Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.

THE ATTACK OF TORPEDO-BOAT NO. 5.

BY LIEUTENANT YATES STIRLING, JUN., U. S. N.

The night is dark and cloudy, and a heavy mist hovers over the entrance to the highly fortified port of ——. Like gigantic aquatic ghosts a fleet of American men-of-war is cautiously and silently approaching this strong-hold of the enemy. Every light on board the vessels is masked, and the lookouts are vigilantly peering into the darkness, for fear that one of the swift and unmerciful torpedo-boats of the enemy steal unseen and unheard upon their ship and launch its deadly charge of destruction.

The American squadron, six huge battle-ships and four fast cruisers, accompanied by ten sea-going torpedo-boats, have been detailed by the commander-in-chief to attack and capture this important naval station. Within safe distance from the forts on the harbor's entrance the squadron's mighty engines are stopped, and the ships soon cease to forge ahead in the quiet sea. One of the swift little crafts, then another and another, noiselessly runs alongside the Admiral's ship, and an officer from each climbs the precipitous side of the battle-ship. They make their way at once to the cabin of the Admiral.

"I have dangerous work for you and your little vessels, gentlemen," is their commander's quiet explanation, as the lieutenants remove their caps, and group themselves in respectful attention around their gray-haired superior. "Your small flotilla is to make an attack on the enemy's fleet in the harbor yonder; the entrance is narrow, and too early a discovery means failure to the expedition if not annihilation to yourselves. No. 5 will lead the column, for her commanding officer is familiar with the harbor, and will be a valuable guide on this dark night. The plan is to make a simultaneous attack on the fleet, and unless they are very much on the alert and ready with their guns, you should render a good account of the night's work. After your purpose has been accomplished, or you have been driven off, join me at the entrance to the bay. I will move to the attack as soon as you are discovered. The army is co-operating with us, and even now we should hear the distant roar of their guns."

Many an eye is dim and voice husky with emotion as the officers grasp the Admiral's hand in parting, and listen to his kind and encouraging words. When the torpedo lieutenants reach the deck, their small commands are lying alongside the flag-ship, steam pouring from their miniature escape-pipes, a dumb protest to be off.

As the Lieutenant of No. 5 reaches the conning-tower of his little boat, the flotilla is going at full speed, nearly twenty-five knots an hour, in column, his vessel in the lead. They are heading for the sombre outline of the distant land where he knows is the entrance to the harbor.

By his side stands a young ensign, his assistant, looking fixedly out into the night. Not a word is spoken. Each knows his life is to be staked at awful odds for his country.

Death has always seemed of little consequence to these young lives. They have in the few years of their lives barely given it a thought, but now in the little tomb of the conning-tower they are almost face to face with the grewsome intangible hereafter. They think of the time when as children they have whispered their prayers at their mothers' knees—prayers almost forgotten; but they come back to them now with startling clearness, and are mentally repeated, coming like a soothing draught of water to a thirsty mortal. On flies the little craft, while behind her noiselessly follow her nine sisters. The big battle-ships have long since been swallowed up in the black night.

The ever-watchful officers, as they stand in the confined space of the wheel-house, protected by three inches of steel from the cool breeze that the speed of the boat makes as she rushes madly along, are gazing through the small apertures in the metal, straining their eyes to see the first obstacle that dare be in their way. They see naught but darkness. They have been into the harbor before, to a great naval review given in commemoration of some important event in history. How different were the circumstances! Then the holders of the naval station were friends, and held out a cheerful welcome. Lights were upon the rugged and dangerous coast to show the mariner the many hidden dangers, and to navigate him clear of the many treacherous shoals and rocks. But now a difference had arisen between the two nations that could not be arbitrated, so they had resorted to cruel war to settle their difficulties. No lights are visible save now and then a small flicker from a fisherman's hut, and it is doubtful whether the small visitors will reach the harbor, even though they escape the steel from the guns that are surely soon to play upon them. The Lieutenant is the first to break the silence.

"We have tough work ahead, Church. Heaven only knows whether we will ever come out of this death-trap alive."

The younger man shakes his head in concurrence with his comrade's views of the situation, but dares not venture a word, for fear he may betray his nervousness in his voice. He knows exactly what is expected of him, and will sacrifice his life without an outward qualm in this his first real duty to his flag.

Suddenly on the port bow a small light springs up from out the darkness. It is on one of the patrol torpedo-boats of the enemy. If it discovers the invaders all is useless: the alarm will be given, and the forts cannot be passed. It would be foolhardiness to attempt it. Once beyond them, undiscovered, the mission will be easily accomplished. On go the insidious weapons of war on their errand of destruction. They are now between the forts on the harbor's entrance. The many guns there are pointed in their direction, but are dumb. Their crews are asleep, and are peacefully ignorant of the angels of death stealing past their vigil. The night is so dark that the outline of the land so close aboard has melted into the all-pervading blackness. No sound can the officers in the leading boat hear save the slight whir of the little engines making hundreds of revolutions a minute, the swash of the water cut like a knife by the sharp bow of the little craft, and the beating of their own hearts. The last seems so loud that each thinks the other surely must hear.

The minutes drag slowly by; they seem like hours to the anxious men on the torpedo-boats. The forts are passed in safety. The discovery must come soon. Farther and farther the destroyers penetrate into the bay. If there are ships here they must soon discover these unwelcome visitors. Hark! From out of the darkness to port is heard the report of a rifle-shot, quickly followed by a number of others in rapid succession. The officers in No. 5 suppress a cry of relief. The suspense has been telling. Hot work is better than uncertainty.

In a very short time lights are shown on the forts astern of the attacking party; they are the unfocussed rays of the powerful search-lights, and soon will make the torpedo-boats as conspicuous on the surface of the bay as the picture in a magic-lantern slide is on the sheet. The tunnels of light sweep quickly, nervously, about the bay, endeavoring to concentrate upon the swiftly moving enemy. On, on goes the flotilla in its mighty effort to reach its goal. Every torpedo is in its tube, and to launch it on its errand will be the work of a second. The long shafts of light are now rapidly focussing on one after another of the long line of small hulls, stretching nearly across the bay, ready to sink anything that may lie in their path.

The stillness of the night is disturbed by the thunder of heavy artillery and the fitful report of rapid-fire and machine guns. Shells go screeching about them, throwing columns of water high in the air as they strike it with a baffled hiss.

Search-light after search-light flashes up from the men-of-war in the inner harbor, and are sweeping the bay with their blinding light.

Closer, closer draw the attacking boats to their huge enemies.

An exclamation of terror escapes from the officers in No. 5 as they see what resembles a bunch of enormous sky-rockets shoot high above the bay almost directly over them. But they know it is from a group of 16-inch rifled mortars on the shore only a short mile away. With a sickening whir the mighty bolts of steel swoop down and blot out of existence three of the small crafts. Church has left his Lieutenant's side, and with a nervousness hard to suppress stands at the breech of the bow torpedo-tube, ready to launch its 300 pounds of guncotton at the owner of the search-light ahead of them, if they escape the rain of metal long enough to get within the limited range of the weapon.

