Part 2

There were no pots and saucepans to be washed, although the one round, shallow, sheet-iron "fryer," such as soldiers sometimes use in camp, which she dragged from under a buffalo-skin in the corner, would have been none the worse for a little scrubbing.

She brought it out, and then she dropped it and sat down to take another look at that wonderful "talking leaf."

"What made me kneel down and shut my eyes? I could remember then. It is all gone now. It went away as soon as I got up again."

She folded the leaf carefully, and hid it in the folds of her deer-skin dress, but she was evidently a good deal puzzled.

"Maria Santisima--yes, I do remember that. It will all come back to me by-and-by. No! I don't want it to. It makes me afraid. I will cook supper, and forget all about it."

A Mexican woman of the lower class, unable to read, ignorant of almost everything but a little plain cookery, has less to forget than have most American children of six years old. But why should it frighten her, if the little she knew and had lost began to come back to her mind?

She did not stop to answer any such questions as that, but poured some pounded corn, a coarse uneven meal, into a battered tin pan. To this was added a little salt, some water was stirred in until a thick paste was made, and then the best cook of the Apaches was ready to carry her batter to the fire. Envious black eyes watched her while she heated her saucepan on the coals she raked out. Then she melted a carefully measured piece of buffalo tallow, and began to fry for her husband and master the cakes no other of his squaws could so well prepare.

When the cakes were done brown, the same fryer and a little water would serve to take the toughness out of some strips of dried venison before she broiled them, and the great chief would be the best-fed man in camp, until the hunters should return from the valley below with fresh game.

They were quite likely to do that before night, but Many Bears was a man who never waited long for something to eat after a hard day's march.

If Dolores had been a little alarmed at the prospect of being forced to "remember," a very different feeling had entered the mind of Rita when she and her sister came out of the lodge.

"What shall we do, Ni-ha-be?"

"Red Wolf told me he had something to say to me. There he is now. He beckons me to come. He does not want you."

"I am glad of it. There are trees and bushes down there beyond the corral. I will go and be alone."

"You will tell me all the talking leaves say to you?"

"Yes, but they will talk very slowly, I'm afraid."

Even the harsher sounds of the Apache tongue had a pleasant ring in the sweet, clear voices of the two girls, and the softer syllables, of which there were many, rippled after each other like water in a brook. It seemed, too, as if they said quite as much to each other by signs as by words. That is always so among people who live a great deal out-of-doors, or in narrow quarters, where other people can easily hear ordinary conversation.

The one peculiar thing about the signs used by the American Indians is that they mean so much and express it so clearly. Men of different tribes, not able to understand a word of each other's spoken tongue, will meet and talk together by the hour in "sign language," as intelligently as two well-trained deaf-mutes among the whites.

Perhaps one reason more for so much "sign-talking" is that there are so many tribes, each with a very rough tongue of its own, that is not easy for other tribes to pick up.

Red Wolf was again beckoning to Ni-ha-be, and there was an impatient look on his dark, self-willed face. It was time for her to make haste, therefore, and Rita put the three magazines under the light folds of her broad antelope-skin cape, and tripped away toward the bit of bushy grove just beyond the "corral."

What is that?

In the language of the very "far West" it is any spot or place where horses are gathered and kept, outside of a stable.

The great Apache nation does not own a single stable or barn, although it does own multitudes of horses, ponies, mules, and even horned cattle. All these, therefore, have to be "corralled," except when they are running loose among their unfenced pastures; there are no fences in that part of the world any more than barns.

Immediately on going into camp the long train of pack mules and ponies had been relieved of their burdens, and they and most of the saddle-horses had been sent off, under the care of mounted herders, to pick their dinners for themselves in the rich green grass of the valley.

Chiefs and warriors, however, never walk if they can help it, and so, as some one of them might wish to go here or there at any moment, several dozens of the freshest animals were kept on the spot between the camp and the grove, tethered by long hide lariats, and compelled to wait their turn for something to eat.

There was a warrior on guard at the "corral," as a matter of course, but he hardly gave a glance to the pretty adopted daughter of Many Bears as she tripped hurriedly past him. It was his business to look out for the horses, and not for giddy young squaws who might find "talking leaves."

Rita could not have told him, if he had asked her, why it was that her prizes were making her heart beat so fast as she held them against it.

She was not frightened. She knew that very well. But she was glad to be alone, without even the company of Ni-ha-be.

The bushes were very thick around the spot where she at last threw herself upon the grass. She had never lived in any lodge where there were doors to shut behind her, or if she had, houses and doors were alike forgotten; but she knew that her quick ears would give her notice of any approaching footsteps.

There they lay now before her, the three magazines, and it seemed to Rita as if they had come on purpose to see her, and were looking at her.

