Chapter 19

Jack grew uneasy about leaving his home unless he had Estelle with him. Yet he found he could not combine his duties as a fisherman with his care of her. What was to be done? Fargis was quite willing to lend his boat, knowing full well that he would be no loser by the bargain; and both the doctor and M. le Préfet came forward with generous offers of assistance. There seemed nothing to wait for, therefore, but the weather.

April, always an uncertain month, could not be counted on for many fine days, even so far south as Tout-Petit. The sky did not look promising, and the fishermen shook their heads as they glanced at the clouds, and spoke of 'squalls.' Jack and Fargis agreed, though unwillingly that it would be wiser to delay the journey across the Channel till the threatened storm had blown itself out. It would be foolish to run unnecessary risks with their precious charge.

Meantime, Jack's anxiety communicated itself to those about him. They all appeared to realise there was cause for alarm while Thomas was at large, and his place of concealment unknown. Jack made Estelle accompany him wherever he might go in the village, and Mrs. Wright amused all her friends by keeping the pistols always within reach if by any chance Estelle was with her, and Jack absent. Very proud and happy was Julien, too, on being constituted her companion whenever the sailor was forced to go from home. Strict orders were left that he was not to risk any walks out of reach of friends, and Julien showed a praiseworthy obedience to his instructions. He and Estelle were quite happy together on the beach, or running in and out of the Treasure Caves.

One day, in Jack's absence, the two children, weary of games on the sands, had run down to the shore as far as the tide would let them, to watch for the return of the boats. Estelle began telling Julien of her visit to the Mermaid's Cave, and of the wonderful echoes which the sailor's voice had called forth. It had started to rain slightly, and the light fitful wind was capping the waves with froth, but the tide was coming in. Julien, therefore, proposed that they should go to the cave, and he would see if he could rouse the echoes as Jack had done. It would be better than standing in the rain and watching for Jack. No thought of the incoming tide troubled them.

Crouched behind the rocks, unseen by the children, knelt the ex-gardener, Thomas. He listened, with a pleased smile, to the conversation, which showed him his chance had come. The prize he had waited for so patiently was almost his: the little girl was walking into the best trap he could have laid for her. Only a boy was there to defend her. If only Jack remained away, the boy could be got rid of. No more hiding in holes and corners. No more intimate acquaintance with starvation.

Unconscious of any danger, Julien was making Estelle laugh at his witty sallies as he helped her over the rocks on their watery road to the ravine. They sobered down as they entered the high, gloomy caverns, and were glad to get on to the broad daylight of the Cave of the Silver Sand. Julien would have gone no further. The darkness and stillness overawed him, impressing him with a sense of danger and misgiving. But Estelle was greatly excited.

'I know just where Jack keeps some candles,' she exclaimed, eagerly, 'and I always put one or two bits in my pockets. Here they are, and some matches. Do come on to the Mermaid's Cave, Julien! We have managed to get through the Rift before.'

The boy agreed to anything she proposed, but his heart sank within him in a strange, unaccountable manner. Still, he made no remonstrance, and bravely concealed his fears.

Lighting a candle, Estelle scrambled on to a narrow ledge on one side of the Rift, and, with much laughter and fun, she managed, with Julien's help, to creep along without falling off till they reached the Mermaid s Cave. Julien got more wet than he liked, for the pool was deep and the ledge too narrow to help him as it did the much smaller Estelle. He had not time, however, to think of his soaked condition, for Estelle was running about, placing her candles here and there, and calling upon him to admire the beauties of the cave. She insisted on standing exactly where Jack had stood when he sang to her, and the boy, with a laugh, took up his place near her.

'Let us sing just a few notes together,' said Estelle, with some eagerness to join in raising those lovely echoes. 'We can sing the beginning of the---- Julien!'

Her voice suddenly ended in a scream of terror, while, with wide-open eyes, she stared towards the dark entrance to the Rift. Looking to see what had alarmed her, the boy's heart stood still. His instinct had not deceived him. He remembered Jack's caution all too late, and--Jack was away!

Paralysed, he watched Thomas emerge from the Rift, and advance towards them with a smile of satisfaction. In sudden panic Julien tried to think. What was he to do? Escape was impossible. He was but a boy--neither tall nor particularly strong. Thomas, on the other hand, was big and powerful. Any struggle between them could end but in one way. What _was_ he to do? Where should he go for help? How could he leave Estelle even for one moment?

Thomas was approaching with quiet deliberation. There was no need to hurry when his quarry was safe; and this Julien realised all too well. With the instinct of protection, he stepped in front of the little girl with a wild but silent prayer for the return of Jack--of _anybody_--to protect them.

Clinging to him, trembling with the terror which Thomas always inspired, Estelle also was silent. That scream was the only one she uttered. She would try to be brave and help her boyish defender--at least, not hinder his efforts in her behalf.

'_Allez-vous en_' ('Go away'), called out Thomas, as he came nearer and nearer and glared at Julien. 'We don't want you. The little lady's right enough with me, who knows her aunts and uncle, and all the little cousins. It's downright audacious how they all try to keep you away from me, my lady. Why, I know more about you than all these Frenchies put together, now don't I?'

But Julien was no coward. He remained firmly in front of Estelle, though he did not understand Thomas's English. The little girl clung to his arm.

Thomas was not to be turned from his purpose, however. 'You come along of me, my lady,' he said, in determined tones, 'and I'll take care of you, and hand you safe to my Lady Coke.'

'Thomas,' said Estelle, desperation giving her the courage she had hitherto lacked, 'I am with kind friends, and I am sure Aunt Betty would like me to stay with them till Jack can take me home. Please go away.'

'Don't you believe it, my lady!' exclaimed the man, with an insolent grin. 'There's nobody here to lay down laws. I do as I thinks right, and I am sure that my Lady Coke will say so too. Now, if you come with me quiet, it will be all the better for everybody. If you don't, why it will be all the worse, for I mean to take you along with me. It's me as will restore you to your sorrowing family. Now, are you coming quietly, or not?'

'No!' said Estelle, her lips quivering, but her head held high.

Julien repeated the word after her more determinedly still. He did not know what was being said, but he meant to support his _petite amie_ in whatever she did. Throwing back his head and squaring his shoulders, he placed himself in an attitude of defence. Thomas, however, put him aside with ease. The boy was no match for him. Lifting Estelle in his arms in spite of her struggles and cries, he began striding across the cave towards the Rift. But though Julien was unable to fight with so big an opponent, he did not lose heart. Thomas found he was not able to dispose of him as comfortably as he had imagined. The sobs of his little friend went to the boy's brave heart. A red flush mounted into his sallow cheeks, and his eyes sparkled with fury at Thomas's action. With a bound like that of an angry tiger, he flung himself upon the ex-gardener, clinging to him with legs and arms in such a manner that Thomas felt as if a snake had hold of him. In vain he tried to shake the boy off. Julien gripped on him with all his might, straining every nerve to throw Thomas down. Hampered by the struggles of Estelle, the man could scarcely keep his feet; he could not get rid of his tormentor.

(_Continued on page 314._)

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 311._)

Just at the critical moment another terror appeared on the scene. The sea, having reached the level of the beach, now entered the caves, and flowed smoothly but swiftly over the flat flooring of rock. In the excitement of conflict neither of the three struggling in the Mermaid's Cave had heard the sweep of the water in the outer caverns. It was not till it was swirling round their feet that they became aware of the danger.

Julien dropped to the ground at the exclamation of Thomas, while Estelle cried out in despair. They knew of no way out of the cave except through the Rift, and that was cut off by the deep water there and in the caves beyond. Dropping the little girl as he realised the danger, Thomas glanced round the cave, still lighted up by Estelle's candle-ends. His quick eye noted the high-water mark, and some projections of rocky wall which it would be quite possible for him to reach, and remain in safety till the tide went down. But what about the children? For Julien he cared nothing, but Estelle was of the utmost importance to him. It would be better to lose his own life than let harm come to her. She represented his gold-mine, without which he had no means of living. She must be saved at all costs, therefore.

'We can't get out of this,' he said, at last, as he turned to the two shivering children who were clinging to each other. Julien's face was raised, his eyes seeking some place above high-water mark to which he could take Estelle.

