Chapter XIX (2)

'Come now, Missie,' broke in Jack, turning red and pale alternately. His changing colour reminded Estelle that this day, so full of joy to her, must be one of acute pain to him.

'I know why he wants Peet,' she said, a shadow crossing her face. She was puzzled as to her duty in the matter.

'Do not stop my daughter,' said Lord Lynwood; 'I want to hear all that her kind and good friends have done for her. You must come up to the house and let my aunt, Lady Coke, see you. You will be bringing back new life to her with the restoration of my little girl. We should like, also, to ask you,' he continued, in a courteous tone, 'how it is that you have not been able to bring back the child before this?'

'I lost my memory, Father,' cried Estelle. 'I was always trying to remember my name, and who I was, but I could not. Then I had a dream--the night when Jack would go out to sea, that kept coming back to me, but still I could not put a name to anybody. Suddenly I saw Thomas, and dreadful things happened, from all of which Jack saved me; and then it all came to me, and I told Jack who I was, and where I lived. Then he brought me back at once.'

Lord Lynwood pressed her to him, and looked down with dim eyes at the sweet little face.

'Wright,' he said, 'I am not going to take a refusal, I must hear all about it. There is so much to ask! My child lost, and nobody knows how it happened, or what followed after you found her! We made all possible search, but no trace of her could we come across, and we had given up all hopes of ever seeing her again. You cannot now go away and leave all our questions unanswered. We will go to Lady Coke, who will like to add her thanks to mine for---- '

'Sir,' returned Jack, becoming very white, but looking determined, 'if that is your wish, then it is my duty to tell you what sort of a man I am before I can accept thanks or go to your house.'

'Jack! Jack!' pleaded Estelle, springing to his side and clasping his hand in both her own.

But he took no notice; perhaps her handclasp only strengthened his resolve.

'Do you see that poor fellow there,' he continued, pointing to Dick, over whom Mrs. Peet was leaning, administering some cordial. 'Do you see that poor wreck of a man? I did _that_!'

He turned away.

There was silence. Lord Lynwood stood dumbfounded. With tears streaming down her cheeks, Estelle, looking from one to the other, exclaimed, 'Father, don't look at him like that. He is so miserable; so very, very miserable, and oh, _so_ sorry! And, Father, Dick has forgiven him, and calls him his "friend." What can any one say when _Dick_ forgives?'

'Nothing,' answered her father. 'Wright, my poor fellow, they say the greater the sinner, the greater the saint; so there is your chance for you. As for myself, I owe you a debt of gratitude which I can never repay. So don't expect me to cast stones. Ah, you ask for Peet? Do you wish to make your confession to him?'

'It is my duty, sir.'

Lord Lynwood was silent a moment, but Estelle exclaimed, in anxious tones, 'Dear Father, this need not be told to everybody, need it? Only to you and Aunt Betty, and Peet? Why is poor Jack to have---- '

'Certainly not,' returned Lord Lynwood, looking up. 'Wright, come with me to Peet. He is a gruff sort of chap, but true blue at bottom. He will take it hard at first, so I had better prepare you.'

(_Continued on page 367._)

STORIES FROM AFRICA.

XII.--DARKNESS AND DAWN.

No one can rightly understand the African races without knowing something of the terror of witchcraft, magic, and ill-luck which hangs like a cloud over their lives. Differing from each other in many ways, the African tribes are alike in this, that their religion is one of fear, dread of unseen powers that work against man's peace and well-being unless propitiated by gifts, or defied by charms; and the result of this belief is to put unlimited power into the hands of those who profess to have intercourse with the spirit-world, and to foresee, or even to influence, the future of their neighbours. Therefore the European who comes to teach, to civilise, or to govern, finds his mightiest opponent in the witch-doctor, or medicine-man, who knows a little more than his neighbours, and makes capital out of their ignorance.

