Harper's Round Table, January 21, 1896 - Various

On the 20th of December, 1848, I sailed from Honolulu, where I had been naval-store-keeper for many years. My vessel was the Chilean merchant-ship Maria Helena, and she carried as passengers several others who had long resided in the Hawaiian Islands, and who were now returning for a definite stay at home; among those were my wife, another lady, and two small children.

It was somewhat melancholy to bid farewell to the friends among whom we had lived so long, and whom we never expected to meet again, but never did a ship leave port under more favorable auspices. Wind and weather combined their happiest influences, and over the smooth water we sailed, until the island of Oahu, with its pleasant valleys and bold, romantic scenery, was lost to view. The next morning we saw Hawaii, with Kilauea breathing fire and smoke from its lofty crest, and Maui a cloudy speck in the distance. They also were soon lost to view, and nothing remained for the eye to rest on but the heaving ocean and here and there a solitary sea-bird. After losing sight of the islands, nothing of interest occurred until the 3d of January, when a large fish was harpooned, the liver of which was to have afforded a fine breakfast for the inmates of the cabin the next morning.

At one o'clock that night the Captain, supposing that we would pass Christmas Island about that time, took two observations of the stars for the latitude. These put us in the latitude of the island, but, as there was no indication of land, and as the chronometer put us forty miles to the eastward, the skipper felt secure, and turned in for the night. The cabin lights were put out and all was quiet; nothing disturbed the stillness of repose save the deep breathing of the tired sleeper, dreaming, perhaps, of the native land that he hoped to see so soon again. Suddenly a startling and alarmed voice was heard from the look-out on the fo'c's'le, "Breakers ahead! Hard alee! Hard alee!"

Like an electric shock that sound passed through the souls of the sleepers, spreading consternation, and rousing them to a sense of dreadfully imminent danger. With one impulse all rushed on deck, to behold through the darkness of the night a long uninterrupted line of breakers, and to hear, above the stern words of command and the tread of hurrying feet, the wild angry roar of the surf. But even in that time of dread, hope was with us, and as the ship, still obedient to the will of her master, came slowly to the wind, there yet remained a chance of escape. The awed stillness of all on deck proclaimed how deep was the suspense. One brief moment more and the ship will be headed to sea; but suddenly she strikes; she trembles through all her strong timbers, and then resigns herself to her fate, and the breakers wash around her decks.

All hope of saving her was now at an end, and preparations were immediately begun to get the gig and whale-boat alongside in readiness to receive the women and children. Some delay occurred before this could be accomplished, and it was fully an hour before the boats were ready. During this time no expression of fear escaped from either of the ladies.

Notwithstanding the violent shocks that the ship received as she rose and fell upon the rocks with the heave of the sea, the children slept soundly, and when the boats were reported ready, with a small quantity of provisions, water, and clothing, they and their mothers were passed into them without the smallest accident, although the exploit was attended with much danger, as the ship had by this time been driven close on to the roughest water about the reef.

As soon as the whale-boat had her full complement of passengers, I among them, she was hauled astern of the ship, which was lying parallel to the shore, and pulled seaward. When about a hundred yards away, the men lay on their oars, and all waited anxiously for the dawn to reveal the full extent of the danger.

Half an hour after we left the ship we heard an awful cracking of timbers above the roar of the breakers, and could just make out through the gloom of night the falling masts as they tottered one by one, and fell over to leeward. We immediately pulled toward the ship, and hailed her to inquire if any one was injured and how they were getting on. Some one replied that all was well, and that the vessel was lying much easier.

About half past four the waning moon rose, and we supposed that day was about to break, and that the sun would soon appear to show all the circumstances of our perilous position; but although we were in a condition of the most trying nature—our ship ashore on a frightful coast, and ourselves tossed about on the open sea in a leaky boat, totally ignorant of the character of the island and its extent—no one despaired.

At last, the day dawned, and revealed to our anxious eyes a line of low coast twenty or twenty-five miles in extent, making out in a considerable point to the north and west, the shore bounded, as far as the eye could reach, by a line of sullen breakers. In the indistinctness of the twilight some imagined that they could see houses, but these proved afterward to be clumps of low bushes scattered here and there upon a sandy and uninhabited island.

Soon after sunrise the Captain joined us in the gig, and, upon consulting together, we concluded to pull around the point referred to, and seek a landing under the lee side of the island. Had this plan been carried out we must all have suffered very much before we could have procured relief, as we had but a small breaker of water and a few biscuits in the boat, and would have had to pull a long distance before finding a suitable landing-place. After pulling about a mile to the westward we reflected on this want of provisions, and decided to return and try to land under the lee of the ship.

Preparatory to making the attempt, the gig was sent alongside to get a full crew, and then to land before us; but in attempting to board the ship she got into the rollers, and was capsized before she could be pulled clear. Some of the men were injured, but they finally reached the shore, although with a badly stove boat.

This was poor encouragement for us, but having come to the conclusion that there was only one course for us to take, we made all necessary preparations, and confiding the steering-oar to an experienced hand, waited for a smooth time to make our effort.

After waiting a few moments a favorable time came, and the boat was headed for the seething breakers. As we approached them all conversation ceased, and the compressed lip and rigid features showed our painful appreciation of the approaching crisis. Soon a huge roller lifted the little boat far above the surrounding water, and she sped on like an arrow. Scarcely had we begun to feel the swiftness of our flight before we struck the beach, and the ladies and children were landed and out of present danger. During the whole of the day they remained on the beach, with nothing but two small umbrellas to shelter them from the rays of a tropical sun, while the gentlemen, Captain, and crew were engaged in saving provisions and baggage from the wreck. This work continued until four in the afternoon, when the sea became so high and the surf so violent as to render further efforts impracticable.

We also saved some sails and spars, by means of which we erected a commodious tent for the ladies and passengers, and another for the men.

Shortly after being installed in our new quarters dinner was served, and was enjoyed by every one, as it was the first food we had had for twenty-four hours.

Before this, Mr. Christie, one of the passengers, had come in and announced that he had seen two sails in the offing, and without rest or refreshment he, the Captain, and a couple of sailors started off to make an effort to communicate with the welcome strangers. The rest of us retired to rest upon rude couches made from the wreckage, and after the fatigue and excitement of the day our sleep was sound.

About eight in the morning the exploring party returned with the news that they had found the wreck of the ship Mozart upon the eastern end of the island, that from a slip of paper they had found that she had gone ashore on the 7th of the previous December, and that the supposed sails in the offing were a couple of tents erected for shelter by her crew. Although our disappointment regarding the supposed ships was great, we were glad to learn from the note left that the crew of the Mozart had been taken from the island by a passing vessel within a week of her misfortune, and that therefore there seemed a reasonable prospect of our own early rescue.

Meanwhile we had to consider the necessities of a food and water supply. The water of the island was brackish and almost undrinkable, and food was scarce in the extreme, consisting mainly of the scanty stores taken from the Maria Helena, and some biscuits found aboard the Mozart. Sea-birds were plentiful, but difficult to capture.

The Captain and I soon overcame the water famine, however, by constructing a distiller from a rusty musket barrel and the remains of an old copper boiler.

About a week after the wreck the Maria Helena went to pieces during a storm, and in a short time her broken and ragged timbers strewed the shore. Soon after this the whale-boat, with Mr. Christie, the second mate, and four sailors started off to a low promontory about fifty miles away, to erect a signal for the attention of any passing ship, and to learn something of the character of the island.