Right ahead, nearly within the coveted distance, a dark hull looms up; her search-light is boring through the inky darkness, but as yet has not discovered the whereabouts of the fast-approaching danger. All at once Church, from his position in the bow, sees the small conning-tower lighted up through the peep-holes by the dazzling light, and hears simultaneously the quick reports of her machine-guns.

All about the bay is a scene of firing; but for this the men in No. 5 have no eyes; the deadly peril of their boat from the countless guns on the black hull ahead is their only concern. No thought of personal safety now enters their minds; such feeling has long since been forgotten; their only idea is to reach the enemy in front of them. Church, lockstring in hand, sees the moment has nearly arrived. In the next they may all be blown to pieces by a well-aimed shot. His hand is nervously clutching the lanyard, while his eyes are fixed on the face of his superior. He sees his face, pale as death, in the terrible glare of the search-light. He sees his lips move, yet he can hear no sound above the roar of the firing. He knows the word they frame. Fire! A sharp report fills the small compartment, and the next second he is thrown heavily against the vessel's side, as, in answer to her helm, she swiftly swerves to starboard, and is soon speeding away from the column of water thrown up by the explosion of her torpedo against the steel hull of the sinking ship. For the shot has done its work, and the great mass of steel and cannon will soon lie at the bottom of the bay. The commands of her unfortunate officers to "Abandon ship!" can be distinctly heard in the lull after the explosion.

In the excitement of the attack the operations of the fleet at the entrance to the harbor have escaped the notice of the crew of No. 5. Now they see flash after flash from the forts answered by tongues of fire from the invading fleet, the search-lights of both throwing a lurid light over the awe-inspiring spectacle. From astern of them they also hear the sounds of a mighty struggle, the rumble of heavy ordnance and the rattle of musketry tell them that the army has moved to the attack.

With all speed the remnants of the flotilla are leaving the scene of their triumph, leaving half their number as a sacrifice on the altar of their country.

Morning dawns over the bay, and reveals a mass of wreckage and destruction difficult to picture.

A fleet is anchored in the harbor, battle-scarred and begrimed with smoke. On the grassy slopes of the harbor the white tents of a large army are pitched. On the many flag-stalls a bright flag is waving in the balmy breeze. The flag is the stars and stripes.

[CAPTAIN JACK AND THE MUTINEERS.]

The newspapers from town had been full of the accounts of a great strike in a manufacturing district of the city, and Tommie, after his father had finished reading them, had asked to be allowed to take the papers down to old Jack. Jack had once said to the boys that he never knew what was going on anywhere, because he was too poor to buy the daily newspapers, and had added:

"It's only when I have luck that I even get a Tribune a year old. Why," said he, "a small boy down here once brought me a New York Tribune that told all about the milishy being called out to stop a riot up in Buffalo, and it was a mighty exciting story, I can tell you. Next day a feller come down and hired my boat to go out a-bluefishin' with, and after we'd been out two or three hours I says to him, 'How's the riot at Buffalo this morning?' 'The what?' says he. 'The riot,' says I. 'Haven't you heard of the riot?' 'No,' says he. 'It's all in the paper,' says I, and I went into my cabin and brought out the paper. 'Oh! I see!' says he, with a laugh. 'That was two years ago.' And I looked at the date of that there Tribune, and shiver my timbers if the thing warn't dated two years before!"

This unhappy condition rather appealed to Tommie, and the result was that he got his father to promise that when he had read his morning paper he could have it to take down to the beach to old Jack, and Jack was very appreciative.

"It's very kind of you, Tommie," he said. "The news I get nowadays is at least young enough to be interesting, and I hope you'll never forgit that I'll never forgit your kindness. Take them strikers up in town, for instance. In the old way I'd never have heard anything about 'em for a month or two anyhow, but now I hear about 'em right off, and I sort of feel as if I was still living in the world, instead of being out of it, as I used to be."

"What do you think of the strike, Captain Jack?" asked Bobbie.

"What do I think of it?" echoed the Captain. "What could any sea-captain think of it—any self-respectin' sea-captain? It had ought to be stopped. That's what. That's just the trouble with being on land, though; you can't do things like you would on the water. 'F I was runnin' a big factory, I'd do it ship-shape, and I wouldn't stand any mutinies. I tell you what, now, my factory'd be a model. In the first place, I'd give the factory a name, just as if she was a ship, and the men who came there to work would be my crew, and the very minute one of 'em didn't behave himself, and tried to kick up a rumpus with me as their Captain, I'd clap him into irons. I believe in ironing them, I do; and it almost makes me wish I owned a factory, and the sailors in it would strike, so's I could show the world what I'd do under the circumstances.

"I'll never forget the last mutiny I had to deal with. It was back in '83. I was skipper of the clipper Benjamin Q., of Nantucket. We were engaged in carrying coal from Sandusky to Kennebunkport, and one morning two o' the crew up an' declined to shovel another ton.

"'Why not?' says I, calmly.

"'It's too dirty. We thought this was hard coal, and it's soft. It takes us an hour to get clean after the day's work's over, and that makes nine hours a day's work. We won't work more'n eight.'

"'I guess you're reasonable,' says I. 'Knock off, an' go in and take your bath. I'll turn the water on for ye myself. I'll let ye use my tub.'

"So they went aboard, and I went in and turned on the water in my tub, and I put about two pounds o' starch in the water. They all took turns, and said they felt better.

"'Now,' says I, 'you fellers can do this every day. Seven hours' work, and one hour for bathin', and I don't want anymore kickin'.' The mutineers agreed, and thought I was easy. Every day for a week they took starch baths—though they didn't know anything about the starch. I took care o' that. Well, you know what starch is. There they was a-soakin' it into their systems for an hour a day, and, by the flyin' Dutchman, when Sunday came around every one of 'em was so stiff they couldn't move. Monday they was like iron—couldn't move a joint. And then I says to 'em, says I, 'Kinder stiff, ain't ye? Little stiffer'n ye thought ye was goin' to be, eh? Thought ye was goin' to take the starch out of me, eh? Did too—if ye only knew it. Now ye can go about your business, and the next time ye take it into your heads to mutiny, choose another Captain to fool with.' I had 'em carried ashore and laid on the dock, and I sailed away. What ever became of 'em I don't know, but I heard that one of 'em had made a fortune as a ossified man in a Chicago museum."

With which astounding story of his method of dealing with strikers, Captain Jack rose up and walked away, leaving Bob and Tommie wondering if it really could have happened as the old tar had said.

[THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."]

BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.

VIII.

The next morning the condition of the tempers of the crew of the Rattletrap was reversed. Jack was feeling better, and was quite amiable, and inclined to regret his bloodthirsty language of the night before. But Ollie and I, on our diet of gooseberries, had not prospered, and woke up as cross as Old Blacky. The first thing I did was to seize the empty gooseberry can and hit the side of the wagon a half-dozen resounding blows.

"Get up there," I cried, "and 'tend to breakfast. No pretending you're sick this morning."

"All right," came Jack's voice, cheerfully. "Certainly. No need of your getting excited, though. You see, I really wasn't hungry last night, or I'd have got supper."

