Chapter XIX (1)

'Good-bye, dear!' said Mrs. Wright, with tears in her eyes, as Estelle clung to her in a last embrace. 'Perhaps you will come back some day, and see us again.'

'Indeed, dear Goody, I will. You have been good to me! I shall love to think of you and Jack, and everything here, often and often--and of all the kind people I have met. I cannot thank you enough for all you have done. I have been so happy. I shall never forget it.'

'I hope your friends will think you looking bonnie, dear,' went on Mrs. Wright. 'If they had seen you when Jack brought you here, they would not believe it was the same little missie at all. Now, don't be ill on the voyage, and spoil all the credit due to me.'

Mrs. Wright tried to speak in a lively tone, but the effort ended in tears. The child had been hers so long that the parting was almost as painful as if she were really losing one of her own dear ones. Estelle clung to her, wishing she could persuade her dear Goody to come home with her, that Aunt Betty might see her and thank her properly. But this was too much to expect. Goody was sure she would sever survive the voyage. Jack also was averse to the idea. He did not want to have two helpless people on his hands, he said, laughingly.

Mrs. Wright accompanied them down to the harbour, and, as they rowed out to the ship, Estelle watched her standing there till distance and tears blotted out the sight.

The wind was fair abaft, and they made good way. Estelle began gradually to like the smooth motion. Her spirits came back as she felt that every knot brought her nearer home and Aunt Betty. Jack had done his best to make her comfortable, but the smack was not a large vessel, and its accommodation was necessarily limited. Nevertheless, all that could be done to make her voyage a pleasant one was done by Jack, Fargis, and the crew. She had the cabin all to herself, and a chair was always ready for her on deck when she chose to occupy it. Usually, however, she preferred to sit near where-ever Jack was, and to talk to him. She would build castles in the air of what would happen when her father returned, and she could tell him all her wishes. He would be quite sure to do all she desired; he never refused any reasonable request, and all her requests were reasonable. Jack smiled. He let her ramble on in her dreams of how they were to meet again, and how he must have a boat of his own, and a comfortable home in England for dear Goody to live in.

Then the talk would revert to other and sadder matters. These were never mentioned except when they were quite alone, which could not be often. Once or twice, however, they did get such a quiet hour when the night-watches had been set, and it was Jack's turn on duty. Estelle would not go to bed; she preferred to come on deck to talk to him. How often afterwards did she look back upon those nights! Fine, clear moonlight; the sky full of stars, stretched like a dark curtain over them; all around the equally dark water, through which they cut with almost uncanny smoothness; the silence about them broken only by the soft lapping of the waves, and the occasional creak of the spars, or the flap of the sails.

Fargis, who had some knowledge of the coast, made for Tyre-cum-Widcombe, where, he declared, all the information required could be obtained. And so it proved. Jack, leaving Estelle on board, went to the biggest inn in the place. There he had his questions answered, with the additional assurance that he could have any carriage he liked to take the little lady home. The Earl himself was now staying at the Moat House.

As soon as it became generally known that little Lady Estelle de Bohun had been found, and was at that moment aboard the French smack in the harbour, a crowd began rapidly to get together on the little quay. The cheering, the pressing forward to get a glimpse of her, astonished the French crew quite as much as it did Estelle. Neither she nor they had any idea of her importance. They listened with keen interest as Jack translated to them what he had been told of the lost child, and how Lord Lynwood had routed the whole country upside down in his determination not to leave a stone unturned to find her. Jack became a hero to all who knew how he had saved the child; and there were a few who, pressing up to Fargis, made out the story of the rescue from his broken English.

Time, however, was of importance. Jack wanted, if possible, to get back to the boat before nightfall. Fargis would wait for him, in any case, but the matter had best be got over at once. His approaching interview with Dick Peet weighed upon his mind; other details connected with it must be settled--some decision arrived at. He was glad, therefore, when the carriage came round, and he and Estelle drove away from the amiable, but inquisitive, crowd.

As they passed through the deep lanes, and over the wide common, where the gorse was in full bloom, then under the trees of the wood, Estelle's thoughts were with Aunt Betty, whom she was to see so soon; or with Dick, and the wonderful surprise she was bringing him. Now and then she took a furtive glance at Jack, and wished the happiness of the one did not mean the unhappiness of the other.

On reaching the Bridge House, she begged that they might get out there, instead of driving up to the house. Without a word Jack sprang down, and, lifting her out, paid and dismissed the carriage. Estelle had run forward as he was doing this, but now returned to his side, saying--

'Shall it be first or last, Jack?'

Standing quite still a moment, his eyes on the blue sky and the fleecy clouds, he braced himself for an interview which must be full of pain. He looked very pale, but there was a set expression about his mouth and jaw which spoke volumes.

'As you please, Missie. Though there is no last that I know of.'

Gazing at him earnestly, she wondered of what he was thinking, and how she could soften this first meeting. Her first impulse was to run straight to dear Aunt Betty and her father. But she felt it her duty to see Dick while the interview had the chance of being quite a private one; it would be more difficult to secure secrecy if the fact of her return were known. She was sure Aunt Betty would say that whatever the sacrifice was to her, she ought to make it.

