Part 2

"Now, grandmother," reiterated Hal, striking an attitude, "don't reel off more than a yard of lecture before breakfast."

"Henry, behave," commanded a stern voice from the other side of the room, which caused a noticeable decline in Hal's spirits.

There stood Mr. Leonard, having just come down-stairs unnoticed by the young scapegrace. He held little Lou by the hand, a delicate, sensitive child, older than Hal, though scarcely taller than her sturdy brother.

"Here come the provisions," remarked Hal, as Ruth brought in a smoking omelet from the kitchen.

"Go call Scott," said his father; which, cruel mandate obliged the young gentleman to remove his admiring gaze from the repast.

"Ay, ay, sir," he responded, and in a few minutes he reappeared with Scott, who was very red in the face, and howling most frantically. Hal had the little fellow's skirts gathered tightly in one hand, while with the other he firmly grasped the neck of his dress, just as he had picked him up from the ground, "making him walk Spanish," as he termed it.

The family gathered around the table, and Mr. Leonard asked a blessing on the food in a sad, pleading voice. For several minutes the children seemed awed into silence. At length Ruth broke the stillness.

"Did you see the doctor again last night, father?"

"Yes, daughter."

"What did he say?" she eagerly asked.

Mr. Leonard could not at once trust himself to speak, but after a moment he replied, in a husky voice, "The doctor says your mother will never walk again."

The quick tears sprang to the girl's eyes as she thought of the dear little Quaker mother upstairs, lying so patiently on her bed of suffering, who only a year ago, before that terrible fall which hurt her back, had been well and happy.

Lou began to sob outright, and great-hearted Hal again brushed his coat sleeve over his face, but this time to wipe away the tears.

"Does mother know it?" asked Ruth.

"Yes."

"How does she feel about it?"

"Cheerful as ever," replied Mr. Leonard. "She never thinks of complaining, but only of comforting us."

The children brightened up a little at these words, for their blithe spirits refused to be long downcast, especially when they felt sure of seeing the same bright, loving mother unchanged--all except Ruth; her sober face too well expressed her thoughts.

"Oh, father," broke in Hal, presently, "Jake Murphy says the fire has caught over at Liberty."

"Yes," replied his father, absently, "they are having a desperate struggle with the fires this summer."

Lou's great blue eyes had grown brighter and brighter while they were talking, and a pink spot glowed in each cheek as she asked, "Do you think it _could_ get here?"

"No, I think not; the wind is decidedly westward, and the people of Liberty will probably take all possible measures for checking its progress."

Mr. Leonard sighed as he spoke, and he seemed to be looking straight through Ruth rather than at her. Perhaps he was wondering how the four bairns and the sick wife were to be fed and cared for all winter if no rain came to save his failing crops.

Just then a low call was heard for Lou.

"Yes, ma'am," answered the little girl, running to the foot of the stairs.

"Will thee bring mother a nice glass of cold water?"

"I will, mother," rang out Ruth's cheery voice; "I'm coming up anyway."

Ruth went out to the well with her tin water pail, that her mother might have a draught fresh and sparkling. As she lowered the bucket, peering down into the mossy depths, she noticed how low the water was--lower than she had ever seen it, for their well was never known to fail, and in these times of drought the neighbors from far and near drew their daily supply from Farmer Leonard's spring. "We'll have to be very careful of it," she thought, "or it will give out."

Ruth returned to the house with her cool refreshment, and taking one of the best goblets from the pantry, gave an extra polish with a fresh towel, and filled it with the water, "because it would taste so much better out of that."

"I thank thee, deary. How good it looks!" said the invalid, drinking eagerly. "Thee takes a deal of trouble for thy mother."

"And why shouldn't I? Thee is the best of mothers," responded the girl, tenderly hugging her.

Ruth now began to busy herself about the room. She wheeled out a big arm-chair by the window, padded it out with pillows into comfortable proportions, placed in front of it a little stuffed cricket, and threw a large soft shawl over the whole arrangement. She then gathered up all the stray dishes, placed everything in order, and carefully dusted the room.