"But we were hungry!" answered Ollie. "I don't think I was ever much hungrier in my life; and then to get nothing but a pint of gooseberries! I could eat my hat this morning."

"I'm sorry," said Jack, coming out; "but I can't cook unless I'm hungry myself. The hunger of others does not inspire me. I gave you all there was—your hunger ought to have inspired you to do something with those gooseberries."

"I'd like to know what sort of a meal you'd have got up with a can of gooseberries?"

"Why, my dear young nephew," exclaimed Jack, "if I'd been awakened to action I'd have fricasséed those gooseberries, built them up into a gastronomical poem, and made a meal of them fit for a king. A great cook like I am is an artist as much as a great poet. He—"

"Oh, bother!" I interrupted; "the gooseberries are gone. There's the grouse Ollie shot yesterday. Do something with that for breakfast."

Jack disappeared in the wagon, and began to throw grouse feathers out the front end with a great flourish. The poor horses were much dejected, and stood with their heads down. They had eaten but little of the hay. Water was what they wanted.

"We must hitch up and go on without waiting for breakfast," I said to Ollie, "It can't be far to water now, and they must have some. Jack can be cooking the grouse in the wagon."

So we were soon under way, keeping a sharp lookout for any signs of a house or stream of water. We had gone five or six miles, and were descending into a little valley, when there came a loud whinny from Old Blacky. Sure enough, at the foot of the hill was a stream of water. The pony ran toward it on a gallop, and as soon as we could unhitch the others they joined her. They all waded in, and drank till we feared they would never be able to wade out again. Then they stood taking little sips, and letting their lips rest just on the surface and blinking dreamily. We knew that they stood almost as much in need of food as of water, as they had had nothing but the hay since the noon before. There was a field of corn half a mile away, on a side hill, but no house in sight.

"I'm going after some of that corn," I said to the others. "If I can't find the owner to buy it, then I'll help myself."

I mounted the pony and rode away. There was still no house in sight at the field, and I filled a sack and returned. The horses went at their breakfast eagerly. But twice during the meal they stopped and plunged in the brook and took other long drinks; and at the end Old Blacky lay down in a shallow place and rolled, and came out looking like a drowned rat.

In the mean time Jack had got the grouse ready, and we ate it about as ravenously as the horses did their corn. We had just finished, and were talking about going, when a tall man on a small horse almost covered with saddle rode up, and began to talk cheerfully on various topics. After a while he said,

"WELL, BOYS, WAS THAT GOOD CORN?"

"Well, boys, was that good corn?"

We all suspected the truth instantly.

"He did it," exclaimed Jack, pointing to me. "He did it all alone. We're going to give him up to the authorities at the next town."

The man laughed, and said "Don't do it. He may reform."

There seemed to be but one thing to do, so I said: "It was your corn, I suppose. Our only excuse is that we were out of corn. Tell us how much it is, and we'll pay you for it."

"Not a cent," answered the man, firmly. "It's all right. I've travelled through them Sand Hills myself, and I know how it is. You're welcome to all you took, and you can have another sackful if you want to go after it."

I thanked him, but told him that we expected to get some feed at Gordon, the next town. After wishing us good luck, he rode away.

We started on, and made but a short stop for noon, near Gordon. We found ourselves in a fairly well settled country, though the oldest settlers had been there but two or three years. The region was called the Antelope Flats, and was quite level, with occasional ravines. The trail usually ran near the railroad, and that night we camped within three or four rods of it. Long trains loaded with cattle thundered by all night. We were somewhat nervous lest Old Blacky should put his shoulder against the wagon while we slept, and push it on the track in revenge for the poor treatment we gave him in the Sand Hills, but the plan didn't seem to occur to him. It was at this camp that we encountered a remarkable echoing well. It was an ordinary open well, forty or fifty feet deep, near a neighboring house, but a word spoken above it came back repeated a score of times. We failed to account for it.

NOT OLLIE'S IDEA OF AN INDIAN.

The next forenoon we jogged along much the same as usual, and stopped for noon at Rushville. This was not far from the Pine Ridge Indian Agency and the place called Wounded Knee, where the battle with the Sioux was fought three or four years later. We saw a number of Indians here, and though they came up to Ollie's idea of what an Indian should be a little better than the one that rode with us, they still did not seem to be just the thing.

"I don't think," he said, "that they ought to smoke cigarettes."

"It does look like rather small business for an Indian, doesn't it?" answered Jack. "But then smoking cigarettes is small business for anybody. What's your idea of what an Indian ought to smoke?"

"Well, I'm not sure he ought to smoke anything, except of course the peace pipe occasionally. And he oughtn't to smoke that very much, because an Indian shouldn't make peace very often."

"Right on the war-path all the time, flourishing a scalping-knife above his head, and whooping his teeth loose—that's your notion of an Indian."

"Well, I don't know as that is exactly it," returned Ollie, doubtfully. "But it seems to me these aren't hardly right. Their clothes seem to be just like white people's."

"I don't know about that," said Jack. "I saw one when I went around to the post-office wearing bright Indian moccasins, a pair of soldier's trousers, a fashionable black coat, and a cowboy hat. I never saw a white man dressed just like that."

"Well, I think they ought to wear some feathers, anyhow," insisted Ollie. "An Indian without feathers is just like a—a turkey without 'em."

The Indians were idling all over town, big, lazy, villainous-looking fellows, and very frequently they were smoking cigarettes, and often they were dressed much as Jack had described, though their clothes varied a good deal. There were two points which they all had in common, however—they were all dirty, and all carried bright, clean repeating-rifles. We wondered why they needed the rifles, since there was no game in the neighborhood.

The chief business of Rushville seemed to be shipping bones. We went over to the railroad station to watch the process. There were great piles of them about the station, and men were loading them into freight cars.

"What's done with them?" we asked of a man.

"Shipped East, and ground up for fertilizer," he answered.

"Where do they all come from?"

"Picked up about the country everywhere. Men make a business of gathering them and bringing them in at so much a load. Supply won't last many months longer, but it's good business now."

They were chiefly buffalo bones, though there were also deer, elk, and antelope bones. We saw some beautiful elk antlers, and many broad white skulls of the buffalo, some of them still with the thick black horns on them. As we were watching the loading of the bones, Ollie suddenly exclaimed,

"Oh, see the pretty little deer!"

We looked around, and saw, in the front yard of a house, a young antelope, standing by the fence, and also watching the bone-men as they worked.

"It is a beautiful creature, isn't it?" said Jack. "And how happy and contented it looks!"

"I guess it's happy because it isn't in the bone-pile," said Ollie.

We went over to it, and found it so tame that it allowed Ollie to pet it as much as he pleased. The man who owned it told us that he had found it among the Sand Hills, with one foot caught in a little bridge on the railroad, where it had apparently tried to cross. He rescued it just before a train came along.

We left Rushville after a rather longer stop for noon than we usually made. Nothing worthy of mention occurred during the afternoon, and that night we camped on the edge of another small town, called Hay Springs.

