Part 2

When at length the crowning moment arrived, and Peter was formally introduced to his new home, Julius was almost as excited over it as was Robin himself. Long did he linger, so fascinating was it to watch the little inmate as it explored the corners of the old packing-case, and stood up on its hind legs to sniff the wire netting which had been so carefully fastened on, with a vast amount of vigorous hammering and super-abundance of nails. He almost danced with delight when Peter went through the narrow doorway, sawn with infinite labour in the hard wood, which led to the sleeping apartment within. How comfortable he would find it, filled as it was with nice dry bracken, which the two lads had gathered from the adjoining wood.

"I'll come back to-morrow early," he remarked to Robin, when at length he could bring himself to say good-bye. "I think everything's right, but there might be a nail or two we could stick in somewhere to make it all quite secure, and we'll be able to see better in the morning."

"I think Robin's the jolliest boy I ever knew," he said to himself as he went home. "I'll often go to see him, if only I can manage without father finding out. We'll have some fine times together, and no one will be any the wiser."

"I couldn't have believed he was such a decent sort of chap," was Robin's comment after Julius had taken his departure. "He seemed such an utter cad when he spoke to me at the gates."

"Poor little fellow," replied Mrs. Power, "you see he's got no mother to help him to behave, and I expect he's not used to meeting people, as Mr. Field leads such an isolated life. We must try and be kind to him if we can."

*CHAPTER III*

*Judge Simmons*

"A gentleman to see you, sir," said the footman as he approached Mr. Field with a salver on which lay a solitary visiting card.

"Eh, what? A visitor, did you say?" said his master. "What's his name, Jenkins?"

"It's written there, sir," replied the footman. "He said you wouldn't know him, but he would be glad if you could see him for a few moments on business."

"Judge Simmons," read out Mr. Field, as he took up the card. "Sounds as if he came from America."

"So he does, sir, if you can go by his accent," answered Jenkins.

"Don't like Yankees, though I've spent so much of my life among them," murmured Mr. Field under his breath. "What can this fellow want, coming bothering me here?" he added in a slightly louder tone.

"I don't know, sir, I didn't happen to enquire," replied the footman.

"Don't be impertinent, Jenkins," said Mr. Field looking up sharply. He lived in continual dread that his servants were making fun of him behind his back, and Jenkins' tone was suspiciously polite. "Of course it's not your place to question my visitors, and you'd pretty soon find yourself in hot water if you did."

"Judge Simmons is a better specimen of a gentleman than old Field," was the footman's conclusion as he piloted the visitor into the library, "and I fancy he knows a thing or two by the look of him. I shouldn't like to be faced by him if there was anything shady I wanted to hide. His eyes seem to go right through you, as if he could count your very bones."

Certainly the tall spare figure that crossed the room to shake hands with Mr. Field was a good example of the typical well-bred American. Clean-shaven, with a firm jaw, and quick, piercing eyes, he gave one the impression at once of a strong man, alert and observant, with a sense of humour tempering the sternness of the mouth.

"I must apologize," he said, "for intruding upon you in this manner, but I shall be grateful if you will allow me to speak to you on a matter of rather urgent business."

Mr. Field motioned him to a chair, and replied that he would be pleased to assist him if it was in his power to do so.

"Well," continued the stranger, "the fact is this. I have a young friend over in Mexico, who is rather too fond of embarking on commercial enterprises of a decidedly risky and precarious nature, and as I am in a way his adviser, I feel a certain amount of responsibility when he asks my opinion about things. He has just written, saying he has the option of purchasing some land in which rumour says that silver maybe found, and he wants to know what I think about it. It is quite out of your beat, Mr. Field, as I know your mines are in California, so I felt it would not be trespassing on your preserves if I asked you to be kind enough to answer a few questions in a friendly way as to the risks of such a speculation, knowing what an authority you are upon the subject. I am staying with Lord Monfort, and, hearing that you resided so near, I ventured to make myself known to you, hoping that my nationality would perhaps appeal to you, seeing you have lived so long in my country."