'Dick is quite alone,' she said, at last. 'I don't know when we shall find him so again. Isn't it better not to put it off?'

Without a moment's hesitation, Jack turned and followed her, though he could not have spoken to save his life. Fortunately, they reached the gate and went up to the Bridge House porch unperceived. Sitting in his armchair, as usual, was Dick, resting after his morning's outing in a wheel-chair. Comfortably happy and half asleep he looked, as Estelle put her hand upon his, saying--

'Dick!' in her soft voice.

Startled and bewildered, he gazed at her for some moments before recognition came into his eyes; then a bright smile spread over his face, and he grasped the little hand near his.

(_Continued on page 358._)

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1806.

XI. THE GREEN MAN.

There are always people in every age who delight in notoriety, and will do anything to get themselves talked about; and there was a man of this sort, at Brighton, in the year 1806.

His craze was to be always dressed in green, and large crowds would assemble every day, outside his house, to see him drive off in his green gig, with a green whip, and a servant in green livery beside him.

The gentleman himself was invariably dressed in green pantaloons, and a green waistcoat, frock, and cravat. A green silk handkerchief stuck out of his pocket, and a large watch, with green seals, was fastened by a green chain to the green buttons of his waistcoat.

His food too was only green fruit and vegetables, and his house was entirely furnished in green.

Such fads and fancies are not unknown in our own day. At one time 'Browning' teas were held in a peculiar way. The guests would assemble and find the table laid with a brown, unbleached table-cloth; brown bread and butter and chocolate cakes were the chief diet, and every guest was expected to wear a brown costume. During the meal selections from Browning's poems were read by one of the company, and in this way they thought they honoured their favourite poet!

PLANTS WITH SIGNS.

In the olden time people did not study botany very deeply, being too busy with other matters, and they had neither books nor pictures about plants. But they talked of plants more than we perhaps think they did, and had a good many ideas concerning them, showing that they kept their eyes open to observe Nature. One of the facts noticed many centuries ago was that some plants have curious marks on flower, leaf, stem or root. Indeed, some persons supposed that all plants had signs by which you could tell their use for physic, food, or whatever else it might be.

Several plants were thought to be like the human body, such as the mandrake and the ginseng; and these, it was said, must also be good for man. Again, amongst the orchis tribes, foreign specimens of which are often so valuable, we find very singular marks and shapes. England has a man orchis and a lady orchis, but neither of them really suits the name, for their flowers have rather the appearance of a winged insect.

It is worth noting that not only the common people believed in the signs or marks to be discovered upon plants, but learned men also supposed that there was something told by many of these marks at least, if not by all of them. Certainly the general look of several poisonous kinds tells us to beware of them, such as the wild bryony, for instance, and the nightshades.

We have, too, a few instances where it does seem, even if it is only an accident, that a plant has a value which agrees with a mark or sign. Several of the old poets praise the eyebright, or euphrasia, which has a black pupil-like spot on the corolla; therefore, it was thought by our ancestors to make a good eye-lotion. At the present time, it has been proved that a medicine made from this plant will strengthen weak eyes. The flower of an English plant called the self-heal has rather the shape of a bill-hook; it is of a pretty colour, and was believed to cure wounds; and it really does act in this way to some extent. Some of our gardens have specimens of the Solomon's seal, a kind of lily. When the root is cut across, curious marks show, a little like a seal, and so it is called after the wisest of kings. People used the root as a remedy for wounds and hurts. Nowadays, again, looking at a walnut, we might not see a likeness to the human head; yet in the olden time men did, the inside having a resemblance to the skull, and the kernel representing the brain. Hence, walnuts were thought good for complaints of the head. Similarly, as the cones of a species of pine-tree had the shape of teeth, it followed that they would ease the toothache.

Shaking being one of the notable effects of that troublesome complaint, the ague, as a safeguard the quaking grass was dried and kept in the house; the aspen, too, by its constant trembling, was thought to be another remedy of value. The broad, showy flowers of the moon-daisy, suggesting pictures of the full moon, had an imaginary value, for it was used to cure the complaints which the moon was said to cause. A horseshoe being held a token of good fortune, a vetch with pods of that shape was believed to have many curious properties. Bleeding could be stopped by the herb Robert, a wild geranium of our hedges, its power being shown by the beautiful red of its young and fading leaves. One of the strangest ideas people had was about fern-seed; it is very tiny, almost invisible, and so they believed those who got a particular sort of it, could make themselves invisible when they wished!

CLOTHED IN 'CHATTERBOX.'

A reader of _Chatterbox_ has devised an original suit of clothing, shown in the illustration. It is made entirely of sheets of _Chatterbox_, gummed together and fitted to the body like an ordinary cloth suit. The sheets on the front of the coat are all coloured plates, so that the suit looked much brighter than our every-day wear.

This strange apparel was made by Mr. H. H. Neal, of Leatherhead, and it has caused much amusement and interest. At a 'costume race' held at some athletic sports, the suit took the special prize for the best costume.

THE TIMID MOUSE.

A mouse was kept in such distress by its fear of a cat, that a magician, taking pity on it, turned it into a cat. Immediately it began to suffer from fear of a dog; so the magician turned it into a dog. Then it began to suffer from fear of a tiger, and the magician, in disgust, said, 'Be a mouse again. As you have only the heart of a mouse, it is impossible to help you by giving you the body of a noble animal.'