'I can save the little lady,' continued Thomas, 'but you, young master, must look to yourself. I suppose you were not born near these caves for nothing?'

'I will stay with Julien,' said Estelle, with great resolution. 'If you won't save him, you shall not save me.'

But Thomas was not in a temper to listen. He would not waste time in talk when the little girl was too small to offer any serious resistance. Without another word he seized her in his arms, tore her from the French boy's hold, and running towards the ledge he had noted, lifted her up towards it.

'Catch hold of the rock, my lady,' he urged, holding her as high as he could, 'and I'll help you up.'

Estelle, obeying instinctively, stretched up her hands, but the ledge was beyond her reach. With no intermediate projection to assist her, Thomas saw she could not get up to so great a height. There was nothing for it but to put her down, pull himself up to the ledge, and drag her up after him. Even this he could not do without the aid of Julien. The little girl must be lifted up to meet his outstretched hands. Before he could speak or conciliate Julien, however, the boy had rushed upon him. Another struggle was about to ensue when a stronger wave than usual washed half over them, wetting them to the skin.

'Why don't you help me to save her?' cried Thomas, angrily, pushing the boy from him with violence. 'Do that or save yourself. You will drown the lot of us if you don't show more sense.'

Julien fell into the surge of the water. Estelle screamed, and would have flung herself after him, but Thomas held her fast.

'No, no; none o' that!' he cried. 'Let him get out himself. The water is not deep enough to drown him yet, if he is not carried away by the backwash.'

'Julien! Julien!' screamed Estelle, making frantic efforts to free herself and go to him. 'You must save him, Thomas--you shall!'

But the boy had been swept beyond their reach by the under-current, and for the moment they thought he would indeed be lost. He was drawn into the whirl of waters, and sucked under. Beside herself with grief and terror, Estelle clasped her hands over her eyes that she might not see him drown. She was deaf to Thomas's urgent appeals that she would be quiet and let him save her. Julien was in danger, and it was Thomas's fault. If she could have broken away from that firm grip, she would have jumped into the surging flood after her brave defender.

Meantime, Mrs. Wright, weary with the toils of the day, and feeling comfortable and cosy in her big armchair by the lire, knitted peacefully till, drowsiness overtaking her, she laid back her head and closed her eyes. The wood crackled cheerily in the great chimney, the faint murmur of the sea made the old lady still more sleepy, and in a few minutes she was in dreamland.

And so Jack found her when he came home. The stillness of the whole place showed him the children must be absent, and a vague alarm seized upon him. His fears for Estelle were easily roused. Yet fear or danger seemed very far from that bright, cheerful kitchen. Putting down the armful of things he was carrying, he gazed tenderly at his mother as he warmed his fingers over the genial flames. He could not bear to awaken her, and surely it was not necessary. She would never be sleeping so peacefully unless their little girl were safe. Yet something tugged at his heart, making him stir uneasily. The movement, slight though it was, awoke his mother. She opened her eyes, gazed at him a few moments sleepily, and sat up with a laughing remark about her own laziness.

'Where's Missy?' asked Jack, as soon as he had answered all her questions about his fishing and the luck he had had.

'They were playing on the beach,' she said, putting her cap straight before taking up her knitting. 'M. Julien came to join her in watching for your return. Did you not see them on your way up? If they are not there, they must be in the caves,' she added hastily, seeing her son's face change, and instantly becoming a prey to all sorts of fears. 'They _must_ be there if they are not on the beach,' she repeated, turning pale.

Jack only stared at her, his eyes wild, unable to believe the extent of his mother's trust in so young a boy as Julien Matou. Recovering himself quickly he rushed off without a word to his own room, and presently reappeared with a long rope in his hand.

'What do you think has happened?' cried Mrs. Wright, rising quickly from her chair in her fright at his face and manner.

'The tide!' exclaimed Jack, seizing a pair of grappling irons he had laid upon the bench a few minutes before. 'If they are in the caves there is but one way of saving them--the Treasure Cave. Pray that I may be in time!'

He was gone almost before he had ceased speaking, his light step and long limbs carrying him swiftly down the sandy path, and round the corner of the spur of cliff. The tide had already reached the gorge. It must be well into the caverns then. With firm feet he scrambled along the rocks wherever they could help him, or took to the water when he thought the waves would serve him better. As he drew nearer, he found there was still time to gain the entrance to the outer cave before it was submerged. With the tide in his favour, he managed this with ease. His chief troubles would be with the strong under-tow and numerous currents among the rocks.

Half swimming, half clambering, he made his way to the Cave of the Silver Sand. Here the daylight was in his favour, but the whirl of waters was dangerous and strong. Anybody who did not know the rocks as well as Jack must have been sucked under to his destruction. Clinging to the rocks, he made his way towards the Rift. Awaiting his chance, he swam through this on the crest of a wave, and beheld the feeble light of one remaining candle glimmering in front of him.

With anxious eyes he surveyed the darkness around, and then the objects moving within the radius of that faint spark. Steadying himself against the rocks, he was about to plunge again into the water, in order to reach that point of light, when a heavy body was thrown against him.

Instinctively he grasped it, the surge of the water and the weight of the inanimate form making him almost lose his hold. A few moments more and his burden would have been sucked into the Rift, where his fate would have been sealed indeed. It did not take Jack long to discover it was Julien he held in his arms: Julien senseless, cold, drowning!

Then who was the second figure in that faint circle of light? One must be Estelle. But the other? Jack's heart filled with painful anxiety. Could it be Thomas? If so, what was he doing there? It was exasperating that Julien should require his services just when it was vitally urgent that he should save Estelle. His duty was clear, however. The boy must be placed in a position of safety before he could feel free to attend to the needs of the little girl, whose sole protector he was.

Happily, Estelle had not yet seen the sailor. The rapid rising of the tide, the urgent appeals of Thomas, and the agony of her distress about her playmate, had made her nearly frantic. It was with much difficulty that the ex-gardener managed to pull her up a little higher, out of the immediate wash of the waves. It was all he could do, for the ledge was too far above their heads for him to place her upon it, though he could save himself. He was making up his mind that the child must be sacrificed, that there was no way of saving her, when he became aware of a voice shouting above the thunder of the sea. Estelle's quick ear caught the sound, too, and with a start that nearly threw her off her perilous perch, she cried out in reply----

'Jack! Jack!'

(_Continued on page 322._)

PLOUGHING IN SYRIA.

The life of a farmer in Syria and Palestine is very different from the life of a farmer in England. He does not live in an isolated farmhouse, in the midst of a number of enclosed fields, which he owns or rents, and which he cultivates at his own cost and for his own profit alone. The country is much too unsettled to permit families to dwell alone, and so they cluster in little villages for their common safety and defence. The cultivated lands of the villagers lie outside the village, and the most fertile ground is sometimes a mile or two away from the houses. The villagers are too poor to enclose each a farm for himself, and the farms are simply cultivated plots lying unenclosed in a great waste, which belongs, perhaps, to the Government, or to some great feudal lord.

Because each man is poor and defenceless, the villagers combine to cultivate these plots together, and they divide among themselves the produce which is raised by their labours. The Government, or the lord of the land, is paid with a certain share of all that is grown upon the land, and this share is collected from the villagers by an officer who is appointed for the purpose, or has bought the right to collect these corn-rents for himself. He is often guilty of great extortion, and even cruelty, in taking his share, or his master's share, of the produce.

How these Syrian villagers perform their farm labours in common we shall see best if we watch them ploughing the land, and sowing corn. They go forth in a band from the village, and make their way to the plot which is to be tilled. Every man is armed, for beyond the cultivated land there is a great waste, or desert, over which bands of robbers roam at will, or there are rocky mountains in which they may hide, and set all good government at defiance.

The ploughs used by these Syrian cultivators are little more than a bent wooden stock, having a long bar, by which it may be drawn. The lend of the stock is in shape somewhat like that which is formed by a human foot and leg, the foot being the 'share,' which scratches up the soil. That part which corresponds to the leg is prolonged upwards into a long handle, with the help of which the ploughman guides the plough. The bar by which the plough is drawn is attached to the inner or fore side of the bend, at the ankle, as it were. Two oxen of a small kind are, as a rule, attached to each plough.

