Part 4

For all at once with a roar and a rush, a wave of foam-crested water swept round the curve above them, and in an instant it was upon them, leaping into the boat, which was directly after a quarter filled, and turning the limpid trickling stream into a furious rushing torrent, which tossed the boat from side to side, nearly overturning it before sending it downward at a furious pace.

"Oh, Syd!" shrieked the girl, "what is it?"

"Sit still, and hold tight," he shouted. "Water—come down from the hills."

The boat steadied directly after, but glided down at a furious rate, promising to be capsized against one or other of the huge stones which lay in the stream, as the boy seized the pole and stood up to try and fend off the boat from the rocks or from being overturned against some projecting block at the side.

But it was impossible to keep standing, for in thrusting with the pole it slipped into a chink between two blocks of granite, stuck, and the next moment was snatched out of his hand. There was nothing for it but to sit down again, and to do that which he shouted to his sister.

"Hold on," he cried, "tight!"

And then away they went, sometimes head first, sometimes stern, and not only broadside but turning round and round as one end or the other of the punt crashed against some rock with a blow that threatened to shiver the boat to pieces.

"Oh," groaned the boy to himself, "if we had only had time to jump out!" But this was to himself, for he fought hard and bravely not to do or say anything likely to frighten the poor girl seated holding on with both hands in the front of the punt.

But Syd thought a great deal.

"We shall be upset directly," he thought, "or broken to pieces on the stones."

But just then as he was gliding down backwards at an increasing speed, so much water had come down that it grew less furious as it became deeper, and in a few minutes they passed with a rush through the narrowed part where the sides had been built in by the miners and masons so as to shape buttresses to bear the ends of the wooden bridge which carried the mine road.

Under it they passed, being almost shot under towards some blocks of granite, at which the girl glanced in horror, for the water foamed among them; but they escaped Syd's notice, for he was going backwards.

"Can you see anyone down by the water-gates?" said Syd suddenly.

"No, no," cried the girl. "Oh, Syd, Syd, Syd, are we going to be drowned?"

"No," he shouted back. "Don't be frightened. The boat will be upset soon, and then I shall swim ashore with you and climb up the bank."

"Thank you, Syd," sobbed the poor child. "Do, please. It would be dreadful for poor Papa if we were drowned."

"Poor Papa" was standing below, gazing upstream with starting eyes, for the roar of the torrent had awakened him and those above ground to the danger, and the men had followed the manager to the water's edge.

"I see 'em, sir!" shouted the carpenter.

"Yes, here they come," cried Mr. Lee. "Hands, my lads—hands!"

He caught at the carpenter's extended hand and leaped into the water, while three more men joined hands to form a human chain, which swayed and nearly gave way before the pressure of the water, as the manager reached out more and more to try and catch at the rapidly descending boat.

"I shall never do it," he groaned. "Oh, my poor children!" and in imagination he saw them swept out to sea.

But as he thought, he made a snatch at the boat's side, the effect of which was to throw both children into the bottom, where the water washed to and fro, while the men lost their footing, but not the desperate grip of their hands.

There was a terrible struggle in the broken water, but the party, boat and all, were borne close in, and more help coming from the stamp-mill, in another minute all were safe, though drenched and breathless, while the torrent for the next hour literally raged between the little river's stony banks, which it was washing clear of flower and fern and bearing all out to sea.

"Our poor boat, Syd!" said Lin, a couple of hours later, when the water was sinking back.

"Yes," said the boy, with a sigh. "She's swept right away."

He was quite right, but the next morning a fisherman brought her back, while the little river was once more flowing soft and clear.

"Jean-Pierre"

THE STORY OF THE ST. BERNARD

IT was their first winter in England, and the Buckland children were staring out of the window at the snowflakes that tumbled over each other in their hurry to reach the ground.

"They're like tiny white sails," cried Oswald.

"Or dream-fairies' wings," suggested Molly, who had been reading Grimm.