Mr. Field's features, which at first had been decidedly forbidding, relaxed at the mention of the earl. Aloof though he held himself from the ordinary run of mankind, it was his secret ambition to mix with that society into which, except for his great wealth, he could never hope to obtain entrance. To know that he had been the subject of conversation at Lanthorne Abbey was as nectar to his aspiring soul.

"I shall be glad to do what I can for you," he said urbanely, "if you will kindly give me some particulars as to locality and the like."

After about half an hour's conference Judge Simmons rose to go.

"You will stay to lunch, won't you?" urged Mr. Field. "It's getting on towards one o'clock, and I shall be pleased to welcome you, if you will be content with merely the company of myself and my little boy."

"I've only once been down your way," remarked Judge Simmons as they were seated at table, "and that was some years ago, before you had made that corner of the world a household word. Everyone knows the Good Hope silver mine and its apparently exhaustless resources, but I wish I could locate it better in my own mind. I don't seem able to fit it in with what I remember of the place. I went with a nice young fellow named Barker who was prospecting then in those parts, and he staked out a claim somewhere thereabouts. I recollect he called it Wild Goat Gully. I've quite lost sight of him since, and have never been up there again, but I fancy he didn't strike it rich, or we should have heard of it before now."

"I was told that he went completely to the dogs, and was at last drowned when crossing one of the big rivers," replied Mr. Field. "He certainly made nothing out of his Gully, so far as I heard, and the very name he gave it has died out."

"One peculiarity about it struck me much at the time," remarked the judge. "There was a high precipice bounding it on one side, with a great orange streak right across it as if it had been daubed on with a brush. Some geological freak, I suppose."

"Why, how funny!" exclaimed Julius, who had been sitting silently listening to the conversation. "That's just like the Good Hope cliff. It looks exactly as if some enormous giant had thrown his pot of yellow paint at the rock."

"Strange," said the judge, glancing up at Mr. Field, "I heard there wasn't another formation like it in the whole country."

"What nonsense!" ejaculated Mr. Field testily. "I've explored every part of the district for miles round, and know every inch of it well, and I could show you half a dozen valleys where there were similar rocks, any one of which might be Wild Goat Gully."

"I don't think there are, father," chimed in Julius, "for I asked old Joe the trapper, who has lived there all his life, and he told me just the same as Judge Simmons. He said it was 'unique,' and I remember when I asked you what that was, you said it meant there wasn't another like it in the world."

"If you contradict me in this way, Julius, you may just leave the room," said his father in an angry tone. "I won't have lies told at my table, even by my own son. Do you hear me, Julius? Be off with you this instant, or I'll give you a thrashing that you won't soon forget."

"It's quite true, father," stoutly asserted the boy. "You know you've often said to me that no one could equal the Good Hope mine any more than they could match the yellow splash on its cliff."

A box on the ears was Mr. Field's only reply, as he grasped the lad by the arm and hustled him out of the door.

"I am sorry, sir," he said when he returned to the table, "but I am ashamed to say my boy has developed a terrible faculty for telling the most deliberate untruths, and I have to do my best to check him. He seems to take a perfect delight in inventing stories without a shadow of foundation, and in sticking to them at all costs."

"I believe the child's version was the right one," said Judge Simmons to himself as he motored back to Lanthorne Abbey. "Why should Field be so anxious to demonstrate that orange streaks were such very ordinary things?"

Suddenly he sat up and gave a low exclamation.

"What if he wished to prove to me that Good Hope mine could not possibly be the same as Wild Goat Gully? That's a question which opens out some interesting answers. I guess I'll make some enquiries when I get back to California again."

*CHAPTER IV*

*Timothy's Three Friends*

Madelaine Power wandered along the shore idly watching the waves as they came tumbling in, their white crests curling in a succession of long feathery lines, until with a roar and a hiss they were flung upon the beach, spreading themselves out like great fans of foam upon the shingle.

