CHAPTER II.

In less than a week Captain Bowers had settled down comfortably in his new command. A set of rules and regulations by which Mr. Joseph Tasker was to order his life was framed and hung in the pantry. He studied it with care, and, anxious that there should be no possible chance of a misunderstanding, questioned the spelling in three instances. The captain's explanation that he had spelt those words in the American style was an untruthful reflection upon a great and friendly nation.

Dialstone Lane was at first disposed to look askance at Mr. Tasker. Old-fashioned matrons clustered round to watch him cleaning the doorstep, and, surprised at its whiteness, withdrew discomfited. Rumour had it that he liked work, and scandal said that he had wept because he was not allowed to do the washing.

The captain attributed this satisfactory condition of affairs to the rules and regulations, though a slight indiscretion on the part of Mr. Tasker, necessitating the unframing of the document to add to the latter, caused him a little annoyance.

The first intimation he had of it was a loud knocking at the front door as he sat dozing one afternoon in his easy-chair. In response to his startled cry of "Come in!" the door opened and a small man, in a state of considerable agitation, burst into the room and confronted him.

"My name is Chalk," he said, breathlessly.

"A friend of Mr. Tredgold's?" said the captain. "I've heard of you, sir."

The visitor paid no heed.

"My wife wishes to know whether she has got to dress in the dark every afternoon for the rest of her life," he said, in fierce but trembling tones.

"Got to dress in the dark?" repeated the astonished captain.

"With the blind down," explained the other.

Captain Bowers looked him up and down. He saw a man of about fifty nervously fingering the little bits of fluffy red whisker which grew at the sides of his face, and trying to still the agitation of his tremulous mouth.

"How would you like it yourself?" demanded the visitor, whose manner was gradually becoming milder and milder. "How would _you_ like a telescope a yard long pointing----"

He broke off abruptly as the captain, with a smothered oath, dashed out of his chair into the garden and stood shaking his fist at the crow's-nest at the bottom.

"Joseph!" he bawled.

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Tasker, removing the telescope described by Mr. Chalk from his eye, and leaning over.

"What are you doing with that spy-glass?" demanded his master, beckoning to the visitor, who had drawn near. "How dare you stare in at people's windows?"

"I wasn't, sir," replied Mr. Tasker, in an injured voice. "I wouldn't think o' such a thing--I couldn't, not if I tried."

"You'd got it pointed straight at my bedroom window," cried Mr. Chalk, as he accompanied the captain down the garden. "And it ain't the first time."

"I wasn't, sir," said the steward, addressing his master. "I was watching the martins under the eaves."

"You'd got it pointed at my window," persisted the visitor.

"That's where the nests are," said Mr. Tasker, "but I wasn't looking in at the window. Besides, I noticed you always pulled the blind down when you saw me looking, so I thought it didn't matter."

"We can't do anything without being followed about by that telescope," said Mr. Chalk, turning to the captain. "My wife had our house built where it is on purpose, so that we shouldn't be overlooked. We didn't bargain for a thing like that sprouting up in a back-garden."

"I'm very sorry," said the captain. "I wish you'd told me of it before. If I catch you up there again," he cried, shaking his fist at Mr. Tasker, "you'll remember it. Come down!"

Mr. Tasker, placing the glass under his arm, came slowly and reluctantly down the ratlines.

"I wasn't looking in at the window, Mr. Chalk," he said, earnestly. "I was watching the birds. O' course, I couldn't help seeing in a bit, but I always shifted the spy-glass at once if there was anything that I thought I oughtn't----"

"That'll do," broke in the captain, hastily. "Go in and get the tea ready. If I so much as see you looking at that glass again we part, my lad, mind that."

"I don't suppose he meant any harm," said the mollified Mr. Chalk, after the crestfallen Joseph had gone into the house. "I hope I haven't been and said too much, but my wife insisted on me coming round and speaking about it."

"You did quite right," said the captain, "and I thank you for coming. I told him he might go up there occasionally, but I particularly warned him against giving any annoyance to the neighbours."

"I suppose," said Mr. Chalk, gazing at the erection with interest--"I suppose there's a good view from up there? It's like having a ship in the garden, and it seems to remind you of the North Pole, and whales, and Northern Lights."

Five minutes later Mr. Tasker, peering through the pantry window, was surprised to see Mr. Chalk ascending with infinite caution to the crow's-nest. His high hat was jammed firmly over his brows and the telescope was gripped tightly under his right arm. The journey was evidently regarded as one of extreme peril by the climber; but he held on gallantly and, arrived at the top, turned a tremulous telescope on to the horizon.

Mr. Tasker took a deep breath and resumed his labours. He set the table, and when the water boiled made the tea, and went down the garden to announce the fact. Mr. Chalk was still up aloft, and even at that height the pallor of his face was clearly discernible. It was evident to the couple below that the terrors of the descent were too much for him, but that he was too proud to say so.

"Nice view up there," called the captain.

"B--b--beautiful," cried Mr. Chalk, with an attempt at enthusiasm.

The captain paced up and down impatiently; his tea was getting cold, but the forlorn figure aloft made no sign. The captain waited a little longer, and then, laying hold of the shrouds, slowly mounted until his head was above the platform.

"Shall I take the glass for you?" he inquired.

Mr. Chalk, clutching the edge of the cask, leaned over and handed it down.

"My--my foot's gone to sleep," he stammered.

"Ho! Well, you must be careful how you get down," said the captain, climbing on to the platform. "Now, gently."

He put the telescope back into the cask, and, beckoning Mr. Tasker to ascend, took Mr. Chalk in a firm grasp and lowered him until he was able to reach Mr. Tasker's face with his foot. After that the descent was easy, and Mr. Chalk, reaching ground once more, spent two or three minutes in slapping and rubbing, and other remedies prescribed for sleepy feet.

"There's few gentlemen that would have come down at all with their foot asleep," remarked Mr. Tasker, pocketing a shilling, when the captain's back was turned.

Mr. Chalk, still pale and shaking somewhat, smiled feebly and followed the captain into the house. The latter offered a cup of tea, which the visitor, after a faint protest, accepted, and taking a seat at the table gazed in undisguised admiration at the nautical appearance of the room.

"I could fancy myself aboard ship," he declared.

"Are you fond of the sea?" inquired the captain.

"I love it," said Mr. Chalk, fervently. "It was always my idea from a boy to go to sea, but somehow I didn't. I went into my father's business instead, but I never liked it. Some people are fond of a stay-at-home life, but I always had a hankering after adventures."

The captain shook his head. "Ha!" he said, impressively.

"You've had a few in your time," said Mr. Chalk, looking at him, grudgingly; "Edward Tredgold was telling me so."

"Man and boy, I was at sea forty-nine years," remarked the captain. "Naturally things happened in that time; it would have been odd if they hadn't. It's all in a lifetime."

"Some lifetimes," said Mr. Chalk, gloomily. "I'm fifty-one next year, and the only thing I ever had happen to me was seeing a man stop a runaway horse and cart."

He shook his head solemnly over his monotonous career and, gazing at a war-club from Samoa which hung over the fireplace, put a few leading questions to the captain concerning the manner in which it came into his possession. When Prudence came in half an hour later he was still sitting there, listening with rapt attention to his host's tales of distant seas.

It was the first of many visits. Sometimes he brought Mr. Tredgold and sometimes Mr. Tredgold brought him. The terrors of the crow's-nest vanished before his persevering attacks, and perched there with the captain's glass he swept the landscape with the air of an explorer surveying a strange and hostile country.

It was a fitting prelude to the captain's tales afterwards, and Mr. Chalk, with the stem of his long pipe withdrawn from his open mouth, would sit enthralled as his host narrated picturesque incidents of hairbreadth escapes, or, drawing his chair to the table, made rough maps for his listener's clearer understanding. Sometimes the captain took him to palm-studded islands in the Southern Seas; sometimes to the ancient worlds of China and Japan. He became an expert in nautical terms. He walked in knots, and even ordered a new carpet in fathoms--after the shop-keeper had demonstrated, by means of his little boy's arithmetic book, the difference between that measurement and a furlong.

"I'll have a voyage before I'm much older," he remarked one afternoon, as he sat in the captain's sitting-room. "Since I retired from business time hangs very heavy sometimes. I've got a fancy for a small yacht, but I suppose I couldn't go a long voyage in a small one?"

"Smaller the better," said Edward Tredgold, who was sitting by the window watching Miss Drewitt sewing.

Mr. Chalk took his pipe from his mouth and eyed him inquiringly.

"Less to lose," explained Mr. Tredgold, with a scarcely perceptible glance at the captain. "Look at the dangers you'd be dragging your craft into, Chalk; there would be no satisfying you with a quiet cruise in the Mediterranean."

"I shouldn't run into unnecessary danger," said Mr. Chalk, seriously. "I'm a married man, and there's my wife to think of. What would become of her if anything happened to me?"

"Why, you've got plenty of money to leave, haven't you?" inquired Mr. Tredgold.

"I was thinking of her losing _me_," replied Mr. Chalk, with a touch of acerbity.

"Oh, I didn't think of that," said the other. "Yes, to be sure."

"Captain Bowers was telling me the other day of a woman who wore widow's weeds for thirty-five years," said Mr. Chalk, impressively. "And all the time her husband was married again and got a big family in Australia. There's nothing in the world so faithful as a woman's heart."

"Well, if you're lost on a cruise, I shall know where to look for you," said Mr. Tredgold. "But I don't think the captain ought to put such ideas into your head."

Mr. Chalk looked bewildered. Then he scratched his left whisker with the stem of his churchwarden pipe and looked severely over at Mr. Tredgold.

"I don't think you ought to talk that way before ladies," he said, primly. "Of course, I know you're only in joke, but there's some people can't see jokes as quick as others and they might get a wrong idea of you."

"What part did you think of going to for your cruise?" interposed Captain Bowers.

"There's nothing settled yet," said Mr. Chalk; "it's just an idea, that's all. I was talking to your father the other day," he added, turning to Mr. Tredgold; "just sounding him, so to speak."

"You take him," said that dutiful son, briskly. "It would do him a world of good; me, too."

"He said he couldn't afford either the time or the money," said Mr. Chalk. "The thing to do would be to combine business with pleasure--to take a yacht and find a sunken galleon loaded with gold pieces. I've heard of such things being done."

"I've heard of it," said the captain, nodding.

"Bottom of the ocean must be paved with them in places," said Mr. Tredgold, rising, and following Miss Drewitt, who had gone into the garden to plant seeds.

Mr. Chalk refilled his pipe and, accepting a match from the captain, smoked slowly. His gaze was fixed on the window, but instead of Dialstone Lane he saw tumbling blue seas and islets far away.

"That's something you've never come across, I suppose, Captain Bowers?" he remarked at last.

"No," said the other.

Mr. Chalk, with a vain attempt to conceal his disappointment, smoked on for some time in silence. The blue seas disappeared, and he saw instead the brass knocker of the house opposite.

"Nor any other kind of craft with treasure aboard, I suppose?" he suggested, at last.

The captain put his hands on his knees and stared at the floor. "No," he said, slowly, "I can't call to mind any craft; but it's odd that you should have got on this subject with me."

Mr. Chalk laid his pipe carefully on the table. "Why?" he inquired.

"Well," said the captain, with a short laugh, "it _is_ odd, that's all."

Mr. Chalk fidgeted with the stem of his pipe. "You know of sunken treasure somewhere?" he said, eagerly.

The captain smiled and shook his head; the other watched him narrowly.

"You know of some treasure?" he said, with conviction.

"Not what you could call sunken," said the captain, driven to bay.

Mr. Chalk's pale-blue eyes opened to their fullest extent. "Ingots?" he queried.

The other shook his head. "It's a secret," he remarked; "we won't talk about it."

"Yes, of course, naturally, I don't expect you to tell me where it is," said Mr. Chalk, "but I thought it might be interesting to hear about, that's all."

"It's buried," said the captain, after a long pause. "I don't know that there's any harm in telling you that; buried in a small island in the South Pacific."

"Have you seen it?" inquired Mr. Chalk.

"I buried it," rejoined the other.

Mr. Chalk sank back in his chair and regarded him with awestruck attention; Captain Bowers, slowly ramming home a charge of tobacco with his thumb, smiled quietly.

"Buried it," he repeated, musingly, "with the blade of an oar for a spade. It was a long job, but it's six foot down and the dead man it belonged to atop of it."

The pipe fell from the listener's fingers and smashed unheeded on the floor.

"You ought to make a book of it," he said at last.

The captain shook his head. "I haven't got the gift of story-telling," he said, simply. "Besides, you can understand I don't want it noised about. People might bother me."

He leaned back in his chair and bunched his beard in his hand; the other, watching him closely, saw that his thoughts were busy with some scene in his stirring past.

"Not a friend of yours, I hope?" said Mr. Chalk, at last.

"Who?" inquired the captain, starting from his reverie.

"The dead man atop of the treasure," replied the other.

"No," said the captain, briefly.

"Is it worth much?" asked Mr. Chalk.

"Roughly speaking, about half a million," responded the captain, calmly.

Mr. Chalk rose and walked up and down the room. His eyes were bright and his face pinker than usual.

"Why don't you get it?" he demanded, at last, pausing in front of his host.

"Why, it ain't mine," said the captain, staring. "D'ye think I'm a thief?"

Mr. Chalk stared in his turn. "But who does it belong to, then?" he inquired.

"I don't know," replied the captain. "All I know is, it isn't mine, and that's enough for me. Whether it was rightly come by I don't know. There it is, and there it'll stay till the crack of doom."

"Don't you know any of his relations or friends?" persisted the other.

"I know nothing of him except his name," said the captain, "and I doubt if even that was his right one. Don Silvio he called himself--a Spaniard. It's over ten years ago since it happened. My ship had been bought by a firm in Sydney, and while I was waiting out there I went for a little run on a schooner among the islands. This Don Silvio was aboard of her as a passenger. She went to pieces in a gale, and we were the only two saved. The others were washed overboard, but we got ashore in the boat, and I thought from the trouble he was taking over his bag that the danger had turned his brain."

"Ah!" said the keenly-interested Mr. Chalk.

"He was a sick man aboard ship," continued the captain, "and I soon saw that he hadn't saved his life for long. He saw it, too, and before he died he made me promise that the bag should be buried with him and never disturbed. After I'd promised, he opened the bag and showed me what was in it. It was full of precious stones--diamonds, rubies, and the like; some of them as large as birds' eggs. I can see him now, propped up against the boat and playing with them in the sunlight. They blazed like stars. Half a million he put them at, or more."

"What good could they be to him when he was dead?" inquired the listener.

Captain Bowers shook his head. "That was his business, not mine," he replied. "It was nothing to do with me. When he died I dug a grave for him, as I told you, with a bit of a broken oar, and laid him and the bag together. A month afterwards I was taken off by a passing schooner and landed safe at Sydney."

Mr. Chalk stooped, and mechanically picking up the pieces of his pipe placed them on the table.

"Suppose that you had heard afterwards that the things had been stolen?" he remarked.

"If I had, then I should have given information, I think," said the other. "It all depends."

"Ah! but how could you have found them again?" inquired Mr. Chalk, with the air of one propounding a poser.

"With my map," said the captain slowly. "Before I left I made a map of the island and got its position from the schooner that picked me up; but I never heard a word from that day to this."

"Could you find them now?" said Mr. Chalk.

"Why not?" said the captain, with a short laugh. "The island hasn't run away."

He rose as he spoke and, tossing the fragments of his visitor's pipe into the fireplace, invited him to take a turn in the garden. Mr. Chalk, after a feeble attempt to discuss the matter further, reluctantly obeyed.

(_To be continued._)

_Illustrated Interviews._

LXXX.--M. CURIE, THE DISCOVERER OF RADIUM.

BY CLEVELAND MOFFETT.

Very well do I remember my first impression of M. Curie. It was in the Rue Cuvier, at the Sorbonne Laboratories in Paris, where he was lecturing that day in the big amphitheatre, while I waited in an adjoining room among the air-pumps and electrical apparatus. Suddenly a door opened and there came a burst of applause, a long clapping of hands, and at the same moment a tall, pale man, slightly bent, walked slowly across the room.

On this occasion I simply made an appointment to see M. Curie the next morning at the École de Physique; but I profited by the opportunity to ask his assistant, M. Danne, some preliminary questions about radium. Was it true, _could_ it be true, that this strange substance gives forth heat and light ceaselessly and is really an inexhaustible source of energy? Of course, I had read all this, but I wanted to hear it from the mouth of one who knew.

"It is quite true," said M. Danne, "that pure radium gives out light and heat without any waste or diminution that can be detected by our most delicate instruments. That is all we can say."

"Is the light that it gives a bright light?"

"Reasonably bright. M. Curie will show you."

"Can he explain it? Can anyone explain it?"

"There are various theories, but they really explain very little."

M. Danne went on to indicate other properties of radium that are scarcely less startling than these. Besides heat and light this strange metal gives out constantly three kinds of invisible rays that move with the velocity of light, or thereabouts, and, that have separate and well-marked attributes. These rays may be helpful or harmful, they may destroy life or stimulate it. They are capable not only of shortening life or prolonging it, but of modifying existing forms of life--that is, of actually creating new species. Finally, by destroying bacteria, they may be used to cure disease, notably the dread lupus, recently conquered by Finsen's lamps, and now apparently conquered again by a simpler means.

I listened in amazement; it was not one discovery, but a dozen, that we were contemplating.

"And--all this is M. Curie's discovery?"

"Radium is his discovery; that is, his and Mme. Curie's. You cannot give one more credit than the other. They did it together."

He told me a little about Mme. Curie, who, it appears, was a Polish student in the Latin Quarter, very poor, but possessed of rare talents. They say that her marriage with M. Curie was just such a union, as _must_ have produced some fine result. Without his scientific learning and vivid imagination it is doubtful if radium would ever have been dreamed of, and without her determination and patience against detail it is likely the dream would never have been realized.

The next day I found M. Curie in one of the rambling sheds of the École de Physique bending over a small porcelain dish, where a colourless liquid was simmering, perhaps half a teacupful, and he was watching it with concern, always fearful of some accident. He had lost nearly a decigramme (1·5 grains troy) of radium, he said, only a few weeks before in a curious way. He had placed some radium salts in a small tube, and this inside another tube, in which he created a vacuum. Then he began to heat both tubes over an electric furnace, when, suddenly, at about 2,000 degrees F., there came an explosion which shattered the tubes and scattered their precious contents. There was absolutely no explanation of this explosion; it was one of the tricks that radium is apt to play on you. Here his face lightened with quite a boyish smile.