In three days one of the men returned with the news that the boat had been upset in the breakers about forty miles away, and two seamen so badly injured that the rest of the party had been compelled to leave them behind with all the water that had been saved. The uninjured ones then started to return to the ship, which they reached after incredible difficulty and hardship, and a few days afterwards the wounded men were found and brought back.

In the mean time the long-boat of the Mozart had been found and decked over for sea-service. We intended to send her to Honolulu to give intelligence of our precarious situation, and to beg for relief. During the time occupied in her refitting we passed many long hours in writing to our friends. At last the letters were finished, the boat ready, and we only awaited a smooth time for her launch. This came on a Sunday, but we all felt that our situation justified a seeming violation of the day.

The word was given to shove off, and with lusty strokes the little boat was impelled forward. Breaker after breaker followed each other in quick succession, like the sturdy blows of the smith; yet she rode safely. But like a stealthy thief in the night was the insidious wave that began to form beyond the breaking waiters. At first but a barely perceptible undulation, it acquired volume and power as it approached the reef, and came thundering on as though conscious of its fearful majesty and might. Nearer and nearer came that dreaded enemy, rearing its horrid form aloft, until it struck the boat, and its work was accomplished. We watched the receding wave with straining eyes, and were right joyous to see all the crew clinging to the capsized boat or striking out manfully for the shore. All but one landed safely, and four or five of the watchers dashed in to his rescue. At last the Captain succeeded in hauling him ashore, but although for two hours we made every effort to restore him to consciousness, all our exertions failed.

After this fruitless attempt we were obliged to wait a fortnight until the surf was moderate enough to warrant another trial. On the 7th of February the boat was launched again, placed in charge of her crew, which consisted of the first mate and four men, and anchored outside the reef in safety. The rest of the day was passed in provisioning her for her cruise, and on the morning of the next day the little vessel weighed anchor, made sail to the northward and eastward, and went gallantly on her way amid our cheers and blessings.

A long period of suspense was now passed, but on the morning of the 16th of March a sail hove in sight, and soon proved to be the French frigate Sarcelle, which had been despatched to our assistance by the French consul at Honolulu as soon as he heard of our disaster from the first mate. The long-boat had made her perilous journey in twenty-two days.

The surf was too rough to attempt embarkation the morning after the Sarcelle arrived, and we sent a message off to her by a Kanaka, who was the only one of the party that could be trusted in the heavy sea—which no boat could have lived through. He was furnished with a small surf-board, and the note was hung in a bottle, which he tied around his neck. He then walked out to the edge of the breakers, and waited for a favorable opportunity before he attempted to breast them.

The enterprise that he was about to undertake was hazardous in the extreme, and his every movement was watched intently by all hands standing on the beach. The quick succession in which the rollers followed each other, their irregularity, and the sharp coral rocks just below the surface made the surf here particularly dangerous. Skill and courage were necessary to pass safely through the boiling waters.

For ten or fifteen minutes after the boy was ready he stood silently watching the breakers, waiting for a lull, and then sprang forward, keeping his surf-board extended before him. The skill and ease with which he ascended the perpendicular rollers as they came towering on, and the courage which he displayed throughout, were the admiration of all. As some huge breaker, more formidable than any that had preceded it, formed outside and came thundering on, all expected to see him thrown back before its tremendous power; but with his board raised perpendicularly before him, he climbed to the lofty crest, and was lost to view behind the conquered wave that came rushing on to break sullenly on the shore. Again and again he encountered his enemy, again and again to succeed.

In returning, the surf-board was thrown away, and awaiting a good opportunity as before, he swam boldly into the rollers, keeping his face toward them, and diving whenever they threatened to break. In this way he reached the shore without a single bruise, bringing an answer that the Sarcelle would go around to the lee side of the island, where we could embark in safety.

The next morning our caravan started, and after much suffering from fatigue and thirst, we reached the French camp at 11 p.m. of the second day.

We were treated with the utmost kindness and courtesy, and on the 26th of March got under way for Honolulu. By ten o'clock Christmas Island, the resting-place of so many weeks, sunk below the horizon, and in sixteen days we stood once more on the wharf at Honolulu, surrounded again by our welcoming friends.

SAN JACINTO CORN.[1]

BY LILLIE E. BARR.

There are thousands who remember the shout of sympathy
That rolled from the New England hills down to the Mexic sea
When the brave and gallant Houston, with his desperate little band,
On San Jacinto's flowery plain won freedom for the land.
They brought before him Santa Anna, the crafty and the bold,
The wretch who wrote the cruel words: "Slay both the young and old.
Spare no American you see; set all their homes ablaze;
For they are heretics in faith, foreign in speech and ways."
A fugitive, a captive bound, he stood that bright May day
Among the stern and angry men that he had vowed to slay,
And bowed with all his Spanish grace, and said, in accents bland:
"General, you are most fortunate to lead so brave a band!
"Are they Americans? If so, I do not understand
The men whom Mexico permits to settle in this land.
I am a soldier, but ne'er saw such men since I was born."
Then Houston took out of his pouch part of an ear of corn.
"No, sir, you do not understand," he, smiling proudly, said.
"For four days we have lived on corn, tasted not meat or bread.
How could you hope to e'er enslave men that were free men born?
And who can watch and march and fight upon an ear of corn?"
Young Zavala made answer swift: "The hope indeed is vain.
General, from off that ear of corn give me, I pray, one grain;
And I will plant the precious seed, and hoard whate'er it yields,
Till I can freely scatter it o'er all my pleasant fields!"
"And I a grain!" "And I a grain!" cried all the eager band.
Till Santa Anna surely felt he could not understand
The men who prized a grain of corn because in memory
It linked itself with a Texan fight for faith and liberty.
But in a few short years each grain increased a million-fold,
And over many a lovely mile the pleasant story told.
I heard it rustling in their leaves one sunny July morn
Camping among the tasselled ears of the San Jacinto corn.

THE BUFFALO DOLL SHOW.

BY ELIZABETH FLINT WADE.

All the Jenny Wrens of Buffalo were busy for weeks beforehand, preparing for the event of the season—the News Doll Show at Music Hall—and when the opening day arrived the result of their labor must have surprised even these industrious little workers. The first impression as one entered the great hall was that not only all the dolls in Buffalo, but in all the towns in the vicinity, had accepted the invitation to be present. There were dolls everywhere. They hung from the balcony, and clung to the fronts of the boxes; they clustered in pyramids against the walls, and crowded the boughs of huge Christmas trees; they stood on tables, and filled the evergreen arches; and each one seemed to be doing her "sawdust best" to make this the finest doll show ever given.

A more democratic gathering of dolls could hardly be imagined. They came in silks and velvets, in calicoes and muslins, in wools and in laces; they wore gorgeous Worth costumes, tailor-made gowns, and party, walking, and working gowns. Two came in bloomers, but seemed rather ashamed of themselves, and tried to hide behind a group of demure-faced nuns. There were newsboys, college-boys, Indian warriors, boy choristers, brave knights in shining armor, and solemn priests with gown and book. There were nurses in caps and aprons, milkmaids with milking stools and pails, Salvation-Army lasses, royal queens of England, and Quakers in soft gray gowns, with looks of mild astonishment at finding themselves in such a mixed company.

The doll show was planned for the purpose of giving to every little girl in Buffalo, between the ages of two and ten years, whom Santa Claus seldom if ever visits, a doll at Christmas. All the dolls were to be given away, except some of the groups, and those which were to compete for prizes, and be afterward sold. The money taken for admission and from the sale of dolls was to be divided between the Buffalo Fitch Crèche and free kindergartens, so it was no wonder that every one was interested.