Some seventy years ago a party of these witch-doctors, who were making an excellent living among the Kaffirs by professing to make rain and find witches to order, met their match for once in the English Governor of the newly annexed province known as 'Queen Adelaide,' the genial and energetic officer of Peninsular fame, Colonel--afterwards Sir Harry--Smith.[5] The English 'father,' as he was styled by the Kaffirs, had acquired an extraordinary influence, by dint of much practical common sense and knowledge of humanity, a rigid military discipline, and last, not least, a stick with a very large knob at the end. Not that he ever used this stick to correct offenders, but it was always present on state occasions, and was reverenced as a sort of magic wand by the natives, for the words spoken by the 'father,' when he took that stick in his hand, were as the laws of the Medes and Persians. 'I shall wait for two hours before I touch my stick,' he said to a trembling, cringing chief, who had tried to stir up rebellion against the English rule. 'I must be quite cool; Englishmen are generous, but they must be just.'

[Footnote 5: Harrismith and Ladysmith, in Natal and the Orange River Colony, are named after Sir Harry and his wife.]

It was a very anxious two hours that the chief spent, waiting for the touch upon the magic wand, and when he was summoned to the presence of the 'father,' and solemnly forgiven, he was cured of treasonable practices once and for all.

Colonel Smith started a vigorous campaign against rain-making and witch-finding, the latter being a practice not altogether unknown in England, where, three hundred years ago, it was not difficult to get rid of an obnoxious neighbour by a charge of witchcraft.

A poor man, robbed of his cattle and cruelly burnt by a chief who was rich enough to pay the witch-doctor, came to the 'father' to declare his innocence, and beg for redress. The knobbed stick, of course, came into action, and from behind it the judgment went forth that the chief should at once restore all the cattle taken from the injured man, with ten extra in compensation for his sufferings, and another ten as a fine to the English Government. East and west the news of the judgment was carried, in native fashion, the watchman on each of the low hills taking up and passing on the news of the 'father's' decision; so that, when the chief took no notice of the order, his evil conduct was known far and wide. Down came the cavalry upon the obstinate chief's territory; his cattle were driven off, and a receipt for them handed to him, that the whole affair might be thoroughly business-like and judicial. The astonished Kaffir had no resource but to cast himself humbly before the 'father' and the knobbed stick; and he became thenceforward the Governor's faithful friend and adherent.

The rain-makers were dealt with after another fashion. The Governor gathered a party of the most famous professors, and, in the presence of their clients and admirers, asked if they could really make rain as they declared. The wizards evidently felt that a bad quarter of an hour was coming. They hesitated; then, looking at the expectant faces of the people, who had doubtless paid many an ox for a shower, or the promise of one, they answered, as stoutly as they dared, that they possessed such power. The Englishman went on to exhibit various articles of English manufacture--his knife, his hat, his boots, and so on--asking, 'Can you make this?' And, as they all agreed in denying, he kindly explained how such things were made, without magic, in his country. Then, suddenly holding up a glass of water, he inquired--

'Is this like the water you cause to come?

'Yes,' agreed the chief doctor, cautiously.

'Very good.' Colonel Smith emptied the glass, and said amicably to the Kaffirs, 'Now, fill it again; put your rain into this glass.'

The rain-makers sought in vain for escape.

'Put more rain into the glass,' demanded the 'father,' sternly.

'We cannot,' faltered the baffled magicians, knowing their reputation gone for ever, while the Governor, addressing the people, announced that since none but God, the Great Spirit, could really make rain, any one who professed to do so henceforward would be promptly 'eaten up'--that is to say, deprived of his property by the 'father's' orders. He had the sagacity, however, to make his peace with the discomfited professors by sending for them afterwards, and providing each with some cattle and a little 'stock-in-trade,' as he calls it, to start them on a more honest way of life.

And if the African's dread of witchcraft makes him ruthless to the accused, he is equally pitiless in his terror of what he calls 'ill-luck.' An 'unlucky' child may, he believes, bring misfortune upon a whole village, and if mother-love triumphs sometimes over fear, and the little one grows out of babyhood without any neighbour knowing that it has cut its top teeth first, or is in some other way marked for misfortune, the secret may none the less leak out some day. And then the poor little bringer of 'bad luck' will quietly disappear, or will sicken and die of poison, administered by some terrified neighbour.

Two or three years ago, a frightened young mother brought her little one to a teacher in East Africa. The poor, precocious baby had been born with one tooth, and it showed some love and courage in the mother that she had come for help to the white friend who taught that it was wicked to kill babies for fear of bad luck. She could never hide it, she declared; the neighbours knew it already. Could the English 'Bibi' save the child?