"I don't know," said Jack, "whether or not they really have springs here that flow with water and hay, or how it got its funny name. If there are that kind of springs, I think it's a pity there can't be some of them in the Sand Hills."

Jack went over town after supper for some postage-stamps, and came back quite excited.

"Found it at last, Ollie!" he exclaimed. "Grandpa Oldberry was right."

"What—a varmint?" asked Ollie.

"A genuine varmint," answered Jack. "A regular painter. It's in a cage, to be sure, but it may get out during the night."

We all went over to see it. It was in a big box back of a hotel, and the man in charge called it a mountain-lion, and said it was caught up in the Black Hills. "Right where we are going," whispered Ollie. The animal was, I presume, really a jaguar, and was a big cat three or four feet long.

We were off again the next morning, looking forward eagerly to the camp for the night, which we expected would be at Chadron, and where our course would change to the north into Dakota again, this time on the extreme western edge, and carry us up to the mountains. Most of the day we travelled through a rougher country, and saw many buttes—steep-sided, flat-topped mounds; and in the neighborhood of Bordeaux the road wound among scattering pine-trees. We camped at noon near the house of a settler, who seemed to have a dog farm, as the place was overrun with the animals. We needed some corn for the horses, and asked him if he had any to sell. He was a queer-looking man, with hair the color of molasses candy, and skim-milk eyes.

"I JESS RECKON I HAVE GOT SOME CO'N TO SELL."

"Waal, now, stranger, I jess reckon I have got some co'n to sell," he said. "The only trouble with that there co'n o' mine is that it ain't shucked. If you wouldn't mind to go out into the field and shuck it out, we can jess make a deal right here."

We finally gave him fifty cents for all our three sacks would hold, and he pointed out the field a quarter of a mile away and went back to the house. We noticed that he very soon mounted a pony and rode away toward Hay Springs, but thought nothing of it. When we were ready to start we drove over to the corn-field to get what we had paid for. Jack put his head out of the wagon, took a long look, and said,

"That's the sickest-looking corn-field I ever saw!"

We got out, and found a sorry prospect. The corn was poor and scattering and choked with weeds.

"And the worst of it is," called Jack, as he waded out into the weeds, "that it has been harvested about twelve times already. The scoundrel has been selling it to every man that came along for a month, and I don't believe there were three sackfuls in the whole field to start with."

We went to work at it, and found that he was not far from right.

"No wonder the old skeesicks went off to town soon as he got his money," I said. "He won't show himself back here till he is sure we have gone."

We worked for an hour, and managed to fill one bag with "nubbins" and gave up, promising ourselves that we wouldn't be imposed upon in that way again.

We reached Chadron in due time, and went into camp a little way beyond, on the banks of the White River, a stream which flows through Dakota, and finally joins the Missouri. Our camp was on a little flat where the river bends around in the shape of a horseshoe. It seemed to be a popular stopping-place, and there were half a dozen other covered wagons in camp there. The number of empty tin cans scattered about on that piece of ground must have run up into the thousands. But there had not been a mile of the road since we left Valentine which had not had from a dozen to several hundred cans scattered along it, left by former "movers." We had contributed our share, including the gooseberry can. From the labels we noticed on the can windrow along the road it seemed that peaches and Boston baked beans were the favorite things consumed by the overland travellers, though there were a great many green-corn, tomato, and salmon cans.

"You can get every article of food in tin cans now," observed Jack, one day, "except my pancakes. I'm going to start a pancake cannery. I'll label my cans: 'Jack's Celebrated Rattletrap Pancakes—Warranted Free from Injurious Substances. Open this end. Soak two weeks before using.'"

It was a pretty camping-place on the little can-covered flat, and we sat up late, visiting with our neighbors and talking about the Black Hills.

"I think," said Jack, as we stumbled over the cans on our way to the Rattletrap, "that I'll go into the mining business up there myself. I'll just back the Blacksmith's Pet up to the side of a mountain, tickle his heels with a straw, and he'll have a gold-mine kicked out in five minutes."

[to be continued.]

IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.[1]

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.

CHAPTER V.

Elizabeth was in her own room when she arrived at this determination to seek a home with the Brady family, and the more she thought of it the more advisable did the plan seem. She began to prepare for an immediate departure. Most fortunately for her purpose, Miss Rice had gone out, her aunt Caroline was about to go, and she could very easily escape from her aunt Rebecca, who was reading in the library.

The first thing to do was to dress suitably for the occasion. The frock that she had on seemed scarcely the thing to wear at the Bradys'; in fact, she had nothing that was exactly appropriate, except a dress which her aunt had told her was too much spotted to wear again. She would be more like Eva Louise and Bella if she had on something which was not altogether clean.

This important matter settled, she put on her hat—it was a large one, with many feathers, but the Brady girls wore very gay hats—and slipped quietly down the stairs, carrying a bag in which were her night-dress and toilet articles. On her aunt's cushion she pinned a note—she believed runaway heroines always did so—explaining the situation.

"Dear Aunt Caroline," she had written, "I am going away to some people I know. You will never find me. I cannot go to Virginia. If my father ever comes back I will hear of it, and then I will come home. Please take good care of Julius, for the sake of your affectionate niece,

"Elizabeth Herrick.

"P. S.—Please do not try to find me. I am with friends. P. S. number two.—I hope you won't mind my going very much."

This done, she continued her way down stairs, out of the front door, and around to the home of the Brady family.

Eva Louise and Bella were playing the inevitable jack-stones on their own door-step when Elizabeth appeared. They looked up, but continued their game.

"How do you do?" said Elizabeth.

"Holloa! I say, Eva Louise, that ain't no fair. Them's mine."

"'Tain't, neither. Yer a reg'lar cheat, Bella Brady! I'm a-goin' to tell pop, an' I ain't a-goin' to play with yer another minute."

Elizabeth, fearing that slaps were imminent, hastened to interpose.

"I want to ask you something, Eva Louise. Is your mother at home?"

"Is that all yer want to ask? Well, I guess she is. I say, Bella—"

"But, Eva Louise, I really want to speak to you. Do you think—do you think your mother would be willing to let me stay here a little while?"

"Stay here! What ever do yer mean?"

"I mean that I want to live here till my father comes home. I— Well, the truth is, my aunts want me to go somewhere, and I don't want to go, because I don't know the people, and I thought perhaps I might stay here with you, that is if you don't mind."

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Eva Louise. "If you ain't a queer one! Ma! I say, ma!"

There was no reply, so Eva Louise went into the house, leaving Bella in triumphant possession of all the jack-stones, which she immediately swept into a very dirty pinafore. Presently her sister returned, followed by Mrs. Brady, with the front of her skirt turned up and her arms bared to the elbow.

"How do you do, Mrs. Brady? Has Eva Louise told you? Would you mind?"

"What iver on earth do yer mean, miss? Sure it can't be that yer afther wantin' to lave yer nice house that's as big as a palace, and come here to the loikes o' us?"

"I really do, Mrs. Brady; and I shall be so much obliged to you if you will let me."

"Come inter the house, miss, an' we'll talk it over. Sure, do the Herrickses know yer afther comin' here?"

