens. The band had spent three days in the neighborhood, but as yet had not even succeeded in letting the prisoner know that his friends had not totally deserted him.
The fort was a very rude affair, the walls being constructed of two thicknesses of logs with earth packed between. An earthen embankment ran around the inner side of the walls, and at such a height that when the soldiers appeared on it their bodies from the waist up offered a splendid target to an enemy. Some two hundred and fifty men formed the garrison, and they were quartered in a huge two-storied log barracks in the centre of the enclosed ground. In front of the barracks, and about twenty feet from it, was a small hut, in which Ben and Captain Marto, by the aid of the field-glass, had learnt Mr. Hinton was confined.
Continuing their conversation, Captain Marto and Ben had decided that the attempted rescue must be made that night. They knew that the great heat would have a depressing effect on the Spaniards, and they knew also that after nightfall not more than three sentries patrolled the walls of the fort. Many plans were discussed whereby success might reasonably be expected to attend their venture, but the one upon which it was finally decided to act was suggested by Ben.
MARTO GRASPED THE SENTRY AND THREW HIM OVER THE WALL.
In accordance with that plan, after the night was well advanced, Captain Marto and Ben, with eight men, lay in the shadows under the eastern wall of the fort. They listened until they heard the sentry walk past the position they occupied, and then Marto, mounting upon the shoulders of two of the men, scrambled to the top of the wall. He dropped softly to the embankment, and lay as close to the logs as he possibly could. Shortly the sentry came along on his return patrol, humming a Spanish song. He did not notice the prostrate form until he almost trod upon it. It was then too late to give a warning, for Marto sprang up, and with all the strength of which he was capable, struck the man full on the mouth, and followed this up immediately by grasping him around the waist and fairly throwing him over the wall. Here a dozen hands quickly grasped the soldier, who was gagged and bound before he could utter a cry.
Then one by one the Cubans with Ben scrambled up, and the whole ten made a rush for the small hut. Three sleepy guards were cut down in a few seconds, the door of the building was forced open, and Mr. Hinton was led out by his son.
"Dad! dear old Dad!" cried Ben.
"Ben! my boy!" was the answer, and the voices of father and son betrayed deep emotion.
At this moment a shot was fired, and a sentry on the western wall fell. Instantly a tremendous hubbub arose within the barracks, and the Spaniards, some of whom had already been aroused by the scuffle with Mr. Hinton's guards, began to pour out of the building. All were armed, though many were only half dressed; but before they had time to load their rifles the remaining Cubans, who had got into the ground by way of the western wall, joined Captain Marto and those with him, and the little band of twenty-five flung themselves on the Spaniards.
While the fighting was going on Ben suddenly found himself thrust against something, which proved to be the flag-pole, and, looking up, discovered the Spanish flag waving overhead. The idea at once occurred to him to take advantage of the laxity of discipline among the Spanish troops. He hauled on the ropes, but for some reason they would not work. Placing his clasp-knife between his teeth, he climbed the staff, until he clasped the folds of the flag with his left hand; then he was compelled to sever the halyards with his knife.
From his airy perch Ben turned his eyes in the direction of the struggle. He could barely distinguish the outlines of the surging mass of men. But high above the din of oaths and cries in Spanish, the clash of bayonet, sword-blade, and the favorite Cuban weapon, the machete, arose the exulting cry: "Cuba libre! Cuba libre!"
The lad's soul was thrilled. "Surely," he muttered to himself, "Cuba for the Cubans will soon be a fact and not a dream. But they must retire."
Even as the word left his lips, a single long shrill note from a whistle pierced the air. It was a prearranged signal, and it came none too soon; for now, somewhat recovered from the suddenness of the attack, the Spaniards, realizing the small force opposed to them, were driving the Cubans back by sheer weight of numbers.
At the signal, however, the Cubans retired with surprising swiftness, carrying with them the bodies of several of their comrades who had fallen. As they passed the staff Ben slipped down amongst them, the flag bundled up under his left arm. The gate had already been opened by two Cubans, who had been assigned that duty. The whole band rushed through, three or four men in mere bravado lingering to pull the gate to after them.
As they fled several Spaniards mounted the embankment and sent a volley after them, one bullet striking Ben's left arm. A little cry of pain escaped him, but he clinched his teeth, and grasping the flag still tighter, hurried on.
No pursuit was made, and after placing two miles between themselves and the fort, a halt was called. Torches were lit, and by their fitful glare it was found that of the Cubans who had to be carried away none were dead, although in some cases the wounds were serious. When Ben produced the flag, all stained with his own blood, the impulsive Cubans showered such praise upon him that the lad felt almost shamed. His father said very little, but Ben knew by the silent hand-shake and the care for the wounded arm that Mr. Hinton was proud of his son.
The rest of the journey to Maceo's camp partook of the nature of a triumphal procession. The news of the gallant deeds of Marto's little band roused the whole countryside, and in a few weeks' time what had formerly been a quiet district was in arms against the Spaniard.