A pair of loving eyes watched these operations, following every motion; but not a word was spoken, not a word of the doctor's decision, not a word of the life-long suffering in store.

"Now, mother," said Ruth at last, pausing in front of her, "we'll have thee up in a twinkling;" and with one strong motion she quickly lifted the slender form, so light in its best days, and so reduced by pain and suffering now, into the chair.

When she had settled her comfortably, and arranged the blinds so as to make a pleasant shade in the room, she brought the mate to the little stuffed cricket, and sat at her mother's side.

"What is it, daughter?--what troubles thee?"

"Oh! a great many things, mother," answered Ruth, laying her head on the sympathetic breast.

"Well, suppose thee tell mother the greatest trouble, and then the second, until thy mind is unburdened?" and the soft hands gently smoothed the brown hair.

"Well, the first is about thee;" and the tears would come in spite of her.

"Why, my dear child, do not grieve over that. Almost a year has gone by, and another will soon pass; and think what a calm, peaceful time I may have with so busy a little housekeeper to do everything."

"Ah! but that is just the trouble, mother," said Ruth, earnestly, as she lifted her tear-stained face. "I feel so good-for-nothing when I have only the same homely little duties every day. I do so long for a chance to be great and good."

"My daughter"--and Mrs. Leonard took both trembling hands in her own--"does thee know that the only way to be good and great is to do faithfully the work that is nearest thy hand? Let thy whole heart be drawn into each homely duty, and when an opportunity comes to do a great work, it will find thee ready."

Ruth said nothing, but the deep, strong look in the gray eyes expressed a firm resolve.

Presently there was a clatter of stout boots heard on the stairs.

"Harry is coming," said the mother with a smile.

In burst the noisy urchin, all aglow with excitement, his hair flying, eyes blazing, and breath so nearly spent that he could hardly speak.

"Don't you smell the smoke?" he gasped. "Something's up! Father--and a crowd of men--have gone off--into the woods--to see what's the matter. There's danger, I tell you. Come on, Scott, let's sit on the big post and watch."

"Thee'd better go down and see about it," said Mrs. Leonard to Ruth, as the two sat staring blankly into each other's faces.

"I will, mother," assented Ruth, recovering her wonted energy, as she ran down the stairs.

A strong wind greeted her upon opening the outer door, blowing into her face a sickening smell of burned wood. The whole sky seemed overcast, and a thick, heavy haze was settling down upon fields and buildings as far as the eye could reach.

"Harry! Harry!" she called, excitedly, "where's father?"

"Gone to the woods, I told you. Oh, there he comes!" and Hal peered into the gloom as he looked in the direction of the woods.

Ruth saw a dark moving object coming toward them. She waited for no second look, but sped away like the wind into the nearest field.

"Oh, father, what's happened?" she cried, breathlessly, running up to him and catching his arm as she turned to keep pace with his long strides toward the house.

"We're going to burn out," he answered, with set teeth, "and there's no time to lose. Go get your mother ready to move, while I harness the horses. We must reach the lake within an hour, or--"

"How can we?" uttered Ruth, aghast. "Ten miles!"

"It must be done. Quick, daughter!"

The girl needed no further bidding, but ran homeward, calling to Hal as she passed, and charging him to keep near the house with Scott.

Ruth made straight for the store-room, and filling her arms with a pile of blankets, she carried them to the door and threw them on the ground, ready to spread in the wagon. She then hastened to her mother's room, and found her pale and composed, trying to quiet Lou, who was sobbing hysterically.

"Mother, we're gone. Not a thing can be saved. Father's getting the wagon ready to drive us to the lake;" and Ruth began to dress her mother, slipping on a loose wrapper, and covering her with shawl after shawl as a protection from the scorching air.

"Try and gather up some of the clothing, Ruth, if there's time," said Mrs. Leonard, controlling herself into calmness.

Ruth obeyed, pulled a sheet from the bed, and crowded into it such articles as were nearest at hand.

"Oh, mother!" screamed Lou, and hid her face, as a blinding smoke burst into the room enveloping the place in darkness.

"We must go," Ruth, cried, as she snatched her mother up in her arms, and stepped firmly toward the door, clasping her burden tight to her breast, and followed by Lou, clinging frantically to her skirts.

