Chapter 13

As I sat on the box of lemonade bottles, with a hand on Patch lest he should show a desire to jump down from the van, I noticed that he was sniffing curiously at the back of the driver's coat; and presently the driver in his turn began to look with equal interest at the terrier.

'He seems to know you,' I remarked.

'Come to that,' was the answer, 'I seem to know him. Looks to me most uncommon like Mr. Westrop's dog, he does.'

'Who is Mr. Westrop?' I inquired, holding Patch more tightly.

For a few minutes, without answering (for the fat driver was slow of speech and spoke in a deep voice which seemed to come from the direction of his boots), he divided his attention between the horse and the dog, and then fixed his small eyes on my face.

'The question is,' he said slowly, 'where did you get him?'

'You see, I found him,' I replied.

'Mr. Westrop's been in a bad way about his dog,' continued the driver. 'A very bad way. What do you think about it, Sam, old chap?'

The terrier, to my sorrow, showed what he thought about it by wagging his stumpy tail and whining with satisfaction, so that it would have been ridiculous to attempt to persuade myself that he failed to recognise the name of 'Sam.'

'I know most people betwixt here and Barton,' said the driver, laying his whip gently across the horse. 'Come to that, so I ought.'

'Do you live at Barton?' I asked, thinking of Mr. Turton and Augustus, and their wasted drive to that town.

'Just this side,' was the answer. 'That's where our factory is--half a mile this side of Barton. And every day of every week, for fifteen years or more, I've driven round the country with this van.'

'Are you going back to-night?' I inquired.

'Why, of course,' he exclaimed. 'Back by the straight road, after I've done my round.'

We had already left the wider road, and as the driver spoke he pulled up the horse at the door of a small rustic inn. Fastening his reins to a hook on his seat, he slowly dismounted, took a box of bottles from the van, carried it into the inn, returning after a short interval with the same box filled by a similar number of empty bottles. Then he climbed up to his seat again, unhooked the reins, and cried 'Gee-up' to the horse, which at once started at a smart trot along the lane.

'Now about this dog,' he began. 'Mr. Westrop used to live at the Beacon on Ramleigh Forest--I can remember before the house was built. He moved out last Friday to a house near Barton, and sure enough he has lost his terrier. Where did you find him? That's what I should like to know.'

'I don't know whether the house was called the Beacon,' I answered, 'because I didn't see any name. Patch had got locked in the drawing-room.'

'Well, now!' cried the driver, 'who would have thought the dog was fool enough for that! Locked in the drawing-room, were you, Sam, old chap? And how did you get him out?'

When at some length I explained how I had been caught in the storm, and sought shelter in the empty house, and slept in the kitchen, and had been frightened by the ghostly noises in the middle of the night, the driver leaned forward and laughed so uproariously that I felt afraid lest he should fall from his seat on to the horse: and as soon as his merriment permitted him to speak, he turned to me with his great red face redder than ever.

'Well,' he cried, 'you are a nice young man for a small party, you are! A nice young burglar, to be sure! Going and breaking into people's houses, cool as you please, and stealing their dogs. Howsoever,' he added, 'Mr. Westrop will be no end glad when I take Sam back to him to-night.'

I clasped Patch more closely.

'You're--you are not going to take him back?' I said.

'Why, what do you think?' he demanded. 'You wouldn't go and keep a dog that didn't belong to you!'

I am afraid I might have been tempted to keep Patch or Sam, whichever he ought to be named, on any terms, if circumstances had permitted; and useful as the lift on my way had appeared, I began to regret that I had ever seen the driver or his van. But before I had time to reply we were pulling up in front of another inn, where another box of mineral waters was carried in, and a box of empty bottles was brought out.

'Not but what,' the driver continued, 'I am sorry to take the dog from you, because he is just the sort you could soon grow fond of--aren't you, Sam? But right is right,' said the driver, looking straight in front of him, as he laid the whip on his horse.

During the next two hours we stopped at numerous inns, and I might have been able to enjoy the drive through the country lanes, and the remarks which the driver exchanged with almost every one we met, if it had not been for the necessity of restoring Patch to his rightful owner. It was impossible to pretend that the driver had not right on his side, but the fact remained that the terrier's companionship had become very valuable, and I would have borne a great deal rather than give him up. On the other hand, I began to persuade myself that it would have been perhaps difficult to keep him in London, especially if I succeeded in obtaining work as quickly as I hoped, when necessarily I should be occupied most of the day.