Dolls were arranged to illustrate scenes from stories and from real life, and, of course, the two charities which were to have the benefit of the show were represented. A perfect fac-simile of the interior of the crèche nursery, even to the wall-paper, was shown in miniature. The nurses and babies were dolls. Baby dolls were sleeping in cradles; others were playing in the fenced and cushioned "pond," where the little one learns to creep; and others were sitting in the laps of doll nurses, taking real milk out of tiny bottles. This group was made and donated by the pupils of St. Margaret's School, and over the nursery was suspended a beautiful doll representing St. Margaret, made after the figure of St. Margaret in the famous painting in Glasgow.

The representation of the other charity—the free kindergarten—was so perfect in every detail that it seemed as if a fairy must have touched a real kindergarten with her magic wand, causing both room and pupils to shrink to Lilliputian size. So natural were the attitudes of the dolls at their work, play, and study, that one almost expected them to move about like real kindergartners.

THE MAYPOLE DANCE.

One of the gayest groups was arranged on a raised platform in the centre of the hall. This was the Maypole dance, where, holding the ends of bright ribbons, merry-faced dolls danced about two Maypoles, which were festooned with flowers. "How natural!" was the exclamation of each spectator, while the dolls in the balcony looked down on this group as if envying them their good time, and wishing themselves in their places.

Two groups of special interest to the boys—for even boys condescended to visit the doll show—were the football game and the bowling-alley. For the football a ground had been marked off on green baize, and here a lively scrimmage was going on; the make-up of the players was exact, even to the long hair. One poor fellow, who had doubtless been in the thickest of the "rush," was limping off the ground, his clothes torn and muddy, his face stained with blood, and his football hair standing out in every direction. In direct contrast to this scrambling group were the tenpin-players in the bowling-alley. Two were playing—for it was a double alley—while the others stood in order, watching the game and waiting their turn at the bowls, each of them as silent and as grave as the famous tenpin-players of the Kaatskills.

THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS.

Whoever had read Chaucer's enchanting Canterbury Tales could not fail to recognize in one quaintly attired group the pilgrims on their way to Canterbury, with Chancer riding in their midst. The stately knight was at the head; following him was the "younge squire," and "short was his gown with sleeves long and wide"; and bringing up the rear was the fat and jolly priest. Having seen this merry company, one longed to hear again the charming tales they told at the old Tabard Inn in Canterbury. Next to this Old-World group was what might be called nineteenth-century pilgrims—a band of Salvation-Army lasses marching to the sound of drum, waving their banners, and shouting their "War-Cry."

THE SALVATION ARMY.

The most elaborate group exhibited was called "A Hunt Breakfast" (reproduced at the beginning of this article), representing the annual "meet," when the Duke of Beaufort and the Earl of Bathurst join in a fox-hunt, an event of great importance among English sportsmen. The group surround a breakfast-table spread with every eatable found on an English breakfast-table on a "meet" morning, the food, both in form and color, being an exact imitation. The men were dressed in hunting costumes, the Duke of Beaufort and his huntsmen wearing blue broadcloth coats with buff facings, while the Earl of Bathurst and the "Vale of White Horse" men wore pink broadcloth, the cloth being imported from England expressly for these tiny huntsmen. Both parties wore white twill hunting-breeches and high top hunting-boots, and the latter would have taxed the skill of a fairy's boot-maker. At a side table one of the hostesses was pouring tea, the tea-set being of Dresden china, decorated in pink and blue, the sportsmen's colors. The whole scene was duplicated in a three-panelled mirror at the back, which was twined with holly and evergreens. At either side of the room was arranged an English park scene. Pink water-lilies floated on tiny ponds, statues showed amid the shrubbery, and a background of evergreen gave the appearance of a real wood. This peep at the way English aristocracy amuses itself was originated and arranged by Mrs. Harry Hamlin, of Buffalo, whose husband takes an active part in the well-known Genesee Valley hunts, which were described a short time ago in Harper's Magazine.

The doll which attracted the most attention was one which had come all the way from Paris—where she had just taken a prize at a doll show there—to attend the Buffalo doll show, and see how such things were done in America. From the tip of her fluffy parasol to the toe of her slender boot she was a true Parisian. Her gown was of pink brocaded satin, her coat and high poke bonnet were of moss-green velvet. In one hand she held a lace fan, and in the other a ruffled chiffon parasol, and a point-lace handkerchief peeped from a jewelled shopping-bag which she carried on her arm. Her clothing was not her chief attraction, for Mademoiselle could do wonderful things—for a doll. She turned her head, fanned herself, twirled her parasol, bowed gracefully, winked in a most coquettish manner, and shrugged her shoulders now and then as if the great doll show was all very well for America, but couldn't compare with Paris.

"THE LAST ONE!"

One group that attracted a great deal of attention represented a little newsboy, who is a well-known figure in Buffalo, selling his "last one" to a lady. The doll which won first prize was a copy of Bartholdi's Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor, and was of perfect proportion, even to the base on which it stood. Instead of a torch, she held in her hand an incandescent light.

Saturday was children's day, and all of that day the hall was filled with them. All the children's institutions had been given tickets of admission, and not one child missed the show. To them it must have been a glimpse into fairy-land. An East-Side free kindergarten teacher took the precaution of tying the children under her charge all together with a rope, after the fashion of a Swiss mother who passed through Buffalo a few years ago on her way to the far West, with her ten children tied together with a clothes-line. The children exclaimed over and admired the grown-up dolls, but not one was heard to wish for one for her very own.

"Wouldn't you like that nice doll for yours?" said an older sister to the little maid in her charge, pointing to a doll in a wonderful Worth gown.

"No, I would not," came the quick reply. "She's far too old. Do you think I want to be a grandmother?"

"They're just lovely," said one little girl, as she walked round the stage looking at the prize dolls; "but they're not nice to play with. I want a doll that will wash."

"Here is the doll I like best of all," said a brown-eyed maid, stopping before a two-year-old baby doll with curly hair and laughing black eyes.

"And I! And I too!" said half a dozen others, crowding closer. "She's just the doll you could cuddle and take comfort with."

An agent of Santa Claus was at the show on children's day. A poorly clad child was gazing wistfully at a table loaded with "every-day" dolls. "Which of those would you like best?" said a voice at her elbow, and there stood a stout gentleman looking down at her in the most friendly manner. "This, sir, if you please, sir," pointing to a doll in pink gingham. In a moment it was in her arms, and the gentleman was gone; but he was heard from at various tables, though no one could keep track of him very long; and owing to his kindness many children who never had a "boughten" doll before carried one home then. No one found out who he was, but one five-year-old, who hugged a flaxen-haired doll to her heart, said she "guessed he was Santa Claus's brother."

There were ten thousand dolls at the doll show, and the day before Christmas the police force and the members of the charity organizations distributed them, and on Christmas morning there were many happy doll mothers in Buffalo who, for the first time in their little lives, tended doll babies—thanks to the News Doll Show at Music Hall.

[A PATIENT TUSSLE.]

If I were you I wouldn't mind
A tussle with my Latin verb;
I'd rule myself in study hours
As if with steady rein and curb.
One day you'll find that Latin text,
If you'll have patience, just superb.

[AMATEUR COOKING FOR LITTLE GIRLS.]

The amount of pleasure that a little girl can have with a cooking-stove that will really and truly cook is difficult for any one who has not tried it to realize. In these days toy cooking-stoves are so made that a real true fire can be made in them, and very good meals can be cooked, even if the stove is a small one.