It is hopeless to try to accomplish anything without pluck.

THE UNION JACK.

What is the very first thing we talk of doing when we hear that the King is coming to pay a visit in our neighbourhood? I fancy I can hear every boy and girl answer at once, 'Why, hang out all our flags, of course!' But how many of us know anything about the most famous of all these flags--the Union Jack?

In the first place, it is called 'Union' because it is really three flags united in one; and 'Jack' after King James (Jacques) who ordered the first Union Jack (fig. 1) to be made, to stop the quarrels between the English and Scotch over their flags of St. George (fig. 2) and St. Andrew (fig. 3), each country naturally wanting its own flag to occupy the first place. In this flag, the red St. George, with a narrow border of white, to show the colour of its field, is placed over the white St. Andrew, which keeps its own blue field.

But when Ireland was united to England in 1801, we had to ask our Heralds' Office to design a fresh flag, to include the Irish national flag of St. Patrick (fig. 4).

This they managed very neatly by taking away from each quarter of the 'Jack' one half of the white St. Andrew's Cross, and in its place putting the red St. Patrick with a narrow white border, to show the colour of the field (fig. 5).

You will notice that St. Andrew's cross is arranged so as to come above St. Patrick's in the two quarters of the flag next to the flag-staff. If the flag be hung in any other way it becomes a signal of danger and distress; so let us always be careful to have our 'Jack' hung properly.

'MR. HAROLD.'

No one who had seen John Green sitting on a mile-stone opposite to the huge iron gates which opened into the Manor-house drive would have thought that it was a bitterly cold evening in December. His hands were in his pockets, and he was wrapped in thought, and he did not notice the cold.

He had been to town to try and collect a few small sums which were owing to his mother, but with little success. Things had not gone well with Mrs. Green and her son since Mr. Green's death, six months before. Mr. Green had had a long and expensive illness, and all his savings and most of his furniture had had to go in medicine and doctor's bills. He had been a carpenter, earning good wages, and Mrs. Green was very anxious to live in the same cottage, as there was a big garden, which she thought she and her son ought to be able to cultivate profitably. But, unfortunately, the apple crop failed that autumn, their rent was in arrears, and Mr. Tucker, the land agent, whom John had just met in the town, had told him that they must either pay in a week or go. There were plenty of people who would willingly have lent them the necessary money, but Mrs. Green declined to borrow under any circumstances whatever.

'If the Squire really knew what was happening on his estate,' said the boy, bitterly, to himself, 'I don't believe he would let old Tucker go on as he does. It's a shame to live up in a great house like that, and never take the trouble to find out how his agent is treating people. I'd go to him myself, but they say he always speaks to Tucker if any tenants do that, and Tucker turns them out at once. At any rate, there's one more week in which to raise three pounds--and a lot of chance there is of finding it,' and the boy laughed aloud bitterly.

'Well, there does not appear to be much to laugh at to-night,' said a voice at his elbow, and turning round Jack saw that a man, apparently a tramp, in even shabbier clothes than his own, had come up noiselessly over the snow. 'Also,' continued the new-comer, 'it would be possible to find a warmer and more comfortable seat than that mile-stone.'

'I was waiting opposite the gates, trying to make up my mind whether I would go in or not,' answered the boy, 'and I was laughing because I did not think it would make any real difference whether I went in or stayed outside.'

'That depends, I suppose, on what you want there! If I might ask, what is it?'

'I want the Squire to give my mother a little time to get together her rent; but since Mr. Harold ran away, ten years ago to-day, the Squire has never been the same man. That nearly broke his heart, and now he takes no interest in anything; he has turned us all over to an agent, who does just what he likes with us.'

'Then Mr. Harold was---- '

'His son. My father said he would have run away too if he had been Mr. Harold, though the Squire wasn't as bad in those days.'

'And who was your father?'

'Peter Green, the carpenter.'

'Well, Peter Green's son,' said the stranger, with a queer laugh, 'if you will go in and see the Squire, and come out and tell me in what sort of temper he is, I will give you my last shilling,' and he spun a coin in the air. 'You must go in by the front door, and I will wait for you in the drive.'

'Right you are,' said the boy, jumping off the mile-stone. 'I'll risk it for a shilling.'

Side by side they tramped up the snowy drive till they saw the light shining through the glass in the front door. Then the tramp drew aside, and John went boldly up the steps. The clang of the bell had scarcely died away before the door was opened by an elderly butler.

'Can I see the Squire?' asked John, in as brave a voice as he could muster.

'Show him in at once, Williams; show him in at once,' called out an impatient voice at the back of the hall.

The butler stepped back. 'I don't think, sir,' he said, 'that this is the gentleman you are expecting.'

'How do you know what gentleman I am expecting? 'Show him in at once, I tell you.'

'You'd better come straight in,' said the butler, shrugging his shoulders. He led the way across the hall, and ushered John into a comfortably furnished library. An old gentleman was sitting by the fire, enveloped in rugs. He leant forward and peered into John's face. Then he fell back wearily into his cushions. 'Dear, dear! another disappointment,' he groaned. 'Take him away, Williams.'

