Chapter XIII (2)

Nevertheless, the evening's excitement left its trace. Estelle tossed about some time before she could get any sleep, and when at last she fell into a feverish doze, her dreams were distressing. She was back again in the long passage of the ruined summer-house. Behind her was the closed door, all around her fell the earth and stones from the roof, while the continual drip of water filled her ears. She was quite alone--every one had forgotten her--no, no! she heard footsteps running. The bay of mastiffs came near; they were on the track of two men, of Thomas (though she could not remember his name); and she was in front, her feet too heavy to run, the way too long and dark for any hope of escape. She heard the ripple of the sea; and then she was in a boat, and saw herself falling, falling--the cruel water swallowing her up.

She sat up with a stifled scream.

Mrs. Wright, who was sound asleep, woke with a start, and hastening to her, made her lie down, soothing her, and assuring her it was only a nightmare.

Again Estelle sank into a sleep. She was in a large library, the room was surrounded by book-shelves, the backs of the books glistened in the ruddy firelight. All around spoke of luxury and comfort. She was sitting on the hearthrug, her head against the knee of--whom? A gentleman was stroking her hair, and she heard him say, 'It is the sweetest name on earth to me, my darling.' What name? She was sure he pronounced it, but no sound seemed to come from his lips. Weeping, she entreated, oh, if she could only hear that name! It was her own. She felt sure of that, but she could not tell what it was. She looked up to ask again, but the gentleman was gone. There was a sweet old lady sitting in an armchair, surrounded by four children. They had been having tea on the lawn. Before them was a wide stretch of green grass ending at the lily-pond; yellow and white blossoms dotted the calm water, and swans were pluming their wings in the summer sun. The lady was telling the children a story--something sad, something that contained a great lesson, and Estelle tried with all her might to hear what that story was. It seemed quite natural that she should be there; the old lady and the children appeared to be connected with her in some close way. She tried to touch the lady to ask her name, but she could not.

A sense of misery overcame her. She appealed in vain to be heard, but the old lady went on with her story, and the four children listened very gravely and sadly. Throwing herself back upon the grass, she sobbed till a voice said, 'Come, come, Missie, don't take on like that.' The lady, the children, the garden had gone, and she was in a strange place, surrounded by dirty people, men, women, and children, and still more dirty stalls of toys and sweets. Jack held her hand, and pointed out a big flaring painting on the front of a marquee, but as she looked a face peeped out from between the canvas curtains, and, terrified, she clung to Jack's hand, for it was the face of the man after whom the mastiffs had been running. He grinned recognition at her, he nodded, and, coming out of the marquee, advanced towards her.

Trembling with terror, Estelle awoke. Daylight was struggling through the window, Mrs. Wright was beginning to move about, and Estelle herself was safe and sound in her own little bed.

'Your bath will be ready in a couple of minutes, dear.'

Estelle made no answer. Hastening to her, Mrs. Wright was much disturbed to see the condition she was in. There was no getting up that day. The horrors of her dreams had exhausted her, and she lay white and wan, scarcely opening her eyes. She was able neither to talk nor to eat, only wanting to lie still, and see her dear Goody close to her.

Coming home at noon, Jack was horrified to hear the news.

'We forget how young she is, and talk too much of these caves and such things,' he said.

Towards evening, however, Estelle became better. The sense of safety, now that Jack had returned, was comforting. She would not think of that long row of empty chambers in the cliff which had once been full of the sick and dying.

A good sleep that night restored her. She was able not only to get up as usual, but accepted Jack's offer to take her with him when he went to do the marketing for his mother. The change of scene, he thought, would do her good; so would the walk in the fresh air and sunshine. Accompanying them the whole length of the terrace, Mrs. Wright stood smiling and nodding as they looked up at her at every turn of the path, till the trees hid her from their sight.

(_Continued on page 254._)

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO

True Tales of the Year 1806.

VIII.--THE CLOWN'S PET BEAR.

The chief attraction of the Royal Circus, London, in the year 1806, was the clever performances of a young black bear belonging to one of the clowns--Mr. Bradbury. This bear was so tame that it had travelled from Liverpool to London with its master on the top of the coach, and had made great friends with its fellow-travellers.

After the bear had gone through its performances at the circus, its master used to reward it by taking the docile beast to a coffee-house, and here it would sit amongst the company with a tall hat on its head, and eat and drink in a truly dignified fashion.