Two little children, a boy and girl aged respectively six and eight, think there is no fun in the world like that of cooking their supper on their stove, which stands on the hearth in their nursery. Their mamma is a good housekeeper, and has a wonderful old-fashioned receipt-book, in which she has written receipts for grown-up people's food, but which she finds can be used by the children if only a third of the materials are taken. Last week these two children—we will call them Howard and Marion, although these are not their real names—were allowed to invite their cousin Ruth to take supper with them, and to cook the supper themselves. Howard made the fire very carefully, with only just enough paper to start the shavings of wood. Then when it blazed up and the draught was good he put in some more wood and some very fine coal. Marion in the mean time was busy preparing the materials for cooking; she had to get ready creamed chicken, creamed potatoes, and cup-cake. The chicken had already been roasted and the potatoes boiled, but she had to cut up both the meat and vegetable into small pieces.

The cream sauce had to be made by adding two teaspoonfuls of flour to a half-cup of cream, and stirring it well before putting on to warm. When the sauce was ready to heat, two saucepans were filled, one with the chicken and the other with the potatoes, and the sauce was poured over them. A pinch of salt was added, and they were left on the fire until thoroughly cooked. As the fire was burning well, this was about five minutes. Served hot, these were two delicious dishes, I can assure you.

The cake both children helped to make from the following receipt, called cup-cake: 1 cup of butter, 2 cups of sugar, 3 cups of flour, 1 cup of milk, 4 eggs, 1 teaspoonful of soda. This receipt is for grown-up people, so the children only used a third of it; but it was quite as good. Marion beat the sugar and butter together until it looked like thick cream, while Howard was beating the eggs. Then the flour and beaten eggs were stirred up with the sugar and butter, and the soda (dissolved in milk) was added as a finishing touch. Then it was poured into the cunningest little patty-pan imaginable, all buttered so it would not stick to the bottom, and was put in the oven, where it only had to stay fifteen minutes, as the fire was burning just right.

There are many other things these children have learned to cook, but these three are their favorites, and they say they really can't tell which they enjoy most, the cooking or the eating.

[THE MIDDLE DAUGHTER.]

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

CHAPTER III.

GRACE TAKES A HAND.

"Mother darling, may I have a good long talk with you to-day, a confidential talk, we two by ourselves?"

"Yes, Grace, I shall be delighted."

"And when can it be? You always have so many around you, dear: and no wonder, this is the centre of the house, this chair, which is your throne."

"Well, let me see," said Mrs. Wainwright, considering. "After dinner the children go to Sunday-school, and papa has always a few Sunday patients whom he must visit. Between two and four I am always alone on Sunday, and we can have a chat then. Mildred and Frances will probably walk home with Miriam, and want to carry you off to the Manse to tea."

"Not on my first home Sunday, mamma," said Grace. "I must have every littlest bit of that here, though I do expect to have good times with the Manse girls. Is Mrs. Raeburn as sweet as ever? I remember her standing at the station and waving me good-by when I went away with auntie, and Amy, the dearest wee fairy, was by her side."

"Amy is full of plans," said Mrs. Wainwright. "She is going to the League to study art if her mother can spare her. Mildred and Frances want to go on with their French, and one of the little boys, I forget which, has musical talent; but there is no one in Highland who can teach the piano. The Raeburn children are all clever and bright."

"They could hardly help being that, mamma, with such a father and mother, and the atmosphere of such a home."

All this time there was the hurry and bustle of Sunday morning in a large family where every one goes to church, and the time between breakfast and half past ten is a scramble. Grace kept quietly on with the work she had that morning assumed, straightening the quilts on the invalid's chair, bringing her a new book, and setting a little vase with a few late flowers on the table by her side. Out of Grace's trunks there had been produced gifts for the whole household, and many pretty things, pictures and curios, which lent attractiveness to the parlor, grown shabby and faded with use and poverty, but still a pretty and homelike parlor, as a room which is lived in by well-bred people must always be.

"Well, when the rest have gone to Sunday-school and papa has started on his afternoon rounds, I'll come here and take my seat, where I used to when I was a wee tot, and we'll have an old-fashioned confab. Now if the girls have finished dressing, I'll run and get ready for church. I'm so glad all through that I can again hear one of Dr. Raeburn's helpful sermons."

Mrs. Wainwright smiled.

"To hear Frances's and Amy's chatter, one would not think that so great a privilege, Grace."

"Oh, that amounts to nothing, mamma! Let somebody else criticise their father, and you'd hear another story. Ministers' families are apt to be a little less appreciative than outsiders, they are so used to the minister in all his moods. But Dr. Raeburn's Every Morning has been my companion book to the Bible ever since I was old enough to like and need such books, and though I was so small when I went that I remember only the music of his voice, I want to hear him preach again."

"Grace," came a call from the floor above, "you can have your turn at the basin and the looking-glass if you'll come this minute. Hurry, dear, I'm keeping Eva off by strategy. You have your hair to do, and I want you to hook my collar. You must have finished in mother's room, and it's my belief you two are just chattering. Harry, please, dear!"

"Yes, Miriam, I'm coming. But let Eva go on. It takes only a second for me to slip into my jacket. I never dress for church," she explained to her mother. "This little black gown is what I always wear on Sundays."

"I wish you could have a room of your own, daughter. It's hard after you've had independence so long to be sandwiched in between Miriam and Eva. But we could not manage another room just now." The mother looked wistful.

"I'm doing very well, mamma. Never give it a thought. Why, it's fun being with my sisters as I always used to be. Miriam is the one entitled to a separate room, if anybody could have it."

Yet she stifled a sigh as she ran up to the large ill-appointed chamber which the three sisters used in common.

When you have had your own separate individual room for years, with every dainty belonging that is possible for a luxurious taste to provide, it is a bit of a trial to give it up and be satisfied with a cot at one end of a long barnlike place, with no chance for solitude, and only one mirror and one pitcher and basin to serve the needs of three persons. It can be borne, however, as every small trial in this world may, if there is a cheerful spirit and a strong loving heart to fall back on. Besides, most things may be improved if you know how to go about the task. The chief thing is first to accept the situation, and then bravely to undertake the changing it for the better.

"Doctor," said the mother, as her husband brushed his thin gray hair in front of his chiffonier, while the merry sound of their children's voices came floating down to them through open doors—"Doctor, thank the dear Lord for me in my stead when you sit in the pew to-day. I'll be with you in my thoughts. It's such a blessed thing that our little middle girl is at home with us."

The Doctor sighed. That bill in his pocket was burning like fire in his soul. He was not a cent nearer meeting it than he had been on Friday, and to-morrow was but twenty-four hours off. Yesterday he had tried to borrow from a cousin, but in vain.

"I fail to see a blessing anywhere, Charlotte," he said. "Things couldn't well be worse. This is a dark bit of the road." He checked himself. Why had he saddened her? It was not his custom.

"When things are at the very worst, Jack, I've always noticed that they take a turn for the better. It may not be my way; it may not be thy way; but yet in His own way the Lord will provide." Mrs. Wainwright spoke steadily and cheerfully. Her thin cheeks flushed with feeling. Her tones were strong. Her smile was like a sun-beam. Doctor Wainwright's courage rose.

"Anyway, darling wife, you are the best blessing a man ever had." He stooped and kissed her like a lover.

Presently the whole family, Grace walking proudly at her father's side, took their way across the fields to church.

Perhaps you may have seen lovely Sunday mornings, but I don't think there is a place in the whole world where Sunday sunshine is as clear, Sunday stillness as full of rest, Sunday flowers as fragrant, as in our hamlet among the hills, our own dear Highland. Far and near the roads wind past farms and fields, with simple happy homes nestling under the shadow of the mountains. You hear the church-bells, and their sound is soft and clear as they break the golden silence. Groups of people, rosy-cheeked children, and sturdy boys and pleasant-looking men and women pass you walking to church, exchanging greetings. Carriage-loads of old and young drive on, all going the same way. It makes me think of a verse in the Psalm which my old Scottish mother loved:

"I joyed when to the house of God
'Go up,' they said to me,
'Jerusalem, within thy gates
Our feet shall standing be.'"

