Chapter II: Part 2

'About sixteen, I should reckon: he has come up for his examinations.'

'No; it is not she,' he thought sadly; 'she could never have had a son so old. But it may be some friend of hers. How else came she by that song, I must find out.--Thank you, Mrs Griffiths,' he said aloud; 'you did quite right to let the rooms; and since she is such a favourite with you, you are welcome to the newspapers for her. Perhaps you had better take them to her every day with my compliments.'

'Thank you, sir; I am sure you are most kind; and I'll tell her what you say.'

* * * * *

'I never will believe, ma'am, half as these good gentlemen say who profess so loud against womenkind. Here Mr Meredith down-stairs, as James says swears against a petticoat even if he sees it hanging in a shop-window, which is most unfeeling-like, to say the least of it--here's he been a begging I'll bring you the newspapers every day, with his compliments!'

'Indeed! That is very thoughtful of him,' said Mrs Arlington, smiling at her landlady's enthusiastic sense of victory. 'Pray give him my compliments, and say how very much obliged I feel. What did you tell me his name was?'

'Meredith, ma'am.'

'Of what family, do you know?'

'That's more than I can say, ma'am. Families, to my mind, is like flowers--a great lot all alike, but divided into so many branches, it were always a puzzle I stopped at. I call a pink a pink, and a carnation a carnation; though the gardener where I lived in service could tell you they were different branches of one family, with a long Latin name, as I never could see not the least bit of good to remember. So I just follow the same plan with families, call them by the names as they hold at birth and baptism; and I only know my gentleman by the label on his box: "Mr Firman Meredith." But if you were pleased to wish to know, I'll ask his man James.'

'Not on any account,' said Mrs Arlington; 'I am not in the least curious; I merely asked for asking's sake. Give my compliments and thanks, nothing more.'

The newspapers paid their regular daily visit for a week, during which time Mrs Arlington never once touched the piano when she knew that Mr Meredith was at home; although he had purposely remained indoors, hoping he might again hear the song which so roused his memory on the evening of his arrival; but after seven nights of waiting and disappointment, and ineffectual efforts to catch a glimpse of the lady, who did not go out once during that time, he grew so restless and impatient, that in desperation he summoned the landlady once more to his assistance.

'Well, Mrs Griffiths, is your lodger gone or dead? She is a very silent person.'

'O dear, no, sir,' said the landlady, smiling. 'She took the rooms for a month, certain; but she's been suffering from a cold; and the young gentleman has been away most days at his examinations; but he's that quiet you'd never know he was in the house but for his boots.'

'Had she any visitors the first evening I arrived?'

'None, sir. She hasn't told any of her friends, I imagine, that she is here; as it is not to be supposed as how such a well-to-do lady as she seems is without a whole score of friends, as would keep me busy at the door if they only knew where she was.'

'Do you think she objects to visitors then?'

'How can I say, sir? Were you pleased to wish to call?' she inquired somewhat slily. 'I'll speak to the lady, and find out if it would be agreeable, if you like, sir?'

'Please yourself about that,' he returned with feigned indifference. 'If I can be of any service to her or her son, beyond the newspapers, I shall be happy to call.'

'You are very good, sir, I am sure, and I'll tell her. She was most grateful for the newspapers.'

* * * * *

With a glow of triumph on her face, Mrs Griffiths next morning appeared before Mrs Arlington. It was now her settled conviction that her theories concerning the unreality of the enmity of certain men for women was as 'true as gospel,' to use her own phrase; and as there is nothing dearer to human nature, from the deepest philosopher even to a speculating landlady, than to feel that they have hit upon an infallible vein of truth, her rejoicing was very natural.

She had been planning all the way up the stairs how she might best introduce such a delicate topic with due acceptance, for Mrs Arlington was a lady, she felt, who was not to be taken liberties with; but impulse overruled discretion, and she burst out plumply with the question: 'Would you please to like the gentleman to call? I think, ma'am, for all he feigns to hate _us_, he's about dying to come up.'

Mrs Arlington fairly laughed aloud at the partnership in the compliment assumed by her good-natured landlady. 'What do you say, Fred?' she inquired, appealing to her son, as though declining the matter for herself.

'By all means have him up. We _should_ be Goths to accept his papers, and say "No, thank you," to himself.'

'You can tell him then, Mrs Griffiths, that we shall be happy to see him this afternoon.'

'_You_ will, you mean,' said Fred. 'You know I promised Cathcart to go out with him, at yesterday's exam., and spend the afternoon upon the Serpentine, after our week's fag.'

'Very well; then I will receive him. _Tant mieux._ I can judge if he is likely to prove a desirable friend for you, Fred.'

With the afternoon came Mr Meredith's servant with his master's card, requesting to know if Mrs Arlington could receive him.

Having granted the permission, her face betrayed unwonted agitation, which it required all her nerve to control before the door opened and he entered. He had advanced half-way up the room to where she stood waiting to receive him, when their eyes met, and flashed one mutual heart-stirring glance of recognition, which she was the bravest to bear, as he started exclaiming: 'Gertrude Bancroft!'