With such a light kind of plough as this it is impossible to cut and turn over the soil as an English plough, drawn by two or three powerful horses, would do it. The ground is, in fact merely scratched, and, in order that the scratching may be a little more complete, a number of ploughs follow each other in single file over the ground. As many as from six to twelve, or more, ploughs will thus work together upon one plot, the ploughmen chatting with each other all the time. A sower sprinkles the seed before them, and the ploughs loosen and scatter the soil about it.

Where the soil is too rocky for the ploughs to work, men with mattocks break it up. The Syrian plough does not turn over the soil always upon one side, as the English plough does, and so the Eastern ploughman can return along the same line, or close to it, without spoiling the regularity of his furrows.

In exceptionally dry seasons, when the ground is very hard, the English plough cannot be used to good effect. The Syrian plough, however, is worse; for it is so small and ill-planned that it will only do its work when the ground is thoroughly wet and soft. The ploughing has, therefore, to be done in the winter season: not, of course, in that clime a winter of frost and snow, but a time of cold winds and heavy rains, most trying to the poor labourers in the fields. If they had better ploughs they might break up the ground before the winter set in, and leave the ploughed land ready for the sower at the proper season. The Syrian plough, too, only does its work slowly, and the whole set of men working together will plough scarcely more than one-third as much as an English ploughman, with a pair of good horses, would do in the same time.

MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.

X--THE BIRMINGHAM WATERWORKS

Hard working Birmingham was getting short of water, and it certainly looked as though the time would soon come when there would be none to quench its thirst with. The wells and streams in the countryside had served their purpose splendidly while the city did not demand too much, but as the number of people increased, the number of taps increased too, and water was getting short.

In this unpleasant state of affairs, Mr. Mansergh, a well-known civil engineer, said that he knew where to get the water from. Forty years before, when travelling in South Wales, he had been struck by the suitability of the country for storing water in. The rivers Elan and Claerwen, he said, flowed through valleys which would make splendid natural reservoirs if only they were crossed by the necessary dams. The distance, it was true, would be seventy-three miles from Birmingham, but then it would be all down-hill, and so the water would flow of its own accord. The rivers Elan and Claerwen, in Brecon and Radnor, collect their waters from mountain streams over an area of seventy-one square miles. If preserved in reservoirs, this would supply one hundred and two millions of gallons a day. A certain proportion of this would, of course, be allowed to escape, as it would never do to stop the river Elan altogether. It is an important tributary to the Wye, and the city of Hereford would have had cause for complaint if its water supply had been interfered with.

[Illustrations: Valley before Building the Dam. A Sluice in the Dam. Building the Pen-y-Gareg Dam.]

The work was begun in 1894. Just below the point where the two rivers join, preparations were made for building the first dam. A stank, or wall of timber, was first constructed to turn the water of the river aside, and in the channel over which it had flowed, thus rendered dry, excavations were made for the foundations. When the wall had been raised to a height of thirty feet, with two large culverts or openings left in its lower part for the great water-pipes to pass through, the stream was again turned into its old course, through these openings, and the next part of the dam was begun. Thus in three sections the water-wall rose till a height of one hundred and twenty-two feet was reached, stretching six hundred feet at the top, to the sloping walls of the valley. As this dam will have to hold back five hundred acres of water, containing 7800 million gallons of water, its base has been made as wide as its height. The wall tapers to the top and is perpendicular towards the reservoir. It is formed of large blocks of granite called 'plums,' set in strong cement, and weighing many tons each. Over the top, when the reservoir is full, the flood water pours like a small Niagara. If we could launch a boat on the glittering surface of the reservoir, from the top of this dam, we should have to row for four and a half delightful miles, between the overshadowing sides of the valley, before we reached the next principal dam, at a place called Pen-y-gareg--so huge are these cups of water in Birmingham's service. On the way we should pass under the arches of a stone bridge, thirteen feet wide, stretching from side to side of the artificial lake. The archways spring from the top of a submerged dam, forty feet below the surface. And this was built because Birmingham, seventy-three miles away, is six hundred feet above the level of the sea. In constructing the long water-hill from the Welsh mountains down to the famous Warwickshire city, it was deemed necessary that the upper end should be one hundred and seventy feet higher than the lower end. Now at the point where the first dam was erected, the river-bed is only one hundred feet higher than the land on which Birmingham stands. Therefore, the starting point for the water was made farther up the valley at a spot seven hundred and seventy feet above sea-level (thus giving the necessary fall of one hundred and seventy feet), and just below that spot the sunken dam of which we have spoken was built across to hold back enough water when the main bulk had been used.

As our boat glides onward from under the shadow of the arch, we see near the eastern shore a strongly built stone tower. This stands over the mouth of the aqueduct (as the huge pipes are called which convey the water to Birmingham). The water flows into the tower through several large openings on all sides, and its entrance into the aqueduct is controlled by hydraulic machinery.

Bending to our oars again we follow the curves of the lake for about three miles, with the railway running close to the water's edge. It was laid by the engineers to assist them in this great undertaking. Then we come in sight of the Pen-y-gareg wall. This was built in the same manner as the first dam, though slightly different in design. At regular intervals all along the top, we see square openings like windows in an old castle. They are to admit light and air into a narrow passage left in the heart of the dam and stretching from end to end. It is only six and a half feet high and two and a half wide, so that two people, however obliging they might be, would have a difficulty in letting each other pass if they met half-way. But it is not a public passage, being only constructed for the purpose of admitting workmen to the valve tower, which regulates the flow of water into the lower reservoir.

Some mile and a half farther on we come to the third and last dam on the Elan River. It is called the Craig Gôch, and is the tallest of them all, rising one hundred and thirty-five feet from the river-bed. In order to build it a tunnel was driven through the hills on one side to carry the water past, the stream being guided into this tunnel by means of a concrete wall built a short distance from the scene of operations. The dam is built on a curve, the bow being towards the reservoir. It carries on its summit a handsome stone bridge with a public roadway less than ten feet wide between the parapets. To stand on this bridge and watch the flood water flow between its arches, to fall with a roar like thunder on its way to the lower reservoir, is very impressive. It is said that at times the water passes over the crest of the dam in a cascade eighteen to twenty inches deep. Thus the water is held back among the mountains in three huge steps, much as the water in a canal is banked up by the locks. On the river Claerwen three similar dams are being built.

While this work was going forward, another army of engineers was preparing the road to Birmingham. Hills had to be tunnelled through, valleys and rivers crossed by bridges, while syphons were used for passing under small streams and similar obstructions. One of the tunnels was no less than four and a half miles long, and another two and a half. They are, however, only six or seven feet in diameter, just large enough for workmen to enter for the purpose of doing repairs. The pipes for conveying the water are a little more than one yard across, and are capable of delivering twelve and a half million gallons per day. There is room on the road for six such pipes to be laid, so it is considered that Birmingham will not run short of water for at least a hundred years. It need hardly be pointed out that these pipes do not descend at one uniform grade throughout their journey of seventy-three miles, but any irregularity in their rise and fall is of little consequence so long as the end of that irregularity which is nearest Birmingham is at a lower level than the point at which it begins. Thus, for instance, if the pipes are to take a sudden dip to pass under a stream, they should not rise again on the other side to quite the same level. This _dip_ is called a syphon, and in no way retards the natural flow of the water. There are many such 'ups and downs' between Radnor and Warwickshire; so many, indeed, that we might almost look upon the whole aqueduct as a syphon seventy-three miles long. Birmingham is the lower end, and water _must_ flow to the lower level.

On July 22nd, 1904, the King and Queen, at one of the great reservoirs, turned the tap which admitted the water into the aqueduct, and in due course it rippled to the noisy city so many miles away, and Birmingham drank its first glass of crystal water drawn from the three stupendous cups standing among the silent hills of Wales.

We are indebted for our illustrations to Mr. Thomas Barclay, of Birmingham, and to Messrs. Mansergh & Co., Engineers, of London.

THE FOUNTAIN.

A little spring of water rose Within a shady grot; It bubbled up all bright and pure, And freshened that sweet spot. Clear as a crystal was its wave, And I was very sure The waters were so pure and sweet, Because the fount was pure.