Hurriedly Ruth groped her way down the staircase and through the lower rooms, stumbling over the furniture, until they reached the scorching blast without. Upon emerging from the house a burning shower of cinders met them.

Not a sign of father or the wagon.

"Come, put your dress over your head, Lou," panted Ruth, whose hands were smarting with pain.

There was not a moment to be lost. They must flee somewhere, for the house was already ablaze. An awful yellow glare lit up the dense darkness, and on every side the crash of falling trees filled the air with a terrible din. On they rushed through the blistering heat, scarcely knowing where, Ruth still bearing her precious burden, and the children clinging to her in wild despair.

How long they pursued this headlong flight no one knew. All sense of time was lost; it might have been minutes, or it might have been hours. Suddenly Ruth lost her balance. She gave utterance to one piercing shriek, but she never let go her burden, and then she slid down, down, down. The terrified children screamed as they rolled over and over, and then all was silence and darkness.

Ruth was the first to recover.

"Mother?"

"I'm safe. The children?"

"Oh, where are we?" moaned the little ones, creeping on their hands and knees toward the familiar voices. They managed to reach the sheltering embrace of mother, who lay unhurt amid her wrappings just as she had slipped from the stanch arms that saved her life.

Ruth began to feel around; for even the ghastly light of the flames had vanished, and not an object was visible in the thick, deep gloom. Brambles and briers and low bushes upon all sides. With each turn the dry twigs and leaves crackled, and in attempting to move, the girl found her clothing caught upon thorns that projected on all sides. It was with difficulty that she managed to extricate herself, bruised and benumbed as she was, but it was necessary to explore further. The ground felt hard and clayey, and was covered with stones. Turning halfway round, Ruth found a little clear space, and creeping forward, soon came to rising ground. Catching hold of a bush, she pulled herself a little way up the slope, when an idea of their situation suddenly flashed upon her.

"Why, we're in the creek--the dry creek down by the meadow lot," she called out. "Where are you all? I've lost you."

"Here," replied her mother's voice not three yards away. "Is Scott with thee? Harry and Lou are safe."

"No," answered Ruth, aghast, hastening with all possible speed to her mother's side.

"Where is the child?" she cried, immediately calling aloud with all her strength, "Scott! Scott!"

But no answer.

"He must have hidden somewhere when the darkness came," was the mother's despairing conclusion.

"The root-house!" Ruth's words told the awful story.

"If I _could_ save him!" And with a silent prayer for strength, she once more dashed into the stifling smoke.

* * * * *

Hour after hour crept by; it seemed to the terrified children as if they must have sat there for days; and they were so hungry! and Ruth never would come!

Presently, after long waiting, the darkness began to lift somewhat, and they could see each other's faces. Little by little the gloom cleared away until the whole atmosphere was of a dusky hue. And still they waited. At length, starting up with an exclamation of joy as rapid footsteps approached, they heard their father's voice.

"Ruth? Hal?"

"Here," roared Hal, starting to his feet.

In a moment more Mr. Leonard bounded down the steep bank of the creek, and with him Jake Murphy, who had started from the village to warn Mr. Leonard, reaching the farm just as that first overwhelming darkness dropped upon the village.

They had found shelter in the old well, for Mr. Leonard was overtaken in his preparations for flight, and could not reach the house before it burst into flames. When the crisis was past, almost wild with grief and despair, he commenced a search for wife and children, fearing at every step to come upon their lifeless bodies. For a moment he stood overcome with thankfulness as he found them unharmed.

But two were missing. Mrs. Leonard hurriedly told of little Scott's disappearance, and of Ruth's effort to save him.

The two men hastened to the root-house. It was still standing, though blackened and charred, and no sign of life appeared. The door was tightly closed, and upon opening it a sight met the father's eye which almost overpowered the strong man. There lay Ruth, white and still, tightly clasping the little fellow to her bosom.

It was but the work of a moment to carry them out of the dark building. Both were unconscious, though they bore few traces of the fire. Might there not yet be a chance of life?