'Firman Meredith!' she cried, but with calmness, for she at least was in a measure the more prepared of the two. They shook hands; nay more; they met as we meet the loved and mourned, after years of parting; and then she whispered, as she held his hand: 'I am Gertrude, but not the proud, soulless, imperious girl whose portrait you have so faithfully preserved. I am now Gertrude Arlington, whose life, I hope, has not been altogether spent in vain. And yet mine was not the whole wrong; was it Firman?'

'No; my poor girl; God knows it was not. To myself alone I take all blame.'

'Nay; I cannot allow that.'

'But it is the truth all the same,' he sighed. 'Had you yielded to my will, I might have slain you with my cruel stony heart; when you resisted, as you must have done, matters might have ended I know not how. Indeed, I might have destroyed you, as surely as he who takes weapon of steel or drops of poison to rid himself of her of whom he has wearied! A merciful God saved you from such a fate, and me from the worse one of causing it.'

'You judge yourself too harshly, Firman; I have no such thought about you.'

'Not so, Gertrude, believe me. There are many gone to their rest who, if they could return, would tell you "he speaks truly:" poor souls, who have gone to their graves thanking God for their release from a life which left them nothing to hope for but death!'

'Then, Firman, there is nothing to regret between us; for across the gulf of precious years, wherein we have each learned so much, we can clasp hands faithfully as truest friends. May I tell you, it was for this I remained; for I recognised the sting I had left in your heart when I saw the pencil sketch of the portrait you had made; and I thought that if we could meet once more, and leave happier impressions than those remaining, it would be wise and right to thus overcome past evil with future good. And now once more you are my friend; are you not?'

'And nothing more! Ah, Gertrude, have you no dearer name to promise me, after all these years of sorrow and loneliness without you?' he pleaded.

'Yes; my whole life shall be yours, if you think I can make you happy,' she murmured; 'but not unless--have no misgivings, Firman.'

'Happy! That is a poor word to express the intensity of my gratitude for this meeting, and your promise that we shall never part again. Oh! I too have a past to repair, of which I hope your future life may be the witness! You _are_ my Gertrude; and yet, now I look well at you, you are not mine, for your face has altered, and wears a softened look, different from the old Gertrude.

'Let us forget her altogether, and paint me afresh as I am--a woman, who for years has prayed for nought else but what is born of a humble, tender, loving heart. If you find I possess it, then, Firman, our long parting has not been in vain. But now we have much to tell each other of our past lives.'

'I shall feel more interested in planning our future,' he remarked, smiling.

'Ah, well, whatever we may arrange about that, I shall consider it a point of honour not to rob Mrs Griffiths of her pet lodger! It would be base of me to requite the good Samaritan by running off with the ass!' she added merrily; 'so we must keep her rooms for the present.'

'I'll take the whole house, if that is all, and then you will be obliged to stay altogether; for where I am, there you must be also.'

'And I leave it to you to tell Fred, my boy,' she added with a pretty blush, 'for I feel a guilty cheat towards him; he has looked upon me as his mother, I may say, for so many years, I shall seem like a deserter.'

'Say rather you _have_ been one, and are now returning to your colours.'

'Strange to say, Fred was struck with the portrait, but found no resemblance to the original.'

'Because you are no longer the same woman; the original has gone.'

And thus were happily reunited for life two who, though severed for a while, had been all along intended for each other--this was the Romance of the lodging.

ROUGHING IT.

The explorer traversing a hitherto unknown country, the soldier engaged in a campaign, the hunter, the trader, and the settler in the borderlands of civilisation, have every day and sometimes every hour to supply by their own ingenuity needs which for us are satisfied by the simple expedient of sending to a well-stocked shop for what we require, or calling in a skilled workman to do a job for us. Accustomed as we have been all our lives to procuring our bread and meat from the baker and butcher, sleeping every night in comfortable bedrooms, trusting for protection to 'Policeman X' and his brethren of the blue coat and helmet, and making our journey by rail at fifty miles an hour--we can hardly realise the position of a man who is thrown on his own resources for food and shelter in a wild country, where perhaps his road lies over scorched plains or through dense forests. Yet if he only knows how to set about it, such a man can live and travel or do his work in comparative safety and comfort. Even on his own ground the uncivilised is inferior to the civilised man, for the latter has learned or can learn from the savage all that is most useful in a wild country, and can add this local knowledge to the resources which civilisation has placed at his command. His natural physical powers are generally superior to those of an uncultured people, and he can supplement them by aids derived from art. What is the piercing sight of an Indian or an Arab scout to the power of a good field-glass or telescope? And in the chase or the fight the assegai or the flint-lock musket stand but a poor chance against the rifle. Moreover the savage knows only a few shifts or 'dodges' peculiar to his own people; but the explorer has at his command at once the arts of civilisation and those of hundreds of uncivilised tribes. He learns from the Eskimo to traverse the snow on snow-shoes, or make long journeys with the dog-sledge; he takes the canoe of the Indian, and the Malayan outrigger; he can build a half-buried hut like a Tartar, or a palm-leaf cottage like a negro; he learns from the Guacho to stop a wild-horse with the lasso; and in the pursuit of game, the traditional lore of the trappers and hunters of every land is at his service. If he is strong, active, and hardy, and can use a few tools, he can learn in this way a hundred 'shifts and expedients,' either from oral instruction, or from books such as that which lies before us: _Shifts and Expedients of Camp Life, Travel, and Exploration_. By W. B. Lord, R.A., and T. Baines, F.R.G.S. _Field_ Office. (30s.)