"Or feathers from the sofa cushion we tored this mornin'," said Bobs practically, hugging his arms in a queer little way he had when anything delighted him. Jim did not say anything, but his wistful grey eyes looked sadly at this strange snow that had already covered the lawn, and he shivered a little as if he felt the cold.

"The proper thing to do now is to make snowballs," remarked Oswald, remembering a thrilling snow-fight he had read of when he was in India.

"Hooray!" the others shouted, and the rafters of the old house rang with their footsteps as they clattered off downstairs.

All but Jim. Jim stayed behind because he knew that if he went he might spoil their fun, for though he was nearly three years older than Bobs, he couldn't run half as fast, and grew tired quickly. He was thin and pale and very small—"two sizes too small for his age," his aunt had told him when he arrived. Since then he had done his best to oblige them and grow big, but even Aunt Margaret, who had the prettiest dimples and talked more gently than her sisters, could not say he had succeeded.

"Never mind, old fellow," she would whisper. "You'll make a start when the spring comes, and catch up Bobs. You'll see."

"Spring was a long time coming," thought Jim, as he turned from the window towards the fire. The Viking, a big St. Bernard who belonged to Aunt Margaret, and was far too dignified to romp with even the nicest children, made room for him on the hearthrug, and actually allowed him to lean against his fine broad back. Jim stroked him admiringly as he stretched his magnificent limbs in front of the fire, and wished that he too could be "splendid and big and brave."

"All in good time," said the Viking soberly. "But you needn't wait to be 'big' before you are 'brave and splendid' you know—Jean-Pierre was that, though he was as small as you, and had a crooked back besides."

"Jean-Pierre?" Jim questioned eagerly. The Viking shook himself, and turned his head so that his broad muzzle rested against Jim's shoulders, close to his ear.

"I was born in Switzerland," he said, "high amongst the mountains, where the snow falls for weeks at a time, and sometimes buries whole families beneath it. The monks of St. Bernard had trained my father, with many other dogs of the same kind, to rescue travellers who lost their way in trying to cross the mountains, and, but for an accident, that would have been my work too. My father loved the life, and I should have been as proud as he to share its dangers."

"Won't you tell me about it?" Jim asked coaxingly. "I want to hear about Jean-Pierre, and why you say he was so 'splendid.' Did he wear a beautiful shining sword, like Uncle Mark does? And could he fight?"

"Jean-Pierre had never seen a sword," the Viking said, "and though he could fight well, it wasn't with enemies that you could see, but with Hunger, and Fear, and Cold. But if I am to tell you what I know about him, I must begin at the beginning."

"Twelve years ago I was one of a littler of sprawling puppies. My mother declared that we were the handsomest she had ever had, but my father said that size had nothing do with pluck, and that it was only pluck that counted."

"How we puppies longed to be grown up, so that we too might show that we were brave, and how we loved to see our father and his companions start off in search of some lost traveller. The monks would fasten flasks of brandy round their necks, and rugs and blankets on their backs, and wish them 'Godspeed' solemnly. 'Mon Brave' they used to call our father, and we often heard them speaking to visitors of his wonderful sense of smell, and how he would dig out lost people from the deepest snowdrift."

"One afternoon we learnt that two children were missing. They had no mother, and their father, who had gone to a neighbouring village to lay in food for the winter, had been cut off from them by the snow. The storm had come before it was expected, and for days he had not been able to reach his cottage. When he did, he found it empty. Pinned to the table was a letter from the boy, who had been left in charge of Rose Marie, his little sister. 'The Fairy of the Mountains' people called her, because she was so very fair, and the boy—it was Jean-Pierre—loved her more even than his father."

"The letter had been written the night before, and said that he and Marie had been without food for three days then, and when morning came were going to try 'the lower pass' in hopes of reaching the Monastery. 'I shall take care of Rose Marie,' he added, 'and keep the cold from her.'"