No figure but her own was to be seen on the narrow pebbly strip, which ran like a yellow ribbon between the foot of the cliff and the incoming tide. No sound was to be heard save the monotonous music of the breakers, and an occasional wild cry as a stray sea-gull circled above her head.

Madelaine gave a little shiver as her eye followed the desolate track.

"Only eleven years ago this month since Gerald and I trod this very shore," she said. "Only eleven years, and yet what a lifetime it seems! Truly much of it has been to me a sad and solitary way. It has been heavy walking, and most of it against the wind!"

She stood for a moment gazing at the coast-line, up which a sea-mist was slowly travelling, blotting out the distant view of ocean and headland.

"Just as my troubles have blotted out my sun," she thought to herself, as she morbidly let her mind dwell on the dark days of the past.

It was not strange that her spirit failed her at times, for the road had indeed been toilsome to her young feet.

The only child of a struggling country doctor, and left an orphan at the age of seventeen, she had early engaged in a hard fight for existence, earning a scanty livelihood by teaching in the neighbouring town. It was there that the girl made the acquaintance of the handsome young surveyor whose friendship made so great a difference to her lonely lot. Small wonder was it, when he asked her to be his wife, that she should feel as if a new and glorious era had suddenly dawned. No matter that her home was to be henceforth in the unknown West. The heart's love of her strong and generous nature had been given wholly to him whom she would gladly have followed to the ends of the earth.

With high hope the youthful couple had gone forth to try their fortune in the New World, and for some months things went cheerily enough with them. Then came speculations and accompanying failure, and Madelaine learnt only too well the weak side of the man whom she still loved, but with the pitiful sustaining tenderness of a nobler and braver character than his own.

After the birth of their boy, Gerald had for a time displayed greater energy and perseverance in seeking to better his position, journeying often long distances in search of work. It was during one of these absences that Madelaine received the letter which almost broke her heart and sprinkled her chestnut hair with grey.

It told her how her husband had been suddenly smitten by the cold hand of death while travelling in a wild part of the country, his body being laid to rest in the depths of the trackless forest. His watch and chain and an unfinished diary were the only tokens enclosed in the accompanying package, and the young widow was left to realize as best she could the desolate and penniless position in which she and her infant were now placed.

Neither she nor Gerald had any relatives to whom she could appeal, and had it not been for the aid given to her in her distress by an eccentric and benevolent neighbour she would indeed have been destitute. Touched by the forlorn condition of the hapless pair, this aged recluse invited them to share his humble dwelling, and when he died about three months later, Madelaine found to her surprise, that he had willed the whole of his little property to herself and her son. One solitary stipulation he made, and that a hard one in the faithful Madelaine's eyes. Only by adopting his name could she and the boy claim the legacy that he left. It was after much searching of heart that finally the thought of the benefit which would accrue to her child outweighed the repugnance she felt in setting aside the sacred name of her dead husband, and as Madelaine Power she set sail with her baby for England, and settled down in their new home.

Helping out the small income by typewriting and fine needlework, she had managed hitherto to make a fairly comfortable living; but at present the thought of Robin's education weighed somewhat heavily upon her heart. To be either a doctor or a surveyor was the summit of the boy's ambition, but how to give him the training he required for such a career was a problem she had not solved as yet.

As she let her mind wander again to the future, she chanced to look down upon the beach where a wave had run up higher than its fellows, almost to the spot where she stood. There at her feet lay a tiny fish, struggling vainly on the sand, a helpless waif, left high and dry by the retreating sea.

"You poor little thing," she cried, as she stooped, and, lifting it gently, threw it with a steady hand into the deep water beyond. "I couldn't leave you to die there all by yourself. How strange to think that in all these miles of desolate shore you should have been washed up just at my feet. I wonder if God knew? Yes, of course He did, for we're told plainly that the eyes of the Lord are in every place. If He hears the young ravens when they cry, and notices if a sparrow falls, He knows surely when the humblest of His human creatures are in need."