We have seen other works of the same kind, but none so complete as this. To the explorer, the soldier, the settler, and the missionary, it will be invaluable; and even stay-at-home people who lead an active life in the country, will gather many valuable hints from it. To all it will be of interest, on account of its numberless anecdotes of successful struggle with difficulties of every kind, sketches of the arts and customs of uncivilised man, and notes on the topography of many lands and the natural history of their winged and four-footed inhabitants. Here we are told how to set about building a boat of wood or skin; how to make a birch-bark canoe; how to repair a broken axle or wagon-wheel; how to cross a bridgeless river; how to build a hut or pitch a tent; to picket horses and secure camels; to trap wild beasts or snare birds; to find a dinner where there are no shops, and to cook it without a kitchen. These are a few of the many subjects treated by our authors, who are themselves veteran travellers and explorers, and have learned in the field much of the knowledge which they here communicate to others.

It would seem that one of the chief difficulties in organising an exploring expedition is to decide upon the stores and provisions to be carried. If there is not enough of these, the party may be crippled far from its base of operations; if there is too much, its movements will be seriously impeded by the necessity of transport. Much depends upon the nature of the country. One of the Australian expeditions which had to traverse districts where food of all kinds was scarce, had to carry an enormous amount of stores, the first item in the list being seventeen thousand pounds of flour; but then the party consisted of twenty-one men. Generally an explorer is in the best position who can start off with only one or two white followers, the rest of his party being hired natives, well used to the ways of the country; and we believe the most successful explorers have been those who, as far as white men are concerned, have worked alone or almost alone. Livingstone's success is a good proof of this. Mr Lord suggests that in countries where riding is practicable, explorers should make up their minds to eat horse-flesh occasionally, and start with a good train of pack-horses, each horse being shot and eaten as soon as its burden is disposed of. He does not appear to have ever tried the plan himself; and we fear that at the end of a long march the flesh of a hard-worked pack-horse would be a very poor substitute for roast-beef. It is a pity that oxen cannot be used as pack-animals. They are turned to a stranger purpose in South Africa, where the Hottentots and Kaffirs saddle and ride them; and one of the authors of this book of travel tells us that he has more than once had a very comfortable ride on one of these horned steeds.

The Tartars use dogs to carry packs; in the far north they do the chief work in pulling the sledges, though the Laplanders chiefly use the reindeer for this purpose. The Eskimo sledge-dogs are fine strong animals, nearly allied to the wolf; and Messrs Lord and Baines give some amusing hints about their management. The sledge-driver must never leave his sledge without securing it to a spear driven into the snow, or the dogs will perhaps start off of their own accord and distance all pursuit. They are very quarrelsome; but generally in every team there is one master-dog, with a very determined will and strong sharp teeth; and when he sees the others fighting, he will dash in amongst them, and vigorously assist his master in restoring order. When rough ice is to be traversed, the dogs' paws are protected by little bags or moccasins of hide. They are not fed till the day's work is over; and great care has to be taken that each gets his proper share, for 'some are so desperately artful and cunning that they do all in their power to delude their master into a belief that instead of having had their full allowance, it is yet to come.' The Lapland sled or _kerres_ is different from the low flat Eskimo dog-sledge. It is shaped something like a big shoe, and is drawn by the reindeer, which is used in the same way in Siberia, and also for riding and carrying packs. In many countries summer sleds are used. One of the easiest to make is formed of a forked branch, with pieces of wood nailed across the fork, the horse or mule being harnessed to the pointed end. This is often used by the settler for dragging loads of all kinds over level ground.

These forked branches and sticks can be turned to an endless number of uses. Grindstones are mounted between them; they form yokes for hanging weights over the shoulders; hooks for suspending small objects in the hut or tent; racks for arms and harness. In many countries the native plough is formed of two forked branches tied together and dragged by one man, while another holds it down, and thus scratches a furrow in the ground. The frontier settler has sometimes to be content with a similar contrivance, made on a larger scale, of bigger branches, and drawn by a couple of his oxen.