But John, having penetrated into the lion's den, did not mean to be dismissed so easily.

'Please, sir,' he began, hurriedly, 'I want to know whether you will give my mother a little longer to pay her rent. We have had a very hard time. Mr. Tucker is going to turn us out.'

'You must go and see Mr. Tucker about that,' answered the old man, indifferently. 'I leave all such matters to him; or, stay,' he added, 'I am expecting Mr. Harold to-night. You can come in and see him about it next week if you like.'

Then John remembered that he had heard that on the anniversary of his son's departure the old man always expected him to return, and he understood why he had been shown in so hurriedly.

'But, please, sir,' he pleaded, 'won't you write me a line for Mr. Tucker, in case Mr. Harold missed the train or anything?'

The old man put up his hands feebly. 'Take him away, Williams,' he said, querulously.' I can't be worried, or I shall be too tired to speak to Mr. Harold when he comes. Do whatever you think Mr. Harold would like.'

John followed the butler out of the room, and half an hour later he went down the steps triumphantly. In his pocket was a paper which the butler had written out and persuaded the Squire to sign, stating that Mrs. Green was on no account to be turned out of her cottage without Mr. Harold's express orders. He found the tramp waiting for him, and told his story joyfully, declining to accept the proffered shilling in return.

The tramp listened attentively, and drew himself together at the end. 'I think I will risk it,' he said, huskily. Then he turned to John: 'Look here, young man, you will find it to your advantage to say nothing about to-night, whatever news you may hear in the village to-morrow. See?'

'You aren't going to hurt the Squire?' asked John, anxiously.

'I hope not, but you will probably understand to-morrow,' and the shabby figure strode away up the drive.

* * * * *

The next day the villagers were electrified by the news that Mr. Harold had returned at last.

That is many years ago now, and John Green, the head-gardener at the Manor-house, sometimes wonders, as he watches the care with which the present Squire selects an orchid for his button-hole, whether the tramp who spoke to him on that snowy December night was not the figure of a dream.

IN HARVARD MUSEUM.

The American University of Harvard contains in its Museum one of the greatest artistic marvels of the world. This curiosity consists of hundreds of specimens of flowers and plants, all made in glass, and so true to nature, both in form and colouring, that the flowers seem as if they had just been gathered. Even the tiny hairs which appear on the stems of certain plants are faithfully reproduced on these glass imitations.

These glass plants are made by two Germans, a father and his son, and so jealously do they guard the secret of the manufacture that it is possible the knowledge may die with them.

A THOUGHTLESS DAISY.

'Tis very cold,' a Daisy said
Upon a meadow green,
'Dark, gloomy clouds are overhead,
Without a ray between.
These angry gusts of bitter wind
(So unexpected too)
Are really more than I can bear--
They chill me through and through.'

Just then his discontented eye
Looked sorrowfully up,
And chanced across the path to spy
A golden Buttercup.
Its petals flinched before the wind,
The stalk was roughly bent,
And yet the Daisy could not hear
One word of discontent.

And then this foolish Daisy cried:
'It's plain enough to spy,
Most blossoms in this meadow wide
Are better off than I!
They do not mind the shadows dark,
Nor feel the bitter wind;
If I could be a buttercup,
I really shouldn't mind.'

Now, like this Daisy in the grass
Some people I have known,
Who, while their daily troubles pass
Do nothing else but moan,
And think that those who bravely bear
The chilling wind and rain
Can feel no sorrow in their hearts
Because they don't complain.

JOCK'S COLLIE.

A True Story.

Travellers over the great trans-continental railways of the United States and Canada gaze with awe and wonder at the grandeur of Nature in the wild canyons and rugged peaks of the Rocky Mountains. In many places the railway tunnels through overhanging rocks, or winds round narrow shelves above gloomy precipices.

The railway companies take the greatest precautions for the safety of their trains in the mountain sections. Besides the usual working gangs, there are special track-walkers, and 'safety switch-openers,' who lead solitary lives in the great hills.

Spring thaws and showers loosen the frost-bound soil, trickling snow-rills grow into gullying torrents, and the jar of a passing train sets in motion a loose boulder, which, with ever-increasing speed, at last hurls itself upon the track. Even the echoes of the locomotive whistle will in some states of the atmosphere bring disaster. Tiny snow crystals are jarred by the sound-waves; these start on a downward career, gathering volume and speed until a mighty avalanche has been developed.

In one of these mountain canyons lives a Scotch track-walker and his only companion, a beautiful and intelligent collie dog, who always accompanies his master on the inspection rounds.

It was in the late afternoon of a strenuous day in May, when Jock and Collie arrived weary and hungry at the 'shack' (hut) door. Everything was satisfactory in the canyon, the section gang had gone down the track, and with a sigh of content Jock set about preparing his evening meal. Collie, with his head between his paws, watched the proceedings. Suddenly he assumed an alert, listening attitude, then he set off at a great rate up the track.

When supper was ready Jock whistled for his companion, and on looking out was surprised to find him gone; but from the narrowing walls of the gorge came the sound of his furious barking. Jock whistled again and again, but the dog did not come. Perfectly convinced that something was wrong, he seized his rifle and hurried off, expecting to find that Collie had cornered some wild animal, or that some animal had cornered him! Round the curve he hurried, and what he saw almost paralysed him.