So when from little lips there flow Words that are kind and good, And thoughts that are as fresh and sweet As violets in a wood, The reason we can understand, For, oh, we may be sure The thoughts and words are pure and sweet Because the fount is pure.

THE TRIALS OF LECKINSKI.

(_Concluded from page 306._)

For about two hours Leckinski had slept in his dungeon, when the door was gently opened, and a woman entered very softly, with a hand shading the lamp which she carried. Then the hand was suddenly withdrawn from before the light; the woman touched Leckinski on the shoulder, and said, _in French_, 'Would you like some supper?'

Leckinski, startled, sat up, with eyes scarcely open. Yet he kept his wits about him. 'What do they want with me?' he said, _in German_.

This was the first 'proof.' Castagnos wished it to be also the last. 'Give the man something to eat,' said he to his men, 'saddle his horse, and let him go on his way. How, if he were a Frenchman, could he be so thoroughly master of himself?'

But his officers refused to obey. They gave food to Leckinski, but did not saddle his horse, and kept him in the prison until morning. Then he was taken to a place where lay the bodies of ten Frenchman, who had been shot by some peasants. He was threatened with a similar fate. But, although surrounded by snares, listened to by straining ears, watched by keen eyes, the brave fellow let slip not a single suspicious word or gesture. At last, after many hours of this mental torture, he was taken back to his prison, and left alone for a time.

Again Castagnos pleaded for his captive, but his high-handed officers were still dissatisfied.

Leckinski, thankful for solitude, after a spell of uncanny visions, the result of the horrors he had actually seen, again found relief in sleep. Again he was disturbed. 'Get up!' said--_in French_--the same gentle voice that had spoken to him before. 'Come with me! Your horse is saddled, and you are free.'

'What do they want with me?' said Leckinski _in German_, as he rubbed his eyes.

Castagnos declared that this 'young Russian,' as he called him, was a noble fellow; but the others still persisted that he was a Frenchman and a spy. After another wretched night, the unhappy prisoner was brought before a sort of tribunal, composed of officers of the General's staff. The four men who conducted him thither uttered on the way horrible threats, but, true to his resolution, Leckinski gave no sign of understanding them. He took, apparently, no notice of anything that was said either in French or in Spanish, and, when he came before his judges, asked for an interpreter.

The examination began. The prisoner was asked what was the object of his journey from Madrid to Lisbon. To this he answered by showing his passport and the dispatches of the Russian Ambassador. These credentials would have been sufficient had it not been for the evidence of the peasant.

'Ask him,' ordered the President of the Court, 'if he loves the Spaniards?'

'Yes,' replied Leckinski, when this question was put to him, 'and I honour their devotion. I wish that our two nations were friends.'

'The prisoner,' said the interpreter, in French, 'declares that he hates and despises us. He regrets that it is not in his power to unite our whole nation into a single man, that he might annihilate us all with one blow.'

As the interpreter spoke, every eye was bent on Leckinski, watching for the effect upon him of this false interpretation, but not the slightest change of expression was visible on his face. He had expected something of this sort, and was firmly resolved not to betray himself.

Castagnos was present, an unwilling witness to this last trial, in which he had refused to take an active part. He now rose, and spoke in the voice of authority. 'The peasant must have been mistaken,' said he. 'Let the young man be instantly set at liberty. We have treated him hardly, but I hope that he will take into consideration the continual danger of our position, which forces us to be suspicious and severe.'

And so at last Leckinski got back his arms and dispatches, and went forth victorious. He reached Lisbon in safety, and fulfilled his commission. Then he would have returned to Madrid, but Junot, full of admiration for his pluck, would not allow him to run such another risk.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 315._)

Estelle's cry was one of joy and relief, and her eyes soon discerned the form of the sailor swimming towards her. Having no desire to encounter Jack under such circumstances, Thomas hesitated no longer in getting out of danger by climbing to the ledge above. The few moments that Estelle would be in peril were not worth considering, as Jack was so near. Thomas's chief feeling was bitterness at this renewed disappointment of his hopes. Still, as long as the child was alive, his chance might come again. So he lay quietly and silently, watching the sailor effect the rescue. There was even some curiosity as to how Jack meant to save her. Rage was in his heart, and as he watched his hand crept out almost against his will and took up a stone lying near. For one mad moment, as the sailor dragged himself up by the rock on which Estelle was, and laid his hand on her, Thomas, forgetting all else, gave way to a mad fit of rage and jealousy. Raising himself slightly on his narrow shelf, he hurled the stone with all his force at the brown head below him. It shot past Jack, barely grazing his head as he stooped to tie the rope round Estelle, and, striking the little girl on the shoulder, glanced off into the water. The shock of the blow would have thrown her off the rock but that Jack's strong arm was round her.

The sailor's heart boiled within him. There was nothing to be done, however, but get the child away as quickly as possible. He guessed that the stone was meant for himself, and it left no doubt in his mind as to who had thrown it. With a wrathful glance upwards, he asked Estelle about the hurt, and showed her how to cling on his back, thus leaving his arms free to carry her into safety.

'Oh, it stings so, Jack,' sobbed Estelle, pressing her shoulder, as if she could hardly bear the pain.

'We must get away as fast as we can, Missie,' said he; 'or we may have another stone at us.'

Jack turned his back, and Estelle put her arms round his neck, with a frightened glance at the ledge.

'Now I'm off,' said Jack; 'hold, on tight.'

Twisting the rope round them both as an additional security, he slipped into the water. It went over their heads, but Estelle's faith in Jack never wavered. After what appeared to her a very long time of buffeting waves and wild waters, she felt herself being drawn upwards.

'There, Missie,' said Jack, cheerfully, though a little breathlessly, as he released her from the rope; 'you are safe now. In another minute we shall be on dry sand.'

Cold, bruised, tired, she felt too confused and faint to speak. A dim idea that her only chance of rescue lay in Jack made her continue to cling to him. He, meanwhile, was securing the end of the rope to a staple driven into the rock during the old smuggling days. The ledge on which he now sat was invisible from the Mermaid's Cave except to expert eyes, owing to its being so near the roof. From this ledge he looked down into that hidden storehouse for smuggled treasure of every description, the 'Treasure Cave.' It gave its name to all the other caves, but its own floor was twenty feet below any of them, and the secret of its existence was still jealously guarded by the few who knew of it.[4]

[Footnote 4: Such a cave exists also on the rocky Cornish coast, and was seen recently by a lady explorer.]

It was indeed fortunate that Jack was so well acquainted with every nook and crevice in the caves, and had made the discovery of the secret himself. The drop into the Treasure Cave was sheer; nevertheless, after securing the rope, he took the little girl in his arms and slid down with the ease of a sailor. They found themselves in a high cave into which the daylight came but dimly. There appeared to be no entrance except the one by which they had come. There was no getting away, therefore, until the tide went down. Casks, large cases, and other relics of old smuggling days were scattered about; some piled against the walls, others more in the centre, where the soft looseness of the sand testified to the dryness of the cave. These latter looked surprisingly fresh and neat, as if but recently stored there, and presented a great contrast to the sea-stained memorials of ancient days. There seemed to be small room for doubt that the Treasure Cave was not without its uses even yet.

The boy and girl were, however, in no condition to notice anything. Julien, whom Jack had carried to this place of refuge first, had returned to consciousness, and now lay shivering on the sand, with pale face and chattering teeth. Estelle, soaked to the skin, was placed by his side. Jack could attend to both at once in that way, and he proceeded to use vigorous measures to restore their vitality. Diving into a recess between the cases, he produced a couple of brown blankets, no doubt left there by smugglers. Very soon Estelle and Julien found themselves well wrapped up, and the warmth made a glow of returning life flow through their shivering frames.

'The sea-water will not hurt you,' said Jack, reassuringly, as they looked up gratefully at his cheerful face. 'Lie there and keep warm.'

'How long shall we have to remain?' asked Julien, in a forlorn tone.

He was already looking less pale, and his teeth had ceased to chatter.

'A matter of two or three hours. Not more. The tide runs out as fast as it comes in. When you are a bit warmer we'll take a sharp run round the cave. It's a large one, you see, and you will be in a fine glow before we have been round it many times. How is your shoulder, Missie?'