"That day the snow had fallen more heavily than ever and the monks shook their heads as they looked at the sky. 'Do your best, Mon Brave,' they said to our father, and sent him off in advance of the other dogs."

"It was almost the coldest night we had ever known, even in the Monastery; we puppies snuggled ourselves together beneath the straw, and shuddered as we listened to the stories our mother told us of dogs and travellers who had been buried under masses of fallen snow."

"But in less than an hour we heard the deep baying of the dogs, which meant, we knew, that the children had been found. Some of the monks seized their lanterns—for it was very dark, and set out for the perilous track, that was so narrow in places that they could only move sideways, and but few inches at a time."

"After a while the deep baying we had heard came nearer, and presently 'Mon Brave' bounded over the snow and into the courtyard. Strapped to his back was a tiny girl, 'The Fairy of the Mountains,' and when the monks who had stayed behind unrolled the blankets from her, we saw that over her woollen jacket she was wearing a boy's coat, and that boys' socks covered her sodden shoes, while the flannel shirt wrapped round her must have been Jean-Pierre's too. He had 'taken great care of her' as he said he would, and kept her from the cold."

The Viking's voice died dreamily away. Jim wanted to ask him what had happened to Jean-Pierre, and why the Viking had come to England. But while he was deciding which question to ask first, Oswald and Molly and Bobs came rushing in.

"It was splendid," they cried together, and Jim said "splendid" too. But he was thinking of Jean-Pierre, and how he had taken care of Rose Marie.

Lilian Gask.

The Jailer's Little Son

THE little child was quivering all over. Hidden behind the arras of the stately room where her sad-faced mother sat talking with sympathising friends, little Patricia was listening with eager ears to the earnest talk of the elders. The child knew that her father was in prison—in the big prison which they could almost see from the windows of the house they had come to live in to be near him. A knight faithful to his King in the dreadful war only just ended, he was lying in prison, and every day they feared to hear that his life had been made forfeit. Every night little Patricia's pillow was wetted by her tears; every night and morning she added to her customary childish prayers a petition for her dear father's liberation. But she knew he was in the hands of stern political and Puritan foes, and that her mother's heart was very sore and heavy, and that the friends who came and went, and sought to comfort them, feared the worst themselves.

But now her eyes were shining with excitement. Her little heart was beating high with a new hope and purpose. When the door had closed upon the last of the visitors, the little one came out from her place of concealment, and, approaching her mother, she said:

"Mother, sweet, give me the letter. I will get it to father."

The lady looked down with her sad eyes full of wonder.

"My child—what do you mean?"

"Mother, I heard them talking. They said so much had been done. They said all arrangements had been made; and that if only father could get a letter—could read it and know—he might escape easily out of his prison. That is the letter I want."

"But, my sweetling, they will not let you go to your father. We have asked too oft—and have failed."

"I know, mother; I shall not be able to give it him myself. But little Giles will give it for me!"

"My child—what mean you—are you dreaming? Who is Giles?"

"Why, mother—you must see him often on the green. He is the jailer's little boy. He walks after us often. I give him my hand to kiss sometimes. But only when there is nobody to see. He took a kiss from me to father once; and gave me that from father too. I did not show it you before. I thought it would but make you weep afresh," and the child held up a little bit of wood, fashioned somewhat into the likeness of a horse; the sort of thing that prisoners while away the time in seeking to whittle with any little bit of metal which they may find about their dress or in their cell.

The lady's tears fell fast as she pressed the little image to her lips, and closely questioned the child about the boy, of whom she spoke with such confidence.

Little Giles lived within the precincts of a prison, but he was a bright-faced, brave-hearted little lad, whose merry voice had not learned the nasal drawl of his father's friends, and who could not make shift to subdue his natural gaiety of disposition in the way it was desired of him. Perhaps his mother secretly encouraged him to be blithe; perhaps he watched the cavalier gentlemen with too much satisfaction and admiration to be a very staunch Puritan himself. And of late, since that little cavalier maiden with the big brown eyes, the rosy lips and the golden cloud of hair had come into the place, he had thought and dreamed of little else than of being her faithful follower and esquire all the days of his life.