A great boulder, weighing many hundredweight, lay across the track, and on top of it, wild with excitement, was Collie.

On the little flat near the 'shack' was the switch at which the Pacific and Atlantic Expresses--the trains going East and West--crossed. They were due almost at once. He was alone, time was short, and upon his action depended the safety of many lives. He could not go both ways at once with his warning; but down the western track beyond the switch he sped with explosive 'torpedoes,' or detonating signals. Then he hurried back again past the dog (still on his signal station), and far to the east, round the long curve, with his red flags of danger.

The express from the Pacific, warned by the torpedoes, steamed slowly, very slowly, to the switch, then came to a standstill.

The train crew ran down to the hut, which was thick with smoke from burnt 'flap-jacks' and frizzled bacon, but found no sign of Jock or Collie. Round the curve they ran, and there, still on the boulder, was Collie, barking, as the brakeman expressed it, 'to beat the band.'

The others continued the pursuit of Jock, while the brakeman tried to coax the dog down. But Collie was there for a purpose, and not until Jock returned would he leave his post. His master's smiling face and hearty voice gave assurance that all was well, and then Collie fairly hurled himself upon Jock, licked his face and gave frantic yelps of delight.

An extempore breakdown gang cleared the track, and the great trains thundered away to Atlantic and Pacific--saved by a dog!

ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.

By HAROLD ERICSON.

VIII.--THE MAN AT THE WHEEL.

'Have either of you fellows ever been in the middle of a fire at sea?' asked Vandeleur one evening, when informed that it was his turn to spin a yarn for the benefit of the rest. 'If not, I advise you to keep as far away from such a thing as you can. My own experience is only, so to speak, on a small scale; that is, I was only, at the time, upon a short journey across a lake in a small Japanese steamer--a voyage of about sixty miles--but I can assure you I was never more frightened in my life. One feels so utterly helpless when apparently at the mercy of the most pitiless of the elements, far from shore, and--for all one can see--confronted by the necessity to choose one of two kinds of death, if one is more terrible than the other--drowning or burning.

'Am I right in believing that you succeeded in cheating both the fire and the water, perhaps out of deference to the hangman?' asked Bobby, 'or am I speaking to a somewhat solid ghost?'

'Escaped, I believe.' replied Vandeleur, 'in order that I might try to teach manners to a certain ruffian of the name of Robert Oakfield.'

With the words, Vandeleur fell suddenly upon Bobby, and quickly upsetting him, rubbed his nose in the soft moss. There was a short, sharp struggle, and Vandeleur returned to his seat.

'I have not yet succeeded in my object,' continued Vandeleur, 'but I hope for the best.'

* * * * *

We had gone about half-way to our destination--town called Shukisama, on the other side of the lake--when it was suddenly discovered that our little steamer, the _Toki Maru_, was on fire. With very little warning, flames sprang up from the hold--no one ever discovered how the fire began--and almost in an instant the half of the steamer which lay aft of the hold became unapproachable on account of the dense volumes of black smoke which flew in clouds over it, driven by the head-wind against which the little steamer was making its way.

The captain quickly ordered every passenger forward into the bows of the vessel, out of the reach of the heat and suffocating smoke. The crew then attempted, with hose and pump, to keep the fire in hand; but already, it appeared, the flames had obtained the mastery, and their attempts came too late. The cargo, I believe, was tow, or some other oily substance difficult to extinguish once the fire had secured a firm hold upon it. Moreover, the smoke and heat were such that it was impossible for the workers to approach near enough to concentrate their efforts where they would be most likely to succeed.

The passengers huddled together in the bows of the little steamer and watched the efforts of the crew. It was obvious that these efforts had failed.

'Have we time to reach Shukisama?' men and women asked one another; 'it is twenty miles, or more--nearly two hours--shall we do it?' The captain, when anxiously asked as to this, replied: 'We hope so; who can tell? Much depends on the man at the wheel.'

The man at the wheel! Not one of us selfish people in safety and comfort--speaking comparatively--in the bows, had thought of the poor fellow back there in the stern, sticking bravely to his post in spite of the dense, hot smoke which must be enveloping him in its suffocating fumes.

'He cannot last long, captain,' said some one, 'in that atmosphere; he will be suffocated, or he will give up and jump into the sea. What will happen if there is no one to steer the ship?'

'She will go round and round,' replied the captain, laughing grimly, 'while we are roasted or drowned. At present he is sticking to his post, and we are travelling in our course. You may be thankful, all of you, that we have a brave man, young Hayashi, at the wheel. He was only married last week, and his wife is at Shukisama; you may be sure he will do his best to get home.'

'A man may be ever so much in love,' said a passenger, 'but he cannot breathe fire and smoke for air: it must be pretty hot where he is, and it will soon be hotter!'

A cry went up for volunteers to relieve the man at the wheel. Several came forward--they are brave as lions, these Japanese. One was selected as the first to make an effort to pass through the smoke and flame to the stern of the vessel. A line was made fast to the good fellow's waist, for, he had said, in case he should collapse in the dense smoke, he would rather be hauled back in any position, than left there!