When Maceo's camp was reached Mr. Hinton, Marto, and Ben were at once conducted into his presence. He began to compliment Marto, but the latter interrupted respectfully.
"Sir, it was my gallant comrade here," pointing to Ben, "who planned the affair and captured the flag. To him the honor is due."
General Maceo stepped up to Ben and clasped the lad's right hand warmly in his own.
"What can I do for you, my hero?" he asked.
"Let me continue to fight in your cause," was the modest answer.
And, under the immediate command of his father, Ben Hinton is still fighting for Cuba.
[THE MIDDLE DAUGHTER.]
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
CHAPTER II.
AT WISHING-BRAE.
Grace Wainwright, a slender girl in a trim tailor-made gown, stepped off the train at Highland Station. She was pretty and distinguished looking. Nobody would have passed her without observing that. Her four trunks and a hat-box had been swung down to the platform by the baggage-master, and the few passengers who, so late in the fall, stopped at this little out-of-the-way station in the hills had all tramped homeward through the rain, or been picked up by waiting conveyances. There was no one to meet Grace, and it made her feel homesick and lonely. As she stood alone on the rough unpainted board walk in front of the passenger-room a sense of desolation crept into the very marrow of her bones. She couldn't understand it, this indifference on the part of her family. The ticket agent came out and was about to lock the door. He was going home to his mid-day dinner.
"I am Grace Wainwright," she said, appealing to him. "Do you not suppose some one is coming to meet me?"
"Oh, you be Dr. Wainwright's darter that's been to foreign parts, be you? Waal, miss, the doctor he can't come because he's been sent for to set Mr. Stone's brother's child's arm that he broke jumping over a fence, running away from a snake. But I guess somebody'll be along soon. Like enough your folks depended on Mr. Burden; he drives a stage, and reckons to meet passengers and take up trunks, but he's sort o' half baked, an' he's afraid to bring his old horse out when it rains—'fraid it'll catch the rheumatiz. You better step over to my house 'long o' me; somebody'll be here in the course of an hour."
Grace's face flushed. It took all her pride to keep back a rush of angry, hurt tears. To give up Paris, and Uncle Ralph and Aunt Hattie, and her winter of music and art, and come to the woods and be treated in this way! She was amazed and indignant. But her native good sense showed her there was, there must be, some reason for what looked like neglect. Then came a tender thought of mamma. She wouldn't treat her thus.
"Did a telegram from me reach Dr. Wainwright last evening?" Grace inquired, presently.
The agent fidgeted and looked confused. Then he said coolly: "That explains the whole situation now. A despatch did come, and I calc'lated to send it up to Wishin'-Brae by somebody passing, but nobody came along goin' in that direction, and I clean forgot it. It's too bad; but you step right over to my house and take a bite. There'll be a chance to get you home some time to-day."
At this instant, "Is this Grace Wainwright?" exclaimed a sweet, clear voice, and two arms were thrown lovingly around the tired girl. "I am Mildred Raeburn, and this is Lawrence, my brother. We were going over to your house, and may we take you? I was on an errand there for mamma. Your people didn't know just when to look for you, dear, not hearing definitely, but we all supposed you would come on the five-o'clock train. Mr. Slocum, please see that Miss Wainwright's trunks are put under cover till Burden's express can be sent for them." Mildred stepped into the carryall after Grace, giving her another loving hug.
"Mildred, how dear of you to happen here at just the right moment, like an angel of light! You always did that. I remember when we were little things at school. It is ages since I was here, but nothing has changed."
"Nothing ever changes in Highland, Grace. I am sorry you see it again for the first on this wet and dismal day. But to-morrow will be beautiful, I am sure."
"Lawrence, you have grown out of my recollection," said Grace. "But we'll soon renew our acquaintance. I met your chum at Harvard, Edward Gerald, at Geneva, and he drove with our party to Paris." Then turning to Mildred: "My mother is no better, is she? Dear, patient mother! I've been away too long."
"She is no better," replied Mildred, gently, "but then she is no worse. Mrs. Wainwright will be so happy when she has her middle girl by her side again. She's never gloomy, though. It's wonderful."
They drove on silently. Mildred took keen notice of every detail of Grace's dress—the blue cloth gown and jacket, simple but modish, with an air no Highland dressmaker could achieve, for who on earth out of Paris can make anything so perfect as a Paris gown, in which a pretty girl is sure to look like a dream? The little toque on the small head was perched over braids of smooth brown hair, the gloves and boots were well-fitting, and Grace Wainwright carried herself finely. This was a girl who could walk ten miles at a stretch, ride a wheel or a horse at pleasure, drive, play tennis or golf, or do whatever else a girl of the period can. She was both strong and lovely, one saw that.
What could she do besides! Mildred, with the reins lying loosely over old Whitefoot's back, thought and wondered. There was opportunity for much at the Brae.
Lawrence and Grace chatted eagerly as the old pony climbed hills and descended valleys, till at last he paused at a rise in the path, then went on, and there, the ground dipping down like the sides of a cup, in the hollow at the bottom lay the straggling village.