'Oh, it doesn't hurt much now.'

'A good thing for you your clothes were thick,' said Jack, smiling, as she stretched out her arm, to show she could move it quite easily.

'What happened?' asked Julien, startled. 'One would think the brute would have remained satisfied with pushing me into the water. But I will make him repent,' he added, in a threatening tone. 'My father will not let him off easily.'

'He doesn't know any better,' said Estelle, gently.

'Spoken like the kind little Missie you are,' said Jack, with a smile. 'But we must not let him do any more mischief, all the same. He did not mean to hit you with the stone. It is a good thing for me that it did no more than graze my head; and for you, Missie, that it was not a larger one.'

'In fact, Jack,' laughed Estelle, with a soft glance at him, 'we have all something to be thankful for---- '

'And that is that we are all here to tell the tale,' added Julien, rising from the folds of his blanket, and beginning to stamp about. 'Thomas also has to be thankful that we are not for the moment able to hand him over to M. le Préfet. I suppose he will have escaped by the time we get out of this.'

It was just this question which was tormenting the mind of the ex-gardener. Would he be able to get out before Jack? He could not imagine where the sailor had taken the children. The dim light of the candle-ends had died out as Jack swam away with Estelle, and Thomas had not as yet discovered the existence of the Treasure Cave. Only an eye accustomed to look for the faint ray of light thrown upon the roof by the glimmer from the lower cave could have detected where to seek the ledge, which it was necessary to climb in order to reach the Treasure Cave. All he could imagine, therefore, was that Jack had known of some other, and probably wider, place of refuge than that on which he himself had sought an escape from the waves. If this were so, it was more than likely that in the attempt to escape as quickly as the tide permitted, an encounter between him and Jack would take place. The bare suggestion excited Thomas uncomfortably. Over and over again did his mind ponder on the best plan to avoid such a meeting. Should he remain where he was till the sailor and the child had gone? But how would he be able to judge of their departure? It was totally dark, and as Jack must be in as drenched a condition as himself, no matches he might carry about him could be ignited. The escape must be made in the dark.

No, Thomas could run no risks of that sort. He made up his mind that as soon as his ear--trained by a life-long residence on a rocky coast--told him the sea was leaving the Mermaid's Cave, he would descend from his narrow perch, and follow the retreating tide. There would be light enough in the Cave of the Silver Sand. If an encounter must take place before he could get away from the caves, he preferred it should take place in daylight. As soon, therefore, as the lapping of the waves grew faint and died softly away, he felt his way down from the ledge of rock, and round by the walls to the Rift.

Barely had he waded through it when he heard voices behind him. A cold shiver ran down his back at the sound. Jack must be approaching with the children. Julien had been saved, then, for it was the voice of the French boy he heard speaking. The whole party would be upon him soon. With some anxiety, Thomas looked at the sea. Rapidly as it was going down, there was no chance that it would leave the cave in time for him to make his escape without being seen. There were rocks scattered about on all sides, however, which offered him a place of concealment, and he was not slow to avail himself of their shelter. Barely had he thrown himself behind one when Jack and his charges appeared.

'And when do you think it will be?' he heard Estelle saying, as she held Jack's hand, and walked soberly at his side.

'I can't say exactly, Missie,' was the reply. 'Maybe in a week or a fortnight.'

'I can't bear to think of your going,' said Julien, gloomily; 'it has been so happy since you have been here. What shall I do without my companion?'

They were going to take her away, then. Thomas was in despair as he listened. Still, something might be done in a fortnight. He was determined to get another chance of kidnapping Estelle. It would be easy if only he could get rid of Jack. But how was that to be done?

(_Continued on page 334._)

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

12.--ACROSTIC.

(1) A Roman article of attire. (2) A weapon peculiar to the animal kingdom. (3) A left-handed man who slew a king with a dagger. (4) One form of the element of which diamonds are made. (5) To force by pressure. (6) A geographical division of land. (7) Rather hard of hearing. (8) Bad. (9) To have confidence.

Initials and finals give the title of a well-known fable.

W. S.

[_Answer on page 371._]

* * * * *

ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 288.

11.--C al M A lm A T ea R T ur K L ut E E di T

THE SUN AND THE TRAIN.

George Stephenson and a friend were once looking at a train. Trains in those days were not so common as they are now, and George asked his friend what he thought propelled or drove the train along. His friend answered, 'Probably the arm of some stalwart north-country driver.'

'No,' said George; 'it is the heat and light of the sun which shone millions of years ago, which has been bottled up in the coal all this time, and which is now driving that train.'

CATCHING BIRDS UNDER WATER.

'It is impossible to catch a bird under water,' most people would say. But they would be wrong! Now and then the Leigh fishermen take birds in their nets below the surface of the water. The birds are of a diving species, and they often dive into the nets after the fish. They then get entangled in the nets, and cannot come to the surface for air, and are drowned. Thus it is that the fishermen catch birds as well as fish in their nets.

THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.

XI.-SOME SIAMESE INSTRUMENTS.

[Illustrated]

The kingdom of Siam, though small compared with such huge countries as Hindustan and China, takes up the chief part of the great Malay peninsula. With the exception of Japan, no Eastern country has made such wonderful advancement in civilised improvements as Siam. Telegraphs, tramways, railways, and electric lighting form part of the equipment of this go-ahead kingdom. The army was many years ago modelled on the British system, and trained by European officers, and the King, a man of considerable cultivation, welcomes foreigners as teachers of Western ways.

Bangkok, the capital, is a curiously picturesque city, the architecture being of the most original design, whilst the decoration of the many temples, gilded minarets, roofs of gaily coloured tiles, and quaint pagodas, make quite a feast of colour to European eyes. The native costumes are in keeping with their surroundings, graceful in form and bright in colour. Many of the natives live practically on the water, as for miles above and below the capital, on both sides of the river, floating houses are moored, supported either on rafts or on bundles of bamboos.

Music has always played an important part in the national life, and the present King has greatly encouraged the art. Both men and women all over the country are more or less musical, and a great number play some form of instrument, often joining in concerted music. The Siamese have four kinds of bands, divided, as we divide our orchestras, into brass or stringed bands, each with a certain combination of instruments. Some years ago, at one of the London Exhibitions, the King of Siam sent over players of all the national music of his country, and their concerted performances excited great interest: the way in which they played together showed most careful training.

A very curious instrument is known as the Ta'khay, or Alligator: a glance at its form will readily account for its name. There seems a sort of satire in making one of the most silent of savage monsters a medium for the conveyance of sweet sounds. The Ta'khay is a stringed instrument of considerable power, and in tone is not unlike a violoncello. The three strings pass over eleven frets or wide movable bridges, and the shape of the body is rather like that of a guitar. It is placed on the ground, raised on low feet, and the player squats beside it. The strings are sounded by a plectrum, or plucker, shaped like an ivory tooth, fastened to the fingers, and drawn backwards and forwards so rapidly that it produces an almost continuous sweet dreamy sound.

The other two illustrations are both of fiddles, one bearing the name of the Saw Tai, the other of the Saw Ou. The Saw Tai is the real Siamese violin, and is frequently of most elaborate construction. The upper neck of the one shown in the illustration is of gold, beautifully enamelled, while the lower neck is of ivory, richly carved. The back of the instrument is made of cocoa-nut shell, ornamented with jewels. The membrane stretched on the sounding-board, which gives the effect of a pair of bellows, is made of parchment, and has often, as in this special instrument, a jewelled ornament inserted in one corner. The Saw Tai has three strings of silk cord, which, passing over a bridge on the sounding-board, run up to the neck, being bound tightly to it below the pegs. The player sitting cross-legged on the ground holds the fiddle in a sloping posture, and touches the strings with a curiously curved bow.

The Saw Ou, or Chinese fiddle, used in Siam, is suggestive of a modern croquet mallet, with pegs stuck in the handle, and has only two strings, fastened from the pegs to the head. It is played with a bow which the performer cleverly inserts between the strings.

HELENA HEATH.

STRANGE NESTING-PLACES.