No two of them were alike. They did not even belong to the same family. She could tell that by their faces.

Slowly and half timidly she turned the first leaf; it was the cover-leaf of the nearest.

A sharp exclamation sprang to her lips. "I have seen her! Oh, so long ago! It is me, Rita. I wore a dress like that once. And the tall squaw behind her, with the robe that drags on the ground, I remember her too. How did they know she was my mother?"

Rita's face had been growing very white, and now she covered it with both her hands, and began to cry.

The picture was one of a fine-looking lady and a little girl of it might be seven or eight years. Not Rita and her mother, surely, for the lady wore a coronet upon her head, and carried a sceptre in her hand, but the little girl looked very much as Rita must have looked at her age. It was a picture of some Spanish princess and her daughter, but like many pictures of such people that are printed, it would have served as well for a portrait of almost anybody else. Particularly, as it seemed to Rita, of herself and her mother.

"He is not there. Why did they not put him in? I loved him best. Oh, he was so good to me! He had plenty of talking leaves, too, and he taught them to speak to me. I will look and see if he is here."

Rita was talking aloud to herself, but her own voice sounded strange to her, with its Indian words, and ways of expression. She was listening without knowing it for another voice, for several of them, and none of them spoke Apache.

She turned leaf after leaf with fluttering haste in her eager search for that other face she had spoken of.

In a moment more she paused, as the full-length picture of a man gazed at her from the paper.

"No, not him. He is too old. My father was not old. And he was handsome, and he was not dark at all."

She shut the book for a moment, and her face was full of puzzle and of pain.

"I said it. I was not talking Apache then. And I understood what I was saying."

She had indeed, when she mentioned her father, spoken pretty clearly in English.

Was it her mother-tongue, and had it come back to her?

She turned over the leaves more eagerly than ever now, and she found in that and the two other magazines many pictured faces of men of all ages, but each one brought her a fresh disappointment.

"He is not here," she said, mournfully, "and it was he who taught me to--to--to _read_--_books_."

She had found two words now that were like little windows, for through them she could see a world of wonderful things that she had not seen before--"read" and "books."

The three magazines were no longer "talking leaves" to her, although they were really beginning to talk. Her head ached, and her eyes were burning hot, as she gazed so intently at word after word of the page which happened to be open before her. It was not printed like the rest. Less closely, and not in such a thronging mass of little black spots of letters. It was a piece of very simple poetry, in short lines and brief stanzas, and Rita was staring at its title.

The letters slowly came to her one by one, bringing behind them the first word of the title; but they seemed to Rita to be in her own brain more than on the paper. It was a hard moment for Rita.

"He made me say them one word at a time. He was so good to me! Yes, I can say them now. I know what they mean. Oh, so long ago! so long ago!"

There was no longer any doubt about it. Rita could read English. Not very easily or rapidly at first, and many of the words she came to puzzled her exceedingly. Perhaps some of them also would come back to her after a while. Some of them had always been strangers, for the very brightest little girls of seven or eight, even when they read well, and have their fathers to help them, are but at the beginning of their acquaintance with "hard words."

"I shall know what the pictures mean now. But I will not tell anybody a word about it. Only Ni-ha-be."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE MAN WHO CARED FOR NOBODY.

BY LILLIE E. BARR.

This is the song the miller sang, The selfish miller of Dee: "I care for nobody, no, not I, And nobody cares for me." He ate and drank, and worked and slept, Money and land had he, But never a poorer mortal slept Than the selfish miller of Dee.

The village maids grew good and fair, But they grew not near his life; His hearth-stone only held one chair-- He had no room for a wife. No woman's footstep, quick and light, Came down the silent stair To bless him every morn and night With kisses unaware.

The village lads and lasses knew The charm of the old mill-race; Oh, what a happy little crew Oft made it their playing-place! But none of them climbed the miller's knee When the evening shades fell dim; He cared for nobody, no, not he, And nobody cared for him.

So he lived alone, he had no kin; And in all the country-side There wasn't a mortal cared a pin Whether he lived or he died. The women gave him never a smile, The men had nothing to say, No friend e'er crossed his garden stile, No stranger wished him good-day.

He lived alone, and he died alone, So his selfish life was sped; They found him cold on his cold hearth-stone-- The miller of Dee was dead. And no one cared to see his face, No eye for him grew dim; He cared for nobody, no, not he, And nobody cared for him.

To share our life is to double our life; And what if it double its care? Loving can lighten the hardest strife, Loving can make it fair. Better to love, though love should die, Than say, like the miller of Dee, "I care for nobody, no, not I, And nobody cares for me."

BITS OF ADVICE.

BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.

ABOUT USING ODD MINUTES.