"Oh no, of course not. No one knows it, and I don't want you to tell them, please, Mrs. Brady," said Elizabeth, as she followed her hostess through the narrow passageway into the kitchen.

Here the baby was crying upon the floor, while Mr. Brady smoked his pipe in the corner. Through the window Elizabeth could see their own garden fence, with the fruit trees beyond, and above them the windows of the closed room.

"If you don't mind, I should like to stay here awhile," she said. "I won't be any trouble, really, Mrs. Brady, and I might help you to take care of the baby."

The child had seated herself on the extreme edge of the only available chair in the room. Mrs. Brady stood with her hands on her hips, looking at her, with a daughter on either side.

"Well, I never!" said she at last. "I can't think yer really mean it. Pop, what do yer say to it?"

Mr. Brady smoked in silence for some minutes. Then he removed his pipe, and remarked, in a surly tone:

"If the old ladies is willin' to pay us han'some for it, I 'ain't got no objections. If we take boarders, of course we look for boarders' pay."

Having made this statement, he replaced his pipe. His wife and daughters again looked at Elizabeth.

"What old ladies?" she asked.

"It's yer aunts he is afther meanin', miss. As pop says, we 'ain't got no objections to takin' boarders."

"Oh, but I am afraid I can't pay you just now. My aunts don't know where I am, you know, and I don't want them to. I haven't any money of my own now, but I will have when I grow up, and I will pay you then, Mrs. Brady—indeed I will."

The pipe was again removed.

"If yer afther thinkin' yer goin' to live here for nothin' till yer growed up, yer pretty much mistaken. Atin' us out o' house an' home, an' nothin' to show for it!"

"OH, BUT, REALLY, MR. BRADY, I DON'T EAT MUCH."

"Oh, but really, Mr. Brady, I don't eat much. That is just what is the matter with me, and why I had to have the doctor. I only eat a little oatmeal and cream for breakfast, and I don't really care for anything but sweetbreads and ice-cream, and I can get along very well without them. You won't have to get anything extra for me. I will promise not to eat a bit more than I can help. And I could do ever so much to help Mrs. Brady, taking care of the baby or washing the dishes. Please let me stay!"

And she looked imploringly from one to the other.

Mrs. Brady stepped over to the corner, and a conversation ensued between her and her husband of which Elizabeth could hear but snatches. The question of money appeared to figure largely in it, and she heard the words "reward" and "have us arrested."

Finally Mrs. Brady turned to her visitor.

"Pop says you can stay for the prisent."

"Oh, thank you!" said Elizabeth, gratefully. "Shall I go take off my things? And where shall I put them?"

Eva Louise volunteered to take her up stairs. She had a great curiosity to see what was in the beautiful leather travelling-bag which Elizabeth carried, a curiosity which was presently gratified when the new-comer took from it a silver-backed brush and comb, and laid them on the old wash-stand which appeared to serve as a dressing-table.

"La!" cried Bella, who had followed them up stairs, "ain't we grand? Say, is them real solid silver?"

"Why, yes," said Elizabeth; "I suppose so."

"Pop needn't worry about no board money, I guess."

And the two daughters of the house hurried downstairs.

Elizabeth looked about her. It was certainly very different from her own room in the next street. As there were but few bedrooms in the house, she feared that she might be obliged to sleep with the Brady girls. Already she felt homesick. And the house was filled with the odor of salt fish mingled with that of onions and bad-tobacco smoke. It was almost unbearable.

Presently she heard loud voices. Some of the boys had returned, and it sounded as if they were quarrelling. How very dreadful it was! Elizabeth was afraid to go down, so she staid where she was, with difficulty opening the window a crack in order to get a breath of fresh air.

She began to wonder if life in Virginia could be worse than this. If she only had Julius Cæsar here, it would be a comfort; but Julius would not be happy in such a place. He liked soft cushions and rugs to lie upon, and he was particular about having a clean plate for his food.

She wondered if her aunt Caroline had returned yet, and what she would think when she read her note. After what seemed a long time, she heard the State House clock strike six. She would be about to sit down to supper if she were at home. The aunts were expecting guests to dinner that night. The voices downstairs grew louder. She distinctly heard Mr. Brady say:

"If we ain't a-goin' to be paid for it, she don't stay the night. I'll murder the whole o' yers before I let her ate us out o' house an' home. Silver, yer say she's got? I'll see it before I believe yers."

This was too dreadful! Elizabeth began to cry. And then she heard a loud knocking at the door.

In the mean time Miss Herrick had returned from her drive. She found visitors in the parlor, and when they had gone it was necessary to give a glance at the dinner table to see that all was properly arranged for her guests; and then she went up stairs to dress. It was almost six o'clock.

As she looked at the tiny clock on her dressing-table, her eye was attracted by Elizabeth's note, pinned on her cushion.

"What is this for?" she said to herself, as she opened and read it.

"What can the child mean? Gone to some friends—'some people she knows'? Who are they? Has she lost her mind? Perhaps her illness is affecting her brain."

Miss Herrick almost ran from the room, and called Miss Rice.

"Where is Elizabeth?" she demanded.

"Is she not with you?" asked Miss Rice. "As she was not at home, I fancied that you had taken her to drive."

"Not at all. The child must be found. Read this quickly, and tell me what you think. Was there ever anything so trying? The child will be the death of me. Company for dinner, and all this excitement! Where can she be? Rebecca," to her sister, who appeared at this moment, "Elizabeth, has actually had the audacity to run away! What shall we do about it?"

Miss Rebecca Herrick read the note.

"How perfectly absurd!" she remarked as she finished it. "No doubt she has gone to those dreadful Bradys she was forever talking about. She always spoke of them as friends."

"Of course! How clever you are, Rebecca! Miss Rice, kindly tell James to go to the Bradys' and ask if she is there. He probably knows where they live. I have barely time to dress for dinner. Let me know if he brings her back." And Miss Herrick returned to her room. "No doubt she is there," she said to herself. "It is useless to become unduly alarmed before it is absolutely necessary. What a strange child she is! Perhaps Helen Redmond will understand her better than I do. I hope so, I am sure, and the sooner she is sent there the better, if she is going to behave in this way."

But Miss Herrick was more alarmed than she cared to acknowledge. She moved nervously about the room, and it was a relief to her when, as she was putting the finishing touches to her toilet, there was a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" she cried.

"It is Elizabeth," said a small voice. "May I come in, Aunt Caroline? Oh, I am so glad to get back! Thank you so much for sending James after me!"

"Do you think this is the proper way for a little girl to behave?" asked Miss Herrick, in a severe voice, although she was greatly relieved to see her niece.

"No, Aunt Caroline, I don't, and I hope you will excuse me. I—I didn't want to go to Virginia, you know, and I thought that the Bradys' would be better than that. But it isn't, Aunt Caroline. Nothing could be worse than the Bradys! I was so glad to have James come for me! They were all quarrelling, and Mr. Brady was not at all nice. He was even talking about murdering people when James knocked at the door. And I am so glad to get home! Don't you think I might stay here now, Aunt Caroline? Must I really go to Virginia?"