Three times the brave man rushed into the mass of hot, poisonous vapour, and twice he returned staggering and choking. The third time he entirely collapsed, and was pulled back. His jacket was on fire and he was unconscious. A second man instantly volunteered; he had a new suggestion to make.

'I will slip over the side of the ship, and you can pay out line gradually until I have reached a spot where I think I can climb up. When I pull, you must slack out the line.'

'Mind the screw. Don't get sucked back too far astern,' said the captain; 'be careful.'

The man jumped into the water, and was carried instantly astern; he tugged, and line was paid out. Soon it became evident, by the tension of the line, that he had clung on to the vessel's side; probably he was climbing laboriously upward--his plan was going to succeed.

But the line suddenly sprang outwards; he had jumped into the sea again; a few minutes, and he was hauled back, out of breath and exhausted.

'I couldn't climb it,' he said, 'it's too steep and slippery. I nearly got sucked into the screw. The flames are not near the wheel yet, but the smoke is flying right over it in dense, black volumes. How young Hayashi is standing it, I don't know.'

But the steamer was standing straight as a line upon her course; it was obvious that the good fellow's nerve still held out, his eyes were not yet dimmed with the smoke and heat--good, brave Hayashi!

Some one proposed that the passengers should approach in a body as far aft as the fire permitted, and then shout together words of praise and encouragement. This was done. Some thirty men and women stood together nearly amidships and shouted in time to the beat of a conductor: 'Hayashi--Banzai--brave Hayashi--you shall have glory and reward--Banzai!' Some said they heard a voice reply 'Banzai,' some heard nothing. Other attempts were made to relieve the plucky fellow at the wheel. His lungs and breathing apparatus, a doctor present declared, must be made of cast iron; since he had stood the poisonous fumes so long, he might perhaps last out; people would see the burning vessel from Shukisama before long, and help would come.

But the flames began to gather strength; the after portion of the steamer seemed now to be a kind of seething cauldron of fire. The heat grew intense, even up at our end; what must it be for poor Hayashi, with the wind carrying it at close quarters into his face? Would he actually stand at the wheel, devoted fellow, until the flames caught him and burned his hands as they gripped the spokes, and scorched his eyeballs so that they could see the course no longer? There was no knowing what these marvellous Japanese could not do in the way of pluck and fortitude!

On went the little vessel upon her way; Hayashi could not possibly have steered a better course, said the captain. He had not once deviated by a hair's breadth.

But every moment the heat grew more and more; women wept and hugged their children to them. Another half-hour, and--unless help arrived--every passenger must swim for it. In spite of the headwind, the fire was encroaching forward as well as aft.

Another five minutes of acute suspense was passed. Personally, after a brief prayer, I spent the time in deciding which woman I would try to save when it came to swimming. I had already made my selection, when suddenly a voice called out from the rigging, 'Banzai! they have seen us--a steamer comes!'

Then the heat and the danger were forgotten in the excitement of watching the oncoming steamer. When two vessels, both going at full speed, are meeting one another, the intervening distance is soon covered. Suffice to tell, the succour arrived in time, and every passenger was taken off in safety.

Meanwhile a boat had been sent round the stern, with orders to shout to Hayashi to jump clear of the ship and allow himself to be picked up. The boat returned almost immediately; no one, the crew said, replied to their shouts. Presently the steamer separated from her burning sister and dropped back; then it was seen that the flames now swept the entire stern of the ill-omened _Toki Maru_. The wheel still stood, but no one was at it, nor could any human form be discerned on deck or in rigging.

Sadly we steamed homewards. We were saved, indeed, every one of us, but he to whom all were indebted for their lives, the young hero, Hayashi, the best and bravest of them all, had fallen a victim. Probably he had sprung, scorched and maddened with pain, into the sea, and had gone down like a stone.

But you will scarcely believe it, while groups of us still stood upon the quay at Shukisama discussing the tragedy, and wondering who would break the sad news to the wife at Hayashi's home, a small boat hove in sight, coming in from the lake; in it sat a man rowing, and some one said, 'That is like the _Toki Maru's_ boat which we thought burned.' Another said, 'What if it should be Hayashi in it?' Well, it _was_ Hayashi. He arrived, grinning and well, though black with smoke and fire and half suffocated.

As the largest subscriber (Vandeleur ended), I was asked to present to Madam Hayashi the testimonial which the passengers united to offer to our brave 'man at the wheel.' He could not be made to see that he had deserved it, however.

'It got too hot at last,' he said with a laugh, 'and I cut down the boat and dropped overboard. 'The wheel? Oh, I lashed it so that it couldn't turn. Yes, I choked very much, but that is nothing!'

'I should like to meet a few more of Hayashi's kind before I die,' said Vandeleur, after a pause--'good, simple, humble chap; the very stuff heroes should be made of.'

A HELPING HAND.

A cabman, who had for some time been in the habit of drinking too much, signed the pledge at the request of a friend, but soon afterwards broke it. Conscience-stricken and ashamed, he tried to keep out of the way of his friend; but the friend was not to be put off. One day he found the poor, miserable man, and taking hold of his hand he said:

'John, when the road is slippery and your horse falls down, what do you do with him?'

