Chapter 5

However, it was of no use to stand still. By pressing on he might overtake his quarry, and after fright had driven them away, instinct might lead them home. That was now the only chance of safety. Would he ever find them?

Deeper and deeper sank his horse into the snow; harder and harder it became to raise its hoofs clear for the next step. Snorting with fear, and trembling in every limb, the gallant beast struggled on. He _must_ go on! To stop would be fatal. Benumbed as he was by the intense cold, bewildered by the storm, with hand and voice Jim cheered on his steed, and nobly it responded.

Suddenly it sank under him. A hollow, treacherously concealed by the snow, had received them both into its chilly depths.

"Up again, old boy!" cried Jim, springing from the saddle, and tugging at the rein, sinking to the waist in the soft snow as he did so. "Now then, one more try!"

The faithful horse struggled desperately to respond to the words. But its strength was spent; its utmost exertions would not suffice to extricate it. The soft snow gave way under its hoofs; deeper and deeper it sank. With a despairing scream it made a last futile effort, then it stretched its neck along the snow, and with a sob lay down to die. Further efforts to move it would be thrown away, and Jim knew it. In a few minutes it would be wrapped in its winding-sheet.

With a lump in his throat Jim turned away--whither? His own powers had nearly ebbed out. Of what use was it to battle further against the gale, when he knew not in which direction to go?

With a sharp setting of the teeth he set himself to stimulate into activity his benumbed faculties. Where was he? What was he doing there? Ah, yes, he was after those stampeded horses. Well, he would never come up with them now. He had done his best, and he had failed.

Taking out his notebook, as well as his benumbed powers would let him, Jim scrawled a few words in the darkness. The powers of nature had been too strong for him. What was a man to set himself against that tempest?

But stay! there was One stronger than the gale. Man was beyond hearing, but was not God everywhere? Now, if ever, was the time to call upon Him.

No words would come but the familiar "Our Father," which Jim had said every night for longer than he could remember. He had no power to think out any other petition. "Our Father," he muttered drowsily, "which art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done. . . ."

The murmur ceased; the speaker was asleep.

They found him a few days later, when the snow had ceased to fall, and the wind swept over the prairie, stripping off the deadly white covering, and leaving the khaki jacket a conspicuous object. The sergeant saw it, and pointed--he could not trust his voice to speak. Eagerly the little band bent over the body of their comrade.

"Why, he's smiling! And see here! he's been writing something in his notebook. What is it?"

Reverently they took the book from the brown hand, and the sergeant read the words aloud:

"Lost, horse dead. Am trying to push on. Have done my best."

"That he did. There was good stuff in him, lads, and perhaps he was wanted up aloft!"

A solemn hush held the party. "'I did my best,'" said a trooper softly at length. "Ah, well, it'll be a good job for all of us, if when our time comes we can say that with as much truth as he!"

[Sidenote: Mary sacrificed herself to help another. The renunciation in time brought reward.]

Mary's Stepping Aside

BY

EDITH C. KENYON

"How very foolish of you! So unbusinesslike!" cried Mrs. Croft angrily.

"I could not do anything else, Hetty. Poor Ethel is worse off than we are. She has her widowed mother to help; they are all so poor, and it was such a struggle for Mrs. Forrest to pay that £160 for Ethel's two years' training in the Physical Culture College. You know, when Ethel and I entered for training, there was a good demand for teachers of physical culture, but now, alas! the supply exceeds the demand, and it has been such a great trouble to Ethel that she could not get a post, and begin to repay her mother for the outlay. She failed every time she tried to secure an appointment; the luck seemed always against her. And now she was next to me, and I had only to step aside to enable her to receive the appointment."

"And you did so! That is just like you, Mary. You will never get on in the world. What will people say? They are already wondering why my clever sister is not more successful."

"Does it really matter what people think?" questioned Mary, and there was a far-away look in her blue eyes, as she glanced through the window at the wide stretch of moorland to be seen from it.