This bear was never muzzled, for it was so gentle that the children of the neighbourhood would fearlessly romp and play with it, and it was so devoted to its master that it would follow him about like a dog.

There came a day, however, when Mr. Bradbury was suddenly summoned to Manchester, and during his absence he left the bear in charge of a man who promised to take good care of it. This promise he did not keep. The poor animal was shamefully neglected, and kept so short of food that hunger drove it at last to desperation, and one night, breaking loose from its chain, it made its way into a yard and killed a dog.

The piteous howls of the dog aroused the neighbourhood and brought several people to the spot. The first was one of the carpenters of the circus; the bear instantly pounced on him, but the man, with a sudden wrench, shook himself free,--leaving his coat behind him, however. The bear next attacked a goat, and then, seeing a boy of about thirteen amongst the crowd (for boys a hundred years ago were always foremost in a crowd, as they are to-day) the infuriated animal pursued him, overtook him, and fastened upon him from behind, with its two paws on his shoulders; and before a spectator with a gun managed to shoot the bear, the poor lad was almost scalped.

He was at once taken off to the hospital, and, in time, recovered from his injuries; but when Mr. Bradbury returned from Manchester, all that was left of his pet was the shaggy skin and a large supply of pots of bear's grease in a neighbouring hairdresser's window.

ABOUT THE ASH.

Some of our well-known trees have a long and curious history belonging to them: the Oak, Elder, and Willow are good examples, but perhaps the Ash excels all others in its remarkable history. It is a tree often found growing on a ridge or hill by itself, and therefore exposed to storms, which it withstands wonderfully. Though in former days it was held to be a sacred or lucky tree, people believed that it attracted the lightning--no doubt a solitary ash has been sometimes struck. The wood is valuable for its toughness; it seldom splinters, and will bear a greater weight than the wood of most other trees. In the olden time, the Romans made from it spears and ploughs, and the Greeks also used it for several purposes. Hop-poles are chiefly manufactured from ash saplings in England; tables and pails of ash are also fairly common.

In some years much harm is done to ash-trees by a caterpillar which bores into the wood; when full-grown, the insect turns into a handsomely spotted moth, which is called the Leopard, from its markings. To Eastern folk the ash was a notable tree, because of a legend that it was the first tree under which Adam, the father of mankind, sat. Our northern ancestors also thought much of this tree, because it would thrive in exposed places, where few others could make progress. An old woodcut shows women working along the fields, while their babies or young children were hanging in baskets upon the branches of an ash. The reason for this was that the tree had the fame of keeping off snakes, and also of protecting persons from witches. About the thorpes and granges of the old Anglo-Saxons the ash was common, the tree being sacred and a favourite. Even now we see many a group of knotted ash-trees on Hampshire hills and Devonshire moors.

About some parts of the West of England they burn ash foggots at Christmas, to keep in memory, it is said, a cold winter when King Alfred and his soldiers were marching through the country and had to warm themselves by fires of ash-wood.

Some people used to wear the flowers of the ash, commonly called 'kegs,' in their hats or coats, owing to a belief that they kept away diseases, and a medicine was prepared from them by the old herbalists. Evelyn, who lived in the seventeenth century, says that some people pickled them for salad. Search used to be made upon the twigs for a double leaf, for if one was discovered it was supposed to bring good luck to the finder. Sometimes, when a child had a painful illness, people split a pollard ash down the middle, the two parts were held back, the child was passed through the opening, and then the tree was tied up again. Ash-trees that have been cut in this way to get a cure are still to be seen here and there about the country. There are also noticeable shrew-trees, as they are called, in which a hole had been cut to receive a shrew mouse, owing to an old notion that, by being hidden there, this little animal cured the sick cows.

'If the oak is out before the ash,
'Twill be a summer of wet and splash;
But if the ash is before the oak,
'Twill be a summer of fire and smoke.'

The summer of 1903, for instance, was certainly one of 'wet and splash,' with little of the heat implied by the 'fire and smoke;' but was the oak first, then, to put forth new leaves? It is said that the two trees leafed at nearly the same time, both being backward owing to the cold spring. But there is another version of the rhyme which gives the last three words as 'souse and soak.'

* * * * *

Reading is the cheapest of all amusements, and the most lasting.

NOT GUILTY.

'Douglas, I want you.'

Douglas jumped up obediently from the kitchen floor, where he was bathing a wound in his terrier's side. He followed his father into the study, and Bully the terrier followed at his heels.