I have a friend who is a very busy woman, but she reads many good books, knows what is going on in the world, and manages to do a great deal of very beautiful fancy-work. One day I asked her how it happened that she accomplished so much more than some other people could, and she said, "Oh, I look out for the odd minutes."

I have no doubt that among my readers there are girls and boys who have so much real work to do that they have not a great deal of leisure. Johnny finds weeding and hoeing very tiresome, and as for wood-chopping and the running of errands, he has his full share of both. Sophy, too, would have good times if it were not that there is always the baby to be taken care of, the old sheets to be turned, the parlors to be dusted, or the messages to be carried to the minister's wife.

How both John and Sophy, and ever so many other young people, dislike kind old ladies and gentlemen, who have a way of glaring at them through their spectacles, and observing: "Dear, me! how you grow, to be sure! You must be quite a help to your mother by this time." Or, worse still, they inquire about the school and the studies, and propose some problem or other in mental arithmetic quite different from anything in the book. Now please don't think Aunt Marjorie is that sort of an old lady, or has any greater liking for that sort of old gentleman than you have, children. But listen to her advice. Suppose for the next month you keep a definite bit of work on hand just for odd times. Let it be a volume of history, and read it in the nows and thens when you are waiting for father to finish a note; let it be a piece of embroidery or crochet-work, and take it up when there is time for only a few stitches at once. At the end of the month you will be surprised to see how much you have gained by using these odd minutes.

HOW TO INTRODUCE PEOPLE.

"I do dislike to introduce people to each other," said Eva to me one day last week.

"Why, pray?" I asked. "It seems to me a very simple thing."

"Well, when I have it to do, I stammer and blush, and feel so awkward, I never know who should be mentioned first, and I wish myself out of the room."

"I think I can make it plain to you," I said. "You invite Mabel Tompkins to spend an afternoon with you. She has never been at your home before, and your mother has never met her. When you enter the sitting-room, all you have to do is to say, 'Mother, this is my friend Mabel; Mabel, my mother.' If you wish to be more elaborate, you may say to your aunt Lucy, 'Aunt Lucy, permit me to present Miss Mabel Tompkins; Miss Tompkins, Mrs. Templeton.' But while you introduce Mabel to your father, or the minister, or an elderly gentleman, naming the most distinguished personage first, you present your brother, his chum, and your cousin Fred to the young lady, naming her first. Fix it in your mind that among persons of equal station the younger are introduced to the older, and that inferiors in age, position, or influence are presented to superiors. Be very cordial when, in your own house, you are introduced to a guest, and offer your hand. If away from home, a bow is commonly sufficient recognition of an introduction. Please, in performing an introduction, speak both names with perfect distinctness."

A Story of All-Hallow-Eve.

BY AGNES REPPLIER.

I wonder how many of the children who roast chestnuts or duck for apples on All-hallow-eve have any idea how venerable are the games they play, or how, all the world over, young people are amusing themselves in pretty much the same fashion? In England, girls are strewing the ashes that are expected, though vainly, I fear, to spell the names of whoever loves them best. In Scotland, they are slyly sowing the hemp that their future husbands must come and gather. In Germany, they are making merry efforts to learn their fate with the help of the looking-glass that hangs by their bed. And many of these sports have been played for centuries, and were old even at the time of my story.

More than eighty years ago three little English children were solemnly arranging their mystic games for All-hallow-eve. They were alone in a tiny cottage, nearly half a mile from any neighbor, for father and mother had gone to the town of Ware, taking the baby with them, and would not be back before the next night; so Rupert, Margery, and little Nance, left to each other's company, were preparing without a shadow of fear to amuse themselves in their own fashion. Two big lumps of lead were ready to be melted, and then poured into water, there to assume hundreds of quaint little shapes; the chestnuts, carefully matched and named, were hopping gayly about on the fire-place; and half a dozen rosy-cheeked apples floated tantalizingly in a tub of water, waiting for a courageous diver.

Rupert, a strong and active boy of twelve, captured his apple at every plunge, thrusting his curly head fairly into the tub, and never bringing it out until his teeth were firmly fixed in its glossy sides; Margery, who did not fancy getting wet, only nibbled at hers, and sent it bobbing about the surface of the water; while poor little Nance would dive boldly down, and come up gasping and choking, her blue eyes tight shut, the water streaming from her fair hair, and looking more like a half-drowned kitten than a little girl who had not succeeded in catching a slippery apple.

"It's no use, Nance," said her sister; "you will never get one, if you keep on soaking yourself all night. Let us see now who will be married and who will die. Rupert, you go into the garden, and bring me in some earth on a plate, while I get the ashes and water."