Some of the architectural 'shifts' are very interesting, for there is a wide field for ingenuity in the construction of hut and boat. In the tropics, huts are very easily constructed by building up a framework of poles, branches, or bamboos, the sticks being not nailed but lashed together where they cross; this rough outline of walls and roof is then filled in with mats, bundles of rushes, or the broad leaves of the fan-palm. Another method is to build the hut of slabs ingeniously formed out of a very unpromising material--long reeds. A few sticks are cut and laid parallel to each other on the ground; then across these a thick bed of reeds is carefully arranged; another stick is laid on this bed, exactly over each of the sticks below; the projecting ends of each pair of rods are then tied together; and the solid mass of reeds thus secured can be raised on its lower edge and supported by props or by other slabs meeting it at an angle, much as children build houses of cards. In this way very serviceable stables and outhouses are often made in India. Having erected his light hut or pitched his tent, the traveller, if he is making a prolonged halt, proceeds to furnish it. Planks and boxes supply seats; and if there is a pole in the centre, a serviceable table can be made by fixing a wagon-wheel on it about two and a half feet from the ground, the pole passing through the centre of the wheel, and the spokes being covered with a few small boards. A comfortable bed is easily improvised. Livingstone had a new one made every night under his own supervision. This was his plan. First, he had two straight poles cut, two or three inches in diameter, which were laid parallel to each other at a distance of two feet apart; across these poles were placed short sticks, saplings three feet long; and over these was laid a thick pile of long grass; then came the usual waterproof ground sheet and the blankets. 'Thus,' writes Stanley, 'was improvised a bed fit for a king.' The wagon used by the colonists at the Cape is very like a long hut on wheels, and forms a very comfortable sleeping-place; while a large tent can be made by halting the wagon, driving in a few poles near it, and stretching the tent canvas from these to the wagon-roof. It has been proposed too that this roof should be an inverted boat of waterproof canvas, which could be removed at pleasure and used in crossing rivers. The wagon is so large that this seems to be quite a practicable idea.

Every explorer and traveller must carry some kind of a boat or canoe with him. If he is without one, the natives will often make most extortionate demands for the hire of their own to him; but if he has one, no matter how small, he can bargain on much more equal terms. But even if no boats can be procured, the mere crossing of a river can always be effected by means of rafts. These can be made of almost anything; casks, boxes, planks, reeds, bamboos, all can be pressed into the service; but we are told, it must be borne in mind 'that the cargo a raft can carry above water is always small, and not at all like the mountain of treasure invariably represented on that of Robinson Crusoe.' These rafts are often constructed of very strange materials. On the Nile they are made of jars, which are thus brought down the river to be sold at Cairo. On many of the African rivers they are made of bundles of sedge-grass; and lying down on these, the hippopotamus hunters approach the huge beast; the raft looking so like a natural accumulation that he does not attempt to get out of the way till it is too late. On such a raft, made on a larger scale, the Swedish naturalist Lindholm and his assistant successfully descended one of the rivers that feed Lake Ngami. The voyage was a strange one. The raft was built in a quiet nook by throwing hundreds of bundles of sedge across each other, without any other fastening than their natural cohesion and entanglement. On this huge floating mass a hut was built, and the two adventurers then poled it out into the stream, and it went down the current at the rate of about forty or fifty miles a day. Occasionally it took the ground at the bottom, but when a little of the grass tore off, it floated clear again. As the lower layers became sodden and pressed together, fresh grass had to be cut every day and laid on top, till at last there was six feet of the raft under water. Occasionally overhanging branches tore off some of the grass, and once a large projecting trunk lay so close to the water that it 'swept the decks fore and aft.' The hut was destroyed, and with much of its contents was carried away into the river; but the travellers saved themselves by climbing over the bough, and then repaired the damage and resumed their voyage. Sir Samuel Baker constructed a much more singular raft to cross the Atbara River in Equatorial Africa. A bedstead supported by eight inflated hides formed the basis of the structure; and on this was secured a large sponging bath three feet eight inches in diameter, which formed a dry receptacle for the ammunition and other baggage.

One of the most remarkable features of uncivilised life is the power savages shew of tracking men and beasts over immense distances. Many travellers have spoken of this as something almost miraculous, yet it is only the result of careful observation of certain well-known signs; and we have here before us a collection of very common-sense hints on the subject. In countries like ours every trace of foot-print or wheel-track on roads and paths is soon obliterated or hopelessly confused; but it is otherwise in the wilderness, where neither man nor beast can conceal his track. In Kaffirland, when cattle are stolen, if their foot-prints are traced to a village, the headman is held responsible for them, unless he can shew the same track going out. A wagon-track in a new country is practically indelible. 'More especially,' say our authors, 'is this the case if a fire sweeps over the plain immediately after, or if the wagon passes during or after a prairie fire. We have known a fellow-traveller recognise in this manner the tracks his wagon had made _seven years before_, the lines of charred stumps crushed short down remaining to indicate the passage of the wheels, though all other impressions had been obliterated by the rank annual growth of grass fully twelve feet high.' Sometimes the original soil being disturbed, a new vegetation will spring up along the wagon-track, and thus mark out the road for miles. Even on hard rock a man's bare foot will leave the dust caked together by perspiration, so that a practised eye will see it; and even if there is no track, a stone will be disturbed here and there, the side of the pebble which has long lain next the ground being turned up. If it is still damp, the man or beast that turned it has passed very recently. If a shower of rain has fallen, the track will tell whether it was made before, during, or after the shower; similar indications can be obtained from the dew; and another indication of the time that has elapsed since a man passed by is furnished by the state of the crushed grass, which will be more or less withered as the time is longer or shorter. Other indications are drawn from the direction in which the grass lies; this tells how the wind was blowing at the time the grass was crushed; and by noting previous changes of the wind, one learns the time at which each part of the track was made. Much too can be learned from the form of the foot-prints. Savages generally turn their toes in, in walking; white men turn theirs out. A moccasin print with the toes turned out would indicate that a white man in Indian walking-gear had gone by; and almost every foot has a print of its own, which enables an experienced tracker to follow a single track amongst a dozen others. Similarly the character of the print will tell whether the man who made it walked freely or was led by others; whether he was in a hurry or travelling slowly; whether he carried a burden; and if he were sober or tipsy. A horse-track is equally well marked. It tells when the horse galloped, where he walked, when he stopped to feed or drink; and a scattering of sand and gravel will tell when he was startled by any strange sight. In all this two things are needed--sharp sight and careful training. The elephant often makes a very curious track as he walks; if he suspects danger, he scents the ground with the tip of his trunk, and this makes a well-marked serpentine line in the dust. Elephants have changed their tactics since rifle-pits were introduced. Formerly, when their chief danger was a pitfall, the leader of the herd felt the ground inch by inch; and if he detected the covering of a trap, tore it off and left it open. Now they rely much more on scent, and in this way, often from a great distance, detect the hunter lurking near their drinking-places. If so, they will sometimes travel fifty or a hundred miles to another stream or pool.--Such is a specimen of this generally amusing book.