'I help him up again,' replied John.

'Well, I have come to do the same,' said his friend. 'The road was slippery, I know, John, and you fell; but there is my hand to help you up again.'

The cabman's heart was touched. He said: 'God bless you, sir; you will never have cause to regret this. By His help I will never fall again.'

And to this day he has kept his word.

AN EASTERN PUZZLE.

An old Persian died, leaving seventeen camels to be divided among his three sons in the following proportions: the eldest to have half, the second a third, and the youngest a ninth. Of course, camels cannot be divided into fractions, so, in despair, the brothers submitted their difference to a very wise old dervish.

'Nothing easier!' said the wise Ali. 'I will divide them for you.'

How did he do it?

H. B. SCORE.

[_Answer on page 371._]

WELL REPAID.

A man who often travelled with large sums of money in his care was persuaded by his friends to carry a pistol as a safeguard.

On one of his journeys be was stopped by a tramp, and, loth to use his weapon, for he was a Friend, he resorted to stratagem, and gave up his money at once. Said he to the tramp: 'I must not be thought to have given up my master's cash without a struggle.' So, taking off his coat and hat, he said, 'Take a shot at that, friend;' and the robber complied.

'Fire away again,' said the Friend. The thief did so. 'Again,' said the other.

'I can't,' said the robber; 'I have no more shot.'

'Then,' said the other, producing his own pistol, 'give me back my money, or I will shoot you myself.'

HOW THE ARABS BAKE THEIR BREAD.

The wandering Arabs subsist almost entirely upon bread, wild herbs, and milk. It is rather strange that they should eat so much bread, because they never remain sufficiently long in one place to sow wheat and reap the harvest from it. They are compelled to buy all their corn from the people who live in towns, and have cultivated fields. When these townsmen and villagers have gathered in their harvests, the Arabs of the desert draw near their habitations, and send messengers to buy up corn for the tribe, and perhaps also to sell the 'flocks' of wool which they have shorn from their sheep.

Having obtained their supplies of corn, the Arabs return to the deserts or the open pasture-lands. They always carry with them little hand-mills, and when bread is to be made, it is the women's duty to grind the corn. The hand-mills are two stones, the shape of large, thick cakes, one of which lies upon the top of the other. The stones are about eighteen inches in diameter, and there is a hole through the centre of the upper one. A wooden peg, which is stuck upright in a small hole in the lower stone, projects into the larger hole of the stone above, and serves to keep it in its proper place. A smaller peg, inserted near the edge of the upper stone, forms a handle by means of which the whole stone may be turned round upon the top of the lower stone, and in this way the faces of the stones are made to grind against each other. The Arab woman places the mill upon a cloth spread upon the ground, and taking a few handfuls of corn she pours them into the hole in the centre of the upper stone, and begins to turn the mill. The grain falls through the hole, and passes between the two stones, where it is ground into flour, which flows out all round the mill, and is caught in the cloth.

When sufficient flour has been ground, the woman gathers it together, places it in a wooden bowl, adds a little water, and kneads it. No yeast is put to it, and the dough is of that kind which we call unleavened. It does not 'rise,' or swell, after it is kneaded, and the bread is not full of little holes, as our yeast-made bread is.

The dough is made into round balls, each of which is then rolled out into a thin cake. The oven is nothing but an iron plate, slightly raised in the centre, which is placed over a fire. The cakes are laid upon this plate, and are baked in a few minutes.

This is the manner of baking bread which is adopted by those tribes which are always moving from place to place. There are other tribes which change their encampment at longer intervals, and are often in one place for several weeks. Many of these bake their bread in a different way. They make an oven in the ground by digging a hole about three feet deep, making it wide at the bottom and narrow at the top, and they plaster the inside with mud. Having done this, they light a fire in the hole, and when it is thoroughly heated, they press small but thick cakes of dough against the sides, and hold them there for a few minutes until they are baked. These cakes, like those baked on the iron plate, are eaten hot.

SANTA CLAUS.

A while ago the silent house
Re-echoed with their voices sweet--
The music that their laughter made,
The patter of their little feet.
Outside, the wintry winds blew shrill,
And all around the snow lay white;
But little cared they for the storm,
For 'Santa Claus will come to-night.'

We heard them running to and fro,
So eager in their merry glee
To hang their stockings, limp and long,
Where 'he' will be most sure to see.
Such wondrous fairy-tales they weave,
Such pictures of those far-off shores
From whence each Christmas-tide there comes
Their unknown friend, and all his stores.

Now they are all in Slumberland,
And Mother comes, with noiseless tread,
For one last kiss; the shaded light
Gleams softly o'er each curly head.
A rustle, and a murmur low;
Half-opened are the dreaming eyes.
'Hush! hush! it's only Mother, dear!'
''Tis Santa Claus!' the sleeper sighs.