Quickly the men bore the motionless forms to the creek. All the remedies which they could obtain were applied, but it seemed in vain; the loving ones could do little but watch and wait.

At last Ruth stirred, and slowly opened her eyes. The brave heart once more began to beat, though for many a long, weary day the blistered hands and arms refused to move. But Ruth was spared.

Little Scott lay there for hours, until it seemed that the family must lose their baby, when he wonderingly gazed around upon the anxious group, and inquired, "Did you try to cook me for dinner?"

All the pent-up feelings found vent in a tearful laugh, and then the laugh turned to joy, and the joy to thanksgiving.

When the flaming hurricane had swept onward in its mad course of destruction, and the sun, which had risen in such fierce glory, sent a last sickly glimmer through the murky air, it revealed the little village of Greenville a waste of smoking ruins. But the fire had mercifully stopped upon reaching Farmer Leonard's grassy meadow, and thus had the fugitives in the creek been saved.

The strong men set to work with a will. It took but a few hours to raise a little shed for protection; and day after day his prospects brightened, as the timely aid and sympathy of friends helped him to rebuild his ruined home.

It would have been hard to find a happier household than this reunited family. Slowly strength returned to Ruth's wounded arms, and a sweet peace shone through the gray eyes as she once more became able to enjoy the blessings which had so nearly been taken from her.

Her great opportunity had come, and it had found her ready.

HOW A BOY WAS HIRED OUT, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

BY GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON.

When Michael Angelo was twelve years of age, although he had had no instruction in art, he did a piece of work which greatly pleased the painter Dominico Ghirlandajo. This artist at once declared that here was a lad of genius, who must quit his studies, and become a painter.

This was what the little Michael most wished to do, but he had no hope that his father would listen for a moment to the suggestion. His father, Ludovico Buonarotti, was a distinguished man in the state, and held art and artists in contempt. He had planned a great political career for his boy, as the boy knew very well.

Ghirlandajo was enthusiastic, however, and in company with the lad he at once visited Ludovico, and asked him to place Michael in his studio.

Ludovico was very angry, saying that he wished his son to become a prominent man in society and politics, not a dauber and a mason; but when he found that young Michael was determined to be an artist or nothing, he gave way, though most ungraciously. He would not say that he consented to place his son with Ghirlandajo; he would not admit that the study of art was study, or the studio of an artist anything but a shop. He said to the artist: "I give up my son to you. He shall be your apprentice or your servant, as you please, for three years, and you must pay me twenty-four florins for his services."

In spite of the insulting words and the insulting terms, Michael Angelo consented thus to be hired out as a servant to the artist, who should have been paid by his father for teaching him. He had to endure much, indeed, besides the anger and contempt of his father, who forbade him even to visit his house, and utterly disowned him. His fellow-pupils were jealous of his ability, and ill-treated him constantly, one of them going so far as to break his nose with a blow.

When Michael Angelo had been with Ghirlandajo about two years, he went one day to the Gardens of St. Mark, where the Prince Lorenzo de' Medici--who was the great patron of art in Florence--had established a rich museum of art-works at great expense. One of the workmen in the garden gave the boy leave to try his hand at copying some of the sculptures there, and Michael, who had hitherto studied only painting, was glad of a chance to experiment with the chisel, which he preferred to the brush. He chose for his model an ancient figure of a faun, which was somewhat mutilated. The mouth, indeed, was entirely broken off, but the boy was very self-reliant, and this did not trouble him. He worked day after day at the piece, creating a mouth for it of his own imagining, with the lips parted in laughter, and the teeth displayed.

When he had finished and was looking at his work, a man standing near asked if he might offer a criticism.

"Yes," answered the boy, "if it is a just one."

"Of that you shall be the judge," said the man.

"Very well. What is it?"

"The forehead of your faun is old, but the mouth is young. See, it has a full set of perfect teeth. A faun so old as this one is would not have perfect teeth."

The lad admitted the justice of the criticism, and proceeded to remedy the defect by chipping away two or three of the teeth, and chiselling the gums so as to give them a shrivelled appearance.