When we stopped at a more important inn at one o'clock, the driver took from beneath his seat two plates, one covering the other, and tied up in a clean napkin. Without a moment's hesitation, he offered to share his meal with me, and there appeared to be quite enough rabbit-pie for two. After dinner, as we drove on again, he became more talkative, and asked a good many questions about myself, with the result that he soon learned where I was going after I left Hazleton, and how much money I had in my pockets, though I did not mention the gold locket.

'Now where did you think of sleeping to-night?' he asked, and I told him that I intended to wait to see what might turn up in the way of shelter. 'You see,' he continued, 'I always like fair play. Fair play is a jewel. It was you who found the dog, though you had no business to have been on the spot, so to speak. But Mr. Westrop is pretty sure to give me a tip for bringing Sam back, and I don't see why you should not have your share.'

'Oh, that is all right,' I answered.

'Of course it is, because I am going to make it all right,' he said. 'I told you I would set you down at Watcombe, ten miles from Hazleton; but half a mile short of that my sister-in-law lets lodgings. I will speak to her, and arrange that you shall have some supper and a bed and breakfast, and then I think we can cry quits, eh--what do you say?'

I said that it was very kind of him, and he proved as good as his promise. The house was not particularly tempting-looking, but, at all events, it was far better than no place to sleep in. I climbed down from the van, followed by Patch, from whom I was so soon to part, and accompanied the driver into a kind of kitchen, where a tall, stout woman in a cotton dress was busily employed as we entered. She glanced at me once or twice while the driver carried on a whispered conversation and handed her some money. Then she went out at a back door and returned with a piece of rope.

'This is the only bit I can find,' she said.

'That's enough,' answered the driver, and, going down on his knees, he whistled to Patch, who went obediently, and stood wagging his tail while a loop was fastened round his neck. I followed when the driver led him out at the door, lifting him into the van, and tying the end of the rope to the rail behind his own seat. Standing on an empty box, Patch looked down at me and whimpered, so that I climbed on to one of the wheels to pat his coat and hold his muzzle as a last good-bye. The driver mounted to his seat and unhooked the reins.

'Down you jump!' he cried. 'So long! be good!' and, whipping up his horse, he drove away, while Patch began to run about on the top of the box, and strained at the rope as if he were as sorry to leave me behind as I was to let him go.

(_Continued on page 117._)

THE REASON WHY.

Louis XIV., King of France, was very fond of playing at chess. One day he was having a game with one of his courtiers, and during the game made a false move, to which his adversary respectfully called his attention. The King, who did not easily suffer contradiction, did not wish to acknowledge that he was wrong, and appealed to the noblemen who surrounded the table, but none of them made any reply. Just then the Duke de Grammont came into the room, and immediately the King saw him he appealed to him, and wished to explain to him the subject of the dispute, but the Duke hardly allowed him to finish.

'Your Majesty is certainly wrong,' he said, with a firmness of tone which astonished the King, and caused him to frown.

'How do you know that I am wrong, Monsieur le Duc?' replied the King; 'you have not even given me time to explain to you what the question was.'

'I know undoubtedly,' replied the Duke of Grammont, 'for all these gentlemen, whom your Majesty was consulting at the moment I arrived, only replied by their silence. They would every one have hastened to take your part if your Majesty had been right.'

The King was struck with the sense of this argument, and admitted that he had made a mistake.

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

III.--HOW BUTTERFLIES, FLIES, AND SNAILS FEED.

(_Concluded from page 78._)

When the method of feeding employed by the Snail is compared with that of the Butterfly or the common Fly, a very striking difference in the construction of the mouth-parts will be noticed. The common snail (fig. D), for example, feeds by the constant licking, or rather rasping, motion of a very wonderful tongue--a tongue which, stretched out, appears to be longer than the whole body! Yet only a small portion of this curious organ is in use at one time.

This tongue (fig. F) consists of a long flat ribbon, or 'radula,' as it is called, the surface of which is beset by a series of minute teeth, set in rows across the ribbon. The number of these teeth varies greatly in the different species of Mollusca--the group to which the snail belongs. In some there may be as few as sixteen; in others, in some relatives of our garden snail, for example, there may be as many as forty thousand! The working portion of this ribbon is fixed to a sort of tough cushion, which, by means of muscles, can be drawn forward and protruded from the mouth, where it is worked backwards and forwards with a licking or rasping action that effectually scrapes away, in a fine pulp, the edge of the cabbage leaf on which the creature is feeding. The teeth serve, in fact, the same purpose as the horny spines on the tongue of the lion, or, on a small scale, of the cat. You all must have noticed how rough a cat's tongue is when, in a burst of affection, pussy insists on licking your hand. If she went on licking long enough she would wear away the skin. As the snail's teeth wear away in front they are replaced from the reserve store which is kept in a sort of pocket, which lies behind the 'cushion' in the drawing of a section of a snail's head (fig. E). It is here that new teeth are being constantly formed, and pushed forward to supply those lost.