The boy took a dish of yellow stone-ware, and went out to dig up the mould. It was a clear night, but blowing hard, and wild scraps of cloud came flying before the face of the moon, while to his left he saw the white banks of the river Lea, and could hear the rush of the waters as they swept angrily by. How high the river looked! thought Rupert, watching it, trowel in hand, and how loudly it sounded. He had never seen or heard it like that before, and for a moment he stood wondering what had caused this sudden rise. Then Margery's voice calling for the earth made him forget all about it, and in another minute he was back in the warm, bright kitchen, without a thought of the foaming torrent outside.

The little girl placed side by side on the table the three dishes; one of which held the mould, the other ashes, and the third clear water. Then she bound a handkerchief tightly over Nance's eyes, and after turning her around a couple of times to bewilder her, bade her go and put her hand in one of the plates. If she touched the water, she would be married; if her fingers wandered into the ashes, she was doomed to be an old maid; but if she reached the earth first, then she would surely die before the next All-hallow-eve.

Fully impressed with the solemnity of this awful rite, Nance slowly groped her way to the table, and after a moment's indecision put her little fat fingers softly down, when plump they went right into the water. Margery gave a shout of pleasure, and with a sigh of profound relief that her future was so securely settled, Nance unbound the handkerchief and handed it over to her sister. But with her matters were not so promising, for advancing with a great show of confidence, her evil genius led her straight to the ashes, greatly to her own disgust and Rupert's undisguised delight. It was his turn now; but just as his eyes were being bandaged, little Nance called out, "Look! Margery, look! the floor is all wet!"

With a bound the boy sprang to the door and opened it. Nothing but water met his eyes--water as yet but a couple of inches deep, but which was softly, steadily rising in the moonlight, while the rush of the river sounded now as if it were close by his side. In an instant he realized what had happened. The Lea, swollen by heavy rains, had overflowed its banks, and the water was gaining on them fast. Already it had entered the room where the frightened children stood, only half understanding their great danger.

"Go up stairs," shouted Rupert to his sisters; "and if the flood rises that high, we will climb out on the roof. Go quick!"

But Margery stood still, her brown eyes filling with tears. "Oh, Rupert," she cried, "the poor little baby ducks and chickens! They will all be drowned; and what ever will mother say when she comes back?"

Rupert never heeded her. The water by this time reached to their ankles, and to close the door was impossible. Thoroughly alarmed, he drew the little girls up the ladder-like staircase into their low attic. It would not take long for the waves to mount that high, and their only hope of safety lay in climbing on to the steep sloping roof. Opening the window, he crawled cautiously out, and then helped Nance and Margery to follow him. Side by side stood the three children, and saw the sullen waters, white and foaming in the moonlight, surge and sway around them. Where could they look for help? Their father gone, their neighbors ignorant that they were alone in the house, and perhaps in the general terror forgetting all about them. Abandoned in their great peril, with only a boy of twelve to aid and save them!

Poor little Nance sobbed and shivered as she crept closer to her brother's side; Margery, bewildered with fright, stood as if frozen into stone; but Rupert, with fast-beating heart and a despairing light in his blue eyes, watched the cruel waters as they rose, and tried to think how best to act for his sisters' sake and for his own. He could hear in the distance cries and shouts, and could see bonfires blazing on many roofs--signals of the common danger. He knew that along the outskirts of the town, and through the scattered parish of Ware, relief boats were even now rowing from house to house to save those who lived in cottages too low to shelter them. He called until he was exhausted, but the only answer was the sullen roar of the Lea and the beating of the waves around him. Already they were lapping against the attic windows. Something must be done, and quickly, if he would save his sisters from perishing.

"Margery," he said at last, "would you be very much afraid to stay here alone with Nance, while I try and get some help?"

"Oh, Rupert!" shrieked the child, throwing her arms around him, "you would surely be drowned, and so would we. What can you do in such an awful flood?"

"I could try and swim to the manor farm," said the boy. "It is not more than half a mile off at furthest, and there are plenty of floating boughs and fences in the water to rest me if I tire out. Margery, I must go, or we shall all drown together; and you know," he added, with a sob, "I promised father that I would take care of you."

"But to leave us here alone! Oh, Rupert, I should die!"

But Rupert's mind was made up. "It must be done at once," he said, "or it will be too late. Margery, try and be a little brave, and keep tight hold of Nance if the waves reach you before I can come back. Please God, I will save you yet." Then throwing off his shoes and jacket, he said once more, "Remember to keep tight hold of Nance," and plunged into the seething waters, in which no man could hope to live.

Margery's shriek died into silence, and clutching her little sister, she watched the slight figure tossed on the cruel billows as the boy swam bravely on. How long could his young strength avail against their mighty power?