FANCHETTE, THE GOAT OF BOULAINVILLIERS.

AN EPISODE OF THE SIEGE OF PARIS.

While the German army inclosed in its iron grasp the most brilliant and pleasure-loving city of Europe, transforming in a moment its epicurean population into a people of heroes, the environs once so gay and so beautiful had experienced a change almost as great. Most of the detached villas were deserted, or occupied by the enemy, and the villages whose regular inhabitants had either taken refuge in Paris or fled to a distance, were repopulated by a singular assemblage of individuals belonging to all classes of society, and bound together only by the tie of a common nationality, and the necessity of finding a shelter and providing for their daily wants.

The hamlet of Boulainvilliers, which had been thus abandoned, had received an entirely new colony, and its beautiful avenue carpeted with turf of the most lovely green, had all the appearance of a camp. As long as the season would permit, cooking was carried on in the open air, and groups were constantly to be seen surrounding the fires and exchanging accounts of their mutual misfortunes.

A painter of Fleurs, bearing the English or rather Scotch name of MacHenry, was among these refugees. He had brought with him from Colombes, where he had before resided, a remarkably beautiful white goat called Fanchette. This creature, to which her master was much attached, figures in the most of his pictures. Light and graceful as a gazelle, she is represented sometimes cropping delicately the green branches of the hedgerows and bushes, sometimes entangled in a maze of brier-roses, their pink blossoms and green leaves falling around her in elegant garlands, and contrasting well with the snowy whiteness of her skin.

Fanchette was a universal favourite; and few there were at Boulainvilliers who would not have deprived themselves of a morsel of the bread sometimes so hard to procure, that they might reserve a mouthful for the goat, which, however, the saucy thing would only accept from her particular friends.

The grace and rare intelligence of the animal frequently relieved the miseries of the siege. All were surprised at the wonderful education her master had succeeded in giving her. He had even taught her something of his art; and it was really extraordinary to see the sensible creature busily employed in arranging pebbles on the ground, so as to form a rude resemblance to a human profile, often grotesque enough, but still such as one occasionally sees on human shoulders; and looking at her work, one could not help thinking that after all the _lower animals_ are perhaps not so far inferior to us as we suppose.

The art with which Fanchette selected from a bunch of flowers each one that was named to her was really marvellous. Roses, wallflowers, tulips, camellias, were promptly chosen from the number, and it was rare indeed that she made the least mistake. Two centuries ago they would have burned the poor beast for a witch.

The exercise which she preferred to all others consisted in catching on her horns a series of brass rings which her master threw up in the air. This she did with the greatest address; and when she had got a dozen or so of them encircling her brow like a diadem, she would begin jumping and galloping and shaking her head to make them jingle, till, over-excited by their rough music, she would end by dancing in the most fantastic style on her hind-feet, till tired at length with her exertions, she would bound towards her master and throw the rings at his feet.

Among those who had found refuge in the hamlet was a child of five years old, called Marie, the daughter of a peasant whose farm had been burned by the invaders. She was an object of general interest in the little colony on account of her gentle manners, and the sweet but suffering expression of her pale infantine features. A year or two previously she had been so severely bitten in the arm by a vicious dog that the limb had to be amputated, and her delicate constitution had never recovered the shock. Fanchette soon took a great fancy to the little girl; and the doctor having advised her to be fed as much as possible upon milk, MacHenry offered that of the goat. It was beautiful to see the pleasure with which the affectionate creature took upon herself the office of nurse, and the avidity with which the child sucked in the grateful nourishment which was giving her new life. Fanchette became every day more and more attached to Marie. She rarely left her, except when wanted by her master for some new study; and when it was ended, and MacHenry set her at liberty, saying: 'Now be off to Marie,' with what joy the creature bounded away, and how rejoiced was the little one to have again by her side her darling Fanchette! Nestling her head under the child's hand, a world of loving things were interchanged in their mute caresses.