"Oh, Paradise! oh, Paradise!" hummed Amy Raeburn that same Sunday morning as, the last to leave the Manse, she ran after her mother and sisters. The storm of the two previous days had newly brightened the landscape. Every twig and branch shone, and the red and yellow maple leaves, the wine-color of the oak, the burnished copper of the beech, were like jewels in the sun.

"If it were not Sunday I would dance," said Amy, subduing her steps to a sober walk as she saw approaching the majestic figure of Mrs. Cyril Bannington Barnes.

"THIS BEING BEHIND TIME IS VERY REPREHENSIBLE, MY LOVE."

"You are late, Amy Raeburn," said this lady. "Your father went to church a half-hour ago, and the bell is tolling. Young people should cultivate a habit of being punctual. This being a few minutes behind time is very reprehensible—very rep-re-hen-sible indeed, my love."

"Yes, ma'am," replied Amy, meekly, walking slowly beside the also tardy Mrs. Barnes.

"I dare say," continued Mrs. Barnes, "that you are thinking to yourself that I also am late. But, Amy, I have no duty to the parish. I am an independent woman. You are a girl, and the minister's daughter at that. You are in a very different position. I do hope, Amy Raeburn, that you will not be late another Sunday morning. Your mother is not so good a disciplinarian as I could wish."

"No, Mrs. Barnes?" said Amy, with a gentle questioning manner, which would have irritated the matron still more had their progress not now ceased on the church steps. Amy, both resentful and amused, fluttered, like an alarmed chick to the brooding mother-wing, straight to the minister's pew. Mrs. Barnes, smoothing ruffled plumes, proceeded with stately and impressive tread to her place in front of the pulpit.

Doctor Raeburn was rising to pronounce the invocation. The church was full. Amy glanced over to the Wainwright pew, and saw Grace, and smiled. Into Amy's mind stole a text she was fond of, quite as if an angel had spoken it, and she forgot that she had been ruffled the wrong way by Mrs. Cyril Bannington Barnes. This was the text:

"Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good."

"You are a hateful, wicked girl, Amy," said Amy to herself. "Why, when you have so much to make you happy, are you so easily upset by a fretful old lady, who is, after all, your friend, and would stand by you if there were need?"

Amy did not know it, but it was Grace's sweet and tranquil look that had brought the text to her mind. One of the dearest things in life is that we may do good and not know that we are doing it.

When the Sunday hush fell on the house of which Mrs. Wainwright had spoken Grace came softly tapping at the door.

"Yes, dear," called her mother; "come right in."

"Mamma," said Grace, after a few minutes, "will you tell me plainly, if you don't mind, what is worrying papa? I don't mean generally, but what special trouble is on his mind to-day?"

"Potter's bill, I have no doubt," said the mother, quietly. "Other troubles come and go, but there is always Potter's bill in the background. And every little while it crops up and gets into the front."

"What is Potter's bill, dear mamma, and how do we come to owe it?"

"I can't fully explain to you, my child, how it comes to be so large. When Mr. Potter's father was living and carrying on the business, he used to say to your father: 'Just get all you want here, doctor; never give yourself a thought; pay when you can and what you can. We come to you for medical advice and remedies, and we'll strike a balance somehow.' The Potters have during years had very little occasion for a doctor's services, and we, with this great family, have had to have groceries, shoes, and every other thing, and Potter's bill has kept rolling up like a great snowball, bit by bit. We pay something now and then. I sold my old sideboard that came to me from my grandparents, and paid a hundred dollars on it six months ago. Old Mr. Potter died. Rufus reigns in his stead, as the Bible says, and he wants to collect his money. I do not blame him, Grace, but he torments poor papa. There are two hundred dollars due now, and papa has been trying to get money due him, and to pay Rufus fifty dollars, but he's afraid he can't raise the money."

Grace reflected. Then she asked a question. "Dear mamma, don't think me prying, but is Potter's the only pressing obligation on papa just now?"

Mrs. Wainwright hesitated. Then she answered, a little slowly, "No, Grace, there are other accounts; but Potter's is the largest."

"I ask, because I can help my father," said Grace, modestly. "Uncle Ralph deposited five hundred dollars to my credit in a New York bank on my birthday. The money is mine, to do with absolutely as I please. I have nearly fifty dollars in my trunk. Uncle and auntie have always given me money lavishly. Papa can settle Potter's account to-morrow. I'm only too thankful I have the money. To think that money can do so much towards making people happy or making them miserable! Then, mother dear, we'll go into papa's accounts, and see how near I can come to relieving the present state of affairs; and if papa will consent, we'll collect his bills, and then later, I've another scheme—that is a fine, sweet-toned piano in the parlor. I mean to give lessons."

"Grace, it was an extravagance in our circumstances to get that piano, but the girls were so tired of the old one; it was worn out, a tin pan, and this is to be paid for on easy terms, so much a month."

Grace hated to have her mother apologize in this way. She hastened to say, "I'm glad it's here, and don't think me conceited, but I've had the best instruction uncle could secure for me here, and a short course in Berlin, and now I mean to make it of some use. I believe I can get pupils."

"Not many in Highland, I fear, Grace."

"If not in Highland, in New York. Leave that to me."

Mrs. Wainwright felt as if she had been taking a tonic. To the lady living her days out in her own chamber, and unaccustomed to excitement, there was something very surprising and very stimulating too in the swift way of settling things and the fearlessness of this young girl. Though she had yielded very reluctantly to her brother's wish to keep Grace apart from her family and wholly his own for so many years, she now saw that there was good in it. Her little girl had developed into a resolute, capable, and strong sort of young woman, who could make use of whatever tools her education had put into her hands.

"This hasn't been quite the right kind of Sunday talk, mother," said Grace, "but I haven't been here three days without seeing there's a cloud, and I don't like to give up to clouds. I'm like the old woman who must take her broom and sweep the cobwebs out of the sky."

"God helping you, dear, you will succeed. You have swept some cobwebs out of my sky already."

"God helping me, yes, dear. Thank you for saying that. Now don't you want me to sing to you? I'll darken your room and set the door ajar, and then I'll go to the parlor and play soft, rippling, silvery things, and sing to you, and you will fall asleep while I'm singing, and have a lovely nap before they all come home."

As Grace went down the stairs, she paused a moment at the door of the big dining-room, "large as a town-hall," her father sometimes said. Everything at Wishing-Brae was of ample size—great rooms, lofty ceilings, big fire-places, broad windows.

"I missed the sideboard, the splendid old mahogany piece with its deep winy lustre, and the curious carved work. Mother must have grieved to part with it. Surely uncle and aunt couldn't have known of these straits. Well, I'm at home now, and they need somebody to manage for them. Uncle always said I had a business head. God helping me, I'll pull my people out of the slough of despond."

The young girl went into the parlor, where the amber light from the west was beginning to fall upon the old Wainwright portraits, the candelabra with their prisms pendent, and the faded cushions and rugs. Playing softly, as she had said, singing sweetly "Abide with me" and "Sun of my soul," the mother was soothed into a peaceful little half-hour of sleep, in which she dreamed that God had sent her an angel guest, whose name was Grace.

[to be continued.]

[FOR KING OR COUNTRY.]

A Story of the Revolution.