M. Curie proceeded to explain what he was doing with the little dish; he was refining some radium dissolved in it--that is, freeing it from contaminating barium by repeated crystallization, this being the last and most delicate part of the process of obtaining the pure metal.

"We have our radium works outside Paris," he said, "where the crude ore goes through its early stages of separation and where the radium is brought to an intensity of 2,000, as we express it. After that the process requires such care and involves so much risk of waste that we keep the precious stuff in our own hands and treat it ourselves, my wife and I, as I am doing now, to bring it to the higher intensities, 50,000, 200,000, 500,000, and, finally, 1,500,000. What you see here is about 100,000. It will take many more crystallizations to bring it to the maximum."

"That is, to the state of pure radium?"

"To the state of pure chloride of radium. You know the metal exists only as a chloride or bromide. It has never yet been isolated, although it easily might be."

"Why has it never been isolated?"

"Because it would not be stable; it would immediately be oxidized by the air and destroyed, as happens with sodium, whereas it remains permanent as a bromide or chloride and suffers no change."

"Does radium change in appearance as it increases in intensity?" I asked.

"No; it keeps the form of small white crystals, which may be crushed into a white powder, and which look like ordinary salt. See, here are some."

He took from the table drawer a small glass tube, not much larger than a thick match. It was sealed at both ends and partly covered with a fold of lead. Inside the tube I could see a white powder.

"Why is the tube wrapped with lead?" I inquired.

"For the protection of those who handle it. Lead stops the harmful rays, that would otherwise make trouble."

"Trouble?"

"Yes; you see the radium in this tube is very active; it has an intensity of 1,500,000, and if I were to lay it against your hand or any part of your body, so"--he touched my hand with the bare tube--"and if I were to leave it there for a few minutes, you would certainly hear from it later."

"But I feel nothing."

"Of course not; neither did I feel anything when I touched some radium here," and pulling up his sleeve he showed me a forearm scarred and reddened from fresh-healed sores. "But you see what it did, and it was much less intense than this specimen."

He then mentioned an experience of his friend, Professor Becquerel, discoverer of the "Becquerel rays" of uranium, and in a way the parent-discoverer of radium, since the latter discovery grew out of the former. It seems that Professor Becquerel, in journeying to London, carried in his waistcoat pocket a small tube of radium to be used in a lecture there. Nothing happened at the time, but about a fortnight later the professor observed that the skin under his pocket was beginning to redden and fall away, and finally a deep and painful sore formed there and remained for weeks before healing. A peculiar feature of these radium sores is that they do not appear for some considerable time after exposure to the rays.

"Then radium is an element of destruction?" I remarked.

"Undoubtedly it has a power of destruction, but that power may be tempered or controlled, for instance, by this covering of lead. M. Danysz, at the Pasteur Institute, will give you the pathological facts better than I can."

This brought us back to physical facts, and I asked M. Curie if the radium before us was at that moment giving out heat and light, for I could perceive neither.

"Of course it is," he replied. "I will take you into a dark room presently and let you see the light for yourself. As for the heat, a thermometer would show that this tube of radium is 2·7 degrees F. warmer than the surrounding air."

"Is it always that much warmer?"

"Always--so far as we know. I may put it more simply by saying that a given quantity of radium will melt its own weight of ice every hour."

"For ever?"

He smiled. "So far as we know--for ever. Or, again, that a given quantity of radium throws out as much heat in eighty hours as an equal weight of coal would throw out if burned to complete combustion in one hour."

"Suppose you had a considerable quantity of radium," I suggested, "say twenty pounds, or a hundred pounds?"

"The law would be the same, whatever the quantity. If we had fifty kilos (110 pounds) of radium"--he gave a little wondering cluck at the thought--"I say _if_ we had fifty kilos of radium it would give out as much heat _continuously_ as a stove would give out that burned ten kilos (twenty-two pounds) of coal every twenty-four hours, and was filled up fresh every day."

"And the radium would _never_ cease to give out this heat and would _never_ be consumed?"

"Never is a hard word, but one of our professors has calculated that a given quantity of radium, after throwing out heat as I have stated for a thousand million years, would have lost only one-millionth part of its bulk. Others think the loss might be greater, say an ounce to a ton in ten thousand years, but in any case it is so infinitesimally small that we have no means of measuring it, and for practical purposes it does not exist."

After this M. Curie took me into a darkened room, where I _saw_ quite plainly the light from the radium tube, a clear glow sufficient to read by if the tube were held near a printed page. And, of course, this was a very small quantity of radium, about six centigrammes (nine-tenths of a grain troy).

"We estimate," said he, "that a decigramme of radium will illuminate a square décimètre (fifteen square inches) of surface sufficient for reading."

"And a kilogramme (2·2 pounds) of radium?"

"A kilogramme of radium would illuminate a room thirty feet square with a mild radiance; and the light would be much brighter if screens of sulphide of zinc were placed near the radium, for these are thrown by the metal into a brilliant phosphorescence."

"Then radium may be the light of the future?"

M. Curie shook his head. "I am afraid that we should pay rather dearly for such a light. There is first the money cost to be considered, and then the likelihood that the people illuminated by radium would be also stricken with paralysis, blindness, and various nervous disorders. Possibly protective screens might be devised against these dangers, but it is too soon to think of that. For a long time to come the radium light will be only a laboratory wonder."

After we had been in the darkness for some time M. Curie wrapped the radium tube in thick paper and put it in my hand.

"Now," said he, "shut your eyes and press this against your right eyelid."

I did as he bade me, and straightway had the sensation of a strange diffused light outside my eye. M. Curie assured me, however, that the light was not outside but _inside_ the eye, the radium rays having the property of making the liquids of the eyeball self-luminous, a sort of internal phosphorescence being produced. He warned me that it would be dangerous to leave the radium against the eyelid very long, as a serious disturbance to the eyesight, or even blindness, might result.

Another experiment consisted in placing the radium against the bone at the side of the forehead, and even in this position, with the eyes closed, a light was perceptible, although fainter. Here the radium rays had acted upon the eyeball through the bones of the head.

"It is possible," said M. Curie, "that this property of radium may be utilized in certain diseases of the eye. Dr. Emile Javal, one of our distinguished physicians, who is blind himself, has given this matter particular attention, and he thinks that radium may offer a precious means of diagnosis in cases of cataract, by showing whether the retina is or is not intact, and whether an operation will succeed. If a person blind from cataract can see the radium light as you have just seen it, then the eyesight of that person may be restored by removing the cataract. Otherwise it cannot be restored."

As we returned to the laboratory I remarked that the quantity of radium in the various tubes I had seen was very small.

"Of course it is small," he sighed; "there is very little radium in the world. I mean very little that has been taken from the earth and purified."

"How much is there?"

He thought a moment. "We have about one gramme (one-third of an ounce) in France, Germany may have one gramme, America has less than one gramme, and the rest of the world may perhaps have half a gramme. Four grammes in all would be an outside estimate; you could heap it all in a tablespoon."

I suggested to M. Curie the possibility that some philanthropist might be inspired on reading his words to help the new cause. And I remarked that great things could doubtless be accomplished with some substantial quantity of radium, say a pound or two.

He gave me an amused look and asked if I had any idea what a pound or two of radium, say a kilogramme (two and one-fifth pounds), would cost.

"Why, no," said I, "no exact idea; but----"

"A kilogramme of radium would cost"--he figured rapidly on a sheet of paper--"with the very cheapest methods that we have of purifying the crude material it would cost about ten million francs (£400,000). Under existing conditions radium is worth about three thousand times its weight in pure gold."

"And yet there may be tons of it in the earth?"

M. Curie was not so sure of this. "It is doubtful," said he, "if there is very much radium in the earth, and what there is is so thinly scattered in the surrounding ore--mere traces of radium for tons of worthless rock--that the cost of extracting it is almost prohibitive. You will realize this when you visit our works at Ivry."

These works I visited the next day, and found myself outside the walls of Paris, near the old Ivry Cemetery, where some unpretentious sheds serve for this important business of radium extraction. One of the head men met me and explained, step by step, how they obtain this strange and elusive metal. First he showed me a lumpy reddish powder, sacks of it, brought from Bohemia by the ton, and constituting the raw material from which the radium is extracted. This powder is the refuse from uranium mines at Jachimsthal; that is, what remains of the original uranite ore, _pitchblende_, after the uranium has been removed. For years this refuse was regarded as worthless, and was left to accumulate in heaps, tons of it, quite at the disposal of whoever chose to cart it away. Now that it is known to contain the rarest, and most precious substance in the world, it goes without saying that the owners have begun to put a price on it.

My informant referred with proper pride to the difficulties that had confronted them when they started these radium works in 1901. It was a new problem in practical chemistry to bring together infinitesimal traces of a metal lost in tons of _débris_. It was like searching for specks of dust hidden in a sand heap, or for drops of perfume scattered in a river. Still, they went at it with good heart, for the end justified the effort. If it took a ton of uranite dust to yield as much radium as would half fill a doll's thimble, then the thing to do was to have many tons of this dust sent on from Bohemia, and patiently to accumulate, after months of handling, various pinches of radium, a few centigrammes, then a few decigrammes, and finally some day--who could tell?--they might get as much as a gramme. This was a distant prospect, to be sure, yet with infinite pains and all the resources of chemistry it might be attained. Well, now they had attained it, and at this time, he said, some eight tons of uranite detritus had passed through the caldrons and great glass jars and muddy barrels of the Ivry establishment, had been boiled and filtered and decanted and crystallized, with much fuming of acids and the steady glow of furnaces; and out of it all, for the twenty-four months' effort, there had come just about a gramme of practically pure chloride of radium--enough white powder to fill a salt-spoon.

When next I saw M. Curie he had just returned from London, where he had lectured before the Royal Institution. His hands were much peeled, and very sore from too much contact with radium, and for several days he had been unable to dress himself; but he took it good-naturedly, and proceeded to describe some of the experiments he had made before British scientists.

In order to demonstrate that radium throws off heat continually he took two glass vessels, one containing a thermometer and a tube of radium, the other containing a thermometer and no radium. Both vessels were closed with cotton, and it was presently seen that the thermometer in the vessel containing the radium registered constantly 5·4 degrees F. higher than the thermometer which was not so influenced.

The most striking experiment presented by M. Curie in his London lecture was one devised by him to prove the existence of radium emanations, a kind of gaseous product (quite different from the rays) which this extraordinary metal seems to throw off constantly as it throws off heat and light. These emanations may be regarded as an invisible vapour of radium, like water vapour, only infinitely more subtle, which settles upon all objects that it approaches and confers upon them, for a time at least, the mysterious properties of radium itself. Thus the yellow powder sulphide of zinc bursts into a brilliant glow under the stimulus of radium emanations, and to make it clear that this effect is due to the emanations and not to the rays M. Curie constructed an apparatus in which a glass tube, R, containing a solution of radium is connected with two glass bulbs, A and B, containing sulphide of zinc.

The experiment is begun by exhausting the air from the two bulbs A and B, by means of air-pump connections through the tube E. The air is not exhausted, however, from the tube R, over which the stop-cock F is closed, and within which the emanations have been allowed to accumulate. The room is now darkened, and it is seen that so long as the stop-cock F remains closed there is no glow in the bulbs A and B, but as soon as the stop-cock F is opened both bulbs shine brilliantly, so that the light is plainly visible at a distance of several hundred yards. Now, obviously, if this effect were due to the radium rays, it would be produced whether the stop-cock F were open or closed, since the radium rays pass freely through glass and need not follow the tube S in order to reach the bulbs A and B. It is therefore clear that the sudden light in the bulbs is due to the passage of _something_ out of the tube R, and through the tube S, that _something_ being kept back by the glass of the bulb R until the stop-cock F is opened. So we conclude that the emanations of radium _cannot_ pass through glass, and are a manifestation quite distinct from the rays of radium, which _can_ pass through but do not influence the sulphide of zinc.

This point having been established, M. Curie proceeded to the most sensational part of his demonstration, by closing the stop-cock F and then placing the lower bulb B, still radiant, in a vessel G containing liquid air, the result being that the light in the bulb B gradually grew stronger while the light in the bulb A diminished, until, presently, _all_ the light seemed concentrated in B and gone from A, the conclusion being that the intense cold of liquid air had produced some change in the emanations, had possibly reduced them from a gas to a liquid, thus withdrawing them from A to B and checking the one glow while increasing the other.

In talking with Sir William Crookes, M. Curie was interested to learn that the English scientist had just devised a curious little instrument which he has named the spinthariscope, and which allows one to actually _see_ the emanations from radium and to realize as never before the extraordinary atomic disintegration that is going on ceaselessly in this strange metal. The spinthariscope is a small microscope that allows one to look at a tiny fragment of radium, about one-twentieth of a milligramme, supported on a little wire over a screen spread with sulphide of zinc.

The experiment must be made in a darkened room after the eye has gradually acquired its greatest sensitiveness to light. To the eye thus sensitive and looking intently through the lenses the screen appears like a heaven of flashing meteors, among which stars shine forth suddenly and die away. Near the central radium speck the fire shower is most brilliant, while towards the rim of the circle it grows fainter. And this goes on continuously as the metal throws off its emanations; these myriad bursting blazing stars _are_ the emanations--at least, we may assume it--and become visible as the scattered radium dust or radium vapour impinges speck by speck upon the screen, which, for each tiny fragment, flashes back a responsive phosphorescence. M. Curie spoke of this vision, that was really contained within the area of a two-cent piece, as one of the most beautiful and impressive he had ever witnessed; it was as if he had been allowed to assist at the birth of a universe or at the death of a molecule.

Dwelling upon the extreme attenuation of these radium emanations, M. Curie mentioned a recent experiment, in which he had used a platinum box pierced by two holes so extremely small that the box would retain a vacuum, yet not small enough to resist the passage of radium emanations.

In view of the extreme rarity and costliness of radium, it is evident that its emanations may be put to many important uses in and out of the laboratory, since they bestow upon indifferent objects--a plate, a piece of iron, an old shoe, anything--the very properties of radium itself. Thus a scientist or a doctor unable to procure the metal radium may easily experiment with a bit of wood or glass rendered radio-active--that is, charged by radium emanations, and capable of replacing the original metal as long as the charge keeps its potency. This period has been determined by the Curies after observations extending over weeks and months, and applied to all sorts of substances, copper, aluminium, lead, rubber, wax, celluloid, paraffin, no fewer than fifty in all, the resulting conclusions being formulated in a precise law as follows:--

(1) All substances may be rendered radio-active through the influence of radium emanations.

(2) Substances thus influenced retain their induced radio-activity very much longer when guarded in a small enclosure through which the emanations cannot pass (say a sealed glass tube) than when not so guarded. In the former case their radio-activity diminishes one-half every four days. In the latter case it diminishes one-half every twenty-eight minutes.

I must pass rapidly over various other wonders of radium that M. Curie laid before me. New matter is accumulating every week as the outcome of new investigations. Even in the chemistry of radium, which is practically an unexplored field, owing to the scarcity and costliness of the metal, there are various facts to be noted, as these: that radium changes the colour of phosphorus from yellow to red; that radium rays increase the production of ozone in certain cases; that a small quantity of radium dissolved in water throws off hydrogen constantly by causing a disintegration of the water, the oxygen released being absorbed in some unknown molecular combination. Also that a solution of radium gives a violet or brownish tint to a glass vessel containing it, this tint being permanent, unless the glass be heated red hot. Here, by the way, is an application of importance in the arts, for radium may thus be used to modify the colours of glass and crystals, possibly of gems. It is furthermore established that radium offers a ready means of distinguishing real from imitation diamonds, since it causes the real stones to burst into a brilliant phosphorescence when brought near them in a darkened room, while it has scarcely any such effect upon false stones. M. Curie made this experiment recently at a reception in Lille, to the great delight of the guests.

Coming now to what may be the most important properties of radium--that is, those which influence animal life--we may follow M. Curie's advice and visit the Pasteur Institute, where for some months now a remarkable series of radium tests has been in progress.

M. Danysz is convinced that all animals, probably all forms of life, would succumb to the destructive force of radium if employed in sufficient quantities.

"I have no doubt," said he, "that a kilogramme of radium would be sufficient to destroy the population of Paris, granting that they came within its influence. Men and women would be killed just as easily as mice. They would feel nothing during their exposure to the radium, nor realize that they were in any danger. And weeks would pass after their exposure before anything would happen. Then gradually the skin would begin to peel off and their bodies would become one great sore. Then they would become blind. Then they would die from paralysis and congestion of the spinal cord."

Despite this rather gloomy prospect, certain experiments at the Pasteur Institute may encourage us to believe that, for all its menace of destruction, radium is destined to bring substantial benefits to suffering humankind. The substance of these favourable experiments is that, while animal life may undoubtedly suffer great harm from radium when used in excess or wrongly used (the same is true of strychnine), it may also derive immense good from radium when used within proper bounds, these to be set when we have gained a fuller knowledge of the subject. Meantime it is worthy of note that some of M. Danysz's animals, when exposed to the radium for a short time, or to radium of lower intensity, or to radium at a greater distance, have not perished, but have seemed to thrive under the treatment.

But the most startling experiment performed thus far at the Pasteur Institute is one undertaken by M. Danysz, February 3rd, 1903, when he placed three or four dozen little worms that live in flour, the larvæ _Ephestia kuehniella_, in a glass flask, where they were exposed for a few hours to the rays of radium. He placed a like number of larvæ in a control flask where there was no radium, and he left enough flour in each flask for the larvæ to live upon. After several weeks it was found that most of the larvæ in the radium flask had been killed, but that a few of them had escaped the destructive action of the rays by crawling away to distant corners of the flask, where they were still living. But _they were living_ _as larvæ, not as moths_, whereas in the natural course they should have become moths long before, as was seen by the control flask, where the larvæ had all changed into moths, and these had hatched their eggs into other larvæ, and these had produced other moths. All of which made it clear that the radium rays had arrested the development of these little worms.

More weeks passed and still three or four of the larvæ lived, and four full months after the original exposure I saw a larva alive and wriggling while its contemporary larvæ in the other jar had long since passed away as aged moths, leaving generations of moths' eggs and larvæ to witness this miracle, for here was a larva, venerable among his kind, a patriarch _Ephestia kuehniella_, that had actually lived through _three times the span of life accorded to his fellows_, and that still showed no sign of changing into a moth. It was very much as if a young man of twenty-one should keep the appearance of twenty-one for two hundred and fifty years!