With the return of spring every year the trees take new life, and begin to bud and put forth their leaves. At the same time the birds also feel, as it were, a throb of new life, and begin to busy themselves with the building of their nests, in which, when the weather is warmer, they will lay their eggs and rear their young ones. At these times they are bolder than usual, and timid birds, which in the winter and autumn seek the most secluded woods and distant fields, often build in gardens quite near to houses or to places where men are at work. The habits of birds when they are building their nests are very interesting, and sometimes rather puzzling.

As a rule they take great care to place their nests where they will be screened from observation and safe from injury; but at times they appear to be utterly reckless, and build in some place where there seems to us to be every probability that the nests will be disturbed. The little wren, for instance, usually builds its nest in some hole in an ivy-covered tree or in a thatch. When it builds in a more open place, it is careful to cover its nest with a dome or roof, leaving a hole in the side for its own passage in and out. It covers its nest on the outer side with green moss or brown leaves, selecting those materials which are similar in colour to the surroundings of the nest. The nest is on this account difficult to see, and the white eggs speckled with red, which are laid in it, are hidden from view by the dome of the nest. Very often, too, the bird has been known to build false nests, or 'dummies,' in order to mislead visitors into thinking that it has been driven away.

But though the wren usually takes all this care to hide its nest and its eggs from observation, it is sometimes just as careless and builds in strange places, where it is almost sure to be noticed. It will boldly make its nest in the hat of a scarecrow, which is intended to frighten birds away. A little while ago, according to the newspapers, one of these birds built its nest and hatched its eggs in the pocket of a child's old waistcoat which had been thrown aside as useless. Other birds often display the same boldness or carelessness. Many years ago a swallow occupied for two years a nest which had been built upon the handles of a pair of garden-shears which leaned against the boards in the interior of an out-house. These were all very unlikely places for nests, not only because they were very different from the kind of situations usually selected, but still more because they were liable to be disturbed at any time. If the farmer had resolved to move his scarecrow, if a rag-man had picked up the waistcoat, or if the gardener had come for the shears, the nest would in each case have been removed or destroyed. And yet there is good reason to believe that the parent birds and their young ones fared just as well in their strange quarters as they would have done in a tree-trunk or a cranny of the walls. The truth is, perhaps, that all thoughtful and kindly people admire the courage, industry, and devotion of birds when they are building their nests and rearing their young, and take every care not to disturb them unnecessarily.

TWO LITTLE DROPS OF RAIN.

They fell together from the sky, Two little drops of rain; One cheered a blossom like to die, One fell upon the plain. One made the thirsty wilderness A lovely blooming place; One came a drooping flower to bless, And give it light and grace.

The flower gave out a fragrance sweet, That lingered by the way; The wilderness amid the heat Seemed sweet and cool that day. They did the work they had to do, And, when the day was done, Two raindrops went back to the blue, Drawn upwards by the sun.

FAMOUS ROSES.

A few flowers stand at the head of all others as being general favourites; the rose, the lily, the violet have been popular for ages, and to these we may now add, probably, the chrysanthemum. The rose has been called the 'queen of flowers.' It was probably one of the earliest garden plants grown in Eastern lands. Splendid festoons of roses are said to have been one of the sights of the celebrated hanging gardens of Babylon. At the present time roses are largely grown in India to produce the expensive attar of roses, the Damascus kind being chiefly planted; and very often the perfume of large rose gardens may be smelt a long way off.

The old Romans were very fond of roses, and quantities of them were grown in the times of the Emperors, especially near Capua and Præneste. The Emperor Nero is said to have spent ten thousand pounds on roses for one night's supper. The rich nobles carpeted rooms with roses, and piled their petals round the dishes at table. In more modern times, Blanche of Castile instituted the custom of presenting a basket of roses to the French Parliament on May-day, but this has long ceased.

Both in France and Italy, and also in Britain, many new roses have been raised, some nearly black, others of curious shapes. The first yellow rose was brought to England from Turkey by Nicholas Lets, a London merchant; other varieties have come from farther East. Scotch roses have been famous for centuries; they are usually very fragrant, and well guarded by sharp spines.

Roses are still grown for the market in some parts of the South of England, even as near London as Mitcham, in Surrey, a place famous for its fragrant plants, such as lavender and peppermint. Many roses are brought to our island from the flower farms of South France; some come from Holland, a country which supplies us with most of our bulbs.

When we walk about in London City as it is now, we can hardly fancy that it had an abundance of beautiful roses in the olden time. Yet they used to be particularly plentiful on the west side, where the Old Bourne and River of Wells flowed down to the Thames. The gardens of Ely House, of which we have a memory in Hatton Garden, now a street, were so full of roses during Tudor times that the flowers were measured by bushels. During the long and unfortunate Wars of the Roses, the white rose was taken for an emblem by the Yorkists, and the red kind was displayed by the Lancastrians. The Yorkists said that they chose the white because it represented the purity of their cause, and the Lancastrians gloried in their red flower since it told that they were ready to give their heart's blood to obtain the victory. In Shakespeare's _Henry VI._ there is a scene in the Temple Garden, in which the two parties pick these roses, to show their opposition.

Not only is the rose our national emblem, but it also appears on the collar of St. Patrick's Order, which shows roses and harps joined by knots; and it is one of the adornments of the Order of the Bath. We may discover this flower, too, figured on the crests of several noble families. The oldest rose-tree in the world is said to be one growing on the walls of Hildesheim Cathedral, which is believed to date from the reign of the great Charlemagne.

MURIEL'S FIRST PATIENT.

Muriel clapped her hands and gave a little jump for joy when she saw Aunt Margaret coming up the garden path. Aunt Margaret was a hospital nurse, and Muriel had quite made up her mind to be one as well, when she was old enough. She liked nothing better than to listen to her aunt's stories about her patients, for it was Aunt Margaret's duty to visit the poor people who could not afford to pay for a doctor, and Muriel never tired of hearing about the different families her aunt went to see every day.

She could hardly wait for her aunt to come up to the schoolroom, and wondered impatiently whatever Mother and Aunt Margaret could be talking about downstairs for so long. At last she came, however, and Muriel rushed to meet her.

'Oh, Auntie! may I come with you this morning?' she begged at once. 'I have got a whole holiday, and you did promise you would take me with you some day to see all your poor people.'

But although Aunt Margaret kissed her little niece as warmly as ever, her face did not wear its usual bright smile.

'Why have you got a holiday, Muriel?' she asked. 'It isn't a birthday, is it?'

'Oh, Miss Fane has got a headache,' said Muriel, rather hastily.

'I wonder what brought it on?' said Aunt Margaret looking at Muriel earnestly. Muriel grew very red, and looked down at her shoes, but did not answer.

'Mother has been telling me something very sad,' went on Aunt Margaret, '_She_ is afraid that Miss Fane's headache was caused by the great trouble she had with a certain little pupil of hers yesterday. What do you think, Muriel?'

'They were such stupid exercises--no one could do such horrid things,' muttered Muriel without looking up.

'Perhaps, if some one tried,' suggested Aunt Margaret, gently, drawing Muriel to sit beside her. 'Now, Muriel, you want to be a nurse some day, don't you?'

Muriel nodded.

'Well, it is not a very good beginning to make people ill, is it? You know if you are going to study the things I had to learn, you will have to do a great many uninteresting things, so that perhaps you had better give up the idea, if you never want to do anything that is not very nice.'

Muriel shook her head. 'But I _do_ want to be a nurse,' she said.

'Suppose I give you a lesson to-day?'

Muriel looked up suddenly, and her eyes sparkled at the thought.

'Please do, Auntie. I will try to do what you want.'

'Mother has asked me to do something for poor Miss Fane, to make her headache better. I want you to do it instead.'

Muriel's smile disappeared suddenly. 'She's--she's so cross, Auntie.'

'Perhaps she has a reason for feeling so,' said Aunt Margaret. 'Still, if you would rather not--'

'Oh, but I will do it,' answered Muriel quickly. 'Only the things I do never please her, and perhaps _she_ would rather not.'

'Suppose you have another try to please her?' said Aunt Margaret. 'I will be the doctor, and I shall leave you in charge, and expect you to obey my orders exactly. What do you do when Mother has a headache?'

'She lets me bathe her forehead with _eau-de-Cologne_, and I try to keep everything very quiet.'