She had been to London to try to secure an appointment as teacher of physical culture at a large ladies' college. There were several applicants for the appointment, which was worth £100 a year and board and lodging, not bad for a commencement, and she was successful.

The lady principal came out to tell her so, and mentioned that Ethel Forrest, her college friend, was the next to her, adding that the latter appeared to be a remarkably nice girl and very capable. In a moment, as Mary realised how terrible poor Ethel's disappointment would be, she resolved to step aside in order that her friend might have the appointment.

The lady principal was surprised, and a little offended, but forthwith gave Ethel Forrest the post, and Mary was more than repaid by Ethel's unbounded gratitude.

"I can't tell you what it is to me to obtain this good appointment," she said, when they came away together. "Poor mother will now cease to deplore the money she could so ill afford to spend on my training. You see, it seemed as if she had robbed the younger children for me, and that it was money thrown away when she could so ill spare it, but now I shall repay her as soon as possible out of my salary, and the children will have a chance."

"Yes, I know. That is why I did it," Mary said. "And I am happy in your happiness, Ethel darling."

"But I am afraid it is rather irksome for you, living so long with your sister and brother-in-law, although they are so well off," Ethel remarked, after a while.

"That is a small matter in comparison," Mary said lightly. "And I am so happy about you, Ethel, your mother will be so pleased."

It seemed to Mary afterwards, when she left Ethel and went by express to York, where she took a slow train to the little station on the moors near her sister's home, that her heart was as light and happy as if she had received a great gift instead of surrendering an advantage. Truly it is more blessed to give than to receive, for there is no joy so pure as "the joy of doing kindnesse."

But on her arrival at the house which had been her home since her parents died, she found herself being severely blamed for what she had done.

In vain Mary reminded her sister that she was not exactly poor, and certainly not dependent upon her. Their father had left a very moderate income to both his daughters, Hetty the elder, who had married Dr. Croft, a country practitioner, and Mary, who, as a sensible modern young woman, determined to have a vocation, and go in for the up-to-date work of teaching physical culture.

Finding she could make no impression upon her sister, Mrs. Croft privately exhorted her husband to speak to Mary about the disputed point.

That evening, therefore, after dinner, as they sat round the fire chatting, the doctor remarked: "But you know, Mary, it won't do to step aside for others to get before you in the battle of life. You owe a duty to yourself and--and your friends."

"I am quite aware of that," Mary replied, "but this was such an exceptional case. Ethel Forrest is so poor, and----"

[Sidenote: "Each for Himself!"]

"Yes, yes. But, my dear girl, it is each for himself in this world."

"Is it?" Mary asked, and again there was a wistful, far-away look in her blue eyes. With an effort, she pulled herself together, and went on softly: "Shall I tell you what I saw as I returned home across the moor from the station? The day was nearly over, and the clouds were gathering overhead. The wind was rising and falling as it swept across the moorland. The rich purple of the heather had gone, and was succeeded by dull brown--sometimes almost grey--each little floret of the ling, as Ruskin said, folding itself into a cross as it was dying. Poor little purply-pink petals! They had had their day, they had had their fill of sunshine, they had been breathed on by the soft breezes of a genial summer, and now all the brightness for them was over; they folded their petals, becoming just like a cross as they silently died away. You see," she looked up with a smile, "even the heather knows that the way of self-sacrifice is the only way that is worth while."

There was silence for a few minutes. The crimson light from the shaded candles fell softly on Mary's face, beautiful in its sincerity and sweet wistfulness.

The doctor shook his head. "I should never have got on in life if I had acted in that way," he said.

"You are quite too sentimental, Mary," remarked her sister harshly. "Why, the world would not go on if we all did as you do. All the same," she added, almost grudgingly, "you are welcome to stay here till you get another appointment."

Mary rose and kissed her. "You shan't regret it, Hetty," she said. "I will try to help you all I can while I stay, but I may soon get another appointment."