It once happened that a lady having in her hand a crown of artificial ivy which she had picked up somewhere, probably the _débris_ of a school _fête_ during happier times, placed it on the head of the little Marie. Fanchette, rising on her hind-legs, examined it with comical curiosity; and having made up her mind on the subject, scampered off to an old tree close by, around whose trunk the real ivy twined in thick and glossy wreaths, butted at it with her horns, twisting it round them, and tearing off long trailing garlands. She then ran back in triumph to throw her treasures at the child's feet, saying as clearly as if she had the gift of speech: 'Look! This is better than the coarse imitation they have decked you with; this is the real thing!'

Another day the child was looking at herself in a mirror, and Fanchette immediately began to do the same. The expression of sadness and wonder in her eyes seemed to say so plainly: 'Why are Marie and I so different? If I were like her I could speak to her, and then we should love each other still better!'

One evening Marie, who was sitting by her mother's side, began to fidget and complain of an uneasy sensation in her back. Her mother, busily engaged with some work, and thinking the child was only disposed to be troublesome, examined it slightly, and told her to be quiet; but the poor little thing continued to complain, when, the mother getting out of temper, gave her a sharp slap. Fanchette, who was present at this scene, presented her horns in a threatening attitude to the woman, and gently stroked the shoulders of her little friend with her foot. At the sight of the dumb animal's eloquent appeal, the woman began to relent, and calling the child to her, examined more carefully the state of things, when she found, to her horror, one of those large and poisonous caterpillars called in French 'processionnaires,' which had painfully irritated the delicate skin of the child.

It was about this time that MacHenry, continuing his artistic labours in spite of all the difficulties of the situation, resolved on taking for the subject of a new picture his goat Fanchette nursing the little Marie. Fanchette lent herself with her usual intelligence and docility to his wishes; and Marie was represented lying among grass and flowers with her four-footed friend bending over her. This picture, which was afterwards regarded as one of MacHenry's best works, obtained the most signal success at the Paris Exhibition of Modern Art--the truthfulness of the design, the freshness of the colouring, and the grace of the composition being equally striking.

But these bright autumn days soon passed away, and many may recollect the bitter cold of the sad Christmas of that dismal winter. Poor little Marie suffered so severely from it, that after a vain attempt to recall some warmth by lighting a fire of brushwood, the only fuel that could be procured, her mother, as a last resource, put her into her little bed, in the hope that by heaping upon her all the clothing she could procure, the child might regain a little heat; but it was in vain: no heat came, and the blood had almost ceased to circulate in her frozen limbs. At this moment Fanchette arrived, and without waiting for an invitation, sprang upon the bed. It was in vain they tried to drive her away; she only clung the closer to her nursling, and covering the child with her body, soon restored her to warmth and animation.

There was one among the temporary inhabitants of Boulainvilliers for whom Fanchette entertained an unmitigated aversion; this was a knife-grinder of the name of Massicault. His appearance was certainly not calculated to produce a favourable impression, for his features were repulsive and his expression disagreeable. A low forehead, a scowling eye, and a short thick-set figure were the principal physical traits of this personage; nor were they redeemed by those of his moral character. He had for his constant companion a large ill-favoured bull-dog with a spiked collar, who seemed to share all the evil instincts of his master. Every one wondered how the knife-grinder managed to feed this animal at a time when it was so hard to find the merest necessaries of life for human beings--and that too without ever seeming to do a hand's turn of work; for all day long he was lounging about, and it was rare indeed to hear the noise of his wheel. When any one--alarmed at the threatening aspect of the brute, who never failed to growl and shew his fangs when approached--asked his master to call him off, Massicault used only to reply with an ill-natured laugh: 'He has not begun yet to eat such big morsels as you; but there's no saying what he may do one of these days!'

MacHenry was sorry that his goat partook of the general dislike to this man. He would have rather wished that she should have tried by her winning caresses to soften his rugged nature, and bring him to love the gentle creature that had gained all other hearts; but as we shall see in the sequel, things turned out very differently.

On one of the last fine days of that sad year, a crowd having gathered round her while her master was amusing himself by exhibiting her intelligence in the selection of the fruit and flowers he named, in which she acquitted herself with her usual sagacity, MacHenry bade her fetch an apple. There were some still hanging on a tree in a neighbouring garden; but instead of running off as usual to the well-known place, she went right up to the knife-grinder, and pushing aside with her paws the skirts of his coat, displayed two pockets stuffed with something, which the crowd, amid shouts of laughter, declared to be stolen apples. The artist tried to call off his goat, and the man drove her away with curses; but two vigorous peasants immediately laid hold of him, and insisted on seeing the contents of the suspicious pockets; which proved to be, as all had supposed, apples stolen from the tree in question. The discovery only increased the rage of Massicault, who swore with the most fearful oaths that he had never touched one of them, and that the apples found in his possession had been given to him by a friend. Though none believed him, several, in order to get rid of a disagreeable affair, feigned to do so, and he was finally let off; but many thought they had thus got a clew to the authorship of several robberies recently committed to the prejudice of different members of the little community.