A red-faced man stood in the door, and Douglas guessed what was wrong.

'That's him,' almost shouted the visitor. Bully crept closer to Douglas' side, and bared two teeth, for it was to him the farmer alluded.

'It wasn't,' said Douglas, and his face grew as red as if it were he who was accused of some crime. 'He has been with me all the time. He has not touched anything of yours.'

'He knows, you see, mister,' said the man slily, 'knows all about it before a word's said. If that was my boy---- '

Douglas' father interrupted. 'A moment, please,' he said. 'Listen to me, Douglas. Mr. Wilkins says that your dog and you, too, were in his yard a few days ago. Is that so?'

'Yes, Father,' said Douglas, 'the cowboy threw mud at me, and I went over to thrash him.'

'Trespassing,' said the farmer, 'and the lad rolled him in the mud for his pains.'

'He is bigger than I, a lot,' said Douglas; 'I didn't see him properly till after I had hit him once.'

'Well, my lad has seen him in the yard once before--the dog I mean, not you, boy; and I have missed three chickens this week, and that's the dog which took them. It ought to be shot.'

Douglas' hand tightened on his friend's collar, and his face whitened. 'It's not true,' he said. 'Bully is an awfully good dog. He never touches anything; he wouldn't even touch my rabbits if they were loose.'

So far as looks went, Bully came short of this good reputation. His face was villainous-looking, and a wound on one side, and sundry scratches on his nose did not add to his beauty.

'I have paid for those chickens, Douglas,' said his father, when the angry farmer had gone away. 'I don't suppose it was Bully, but as he is so much at large, we must take Mr. Wilkins's word for it. In future he must be kept under control.'

Several weeks passed without any further complaint. Bully spent all his time, when Douglas was at school, on his chain by the back-door, an injustice which the boy resented as bitterly as the dog.

After an interval of this restraint the discipline was gradually relaxed, and Bully at times was allowed his usual freedom.

Douglas was scarcely surprised when the farmer appeared at their house again, this time with his enemy the cowboy.

'Here sir,' Farmer Wilkins hailed the boy, 'that dog of yours has made away with four as nice pullets as ever I saw.'

'I don't believe it,' said Douglas, bluntly.

'Well, here is my boy. Saw the dog in the yard, didn't you, boy?'

'Yes, I did, said the boy. 'I saw it with my own eyes, slinking away in the dusk.'

'Are you sure?' asked Douglas's father.

'Quite sure, sir,' answered the boy.

'I have never caught him telling lies,' said the man. 'I would take his word before your boy's.'

The upshot of it was that the chickens were again paid for, and Bully the favourite--Bully, who was almost one of the family--was condemned to go. Douglas polished his coat-sleeve with some salt tears in private, and Bully poked him all over with his damp cool nose, as if he guessed that something was wrong.

Towards evening, Douglas went out, taking Bully with him. He thought he would see for himself if Bully would try to take the chickens, and with this idea, went up the garden to a place overlooking the farm hen-roost. The chickens were chirping and snuggling on their perches, and he felt sure that Bully was innocent, for he did not even prick an ear at the sound.

As he stood there, somebody came quietly up the yard.

'The boy, to shut up for the evening,' thought Douglas, for he knew that at this time the farmer was generally out with the milk. But when they came nearer he saw that there were two people, the cowboy and a man with a bag.

Douglas tightened his hold on the dog's collar to cut short a growl, and listened with all his ears, as the lad went into the shed, and some squawking and fluttering went on.

'I daren't take more than one,' he said; 'and it is the last time. I have been putting it on the dog over yonder, and they are getting rid of it now.'

The man looked annoyed. 'Make it half a dozen, if it's the last time,' he said. 'I can't give you more than sixpence for that one. It's not worth coming up here for.'

Douglas loosened Bully's collar.

'Watch him,' he said, and Bully needed no second telling, managing to keep the tail of his eye on the frightened cowboy as well as on the stranger with the bag.

'You wicked boy,' said Douglas. 'It was you that stole the chickens. I heard everything you said.'

'I will never do it again,' cried the boy, blubbering. 'Don't tell Master, young gentleman, it won't happen again.'

'No, that it won't,' put in a new voice, as Farmer Wilkins arrived unexpectedly on the scene. 'I will take good care of that. Call your dog off, if you please, Master Douglas; I don't much like the looks of him.'