'That is a good beginning,' said Aunt Margaret. 'Now, Nurse, come and take charge of your patient. I shall look in this evening to see how the invalid is getting on.'

When Muriel stole quietly into her governess's room, the latter frowned a little at the sight of the child who was usually so noisy and tomboyish, but she said nothing when Muriel rather timidly explained her errand. The little nurse carried out the doctor's orders very carefully and thoroughly, and after a time she was delighted to see her patient fast asleep. All day she did her very best to do just what she thought Aunt Margaret would have done, and in the evening Miss Fane felt so much better that she came downstairs for a little while.

It was Muriel who fetched the cosiest armchair for Miss Fane, and who so carefully arranged a pile of soft cushions to make her more comfortable. The governess watched her in surprise, as she remembered the restless, mischief-loving Muriel of lesson hours, and noticed how quietly and gently she arranged everything now. Then the little girl stood timidly by her side, twisting her fingers nervously together behind her back.

'I am sorry I was so tiresome yesterday, Miss Fane,' she said, very quickly, and not looking up. 'I didn't mean to make your head ache, really.'

Miss Fane put her arm round the child, and made room for her among the cushions.

'Of course you didn't, dear,' she said. 'It was a hard exercise, I know, and I was not very patient, but we will have another try to-morrow, and perhaps it will be easier then.'

Muriel nestled closer to her.

'I did it this afternoon,' she confessed shyly. 'I--I didn't try properly yesterday.'

'But you tried to-day? Why, what a lot you have been doing all day! Suppose you tell me how you learnt to be such a splendid little nurse?'

Muriel was only too ready to answer this, and she told Miss Fane all about her longing to be a proper nurse, and of Aunt Margaret's lesson, trying all the time to talk softly and not too much.

But Miss Fane was quite as interested in listening as Muriel was in talking.

'I think the next time Aunt Margaret comes we must have a whole holiday,' she said. 'I think you have earned one to-day. I am sure you are going to be a capital nurse some day, for you have looked after me so splendidly to-day.'

And Aunt Margaret was quite satisfied, too, with the result of Muriel's first lesson.

STORIES FROM AFRICA.

XI.--A MIGHTY HUNTER.

Our African picture-gallery would be quite incomplete without a thought of the Dark Continent as the land of great beasts, the home of those kings among the wild creatures who can never be made the servants or the friends of man; the land where the roar of the lion wakes the dark hours, and the elephant and buffalo steal down to drink at the muddy pools. And so our next story must be of one of those mighty hunters of half a century ago who went to Africa for pastime, long before any one dreamt of a Cape to Cairo railway. William Cotton Oswell was a sportsman of the best type, six feet in height, wiry and muscular, a magnificent rider and a dead shot. He spent five years in Africa without a day's illness, was absolutely fearless, and, withal, so gentle and kindly of heart that he won the love of every one, English or African, with whom he came in contact; and he was so modest that his adventures were known only to intimate friends.

'I am sorry for the fine old beasts I shot,' he said, looking back, a grandfather and a quiet English gentleman, to the old wild hunting days; and if, as the chroniclers tell us, William the Conqueror 'loved the high deer as if he were their father,' so his nineteenth-century namesake had a warm corner in his heart for the lion and the buffalo, and the great, clumsy, fierce rhinoceros, against which he matched himself so successfully.

In 1844, Mr. Oswell, who had been sent to South Africa to recruit, after fever contracted in India, started on a hunting expedition with Major Murray as his companion, visiting on the way Dr. Livingstone's settlement at Mabotse, and getting information from him as to the country and the game to be found there. The doctor was a better naturalist than he was a sportsman; he had the keen observation indispensable to the hunter, but never became a good shot. He gave his visitors, however, all the help and information he could, and they passed on into what was, in those days, an almost untrodden land for sportsmen, alive with game of every kind. Mr. Oswell says that a man who was anything of a shot could easily feed a party of six hundred by his own gun. Still, there might be some risk connected with the securing of the dinner, and the hunter might have to ask, like the primitive savage, not only, 'Can I kill it?' but 'Will it kill me?'

On one occasion Mr. Oswell walked unexpectedly into the middle of a herd of buffaloes, who scattered in all directions. Only one patriarch of the herd, who had been lying apart from the rest, stood his ground, and the young Englishman found himself facing the great beast, at a distance of ten yards, with but one barrel of his gun loaded. He gave the contents of this to the buffalo, but did not reach a vital part, and the animal charged him. Mr. Oswell was standing under one of the mimosa-trees which grow plentifully in this part of the country. He seized a branch and swung himself off the ground, drawing, he says, his knees up to his chin, so that the buffalo actually passed beneath him. The feat sounds almost impossible, but Mr. Oswell tells it in the most matter-of-fact fashion, simply adding that he thought it safer than the usually advised method of springing to one side, as the buffalo can swerve sideways in his charge, and gore his enemy in passing.

Another adventure during this expedition certainly tested the hunter's nerve to the uttermost. Mr. Oswell's men informed him one morning that there was no meat in the camp for the dogs who guarded the party at night; so, taking his gun, with but one barrel loaded, he strolled out in search of a supper for his watchmen, feeling sure of securing something without going to any distance, or needing more ammunition. Nor was he disappointed, for, two hundred yards from the camp, he came upon some quagga, and killed one of them. The animal ran a little distance before it dropped, and Mr. Oswell, after marking it down, went back for men to carry the game home. But in this monotonous country, with its stretches of thorny bush and mimosa-trees, nothing is easier than to miss a track, and Mr. Oswell, though nicknamed by the Kaffirs, 'Jlaga,' the watchful or wide-awake, found himself on this occasion at fault. No waggons or encampment came in sight. He tried to retrace his steps and start again, or, by making a circle, to strike his original track, but all in vain. It had been ten in the morning when he left the camp, and at sunset he was still seeking it, without food, unarmed save for his useless, unloaded gun.

The situation would have been ludicrous had it been less serious; but Mr. Oswell, feeling sure that his friends would seek him at nightfall, followed the track of beasts to a pool of water, and determined to wait there until he should hear some sound of them. The fuel about was scanty, but he collected what he could until the short twilight of the tropics darkened into night, and then, with the idea of saving firewood, climbed a tree. But now the cold became intense. The heat of the day had been followed by sharp frost, and the unfortunate sportsman, with no extra covering, became so numb that he decided to descend from his perch and light his fire. He had clambered down to the lowest bough, and was about to drop to the ground, when something stirred below him. A moving body parted the bushes, and he heard at his feet an unmistakable sound, the pant of a questing lion. Had he dropped a moment sooner, he would have fallen right on to the top of the beast. We need hardly say that he returned very swiftly to his upper story, and, crouching there, could hear distinctly two lions, hunting in a circle round about the water, passing and saluting each other, like sentinels on their beat.

It was a trying situation, certainly, to have to sit, clinging with frozen fingers to the branches, only a few feet above the heads of the other 'mighty hunters,' who seemed to have resumed, in the night hours, their rule of the land he had dared to dispute with them.

But the horror of darkness came to an end at last. The moon rose, silvering the pool and showing the wide stretch of bush, and, at the same moment, sounded, still far away, the report of guns, a volley of firing which could only come from his own party. The sound must have been like new life to the chilled, lonely man, nerving him to a desperate effort to join those who were seeking for him. Those guns were as the voices of his friends, and he would sooner risk everything in an attempt to reach them than die of cold within hearing of their summons. He waited until the two lions were, as he judged, at the furthest point of their round, then he dropped noiselessly to the ground. The firing continued at intervals, and he made for it through the bush, running, pausing, listening, with breath held, for the rustle or movement among the grass and undergrowth that might mean sudden death. He says himself that his uncertain course and frequent stoppages probably saved him, since the wild beast distrusts any prey that does not go straight forward, as if expecting counter-manoeuvres. It was an hour's journey--a trial, certainly, to the stoutest nerves. But the haven of safety was reached at last. The anxious searchers heard their guns answered by the shout of their lost companion, and the exhausted sportsman found welcome and food and fire awaiting him. As he sat, thawing his numbed fingers by the cheerful blaze, a distant roar sounded among the bushes, the voice of a lion who scents his prey. The Kaffir servants looked at each other and at their master.