Not less remarkable than these are some recent experiments made by M. Bohn at the biological laboratories of the Sorbonne, his conclusions being that radium may so far modify various lower forms of life as to actually produce "monsters," abnormal deviations from the original type of the species. Thus tadpole monsters have been formed from tadpoles exposed four days after birth to radium rays. Some of these monsters lived for twenty-three days, and would doubtless have lived longer had they been exposed to the rays for a shorter time. No changes occur in the tadpoles treated except at the transition points of growth, as on the eighth day, when the breathing tentacles are covered by gills in the normal tadpole, but are not so covered in the monsters formed after radium treatment. These monsters take on a new form, with an increasing atrophy of the tail and a curious wrinkling of the tissues at the back of the head; in fact, they may be said to develop a new breathing apparatus, quite different from that of ordinary tadpoles.

M. Bohn has obtained similar results with eggs of the toad and eggs of the sea-urchin, monsters resulting in both cases and continuing to live for a number of days or weeks after exposure to the radium. Furthermore, he has been able to accomplish with radium what Professor Loeb did with saline solutions--that is, to cause the growth of unfecundated eggs of the sea-urchin, and to advance these through several stages of their development. In other words, he has used radium _to create life_ where there would have been no life but for this strange stimulation.

M. Bohn assured me of his conviction that we may in the future be able to produce new species of insects, moths, butterflies, perhaps birds and fishes, by simply treating the eggs with radium rays, the result being that interesting changes will be effected in the colouring and adornment. He also believes that, with greater quantities of radium at our disposal and a fuller understanding of its properties, it may be possible to produce new species among larger creatures, mice, rabbits, guinea-pigs, etc. It is merely a question of degree, for if new types can be produced in one species why may they not be produced in another?

It remains to mention certain important services that radium may render in the cure of bodily ills, notably of lupus and other skin diseases. Here is a great new field full of promise, yet one that must be considered with guarded affirmation, lest false hopes be aroused. It is too soon as yet to say more than this, that distinguished doctors speak with confidence of excellent results that may be looked for from the radium treatment. Dr. Danlos, for instance, has used the radium rays on lupus patients at the St. Louis Hospital in Paris for over a year, and in several cases has accomplished apparent cures. The radium used is enclosed between two small discs of copper and aluminium, the whole being about the size of a silver dollar. The aluminium disc, which is very thin, is pressed against the affected part and left there for fifteen minutes; that is all there is in the treatment, except cleansing, bandaging, etc. Day after day, for weeks or months, this contact with the disc is continued, and after a period of irritation the sores heal, leaving healthy white scars. Some patients thus treated have gone for months without a relapse, but it is too soon to declare the cures absolute. They _look like_ absolute cures, that is all Dr. Danlos will say, and if time proves that they _are_ absolute cures, then radium will do for lupus patients all that Finsen's lamps do, and will do it more quickly, more simply, and with no cumbersome and costly apparatus. It may be objected that radium also is costly, but the answer is that radium will probably become cheaper as the supply increases and as the processes of extracting it are perfected. Furthermore, the effects of radium may be obtained, as already stated, by the use of indifferent bodies rendered radio-active, so that lupus patients may be treated with a piece of wood or a piece of glass possessed for the moment of the virtues of radium. And certain kinds of cancer may be similarly treated; indeed, a London physician has already reported a case of cancer cured by radium.

These are possibilities, _not_ certainties, and there are others. It appears that radium has a bactericidal action in certain cases, and it would therefore seem reasonable that air rendered radio-active may benefit sufferers from lung troubles if breathed into the lungs, or that water rendered radio-active may benefit sufferers from stomach troubles if taken into the stomach. It goes without saying that in all these cases the use of radium must be attended with extreme precautions, so that harmful effects may be avoided.

Just as I was leaving Paris I learned of an interesting and significant new fact about radium, one that greatly impressed M. Curie--namely, that the air from deep borings in the earth is found to be radio-active, and that the waters from mineral springs are radio-active. This would seem to indicate the presence of radium in the earth in considerable quantities, and that would mean more abundant and cheaper radium in the not distant future. One of the things to be hoped for now is the discovery of a single simple reaction by which radium may be easily separated from the dross that contains it, and any day the chemists may put their hands on such a reaction.

And then--well, it is best to avoid sweeping statements, but there is certainly reason to believe that we are entering upon a domain of new, strange knowledge and drawing near to some of Nature's most hallowed secrets.

_Trousers in Sculpture._

BY RONALD GRAHAM.

"Who will deliver us from the modern trouser?" once publicly asked a Royal Academician. It has been a question repeatedly propounded since the beginning of the last century, when this much-mooted garment came into fashionable vogue.

Trousers have at length passed permanently into Art. They have been depicted in glowing pigments and embodied in enduring bronze and marble. They have become classical. They have exacted the patience of the greatest painters and most talented sculptors for a full century in portraying them, as well as taxed the ingenuity of the noblest tailors in constructing them.

The time has arrived, we opine, for trousers to be considered as public and not merely as private embellishments. We shall leave other hands to write the history of the two long cylindrical bags which are at once the pride of the swell mobsman and, as we shall show, the dire despair of the sculptor, who can no longer emulate the example of Phidias, and represent his patrons in the superlatively light clothing of the annexed illustration--a corner in a well-known sculptor's studio.

Assuming that the modern trouser is a necessity--and we believe it is regarded as such, at least primarily--the point arises, how is the modern trouser to be made picturesque in Art?

The tailor's notion of the ideal in trousers and that entertained by the sculptor are separated by a wide gulf, which very few of the latter fraternity show any disposition to bridge.

It will never be known how many exponents of the sartorial art, who have in their time fitted masterpieces to the limbs of Lord Derby, Lord Palmerston, Lord Beaconsfield, Sir Robert Peel, and other statesmen, have sighed to see their art transmitted at the sculptor's hands to posterity mutilated by folds, deformed by creases, gifted with impossible falls over the boot, and endowed with plies at the knee which not ten years of incessant wear could be supposed to produce.

[_Photo._ ]

"Trousers," remarked Mr. Thomas Brock, R.A., "cannot be made artistic--at any rate in statuary. The painter is better equipped to grapple with the task than the sculptor. He has light, colour, and shade at his command, and may so subordinate these elements as to render the objectionable features of our modern costume less obtrusive. At no time have we been so little attractive from a picturesque standpoint as to-day. It is, therefore, eminently the desire of the sculptor to employ modern street costume as little as possible. It was formerly the custom in a full-length statue to drape the figure in a Roman toga or long cloak, which lent an heroic effect to the most prosaic theme. Costume of the last century was decidedly picturesque--as you may observe in this model of the Robert Raikes statue erected on the Thames Embankment--where knee-breeches, stockings, and shoe-buckles replace trousers." An example of Mr. Brock's treatment of the modern trouser may be seen in his Colin Campbell herewith reproduced.

To illustrate the attitude taken by the sculptor generally it may be observed that as yet, notwithstanding the many recent additions of full-length statues in the northern nave, only a single pair of sculptured trousers have found their way into Westminster Abbey. But, as will be seen from a perusal of the views held by Hamo Thornycroft, R.A., this condition of affairs will not be enduring.

"It is quite impossible," said Mr. Thornycroft, "to go back to the old style, as did the sculptors of less than a century ago, and clothe our heroes in antique draperies. One must follow the costume of the period. I have a hope that what appears conventional now will possess an interest and even a picturesqueness to our posterity. I have modelled Lord Granville in evening dress, which displays the trousers conspicuously, and my recent statue of Steurt Bayley is likewise apparelled in modern costume. Nevertheless, I do not believe any sculptor should slavishly adhere to the canons of form laid down by the tailor. The tailor is, of course, merely carrying out the whims of his fashionable patron, who is not always the most intellectual being extant. Although I am told that some statesmen like Mr. Chamberlain are scrupulous as to the perfect fit of their trousers, yet I should no more dream, if called upon to-morrow to make a statue of one of these eminent gentlemen, of modelling an upright pair of creaseless cylinders than I should paint in the shade of the cloth. No, I could never bring myself to model a pair of trousers such as are daily seen in Piccadilly. I have an ideal and I propose to carry it out. The folds, the creases, and the plies instil life into the work. An artist has a duty to perform in ennobling his work--even though that duty be no more than constructing trousers of marble. It does not lie in perpetuating the fleeting follies of fashion."

Mr. Thornycroft has succeeded very well with the trousers of his John Bright statue. As trousers, and as characteristic trousers, we defy the most captious hypercritic to urge anything against them. They are precisely the sort of leg-covering the late eminent statesman ought to have worn, nor do we doubt that, had he been actuated by that due regard for sartorial proprieties which the artist seeks at the hands, or rather at the legs, of eminent persons, he would have worn them. But an intimate friend of Mr. Bright's, who has, at our request, minutely surveyed the bronze statue at Rochdale, readily pronounces his opinion that the trousers are not by any means his fellow-townsman's. "The material is too thin," he writes. "John Bright's trousers were of extra heavy West of England cloth. They bagged a lot at the knees, but fitted rather tightly at the calves. The boots are certainly not his," he adds; and then, as if to justify this oracular style of speech, "I know because there was no carpet on the floor of the room where Mr. Bright and myself habitually met; so I studied his lower extremities while he spoke to me instead."

In the course of a conversation with the French sculptor, M. Jean Carries, that artist once defined to the writer the whole position of the French school of to-day.

"Its aim is life--animation--drama. To leave anything dormant is to leave the stone as you found it, and to acknowledge the futility of your genius. All the characteristics of life might be imparted to even a modern street costume.

"Only a tailor or a person deficient in culture would criticise the trousers of the Gambetta statue. Such a person would say, 'But I have never seen them in the Boulevards or in the Palais Bourbon.' Of course he has not; and what then? Did Raphael ever see an angel, or Michael Angelo a faun? No. A pair of widely-cut trousers with a single crease or fold might answer very well for a tailor's dummy; but it would not do at all for a chiselled human figure, which must express potential life."

"Idealism? Sense of the picturesque? Fiddlesticks!" declared Mr. George Wade, an exceptionally talented English sculptor, pausing in his work of modelling a full-length statue of a recently-deceased statesman. "Unless art in portraiture possess a rigid fidelity it is not, in my humble judgment, worth the cost of the stone or bronze necessary to evolve it. Idealism!--that is the cry of the sculptor who is deficient--who is dependent rather upon the resources of a departed school than of himself. Why should a sculptor seek to be otherwise than faithful, even to the buttons on the waistcoat of his subject? To cite an instance, some time ago Sir Charles Tupper, viewing my first model for the MacDonald statue, observed: 'I see you have buttoned only a single button of Sir John's coat. I never remember seeing my friend's coat not entirely buttoned. It was one of his characteristics.' When my visitor left I destroyed the old and commenced a new model.

"If it is characteristic of the subject in hand to wear disreputable trousers--very good. I should so model them. If, on the contrary, they were worn faultlessly smooth, it would contribute nothing to my conception of the wearer's identity to invest them with bulges and creases which, if not absolutely and physically impossible, would only be so in Pongee silk and not in the heavy fabric usually employed in trousering. I am not aware that public personages clothe their limbs in Pongee silk. Were this the case it would be so much the better for us. In practice I do not believe in that picturesque ruggedness about the knees which seems so attractive to the average sculptor. I am told that Sir Edward Burne-Jones spent many hours in the course of a single day in the study and device of new complex folds and sinuosities in the most delicate textile stuffs, and that it seems not altogether irrational to believe is the employment of many English and French sculptors when they set about making a pair of trousers.

"If you cannot be original," comments Mr. Wade, "be bizarre. Palm off meretricious effect for truth. Why not be content with the individuality which reveals itself in the limb's attitude as well as in its drapery? Mr. Smith did not stand as the Duke of Connaught does--Paderewski's posture is not that of Lord Roberts. No; you cannot create character by kneading your clay into all sorts of weird concavities and convexities. It is not true to life."

[_Photo._ ]

We do not deny character to perfect garments. They may each and all breathe a distinct individuality, and so far the requirements of Art are met. Compare those already mentioned with the rest--compare Colin Campbell's or Mr. Clarkson's legs with Mr. Palmer's of biscuit fame--and the contrast tells it's own tale. But to enforce our point, in spite even of the eloquent utterances of Mr. Wade, we, who were privileged to have seen Sir John MacDonald in the flesh, assert positively that we never saw that flesh draped in such trousers. The fact is, certain men never wore such trousers. With one or two exceptions the trousers presented in the course of this article--examples collated with no little care--are artistic trousers, trousers of Art, and never intended to be trousers of Reality, because the trousers of Reality either express too much or too little, or express something entirely in dissonance with the sculptor's idea of the character he is modelling. Nature, it has been observed, does not lend itself readily to the canons of Art. As it was long ago settled that carved statesmen must wear breeches of ultra length, when it appears that in life they are foolishly addicted to garments of unseemly brevity, it is only proper that this sad circumstance should be blotted out in the studio, and a veil, composed of a yard or two of extra trousering, be drawn over this painful deficiency in their several characters. Had they been stablemen they might have fared differently, although we can have little to object to in the nether garments of Mr. Adams-Acton's Hon. David Carmichael in the accompanying photograph.

On the other hand, there have been sculptors who strive hard for sartorial realism. The trousers no more than the limbs of all our great men are faultless. At a glance we may appreciate shades of difference in the interesting studies by Mr. David Weekes of the trousers of Lord Rosebery and of Mr. John Burns. The former are the garments to the life, such as have long been familiar to the fortunate occupiers of the front rows at Liberal political meetings--redolent of the lonely furrow and on intimate terms with the historic spade--while as for the tumid and strenuous breeches of the member for Battersea, corduroy or otherwise, they are chiselled to the last crease of realism. But such is the perversity of Art that such interesting studies would in the finished statue be exchanged for far less convincing garments. The legs of the Palmerston and Peel statues in Parliament Square are clothed in what we might term a suave trouser--or, more properly speaking, pantaloons--of incredible length and irreproachable girth; whereas those whose eyes have rested upon these great statesmen's garments in the flesh will recall something eminently different. For example, if we do not too greatly err in our conception, Lord Palmerston, in his later years, was somewhat addicted to a style of trouser not often seen in sculpture. Happily, in the studio of Mr. Wade, we have been able to light upon an example of just the sort of trouser we mean, and in order more to accurately impress its proportions upon the reader we give an example of it. It is not the trouser of a statesman, however, but of a stableman, a personage in a lower station in life (page 77).

A reference might here be made to the trousers of Mr. Gladstone, executed in bronze by the late Onslow Ford, R.A. The artist in this piece displayed extraordinary qualities of merit, but as realists we must take issue with him on the question of the length of Gladstone's trousers. Albeit if Mr. Gladstone, in posing for this really admirable work, undertook, with an eye to the effects the consequence would have with posterity, to assume for the nonce an unusual and unprecedented pair of trousers, then, of course, Mr. Ford merits a complete exoneration. He, like posterity will be, was deceived. But we take it upon ourselves, while admiring their aggressiveness and individuality, to assert that such trousers would be much more befitting Mr. Balfour, whose "tailor's length," we are given to understand, is thirty-six inches, rather than the venerable Liberal statesman, whose nether adornments never exceeded twenty-eight.

Indeed, we shall not be at a loss if we seek for examples of the trouser which is manufactured exclusively in the studio of the sculptor. Mr. Brock is certainly a great sinner in this regard (we have only to turn to his statues of the late Mr. Cookson and Collin Campbell), and Mr. Adams-Acton has shown in his statue of the late Professor Powell that he, too, does not always follow the fashion of the street. We think we can safely lay down the proposition once for all that no trousers can possess simultaneously both properties--length and bagginess. We have every confidence in the tailor as well as the greatest admiration for his art, and we do not wish to be considered as speaking lightly or at random when we say that long deliberation and consultation with the highest authorities have shown us that these two qualities are irreconcilable. We must, therefore, in all fairness condemn several pairs of chiselled trousers which seem to us to violate this law, as even the elegant continuations with which, thanks to Mr. Simonds, the late Hon. F. Tollemache stands for ever endowed, the inexpressibles of the late Mr. Palmer, and even Mr. Pinker's genteel specimens upon the legs of the late Professor Fawcett.

[_Photo._ ]

After all we have said, it is to Nottingham that we must attribute the unique distinction of possessing the worst pair of sculptured trousers in the kingdom. They adorn the legs of the late local worthy, Sir Robert Juckes-Clifton; and, as the reader will see from the accompanying photograph, embody not inadequately the talented sculptor's dream. That they embody anything but a dream it is out of our power to believe, as we are reliably informed that it is not in the nature of our most flexible English tweeds to assume such grotesque folds, unless there are goods in the Midlands, for which the lamented Sir Robert Juckes-Clifton expressed a weakness, which surpass ordinary material in this respect. After all, they are not so bad as Gambetta's trousers in the statue opposite the Louvre in Paris, already alluded to and reproduced on page 76. The sculptor's aim was apparently to breech his subject æsthetically, and he has spared no pains to bring about this result. As a matter of truth, M. Alphonse Daudet has borne printed witness to the fact that Gambetta's trousers were invariably too short--not too long--and revealed some inches of white sock. But could a sculptor be expected to take cognizance of this?

[_Photo._ ]

All our readers probably are familiar with the magic name of Poole--tailor by appointment to a score of Royalties. Poole is to men's attire what Worth is to women's. It would be strange if the artists of Savile Row did not have a good-natured grievance against their fellow-artists of the adjacent Burlington House.

"I shouldn't be surprised," stated the head of the firm, not without diffidence--for it is one of the traditional principles of Poole since Beau Brummel's time to evince a becoming reticence toward the public aspect of his craft, "if the uninitiated person who contemplates our public statues is forced to conclude that to wear shocking bad trousers is one of the first essentials to political distinction. Why, many of the statues which I have seen in London and the provinces are a standing reproach to us. I dare say, on the other hand, the sculptor who reconstructs our creations is convinced that he is improving upon us, but I think there can be but one mind between the sculptor and ourselves as to how a pair of trousers should hang in real life. And if real life, why not in sculpture?

"I may also observe that the classical fall of the sculptured trouser over the boot is absolutely the contrivance of the artist, and is impossible from the tailor's standpoint. Again, although many gentlemen in real life follow the fashion so far as to wear trousers which just touch the upper portion of the boot, the trouser of sculpture is always of superlative length, in spite of the multifarious folds and creases which one would think, according to common physical laws, would tend to diminish that length."