In this drawing, by the way, you will notice a long arrow (A-B): this marks the passage which the food takes from the mouth to the gullet, and thence to the stomach. The head of the arrow points towards the snail's interior.

In many mollusca, the teeth, instead of resembling one another throughout the series, are of different kinds, very large and very small teeth alternating one with another in endless variety.

The horny jaws, to which reference has been made, are generally not conspicuous; but in the Cuttle-fish and Octopuses they are of huge size, and have been aptly compared to the beak of a parrot. But we must return to this subject again on another occasion, for it is one of quite unusual interest.

AN OLD-FASHIONED GRACE.

This little 'grace before meat' was written two hundred and fifty years ago by Robert Herrick, a Devonshire clergyman who became a famous poet. 'Paddocks' is an old name for 'frogs,' and 'benison' means blessing; 'heaving up' means 'lifting up in prayer.'

Here a little child I stand, Heaving up my either hand; Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, For a benison to fall On our meat and on us all.--Amen.

CURIOUS NAMES IN LONDON CITY.

Time and progress have swept away many of the old streets, lanes, and alleys for which London City was remarkable. Most of them had names with a meaning, though it is sometimes difficult to find this out now. One reason is that, as the years went on, names often got altered in very odd ways. There were few of what might be called 'fancy' names, such as are now often given to new streets or roads. Frequently a name arose from the business of the people who lived in the street, or perhaps it kept in remembrance some notable person who had a house there. Occasionally it happened that a lane or alley had several names, and it is not easy to tell which is the oldest. The citizens sometimes gave two or three streets the same name.

When it could be done, old names have been kept, or not much altered, though the street is changed. Old-time Londoners would stare at Cannon Street of nowadays, so different from the Candle-wick or Candlewright Street of the past, where lived dealers in tapers and candles. It is said that Paternoster Row got its name from the fact that stationers and writers had shops there, who sold, among other things, copies of the Lord's Prayer. It had an Amen Corner, and Creed Lane is also near. Afterwards mercers and lacemen invited customers to shops in the Row, and finally it became famous for books and magazines.

Chancery Lane and Fetter Lane still keep the old names they had when their appearance was not that of streets or business thoroughfares, but quiet lanes between Holborn and Fleet Street, dotted with private houses. Fetter Lane had nothing to do with fetters or prisoners; it was so called because 'fewters,' or idle persons, were often found lurking amongst the back gardens. One of the short turnings out of this lane had the odd name of Three Leg Alley; nobody seems to know why. It is supposed that Gracechurch Street is a reminder of a church in the locality, St. Benet's, Grasschurch, thus called because near the church was a herb-market, where wild or garden plants were sold. Occasionally the name is found in books written by chance as Gracious Street. At first the Gresham Street of our day was called Cateaton Street, but an old writer about London states that this was also shortened to 'Catte.' There was a surname Catte or Katt, which might have belonged to a person who built houses along the street. Hog Lane, Spitalfields, we are told, was visited now and then by the porkers that were allowed to range in the fields and obtain what food they could. Doubtless they strolled up the lane on the chance of getting fragments from the kitchens of citizens. Was Duck Lane, Smithfield, damp enough to be attractive to ducks? It may once have been, but later it was known as Duke Street.

Many places in the city were named from eatables or other articles that were sold in them. This was the case with Pudding Lane and Pie Corner; Milk Street, too, is supposed to have been a milk market, but Honey Lane was not a depôt for honey, nor remarkable for its sweetness. The historian Stow says that it was both narrow and dark, needing much sweeping to keep it clean. The Poultry was a market for fowls, and Scalding Alley, close by, had houses in which people scalded poultry and prepared them for sale. An old name given to Grocers' Alley was Coney-slope Alley, for it had a market where coneys or rabbits could be bought. In Rood Lane formerly stood the Church of St. Margaret Pattens, beside which the women offered pattens to by-passers. These wooden elevators for the feet were much in demand at the time when London streets were often deep in mud, and the fields splashy or sticky with clay. But they did not sell bucklers in Bucklersbury; so far as we know, it was called after a citizen named Buckle, to whom the manor belonged. Grub Street did not have at all a pretty name, though some say it was first Grape Street; then it was altered to Milton Street in honour of our great poet. Little Britain or Britagne Street had a residence belonging to the Dukes of Brittany, and Barbican was notable for its Roman tower, around which were large gardens.