She turned and walked back by the shore, now brightened by a gleam of sunshine, as the sea-mist cleared away. The waves seemed to sing a new refrain as she passed along, the melody of which put vigour into her steps and a light into her eyes;

"How much more .... How much more Will He clothe you, O, ye of little faith?"

"I may as well go up and pay Timothy a visit," she thought, as she reached a rough ladder-like staircase which gave access to the top of the cliff from the beach below. The wall of the aged fisherman's cottage could be seen almost on a line with the edge of the crag.

"How terrible it must be to live there," she exclaimed as she looked up. "I hardly like even to go in to visit him for a few minutes, and to think of trying to sleep in such a place!"

She knocked at the door, and entered the little kitchen, which was fortunately at that end of the house which was furthest from the sea.

It was a low room with heavy wooden rafters and whitewashed walls. The old man was sitting by the open fireplace in his high-backed chair, placidly smoking his pipe, while at his elbow stood an oak table an which lay a well-worn Bible in its brown leather binding, and a pair of horn spectacles.

After a few words of greeting, Mrs. Power's thoughts turned naturally to the danger threatening the occupant of the perilous dwelling.

"I wonder you're not afraid, Timothy, of staying here all by yourself. Any night the waves may break away another piece of the cliff, and the house may go."

Timothy slowly took his pipe out of his mouth and laid it carefully upon the table; then placing both his withered hands upon his knees, he leant forward and nodded his head gently, while he kept his kindly eyes fixed on the face of his visitor.

"I be ninety-four year old come next Lady-day," he commenced in his high quaking voice, "and I've seen many a good friend pass away. The old wife she's gone, and the two little ones that God took with the whooping cough when they were but babes. My brothers are all gone, and my three sisters, and the fine comrades I started with on life's journey. We went together down to the sea in ships, and not one on 'em's outside the harbour now, except my old worthless self. They're all gone, all my good true friends, all gone but three. And them three, I think on them by day, and I dream on them by night, the only three on 'em that's left. Like as not you'll smile when I tell you their names. They be right strange friends even for an old man like me."

"Tell me who they are?" said his visitor, for Timothy had ceased speaking and was gazing absently into the fire.

He hesitated a moment.

"Well," he said at length, "I'll tell you. One on 'em's Death, and another be the Tide, but the third be the best One of all."

"What do you mean?" asked Madelaine, for the old man had paused, as if his thoughts had wandered back again to long past days. "How do you count them your friends?"

"This here little house was my father's before me," continued Timothy, as if talking to himself, "and man and boy I've never lived elsewhere, though when I was a little lad there were two fine fields between us and the cliff. I was always a running to the edge to watch the tide, it fair bewitched me to see it come creeping up and then backing away, day in, day out, like some mighty living thing with a living breathing heart. And when I got a bit older, that there sea made a fisher of me. Summer and winter it gave me my daily bread; it never failed me yet. The sea's been a rare good friend to me from the one end of life to t'other; a rare good friend it's been. It'll not go back on me now, it won't. 'Twould be a mean trick to play on me, it would, if it took the old place from under my feet, after four and ninety years of good fellowship! I'm not afraid of the Tide."

Mrs. Power knew not what to say. No arguments rose to her lips, though she vainly longed to remonstrate.

"Well, Timothy," she said at last, "I can't say that I'm as well acquainted with the ways of the tide as you are, but the other of your friends that you seem so sure of, I have often heard mentioned as the great Enemy."

Timothy's face lit up with a triumphant smile as he raised one hand and pointed upwards.

"And why?--I reckon it's because they don't understand. I thought that once myself, but I see clearer now. The Tide's a good friend, but Death's better."

"How did you find that out, Timothy?" questioned Mrs. Power.

"It was many a long year ago now," was the reply. "The old clergyman's sister, Miss Alice, she was a good one, she was, and she would have us young chaps up at the big house to learn us summat when the winter nights did come, and the sea was too rough for the fishing. She was always for book learning, was Miss Alice.