"An artist," writes Mr. E. F. Benson, in one of his novels, "Limitations," "must represent men and women as he sees them, and he doesn't see them nowadays either in the Greek style or the Dresden style.... To look at a well-made man going out shooting gives one a sense of satisfaction. What I want to do is to make statues like them, which will give you the same satisfaction.... I want to make trousers beautiful, and women's evening dress beautiful, and shirt-sleeves beautiful. I don't mean that I shall ever make them beautiful in the same way as the robes of the goddesses in the Parthenon pediments are beautiful, but I shall make them admirable somehow."

And that is the great problem for the sculptors of the twentieth century.

The Coils of Fate.

BY L. J. BEESTON.

I.

"If you ever kill a man, my friends--ah! but you may--take care to dispossess the mind of haunting fancies. Murder is a wrong against society, certainly. So is borrowing a sovereign which you do not intend to return. Both may be forgotten."

Vassilitch spoke across the dinner-table. His unconventional philosophy was meant for every ear there, though he addressed himself to his host--George Etheridge, of Hollowfield Court.

Gabrielle Rupinsky, the speaker's countrywoman, who was seated at his right side, turned her head to flash into his face one look from her calm eyes.

A silence followed the remark; not an uncomfortable period, but rather one of that satisfaction which we feel when a good talker ventures out from the ruts of conversation and trite opinion. Then Tweed, a round-faced, optimistic schoolboy of a man, said, cheerfully:--

"How comforting! Let us go and exterminate our enemies before they get wind of so pleasing an assurance and exterminate us. Alas, though, we have not altogether done with Leviticus yet; still the hangman takes care of our consciences."

In the first place they had been speaking about echoes. Several of the company had heard wonderful echoes in different parts of the world. George Etheridge had told of an echo in Bavaria which had startled him--as it startles all to whom it speaks. He said: "You row out to the middle of the lake. There is an immense rugged cliff on one hand, and on the other a dense wood of pines. You fire a pistol. The sound rolls from between precipice and forest, tossed from one to the other, gathering in intensity and power, until it breaks like a clap of thunder overhead. The effect is certainly terrifying. Shall I tell you of what it made me think? Of one of those imprudent acts, one of those small sins that we commit in an unconsidered moment, which is the trifling cause of growing and overwhelming effects that end in cataclysm."

The conversation having been given this serious turn, first one and then another of Etheridge's guests recalled stories of sins that had worked in lives as worms through a ship's planks. Tweed mocked. He was rarely grave, but his easy heart was valued by all who knew him. He said, "You will all give yourselves a nightmare at bedtime. Come, let us have a murder yarn to wind up with."

And so Vassilitch, who was no stranger to the fatalism of the Slav, and who on that account had listened with considerable interest to the dialogue, had suddenly roused himself to utter his views expressed above.

"I will repeat my advice," said he. "If you ever kill a man do not think about it afterwards. Ah! the fantasies that we invent to torment ourselves with!"

Gabrielle was compelled to look at the speaker once more. As the guests of Etheridge they had seen much of one another during the past three days. She liked to have him by her side because he was her countryman; also, to her eyes, he appeared to be the strongest man in the company. And he? Whenever Mademoiselle Rupinsky came in late he was silent to taciturnity; and when she took her place he thawed.

"You are not--you cannot be--in earnest?" said Gabrielle.

"Never more so, mademoiselle."

"It is your profession that has killed your sentiment," explained Etheridge.

"As you will."

Clearly they were all waiting for him to continue. He perceived that he was the centre of observation, of interest--Ivan Féodor Vassilitch, sometime captain of a Cossack regiment that had made a reputation for hardihood and valour unique even amongst those northern soldiers whose nerves have the iron coldness of their ice-plains. He raised his glass, emptied it, and went on:--

"I tell you, my friends, that if circumstance compels you to such an act as I have spoken of, then any future terrors must be entirely the product of a superstitious imagination. No spirit will haunt you save that which you yourself conjure by bending the mind continually to that idea. No worm of remorse will tear your peace unless you believe liars who tell you it exists."

That was all. None cared to argue the point. He was so quietly certain of his philosophy; so terribly sure.

An hour later Vassilitch was addressed by Gabrielle. "I should like five minutes' talk with you," she said.

He expressed both readiness and pleasure, and he spoke the truth. They passed out into the garden, after he had insisted that she should cover her shoulders with a wrap, for the dews of late autumn were condensing and falling imperceptibly on the still trees and flowers.

"Will you sit down?"

"I should prefer to walk slowly." He saw her bosom rise and fall in agitation, and he wondered what was coming.

"Monsieur, I have a story to tell you. Of all the men I know, you can best appreciate it. It may be that you will care to help me--ah! do not be too ready; my request, if I prefer it, is altogether an unusual one, and such as only you might understand, and I. These Englishmen have cold hearts; passion with them is slow to catch fire and easy to be extinguished."

"You speak of love, mademoiselle?" said Vassilitch, uneasily.

"No."

"Then it must be revenge. I am all attention."

"You have heard of that society that call themselves 'The Scourge'? Of their political opinions I know nothing. Three years ago the police broke into a Moscow cellar and captured fifteen of this confraternity. Of the ultimate fate of those fifteen I also know nothing, but the end that came to one has been told me. He, at any rate, was a man, and a true Russian."

Gabrielle caught her breath with a gasp, paused a moment, then continued:--

"He was deprived of civil rights, his property confiscated, and he himself sent into exile. He escaped from a convict station in the Trans-Baikal. He gained the woods, but it was winter, and you know what that means."

"Ah!" muttered Vassilitch, twisting his black moustache and watching the pale face of his beautiful companion.

"I have not seen those dreary forests, but I have heard and read of them; how packs of hungry wolves seek food and cannot find it; and how the _varnaks_--those wretches who have committed real crimes--infest the lonely pathways at evening to rob and murder. They say that the police kill them as dogs."

"Pardon, mademoiselle; you must not credit these wild tales."

"But I do believe them. Listen. This poor exile, after he had wandered for days in that dead land, was discovered by a band of Cossacks riding along a forest path. He was seized. Their officer cried out that he was a _varnak_, a _bradyaga_, and ordered that he should be shot. You start; perhaps this story has reached your ears?"

"No, no," said the other, quickly. "Pray go on."

"The exile protested that he was an escaped political prisoner. He was not believed. The officer again repeated his order. A soldier was about to obey, but the other threw the man from his horse. Instantly a dozen carbines were levelled, but the officer, convulsed with passion, cried out, 'You will tie this scoundrel to a tree, eight feet above the ground, and leave him to the wolves.' Ah! why do you recoil from me? Do you not believe this story? I tell you that it is absolutely true in every detail."

Gabrielle was trembling with emotion.

"It is quite cold out here; you will catch your death. Let us go indoors," said Vassilitch, harshly.

She continued unheedingly. "The command of that monster was obeyed by his men. The victim was lashed to the trunk of a pine tree, high above the ground. The Cossacks rode away, laughing, and left him there until the wolves should come to surround the tree, to bite it through with their sharp teeth, and then--and then----"

A gleam of lightning passed over the sky, and the rumble of thunder followed.

"Do you recollect the talk at the table?" said Gabrielle; "about echoes? This act is one of those that return to break in thunder upon the perpetrator."

The ex-captain of Cossacks shrugged his shoulders. "What is your request?" he demanded.

Gabrielle stopped in the garden path and faced him. A faint light from the windows of the mansion fell upon her form with its perfect lines, its loveliness. She was conscious of her beauty then, and she knew that he was conscious of it.

"Find the man who did this thing."

He was silent.

"You think me revengeful? I acknowledge it. Right or wrong, for three years I have prayed for this."

"Mademoiselle, I must ask you two questions: The name of your informant?"

"I am pledged not to give it. He was a trooper in the band who obeyed the orders of their officer."

"That is unfortunate, for I should much like to know his name. Let that pass. Question number two: What was this prisoner to you that his fate should awake these feelings of deep sorrow and revenge?"

For an instant Gabrielle hesitated, while his eyes appeared to be reading her inmost thoughts. Then she said, "He was a brother."

"Ah!"

Vassilitch was clearly relieved by the answer. He said, "This will, of course, necessitate a journey to Russia. Well, I will find this man."

"And you will challenge him?"

"I will challenge him."

"And you will kill him?"

"If by that time you still wish it--yes, I will kill him."

They looked into one another's eyes, adding no further word. A heavy clap of thunder broke and rolled overhead.

"You had better go in now," said Vassilitch.

He left her at the doors of the French windows, while he lighted a cigar and went again into the garden. Suddenly he turned. He perceived that she was yet standing, gazing after him. He could see her in the aureole of light, though she could not see him in the outer gloom.

"How beautiful she is!" muttered Vassilitch.

He flung down his cigar, put his foot upon it, and ground it into the earth.

II.

"Expensive? Rather. You cannot get diggings in Regent Street for a song." Tweed rose, threw up the window, sat down again, and added, "Especially over a jeweller's shop. They are so careful. There is nothing but a plank, my dear Boris, between us and thousands of pounds' worth of glittering things."

"It is very nice here," said Boris Stefanovitch, looking across to the Quadrant with wistful, melancholy eyes.

"'Twill serve. They are not bad for bachelors' quarters. My only fear is that one day I may get my head into the matrimonial noose. Do not laugh; it is too serious. There are many who feel in the same way. We are determined not to marry. We build a hedge, and dig a trench, and raise a tower; but--but----" Tweed shrugged his shoulders. "Halloa, it is beginning to snow," he added, abruptly. "Do you feel cold? I will close the window."

"Pray do not. I had an idea that it never snowed in England. This wind is most refreshing."

"I am glad you think so," said Tweed, pushing back his chair as a rush of raw air swept into the apartment. "No doubt a cutting blast like this is a summer breeze to you after your----" He pulled himself up suddenly. That was a subject that he never cared to be the first to open.

There was the rattle of descending iron shutters. They were closing the shop on the ground floor. The white flakes were driving by in dizzying confusion. Almost every cab had an occupant. A hushed roar told of the traffic at Piccadilly Circus.

Stefanovitch said, quietly, "Well, I shall return to Russia."

"You will do nothing of the sort," was the equally quiet reply.

"There is a difference in our cases. You wish to live without love; and I--to me love is life. This silence is not to be endured. Why no response to my letters? I shall wait one more month, and then I shall go to Moscow."

"You dare not! Haven't you seen enough of Russian prisons?"

"More than three years since I set eyes on her," muttered the other; and his face, which bore the marks of much suffering, became all at once haggard with perplexity.

"Three years is a long time and a hard test," argued Tweed.

The other caught his meaning. He smiled as he said, simply, "My friend, you do not know this woman."

"But I know the Trans-Baikal, and the frozen horror of your northern swamps. And I have seen a gang of exiles, in their long, earth-coloured coats, women and men, chained together, living statues of despair, tramping, tramping, and the soldiers with their bayonets fixed----"

"Don't!" said Stefanovitch. But the other went on unheedingly.

"And I have seen your northern forests in winter, shrouded in snow, with an Arctic wind rattling down the pine needles, bending the cedars, and the fir trees making a sound that gives you the shivers. And I have seen the wolves there. They appear to rise out of the ground. Once they chased me for three leagues. We were in a tarantass, and were nearly caught, by Jove! What brutes! Every tooth looked like a dagger. And frequently a poor wretch will escape from a convict station and try to hide himself in these forests----"

"Will you stop?" cried Stefanovitch, covering his eyes.

"----will endeavour to conceal himself in one of these forests; but either he starves to death or the wolves get him, or perhaps a party of soldiers, say Cossacks, come upon him and take him for a _varnak_. And I have known one instance in which the man, having resisted authority, was lashed to a tree to wait for the wolves. He succeeded in releasing himself, it is true; and ultimately he escaped from the country, but----"

"Enough, enough!" implored Stefanovitch, as if appalled by some memory that had seared heart and brain.

"----but next time he will not meet with such fortune." Tweed rose and smashed down the window.

"Why do you recall these things to me?" said the other, huskily.

"Why will you make a fool of yourself?" was the heated retort. "I tell you that you shall not go back to Moscow if I can prevent it. There's not a woman on this earth who is worth running so great a risk for. If she will not answer your letters, you must forget her, that is all."

"You suggest an impossibility."

"And you suggest a madness. What are you gazing at? Do you recognise anybody?"

The other was looking across the roadway to where a tall, broad figure, in a massive fur-trimmed coat, was leisurely pacing the thronged pavement. Tweed repeated his question.

"I--I don't know," replied Stefanovitch, indecisively. "The face of that tall fellow--I thought it was familiar--the light is so bad--and a cab came between----"

"What, that fellow in the coat? How strange! I seem to know him, too. Even his back is familiar. Let me think. Where on earth did I meet--ah!--no, it's slipped me again. Yet I'm sure--almost sure--that I--got it, by thunder! The man's Vassilitch--Ivan Féodor Vassilitch, a countryman of yours; not a bad sort, but cold and hard--hard as sheet-iron. You have met him, perhaps?"

"The name is not familiar to me."

"I met him at Etheridge's place in Cumberland. It was four months back." Tweed spoke cheerily, feeling glad that the subject was changed. "There were some nice people down there," he continued. "I should like you to know Etheridge. Ah, yes--there was also a countrywoman of yours staying at the place. She and Vassilitch were rather thick, we thought. A singularly beautiful creature. Her name was Gabrielle Rupinsky. She----What on earth is the matter?"

"Gabrielle Rupinsky!" echoed Stefanovitch, springing so suddenly to his feet that his chair went flying.

"The same. Do----"

"The daughter of old Otto Rupinsky, General of Hussars?" The speaker was trembling with excitement.

"That is she," said the other, astonished.

Stefanovitch caught at his collar as if emotion were choking him. "Do you know what you are saying?" he cried. "Fool that I was not to have mentioned her name! This is the woman who is all--all the beauty of the world to me. Gabrielle in England! Now it is clear why my letters were not answered. Heaven bless you for this news. Her address--quick!"

Tweed, overjoyed and immensely relieved, was wringing the other's hands in his delight. "I'm afraid I can't give it you straight away," said he. "You see, she isn't in Cumberland now. But I will write at once to Etheridge, and you should have it within forty-eight hours. 'Pon my word, old fellow, this is great news. Are you going?"

"If you do not mind. A thousand thanks. I hope it is not a dream; it seems too good to be true," he added, with pathos. "What! I shall see Gabrielle within forty-eight hours? Shall hold her in my arms? Pardon me; these things may not appeal to you. But if you had waited and suffered----"

"I know, I know," said Tweed, sympathetically. They had descended the stairway and were at the open door. "Look here," he added, in parting, "we have supper together at my club to-morrow night; that engagement holds good, of course?"

"As you will; most certainly."

Stefanovitch pressed his friend's hand and was gone. At that moment Tweed perceived the tall form of Ivan Vassilitch repassing. He murmured, "I should like to renew my acquaintance with this man; he fascinated me, rather. I'll go out and meet him." And he bounded upstairs for his coat and hat.

III.

An electric bell hummed through the cottage.

Gabrielle put down her book in surprise. She had scarcely expected a visitor at that late hour. Yet it was not really late, but in this sleepy Hertfordshire village nine o'clock was considered an unusual time for anyone to be out.

She drew back the blind. A black night pressed against the window. The country-side, unillumined by moon or stars, was just a wall of darkness, as if reclaimed by "chaos and old night."

A servant entered with a card. Gabrielle glanced at the slip of pasteboard, and the observant maid noticed that a sudden rush of colour swept into her mistress's face.

"I will see him," said Gabrielle.

There entered Ivan Féodor Vassilitch. The lines of his face relaxed at sight of her, and a smile almost of sweetness raised his black moustache. "Why do you not light your English country roads?" he demanded, laughing. "I had only the light of your window to guide me for a mile."

"Pardon; they are not my roads," she answered, in the same bright spirit of banter. "I am not yet naturalized. Where have you been?"

"To Russia." He spoke the truth.

"Ah!" Instantly she became serious. "And you returned----?"

"Yesterday."

"Will you sit down, monsieur?" She spoke with a palpable effort. Some emotion had robbed her of breath.

"Shall we go straight to our subject?" asked Vassilitch, perfectly controlled, as he always was.

"For what else are you here?"

"My first thought was that I should see you; my second was that I had a more definite errand."

He bore her sudden coldness so steadily that she was compelled to relent. "Well," she said, "I am very pleased to see you, monsieur."

"You are exceedingly kind. On the day following the evening on which I received your instructions I set about the business, and I was not long in finding the man who worked you and yours so great a wrong."

"Not long? Impossible that he was in England?"

"On the contrary, mademoiselle, he was in this country. Do not ask me how I discovered him. As an ex-officer of Cossacks you will understand that my inquiries were respected. The task was not difficult; in fact, it was ridiculously easy."

"Why do you laugh like that? You found this monster; what then?"

"He went to Russia. I went also."

"And you challenged him there?" cried Gabrielle, and the womanly softness fled from her eyes.

"I did not."

"Monsieur! monsieur!"

"Listen. He returned to England; and I, too, followed."

"What! You permitted him to escape? You lost this chance?"

"Mademoiselle, there is one thing which both of us overlooked--or, rather, of which we were in ignorance."

"That you were afraid?" said Gabrielle, rising to her feet, with a world of scorn and anger in her beautiful face.

Vassilitch regarded her with steadiness; he took the word as he would have taken a pistol ball, and again she relented. "Forgive me," she said. "I was hasty; I wronged you."

"Mademoiselle, the Queen can do no wrong." He took the hand she gave him, made as if he would have raised it to his lips, then released it with infinite gentleness. "The one important point that we overlooked," he continued, "is that this man--I wonder if you can guess?"

"No, no. Go on."

"----is that this man loves you, mademoiselle."

"Loves--me?"

"So I discovered. You are his guiding star. To you his life points; round you it revolves. Parted from you by an infinite distance, he is yet bound to you by the strongest of laws, and can no more escape your sway than the earth the pole-star to which it looks, about which it rolls. And knowing this, I could not kill him--just yet."

"Why, what folly is this that you are talking?" exclaimed Gabrielle, a trifle awed in spite of herself. "You are not serious, monsieur? You cannot be."

Vassilitch did not answer.

"His name? Tell me his name," was the impatient command.

"I will tell you, but not now."

"You are very mysterious," said Gabrielle, watching him closely. "You must be aware that you are keeping me in suspense."