EARNING AN HONEST PENNY.

'I wish we could scrape enough money together to buy poor old Father a pair of slippers for his birthday,' said Jack; 'his old ones are all in holes, and I know he can't afford a new pair--he has had so many expenses since Mother's illness.'

Geoffrey looked up from his home-lessons and sighed deeply. '_My_ money-box is quite empty,' he remarked, 'and Nellie and Hilda have not a farthing in the world.'

'That is true enough,' laughed Nellie. 'But, oh, Jack,' turning to her eldest brother, 'if only we could do _something_ for Father, I should be so glad! He seems so worried lately, and I am sure it's because he can't get Mother all the nice things she ought to have now that she is getting better.'

'Couldn't I take out a broom and sweep a crossing?' asked Geoffrey; 'that would bring in a little, and I would not mind what I did, if it helped.'

'You must find your crossing first,' returned Jack. 'The roads are as dry as a bone at present, so _that_ won't work, little stupid!'

'Little stupid' sighed again. 'If only I knew how to earn an honest penny!' he murmured.

'Or twopence,' said Hilda. 'I think twopence would be a little better.'

'I would rather it was half-a-crown,' put in Nellie.

There was silence for a moment; then Jack said slowly: 'I wonder what became of Uncle Harry after he went out to Australia. Father never writes to him; he doesn't know where he is now, and we have moved so many times that I expect Uncle does not know where _we_ are either. I dare say if he knew we were so badly off he would help us.'

'It's no good talking about Uncle Harry,' said Geoff; 'the question is, Can _we_ help Father?'

'Look here,' cried Jack, suddenly; 'supposing, instead of saying "_Can_ we," we say "We _must_." Supposing,' he added, 'we all make up our minds to earn a shilling each as best we can, so that we may have four shillings to buy Father some slippers?'

'Capital!' exclaimed Nell; 'but _how_ are we to earn it?'

'Oh, we must each hit upon a plan for ourselves,' returned Jack; 'I vote we draw lots for the first victim to-night, and we will allow each victim two days to earn the shilling in, and then will draw for the next.'

Of course, they all began to puzzle their young brains about plans; but Jack cut some slips of paper into different lengths, and, placing them between his thumb and first finger, while he clasped his other fingers tightly over the ends inside his hand, he bade them each take one, and whoever drew the longest was to earn the first shilling.

Well, they all drew, and Jack took the slip which was left; but Nellie got the longest, and she retired to the window, and stared out for inspiration.

'I know what I shall do,' she announced, at last; 'I'll cut my twelve chrysanthemums out of my garden, take them down to town, and sell them in the street for a penny each.'

'Nellie!' cried Jack; 'you mustn't think of doing such a thing! Father would not like it, and I am sure _we_ should not. You are not half strong enough to go out into the streets.'

But Nell was firm. 'It's the only thing I can think of, Jack,' she replied, 'and I _will_ do it. We must earn some money somehow, and no one will recognise me if I put on my old frock, and a shawl over my head. We can't help being poor, Jack, and it is an _honest_ way of earning a shilling.'

Jack, however, looked a little worried. He admired Nellie's pluck, but he did not like the thought of her going out into the streets alone. Nevertheless, after some discussion, it was decided that she should have her way, on condition that Jack went with her to see that she was quite safe. It was agreed that the matter should be kept dark, and that if Mother asked where Jack and Nellie had gone next evening, the others were to say it was a secret.

So, after tea the following day, the two children stole out. Mother was resting in her own room, and Geoffrey and Hilda were at their lessons, though it must be confessed they found it hard to give their whole attention to them.

It was a good mile and a half down to the town, but Nellie trudged bravely on with her treasured chrysanthemums (she alone knew what it cost her to cut them), and Jack walked a little behind, for his sister said that flower-girls never had any one to escort them, and he must not let any one see he belonged to her.

When they arrived in town, Nellie took up her station at a busy corner, and timidly offered her flowers for sale, while her brother stood in a doorway not far off, pretending to read a book by the light of a street lamp, but in reality he was watching to see that she came to no harm.

One honest penny was earned--two; then Nell grew bolder, and ran after a man whom she thought a likely customer. But he pushed her roughly on one side, and she fell upon the pavement. Jack could have kicked that man, but he was out of sight in an instant, so the boy went and helped Nellie to rise instead. Gathering up her flowers, he entreated her to return home, and not to trouble any more. But the little girl bravely held out, assured him she was not hurt, and in the end persuaded him to go back to his doorway.