The English 'Bibi' determined to test the faith of one of her Christian girls, a young wife who had no children of her own. She sent for her and asked the question, 'Rose, would you like a baby to take care of?'

Rose's beaming face was sufficient answer.

'But, Rose, it is a _kigego_ (unlucky) baby.'

Rose met the information with disdain. 'I am a Christian; I am not afraid of a _kigego_.'

'But you must ask your husband first.'

The wife, in East Africa, is generally the more powerful influence in the house, and Rose would probably have been prepared to carry off the infant there and then. However, her husband proved to be quite of the same mind; and under the watchful care of the devoted foster-parents the poor little _kigego_ will have every chance of bringing happiness into the house.

One more story of the triumph of light over darkness.

Under the banks of a river in West Africa there waited, some years ago, two or three canoes, concealed by the overhanging trees. A great man of the place was dead, and, according to the native custom, a little girl must be thrown alive into the river to drown. The few Christians had protested in vain against the murder, and, finding they could not prevent the deed, waited now in the shadow of the bank to save the child, if they could. They watched the poor little terrified creature flung into deep water, struggling and sinking. But, mercifully for her, one of the customs is to fasten a dozen or so of fowls about the neck of the victim, and the frightened birds, by their fluttering and flapping, kept her head above water until she drifted within reach of the rescuers. The little one was saved, and taken away from the neighbourhood, where her life would never have been secure.

And so, little by little, the sun rises upon the Dark Continent. One by one the old evil customs pass away. The Moorish galleys no longer hold the seas in dread; the slave caravan no longer leaves its terrible track of bleaching bones from Central Africa to the coast. Benin and Omdurman, and other 'cruel habitations,' have been thrown open and broken down. Wise heads have thought and planned, brave blood has been shed, noble lives laid down for the good of Africa, and, by slow degrees, the shadows are fleeing before the dawn.

MARY H. DEBENHAM.

THE FAIRIES' NIGHT.

The foxgloves are the sentinels
That guard the fairies' sleep,
When twilight comes, and to their beds
The wee elves softly creep.

And each wild rose a cradle is
To lull them to repose,
While over them, so pink and white,
The petals tightly close.

They all night long serenely sleep,
Until the peep of day;
And then the roses open wide
To send the elves away.

THE COW-WAGGON.

During a recent visit at a Western ranch, we saw what was to us an entirely novel vehicle, a 'cow-waggon'--an immense canvas-covered van drawn by four horses. We also enjoyed the experience of a drive in one, lurching over the plain like a yacht in a rough sea.

The cow-waggon is fitted with all the necessary camping outfit used by the cow-boys on a 'round-up,' or cattle-herding expedition. Every bit of space is used, and in its ample canvas cavern are packed the beds, provisions, cooking utensils, tent canvas, and the odds-and-ends of the 'outfit.'

The back of the cow-waggon comes down and turns out on supports, making a shelf-table; behind the movable back are a cupboard and the cook's store-lockers, always well stocked, for the 'punchers' (men who brand the cattle) are men of mighty appetite. Meals served on the prairie by the cow-waggon cook are splendid. They consist of coffee and beans, bacon and beef, dried fruit and delicious rolls. The rolls and other 'sour-dough' dainties are baked in a Dutch oven. The term 'sour-dough' is another Western word. It was first used to denote the light bread baked by the cow-waggon cook, though the bread is usually excellent. A later use of 'sour-dough' is as a title for newly arrived miners in the Arctic goldfields of the Klondyke.

When the camping-ground is reached, a wide canvas is stretched over the cow-waggon; this spreads out on all sides, and is a shade 'in a weary land' for the tired puncher.

Cattle are on the move at sunrise, and it behoves the cow-boy to be also on the alert. The sun, coming up over the great stretches of plain, gives a similar impression to that of a sunrise at sea. If the round-up is in Alberta, the grass is fragrant with wild flowers, especially the dwarf-rose, and the morning air is melodious with bird-songs.

The 'puncher' comes out from his blankets and scans the hundreds of cattle dotted here and there in the shadow of the foot-hills. Presently an animal stretches out its hind legs and comes clumsily to its feet; others follow, and the herds are soon busily cropping the dew-laden grass. The puncher looks at his rope and his horse, sniffs the aroma of coffee, and promptly answers to the call of 'Grub.' There is a flourish of tin plates and cups, and of iron-handled knives and forks, and a rapid disappearance of the 'chuck.' Then to horse and the duties of the day.