Vassilitch rose. "It is merely a fancy of mine," said he. "I ask you to believe that I have spoken the simple truth. I am still prepared to carry out your instructions; but I should like you to consider the assurance that I have given you. In a short time I hope to see you again. Perhaps--anyhow, you know that I am your servant; you have but to command me. I will wish you good-night, mademoiselle."

Gabrielle extended her hand. She was troubled by the bitterness of his smile. Certainly this man was mysterious to-night. "Where are you staying?" she asked, suddenly, willing to prolong the conversation.

"At the L---- Hotel."

"You will dine with me one night? This place is quiet, but it has its charm."

"Nothing would delight me more."

"To-morrow?"

"You are very good, but I have an engagement. Do you recollect the Englishman--I have his card here--George Tweed? That is it. He was in Cumberland when----"

"I remember him perfectly."

"Well, we met this evening in London. He extracted from me a promise to take supper with him to-morrow night. He wants me to meet a great friend of his, and a countryman of ours, whose conversation he vowed would interest me."

"Indeed? Did he mention the name?"

"Yes. It was--it was--no, it has slipped my memory. It scarcely matters."

A servant came at a touch of the bell. The visitor descended the stairs and left the cottage. Impelled by a sudden impulse Gabrielle ran to the window and pulled up the blind. He would see her standing there. What of that? The crunch of his heavy footfall sounded upon the gravel, and his voice came clearly--"Good-night!" She replied and felt glad.

Gabrielle drew down the blind again and retreated into the well-lighted room. She paused by the table and put to herself, aloud, a direct question: "Why did I tell him that--that he was my brother?" And she replied, in as direct a fashion: "I imagined that he--cared for me a little. If he had known the truth should I have been able so to command him? I cannot think so."

The recollection of the time when she had met Ivan Vassilitch brought to her certain details of the occasion; and suddenly she remembered that conversation in which famous echoes that appear to gather sound and reverberate had been likened to actions that will not leave a life. She had compared that cruel wrong which had destroyed her peace with one of these deeds that come back to break in thunder. She recalled the reminiscence with a sense of uneasiness.

IV.

There were half-a-dozen men in the coffee-room at the club.

"What I like about this place," said Tweed, across the table, to Stefanovitch, "is that they feed you well. The big restaurants have spoilt most clubs in that respect. If ever----" he stopped, and took his arms off the table as a uniformed waiter approached with a bottle of champagne. The man held the dusty neck with a serviette, drew the cork, and filled two glasses. Stefanovitch, lost in thought, did not observe the act. When he looked down he flushed slightly as he said, "Thank you, I do not care to drink before eating."

The other was visibly annoyed as he glanced at the clock. "Our man is behind time," said he. "A bad thing in a soldier. By the way, I wonder if you do know him? I should say that he is a man of iron--one of those fellows whom you couldn't drive nails into, to quote a picturesque expression, and the last man on earth of whom I should care to make an enemy."

"You said that, when you were all together in Cumberland," answered the other, speaking with apparent effort, "this Ivan Vassilitch, whom I am to meet to-night, appeared rather fond of Gabrielle. Of course----"

Tweed laughed outright. "Don't worry," said he. "Mademoiselle Rupinsky was to him as to most of us--a beautiful statue. Her cold reserve is now fully explained; she believes that you are either dead or yet an exile. You will make her a happy woman to-morrow, Boris. Ah! an idea. Vassilitch may be wiser than I. He may have her address, in which case you will not have to wait for this letter from Etheridge. And that is a point which will soon be settled, for here comes our man."

The tall figure of Ivan Vassilitch appeared at the door of the spacious coffee-room. His hat and coat had been taken from him. He at once perceived Tweed, and dismissed with a nod the servant who had conducted him thither. Tweed gripped his hand with almost boyish fervour.

"So pleased to see you," said he. "Come along, I will introduce you to a fellow-countryman who----Halloa! you know one anoth----" He broke off on the unfinished word.

Stefanovitch had risen to his feet. He faced Vassilitch. Into his eyes a wild expression leaped, a look of haunting fear, of cowering terror. Tweed, with astonishment, observed that piteous gaze, and thought instinctively of a half-tamed animal that turns upon its master. Stefanovitch recoiled a step, one hand grasping a chair-back, the other clutching the table-cloth, and with all the strength of his spirit he strove to beat down the straight look of this man who, by an hour of horror, had well-nigh broken that spirit.

Vassilitch was the first to break the silence. He said, unflinchingly, "Monsieur Stefanovitch appears to recognise me. He has a good memory for faces. Yes; we have met before."

At the words, or the callous tone in which they were spoken, a sudden frenzy of passion convulsed Stefanovitch. Uttering a stifled cry of "Scoundrel!" he snatched up his untasted glass of wine and flung the contents in the face of Vassilitch.

"Are you mad?" exclaimed Tweed, grasping the outstretched arm.

A waiter who had observed the action took a step forward, then hesitated, ready for developments.

The ex-officer of Cossacks wiped the liquid from his face and coat. He was very pale. He turned to Tweed.

"I compliment you on the manners of your friends," said he; "they are delightful. I have the honour to wish you good evening." He bowed slightly, twice--the second time to Stefanovitch, who had sunk into a chair; then he quitted the room.

V.

The fatalistic idea that he was being carried onward in spite of himself would occur insistently; he felt that he was no longer master of circumstance.

It was hardly to be wondered at, since it was largely a matter of nerves. Vassilitch had returned to his hotel after the scene at the club, and spent half the night writing a letter to Gabrielle; slept badly, breakfasted on four cups of black coffee, spent the best part of the day in pacing the narrow dimensions of his sitting-room, and was now--as the afternoon waned--as undecided as ever.

He told himself that the only clear part of the business was that he could not do without her--no, nor would he; that he was guiltless of the crime that had awakened her abhorrence and fierce desire for justice. For her brother had escaped death, it appeared, and had come back. But that brother would denounce him, would have to be reckoned with. It was certainly awkward. The difference in their names did not puzzle him. Doubtless the name of Stefanovitch had been assumed from political reasons of prudence.

But, then, he told himself, brother and sister must have met in England, perhaps weeks, even months past. In that case Gabrielle must have learned the truth, and so might very well be playing with him. This thought was terrible. Yet when he called to mind the obvious surprise and discomfiture of Stefanovitch he felt relieved. Then another suspicion arose: what if that meeting had been a prearranged thing? It was a little unusual that the Englishman, George Tweed, should accost him--a mere acquaintance--in Regent Street, and invite him to supper. Yes, it really did appear as if he were the dupe of Gabrielle and Stefanovitch, that they were indeed amusing themselves at his expense. If not, how strange that she should have said to him, of all men on earth, "Kill the man who killed my brother."

This frightful suspicion was not to be endured. He combated it, since it was for his life. He strove to remember one soft look that she might have given him. He had imagined at times that she trusted a little in him.

A firm resolve to act came at last to him. He tore into small pieces the letter that he had written. He would see Gabrielle--would end this torment.

He examined a time-table and started to leave the hotel. Half-way down the stairs he paused, returned quickly, and slipped into his pocket a Derringer pistol, which he took, without exactly knowing why, from a drawer. A minute later he was bowling towards King's Cross Station.

On the platform he saw Stefanovitch, and guessed rightly that the latter was bound for the same destination as himself. If Vassilitch had been sure of this he would have abandoned his intention; as it was he resolved to go on without losing sight of the other.

The train sped from the Metropolis, rushing with piercing cries through the winter-laden country. The short day was passing from fields and sky; already the tops of the leafless trees mingled with the grey of evening.

When Ivan Vassilitch alighted at his station he perceived that Stefanovitch was before him, that he was just quitting the platform, moving with sharp strides, as if he were in a hurry. Vassilitch had half a mind to turn back, but, not caring to wait for perhaps a long time till an up train came in, he almost mechanically followed the other at a safe distance.

Stefanovitch stopped once or twice, and appeared to make inquiries as to his way. This mystified Vassilitch. Was it possible, he asked himself, that Gabrielle had not met her brother; that the latter had but just set foot in England? The consideration was comforting.

Stefanovitch walked on with great strides, not looking behind, or scarcely to right and left. Gabrielle's cottage was isolated from other habitations. It was built on an eminence that was sheltered on three sides by poplar trees, while the gravelled drive that led to the front of the house was bordered by elms, whose branches met overhead and formed an avenue.

Stefanovitch was approaching the head of this avenue when he perceived, coming toward him, the figure of a woman. His heart almost stopped beating, then continued with great thumps of excitement. The waning, pallid twilight obscured the form, but something in the poise of that figure, in the walk, brought back to him a flood of dear remembrance. With fingers that shook he lifted the latch of the gate and continued down the avenue, that was covered with dead leaves of autumn. And then he saw that it was indeed she.

He cried out in stifled tones:--

"Gabrielle! Gabrielle!"

She stopped; the quick panting of her breath reached his ears.

"It is I--Boris! I have come back to you, Gabrielle--come back, after all these years! My heart! Why do you look at me like that? No word of welcome, Gabrielle? Ah! you thought that I was dead? My selfishness has made me too abrupt." Stefanovitch had caught the white hands and was drawing her towards him.

"Yes, I--I--thought that you were--dead," answered Gabrielle. The sound of his voice, its infinite tenderness, the joy that glowed in his eyes, moved her so that she broke out into sobs--sobs that startled him.

"My love! my dear love! I have frightened you. Oh, you must not cry like that. Look at me, Gabrielle! How I have lived for you! Not one hour in which I have not thought of you. And this, God's mercy, is greater than His trial." Stefanovitch raised the drooping head and covered her face with his passionate kisses. "My love! My love!" he said.

And Gabrielle at that moment seemed to wake from a dream. Here was the heart that she could rest upon. What other thoughts were those which she had permitted to linger for awhile? They were fading already, were passing with her tears.

She put her arms about his neck; and so they were silent for a time, standing motionless beneath the trees. Stefanovitch said at last:--

"Who told you that I was dead, little one? Who caused you such pain?"

"It is so terrible a story. I heard that you escaped--"

"And so I did."

"That in the forest you were caught by a regiment of Cossacks, and that--"

Stefanovitch interrupted her. "What!" he cried out, "you heard of that? Yes, it was true; but, Gabrielle, at a moment like this, when my cup is overflowing, I can forgive even Ivan Vassilitch--"

Gabrielle sprang from him as if he had struck her. In an instant she saw the whole truth. The cry she would have uttered died on her parted lips. She remained mute, bewildered, paralyzed with astonishment.

"Ah, you know the man," said Stefanovitch. "I had forgotten that. Well, let him pass, Gabrielle. Come, you are shivering. It is so cold out here. May I come indoors for an hour?"

* * * * *

The ex-captain of Cossacks closed the gate as he left the avenue. He had heard every word. And he had let them go. Why, he might have pistolled Stefanovitch as he stood there!

He remained in the snow-covered road, staring at the darkened fields, pallid with grief and rage.

Suddenly he snatched the Derringer from his pocket. The barrel into which he looked was but a tiny orifice, yet wide and deep as the pit of death. He lifted his arm. A pressure of the finger, that was all that was needed--

"Bah! for a woman? She is not worth it!"

Vassilitch fired into the air. The report echoed and re-echoed--a note of thunder in the quiet night!

_Eccentricities of Equilibrium._

BY LOUIS NIKOLA. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR.

As a preliminary to the practical reproduction of the experiments herein described, it is necessary to invade the kitchen and to carry off the following articles, viz.: four forks, a plate, a tea-cup, a bottle, some corks, the cook's basting-ladle and strainer, and a few other odd things which will be found enumerated from time to time in connection with the experiments in which they become necessary.

1.--TO BALANCE A COIN ON THE EDGE OF A BOTTLE.

The first experiment is a very simple one. Partly fill the bottle with water; then take one of the corks, make a slit in one end in the direction of its length, into which insert a coin. Next stick two forks into the cork, on opposite sides and near the other end, at angles of about 30deg. With the forks so placed, as balance-weights, it is an easy matter to balance the coin upon one edge of the mouth of the bottle, as in Fig. 1. With a steady hand it is also possible to execute the effective termination shown in the lower portion of the same illustration--_i.e._, to slope the bottle gradually so as to pour out a glass of the contents, retaining the while the coin in equilibrium upon the neck of the bottle.

2.--A COIN BALANCED ON A NEEDLE.

By a slight variation of the previous arrangements the coin may be balanced edgeways upon a needle-point and made to rapidly revolve thereupon. Fig. 2 shows the experiment in operation.

3.--THE BALANCED PIN.

To balance a pin upon a needle would seem rather a formidable undertaking; but by an application of the same principle no considerable difficulty is encountered. Stick the pin into another cork in position corresponding to that of the coin in the first experiment, into which also fix two forks as in the previous examples. With a little care it is then quite practicable to rest the head of the pin upon the point of the needle, where it will remain balanced as in Fig. 3.

4.--A PIN OR NEEDLE BALANCED HORIZONTALLY.

By another variation of the conditions it is possible to balance the pin upon the needle-point in a horizontal position and to make it revolve thereon in that situation. The only alteration necessary to the preparations already made is to substitute for the two forks two ordinary pocket-knives. By bending the handles of the knives at an angle to the blade, the pin may be sustained in a horizontal position. Or, by the substitution of a long needle for the pin, the forks may be retained as balance-weights, as in the previous example and as shown in the present illustration. The pin may be rested upon the needle-point as in the figure, and by a gentle touch of the finger may be set revolving. In time, by reason of the relative differences in hardness of the two metals, the commencement of a tiny hole will be drilled by the sharp steel point of the needle in the softer brass of the pin, and if the motion be continued for a sufficient length of time a hole will ultimately be an accomplished fact.

5.--THE SPINNING PLATE.

A further application of similar principles, and a plate may be balanced and spun upon the needle-point. The corked bottle with the needle in position remains as before. Two other corks are taken and split into two by a vertical cut. Into one end of each half-cork, upon the flat side, are stuck the prongs of a fork, and thus the four forks are hung at equal distances around the edge of the plate. Then, with a little care, the plate will be held in perfect equilibrium, as in Fig. 5.

6.--THE BALANCED EGG.

Next cut a slight concavity in one end of one of the corks, so as to adapt it as exactly as possible to one end of an egg. Then insert two forks, as before, into the sides of the cork, letting the hollowed-out end be the lower. Then rest the cork with the forks as counter-weights upon the end of the egg to which the concavity has been adapted. So aided, the egg may be balanced upon the mouth of the bottle, as in Fig. 6.

7.--THE WALKING CORK.

In this case a cork with two balance-weights attached, in the shape of forks as previously employed, is provided in addition with a pair of legs, formed by the insertion of a couple of stout pins or small round-headed nails into the bottom of the cork, as in Fig. 7. The figure is placed upon an inclined narrow slip of wood at the highest point of the incline and set gently oscillating, so that the weight is thrown alternately on one side and then on the other, which will cause the figure to make the descent of the incline in a series of jerks.

8.--THE BALANCED PENCIL.

As shown in the illustration, this experiment is performed with a lead pencil and a razor. The razor is partly opened and the end of the blade fixed into the wood of the pencil about an inch or two above the point, in the position and at about the angles shown in the illustration, Fig. 8, when the pencil may be readily balanced upon its point on the extremity of a stout needle thrust horizontally into the bottle cork, as shown.

9.--THE BALANCED LADLE.

A development of the last experiment may be made with a basting ladle and a razor or folding pocket-knife. Open the knife to an angle of a little over 45deg., and engage the hook of the ladle with the outside angle at the junction of handle and blade, as in Fig. 9, which permits of the whole being placed in self-supporting position upon the edge of the table, as shown. The junction of knife and ladle may be made firm, if necessary, by a slice of cork wedged in beneath the hook of the ladle handle.

10.--THE BALANCED PAIL OF WATER.

Fig. 10 looks a little startling! There is, however, no risk if the experiment is properly conducted. The requirements are: a kitchen table, a pail of water, a stout, flat stick three or four feet long on which to hang the pail, and another and slighter piece of stick. The larger stick is first laid upon the table with about one-third of its length projecting over the edge. The pail--empty--is next hung upon the projecting end of the stick. The smaller stick is then placed with one end against the inside angle of the bottom of the pail at the point nearest the table, and the other end cut away at such a length as will permit it to wedge tightly against the under side of the main stick, at which point a notch may be cut in the latter to prevent slipping. The whole bears a structural resemblance to the balanced ladle of Fig. 9. The pail may then be partly filled with water, when it should remain balanced as in Fig. 10.

11.--THE BALANCED PENCILS.

This is an elaboration of the experiment described in paragraph 4. A pencil is first thrust through the centre of a cork and two forks into the sides of the cork. This will permit of the pencil being balanced horizontally, as in Fig. 11. A second pencil is balanced by the insertion of two pen-holders in positions relatively similar to those which the forks bear to the balanced object in Experiments 1, 2, and 3, and so arranged it may be balanced upon the unsupported end of the first pencil. The whole structure may be made to revolve upon the needle.

12.--THE LADLE AND WINE-GLASS.

Making use again of the basting-ladle, a cork is first fixed into the hook of the handle, and into this is thrust the point of a knife or the prongs of a fork, the latter being at an angle of about 45deg. or so to the former. A glass is filled with water, and by placing the fork or knife-handle upon the edge of the glass the ladle will balance as in Fig. 12.

13.--THE BALANCED BOTTLE.

By still another application of the basting-ladle, or a walking-stick or umbrella, a bottle may be balanced upon a slack cord. All that is necessary is to insert the hook of the ladle-handle or the handle of the stick into the neck of the bottle and support upon the cord, as shown.

14.--THE REVOLVING COIN.

Bend up a piece of stiff wire, such as a hairpin, into the shape shown in the lower right-hand corner of Fig. 14, with a hook at one end and a clip at the other, the latter adjusted to grip a coin tightly. By hanging a fairly heavy finger-ring upon the hook as a counter-weight, the whole may be balanced with the penny upon the point of a needle, and made to revolve on it.

15.--THE REVOLVING PLATE.

A similar experiment may be performed on a larger scale by bending up a longer and proportionately stouter piece of wire, and substituting for the coin a small plate and for the ring a bunch of keys--Fig. 15--or a larger plate and a tea-cup. In the latter case the weight of the tea-cup may be built up to counter-balance the plate by dropping a number of coins one by one into the cup until the required weight is obtained.

16.--THE BALANCED WINE-GLASSES.

This experiment is not a case of pure balancing, but depends principally upon the nice adjustment of the two pieces of stick by means of which the position of the two glasses is maintained. A couple of slender pen-holders may be used, and must be trimmed down at the ends until the right length is obtained. The position of the sticks and the manner in which the glasses are supported can best be gathered by a study of the illustration below.