Ten minutes passed away without any more flowers being sold, then Nellie held out the best of all to a kind-looking gentleman who was passing slowly by.

He stopped, looked at the child somewhat curiously, and then said, 'No, little lass, I do not want any flowers; but I wonder if you can tell me where Greenfield Road is, eh?'

Nellie started, for that was the name of the road where she lived. However, she simply directed him, and was turning away to seek for another customer when he slipped a bright half-crown into her hand. The child was so astonished that for the moment she could say nothing, and when she recollected herself the gentleman had gone, and Jack was by her side, asking what had happened.

'Well,' he said, when she had told him, 'no more selling flowers to-night, Nell, so you can just come home at once, for you have done your part and more,' and he would not hear of her staying there any longer.

Together the two started for home, feeling very happy indeed; but scarcely had they got inside the door when Geoffrey literally rushed at them.

'Oh, Jack! Nellie!' he cried, 'you can't think what a splendid thing has happened! Who do you think turned up ten minutes ago? Uncle Harry; yes, _Uncle Harry!_ He has been hunting for us for days. Oh, it seems too good to be true! He's in the dining-room now, with Father, and----'

'Oh, is he?' said a voice from behind, and who should appear on the scene but the kind gentleman who had given Nell half-a-crown! 'Why!' he exclaimed, suddenly, 'what's this I see? Well, if it isn't----Why, what does it all mean?' he asked, turning round to Father, who had followed him out, and was looking equally puzzled.

There was an awkward silence. Nellie coloured, and in her nervousness, down went all her pretty flowers on to the floor. But Jack came to the rescue, and blurted out the whole story on the spot.

Father turned his head away as Jack explained; indeed, he was much touched by the children's thoughtfulness; but Uncle Harry patted Nell's head, and praised her for her pluck. He said that Father ought to be proud of his four children, and I am sure Father was, though he said they must never think of going into the streets to sell flowers again.

Of course, the earning an honest penny business came to an end, for Uncle Harry had come back much better off than when he went out to Australia, and he gave the children a shilling each to buy Father some slippers, and something else for themselves besides.

Later on, he and Father became partners in a business of their own, and Nellie never had to think of selling her flowers again, or Geoffrey of sweeping a crossing.

J. A. VIVIAN.

'GINGER FOR PLUCK.'

Thomas M'Calmont had blue eyes, a mop of red hair, a moderate share of brains, and a most insatiable thirst for adventure. When his school-fellows made insulting remarks about his red locks, he was wont to answer, 'Ginger for pluck;' and, indeed, on several occasions, he had acted up to this saying there and then on the persons of his unfortunate persecutors.

Tommy was only eleven years old. Mrs. M'Calmont, his mother, regarded him as the most wonderful boy in the world, and would have utterly spoilt him, after the fashion of adoring mothers, had it not been that Mr. M'Calmont, seeing nothing more wonderful in his son than a red-headed, mischievous boy, set himself most diligently to curb Tom's youthful energy, and make an honest, sensible fellow of him.

They lived in the country, and Tom had three miles to go to his school. But Mr. M'Calmont also had business in Barton, so the pair set out together each morning in a trap drawn by a steady-going horse, who never shied or ran away, or did anything at all exciting. Tom was set down at the door of his school at nine o'clock, and called for at half-past four precisely, just like a grocery parcel. Never a chance for a frolic over the fields in the clear morning air, never any scrapes to get into! No gentle dawdles through the lanes after school, with occasional excursions into hedge or spinny after wild creatures, or the chance of a nice creepy adventure in the darkness of some winter's evening. The whole business, Tom thought, was humdrum and commonplace.

But at last, one early springtime, it happened that Mr. M'Calmont had urgent business at the town of Greenhurst, twenty miles away. It was a cross-country journey, where railways did not fit, so Mr. M'Calmont departed in his trap, leaving Tom and his mother in sole possession for a whole fortnight at Red House. Mrs. M'Calmont was secretly rather glad to be able to spoil her son as she liked.

Tom made the most of his advantages, and mother and son together revelled in the glorious sense of doing everything they liked best. Tom's favourite dishes appeared at every meal, bedtime came a good hour later than usual, and Tom also managed three clear days' 'old-soldiering' on the strength of a slight cold. But the last morning of liberty came, and as Tom dressed he carefully turned over in his mind how he should celebrate it. It was a beautiful morning after a week of heavy rain, and Tom had no wish for another day of coddling indoors.