BY JAMES BARNES.

CHAPTER XIV.

HIGH LIVING.

The gift of mimicry had now served the young spy in good stead. He lay hidden for some time, chuckling over having barked to such good purpose. Then he retraced his steps, and at last he found the tree. No doubt the man he had seen there had been one of the mysterious people he was expected soon to meet.

By leaning far out from one branch to the other, George could insert his hand in the hole of the projecting limb. It was empty, and he dropped his letter into the hollow. Then he returned carefully through the town to the inn, and without much difficulty gained the top of the wall, the projecting roof, and once more his chamber window. The falling snow, he knew, would hide his footprints.

He was awakened the next morning by a loud knocking. He had slept late, and the glaring sunlight, reflected from the white expanse outside, was pouring into the room. He arose hastily and unlocked the door. One of the inn servants was standing there. He touched his finger to his forehead respectfully.

"The landlord's compliments, sir, and your box is here. Shall I bring it up?" he inquired.

George had made up his mind to be surprised at nothing. "By all means," he answered. "Glad it has arrived."

"Oh, it has been here this fortnight," returned the man.

"Of course," George laughed; "and longer, mayhap, eh?"

"I don't know, sir. Have you the key?"

The fictitious Mr. Blount did not know what to reply. "Mr. Gerry has it," he answered at last, mentioning the landlord's name at a venture.

"I will ask him, sir," said the servant, "and bring up the box at once."

He disappeared.

"What did it all mean?" thought George to himself.

In a few minutes the servant reappeared with a large leather-covered, nail-studded trunk. "And here's the key," he puffed. "Mr. Gerry had it, as you said, sir."

George raised the lid. Silk stockings, plush and velvet coats, satin waistcoats, and frilled shirts!—the wardrobe of a dandy—was exposed before his eyes. But instead of showing his astonishment, he merely closed the top and said:

"Is there naught else?"

"I think not, sir," said the servant, pocketing his tip.

When he had gone, "Mr. Richard Blount" took out the articles one by one.

"This may be part of the scheme," he said. "I suppose that I shall have to wear them. What's next to do?" He tried on the clothes. They fitted him as if made for him. He looked at himself in the greenish-yellow glass. "Whoever I look like," he said, "I do not resemble George Frothingham of the Twelfth New Jersey Infantry, that's one thing certain." Looking for a closet or a place to hang up his finery, he espied a small door at the farther side of the room. It opened upon a narrow stairway, and the odor of cooking showed that it led probably to the kitchen.

The only thing the trunk contained that George did not make use of was a white wig. The strong dye he had used had taken the curl out of his hair, and he drew it back from his forehead straight and glossy as an Indian's.

He chose a rather quiet wine-colored coat, crimson waistcoat, and pearl breeches, and setting the lace-trimmed hat jauntily on his head, went down into the coffee-room.

"Ah, good-morning, Mr. Blount!" said the landlord. "There was an officer of his Majesty's horse here this morning asking for you. But he requested that you should not be disturbed." George bowed his thanks, and asked the landlord to hurry with his breakfast.

As he turned about he could have fallen, for there, quite close to him, was standing Schoolmaster Anderson. He was not blind at all! His keen ferretlike eyes had the same quick glance, and his thin lips that same Sphinx-like expression. But the beauty of George's disguise was proved in an instant to his satisfaction, for Mr. Anderson looked at him curiously, and asked Mr. Gerry his name in a voice that was quite audible.

"Richard Blount," the latter replied.

"Ah, indeed!" answered the ex-schoolmaster. "The nephew of our friend—eh?"

"The same," the landlord replied, as his young guest seated himself at the table.

George's hands were shaking so with excitement that he could hardly hold his knife and fork at first, but he quickly got over it, and a feeling of exultation came into his mind. If Mr. Anderson had not recognized him, no one else would, surely. If no one who actually knew the real Richard Blount turned up, he was safe enough.

At this moment a loud blustering voice was heard, and a great figure came from the hallway into the coffee-room.

It was Rivington, the King's printer, the man the early patriots had wished to tar and feather for his utterances. He scarcely acknowledged Mr. Anderson's nod, but turned to an officer who was following him.

"How that little schoolmaster does put on airs!" he said. "Why he receives toleration I do not see."

"He is rather clever, I fancy," replied the officer. "His imitation of General Washington is most amusing."

"Yes, he is amusing," responded Rivington.

George looked at Mr. Anderson once more. His small head seemed to retreat into the folds of his neck-cloth, and the lace at his wristband hung below his finger-tips. His clothes were as gorgeous as the plumage of a peacock, and he had a way of bringing his heels together with a click like a dancing-master. But the keen eyes and that protruding chin would have told an accurate observer that a brain of no mean quality was hidden underneath the curled white wig. But Rivington and the officer were approaching.

"Ah, here's my friend of the other morning!" exclaimed the officer—"young Blount of Albany." The speaker was the young cavalry Captain who had met George on the hill-side two days before. "I see you have found your tailor," he went on.

"No; better luck, my wardrobe," answered George. "I feared me I had lost it."

"Good! Allow me to present our loyal friend, Mr. Rivington, long-time printer to his Majesty," replied the officer.

"Your service, sir," replied Mr. Rivington, looking at George thoughtfully. "You have not changed since I saw you last at Albany."

Imagine the surprise of the fictitious Richard Blount! Everything was certainly playing into his hands. But he merely bowed, and asked the two gentlemen to breakfast with him. They accepted, and seated themselves.

George once more had to recount the story of his supposed adventures on the way from the city up the river.

Occasionally Rivington would interrupt with leading questions. "Ah, from there you turned to the left and took the Lime Kiln Road beyond Hudson—eh? Then down into the valley by Cloverburgh?"

A fear welled into George's heart. Was this man trying to trip him? So to all questions he replied in the negative, and told of another way; to which Rivington agreed, generally speaking, thus:

"Yes, 'tis the better route, I understand. A very clever ruse, indeed. Think you not so, Captain?"

"Quite wonderful," the other replied. "Mr. Blount should tell it to General Howe. The Yankees are not so clever as he thinks."

"Oh, by no odds!" Rivington had responded.

"You mentioned having despatches to his Lordship and his brother," said the younger officer. "Do you not think it would be well to deliver them as soon as possible? Pardon my suggestion."

"'Tis my intention to deliver them to-day. Can you secure an interview?" inquired George, eagerly.

"Beyond all doubt I can," said Rivington, interrupting. "They will be glad to see you."

An hour or so later George was waiting, with the florid printer, in the little anteroom of the polished hallway of one of the large private houses that belonged to New York's most wealthy family. It was here that General Howe and his brother, the noble Lord, lived when on shore. They both had quarters also on board the flag-ship in the bay.

Something was going on, for aides and orderlies streamed in and out of the big house, and despatches were being taken to the various commands; secretaries, with their arms full of papers and with pens behind their ears came out occasionally, filled with importance.

At last an orderly stepped up to where our hero and Rivington were pleasantly chatting. "General Howe will see you, gentlemen," he said, saluting.

George caught himself in the act of replying to the salute. That would never do at all. He was supposed to be ignorant of military tactics, and he trembled at his narrow escape.

General Howe glanced over the despatches lazily. He appeared to be an easy-going man of indolent habits, for he lounged in his chair. He had a good-natured face.

"So the American General Schuyler is disgruntled, eh?" he said. "'Tis quite like opera-bouffe. And they say that Farmer Gates from Massachusetts may supersede him. Well, well, the plot thickens. Burgoyne's army is obstructed by broken roads and felled trees. Let them take their time. They will encounter nothing worse. 'Tis my opinion that we forced things too hard in Now Jersey. I thank you for the news these despatches contain, my dear young sir," he said, "and it is good news to hear of our friends up the river. Can I do anything for you? You can most certainly command me. I trust I shall see you again."