17.--BALANCING CUPS.

Simple methods of balancing a milk-jug and tea-cup respectively are shown in Figs. 17, A and B. In the first illustration the cork is placed inside the handle of the vessel, in which position it should fit with moderate firmness, so as not to slip, and then two knives are thrust in, one from each side of the handle, between the cork and the cup itself, when the cup may be balanced upon any fixed point. In the second a cork is fixed into the handle, as before, and into the cork the prongs of a fork are fastened, holding the fork in such a position as to bring the centre of gravity below the point of suspension. The cup may then be balanced as before.

18.--THE BALANCED PLATE.

This is a rather more elaborate experiment and one of the most effective of the whole series. The requirements are: a plate, the basting-ladle used in previous experiments, and, in addition, a "skimmer." The handle of the ladle is hooked over the edge of the plate and made secure by a wedge cut from a bottle cork. The opposite edge of the plate is then rested upon the edge of a bottle in the position shown in Fig. 18, and the handle of the skimmer is finally hooked into the bowl of the ladle, making the structure shown.

19.--THE BALANCED TUMBLERS.

Here is a little after-dinner experiment requiring some delicacy of manipulation. The end in view is to balance three tumblers one upon the edge of the other as in Fig. 19. With two tumblers the experiment is comparatively easy: with the third it becomes a genuine test of skill.

20.--THE BALANCED SHOVEL AND TONGS.

A delicate test of balancing may be attempted with the shovel and tongs. The position of the two implements is shown in the illustration Fig. 20. The extremity of one arm of the tongs is rested against the inside of the shovel, and the other extremity is placed in the angle formed by the junction of the shovel with the handle. By delicate poising the two may be induced to remain in equilibrium in the position illustrated. A formation which permits of the tongs being engaged with the shovel after the manner shown is an important factor.

21.--A TOWER OF GLASS.

An effective combination is shown in Fig. 21. A carafe, partly filled with water to give stability, forms the basis of the structure. Upon this a trio of wine-glasses, lying horizontally, are arranged, and so held while the bottle, half filled with water, is placed in position above them. A little careful adjustment will secure an accurate reproduction of the experiment as illustrated.

22.--ANOTHER ARRANGEMENT.

A similar structure, formed with seven glasses and a carafe, is shown in Fig. 22, which is self-explanatory.

23.--THE REVOLVING COIN.

A simple experiment for impromptu performance at the table can be made with a couple of pins and a coin. The accomplishment consists of picking up the coin by two opposite edges between the points of the two pins, as in Fig. 23, in which position it may, with steady hands, safely be held. By blowing smartly upon one edge of the coin it may be made to rapidly revolve between two points. The feat has the appearance of an exhibition of considerable skill, but, as a trial will show, it is in no way difficult of execution. The selection of a milled-edged coin will facilitate the matter.

24.--AN EXTEMPORIZED TRIPOD.

With three forks, a serviette ring, and a plate, one may improvise a stand for a soup tureen or water carafe. The forks are merely passed through the ring and spread into the form of a tripod, the handles resting upon the table. A plate placed upon the prongs of the forks locks the whole and provides the necessary rest for the article to be supported. The fruit dish in the illustration happens to be of just the right size to rest in the support formed by the extremities of the forks, the plate being in this case unnecessary.

25.--KEYS TO EMINENCE.

In our last example we have a succession of keys built up by interlocking the wards and bows one within the other, upon the summit of which may, by special care, be balanced a bottle or similar object. Where the bottle is added to the pile, it takes the place of the uppermost key shown in our illustration, and rests upon one taking a more gentle incline, as in the case of the one immediately below. This rather ambitious structure forms a fitting climax to our series, and may be left to the ingenuity of the reader, whose accumulated experience should by this time be good equipment for the negotiation of the difficulties to be surmounted.

_Miss Cairn's Cough-Drops._

BY WINIFRED GRAHAM.

I.

Little Hal Court knew nothing of towns; he had been brought up in the solitude and beauty of Northern Ireland. The country had given to this small boy something of its own peculiar charm, a wildness wedded mysteriously to peace. He could be so still and thoughtful, or so full of life and movement, he might have borrowed his child's personality from the waves of the great blue sea.

Nature made a bold nurse--a teacher who whispered to Hal of things intense, of stories wonderful, bringing him the funds of her vast wisdom, the fairy tales of a country-side teeming with romance.

"I live with my grandmother," he told his new governess, "because I have a different kind of mamma to other boys. She isn't the ordinary sort that stays at home; she--she's a celebrity!" He paused before alighting upon the correct word, bringing it out with so grave an air that Miss Ainsworth could hardly repress a smile.

"Yes," he continued, hugging his knee and gazing through the window at the turbid waves of the Lough, a lovely inland sea, sending its green waters brimming to the verge of Castle Stewart's old garden. "She sings, you know! She sings--well, just like an angel, people say; but the angels don't have to travel about and leave their little boys at home. Mother makes heaps of money when she sings a song. They send for her right across the world, and she travels like a Princess; the people crowd to see her get into the train. It's always that way if you can sing. Don't you wish you had a voice like an angel, Miss Ainsworth?"

"Yes, indeed."

A sudden, almost painful, longing rang in the reply, as the dazzling picture of a world-famed artiste was conjured up by the simple description of a child.

"I expect," added Miss Ainsworth, "you miss your mother?"

"Why, of course. I wear this picture of her round my neck, and I love her so much I don't mind when other boys call it girlish; one doesn't mind being girlish for her!"

A throb as of martyrdom crept into the child's voice--an almost passionate hunger for the mother-love denied him.

"She said," he continued, "she would be back for the New Year. She can't get here in time for Christmas, because the boat from Australia won't bring her fast enough, but she promised to come for certain on New Year's Eve. I am to write to her in London. I always begin my letters now, 'Don't forget about the New Year,' because she has so much to remember. Then she answers back, 'Dear little boy, I'm safe for the New Year,' or something of that kind. The winter seems very long here, and one rather wants a mother. In the summer I don't mind her being away so much."

His wistful eyes saw in fancy the smiling summer-time, which sped on lightning wings. For him the warm days spelt gladness, giving beautiful little bays for playgrounds and creeks with wooded shores, while winter presented unlighted rocks and shoals lashed by one of the strongest tides in the kingdom. He had grown to love and reverence the castles of old Kings which faced each other across the tide, and to know intimately those wonderful islands which dotted the sea. But to Miss Ainsworth, freshly arrived from a busy city, Castle Stewart in mid-winter held something of terror with its watery wastes, guarding the little village of Slaneyford.

She liked hearing her small charge talk of his mother: it brought a human note into all the dreariness and desolation of this storm-swept country. Since her arrival she had been forced to associate Slaneyford with a driving whirlwind of ceaseless rain.

"We sha'n't mind the weather when mother comes," said Hal, cheerfully. "Everything is different then; she's so jolly, you know. She will bring me lots of toys in her box, but I don't want them when I've got her to play with, and her cheek is so much softer to kiss than grandmamma's."

Miss Ainsworth noticed that the thought of his mother's coming predominated Hal's mind. Everything reminded him of some past action or saying of hers--what she liked or disliked. When he became silent and dreamy, his watchful companion knew well that the child-soul wandered to a mother's knee, through the bright mazes of imagination.

In restless moments his energies ever centred in arranging some surprise for the fair lady of song--shells he had collected for her in the summer were to be hidden under her pillow, and long dried ribbons of white seaweed found their way to the guest-chamber prepared for Mrs. Court.

Miss Ainsworth herself caught his feverish excitement--the coming of the famous singer held the charm of novelty.

As yet she had met none of the celebrated people of the world, but founded her social creed upon the daily lives of the middle classes.

Even little Hal, with the strain of his mother's genius running in his blood, came as a revelation of something peculiar and mystifying.

"I sha'n't notice Christmas at all," he told Miss Ainsworth, as the festive season drew near; "I shall just wait for mother and the New Year and open all my presents then. She will like to be the first to see them." So the Yuletide drifted by uneventfully, save for a thrill of expectation heralding the arrival of a beloved traveller--that child-like counting of days and hours in which the oldest may share, when the heart pines and the spirit yearns for the touch of an absent hand.

The days were drawing near to New Year's Eve when Mrs. Court wrote announcing her safe arrival in London. Hal's grandmother read the letter aloud, and Miss Ainsworth watched the rapt expression on his face with a strange intuition of coming sorrow, a fear lest disappointment, black-winged and ugly, should mar the seraphic beauty of the child's features. The little mouth, slightly inclined by Nature to droop, smiled softly as the older woman read, and a flush crept over the boy's cheek, while his whole attitude denoted breathless excitement. So keen was the tension that, as the letter closed, Miss Ainsworth felt she could hardly bear the concluding words:--

"It is just possible, tell Hal, that, after all, I may not get to Slaneyford for the New Year. Your account of the weather is not encouraging, and, dearly as I long to be with you, I am bound to be cautious and not run any risks. I have a slight cold in my throat, and the thought of the floods round Castle Stewart holds terrors, with their suggestion of dampness. My doctor advises me to give up all thought of visiting Ireland while these stormy days of deluge last. Ask my sweet boy to write to me."

Grandmamma laid the letter down with quite a matter-of-fact air, remarking, "Cristina was very wise!"

Miss Ainsworth took a sidelong glance at Hal. He had not moved, but his lip trembled and he stared very hard at the floor.

"I shall be writing to-day," said grandmamma, "so you had better put in a line, Hal, and she will get it in London to-morrow morning."

Hal nodded. His voice sounded odd and strangled as he replied:--

"Please, I would rather send my letter quite alone in an envelope by itself."

"Very well."

The boy walked slowly to the door. The pathetic droop of his shoulders spoke more eloquently than words, telling of a spirit crushed by hope deferred, of a little heart breaking under a childish tunic of blue serge.

"The day after to-morrow will be New Year's Eve," he thought; "and she--she is afraid of the weather, because of her voice!"

Perhaps he had always been unconsciously jealous of that wonderful gift which took her away from him, though to the child's pure nature all hurtful emotions came as aliens, tarrying but for a moment on forbidden ground.

He crept to the far corner of the school-room, and, hiding the tiresome tears that made writing difficult, scribbled hastily in his new drawing-book.

"She shall have the first sheet as a letter," he said, tearing it out, and re-reading the words, clearly written in a bold, childish hand. "Perhaps she will come after all, when she gets this."

Miss Ainsworth saw with relief Hal looked happier as the post-boy trudged with a bag of correspondence down the soaking drive.

The following morning there was a certain watchfulness about Hal. He could settle down to nothing, and appeared to be constantly listening; every bell sent him running to the hall door.

At last his energy met with reward, for he was the first to bring in a telegram addressed to his grandmother. He waited by her knee with glistening eyes, his pulses throbbing painfully as she read the flimsy paper: "Shall be with you to-morrow; crossing to-night.--Cristina."

It seemed to the boy that his heart stopped beating and would never go on again as he heard the wonderful intelligence. He struggled for breath as he gasped out the good news to Miss Ainsworth, who had just appeared to take him for a walk.

"She will be here for New Year's Eve! She rests in Dublin, you know, and gets to us late in the afternoon," he cried, his face like a sunbeam. "She changed her mind when she got our letters; I expect she saw we wanted her very, very badly."

The hours flew quickly with so much gladness in store, and Hal was quite ready to go to bed early, that to-morrow might come the sooner--to-morrow, the day of days, long waited for, through weary months of watching. Miss Ainsworth came to the boy's bedside fearing he would never sleep--with his brain in such a whirl of feverish expectation.

She found him open-eyed and flushed. Immediately he began speaking of his mother.

"To-morrow night she will come in, shading the candle with her hand," he said. "She will wear a lovely dress she calls a tea-gown, all soft and lacey, and she doesn't mind how much I crumple it." He smiled at the thought and hugged his pillows.

"I wonder why she suddenly changed her mind?" murmured Miss Ainsworth. Hal sat bolt upright, his eyes very alert.

"It was all through my letter," he answered, triumphantly.

"What did you say?" Miss Ainsworth felt very curious as she put the question; she had never before dealt with a child of uncommon character.

"I begged her to come," he replied, his tone vibrating with the energy of a youthful passion. "I said I would like her to lose her voice on the way and never find it again; then she would stay with me always, like other mothers, who live at home with their children. I put: 'Never mind about the old voice, dearest; it's always a bother, taking you away,' and lots of things like that, just to show her how much I cared. Oh! and I dropped some tears on the letter, so it all went crinkly."

An expression of intense longing lit his face as he paused, clutching Miss Ainsworth's sleeve. "Do you think she will lose her voice on the journey?" he gasped, hopefully. "It would be lovely if she did!"

Miss Ainsworth listened horrified; righteous indignation surged within her well-meaning breast as she pictured the mother, torn by natural affection, driven to risk her glorious gift of song for the whim of an exacting child.

"Oh!" cried Miss Ainsworth, shaking him off angrily, "I had no idea you were such a wicked little boy. I thought you really loved your mother, and now I see you don't at all; you are thoroughly selfish and horrid. Your letter must have hurt her very deeply. Of course, she values her voice above everything. God gave it to her as a wonderful inheritance, a divine talent, and you--you _hope_ she will lose it, never to find it again! I don't want to talk to you any more, but if ill befalls your mother it will be a judgment on you! Naturally she ought not to travel against the advice of her doctor, but she is sacrificing her health for the sake of granting an unkind and inconsiderate request!"

With these scathing words of rebuke Miss Ainsworth snatched up the candle and strode from the room, shutting the door firmly behind her without saying "good-night."

Hal remained very still. All in a moment the room had become peopled with dark fancies and ugly forms. Dread stole like a human presence to the disconsolate little soul. Hal shivered and, shrinking down, hid his head in the sheets. The lecture, with its awful truths, returned like a heavy blow, causing physical pain to the sensitive temperament of the highly-strung boy. He had meant no harm by the ignorant words, whose child-like pathos touched the deepest chord in the heart of the famous singer. Not for the world would she have had one syllable of Hal's letter altered by the tutoring hand of a shocked Miss Ainsworth, while tears and smiles together answered the appeal of that quaint, unstudied expression of the boy's mind.

But Hal knew nothing of this as the darkness gathered round him. He heard only the condemning phrases: "You are thoroughly selfish and horrid! I thought you really loved your mother! If ill befalls her it will be a judgment upon you!" He set his lips and pressed his knuckles firmly to his eyes. What was this dreadful thing he had done--all unconsciously--to the mother for whom he would willingly have given his life? She was on the sea now, against her doctor's advice, and the wind was beating on his window-pane and moaning round the house. He felt he could hardly bear the thought, and the sound of the pitiless rain tortured him.

Of course, Miss Ainsworth was right; he had been inconsiderate and unkind. If mother lost her voice God would be very angry, because Miss Ainsworth said it was a "divine talent." Whatever happened, the precious voice must be preserved, even if it took the one he loved away from him to the end of the chapter. As he mused a sudden thought came, bringing with it one bright ray of hope through the terrifying gloom.

Away across the mile-wide tideway, in the small town of Ferryport, a certain Miss Cairn, an old, wrinkled spinster, kept a wondrous sweet-shop, renowned for its good wares. When last Hal paid her a visit one calm autumn day she had shown him a large glass jar of cough-drops, bidding him remember when the winter came that for loss of voice, or sore throat, she knew no equal in all the wide world. Miss Cairn confided to him she had once assisted in a chemist's shop, and knew the dark secrets of medicine. These drops were her own manufacture, and held the magic of deep knowledge acquired in the past.

Her words came back now with a force and power which made the great flood surging between him and the desired goal as nothing compared with the thought of saving mother's voice! The very difficulties in the way made the staunch little heart resolve to let no human power stay him from the task ahead.

What matter that the ferry could not traverse the foaming waters? Old Micky (known as Mad Micky, for risking his life in the wildest weather) crossed every morning in his worn boat with the regularity of a postman!

The inhabitants on either side were glad enough to make use of his fearless enterprise, for to be cut off from communication often proved highly inconvenient. So they paid him to carry their wares, and traded with each other, while they shrugged their shoulders at the danger entailed.

"Poor craythur!" they would say; "shure, and he's bound to go under some day, but there's none at home to mourn him, and he's set his mind on a watery grave!"

To Hal that night Mad Micky appeared as the one bright spot on the dark horizon of his childish sorrow.

If only he had Miss Cairn's cough-drops safely at Castle Stewart when Mrs. Court arrived, all anxiety could be at an end. The lost voice must needs return under the influence of such wonderful round, coloured lozenges, with purple or pink stripes for choice. He fancied mother would like the pink stripes best, because they were prettier.

Lulled by the glad notion of repairing his sinful past, little Hal let his heavy, tear-stained eyes close, and dreamt of a beauteous lady in a tea-gown, of Mad Micky, and sweets in a huge glass jar away across the tide.

II.

When Hal, after many difficulties, escaped the watchful eyes of Miss Ainsworth, and running through torrents of rain hid himself under a drenched tarpaulin at the bottom of Micky's boat, the supreme moment of his life had been reached.

He suspected that on such a morning of storm even Mad Micky might possibly refuse to pilot human cargo across the rough water, for New Year's Eve outvied the previous days of tempest.

The boat, moored at the Castle Stewart end of Slaneyford Lough, lay in sight of the roaring sea, whose billows broke upon innumerable creeks made alive by the hurrying presence of foam-crested waves.

Hal had collected all the money he possessed in his small pockets--silver for Miss Cairn, and three big pennies for Mad Micky when the moment should arrive to reveal his hidden presence.

No wonder the boy's heart beat furiously, for of all his life's adventures this appeared the most thrilling and terrifying.

It was one thing to play at shipwrecked mariners and to storm castles in which no ogres dwelt--it proved a different matter to lie calmly concealed while Micky, who "had set his mind on a watery grave," let his frail barque tear across the Lough under a single head-sail.

The boy knew enough of the treacherous current and the strength of the tide to realize fully the perils of his passage.

Peeping from under his covering he could see the reckless face of his unconscious guide, fully aware that no man valuing his safety would sail as Mad Micky sailed that morning.

The child's sensitive nature would have been tortured by fears but for the encouraging influence of a great unselfish love.

"It's for mother's sake!" he said, hiding his eyes from the swift, deep body of water, whipped into fury by the wind as it viciously lashed the sail.

"It's for mother's sake!" he repeated, when the personal discomfort of his position warned him there can be few places wetter or more cheerless than a small boat unprotected from the elements when the rain descends in really gross solidity.