This misadventure excited in the knife-grinder a violent hatred against Fanchette, which was heartily shared by his worthy companion the bull-dog. The latter was an object of special terror to poor little Marie. Fanchette seemed to understand the fears of the child, and whenever the dog approached her, she would lower her horns, as if to protect her nursling and defy her enemy. These demonstrations of valour were generally successful, the dog slinking off with glaring eyes and drooping tail.

One day Fanchette nestled up close to her master, putting her foot upon his arm, and having succeeded in gaining his attention, ran off to a particular spot, where she stopped to sniff the grass, and then trotting back, she renewed several times the same manœuvre. MacHenry, persuaded that something extraordinary must be the matter, rose and followed her. When she reached the spot, putting aside like a terrier dog the long herbage with her feet, she displayed to view a leather pocket-book, which the artist picked up and examined. An instant sufficed to shew that it belonged to the knife-grinder, and its contents proved that this man was one of the numerous spies the Germans had constantly and everywhere in their service. He found besides in this pocket-book, pushed under the covering, the picture of a child, one of those common photographs which have no other merit than a certain resemblance.

The very day that this pocket-book was found a frightful scene took place. Little Marie was sitting on a low stool eating a morsel of bread, which she was sharing with Fanchette, when the bull-dog chanced to pass. The animal stopped for a moment, and looked at her; then as if overcome by the temptation, he suddenly darted at her and snatched at the bread. He was prevented, however, by the goat, and with a toss of her horns she sent the ferocious beast sprawling to some distance; but he was only stunned, not seriously hurt; and furious at his repulse, he sprang upon the poor goat, seized her by the throat, and shook her with rage. Marie uttered piercing shrieks, and MacHenry having got hold of a stick, ran to the rescue. A sharp blow on the head caused the dog to lose his grip of poor Fanchette, and turn against his new enemy, seizing him by the shoulder; but a peasant coming to the assistance of the artist, forced the dog again to let go; and limping off and growling, he at last took refuge beside his master, who all the while had been an unmoved spectator of the scene.

Great was the general grief at the sight of poor Fanchette motionless on the grass, bleeding profusely from the wound in her throat; and strong the indignation excited by the ferocity of the dog and the conduct of its brutal master. Many were the threats muttered against both; and there is little doubt that the dog at least would soon have paid the penalty he deserved had Fanchette's wound been mortal; but on examination it was found to be less serious than it appeared, and her master's care of her soon effected a complete cure. The inhabitants of the hamlet, however, resolved not to let slip the opportunity for getting rid of the obnoxious knife-grinder. This ill-favoured individual was received whenever he shewed himself with cries of 'Be off and quickly too, and be thankful we do not throttle your wretch of a dog first.'

Unable to resist the general storm of indignation, the man and his worthy companion were about to take their departure; but they had hardly reached the entrance of the village, when they were met by a party bringing along with them an orphan boy of about six or seven years of age, whose parents had been found murdered some days previously in one of the detached cottages of the neighbourhood, which some still ventured to inhabit. The child, at the sight of the knife-grinder and his dog, uttered a loud cry and covered his eyes with his hands.

'What is the matter, my poor little fellow?' asked one of the by-standers. At length he was able with difficulty to reply, his words interrupted with deep sobs: 'That man! that dog! It was they that killed my mother! I saw it all from behind the curtain in which I was hid.'

Every one looked in astonishment at his neighbour, not knowing whether to believe the strange assertion of the child; when MacHenry produced the pocket-book and informed those around him of its contents. The child immediately cried out that it was his mother's; and had any doubt remained it would have been dispelled by looking at the portrait that was contained in it, for its resemblance to the poor little boy was striking.

In presence of such proof, there could be no hesitation, and two men immediately set off in pursuit of the fugitive; but he had already got a considerable advance, and fear lent him wings, so that before they could reach him he had gained the protection of the German outposts. He did not succeed, however, in evading the fate he merited, for shortly after the news arrived that the wretched man had fallen into the hands of a detachment of French _francs-tireurs_, and having been convicted of being concerned in the burning of a farm, was immediately condemned and shot.

MacHenry adopted the orphan boy, and never had cause to repent of his generous action. 'I have now two children,' he used gaily to say; 'for my gentle intelligent Fanchette is almost as dear to me as if she were a human creature!'

LIME-JUICE.