* * * * *

Fifteen months afterwards there was great rejoicing in Mrs. Forrest's small and overcrowded house in Croydon, because her youngest brother had returned from New Zealand with quite a large fortune, which he declared gallantly that he was going to share with her.

"Half shall be settled on you and your children, Margaret," he said, "as soon as the lawyers can fix it up. You will be able to send your boys to Oxford, and give your girls dowries. By the by, how is my old favourite Ethel? And what is she doing?"

"She teaches physical culture in a large ladies' college in the West End. It is a good appointment. Her salary has been raised; it is now £130, with board and lodging."

That did not seem much to the wealthy colonial, but he smiled. "And how did she get the post?" he said. "I remember in one of your letters you complained that her education had cost a lot, and that she was very unlucky about getting anything to do."

[Sidenote: Uncle Max]

"Yes, it was so, Max. But she owed her success at last to the kindness of a friend of hers, who won this appointment, and then stepped aside for her to have it."

"Grand!" cried Max Vernon heartily. "What a good friend that was! It is a real pleasure to hear of such self-sacrifice in this hard, work-a-day world. I should like to know that young woman," he continued. "What is she doing now?"

"I don't know," replied his sister. "But here comes Ethel. She will tell you."

Ethel had come over from the college on purpose to see her uncle, and was delighted to welcome him home. He was not more than ten years older than herself, there being more than that between him and her mother. His success in New Zealand was partly owing to his charming personality, which caused him to win the love of his first employer, who adopted him as his son and heir some six years before he died, leaving all his money to him. Ethel had pleasant memories of her uncle's kindness to her when a child.

When hearty greetings had been exchanged between the uncle and niece, Margaret Forrest said to her daughter: "I have been telling your uncle about your friend Mary Oliver's giving up that appointment for you, and he wants to know where she is now, and what she is doing."

"Ah, poor Mary!" said Ethel ruefully. "I am really very troubled about her. Her sister and brother-in-law lost all their money through that recent bank failure, and Dr. Croft took it badly. His losses seemed to harden him. Declaring that he could not carry on his practice in the country without capital, he sold it and arranged to go to New Zealand, though his wife had fallen into ill-health and could not possibly accompany him. He went abroad, leaving her in London in wretched lodgings. Then Mary gave up her good situation as teacher of physical culture in a private school, and took a less remunerative appointment so that she might live with her poor sister, and look after her, especially at nights. I believe there is a lot of night nursing. It's awfully hard and wearing for Mary, but she does it all so willingly, I believe she positively enjoys it, though I cannot help being anxious lest her health should break down."

"She must not be allowed to do double work like that," said the colonial. "No one can work by day and night as well without breaking down."

"But what is she to do?" queried Ethel. "She is obliged to earn money for their maintenance."

"We might put a little in her way," suggested Vernon.

Ethel shook her head. "She is very sweet," she said, "but I fancy she would not like to accept money as a gift."

Max Vernon assented. "Exactly," he said, "I know the sort. But she could not object to take it if it were her right."

Margaret Forrest smiled, scenting a romance. "I will have her here to tea on her next half-holiday," she said; "then you will see her."

But Vernon could not wait till then. He and Ethel made up a plan that they would go to Mrs. Croft's rooms that very evening, in order that he might personally thank Mary for her goodness to his niece.

Mary thought she had never seen such a kind, strong face as his, when he stood before her expressing his gratitude for what she had done for Ethel, and also his sympathy with her troubles, of which Ethel had told him.

That was the beginning, and afterwards he was often in her home, bringing gifts for the querulous invalid, and, better still, hope for the future of her husband, about whom he interested a friend of his, who was doing well out in New Zealand, and looking out for a partner with some knowledge of medicine.

It was at a picnic, under a noble tree, that Max asked Mary to marry him, and learned to his great joy how fully his love was returned.

Mary thought there was no one like him. So many had come to her for help, but only he came to give with both hands, esteeming all he gave as nothing if only he could win her smile and her approval.

So it happened that by the time Mrs. Croft had so far recovered as to be able to join her husband, her departure was delayed one week, in order that she might be present at her sister's wedding.