* * * * *

Mrs. Court felt none the worse for her journey as she drove to Castle Stewart late that afternoon.

She was really rather amused at having flung caution to the winds, and was by no means depressed at landing in a hurricane of squall and dirt on the dear, familiar Irish shore.

Her first thought was for Hal as she crossed the threshold of her old home, and a sudden keen misgiving pierced her like a knife when faces of frightened distress greeted her on the doorstep.

"Where is Hal?"

The words broke sharply; the bright, magnificent eyes flashed a glance of terror from right to left.

"We don't know!" The answer came unsteadily from faltering lips. "He disappeared this morning; he was last seen by one of the gardeners, running towards the Lough, slipping over the slimy stones and rocks. The man wondered we allowed him out in the wet to play on the weedy boulders, but the foolish fellow said nothing till it was too late. When he heard Hal was missing he spoke, but not till then. The shore has been searched, but----"

Mrs. Court stayed to hear no more. The blank, hopeless faces of the speakers told the rest.

Miss Ainsworth was weeping hysterically, and grandmamma's features grew stone-like in their set misery.

All the new-comer realized was that Hal--her Hal--had met with some disaster. Only the gravest accident would keep him away at such a moment. Her mind leapt to the worst fears. Like one possessed she rushed alone down the long drive, hardly knowing what she did, till her feet reached the very brink of the flowing tide.

Surely the cry of her heart must call, even above the storm, to little Hal, the tender, clinging child, accustomed to think always of her pleasure during the happy days they spent at home together.

As if in answer to her soul's appeal, along the bank of the Lough's dark, swollen water, running at full speed, came a small breathless figure, drenched to the skin, holding aloft a tiny paper packet, which he waved victoriously.

"Dearest, it was for you!" he cried. "And, oh! I'm so sorry to be late, but Micky nearly got shipwrecked this time, the wind was so high, and his mast broke. I was frightened you'd lose your voice, so I went to Ferryport to buy Miss Cairn's cough-drops. They are splendid, dearest; try one and see!"

Already he had ferreted into the bag, and was holding between a salted thumb and finger a brilliant specimen of Miss Cairn's triumph in pink-striped lozenges.

As Mrs. Court heard the eager tidings: "Dearest, it was for you!" a rush of tears to her eyes and a sudden choking in her throat made Hal anxious.

"You--you _have_ caught a cold!" he exclaimed, with conviction, forcing the sugared cough-drop into her protesting hands.

"No, darling boy--no," she stammered, mastering her emotion with an effort; "the New Year gladness choked me for a moment, that's all!"

_Solutions to the Puzzles in the December Number._

TRACKING THE FUGITIVES.

The solution of this amusing problem is as follows: The fugitive started from station No. 1 on foot, carrying the child; at station No. 2 he mounted a bicycle and, still carrying the child, rode to No. 3; there he placed the child in a wheelbarrow; as indicated by the marks of the legs of the wheelbarrow, he stopped before reaching No. 4 and put down the child, who walked by his side to the station; thence he continued his journey on a tricycle, which also carried the child; at No. 5 he changed his tricycle for a monocycle (that is, a single-wheeled cycle, such as is used by trick-riders), but the child which he was carrying caused him to lose his balance and he fell; he then took the child in his arms and carried it to No. 6; thence he started holding the child by the hand, but farther on he again took it in his arms and so completed the journey at No. 7.

THE QUARRELSOME BROTHERS.

The solution of this problem will be found in the above sketch. Of course, the problem may be solved by drawing the lines the reverse way.

TO RECONSTRUCT THE CLOWN.

The reader will see, by inspection of the accompanying drawings, that the only way to solve this problem is by making a cut along the dotted line "A" before making that along the dotted line "B." This is the only possible method of obtaining four pieces with two cuts of the scissors. This being done, the method of rejoining the pieces so as to form the clown, as shown in the smaller diagram, will easily be followed, the pieces being numbered in order to show more readily where they fall.

A STRANGE SIGNATURE.

It will be seen that the signature is that of the celebrated French General, Marshal Ney.

TO MAKE A HEN OUT OF AN APPLE.

The white lines on the diagram given above of the apple will show in what manner the piece is to be cut out of it, which, being placed in its proper position, forms the neck and head of the hen. The stem being cut off and divided into two parts, as shown by the dotted lines, will give the legs, which, when attached to the body, complete the figure.

TO TURN THIS MAN INTO ANOTHER.

This problem is one of the most difficult of our collection. The dotted lines in the first of the accompanying three illustrations show how the original sketch has to be divided, while the other two show the manner in which the pieces require to be put together in order to form the new figure.

A CURIOUS MENAGERIE.

Unlike the preceding one, this problem is quite easy, and no doubt many hundreds of our readers will have found the correct solution. In order to obtain this it is only necessary to take the last triangle and paste upon its three sides the three other triangles, so as to complete the cat, the dog, and the cock, at the same time producing one large triangle composed of four small ones. The three summits of these triangles are then brought together, thus forming a pyramid. The menagerie, with the swan, the eagle, and the rabbit complete, will then be found to have been reconstructed.

A STRANGE GEOMETRICAL FIGURE.

The following design gives the solution of this curious problem. The dotted lines show in which way the figure is to be cut, and the numbers indicate the new position of the pieces.

THE FACETIOUS SCHOOLBOY.

Our readers will see by a glance at the accompanying drawing what features of the original landscape it was necessary to preserve in order to solve the problem, and which were produced by the schoolboy's pencil and must accordingly be removed. The drawing represents a light-house built on the edge of a cliff.

ROUND THE CAPSTAN.

This drawing gives the solution of the problem, showing to what bodies the respective heads and legs should be attached.

THE SIGNS OF THE ZODIAC.

The two signs of the Zodiac which it is necessary to choose, and the method of placing them among the stars and dots, are here shown.

TO COMPLETE THE BIRDS.

Cut the paper into an exact square just containing the birds and fold it in the well-known manner of making a "paper bird," when the two birds will appear, one as shown, and the other on the reverse.

TO MAKE A FLOWER OUT OF FOUR FREAKS.

The method of making a flower out of the four grotesque heads which were represented in the diagram is one of the simplest of the series. All that is required is to cut out the four heads, remove the white part, and place them one upon the other. The space left empty then forms the flower, as will be easily understood by inspecting the two designs here given. Each figure is represented by a dotted line.

THE SERPENT AND THE FILE.

Roll the strip of paper in a spiral, and the pieces of the serpent will be joined, while the file will disappear.

A BLOT OF INK.

Four black discs will be obtained by making six folds the long way of the design and two across it, as shown in the two accompanying drawings.

WHAT ANIMAL IS THIS?

The animal is an elephant, as the reader can see for himself, and the method of forming him will also be readily apparent without further explanation.

THE CASTLE IN THE FOREST.

The outline shows the track which is to be followed by the traveller in order to penetrate the forest and reach the castle in the centre.

A MOTOR-CAR PROBLEM.

The following is the series of eighteen movements which are required to transfer motor-cars from one shed into the other:--

1. Move car No. 5 into the refuge.

2. Move No. 2 into the place of No. 5.

3. Move No. 3 into the space between the refuge and the lower shed.

4. Move No. 5 into the place of No. 3.

5. Move No. 3 into the place of No. 2.

6. Move No. 2 into the refuge.

7. Move No. 6 into the space between the refuge and the upper shed.

8. Move No. 2 into the place of No. 6.

9. Move No. 6 into the refuge.

10. Move No. 3 into the lower shed in the place of No. 5.

11. Move No. 1 into the space between the refuge and the lower shed.

12. Move No. 6 into the upper shed in the place of No. 1.

13. Move No. 1 in the place of No. 2 in the upper shed.

14. Move No. 3 into the space between the refuge and the upper shed.

15. Move No. 4 into the refuge.

16. Move No. 3 into the place of No. 4 in the lower shed.

17. Move No. 1 into the lower shed.

18. Move No. 4 into the upper shed.

THE RIFLE RANGE.

The point is shown in the diagram below:--

BY E. NESBIT.

Copyright, 1904, by George Newnes, Limited.

VII.--CATS AND RATS.

When you hear that the four children found themselves at Waterloo Station quite un-taken-care-of, and with no one to meet them, it may make you think that their parents were neither kind nor careful. But if you think this you will be wrong. The fact is, mother arranged with Aunt Emma that she was to meet the children at Waterloo when they went back from their Christmas holiday at Lyndhurst. The train was fixed, but not the day. Then mother wrote to Aunt Emma, giving her careful instructions about the day and the hour, and about luggage and cabs and things, and gave the letter to Robert to post. But the hounds happened to meet near Rufus's Stone that morning, and, what is more, on the way to the meet they met Robert, and Robert met them, and instantly forgot all about posting Aunt Emma's letter, and never thought of it again until he and the others had wandered three times up and down the platform at Waterloo--which makes twenty-four trips in all--and had bumped up against old gentlemen, and stared in the faces of ladies, and been shoved by people in a hurry, and "by-your-leaved" by porters with trucks, and were quite sure that Aunt Emma was not there.

Then suddenly the true truth of what he had forgotten to do came home to Robert, and he said "Oh, crikey!" and stood still with his mouth open, and let a porter with a Gladstone bag in each hand and a bundle of umbrellas under one arm blunder heavily into him, and never so much as said "Where are you shoving to now?" or "Look out where you're going, can't you?" The heavier bag smote him at the knee, and he staggered, but he said nothing. When the others understood what was the matter I think they told Robert what they thought of him.

"We must take the train to Croydon," said Anthea, "and find Aunt Emma."

"Yes," said Cyril, "and precious pleased those Jevonses would be to see us and our traps."

Aunt Emma, indeed, was staying with some Jevonses--very prim ladies. They were middle-aged and wore very smart blouses, and they were fond of _matinées_ and shopping, and they did not care about children.

"I know mother would be pleased to see us if we went back," said Jane.

"Yes, she would; but she'd think it was not right to show she was pleased, because it's Bob's fault we're not met. Don't I know the sort of thing?" said Cyril. "Besides, we've no tin, except my tip grandfather gave me, and I'm not going to blue that because Robert's gone and made an ass of himself. No; we've enough among us for a growler, but not enough for tickets to the New Forest. We must just go home. They won't be so savage when they find we've really got home all right. You know auntie was only going to take us home in a cab."

"I believe we ought to go to Croydon," Anthea insisted.

"Aunt Emma would be out, to a dead cert," said Robert. "Those Jevonses go to the theatre every afternoon, I believe. Besides, there's the Phoenix at home, _and_ the carpet. I votes we call a four-wheeled cabman."

A four-wheeled cabman was called--his cab was one of the old-fashioned kind, with straw in the bottom--and he was asked by Anthea to drive them very carefully to their address. This he did, and the price he asked for doing so was exactly the value of the gold coin grandpapa had given Cyril for Christmas. This cast a gloom--but Cyril would never have stooped to argue about a cab-fare, for fear the cabman should think he was not accustomed to take cabs whenever he wanted them. For a reason that was something like this he told the cabman to put the luggage on the steps, and waited till the wheels of the growler had grittily retired before he rang the bell. "You see," he said, with his hand on the handle, "we don't want cook and Eliza asking us before _him_ how it is we've come home alone--as if we were babies."

Here he rang the bell; and the moment its answering clang was heard everyone felt that it would be some time before that bell was answered. The sound of a bell is quite different, somehow, when there is anyone inside the house who hears it. I can't tell you why that is--but so it is.

"I expect they're changing their dresses," said Jane.

"Too late," said Anthea; "it must be past five. I expect Eliza's gone to post a letter and cook's gone to see the time."

Cyril rang again. And the bell did its best to inform the listening children that there was really no one human in the house. They rang again, and listened intently. The hearts of all sank low. It is a terrible thing to be locked out of your own house on a dark, muggy, January evening.

"There is no gas on anywhere," said Jane, in a broken voice.

"I expect they've left the gas on once too often, and the draught blew it out, and they're suffocated in their beds. Father always said they would some day," said Robert, cheerfully.

"Let's go and fetch a policeman," said Anthea, trembling.

"And be taken up for trying to be burglars--no, thank you," said Cyril. "I heard father read out of the paper about a young man who got into his own mother's house, and they got him made a burglar only the other day."

"I only hope the gas hasn't hurt the Phoenix," said Anthea. "It _said_ it wanted to stay in the bathroom cupboard, and I thought it would be all right because the servants _never_ clean that out. But if it's gone and got out and been choked by gas--and, besides, directly we open the door we shall be choked too. I _knew_ we ought to have gone to Aunt Emma at Croydon. Oh, Squirrel, I wish we had. Let's go _now_."

"Shut up," said her brother, briefly. "There's someone rattling the latch inside."

Everyone listened with all its ears, and everyone stood back as far from the door as the steps would allow.

The latch rattled and clicked. Then the flap of the letter-box lifted itself--everyone saw it by the flickering light of the gas-lamp that shone through the leafless lime tree by the gate--a golden eye seemed to wink at them through the letter-box, and a cautious beak whispered:

"Are you alone?"

"It's the Phoenix," said everyone, in a voice so joyous and so full of relief as to be a sort of whispered shout.

"Hush!" said the voice from the letter-box slit. "Your slaves have gone a-merry-making. The latch of this portal is too stiff for my delicate beak. But at the side--the little window above the shelf whereon your bread lies--it is not fastened."

"Right O!" said Cyril.

And Anthea added: "I wish you'd meet us there, dear Phoenix."

The children crept round to the pantry window. It is at the side of the house, and there is a green gate labelled "Tradesmen's Entrance," which is always kept bolted. But if you get one foot on the fence between you and next door, and one on the handle of the gate, you are over before you know where you are. This, at least, was the experience of Cyril and Robert, and even, if the truth must be told, of Anthea and Jane. So in almost no time all four were in the narrow gravelled passage that runs between that house and the next.

Then Robert made a back, and Cyril hoisted himself up and got his knicker-bockered knee on the concrete window-sill. He dived into the pantry head-first, as one dives into water, and his legs waved in the air as he went, just as your legs do when you are first beginning to learn to dive. The soles of his boots--squarish, muddy patches--disappeared.

"Give us a leg-up," said Robert to his sisters.

"No, you don't," said Jane, firmly. "I'm not going to be left outside here with just Anthea, and have something creep up behind us out of the dark. Squirrel can go and open the back door."

A light had sprung awake in the pantry. Cyril always said the Phoenix turned the gas on with its beak and lighted it with a waft of its wing, but he was excited at the time and perhaps he really did it himself with matches, and then forgot all about it. He let the others in by the back door. And when it had been bolted again and the luggage had been got off the doorstep the children went all over the house and lighted every single gas-jet they could find. For they couldn't help feeling that this was just the dark, dreary winter's evening when an armed burglar might easily be expected to appear at any moment. There is nothing like light when you are afraid of burglars, or of anything else, for that matter.

And when all the gas-jets were lighted it was quite clear that the Phoenix had made no mistake, and that Eliza and cook were really out, and that there was no one in the house except the four children, and the Phoenix and the carpet, and the black-beetles who lived in the cupboards on each side of the nursery fireplace. These last were very pleased that the children had come home again, especially when Anthea had lighted the nursery fire. But, as usual, the children treated the loving little black-beetles with coldness and disdain.

While Anthea was delighting the poor little black-beetles with the cheerful blaze, Jane had set the table for--I was going to say tea, but the meal of which I am speaking was not exactly tea. Let us call it a tea-ish meal. There was tea, certainly, for Anthea's fire blazed and crackled so kindly that it really seemed to be affectionately inviting the kettle to come and sit upon its lap. So the kettle was brought and tea made. But no milk could be found, so everyone had six lumps of sugar to each cup instead. The things to eat, on the other hand, were nicer than usual. The boys looked about very carefully, and found in the pantry some cold tongue, bread, butter, cheese, and part of a cold pudding--very much nicer than cook ever made when they were at home. And in the kitchen cupboard were half a Christmassy cake, a pot of strawberry jam, and about a pound of mixed candied fruit with soft, crumbly slabs of delicious sugar in each cup of lemon, orange, or citron.

It was indeed, as Jane said, "a banquet fit for an Arabian knight."

The Phoenix perched on Robert's chair, and listened kindly and politely to all they had to tell it about their visit to Lyndhurst, and underneath the table, by just stretching a toe down rather far, the faithful carpet could be felt by all, even by Jane, whose legs were very short.

"Your slaves will not return to-night," said the Phoenix. "They sleep under the roof of the cook's step-mother's aunt, who is, I gather, hostess to a large party to-night in honour of her husband's cousin's sister-in-law's mother's ninetieth birthday."

"I don't think they ought to have gone without leave," said Anthea, "however many relations they have, but I suppose we ought to wash up."

"It's not our business about the leave," said Cyril, firmly; "but I simply won't wash up for them. We got it, and we'll clear it away--and then we'll go somewhere on the carpet. It's not often we get a chance of being out all night. We can go right away to the other side of the Equator, to the tropical climes, and see the sun rise over the great Pacific Ocean."

"Right you are," said Robert. "I always did want to see the Southern Cross and the stars as big as gas-lamps."

"_Don't_ go," said Anthea, very earnestly, "because I _couldn't_. I'm _sure_ mother wouldn't like us to leave the house, and I should hate to be left here alone."

"I'd stay with you," said Jane, loyally.

"I know you would," said Anthea, gratefully; "but even with you I'd much rather not."

"Well," said Cyril, trying to be kind and amiable, "I don't want you to do anything you think's wrong, _but_----"

He was silent. This silence said many things.

"I don't see----" Robert was beginning, when Anthea interrupted.

"I'm quite sure. Sometimes you just think a thing's wrong, and sometimes you _know_. And this is a _know_ time."

The Phoenix turned kind golden eyes on her and opened a friendly beak to say:--

"When it is, as you say, a 'know time' there is no more to be said. And your noble brothers would never leave you."

"Of course not," said Cyril, rather quickly. And Robert said so, too.

"I myself," the Phoenix went on, "am willing to help in any way possible. I will myself go--either by carpet or on the wing--and fetch you anything you can think of to amuse you during the evening. In order to waste no time I could go while you wash up. Why," it went on, in a musing voice, "does one wash up teacups and wash down the stairs?"

"You couldn't wash stairs up, you know," said Anthea, "unless you began at the bottom and went up feet first as you washed. I wish cook would try that way for a change."

"I don't," said Cyril, briefly. "I should hate the look of her elastic-side boots sticking up."

"This is mere trifling," said the Phoenix. "Come, decide what I shall fetch for you. I can get you anything you like."