Tom's mother packed his lunch-case with many dainties, and kissed him good-bye. Tom felt rather mean, 'like a wriggle-up worm' as he afterwards put it, and he half resolved to give up his plan and go soberly to school, for, to tell the truth, he had already resolved to play truant. Unhappily, as he turned into the lane from the drive gates, a rabbit dashed across the road right in front of him, and frisked into the hedge in a most tantalising manner, as if to show his contempt for stupid human beings who plod along the beaten track. That killed all Tom's scruples, and he was soon scurrying through the fields, scrambling over hedges, leaping ditches, and getting his clothes into as pretty a pickle as could be desired.

What a splendid day he spent, following no settled route, but wandering here and there as the impulse of the moment directed, and feeling in all his boyish frame the gladness of life and of spring! He lunched in a little wood, with a fallen tree for a throne, and a rippling stream to play him music while he feasted. Then he sauntered leisurely on in the afternoon sunlight, many thoughts busy beneath his comical red thatch. The long hours in the open after his three days indoors made him sleepy at last, and he was glad to discover behind the temporary abode of a railway navvy a little rough wood hut, where, with a friendly dog for company, and some straw for a couch, he was soon fast asleep.

Tom was dreaming. He heard a babel of voices fierce and angry, and was striving very hard to hear what they were saying; but, though the voices seemed loud, he could not distinguish one word from another, and in trying to do so he awoke. The voices continued, but they were not loud at all, though rough and angry. They came from the navvy shelter, and Tom could hear plainly every word. He was about to move away when he heard his father's name mentioned, qualified with expressions of hatred. Plainly it was right that he should hear what these men had to say about his father, so Tom crouched nearer the wall of the hut and listened. His blue eyes grew big and round, and his face filled with horror.

Tom knew that the navvies at work in the district were not regular workmen, but a very rough set. A gang of them had been almost a terror to the neighbourhood, and Tom's father had been foremost in bringing the guilty ones to justice. Three of their friends were in the hut, one with a revolver. They had learned from a workman that Mr. M'Calmont was to return from Greenhurst that evening, and they were discussing the spot where they could best waylay and shoot him. 'We won't kill him, only damage him a bit,' were the last words Tom heard as he crept from his hiding-place and made his way quietly into the wood.

Tom's fear began to give way to excitement. He had an adventure at last, and all to himself. To go home for help would be no use and would only terrify his mother. The setting sun showed that the evening was advancing, and his father would soon be coming, so that the only thing was to go and hide near the spot where the men had planned to wait. This was where two roads merged into one, at the bottom of a steep hill overhung with trees. Mr. M'Calmont might come by either of the two roads--it would depend on whether he wished to go into Barton or not.

Tom made his way to his post as quickly as possible, and found himself a hiding-place in a hole beneath the hedge, where only a boy could wriggle, and where he hoped that in the dusk he would be unobserved. His post was just the point where the road forked; the men had planned to stand some yards from that point, where it was more shaded by trees, so Tom hoped that when he heard the trap approaching, and could distinguish on which road it was, he would have time to run and warn his father, who would then, he did not doubt, with the aid of his valiant son, be a match for any three men.

It was rather a lonely watch. Tom was getting hungry again and very tired and stiff. As the light faded, his excitement faded too, and it was almost a relief to hear the stealthy arrival of the conspirators. Then another long wait, until at last he heard the cart-wheels going over unrolled stones, which told that it was not on the Barton road. Out of his hiding-place he crept, and darted along the grass at the road-side. An unlucky stumble over a fallen branch betrayed him, but as he fell he shouted with all his might, 'Look out, Father, they are going to shoot you!' Then there was a rush, a crack as something came into violent contact with his head, the world went round, and then--darkness.

When Tom woke, the morning sun was shining into his own room. His mother was busy at the window, fixing the curtain to keep the light from his face, and Tom could see that she was crying. A great fear entered his mind, and, as his mother turned and looked at him, all he could say was 'Father?'

'Quite safe, my brave laddie, for you frightened the men away. My dear, brave boy.'

Then joy filled the heart of Thomas M'Calmont, and for once the fault of playing truant went unpunished.

JESSIE HARVEY.

GROWING UP.

When birthdays come, we always write Our names upon the nursery door, And carefully we mark the height, Each standing shoeless on the floor.

How strange to think birthdays will be When we shall never add one more To all those marks which gradually Are climbing up the nursery door!

SOME WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

IV.--THE GROTTOES OF HAN IN THE ARDENNES.