"'Don't go and waste your life, lad,' she would say, 'thinking it's enough to feed the poor body; 'stead of that, do something for the soul too.'

"It's dead and buried she's been this long while now, but she comes back to me plain, she do, my eyes they seem to see her sitting there yet, same as I saw her last, the week before she died. She sent for me, she did, seeing I was one of her old scholars, to tell me she was going home, and to bid me take more thought for heaven. She was always a wonderful kind teacher, was Miss Alice, and her face fair shone when she spoke of God and the golden city.

"That evening she was sitting by the fire, and on the wall just behind her was a big picter. Well--that picter it transfixed me wholly; it stuck in my mind, it did, I have it before me now, as plain as a pikestaff."

"What was it like?" asked Mrs. Power.

"There was an old chap--as it might be me," answered Timothy, "and he was sitting in his big arm-chair--as it might be this 'un, and his Bible by his side, and his vittles on the table--just as I have here. He did look so wonderful tired, that poor man, and he was resting so comfortable in the big chair. His eyes they were shut, and his head it was leaning back, and he was sleeping so quiet and peaceable-like. But you'd never guess what was in that room along of him. No, you'd never guess."

"I would rather you told me," said Madelaine, "I'm not good at guessing."

"Well," continued Timothy, "along side of the table was a great big skeleton, dressed up in long flowing clothes, and its face looked right kind and gentle, it did, and its hands were stretched up, a-pulling the rope of a great bell that hung in the belfry over the old man's head. The sun was just sinking, you could see it out of the little window in the back of the picter. Says I to Miss Alice, 'The old chap'll be finely scared when he wakes up and sees the ghost.' 'No,' said she, 'there's writing here below, and it means something quite different. The name of that picture is "Death as Friend." It means that he's come to call the poor man away from all his want and all his weariness, and to tell him it's time to go up to the beautiful city and the light of God.' He's no enemy--he's a right good friend for an old man to have."

"So you're expecting him to come for you, Timothy," said Madelaine gently.

"Yes, I'm just waiting here for my friend," was the quiet answer. "He won't be long now, and the other friend down below there, I know he'll wait till I'm in the mansions of gold before he takes down the walls of my little house here. I'm waiting quite patient, and I'm not afraid. We're waiting, all of us, my friends and me, for we're all in the Hand of Him that's mightier than the mightiest, Him that's the best Friend of all. I be safe to trust in Him, for He knows the end from the beginning, and the times and the seasons are His alone."

The old man took off his fisherman's cap as he spoke, and closed his eyes as if in prayer. Mrs. Power did not like to disturb him, but silently left the hut.

The sunny landscape look blurred to her as she walked home along the edge of the cliff.

"I've had a lesson," she said to herself. "The Lord knoweth them that are His. Surely we may well commit ourselves to the care of our Best Friend."

*CHAPTER V*

*A Thief in the Night*

It was a warm August evening, and the windows of Sea View Cottage were opened wide to let in the faint breeze which had risen with the turning of the tide. The lamp was lit in the little sitting-room, and in its soft glow sat Mrs. Power, her head bending low over her work.

Suddenly she looked up.

"What was that curious noise?" she exclaimed. "It sounded as if someone was in the garden. I really wish old Mrs. Sheppard would keep a dog. It is not safe to be so far off the high road, and she so deaf."

She rose and went to the window, peering vainly out into the darkness, where nothing was to be seen save the dim outlines of the trees lazily waving their branches against the starlit sky.

"I wonder if it was Robin walking in his sleep again," she said. "I'll take the light and see if he's all right."

She turned to go, but before lifting the lamp she glanced at the watch which lay beside it on the table.

"Half-past ten!" she remarked, as she took the key and wound it up. "Late hours for this Sleepy Hollow, but I think I'll go on a little longer with my embroidery before I go to bed."