"Certainly you must, more so now than ever. It is nonsense for you to dread it so. There is no reason why you should not be happy there. Now run away, for I must go down to the drawing-room."

"I should have liked to kiss her," said Miss Herrick to herself, as she went down stairs. "I am growing very fond of her, with all her oddness. But I must not allow myself to care deeply again. One disappointment is enough."

And she thought of the locked door upstairs.

Elizabeth went to her room. It was softly lighted, and it all looked so comfortable and quiet compared with the Brady apartment. How thankful she should be that she had not been born a Brady! Even Miss Rice was endurable after Mrs. Brady. If she could only stay here, and not go to Virginia!

But fate and the doctor and Miss Herrick were apparently inexorable, and day after day slipped by, bringing nearer that which was set for her departure. Her trunk was packed; it was off. She bade good-by to her aunts and to Julius Cæsar—she had begged to be allowed to take him with her, and had wept bitter tears over the refusal—and now the carriage was at the door. Miss Rice, on her way to her home in South Carolina, was to take Elizabeth to her destination.

"Good-by, Aunt Caroline," said the little girl, with streaming eyes. "Good-by, Aunt Rebecca. I am sorry I have not been a better child, but you don't know how hard it is sometimes. And you will send me word if my father comes home, won't you, Aunt Caroline? I still think he will come some day."

And then she ran down the steps, the carriage door was shut, and she was driven rapidly away.

"I feel as if I could not let her go," said Miss Herrick, as she stood in the window and stroked Julius Cæsar, who was quite aware that something out of the ordinary was happening. "If it were not that the doctor spoke so strongly, I should keep her now. It is very strange that she cannot be happy or well with us. I am afraid, Rebecca, that I am going to miss her sadly."

"You will soon grow accustomed to it, Caroline," returned her sister, calmly. "The child was a great care, for we never knew what she was going to do next—running away, investigating Mil—what she should not have done, up to all kinds of mischief."

"Do not allude to that, Rebecca, I beg of you," said Miss Herrick, with some agitation. "The child reminds me of her in certain ways. This taste for drawing that she has developed fills me with dread. I do not want her to be like her. I shall write to Helen Redmond, and tell her it must not be encouraged."

Just as Miss Herrick said this a telegram was handed to her. She opened it hurriedly, and read:

"Marjorie has scarlet fever. Do not let Elizabeth come.

"Helen Redmond."

For a moment Miss Herrick scarcely knew what to do. She glanced helplessly at the window from which a few minutes before she had seen Elizabeth drive away. Then she looked at the clock. There was a good half-hour yet before the train would start.

"What is the matter, Caroline? Do tell me what is in the telegram, instead of keeping me in suspense," exclaimed Miss Rebecca.

Her sister thrust it toward her without a word, and left the room. She was dressed for the street, for she had intended to go out as soon as the carriage should return from taking Elizabeth to the station. She went out of the house, and her acquaintances would have been greatly startled had they seen the stately Miss Herrick almost run to Walnut Street, and with ungloved hand signal to a trolley-car to stop for her. It was rarely that Miss Herrick condescended to set foot in any conveyance but her own carriage.

She was quite breathless when she reached the station and mounted the stairs. She looked for the gate through which the passengers were crowding to the southern train.

"Your ticket, madam?" said the gate-keeper.

"Oh, I have none! I am not going anywhere. I must get my niece. Scarlet fever!"

And before he could stop her, Miss Herrick had pushed through and was running down the long platform.

Elizabeth, sitting forlornly in her place in the parlor-car, with the back of Miss Rice's austere-looking bonnet in front of her, and her mind filled with the dread of Virginia, was astonished to see her aunt suddenly appear at her side and grasp her hand.

"Come quickly, Elizabeth! You are not to go, after all. Come, before the train starts."

"Not to go?" repeated the child.

"No. Marjorie has scarlet fever. Good-by, Miss Rice. I will write and explain. There is the bell ringing. Hurry, child, hurry!"

And they were but just in time. The train moved off with Miss Rice, and Elizabeth remained in Philadelphia.

It seemed too good to be true. She asked her aunt a thousand questions, but she gained little satisfaction. Now that Elizabeth was saved from the danger of infection, Miss Herrick did not know what to do next. According to the doctor, she must not remain with them; but now that the home in Virginia was closed to her, there seemed to be no way of disposing of the child. Her mind was so occupied with Elizabeth's future that she could not attend to her present needs.

They returned to the house which Elizabeth, in tears, had left so short a time before, and then Miss Herrick got into her carriage and drove to the doctor's. He must help her out of the difficulty.

The result was that the town house and the country house were closed for the summer, and the three Misses Herrick went to the sea-shore. When they should come back in the autumn, there was to be a new order of things. Elizabeth was to go to school, and she was to have companions of her own age.

"That is, if you don't want to kill her," said the doctor, bluntly, when he had stated his views.

That same night Elizabeth heard that Marjorie Redmond had died of scarlet fever. She had been almost glad to hear that she was ill, for it had been the means of preventing her from going there; and now the favorite cousin of whom Val had been so fond was dead.

Miss Herrick shuddered when she heard the news. How narrow Elizabeth's escape had been! If she had gone a week earlier, there would have been no saving her. But she gave no sign of the strong hold that her niece had gained upon her heart, and Elizabeth little guessed how much her aunt really cared for her.

[to be continued.]

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.[2]

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER XVI.

Christmas at Mount Vernon, although it could never again be the gay season it had been, was yet cheerful. The presence of Lord Fairfax and George, of Madam Washington and Betty, revived the spirits of the master and mistress. William Fairfax, now a handsome young man of eighteen, and the same mild, manly, good-natured fellow, was home from Williamsburg for the holidays. George had never been to Williamsburg, where there was a viceregal court, and where everything was conducted upon a scale adapted to a representative of royalty. He was much impressed by William's description, and they made many plans for a holiday together, the next winter, in the capital.

"And we will attend the Governor's levee—but you must not be too much of a republican, George, for the Governor exacts viceregal respect—and the assemblies in the great Apollo Room at the Raleigh Tavern, and the lectures at the college by learned men from England and Scotland. Ah, George, how you will enjoy it!" cried William.

Lord Fairfax, hearing the young men talk, felt a desire to revisit Williamsburg, a place where he had spent some happy days, and soon after this conversation, when William had already returned to college, he said, one day:

"I think, George, if your brother can spare you towards the spring, I should like to have you visit Williamsburg with me. It is now twelve years since I was there, in the administration of my Lord Botetourt. He exacted every mark of respect that would have been paid to the King himself. I well remember his going in state to open the House of Burgesses, as the King opens Parliament. He rode in a gilt coach, given him by the King himself, drawn by eight milk-white horses—a very fine show; but for all their love of finery and display themselves, the Virginians are very jealous of any on the part of their rulers, and many gentlemen who drove coaches and four themselves complained bitterly of the Governor."

George was charmed at the prospect, and took the first opportunity of broaching the subject to Laurence.

"I think it would be very advantageous to you to see something of a viceregal court, and I will see that you have the means to make a good appearance," was Laurence's kind reply.