A narrow opening high on an oak-covered hill; a cluster of women, girls, and boys, each carrying a slight iron bar connecting two oil lamps; a crowd of tourists of many nationalities--all waiting to enter the Grottoes of Han. Presently the guide arrives, and delivers a brief speech as to the possible consequences should visitors deface or purloin the treasures of the cave, demanding silence during his explanations, and declaring that one light-bearer would accompany every four persons. He ceases, and away we go. Down, down, down, apparently into the very heart of the earth, through damp and chilly air and profound darkness, broken only by the glimmer of the friendly lamps. Then we cease descending, and emerge in a cavern where the lights are flashed upon thousands of fossilised insects, and on into the 'Hall of the Foxes,' where countless generations of their species lived, died, and were buried. After this the great caverns succeed each other rapidly, each with some special interest of its own, until we find ourselves in the 'Hall of the Trophies,' where electric light is installed to exhibit the marvels of the roof. A thick fringe of stalactites, many of immense size, descend to meet the columns of stalagmite ascending from the floor.

Right through the caverns, a distance of nearly two miles, a rough path has been made which is fairly dry and clean, but on either side are rivers and banks of mud, so that it is well to be careful and watch the way. Once as we went along we heard behind us a splashing thud, and, turning, beheld a portly Belgian floundering on his back in the mire, whence he presently emerged, coated with mud, looking rather like a hippopotamus. No rule of silence could avail to stifle the peals of laughter that rang through the grotto, and we had the less scruple in enjoying the fun because any one of us might at any moment have the happiness of similarly amusing his or her fellow-creatures.

Our merriment ended before the wonders of the 'Hall of Mystery,' where the electric light travelled round to show 'The Mosque,' standing out in glittering points of light; 'The Curtain,' a veil of gleaming lacework in stone; and 'The Alhambra,' furnished royally with every combination of diamond-like crystals. It would be easy to invent names for most of the objects, for shrines, pulpits, thrones, and such-like are everywhere carved, of dazzling whiteness and richness of design.

Next we enter the gloomy magnificence of the 'Hall of the Dome,' where the roof towers up two hundred feet into the darkness. As we ascend the steep path we turn and see below the gleam of water. This is the subterranean river Lesse, the architect of these gloomy grottoes, which until some forty years ago had heard no voice save that of the water hammering and chiselling the rocks at its own sweet will. Legend declares these stately halls to be the palaces of the little Brown Dwarfs, who, issuing from their homes at night, by counsel and more practical aid enabled the early builders to produce the wonderful edifices of Bruges, Ypres, and other Flemish cities.

Still we go on, up and down through grotto after grotto of marvellous beauty; sometimes along the banks of the shadowy river, reflecting in its depths the fairylike beauties of roof and wall, then up high, narrow ridges or down into the depths of inky blackness, until at last we find ourselves in the 'Hall of Embarkation.' Here a small wooden platform projects over the river, and near it are a number of large boats capable of carrying all our party. The boats push off, all lights are extinguished, and the sensation of total darkness in such conditions is more weird than pleasant. We are told that the water is of unknown depth, and it takes some confidence to repress thoughts of collisions and perils by water of various kinds.

The boats move on in solemn procession, and soon a tiny speck of light appears, and grows gradually larger and brighter. By degrees the light pervades dimly roof, walls, and transparent water, and then, all in a moment, a flood of glorious sunshine gleams through the lofty portal which we are approaching. Behind us fringes and bosses of stalactite are tinged with the warm glow, and stand out in bold relief from the darkness; before us the banks are green with grassy slopes and waving trees; below us the river dances along in the sunlight as if full of joy at escaping from prison, and we too share its happiness as we float back into our every-day world from the gloomy glories of the Grottoes of Han.

HELENA HEATH.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 107._)

For the next hour I felt extremely miserable, but, remembering that I should, in all probability, see Jacintha to-morrow, I began to wish it were possible to do something to improve my appearance for the occasion. For not only were my clothes in a far from satisfactory condition, but the soles of my boots were full of holes, so that one stocking touched the ground.

There was nothing to do but wander about and look at the chickens until I was summoned to supper, which consisted of bread and very strong cheese.

On being shown to the bedroom, I found that it contained two beds, in one of which a small boy was already reposing. Although he seemed to watch me with considerable curiosity, he made no attempt at conversation; but it was a very noisy house, and I found it impossible to get to sleep for some time.

When my room-fellow awoke me at about six o'clock the following morning, the sun was shining brightly into the shabby room, so that this promised excellently for the day's tramp. I said my prayers, and having washed, dressed, and partaken of a somewhat scanty breakfast, wondering, as I ate, what had by this time become of Patch, I set out, at a little after half-past seven, in the direction of Hazleton.