Douglas secured Bully, and the farmer seized the dishonest cowboy by the collar. The stranger was quick to take advantage of the moment, and before anybody could say 'knife,' he had slipped behind the barn, and away over the fields.

'Let him go,' said the farmer, who was too fat to want to run. 'He has had a fright. As for you.' turning to the cowboy, 'I have an account to settle with you, before I send you off. I am much obliged to you, young sir,' he said, turning to Douglas, 'and very sorry for the trouble you have been caused.'

'Well, look here,' said Douglas, 'will you do something to oblige me?'

'Why, yes,' said the farmer.

'I wish you would let him off pretty easily. You won't send him away, will you?'

'I just will,' said the man, hotly; 'and give him up to the police too.'

'Oh, please, don't do that,' Douglas, pleaded, 'to oblige me. Give him one more chance.'

Farmer Wilkins scratched his head.

'It's perfectly ridiculous,' he said; 'but there, seeing that you have got a say in the matter, so to speak, I don't know but what--'

And the cowboy gave Douglas such a grateful look that he could not help feeling that there was still some hope of his turning out all right in the end.

'You see,' Douglas afterwards explained to his father, 'I felt so awfully glad when I found that I should not have to send Bully away, that I didn't want to pay the boy out in the least. And I think it would do him more good to be forgiven than if he was sent to prison, don't you.' And Father thought it would.

MOVABLE ROOFS.

The roof is by far the most important part of the houses or huts of savages. It is the part upon which most labour is spent, and it is the part which is taken most care of when the whole house is finished. Many huts are, in fact, little more than a roof borne up by a few posts. A native house in Samoa is simply a great dome-shaped roof resting upon a ring of posts which are only about four feet high, and supported by three central posts which are as much as twenty-five feet high. When seen from a distance the house looks like an enormous mushroom just rising from the ground.

The making of the roof is the great task in building one of these houses, and the Samoans think so much of their roofs that in times of war they have been known to take them off their posts, and carry them away to some place which was safe from attack. The roofs are very large, but they are so constructed that they can be taken down in three or four pieces, and each of these may be placed upon a raft made of canoes, and carried away by sea.

Although it would perhaps be difficult to find movable roofs so large as these in other countries, there are many houses in Africa which are constructed in a similar way, and are little more than roofs resting upon a few posts, from which they can be easily removed. Dr. Livingstone saw a great many of them in the heart of Africa, and the villagers, with whom he and his men stayed for the night, frequently took off the roofs of their huts, and lent them to the travellers. As soon as the natives learned where Livingstone had decided to encamp, they lifted off the roofs of some of their huts and brought them to him. Livingstone's men propped up the roofs with a number of small posts, and the houses were made. The roofs kept off the rain, and in that warm country no other shelter was needed. On one occasion it rained so heavily that the water flowed in along the ground, and flooded the travellers' beds. To prevent such an accident occurring again, Livingstone made his men in future dig a trench round the hut, and throw the earth inwards to raise the ground under the roof. By this means the rain-water was caught in the trench, and the beds lay high and dry upon the raised floor of the hut. When the travellers moved onward to another village, they left the roofs just as they were, and the villagers put them back in their proper places at their leisure. The roofs were always lent by the natives without any expectation of receiving payment for their use, though I have no doubt that the noble-minded missionary never forgot to reward them.

When Speke, a traveller who discovered one of the sources of the Nile, was returning homeward, and passing through the country of the Madi, near the head of the Albert Nyanza, he saw similar huts to those which I have just described. In one of his books there is an amusing picture of a Madi village removing. The greatest burden is a conical roof, which four men are carrying on their heads. Other men and women are carrying a few sticks or baskets, but the all-important thing is the roof. These roofs are easily lifted from their posts, and Speke once saw a number of Turkish traders take off the roofs of a village without permission, and carry them off to make a camp for themselves.

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

9.--WORD CHANGES.

1.--A committee of management,
Curtail--and find a wild animal.
Behead and curtail--a kind of pole.
Transpose--wide, extensive, liberal.

2.--The end of being.
Behead and curtail--to do that without which we cannot be.
Transpose--thoroughly disliked.

3.--A borderland--measured movement.
Behead--a curved stone structure.
Behead and curtail--a part of a circle.
Transpose--an irresistible power to please.

C. J. B.

10.--MESOSTICH.

The central letters read downwards will give the name of a fragrant flower.