[Sidenote: Not so Foolish after all!]

"After all, Mary," she said, when at last she was saying goodbye, "your happiness has come to you as a direct result of your kindness to Ethel Forrest in stepping aside for her to have that appointment. You were therefore not so foolish after all."

Mary laughed joyously. "I never thought I was," she said. "There's an old-fashioned saying, you know, that 'it is more blessed to give than to receive.'"

[Sidenote: How a plucky girl averted a terrible danger from marauding Redskins.]

A Race for Life

BY

LUCIE E. JACKSON

The McArthurs were fortunate people. Everybody said that Mr. McArthur must have been born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, for though he had come to Tulaska with barely a red cent in his pocket, everything he attempted succeeded. His land increased, his cattle increased, his home grew in proportion to his land, his wife was a perfect manager, and his only child was noted for her beauty and daring.

A tall, graceful girl was Rosalind McArthur, with her mother's fine skin and Irish blue eyes, her father's strength of mind and fearless bearing. At nineteen years of age she could ride as straight as any man, could paddle her canoe as swiftly as any Indian, and could shoot as well as any settler in the land.

Added to all this, McArthur was a good neighbour, a kind friend, a genial companion, and a succourer of those in need of help. Thus when it became reported that the Indians had been making a raid upon a small settlement on the borders, and it was likely their next incursion would be directed against McArthur's clearing, the owners of small holdings declared their intention to stand shoulder to shoulder, and fight, if need be, for their more prosperous neighbour.

"I think it must have been a false report. Here have we been waiting, gun in hand, for the last two months, and not a sign of a Redskin's tomahawk have we seen," said Rosalind cheerfully, as she and her parents rose from their evening meal.

"Thank God if it be so," returned her mother.

"We'll not slacken our vigilance, however," was McArthur's answer.

At that instant a rapping at the house door was heard, and McArthur rose.

"It must be Frank Robertson. He'll probably want a shake-down, wife."

"He can have it if he wants it," was Mrs. McArthur's cordial answer.

"Many thanks, but he won't trespass on your hospitality," said the new-comer, a tall, handsome young settler, entering as he spoke. "No, McArthur, I cannot stay. I have come but for five minutes on my way back to the village."

"You can at least sit down," said McArthur, pulling forward a chair. "What is the latest news?"

"Nothing, beyond the report that the Indians appear to have shifted themselves elsewhere."

"Well, that is news," said Rosalind, looking up with a smile.

"You say, 'appear to have shifted themselves,'" said McArthur. "I shall still keep on the defensive. I wouldn't trust a Redskin for a good deal."

"True enough," was the answer. "McArthur, whom could you send to the village for need at a critical time?"

"I doubt if I could spare a man. Every hand would be wanted, every rifle needed, for I know not in what numbers the Redskins might come."

[Sidenote: "I could go!"]

"I could ride to the village," announced Rosalind calmly. "Golightly and I would cover the ground in no time."

"You, my darling!" Mrs. McArthur ejaculated in horror.

McArthur waved his daughter's words aside.

"You do not know, my child, what danger you would court."

"Of course, Miss McArthur is out of the question," said the young man, and smiled as Rosalind darted an indignant glance at him.

"At any rate, I am at your service if you need me," he continued. "I trust I may not be called out for such a purpose, but if I am, I and my rifle are at your disposal."

"Thanks, Robertson, you are a good fellow," returned McArthur heartily, grasping the young man's hand.

In a few minutes he rose to go. Rosalind accompanied him to the house door.

"Mr. Robertson," she said abruptly, as soon as they were out of hearing, "which would be the shortest cut to the village? By the woods or by the river?" He looked keenly at her.

"You meant what you said just now?"

"Of course I meant it. I--I would do anything to save my father's and mother's lives, and their property, which father has secured by dint of so much labour."

He took her hand in his.

"Rosalind," he said softly, "if anything happened to you, my life would be of no worth to me."