Presently, passing through a village, which seemed to be on the outskirts of the town of Hazleton, I bought two penny sausage rolls at a small baker's shop, and asked for a glass of water. As I walked on, eating the rolls, it soon became evident that the town was close at hand. At intervals I passed large houses, standing in their own grounds, and carefully I read the names on their gate-posts, lest one should be Colebrook Park. The path, which had been almost indistinguishable from the roadway, was now asphalted, and I stopped to read a notice board concerning vagrants, wondering whether I ought to be reckoned under that denomination. I do not know whether the sun had affected me--for it shone with brilliant force that morning--or whether I was tired after my ten miles' walk without much food, but as I drew near to Hazleton, which I had formerly felt so anxious to reach, my usual spirits seemed to forsake me, and, if it had not been for the necessity to return the locket, I think I should have passed on my way without making the least attempt to see Jacintha again.

I seemed to have lost pride in myself, so that it became difficult to keep up much hope. Perhaps it might be possible to get the locket safely into Jacintha's hands without seeing her, especially if there happened to be a lodge at the entrance to Colebrook Park, when I might leave the trinket with the lodge-keeper.

With the object of making up my mind, I lay down on the wide border of grass on one side of the road, thankful for the shelter of the hedge. It was about half-past twelve, and several carriages passed as I lay there, as well as a few bicyclists. But now the straight, wide road was clear; no one was in sight, either to the right or to the left, until, from a gate a hundred yards away, in the direction of the town, a girl on a bicycle came forth, and I knew at once that she must be Jacintha.

She wore a wide-brimmed, white straw hat, and a white cotton frock, and was sitting very upright as she turned and coasted on her free-wheel machine down the slight hill towards me. For an instant I thought of turning away my face, so that, even if she remembered it, she should not recognise me; but she looked so bright and pleasant an object in the middle of the sunny road that, on the impulse of the moment, I rose to my feet, crossed the margin of grass, and lifted the cloth cap which had been given to me before I reached Polehampton.

Jacintha was off her machine at once. 'Why,' she cried, 'you are the boy who ran away!'

'My name is Everard, you know,' I answered.

'But I thought you said you were going to London?' she suggested.

'So I am.'

'It is not the nearest way from where you were to come through Hazleton,' said Jacintha.

'You see,' I explained, thrusting my fingers into my waistcoat pocket, 'I came to bring back your locket,' and I held it out towards her in the palm of my right hand.

'My locket?' she said, gazing at it while she held the handle of her bicycle.

'Yes,' I answered. 'I found it on the path just by the hedge where you were standing.'

'But I did not bring a locket with me from London,' she exclaimed, and I felt immensely disappointed.

'Isn't it really yours, then?' I asked.

'Of course not,' she returned. 'How can it be if I didn't bring one?' and then she removed one hand from the bicycle, and took the locket from my palm, which I wished had not been so extremely grimy. 'I think it is very pretty,' she continued, 'and I believe it is gold.'

'Oh, it is gold right enough!' I said, 'because it has a hall-mark. It is eighteen carat.'

'Have you come out of your way just because you thought it was mine?' she asked, giving me back the trinket.

'It was not very far,' I persisted.

'Rather nice of you, though,' said Jacintha.

'If it comes to that,' I answered, 'you were rather nice to me that day. Some girls would have given me away, and then I should have been back at Ascot House before now.'

As I was speaking, she took a small gold watch from her pocket.

'I must not be late,' she cried, 'because both Dick and I were late for breakfast.'

'Who is Dick?' I asked, as she put away her watch.

'Dick is my brother,' Jacintha explained. 'He only came down yesterday. Dick's a year older than I am. I really ought to go,' she added. 'If my uncle were to see me talking to you he mightn't like it.'

'I suppose,' I cried a little angrily, 'he would think I was begging?'

'At all events,' said Jacintha, candidly, 'he would be rather surprised, you know. Because you do look most tremendously dirty--just as if you were a regular tramp--and yet your face would be all right if it were only washed and you had your hair properly cut.'

I felt that my cheeks were growing red, and for the moment I was tempted to make an angry retort, although, remembering what I owed to Jacintha, I simply held out my hand and muttered 'Good-bye!'

'Oh, you mustn't go on yet,' she exclaimed. 'I want to hear all you've been doing. I must go in now, but please promise to wait till I come out again. I won't be long.'

'I am not in a hurry,' I admitted.

'Only don't stay here,' she said. 'Wait till I am out of sight, and then follow me until you come to our hedge. Right in the corner you will find a place you can get through, and nobody ever comes to that field. You get through the hedge and stay till I come back.'