"Thank you, brother," said George, gratefully. "I will have things on the place in such order that everything will go on as if I were here; and as I shall come back for some weeks before returning to the mountains, I can see whether my orders have been carried out or not."

Another summer's work would finish all the surveys Lord Fairfax wished, and it was understood that at the end of that time George was to live permanently at Mount Vernon in charge of the estate.

Madam Washington was delighted at the idea of George's advent at the provincial court under such auspices, and Betty danced for joy, and immediately plunged into a discussion of George's wardrobe for the great event.

"Timothy Jones, the tailor in Alexandria, has some fine green cloth, out of which he could make you a surtout trimmed with silver, and I saw myself an elegant piece of scarlet velvet from which a mantle to wear to court might be made. And you shall have my best Mechlin lace for your cravat. Ah, George, how I long to see you in your fine clothes!"

"I should think, Betty," replied George, smiling, "you would be more concerned about how I will conduct myself with these great people. You know, sometimes I lose my speech entirely, and become very awkward; and sometimes I become abstracted in company; and nobody's manners are perfect at eighteen."

"Dear George," cried Betty, throwing her arms around his neck, "I think of your clothes because that is all that I need think about with you. In every other way you are sure to do us credit;" which made George feel that Betty was the most good-natured creature alive.

"I wish you were going," said he, presently.

"I wish so too," replied Betty. "But when brother Laurence gets well sister Anne has promised to take me, and my mother has said I may go," for both George and Betty, with the optimism of youth, thought it quite certain that their brother would one day be well.

The first day of February the start was made. The grand equipage set forth, with the Earl and George on the back seat of the coach and Lance on the box. Billy rode George's horse, and was in ecstasies at the prospect of such an expedition. On the second day, in the evening, the coach rolled into Williamsburg. It was a lovely February evening, and the watchman was going about lighting lanterns hung to tall poles at the street corners. George had chosen to make the last stage with the Earl, and was deeply interested in all he saw. The town was as straggling as Alexandria or as Fredericksburg, but there was that unmistakable air of a capital which the presence of the seat of government always gives. As they drove rapidly, and with great clatter, down Duke of Gloucester Street, George noticed many gentlemen in both naval and military uniforms, and others in the unpowdered wig of the scholar, which last he inferred were professors and tutors at the college. Of collegians there were not a few, and George noticed they always appeared in gangs, and seemed to regard themselves as quite aloof from other persons, and slightly superior to them. As the coach drove quickly through the Palace Green, with the palace on one hand and the college on the other, both were brilliantly lighted. A couple of sentries in red coats marched up and down before the palace—a long, rambling brick building, with its two generous wings, and its great court-yard with fine iron gates. On its top was a cupola, which was only lighted up on gala nights. On both sides of the palace were spacious gardens, with a straight canal, bordered with cedars, cut in the stiff, artificial manner of the time, and with small summer-houses, in the form of Greek temples, made of stucco. A coach was driving out and another was driving in, while an officer, evidently an aide-de-camp, picked his way along the gravelled path that led to the side where the offices were. Opposite the palace towered the plain but substantial brick buildings of William and Mary College, and a crowd of students were going into the common hall for supper. It all seemed very grand to George's eyes, and when they alighted at the Raleigh Tavern, the tavern-keeper, wearing silk stockings and carrying two silver candlesticks, came out to meet them, and ushered them into a handsome private room ornamented over the mantel by a print of his Majesty King George the Second. The tavern-keeper was not by any means like the sturdy citizens who kept houses of entertainment between Fredericksburg and the mountains. He "my lorded" the Earl at every turn, and was evidently used to fine company. He was happy to say that he was then entertaining Sir John Peyton, of Gloucester, who had come to Williamsburg for the winter season, and Colonel Byrd, of Westover. Also the Honorable John Tyler, marshal of the colony, was attending the Governor's council upon matters of importance, and was occupying the second-best rooms in the tavern—my lord having the best, of course, according to his rank. The Earl was a little wearied with all this, but bore with it civilly until the tavern-keeper bowed himself out, when William Fairfax burst in, delighted to see them. William was neither so tall nor so handsome as George, but he was overflowing with health and spirits.

"The Governor heard you were coming, sir," cried William, "and stopped his coach in the street yesterday to ask me when you would arrive. I told him you had probably started, if my advices were correct, and that you would be accompanied by Mr. George Washington, brother of Mr. Laurence Washington, now of Mount Vernon, but late of the royal army. He said he much desired to meet Mr. Washington's brother—for to tell you the truth, my lord, the Governor loves rank and wealth in his provincial subjects—and, meaning to speak well for George, I told him a great deal of Mr. Laurence Washington's lands and other wealth, and he smiled, or rather gaped, just like a great sheep's-head at a bait."

"William, you should be respectful of dignitaries," was the Earl's reply, although he smiled, while George laughed outright at William's artful working upon the Governor's weakness.

As soon as supper was over came a thundering knock upon the door, and the host ushered in Sir John Peyton, of Gloucester, a colonial dandy, whose pride it was that he had the handsomest foot and leg in the colony. Sir John was very elegantly dressed, and carried upon his left arm a muff, which effeminate fashion he had brought from England on his last visit.

"Ah, my Lord Fairfax! Most happy to meet you," cried Sir John, affectedly. "'Tis most unkind of you to pitch your tent in the wilderness, instead of gracing the viceregal court, where gentlemen of rank and wealth are sadly needed."

"Having experienced the hollowness of a regal court, Sir John, I can withstand all the attractions of any other," was Lord Fairfax's quiet and rather sarcastic reply.

Sir John, not at all disconcerted, helped himself with a jewelled hand from a gold snuff-box, and then, leaning against the mantel, put his hands in his muff.

"By all the loves of Venus, my lord, you and your young friend Mr. Washington should see some of the beautiful young ladies here. There is Mistress Martha Dandridge—odd's life! if I were not pledged to die a bachelor I should sue for that fair maid's hand; and Lady Christine Blair—born Stewart, who met and married Mr. Blair in Edinburgh—a dull, psalm-singing town it is. Lady Christine, having great beauty, illumines the college where her husband is Professor. And the lovely, the divine Evelyn Byrd, and Mistress Tyler, who is one of those French Huguenots, and has a most bewitching French accent—all ladies worthy of your lordship's admiration."

"No doubt," replied the Earl, gravely, but inwardly tickled at Sir John's ineffable impudence, "they would but slightly value the admiration of an ancient recluse like myself, and would prefer my young friends Mr. Washington and Mr. Fairfax."

Sir John, quite unabashed, now turned to the two young men, who had great difficulty in keeping their faces straight when they looked at him.

"Really, Mr. Washington, you must get a muff if you wish to be comfortable in this cursed climate. I never knew comfort till I got one in England, on the recommendation of Mr. Horace Walpole, who has the divinest taste in muffs and china I ever saw."

"I am afraid I cannot find one of a size for my hand," answered George, gravely, holding out a well-shaped but undeniably large hand.