The next morning, when Michael went to remove his faun from the garden, it was gone. He searched everywhere for it, but without success. Finally, seeing the man who had made the suggestion about the teeth, he asked him if he knew where it was.

"Yes," replied the man, "and if you will follow me I'll show you where it is."

"Will you give it back to me? I made it, and have a right to it."

"Oh, if you must have it, you shall."

With that he led the way into the palace of the Prince, and there, among the most precious works of art in the collection, stood the faun. The young sculptor cried out in alarm, declaring that the Prince Lorenzo would never forgive the introduction of so rude a piece of work among his treasures of sculpture. To his astonishment the man declared that he was himself the Prince Lorenzo de' Medici, and that he set the highest value upon this work.

"I am your protector and friend," he added. "Henceforth you shall be counted as my son, for you are destined to become one of the great masters of art."

This was overwhelming good fortune. Lorenzo de' Medici was a powerful nobleman, known far and wide to be a most expert judge of works of art. His approval was in itself fame and fortune.

Filled with joy, the lad went straightway to his father's house, which he had been forbidden to enter, and forcing his way into Ludovico's presence, told him what had happened. The father refused to believe the good news until Michael led him into Lorenzo's presence.

When the Prince, by way of emphasizing his good-will, offered Ludovico any post he might choose, he asked for a very modest place indeed, saying, with bitter contempt, that it was good enough "for the father of a mason."

THE HARDEST TUG OF ALL.

A BAVARIAN STORY.

BY DAVID KER.

The sun was just beginning to sink over the beautiful hills of Southern Bavaria. A big red-bearded man, with arms bare to the elbow, stood at the door of a little mountain inn upon one of the higher slopes, watching, with his broad brown hand arched over his eyes, a group of five men who had just issued from the mass of dark green pines that covered the crest of the opposite ridge.

"One, two, three, four, five," counted the landlord. "They're all there but Hermann; but they've found no game, I can see. Where can Hermann be, I wonder? _He_ won't come back empty-handed, I'll be bound."

"Hermann's late," said one of the foresters, "but I warrant he'll be ready for his supper when he does come."

"And well he may, if he has found any game, for I can tell you, lads, that to carry a quarter of venison from the Riesenberg to my door, on a roasting day like this, would be a job for Strong Schalk himself."

"And who may Strong Schalk be?" asked a sunburned peddler who was sitting beside the window.

"_Who?_" echoed the landlord, staring; "why, brother, you must be a stranger in these parts to ask that. But if you want to know about him, all you've got to do is to go down to Kreuzweg town yonder and ask any man, woman, or child you may meet about 'Strong Schalk,' and they'll tell you something that'll astonish you."

"And if that's not enough," struck in one of the hunters, with a grin, "let him go into Schalk's shop and challenge him to wrestle, and he'll be astonished still more--eh, Father Baum?"

"Ugh! don't talk of it!" grunted the landlord, making a wry face; "you make my fingers ache with the very recollection."

"Why, he must be a perfect giant!" cried the peddler, who had been listening open-mouthed.

"No, that's the strangest part of it. He's no bigger than another man--rather smaller, in fact--and a tailor into the bargain; and yet he can do feats worthy of Hans Stronghand in the story."

"Of whom are you speaking?" asked a deep voice from the door.

"Of Strong Schalk, the tailor of Kreuzweg, Friend Hermann," answered the landlord, shaking hands with the new-comer, a powerful young fellow, with an air which showed that he had no small idea of his own importance.

"The mischief take Strong Schalk!" cried Hermann, angrily. "I'm sick of his very name;" and with the full power of his mighty voice he rolled out the song:

"There were a host of tailors, Brave fellows one and all; Then drank they, all the ninety, Ay, nine times nine-and-ninety, Out of a thimble small.

"And when this draught had quenched their thirst, Then weigh themselves would they; Yet could not all the ninety, Ay, nine times nine-and-ninety, A single goat upweigh.

"Then homeward trudged they all--but lo! The door was locked within; Then hopped they, all the ninety, Ay, nine times nine-and-ninety, Right through the key-hole, in."

The boisterous chorus had hardly died away, when a quiet but unmistakably firm voice was heard to say:

"Stop there! enough of this!"