To-morrow, when the dawning light
Breaks through the wintry eastern skies,
What joy will greet the morning bright,
What happy hearts and sweet surprise!
And we, whose childhood long since fled,
Would fain entreat old Time to pause,
To give us back our childish faith,
And simple trust in Santa Claus.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 347._)

Shocked beyond measure at the change in the fine, handsome Dick Peet he remembered years ago, Jack looked at him. His heart died within him. He had not, thank Heaven, killed his friend; but, alas! how little short of that was the mischief he had done! Could Dick ever forgive him? Even if he should, Jack could never forgive himself. Never should he forget his first sight of the changed, ruined Dick, nor that it was his hand which had wrought the change and ruin.

Estelle's touch roused him. 'Jack, dear Jack, come and speak to him. He is ready to forgive. See, he is waiting to do so. Be very gentle, and speak low. He will understand then.'

Jack's face was ashen, and his stalwart frame trembled as he approached the chair in which the invalid reclined. Dick's eyes shone with some of their old intelligence when he saw his former enemy, and his hands were held out in eager welcome. It almost seemed as if he looked upon Jack, not as an enemy to be pardoned, but as an old comrade with whom there had been a grievous misunderstanding.

'I wonder if he remembers there is anything to forgive?' thought Estelle, as she watched him.

Jack took the hands held out to him. He could barely mutter the word--'Forgive!'

'As I hope to be forgiven!' came in clear, steady tones, such as Dick had not been known to utter since his misfortune. There was a long silence. Estelle's eyes were full of tears. Jack, his head raised, was looking at Dick. But Dick's face was radiant with a joy that was not of this earth. His great desire had been granted. He was lying back, still clasping the hand of his enemy, but with his eyes on the blue sky he could see above the trees. Presently, as no one moved, he looked again at Jack, murmuring in his usual half-inarticulate way, but with a smile which meant a great deal to the sailor, 'My friend!'

'To the end of my life, if you will let me!' answered Jack, fervently. 'Thank Heaven you are alive! But that you can treat me so, receive me as a friend, after---- '

'Have waited--hoped--thankful!'

'What can I do for you? Let me do something!'

'You have come! All--clear--now!'

He began to look so faint that Estelle said hastily: 'We will come and see you again, Dick. You must rest now.'

'Come--again!' repeated Dick, his eyes appealing to Jack.

'I will,' replied Jack, getting up to go into the cottage.

'How do you do, Mrs. Peet?' said Estelle, as Dick's mother appeared. 'Poor Dick is quite startled and faint at the sight of us.'

'Lady Estelle!' she exclaimed, lifting her hands in amazement. 'Wherever did you come from? No wonder Dick is startled! Why, you might knock me down with a feather! And how bonnie you look! Not at all the worse for all you've been so long away.'

'I am coming to tell you all about it, but I must first go and see Aunt Betty.'

'Well, it will do her good to see you. It is a sight for old eyes to see your sweet face again, Missie!' Then, glancing at Jack, 'Is that the man who has taken care of you, and brought you home?'

'Yes, Mrs. Peet, it is; and you shall hear some day how good and kind he and his mother have been to me. But I have not time now, and you had better see how poor Dick is.'

Jack had wandered down to the gate in a stunned frame of mind, and here Estelle joined him, to beg him to walk up to the house with her.

'No, no, Missie, I could not--not after what has happened. I couldn't have people thanking me, and all that. I should feel a brute!'

Estelle looked distressed, but Jack went on, his hand on the gate:

'You see the business is not over yet. I must tell Dick's father. Where do you think I can find him?'

'Must you tell him to-day--just to-day?'

'It is best got over at once.'

'Then come up with me and find him, and we can see Aunt Betty at the same time.'

The gate at which they were standing was some dozen yards or so from the road, and, as Estelle spoke, some one rode round the bend and came towards them.

'Father!' cried Estelle, springing towards him, her face radiant, and forgetting everything in the joy of seeing him.

'My little girl!' he cried, springing from his horse.

He clasped her in his arms with a force which at any other time would have startled the child. Neither could speak, for at such an hour speech fails. Who shall describe the meeting? After nearly a year the lost had been found! A year which had laid its mark on all their lives, but which, now that it had passed, seemed to Lord Lynwood as 'a dream when one awaketh.' His child back in his arms, looking well and strong as ever, with every evidence of having been well cared for, her sweet eyes looking up into his!--is it wonderful that for some moments he could think of no one else, look at nothing but the face of his only child?

Jack remained quite still lest he should disturb them, his eyes on the distant hills; he would not, even unnoticed, intrude on their meeting. It was enough that he had seen a light--radiant, beautiful--break over his 'Little Missie's' face before he turned away.

There was a swift question and answer after the silence, and then Lord Lynwood, recovering himself, spoke.

'How can I thank you, my good fellow?' he said, holding out his hand to Jack.

'No thanks required, thank you, sir' returned the sailor, gravely; 'but if you'd be so kind as to tell me where I can find Mr. Peet, the gardener?'

It sounded so very commonplace that Lord Lynwood gave a laugh.

'Do you think he will be more grateful than we are?'

'I want no gratitude, sir,' replied Jack, gruffly; 'it is not for that I want him. If you wish to thank anybody, sir, it is my mother, who has nursed the little Missie through a terrible time.'

'Father,' said Estelle, who could scarcely speak even yet, and was clinging to her father's hand, as his arm rested round her shoulders, 'this is the dearest fellow that ever lived, and I have been cruel to forget him while I was so happy. But for him---- '