After much more talk about Mr. Horace Walpole, the lovely Misses Berry, and the company of comedians daily expected from London, Sir John took his leave, promising to see them at the Governor's levee next day. As soon as the door closed upon him Lord Fairfax turned to William, and said, testily, "I hoped I had left all such popinjays as Sir John Peyton at court in England, but here I find the breed flourishing."

"Sir John is not half so absurd as he looks, sir," answered William, laughing. "He is as brave as a lion; and when on his last voyage home there was a fire in the ship's cargo, I hear he was the coolest man on board, and by his conceits and quips and jests in the face of danger kept off a panic. And he is honorable and truthful, and he really has much sense."

"Then," cried the Earl, "he does all he can to disguise it."

Their next visitors were Colonel Byrd, of Westover, and Mr. Tyler, marshal of the colony, who ranked next the Governor, and Mr. Randolph, Speaker of the House of Burgesses. The Earl received these gentlemen with marked respect, placed chairs for them himself, and entered into a long and interesting conversation with them on the state of the colony. Both George and William remained modestly silent, as became young men of their age, and listened attentively. It was agreed among them all that war with the French was practically certain. The colonies were thoroughly aroused, and each of the visitors gave it as his opinion that the colonies were willing to settle the question themselves without aid from the home government.

"And when the conflict comes," remarked Colonel Byrd, turning to the two young men, "it is to young gentlemen such as these that we must look for our safety, because, you may be sure, if the French capture our outposts, they will not be satisfied until they overrun our whole lowland country, and they must be checked at the mountains if they are to be checked at all."

"My young friend Mr. Washington knows all about matters on the frontier, as he has surveyed my lands across the Alleghanies for two summers, and is quite as familiar with the temper of the Indians as with the face of the country," remarked the Earl.

This at once made George an object of interest to them all, and he was closely questioned. He answered everything that was asked him with such intelligence and pith that his new acquaintances formed a high idea of his sense. He often referred to William Fairfax, who had been with him the first summer, and William made also a fine impression. They sat until midnight, talking, and Lance had to renew the fire and the candles twice before the company parted.

Next morning William came betimes and burst into George's room while that young gentleman was still in bed.

"Get up, man!" cried William, shaking him. "Here you lie sleeping like a log, when you ought to be having your breakfast and making ready to see the town."

George needed no second invitation, and in a very short time was making play with his breakfast in the sitting-room reserved for Lord Fairfax. The Earl was there himself, and the delightful anticipations of George and William, which were fully shared by Lance and Billy, brought a smile to his usually grave face.

Lance was simply beaming. A number of his old regiment were enrolled among the Governor's body-guard, and the sight of a redcoat did him, as he said, "a world of good." As for Billy, he had reached the state of nil admirari, and was determined to be surprised at nothing. On the contrary, when the tavern servants had assumed that he was a country servant, Billy had completely turned the tables on them. Nothing in the Raleigh Tavern was good enough for him. He pished and pshawed in the most approved style, treated Colonel Byrd's and Marshal Tyler's servants with infinite scorn, and declined to be patronized even by Sir John Peyton's own man, who had been to London. He called them all "cornfiel' han's," and, as the way generally is, he was taken at his own valuation, and reigned monarch of all he surveyed in the kitchen, where he gave more trouble than Lord Fairfax himself. However, one person could bring Billy down with neatness and despatch. This was Lance, who, although belonging to a class of white people that Billy despised, was yet capable of reporting him to "Marse George," so Billy was wary when Lance was around.

At three o'clock the coach came, and the Earl and George set forth with outriders to attend the Governor's levee. It was the first time George had ever seen the Earl in court dress. He wore a splendid suit of plum-colored satin, with ruby and diamond shoebuckles, with his diamond-hilted sword, and a powdered wig. George, too, was very elegantly dressed, and as they drove up to the palace, amid a crowd of coaches and chaises of all sorts, and dismounted, there were not two such distinguished-looking persons there. George felt decidedly flurried, although he had ample self-possession to disguise it.

They were met by the Governor's guard in the great entrance-hall, who passed them on to an anteroom, where half a dozen lackeys in gorgeous liveries bowed to the ground before them. A great pair of folding-doors led into the audience-chamber, and at a signal from within the doors were thrown wide, and they entered.

The room was large but low, and had on each side a row of mullioned windows. It was crowded with company, but a lane was at once made for the Earl and George, who advanced towards a dais covered with scarlet cloth at one end of the room, where Governor Dinwiddie stood, in a splendid court dress; for the Governors of Virginia assumed to be viceroys, and everything at the provincial court was copied, as far as possible, from the same thing at the Court of St. James. Ranged around the dais were the wife and daughters of the Governor with several ladies-in-waiting, also in court dresses with trains.

As the Earl and George made their reverences they attracted much attention; and when George stood back, silent and awaiting his turn while the Governor conversed with the Earl, there was a murmur of admiration for him. He was so manly, so graceful, his figure was set off with so incomparable an air of elegance, that other men appeared commonplace beside him. He seemed from his ease and grace to have spent his life at courts, while, in truth, he had never seen anything half so fine before.

The Governor, having finished his conversation with the Earl, motioned to George, who advanced as the Earl backed off, it being inadmissible to turn one's back on the Governor.

The first question asked by Governor Dinwiddie was,

"My Lord Fairfax tells me, Mr. Washington, that you have explored much in the Northwest?"

"I have, your Excellency."

"I should very much like at your leisure to have an account of affairs in that region."

"Your Excellency may command me."

"And I shall meanwhile have pleasure in presenting you to Madam Dinwiddie and my daughters Mistress Eleanor and Mistress Katharine."

Madam Dinwiddie, a comely dame, and the two young ladies courtesied low to the handsome young man presented to them, and Madam Dinwiddie said,

"I hope, Mr. Washington, that we may see you at the ball to-night."

"I have promised myself that honor, madam," replied George.

With the Earl he then withdrew to the back of the hall, where they found many acquaintances, old to the Earl but new to George; and no man or woman who saw George that day but was impressed with him as a youth of whom great things might be expected.

[to be continued.]

[THE TROUT PLAYS HOOKEY.]

A little trout, one bright sunshiny day,
As to his morning school he went his way,
Thought 'twould be fun to turn aside and stray,
And at the wicked game of hookey play.
"'Tis great," he said, as up the purling brook
He slyly swam, with many a backward look,
"To travel thus upon one's own sweet hook,
And leave the stupid study of one's book."
And so he gayly swam from pool to pool,
Forgetting all his duties at the school;
Forgetting lessons, pencil, slate, and rule,
Till afternoon gave way to twilight cool.
And then, ah me!—poor naughty little trout!—
A fisherman came treading softly out,
With pole, and line, and worms both sleek and stout,
In search of such as he, beyond a doubt.
And trouty, feeling hungry, took a bite.
He bit with all his main and all his might.
The line drew back, it drew exceeding tight,
And trouty flashed straight upward, out of sight.
And now the other trout, his brothers, weeping, say
He ne'er came back to his old purling way.
He's not been seen since that sunshiny day
When at the game of "hook" he tried to play.
Carlyle Smith.

PROTECTING FIELD ARTILLERY.

THE BELGIUM ARMY PLAYING AT WAR.