A splendid hound was sprawled out on the rug before the fireplace. George looked at him carefully. He knew the dog in an instant. It was one that had been raised by Mr. Wyeth. General Howe followed the lad's glance.

"I see you know a good dog when you see him," he said. "'Twas a present to me from a soldier. He seems to have an antipathy for Yankees, but likes a scarlet coat."

The dog turned over on his back and lazily tapped the floor with his tail. Seeing George, he arose and stretched himself; but as he approached closer he suddenly grew excited, and jumped up on the young man's breast, trying his best to lick his hands and face.

"How strange!" said General Howe. "I have never seen him pay aught of attention to a stranger here before. Down, down! you devil!" The dog slunk beneath the table, and at last Rivington and "Richard Blount" stepped out in the hallway.

"'Tis strange about dogs," the older man was saying. "They are both faithful and capricious."

George went back to his hotel. On his way he had another proof that his disguise was quite impenetrable, for whom should he pass walking along the street but Abel Norton, the chief clerk. George held his breath. The old man, however, looked him in the face and passed on.

All this lack of recognition gave George the necessary assurance to carry on his fictitious position. He listened to the talk of the soldiers in the grill-room at the City Arms, but gained little knowledge of the plans even from the conversation of the officers. It was evident that the leaders of the British feared their divulgence. It was not Lord Howe's intention to let Washington know the destination of the fleet, which he could turn either northward to the assistance of Burgoyne, or southward into the Chesapeake and the Delaware. While this uncertainty remained, both forces were at a standstill.

It had thawed during the day, and a drizzling rain had set in. Late at night George opened the window, and once more stood upon the roof. Then he dropped over the wall to the ground. He had once more donned the old suit which he had worn as his first disguise, and with his collar drawn up to his ears he strode northward. He had not gone far when, as he turned about the corner of a lane, he thought he heard the sound of some one screaming. Then a doorway burst open, throwing a flood of light out into the darkness, and a female voice was heard screaming shrilly:

"Thieves! robbers! help!"

A man's figure was seen struggling at the doorway with a woman, who had grasped him firmly by the throat.

George, animated by an impulse, jumped the fence and ran to the house. But before he reached there, a man turned the corner at top speed and disappeared.

George knew the little house well; it was in a room in the second story that he had passed many a night thinking of the past and planning for the future. It was Mrs. Mack's.

"For the love of Heaven, Mr. Frothingham!" exclaimed a voice.

George had come within the ray of light, and it was none other than the good washer-woman who was standing there.

"The blackguard tried to rob me," she said. "He stole in the back way, and I found him in the pantry; but he didn't get a thing," she added, "He might have murthered me intirely if you hadn't come up, sir."

George stepped inside the house and closed the door. "Would you have known me, Mrs. Mack?" he asked.

"Indade in a minute, sir," she said, "I think. No, but you have changed. Perhaps it was the way you leaped the fince. Your hair, sir—what has happened it?"

"Mrs. Mack," said George, "I must speak quickly. I am here on dangerous business. If you see me anywhere you must not recognize me—until you see me in my uniform. Do you understand?"

"Shure," said the good woman. "Now I recall your face, you're a perfect stranger, sir."

George smiled. "Have you seen the deaf-and-dumb man who brought the money to me?"

"I do now and then. And shure he often asks fer ye."

"And what do you tell him?" asked George.

"That I hope ye're well," she responded.

"Now, Mrs. Mack, how can you do it?"

"And indade and with signs, and why not?" she asked, giving the same answer that she had once before. "P'r'aps I have promised not to tell."

"Well," was the response, "remember, would you know me now? I have to hasten."

"I would not," replied the widow. "Good-by, and may the Lord bless ye!"

"It was strange that she recognized me and the others did not," George was thinking to himself, as he approached the lonely orchard, whose path was rarely used except by the occupants of the two farms that bordered it. "It may have been the walk," he added.

The snow had melted so that he could find no trace of any one having been there before him on this day, but when he reached his hand back into the limb of the tree, he touched a paper. How it thrilled him! Now he would find out what things meant. There was something else there also, and stretching out his fingers, he grasped a leather bag, which clinked musically as he drew it forth. It was more gold! He hurried back to the inn, and climbed to the top of the wall. But what was his dismay and horror when he saw a figure on the roof bending on its knees trying to look into the window of his room! A light was burning brightly within.

George lowered himself cautiously and turned about the corner. What was he to do? How was he to regain the second story? The papers must be read at once.

George did not know that the man on the roof had caught sight of his head as he had drawn himself up to the top of the wall, and had called: "Hist! Blount! Oh, Blount!" in a low tone.

Then the stranger had crawled to the edge of the roof, and whispered again: "Hist! Number Four! I am Number Two."

But he looked and listened in vain for an answer, for at this moment George had disappeared in the darkness. He had not heard the hail.

With the agility of a sailor the small figure slid to the ground and walked away quickly. If the young spy had heard the footsteps he would have known that it was his old friend the schoolmaster.

When George reached the corner he leaned back against a buttress, puzzling what to do.

Then he remembered with a start the door in his room that he had opened thinking it would be a closet, but had discovered it to be a narrow stairway that led down into a sort of servants' hall off the kitchen. If he could gain it now he might be able to see within his apartment and find out what was going on. The man on the roof prevented him, of course, from getting back the way he left.

The tap-room opened upon the alley. It was thick with the clouds of tobacco smoke, and noisy with the conversation of the crowd. He knew that if he could once get beyond it to the kitchen he might be able to find the door that led to the stairway. And now an idea struck him. The walls were covered with rough cartoons and sheets of somewhat vulgar songs, which most of the crowd had learned by heart. He had seen the men often edging along, with their faces close to the wall, as if they had been bookworms searching in a case for a mislaid volume. He stepped inside the room, and followed the same tactics. No one paid the least attention to him, and with his back to those seated about the tables, he made his way to the kitchen. Here good luck also favored him, for a fat man in a greasy apron snored in the corner. He was the only occupant, and a door partly ajar disclosed to him the servants' stairway.

George stole softly up, and reached a little landing, which he knew at once was the one he had looked at from his own room. He could hear the sound of voices from within. One was loud and hearty, and the other he knew at once as Landlord Gerry's.

"He is out on some escapade with the young officers, I promise you," said the landlord, "or mayhap he has gone over to the fleet, though all below-stairs say that they did not see him go out. Why don't you wait until the morning, sir? He appears a popular young gentleman, and may possibly stay out late."

"No, he is a sleepy-head, my nephew," responded the other. "And he will return soon if summat has not befallen him."

"He is a handsome lad," put in the landlord.

The other laughed. "Well, that depends where you look for beauty," he responded. "I never reckoned him as such."

George saw it all now. It was the uncle from Connecticut, who had returned, and, to use the expression, "the jig was up."

But what meant the man on the roof?

Seating himself on the stairway, his courage almost left him. What was he to do? A hiding-place must be found before morning.

He thought at once of Mrs. Mack's. There lay his only hope. But there was now some movement in the kitchen. The fat man, who had been sleeping, was stirring a rasher of bacon over the fire. The talking had ceased in his room, and suddenly he remembered with a start of fright that the cipher and locket he had left under the pillow of the bed. It almost made him sick with fear. He moved from his hiding-place, and putting his eye to the key-hole, looked within.