She flushed all over her fair skin.

"It is better to be prepared for an emergency," she answered gently, "and I do not think I would run such a great risk as you and my father think."

"You do not know the Redskin," was the grave answer.

"You heard my father say he couldn't spare a man. How much more use I would be if I brought help than stayed here and perhaps shot a couple of Indians, who might overpower us by their numbers. I was wondering if Golightly and the woods would be a shorter way than my canoe and the river?"

He had both her hands in his, and was looking down into her eyes.

"The woods and Golightly would be the swiftest way to communicate with us in the village."

"Then if need be I shall do it."

"Take the right-hand track straight through the wood, and God protect you, Rosalind. My house will be the first one you will come to. Let me be the first to spring to your aid. No man will step into the stirrup with greater alacrity than I. But, please God, there may be no need for you to go."

He lifted her hands to his lips and was gone.

Two days passed and nothing of moment happened. But on the evening of the third, two men in McArthur's employ entered the house breathless with excitement. Feathertop--an Indian chief noted for the number of scalps which adorned his person--had been seen in the vicinity of the small settlement.

McArthur, with a grim fixedness of countenance, saw to the priming of his rifle for the fiftieth time; and Rosalind, with her father's courage, examined her own weapon, which she had resolved to take with her for safety if Golightly had to be requisitioned.

"Rosalind, those chaps will be on us to-night or to-morrow morning."

It was McArthur who spoke, and Rosalind knew that her own misgivings had taken root also within her father's mind.

"Because of Feathertop?" she asked bravely.

"Yes. He is never lurking about unless he means business."

"Could David and Jim have been misinformed?"

"I don't think so."

"Then, father, I shall ride to the village."

[Sidenote: Rosalind's Resolve]

McArthur looked at his daughter. He saw her face, he saw her figure. Both were alive with determination and courage.

"Rosalind, you will kill your mother if you attempt to do such a thing."

"Don't tell her unless you are obliged. It is to save her that I do it. Give her a rifle--keep her employed--let her think I am with some of the neighbours. Father, we do not know if we shall be outnumbered. If we are, what will happen? All your cattle will go--your whole property will be ruined, and, worse than all put together, we shall probably lose our lives in a horrible manner."

"I acknowledge all that you say, but one of the men must go. You with your rifle can take his place, and do just as much execution as he can----"

David put his head in at the door.

"We've brought all the live-stock as close to the house as possible. Jim has been stealing round the plantation by the river, and says he has distinctly seen three Redskins on the other side of the river. We must be prepared for an attack this evening."

"David, can you get me Golightly without attracting attention? I am going to ride him at once to the village."

"Mercy on us!" exclaimed David. "Is there no one but you to do that?"

"No. You and all the rest must defend my father and mother. I shall keep on this side of the river, and will go through the wood. If I go at once I may prevent an attack. David, every minute is of value. Fetch me Golightly. Father, I am not of such importance as the men here, but I can ride, and I can defend myself with my rifle if need be."

"Then God go with you, my child."

Only McArthur, and David, and the moon saw Rosalind spring to her seat on Golightly's back. Only the moon saw her with flushed cheeks and beating heart riding for life through the trees of the forest. If only she could get clear of the first two or three miles, she was safe to reach her destination in time.

The track was clearly discernible except when the swiftly-flying clouds obscured the moon's light. The soughing of the wind in the tree-tops, together with the soft springy turf, helped to somewhat deaden the sound of Golightly's hoofs. The good horse scented danger in the air and in the tone of his mistress's voice, and with true instinct galloped through the wood, conscious of the caressing finger-tips which ever and anon silently encouraged him.

"Bang!"

It was unexpected, and Golightly sprang into the air, only to gallop on again like lightning. Rosalind's heart was going pretty fast now. She could see two or three dark forms gliding serpent-like through the trees, but Golightly's rapid progress baulked their aim. Ah, there are some figures in advance of her! Courage, Rosalind, courage! Her rifle is ready.