But, of course, they couldn't decide. Many things were suggested: a rocking-horse, jewelled chessmen, an elephant, a bicycle, a motor-car, books with pictures, musical instruments, and many other things. But a musical instrument is agreeable only to the player, unless he has learned to play it really well; books are not sociable, bicycles cannot be ridden without going out of doors, and the same is true of motor-cars and elephants. Only two people can play chess at once with one set of chessmen (and anyway it's very much too much like lessons for a game), and only one can ride on a rocking-horse. Suddenly in the midst of the discussion the Phoenix spread its wings and fluttered to the floor, and from there it spoke.

"I gather," it said, "from the carpet that it wants you to let it go to its old home, where it was born and brought up, and it will return within the hour laden with a number of the most beautiful and delightful products of its native land."

"What _is_ its native land?"

"I didn't gather. But since you can't agree, and time is passing, and the tea-things are not washed down--I mean washed up--"

"I votes we do," said Cyril. "It'll stop all this jaw, any way. And it's not bad to have surprises. Perhaps it's a Turkey carpet, and it might bring us Turkish delight."

"Or a Turkish patrol," said Robert.

"Or a Turkish bath," said Anthea.

"Or a Turkish towel," said Jane.

"Nonsense," Cyril urged; "it said beautiful and delightful, and towels and baths aren't _that_, however good they may be for you. Let it go. I suppose it won't give us the slip," he added, pushing back his chair and standing up.

"Hush!" said the Phoenix; "how can you? Don't trample on its feelings just because it's only a carpet."

"But how can it do it--unless one of us is on it--to do the wishing?" asked Robert. He spoke with a rising hope that it _might_ be necessary for one to go--and why not Robert? But the Phoenix quickly threw cold water on his new-born flame.

"Why, you just write your wish on a paper and pin it on the carpet."

So a leaf was torn from Anthea's arithmetic book, and on it Cyril wrote, in large round-hand, the following:--

"We wish you to go to your dear native home, and bring back the most beautiful and delightful productions of it you can--and not to be gone long, please. (Signed)

"CYRIL, ROBERT, ANTHEA, JANE."

Then the paper was laid on the carpet.

"Writing down, please," said the Phoenix; "the carpet can't read a paper whose back is turned to it any more than you can."

It was pinned fast; and the table and chairs having been moved the carpet simply and suddenly vanished, rather like a patch of water on a hearth under a fierce fire. The edges got smaller and smaller, and then it disappeared from sight.

"It may take it some time to collect the beautiful and delightful things," said the Phoenix. "I should wash up--I mean wash down."

So they did. There was plenty of hot water left in the kettle, and everyone helped: even the Phoenix, who took up cups by their handles with its clever claws, and dipped them in the hot water, and then stood them on the table ready for Anthea to dry them. Everything was nicely washed up and dried and put in its proper place, and the dish-cloth washed and hung on the edge of the copper to dry, and the tea-cloth was hung on the line that goes across the scullery. (If you are a duchess's child, or a King's, or a person of high social position's child, you will, perhaps, not know the difference between a dish-cloth and a tea-cloth, but in that case your nurse has been better instructed than you, and she will tell you all about it.) And just as eight hands and one pair of claws were being dried on the roller towel behind the scullery door there came a strange sound from the other side of the kitchen wall--the side where the nursery was. It was a very strange sound indeed--most odd--and unlike any other sounds the children had ever heard. At least, they had heard sounds as much like it as a toy engine's whistle is like a steam siren's.

"The carpet's come back," said Robert, and the others felt that he was right.

"But what has it brought with it?" asked Jane. "It sounds like Leviathan, that great beast----"

"It couldn't have been made in India and have brought elephants? Even baby ones would be rather awful in that room," said Cyril.

"It's no use sending the carpet to fetch precious things for you if you're afraid to look at them when they come," said the Phoenix, sensibly. And Cyril, being the eldest, said "Come on," and turned the handle.

The gas had been left full on after tea, and everything in the room could be plainly seen by the ten eyes at the door. At least, not everything, for though the carpet was there it was invisible, because it was completely covered by the hundred and ninety-nine beautiful objects which it had brought from its birthplace.

"Cats!" Cyril exclaimed. "I never thought about its being a _Persian_ carpet."

Yet it was now plain that this was so, for the beautiful objects which it had brought back were cats--Persian cats--grey Persian cats, and there were, as I have said, one hundred and ninety-nine of them, and they were sitting on the carpet as close as they could get to each other. But the moment the children entered the room the cats rose and stretched, and spread and overflowed from the carpet to the floor, and in an instant the floor was a sea of moving, mewing pussishness, and the children, with one accord, climbed to the table and gathered up their legs, and the people next door knocked on the wall; and, indeed, no wonder, for the mews were Persian and piercing.

"This is pretty poor sport," said Cyril. "What's the matter with the bounders?"

"I imagine that they are hungry," said the Phoenix. "If you were to feed them----"

"We haven't anything to feed them with," said Anthea, in despair, and she stroked the nearest Persian back. "Oh, pussies, do be quiet; we can't hear ourselves think." She had to shout this entreaty, for the mews were growing deafening. "And it would take pounds and pounds' worth of cat's-meat."

"Let's ask the carpet to take them away," said Robert.

But the girls said "No."

"They are so soft and pussy," said Jane.

"And valuable," said Anthea, hastily. "We can sell them for lots and lots of money."

"Why not send the carpet to get food for them?" suggested the Phoenix, and its golden voice became harsh and cracked with the effort it had to make to be heard above the increasing fierceness of the Persian mews.

So it was written that the carpet should bring food for one hundred and ninety-nine Persian cats, and the paper was pinned to the carpet as before.

The carpet seemed to gather itself together, and the cats dropped off it as rain-drops do from your mackintosh when you shake it. And the carpet disappeared.

Unless you have had one hundred and ninety-nine well-nourished Persian cats in one small room, all hungry, and all saying so in unmistakable mews, you can form but a poor idea of the noise that now deafened the children and the Phoenix.

The cats mewed and mewed and mewed, and twisted their Persian forms in and out and unfolded their Persian tails, and the children and the Phoenix huddled together by the door.

The Phoenix, Robert noticed suddenly, was trembling.

"So many cats," it said, "and they might not know I was the Phoenix. These accidents happen so quickly. It quite unmans me."

This was a danger of which the children had not thought.

"Creep in," cried Robert, opening his jacket. And the Phoenix crept in--only just in time, for green eyes had glared, pink noses had sniffed, white whiskers had twitched, and as Robert buttoned his coat he disappeared to the waist in a wave of eager grey Persian fur. And on the instant the good carpet slapped itself down on the floor. And it was covered with rats--three hundred and ninety-eight of them, I believe--two for each cat.

"How horrible!" cried Anthea. "Oh, take them away!"

"Take yourself away," said the Phoenix, "and me."

"I wish we'd never had a carpet," said Anthea, in tears.

They hustled and crowded out of the door, and shut it and locked it. Cyril, with great presence of mind, lit a candle and turned off the gas at the main. "The rats'll have a better chance in the dark," he said.

The mewing had ceased. Everyone listened in breathless silence. We all know that cats eat rats--it is one of the first things we read in our nice little reading books; but all those cats eating all those rats--it wouldn't bear thinking of.

Suddenly Robert sniffed, in the silence of the dark kitchen where the only candle was burning all on one side, because of the draught.

"What a funny scent!" he said.

And as he spoke a lantern flashed its light through the window of the kitchen, a face peered in, and a voice said:--

"What's all this row about? You let me in."

It was the voice of the police!

Robert tip-toed to the window and spoke through the pane that was a little cracked.

"What do you mean?" he said. "There's no row. You listen; everything's as quiet as quiet."

And indeed it was.

The strange sweet scent grew stronger, and the Phoenix put out its beak.

The policeman hesitated.

"They're _musk_ rats," said the Phoenix. "I suppose some cats eat them--but never Persian ones. What a mistake for a well-informed carpet to make! Oh, what a night we're having!"

"Do go away," said Robert, nervously, to the policeman. "We're just going to bed--that's our bedroom candle--there isn't any row. Everything's as quiet as a mouse."

A wild chorus of mews drowned his words, and with the mews were mingled the shrieks of the musk rats. What had happened? Had the cats tasted them before deciding that they disliked the flavour?

"I'm a-comin' in," said the policeman. "You've got a cat shut up there."

"A cat!" said Cyril. "Oh, my only aunt! _A_ cat!"

"Come in, then," said Robert. "It's your own look-out. I advise you not. Wait a shake, and I'll undo the side door."

He undid the side door, and the policeman, very cautiously, came in.

And there, in the kitchen, by the light of one candle, with the mewing and the screaming going on like a dozen steam sirens, twenty waiting motor-cars, and half a hundred squeaking pumps, four agitated voices shouted to the policeman four mixed or wholly different explanations of the very mixed events of the evening.

Did you ever try to explain the simplest thing to a policeman?

_Curiosities._

Copyright, 1904, by George Newnes, Ltd.

[_We shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section, and to pay for such as are accepted._]

CART-WHEEL WINDOW.

"There is a blacksmith's shop at Llancayo, near Usk, Mon., that possesses an extraordinary window. The framework of the window consists of a cart-wheel let into the wall, with panes of glass between the spokes."--Mr. W. Marsh, 1, Church Street, Monmouth.

CURIOUS ADDRESS.

"I send you a post-card which I received in the ordinary way by post from my brother, who lives at Sutton Scarsdale, a scattered village near Chesterfield. You will notice that the card was posted at 7.15 p.m. on the 5th October, and it was delivered during the evening of the following day. The address looks a mixture of Greek and German, but on inspection it will be found that each letter is spelled out in full. The pencilled words were inserted by the Post Office officials. The Post Office is often the object of complaints for tardiness in delivery, but I think great credit is due to it for its cleverness and promptness in this case."--Mr. John Alderson, 12, Albert Road, Stroud Green, N.

A DISTORTING MIRROR.

"While staying in Jersey I visited a point called La Corbière, where I noticed a mirror in the form of a ball standing out in the open on a pedestal. Objects reflected in it were so clear that I determined to photograph it, with the result that rather curious shapes were given to myself and friend." Mr. C. S. Wilson, 18, Milton Road, Swindon.

HOME-MADE MOTOR-CAR.

"This original auto was made in the winter of 1886 by Mr. Philbrick and Mr. J. Elmer Wood in Beverley, Mass. It had double engines, porcupine boiler, kerosene fuel, and only three wheels--two of which were thirty-six inches in diameter, and the front, or steering-wheel, twenty-six inches. It was used on the road with great success, carrying about three hundred pounds of steam, but wanted some changes, which even at that early date we could easily see. The machine is still existing at Beverley, though it is now, of course, somewhat dilapidated after so many years of wear."--Mr. J. Elmer Wood, Beverley, Mass.

AN AUTOMATIC BASEBALL PITCHER.

"This curious-looking machine is a baseball pitcher which is automatic. It is operated by compressed air, and is so arranged that it will 'pitch' a ball with an upward curve or downward curve just as well as an expert ball player. The machine consists of a tube about thirty-six inches long which is just large enough to hold the ball. The tube can be pointed in any direction, and the rear end is fitted with a contrivance by which the ball can be curved. When the operator wishes to make a pitch he merely presses a lever which admits the compressed air into the tube, and the ball is shot out like the bullet from an air-gun. The invention is not intended to take the place of a human pitcher, but to be used in practice games, so that the man at the bat can become expert in hitting curves and balls pitched at various degrees of speed." Why should not a similar machine be used in this country as a practice bowler at cricket?--The above is sent by Mr. D. Allen Willey, Baltimore.

A BOGUS DWARF.

"This figure of the dwarf, taken at an evening party in Kimberley, South Africa, was impersonated by my brother and a friend as follows: My brother stood upright with his hands on a table (these forming the feet of the dwarf), on which were placed stockings and small shoes. He had a little garment made with sleeves, through which his friend, who stood just behind, put his arms and hands, on which were mittens to make them look small; these formed the hands of the dwarf. My brother was adorned with a large sun hat called a 'cappie,' goggles, and a necklace, and the dwarf was complete--his friend, of course, being concealed by curtains."--Mr. F. E. Glover, 41, Drayton Park, Highbury, N.

INSECT OR WHAT?

"I send you the photograph of an extraordinarily curious insect: I am not prepared to say whether it is an insect or some kind of organism. I can only say that it is alive and lives on red lead. The lady in whose possession it is has had it for upwards of eighteen years, and who knows how many years of life it had before? It is covered with light brown hair (which has to be cut occasionally), very like deer's hair, and is the size of a large marble. The 'curious insect' was given to the lady's husband by a rich native who gave up all his worldly possessions and became a fakir. When giving it to the gentleman (who had shown the man some kindness) he said that it would always bring him good luck."--Mr. T. G. A. Baness, Hall Bazaar, Amritsur, Punjab.

STRANGE ADVENTURE OF A RAILWAY CARRIAGE.

"The discarded railway carriage shown in the photograph has had an eventful career. After being drawn at the end of freight trains over thousands of miles of the Erie Railroad tracks it was finally condemned and sent to the graveyard, where cars of this character meet an ignominious end--they being chopped up for firewood. But after it had been sent to what was thought would be its last resting-place, Lieut. Peary, the well-known Arctic explorer, asked the Erie Railroad officials if they could loan him a discarded carriage for use on his ship _Windward_. This carriage was accordingly selected, and it was placed on the deck of the _Windward_, where it was fitted up as a cabin. The journeys of this carriage, therefore, instead of being at an end had really only begun, for it was destined to make the longest trip in its history. It remained on board the _Windward_ throughout the perilous trip to the Frozen North, and returned with the ship to New York a little over a year ago. Lieut. Peary having no further use for it sent it back to the Erie Railroad, and it is now an object of curiosity at Shohola Glen, Pike County, Pa., a popular excursion resort on the line of the Erie Railroad."--Mr. Adolph A. Langer, 116, Danforth Avenue, Jersey City, N. J.

GIGANTIC BEER BARREL

"This enormous barrel was erected in the great Industrial Exhibition held at Osaka, Japan. It is the property of the 'Yebisu' Beer Company, and was built for the purpose of advertising that brand of malt liquor. The height is about fifty feet and the diameter of its base some thirty feet, while the thickness of its wall exceeds two feet. It is fitted up as a beer hall within and contains ten round tables, each capable of accommodating five or six persons. There is also a large counter. It is one of the most remarkable of the many advertising devices ever carried out in this enterprising 'Land of the Rising Sun.' The photograph was taken by Mr. G. M. Arab, of this city."--Mr. W. J. Toms, Kobé, Japan.

AMALGAMATED BY LIGHTNING.

"I send you a photograph showing in two positions the curious amalgamation of coins by a flash of lightning. This incident occurred in a miner's hut in Swazieland some time in December, 1897, and the photograph represents money to the value of fourteen shillings and sixpence, viz., one half sovereign, four single shillings, and a sixpence. The money was placed on a table in the order given, the half-sovereign being under the other coins and lying on the face of the table. The hut was not injured by the lightning, as the fluid entered by the window and passed over the table (on which the coins were) and out at the open door. The table (in the centre of the hut and in a line with the window and door) had a badly scorched line over it. The money, after the flash, lay in exactly the same position as before; the only difference was its being fused into one mass instead of six different coins. At the time of the flash the miner happened to be absent."--Mr. A. E. Graham Lawrance, Barberton, Transvaal.

HOW DID IT GET THERE?

"I was cutting the corner off a gammon of bacon when I discovered I had sawn through a piece of glass which was lying quite close to and parallel with the thigh-bone, and had I known of its presence I could have taken it out whole. It measures, when put together, six and a quarter inches. How it got into this position is a mystery, as there was no indication of its progress anywhere and the meat was perfectly healthy and in no way discoloured. Whether the poor pig swallowed it or sat on it I leave for your readers to conjecture. Photo, by W. B. Gardner, Farnborough."--Mr. W. J. Buck, Cove Road, Farnborough, Hants.

A STRANGE ILLUSION.

"You will see in this photograph that the right arm of my daughter has got the hand on the wrong side, the thumb being where the little finger ought to be. This is accounted for by the photo, being vignetted, the hand really belonging to another daughter who does not appear in the picture."--Mr. Dorsay Ansell, Supt. St. George's Garden, Wakefield Street, W.C.

AN INGENIOUS ADVERTISEMENT.

"The advertisement shown in the accompanying photograph--for some drink prepared by one Jesse Moore--is quite the cleverest I have seen in any American city. It is situated near the entrance to the Golden Gate Park, at San Francisco. The shoulders, head, and arms of the man appearing above the hoarding are cut out of wood and look most realistic, if somewhat gigantic, against the background of the sky, and the painting of the face is quite a work of art."--Mr. F. A. E. Dolmage, 243, Cromwell Road, South Kensington.

A NARROW ESCAPE.

"An officer was resting and enjoying a nap after an exceedingly hard morning's drill. A flash of lightning first struck and doubled up his scabbard and thence passed to his mirror hanging close by, smashing it as the enclosed photo shows. I need hardly say this worthy gentleman, awaking so suddenly from his slumbers, scarcely knew for some time whether he was in China, South Africa, or good Old England."--Mr. F. E. Robinson, Sylvester House, Colchester.

CEMETERY FOR SOLDIERS' DOGS.

"Here is a photograph of the cemetery for soldiers' dogs at Edinburgh Castle. Judging from the inscriptions on the stones, each department seems to have had its favourite. The band pet was Tork; that of the pioneer section, Pat; the transport pet, Jess; and so on, including the general pets, such as Little Tom, Tum-Tum, etc."--Mr. E. Mallinson, 12, Golden Square, Aberdeen, N.B.

A DEVOTED DOG.

"The dog shown in the picture is exceedingly fond of his master and will follow him almost anywhere. The snap-shot reproduced here shows the dog actually diving off a board in company with his master, whilst a friend is turning a somersault behind."--Mr. J. de Tymowski, Stratford-Sub-Castle, Salisbury.

NOT SO TALL AS HE LOOKS.

"At first sight my photograph seems to be that of an immensely tall man, but in reality the legs of the giant belong to somebody else, while the top half is standing on a barrel."--Mr. H. S. Nicolson, Brough Lodge, Fetlar, Shetland.

+--------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | Transcriber's notes: | | | | P.77. 'tells it own tale', changed 'it' to 'it's'. | | P.96. 'prongs of the fork'--changed 'fork' to 'forks'. | | Fixed various punctuation. | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+