He knew that her father was one of his father's prisoners; and he sought every opportunity of making an errand into that part of the prison where the cavalier knight lay, and of trying to see him whenever it was possible. Giles was a handy little lad, and very willing and obliging; so that he was sometimes sent on errands by his father or his underlings, and not infrequently took the prisoners their food; but some other and older person invariably accompanied him to lock and unlock the doors, though he assisted by taking in the rations.

Just now and again the turnkey would pass on to another room for a minute or so, leaving Giles in the one before; and thus he was able very occasionally to comfort the heart of some captive by a whispered hint as to what was going on without, or by a message from some loved one hungering after news. No one suspected how the little fellow longed to help and comfort the prisoners, or how his kind heart was moved by any sight of suffering and sorrow.

But his little lady filled his thought now almost to the exclusion of all else. He knew that she came daily to the green which lay betwixt the fortress and the town, and he was ever on the watch for her, counting it a red-letter day in his calendar when she should bestow a smile upon him—still more when she should pause to speak a word to him.

She was never alone. Some servant was always in attendance. But upon this bright June morning she came out with only a lad following her, and in her hand she held a small bow and some arrows.

She did not seem to notice Giles, and shot her shafts here and there, the boy running to pick them up. Giles would have loved to fill this office himself; but the little lady gave him no encouragement, and he stood shy and silent a little behind her.

Suddenly she shot an arrow more strongly than its fellows, and it fell behind a low wall which guarded a small garden belonging to the chaplain of the prison.

"Go, boy," she said, "you can climb the wall and find the arrow."

He ran to do her bidding, and was quickly lost to sight behind the wall. There was nobody on all the green but the two children. The little maid turned upon Giles and beckoned him to her side. With an eagerly flushed face he came, quivering all over.

"Giles," she said very solemnly, "do you love me?"

"With all my heart and soul!" he answered with breathless fervour.

"Would you like to do something for me?"

"I would love it, little lady."

"But suppose they killed you dead for it?"

"Let them!" cried Giles, "I would not care one whit!"

"Giles," she said, slipping a letter into his hand which he instantly hid in his doublet, "if you can give this letter to my dear father in the prison, they say he will be able to get out, and his head won't be cut off. But if anybody else finds it, they will kill him, and you too. Boy, do you dare do it?"

"Of course I dare. I would die for you, little lady, or for anybody you loved. I will give him the letter. If they kill me for it afterwards, I shall not mind."

Patricia's little face suddenly quivered all over.

"Boy," she said, "O dear, dear good Giles, I don't want you to be killed—I don't indeed. I love you next best to my father and mother—and the King!"

And she suddenly threw down her bow and clasped her little arms about Giles's neck, and pressed a kiss upon his lips.

Giles walked on air as he went homeward that day. Whatever else betided him his little lady had kissed him: she had given him a share of the love of her little childish heart.

* * * * *

Long years afterwards, when King Charles the Second had been brought triumphantly back to his kingdom, and exiled cavaliers were flocking joyfully to these shores, a beautiful lady, traveling with her husband and parents, stopped their coach at a certain town where a grim fortress dominated the dwellings of the inhabitants, and asked if one Giles Dorman lived within its walls.

Before long a fine and stalwart man appeared, at sight of whom the young and lovely lady leaped lightly from the coach, and with a little cry of recognition stepped forward with outstretched hands.

"Giles!" she exclaimed, "do you remember me?"

The man's bronzed face flushed from brow to chin. He slightly bent the knee as those soft white hands met his own, and he bowed over them and touched them with his lips.

A fine-looking gray-haired man now stepped up, and laid a hand on Giles's shoulder.