The candle was guttering, and a huge shadow wavered across the opposite wall. As his eye became accustomed to the light and the draught of air blowing through the key-hole, he made out the figure of the large man sitting in an easy-chair. His breast was rising and falling. He was asleep.

IN TWO STEPS HE WOULD BE IN FULL VIEW.

George tried the door. It moved, and in a moment he was standing in the room. Here he paused. In two steps more he would be in full view of the person looking through the window. He carefully measured the distance and the direction of objects about him; and drawing a long breath he blew with all his might at the candle on the dressing-case. It flickered and went out. Then he stepped across in the darkness and placed his hand beneath the pillow.

The heavy man drew a long breath and moved his head. "Confound that light!" he said, and George heard him arise to his feet and fumble along the wall.

[to be continued.]

[RIDDLES IN FLOWERS.]

BY WILLIAM HAMILTON GIBSON,

Author of "Highways and Byways," "Sharp Eyes," etc.

PUZZLING FORMS AND FACES.

Indeed, are they not all riddles? Where is the flower which even to the most devoted of us has yet confided all its mysteries? In comparison with the insight of the earlier botanists, we have surely come much closer to the flowers, and they have imparted many of their secrets to us. Through the inspired vision of Sprengel, Darwin, and their followers, we have learned something of their meaning, in addition to the knowledge of their structure, which comprised the end and aim of the study of those early scholars, Linnæus, Lindley, Jassieu, and De Candolle. To these and other eminent worthies in botany we owe much of our knowledge of how the flowers are made, and of the classification based upon this structure, but if these great savants had been asked, "You have shown us that it is so, but why is it thus?" they could only have replied, "We know not; we only know that an all-wise Providence has so ordained and created it."

Take this little collection, which I have here presented, of stamens and petals selected at random from common blossoms. What inexplicable riddles to the botanist of a hundred years ago, even of sixty years ago! For not until that time was their significance fully understood; and yet each of these presents but one of several equally puzzling features in the same flowers from which they were taken.

FERTILIZATION OF A FLOWER AS BELIEVED BY GREW AND LINNÆUS.

In that first anther, for example, why those pores at the tip of the cells, instead of the usual slits at the sides, and why that pair of horns at the back? And the next one, with longer tubes, and the same two horns besides! Then there is that queer specimen with flapping ears—one of six from the barberry blossom; and the pointed, arrow-headed individual with a long plume from its apex; and the curved C-shaped specimen—one of a pair of twins which hide beneath the hood of the sage blossom. The lily anther, which comes last, is poised in the centre. Why? What puzzles to the mere botanist! for it is because these eminent scholars were mere botanists—students and chroniclers of the structural facts of flowers—that this revelation of the truth about these blossom features was withheld from them. It was not until they had become philosophers and true seers, not until they sought the divine significance, the reason, which lay behind or beneath these facts, that the flowers disclosed their mysteries to them.

Look at that random row of petals too!—one with a peacock's eye, two others with dark spots, and next the queer-fingered petal of the mignonette, followed by one of that queer couple of the monk's-hood blossom which no one ever sees unless he tears the flower hood to pieces. We all know the nasturtium, but have we thought to ask it why these petals have such a deep crimson or orange colored spot, and why each one is so beautifully fringed at the edge of its stalk?

LINNÆSUS'S IDEA WAS WRONG.

These are but a dozen of the millions of similar challenges, riddles, puzzles, which the commonest flowers of field and garden present to us; and yet we claim to "know" our nasturtium, our pink, our monk's-hood larkspur, our daisy, and violet!

No; we must be more than "botanists" before we can hope to understand the flowers, with their endless, infinite variety of form, color, and fragrance.

It was not until the flowers were studied in connection with the insects which visit them that the true secret of these puzzling features became suspected.

We all know, or should know, that the anther in flowers secretes and releases the pollen. For years even the utility of this pollen was a mystery. Not until the year 1682 was its purpose guessed, when Nehemias Grew, an English botanist, discovered that unless its grains reached the stigma in the flower no seed would be produced. But the people refused to believe this, and it was not until fifty years later that Crew's statement was fully accepted, and then only because the great Linnæus assured the world that it was true. But about fifty years later another botanist in Germany, Sprengel, made the discovery that the flower could not be fertilized as these botanists had claimed, that in many blossoms the pollen could not fall on the stigma.

WHAT SPRENGEL DID NOT EXPLAIN.

Sprengel knew that this pollen must reach the stigma, but showed that in most flowers it could not do so by itself. He saw that insects were always working in the flowers, and that their hairy bodies were generally covered with pollen, and in this way pollen grains were continually carried to the stigma, as they could easily be in these two blossoms shown at B. Sprengel then announced to the world his theory—the dawn of discovery, the beginning of the solution of all these floral riddles. The insect explained it all. The bright colors and fragrance were intended to attract him, and the nectar to reward him, and while thus sipping he conveyed the pollen to the stigma, and fertilized the flower.

But now Sprengel himself was met with most discouraging opposition to his theory, showing that he had guessed but half the secret after all. Flowers by the hundreds were brought to his notice, like those two shown in Diagram C, in which the insect could not transfer the pollen from anther to stigma, as the stigma is closed when the pollen is ripe, and does not open until the pollen is shed. For seventy years this astonishing fact puzzled the world, and was at last solved by the great Darwin, who showed that nearly all flowers shun their own pollen, and are so constructed, by thousands of singular devices, that the insect shall bring to each the pollen of another flower of the same species, and thus effect what is known as cross-fertilisation.

We must then look at all flowers as expressions of welcome to some insect—day-flowering blossoms mostly to bees and butterflies, and night-bloomers to moths. And not only expressions of welcome, but each with some perfect little plan of its own to make this insect guest the bearer of its pollen to the stigma of another flower of the same species. And how endless are the plans and devices to insure this beautiful scheme! Some flowers make it certain by keeping the stigma closed tight until all its pollen is shed; others place the anther so far away from the stigma as to make pollen contact impossible; others actually imprison these pollen-bringing insects until they can send them away with fresh pollen all over their bodies.

Take almost any flower we chance to meet, and it will show us a mystery of form which the insect alone can explain.

THE TWO-FORMED FLOWERS.

Here is one, growing just outside my door—a blossom "known" even to every child, and certainly to every reader of the Round Table—the pretty bluets, or Houstonia, whose galaxy of white or blue stars tints whole spring meadows like a light snowfall. We have "known" it all our lives. Perhaps we may have chanced to observe that the flowers are not all constructed alike, but the chances are that we have seen them all our lives without discovering this fact. If we pluck a few from this dense cluster beside the path, we observe that the throat of each is swollen larger than the tube beneath, and is almost closed by four tiny yellow anthers (Fig. 1). The next and the next clump may show us similar flowers; but after a little search we are sure of finding a cluster in which a new form appears, as shown in Fig. 3, in which the anthers at the opening are missing, and their place supplied with a little forked stigma! The tube below is larger than the first flower for about two-thirds its length, when it suddenly contracts, and if we cut it open we find the four anthers secreted near the wide base of the tube. What does it mean, this riddle of the bluets? For hundreds of years it puzzled the early botanists, only finally to be solved by Darwin. This is simply the little plan which the Houstonia has perfected to insure its cross-fertilization by an insect, to compel an insect to carry its pollen from one flower and deposit it upon the stigma of another. Once realizing this as the secret, we can readily see how perfectly the intention is fulfilled.

1st Clump.—Flower enlarged. Insect's Tongue inserted.

Pollen high on Insect's Tongue after withdrawal from Blossom.

2d Clump.—Flower enlarged. Pollen thrust against high Stigma at top and touching Pollen below.