1. A fair woman, who was the cause of much warfare.
2. A wrong and illegal act.
3. A celebrated physician.
4. A continuous line of cars.
5. A philosopher and essayist.

C. J. B.

[_Answers on page 286._]

* * * * *

ANSWERS TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 214.

8.--1. Alcester.
2. Camberwell.
3. Dunfermline.
4. Doncaster.
5. Dursley.
6. Middlesex.

THE COUNT AND THE DOVE.

Count Zinzendorf was a great German noble who did a great deal of good in the world. One day, when he was a boy, he was playing with his hoop near the banks of a deep river, and he spied a dove struggling in the water. By some means the poor bird had fallen into the river, and was unable to escape.

The little Count quickly rolled down a washing-tub, which had been left near the water's edge, jumped into it, and, though generally very timid on the water, by the help of a stick he managed to steer himself to the place where the dove lay. With the bird in his hand, he guided the tub back, and got safely to land. Then he set the bird free.

'Were you not afraid?' asked his mother, when she heard of it.

'Yes, I was,' he answered, 'but I could not bear that the dove should die. You know, Mother, its little ones might have been watching for it to come home!'

THE LITTLE BLIND LINNET.

I have a linnet small and brown,
And I to it am kind,
Because it must be sad at heart,
For it is quite, quite blind.

Oh! only think what it must be
Never to see the flowers,
And never see the sky and trees,
In golden summer hours.

But still my linnet sweetly sings
A rippling, happy song,
As though its tiny heart o'erflowed
With joy the whole day long.

And so, whenever I am cross,
And tears fall like the rain,
Oh! when I hear my linnet sing,
It makes me good again!

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 247._)

A very pretty little fishing village is Tout-Petit. The deep blue sea, the green hills, and the tiny red-roofed, white-walled hamlet straggling down to the port made it very quaint. A rivulet, spanned by a cranky bridge, swept round the base of the hill to the left, and down the centre of the village street, till it found its way into the sea at the harbour. There were shady paths close to the shore, little knots of silver poplar and birch, winding walks among the rocks and on the smooth sands. The port was full of brown sails and tall masts; the air redolent of tar and sea-weed. When the fishing boats spread their canvas and glided out one by one into the open sea, the scene was enchanting. At the top of the hill was the Grande Place, where stood the ancient church, the market-place, the municipal buildings, and the houses of the better class.

It was at the top of the hill, where there was a great stone cross, that the women and children collected to watch for the returning boats. It was to this old cross that the homeward-bound mariner first turned his eyes. He knew that his dear ones were standing there waiting, longing for him.

Estelle was charmed with the village, and with the many kindly greetings she received from the peasant folk. All seemed glad to see her, the market-women even pressing an apple or a few plums on her. They, on their side, were delighted with her graceful manner and her excellent French. They seemed to know all about her.

Madame Bricolin, busy over the important business of buying a chicken, vegetables, and fruit for M. le Curé's table, found time to draw her master's attention to the child. The old man was coming down the hill, but he stopped to look at the fair-haired, slender English child, whose high-bred, dainty little air, caused him to ponder. Who and what was she? He smiled when Mère Bricolin brought her to him, and put out his hand to greet her.

Estelle thought he had the kindest of faces, and accepted with joy his invitation to let Jack bring her one day to see him. At that moment the doctor, hastening across the Grande Place, caught sight of her.

'What!' he exclaimed, striking an attitude of surprise, as his face beamed in merriment on her; 'you here, my little patient! Come to life again all right, eh?'

'Have you tried to find out who your little friend is?' asked the Curé, turning to Jack while Estelle laughed with her old friend.

'She cannot remember the name, sir, yet,' replied Jack, 'so I don't know how to set about it. I have not the means to search without some clue. Anyhow, I thought we would wait till she is stronger. She's hardly up to a journey yet.'

'Journey!' cried the genial doctor, overhearing the last remark, 'who's going to take a journey? Not this little lady? No, no: not yet. We cannot lose our _petite dame_' (little lady) 'yet.'

'It can't be me,' said Estelle, her face clouding. 'I have nowhere to go.' Then the remembrance of her dreams returning to her mind, she added, 'At least, I can't think what my name is---- '

'All in good time--all in good time,' exclaimed the doctor hastily. 'Why, M. Jack and his mother are here to take care of you---- '

'And kind friends round you also, _petite dame_,' added the Curé, with his pleasant smile.

It seemed to soothe Estelle, and she went on with Jack, smiling too.