"Yes," said Grace, "I remember it all. There is the post-office, and Doremus's store, and the little inn, the church with the white spire, the school-house, and the manse. Drive faster, please, Mildred. I want to see my mother. Just around that fir grove should be the old home of Wishing-Brae."
Tears filled Grace's eyes. Her heart beat fast.
The Wainwrights' house stood at the end of a long willow-bordered lane. As the manse carryall turned into this from the road a shout was heard from the house. Presently a rush of children tearing toward the carriage, and a chorus of "Hurrah, here is Grace!" announced the delight of the younger ones at meeting their sister. Mildred drew up at the doorstop, Lawrence helped Grace out, and a fair-haired older sister kissed her and led her to the mother sitting by the window in a great wheeled chair.
The Raeburns hurried away. As they turned out of the lane they met Mr. Burden with his cart piled high with Grace's trunks.
"Where shall my boxes be carried, sister?" said Grace, a few minutes later. She was sitting softly stroking her mother's thin white hand, the mother gazing with pride and joy into the beautiful blooming face of her stranger girl, who had left her a child.
"My middle girl, my precious middle daughter," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "Miriam, Grace, and Eva, now I have you all about me, my three girls. I am a happy woman, Gracie."
"Hallo!" came up the stairs; "Burden's waiting to be paid. He says it's a dollar and a quarter. Who's got the money? There never is any money in this house."
"Hush, Robbie!" cried Miriam, looking over the railing. "The trunks will have to be brought right up here, of course. Set them into our room, and after they are unpacked we'll put them into the garret. Mother, is there any change in your pocket-book?"
"Don't trouble mamma," said Grace, waking up to the fact that there was embarrassment in meeting this trifling charge. "I have money;" and she opened her dainty purse for the purpose—a silvery alligator thing with golden clasps and her monogram on it in jewels, and took out the money needed. Her sisters and brother had a glimpse of bills and silver in that well-filled purse.
"Jiminy!" said Robbie to James. "Did you see the money she's got? Why, father never had as much as that at once."
Which was very true. How should a hard-working country doctor have money to carry about when his bills were hard to collect, when anyway he never kept books, and when his family, what with feeding and clothing and schooling expenses, cost more every year than he could possibly earn? Poor Doctor Wainwright! He was growing old and bent under the load of care and expense he had to carry. While he couldn't collect his own bills, because it is unprofessional for a doctor to dun, people did not hesitate to dun him. All this day, as he drove from house to house, over the weary miles, up hill and down, there was a song in his heart. He was a sanguine man. A little bit of hope went a long way in encouraging this good doctor, and he felt sure that better days would dawn for him now that Grace had come home. A less hopeful temperament would have been apt to see rocks in the way, the girl having been so differently educated from the others, and accustomed to luxuries which they had never known. Not so her father. He saw everything in rose-color.
As Doctor Wainwright towards evening turned his horse's head homeward he was rudely stopped on a street corner by a red-faced, red-bearded man, who presented him with a bill. The man grumbled out sullenly, with a scowl on his face:
"Doctor Wainwright, I'm sorry to bother you, but this bill has been standing a long time. It will accommodate me very much if you can let me have something on account next Monday. I've got engagements to meet—pressing engagements, sir."
"HERE I AM,YOUR MIDDLE DAUGHTER, DEAREST."
"I'll do my best, Potter," said the doctor. Where he was to get any money by Monday he did not know, but, as Potter said, the money was due. He thrust the bill into his coat pocket and drove on, half his pleasure in again seeing his child clouded by this encounter. Pulling his gray mustache, the world growing dark as the sun went down, the father's spirits sank to zero. He had peeped at the bill. It was larger than he had supposed, as bills are apt to be. Two hundred dollars! And he couldn't borrow, and there was nothing more to mortgage. And Grace's coming back had led him to sanction the purchase of a new piano, to be paid for by instalments. The piano had been seen going home a few days before, and every creditor the doctor had, seeing its progress, had been quick to put in his claim, reasoning very naturally that if Doctor Wainwright could afford to buy a new piano, he could equally afford to settle his old debts, and must be urged to do so.
The old mare quickened her pace as she saw her stable door ahead of her. The lines hung limp and loose in her master's hands. Under the pressure of distress about this dreadful two hundred dollars he had forgotten to be glad that Grace was again with them.
Doctor Wainwright was an easy-going as well as a hopeful sort of man, but he was an honest person, and he knew that creditors have a right to be insistent. It distressed him to drag around a load of debt. For days together the poor doctor had driven a long way round rather than to pass Potter's store on the main street, the dread of some such encounter and the shame of his position weighing heavily on his soul. It was the harder for him that he had made it a rule never to appear anxious before his wife. Mrs. Wainwright had enough to bear in being ill and in pain. The doctor braced himself and threw back his shoulders as if casting off a load, as the mare, of her own accord, stopped at the door.
The house was full of light. Merry voices overflowed in rippling speech and laughter. Out swarmed the children to meet papa, and one sweet girl kissed him over and over. "Here I am," she said, "your middle daughter, dearest. Here I am."