Some interesting facts have been communicated to us, arising out of the publication of our recent article on 'Lime-Juice' (March 24, 1877). It appears that some years ago Messrs Sturge of Birmingham established a Company for developing the resources of the island of Montserrat in the West Indies. Attention was directed chiefly to the production of genuine lime-juice, mainly for the extraction therefrom of citric acid, of which Messrs Sturge are extensive manufacturers in this country. With this object in view, they paid sedulous attention to the maintenance of extensive lime-tree plantations. All the ripe sound fresh fruit is selected first, for the production of lime-juice, while the remainder becomes available for citric acid. The juice is bottled immediately on its arrival in this country. In 1874 the Company were the owners of no less than five hundred lime-trees in full bearing in the little island of Montserrat; and the number has since been increased by the conversion of unprofitable sugar-plantations into profitable lime-tree plantations. The collection and manipulation of the ripe limes give healthy employment to large numbers of women and young persons.

When Dr Leach, medical officer on board the _Dreadnought_, called public attention in 1866 to the recent appearance of scurvy in merchant-ships, he induced the Board of Trade to take up the matter seriously. This led to the passing of an Act in 1867, ordering the provision of lime-juice or lemon-juice in every merchant and passenger ship, and its use every day by every person on board. It is, however, known that lemon-juice is not so effective as lime-juice as an anti-scorbutic; and that, moreover, the best lime-juice does not require to be 'fortified' with ten or fifteen per cent. of alcohol to preserve it, which appears to be necessary for lemon-juice and inferior lime-juice. In the navy more strictness is observed. Lime-juice _only_ is permitted; it must be prepared from ripe sound fruit, gathered in particular months of the year; and must bear analytical tests touching its citricity, flavour, and condition. As a consequence, scurvy is now almost unknown in the royal navy, except in the case of the recent Arctic Expedition, the particulars of which will no doubt be fully investigated and set forth by the Admiralty Committee duly appointed for that purpose. The navy is, we believe, supplied invariably with the best lime-juice only, to the exclusion of lemon-juice, and also to the exclusion of such juice of the real lime as requires, on account of its poorness of quality, to be fortified or 'doctored' with strong crude spirit. Very likely, in this as in so many other instances, cheapness is at the bottom of the whole affair: mercantile lemon-juice (even if called by the name of the lime) being cheaper than navy lime-juice. If so, it affords a sad instance of the misuse of the good word economy; for it certainly is not economical to imperil the health of the crews in trading-ships, and of passengers in emigrant-ships, by the use of that which is 'cheap and nasty.' Something there is in the common juice which renders it very unpalatable to the men, who often shirk their prescribed dose unless strictly watched. Let us hope that the Report of the Arctic Committee will strengthen the hands of the Board of Trade to deal with this matter.

AFFECTION IN BIRD-LIFE.

A correspondent having read our recent article on Bird-affection, kindly sends us the following singular instance of intelligence and affection on the part of a duck. 'We have,' he tells us, 'two white ducks; the one designated Mr Yellowbill being wonderfully intelligent, yet fond of fun. My little son and he have great games together. The lad throws out an india-rubber ball a longer or shorter distance, leaving it for the bird to decide whether it shall be pursued with a flying or a running movement. In either case, the ball is swiftly seized by duckie, and returned to the thrower, who keeps up the game until both have had enough of it. Another peculiarity of Mr Yellowbill may be mentioned. At the splashing of water from an adjacent well he is aroused, and will instantly fly towards the scene of action, plunge in, bathe, jump out, flap his wings joyfully, and "like a bird," take himself off again. But the story of affection for his kind must now be told. The other day, when swinging on a gate, my little boy felt something tugging at his trousers, and on looking round discovered the duck, who, he supposed, invited him to a game at ball. So down he got, and caressed his feathered friend as the preliminary. The duck, however, continued pulling away in so unusual and persistent a manner that the lad decided to go whither he was led; and lo! at the corner of an outbuilding was found poor Mrs Yellowbill, lame of a leg and quite unable to waddle along. Meanwhile her husband continued to manifest the greatest concern about her, yet did not forget his manners and grateful acknowledgments, but bowed and better bowed to those around who had now come to the rescue; shewing that even a duck may act and feel as a gentleman. The cause of hurt referred to has not been ascertained; but happily Mrs Yellowbill is now quite well, and her husband is as lively as ever.'

LENACHLUTEN,

A WATERFALL IN ARGYLESHIRE.

'Mong crags where the purple heather grows,
'Mid rocks where blooms the mountain rose,
Onward the river calmly flows
To Lenachluten.

The waters dash on the rocks beneath
In a mad wild rush, they surge and seethe,
While dancing spray with a snowy wreath
Crowns Lenachluten.

Thus ever the stream of life flows on,
With faces happy and faces wan,
A moment here on this earth, then gone,
Like Lenachluten.

Some lives pass on like a peaceful dream;
Untouched by sorrow or care, they seem
To glide as the river whose waters stream
Towards Lenachluten.

Others career on their restless way;
Whate'er betide, they are ever gay,
As gleams the sparkling sunlit spray
On Lenachluten.

Some lives with folly and sin are fraught;
They dim earth's beauty with stain and spot,
As surges the scum, an ugly blot
On Lenachluten.

And now and again a genius bright
Dazzles the earth with his spirit's flight,
As shimmers the rainbow's tinted light
O'er Lenachluten.

H. K. W.

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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

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_All Rights Reserved._