"I must speak the words of thanks my daughter is scarce able to do, and tell you that our errand to-day is to ask whether you will accept the post of steward upon her estate; as she says she knows she will never find anyone to serve her so faithfully and so well as Giles, the jailer's son, of whom she has never ceased to talk in terms of gratitude and praise."

She looked at him with eager eyes. Times had not been very kind to Giles. He had grown up under a cloud of suspicion since the escape of a certain prisoner. His face lighted as though a sunbeam had touched it. The clouds were all rolling away.

"You will come then, Giles?" spoke the lady with kindling eyes.

"I will come with you to the world's end—and be your faithful servant ever. I ask nothing better," said he.

E. Everett-Green.

A Ride for Life

"YOU'RE not afraid?" said father, turning at the door of the hut to give me an anxious backward glance.

"Now, Dad, what should I be afraid of?" I answered, "there's no one near to hurt me, except Deerfoot, and you don't suppose he would harm me?" and I laughed right merrily, for I had known Deerfoot ever since I had been a tiny little girl, and father and mother and George and I had come to live out in the forest.

Now father and I were the only two left, for mother was dead and George had left home the previous day on his way to New York City, where he was to be given a place in our uncle's office.

Father was a little disappointed in George I think, and no one knew how dreadfully I missed my quiet, studious brother. He was slight and delicate and looked little like a farmer's son; but I knew that he had a heart of gold, although he could not bear a farmer's life, and father sometimes laughed at him for a molly-coddle.

On this particular day father had to go a long way off into the forest to superintend the felling of a number of trees, which would afterwards be floated down the river to the city.

"I shall hurry back," he said; "so have the kettle boiling about five o'clock, and take care of yourself, little one."

I had a great deal to do and the morning passed quickly enough, so that I never even guessed it was past dinner time until my healthy appetite warned me. Then I sat down and made a hearty meal, and was just about to clear away the dishes when something happened which startled me very much.

There was a sudden "whir" and a blood-stained arrow came flying through the open door and quivered in the wall behind me.

At first I tried to persuade myself that Dad had come home early and had done it by way of a joke; but the sight of the arrow tipped with a white feather dyed with an unmistakable red, made me turn pale and shudder. Father would never play me a joke like that. I went out to call Deerfoot; but he was nowhere to be seen, and then it occurred to me that I had not seen him all the morning.

What could it mean? I walked about the outbuildings, calling to him, but I was afraid of the sound of my own voice. I opened the stable door, and Hector whinnied with pleasure, and shook his bridle invitingly. But why was Hector bridled, and saddled? Suddenly it occurred to me that some danger really menaced, and this was Deerfoot's warning. In a flash I remembered the tales I had heard as a child of Indian risings, and I remembered father's troubled face that morning. I had laughed at fear then; but now it held me in its grip. I dare not stay in the quiet house, and I led Hector out into the open, sprang upon his back and was off like lightning for the clearing, where I hoped to find father.

I was only just in time, for I had scarcely got right away when I heard a yell, and, turning in the saddle, I saw a party of howling and maddened Indians riding towards our home.

I waited to see no more, but rode on and on for dear life towards the clearing. I had not gone far when I met father.

"Why, dearie, what's wrong?" he cried. "I was cowing home early, for those red rascals never turned up to-day, and so I only marked the trees I wanted felled."

"Oh, Dad," I gasped, "there's a rising—I know there is—and they're going to murder us!"

I told him briefly all that had happened, and without waiting for comment, father mounted Hector, whilst I clung on behind him, and the good beast was urged to its utmost speed.

A smell of burning and a glare in the sky told us that our home was in flames, and by and by a distant yell of triumph warned us that the Redskins were on our track.

Father said not a word, but by the beating of his heart I knew he had heard. On and on we raced, but the horrid yells, came nearer and nearer—the Indians were gaining on us. Now they were close behind; an arrow whizzed past us, and I closed my eyes, hoping death would come swiftly.