'He has found your track, Jlaga,' said one of them.

The race had been a close one indeed; a few minutes' difference, and the story of that night under the African sky would never have come home to England.

MARY H. DEBENHAM.

THEMISTOCLES AND THE GREEK GENERALS.

The Athenian general and statesman, Themistocles, was one of the few Greeks who, when Xerxes, the King of Persia, invaded Greece with a great army and a huge fleet, thought it possible to resist the Great King (that was the title which the king of the Persian Empire bore). He had much difficulty in persuading the generals of the other Greek states to fight at all, or even to await the coming of the enemy; some he bribed, others he bullied, till at length the Persian fleet was totally defeated off the island of Salamis.

After this victory, there were great rejoicings, and it was resolved to give splendid honours to the general who was considered the worthiest, and also to him who came next in glory. The generals therefore voted to see who should be considered first and who second.

For the first place, no one got more than one vote; each general had voted for himself for the first prize! But Themistocles was unanimously declared to have won the second prize, for though no one of them liked to admit that Themistocles was better than himself, they were each certain that he was superior to all the rest. So no one got the first prize, but special honours were paid to Themistocles.

A SILENT REPROOF.

Many years ago a number of persons were travelling by coach northwards towards Paisley. Some of them were Scottish farmers; others, tradesmen or persons of good position in Paisley; and one was a Scotsman of superior appearance, who, judging by his conversation, had travelled a good deal and seen much of his fellow-men. He recounted many interesting experiences as they journeyed along, and they all chatted freely and pleasantly with each other.

The road was a hilly and rough one, and at a lonely spot where it was especially bad, the coach was so severely jolted that one of the axles broke. Fortunately, no one was injured, and when all had alighted from the coach, they began to inspect the damaged axle. The passenger whose conversation had proved so interesting came to their assistance, and examined the axle critically. Presently, he asked the coachman if there were any blacksmith near at hand. There was not a house in sight, and the coachman told him that the forge of the nearest blacksmith was a mile or two away.

'Help me to carry the broken parts to the smith,' said the other, 'and I will see that they are properly mended.'

So they carried the broken axle across the moors to the blacksmith's shop, but they found that the blacksmith was not at home. Nothing daunted, the passenger who had undertaken to see the axle repaired lighted the blacksmith's fire, set the bellows to work, and, with the help of one of his fellow-passengers, mended the axle himself. They carried it back to the coach, fixed it in its place, put on the wheels, and the coach started off again upon its journey.

But now the passengers, instead of being grateful for the fortunate help which had been given them, began to hold aloof from the man who had mended the axle, and they had little to say to him. From his conversation they had taken him to be a gentleman, but he had shown them now that he was nothing but a common blacksmith. So for the rest of the journey they neglected him, and he sat lost in his own thoughts.

When the travellers reached the end of the stage they separated, and each went his own way. On the following morning one of them had business with the Earl of Eglinton at Eglinton Castle. He reached the castle in good time, and after being announced, was shown into a room where the Earl was seated at breakfast. But judge of his surprise when he found that his fellow-traveller of the previous day, the very man who had mended the broken axle of the coach, was sitting at breakfast with the Earl. He was not, then, a blacksmith, after all! No; he was John Rennie, the constructor of the Waterloo, Southward, and London Bridges, the Plymouth Breakwater, and the London Docks; in fact, the greatest engineer of his time, and a man honoured by all who knew him. He had learnt his trade thoroughly, from the very bottom, and was not above making use of it in the humblest way--even as a blacksmith.

EVA'S KITTEN.

Breakfast was over, Father had started for the City, and now was the time for Pussy's breakfast.

Eva brought the saucer to her mother, and when it was filled with milk, Eva put it carefully on the floor. The kitten rushed up to it, and at once began lapping.

'Isn't she clever, Mother?' asked Eva, as she seated herself on her own footstool, and watched the dainty way in which the kitten licked up every drop of milk that fell on her fur. 'She knows how to keep herself so clean and tidy.'

Mrs. Poison was reading a letter which had just come by the post, but she looked up as Eva spoke, and said half-absently, for she was thinking more of her letter than the kitten, 'Yes, very clever! Listen, Eva, my letter is from Mrs. James: she wants us both to drive over to her this afternoon and have tea.'

'Oh, I shall like that,' said Eva, shaking out her long auburn hair like a cloud, as she joyfully nodded her head. 'I shall like to see Jessie again. Is she quite well now?'

'No, dear, she is not; her mother says she seems as if she could not shake off the effects of the whooping-cough.'

'Oh! and I had it at the same time, and I am quite well,' said Eva, in astonishment.

'Poor Jessie! she is a delicate little thing,' said Mrs. Polson. 'You must see what you can do to cheer her up, Eva.'

'Yes, Mother,' said Eva, thoughtfully.

When Eva and her mother arrived at Mrs. James's house, no Jessie was in the drawing-room to welcome them, and Mrs. James had to explain the reason.

'Poor Jessie, she is terribly upset,' she said, 'for only an hour ago her little cat was found dead in the garden. We are afraid it was poisoned. Jessie is fretting about it, and she is shy of showing herself with her red eyes, so she ran away to the nursery.'

'May I go to her?' asked Eva.

'Yes, dear, do,' answered Mrs. James; 'she will perhaps forget the poor cat in a game of play.'

Eva ran upstairs to the nursery, and did her best to comfort Jessie, but the poor child was languid and fretful, and could hardly put away the thought of her lost pet.

'It was such a dear little cat, and quite black all over,' she told Eva. 'There was not a white hair in it. I shall never see a quite black kitten again. Nurse says they are very rare; oh! I wish I had it back!' Again Jessie burst out crying, for she was worn out with grief, and hardly knew how to stop.

Eva was really sorry for Jessie, who, though two or three years older than herself, looked so small and frail, and throwing her arms around her, she whispered, 'Don't cry any more, Jessie! You shall have my kitten for your very own; it is quite black, too, and you will soon love it very much. I will ask Mother to let the groom bring it you to-night.'

'Oh, Eva! will you really? But it is a shame to take your kitten,' said Jessie, stopping her sobs, and looking up at Eva. 'You love it too; I know you do, Eva.'

'Yes, I do,' said Eva, slowly, 'but I want to give it you because you are ill, and cannot run about out of doors as I can, and this kitten will be your friend; and now you must stop crying.'

The black kitten was taken to its new home that same evening, and Jessie was so pleased to have a kitten once more that she went off cheerfully to bed, much to her mother's relief.

Eva felt the parting from her pet, but there is a feeling in giving up for others that is a happiness in itself, and that happiness was Eva's.

THE STRING OF PEARLS.

My mother has a string of pearls, So pure and fine and white: She lets me take it in my hands, And hold it to the light.

My mother says that like that chain My life should ever be, Each day a pearl to stand apart In flawless purity.

THE NEW ZEALAND GLOW-WORM.

Everybody has not seen one, but we all have read about the Glow-worm, the remarkable insect which has the power of exhibiting a bright light in the dusk of evening. In England we have two species of insects that are called by this name, which properly belongs only to a kind of wingless beetle, found along the hedgerows and moist banks during the summer. The other insect which shares the name is also known as the electric centipede; it is seen about gardens or fields, and has the peculiarity of leaving upon the path it has trodden a shining track.

In New Zealand there is a very curious glow-worm. The first idea about this insect was that it turned into a kind of beetle; afterwards it proved to be the larva or grub of a fly. Its light is seemingly given it to attract small insects which are its food, and these are secured by means of a web. This web is placed in a niche amongst rocks or trees, and has a central thread, from which run smaller threads to the sides of the opening. Upon several of the lower threads there are usually a number of globules that resemble tiny silver beads, but what is the use of these is uncertain. Upon the middle thread the grub sits; if startled, it glides away into a hole it has for a hiding-place. The light comes from the hinder part of the body, and the grub can display or darken this as it chooses. On damp, warm nights it is brightest, and it is not visible when the weather is cold, nor, of course, during the day. Having reached its full size, the grub becomes a chrysalis, being fastened firmly to its web. A faint light comes from the chrysalis now and then. When the fly comes out, that also has a faint light, only half as bright as that of the grub; what it feeds upon is unknown.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 323._)