The 'outfit' is packed. The cook hitches up the horses and starts for the next camping-ground. The cow-boys pursue their business of 'cutting out;' cattle, with tails valiantly erect, snorting defiance, rush by the 'cow-waggon,' which, unmoved amid this mimic war, goes lurching over the plain.

Like many other institutions of the West, the cow-waggon will, in a few years, be a thing of the past. Wire fences, and the enclosure of the pasturelands, are getting rid of the need for it.

THE BROKEN PROMISE.

'I don't want any tea,' said Roger, as he pulled off his muddy boots, with a very sulky expression.

'I suppose that is always the way with a fellow's mother. Fuss and bother--I'm tied to her apron-strings. Opening his paper he looked at him over the top of it, with a rather grave expression.

'Don't you think it is silly, Uncle?'

'What's it all about?' asked Uncle James.

'Why, I just happened to be a bit late home, after the match. Saunders wanted me to see his rabbits, and it made me a little late; at least, it was really a lot late. There were some other fellows there, and I came away before most of them.'

'Well?'

'Well, now there is no end of a bother, because I sort of promised I would be home early to tea. The girls had got some friends coming, and wanted me to show off the magic-lantern. When I came in, Mother was crying, and the servant out looking for me. It's too silly! I'm not a baby!'

And Roger plunged his spoon afresh into his egg, as if he expected to find in it a remedy for his grievance.

'Jones minor says his mother is just the same; but the two Rhodeses, who live with an aunt, can do just as they like.'

Uncle James laid down his paper, and looked steadily at the fire.

'My mother was just the same,' he said.

'What, Granny?' exclaimed Roger. 'But she is so jolly. When I go to stay, I do what I like.'

'Did you ever hear, Roger,' asked Uncle James, 'about my sister Phyllis?'

'Who died when she was a little girl? Oh, yes, I have heard a little, of course. Tell me some more, please, Uncle.'

Uncle James's kind face was a little clouded.

'Can he be vexed?' wondered thoughtless Roger. 'Or else--oh, yes--it's because she died that he doesn't like talking about her.' He said aloud, 'Never mind, Uncle, if it makes you feel bad.'

'She was very dear to me,' Uncle James said. 'Yet I scarcely ever speak of her; you will understand why, when I have finished what I am going to tell you. There were three of us,' he began, 'your mother, myself, and our little Phyllis. She was the youngest, and was nine at the time. We lived in a small house in this town, for our parents were not rich.'

Roger nodded. 'Mother showed me that house. It's smaller than this, a good deal.'

'Your mother, who was my mother's right hand, had been sent to a boarding-school at a distance, and I was left, in a way, in charge of my mother and young sister, my father being abroad with his regiment. You may be sure I felt proud of myself when I went round at night, bolting the doors and windows, and putting out the lights. And I generally ran home as quick as I could from the day-school I went to. Phyllis would be at the door, with her little pale face beaming, and brimming over with questions about my games and successes.

'Well, one Saturday afternoon, I was to play for the school in a football match; I was a good runner, and strong for my size, though I was quite a little chap. I remember being very much annoyed with my mother for saying I had better not play, as I had had a cold. I had caught it from Phyllis, we thought; but, as I was a robust lad, it was soon thrown off. But my sister--she was always delicate--still had a cough, and seemed dull and had headache. Of course I laughed at my mother's fears, took my football jersey from before the fire--she had washed it, and was just as particular about airing as your mother is--fussy, you would say--and off I went, in high spirits.

'"I won't be late," I called from the door.

'"No, be quick home, there's my dear boy," my mother said; and Phyllis, who was lying on the sofa, looked up for a minute with, "Play up, Jim. Mind you win the match."

'But mother followed me to the door.

'"Jim," she said, speaking low, "I don't feel easy about Phyllis. She is feverish to-day. I think you had better call and ask Dr. Harris to come."

'"Oh, Mother," I said, "she will be all right! My cold was just as bad while it lasted. You shouldn't fret about nothing." I had got into the way of giving her a good deal of advice.

'"I wish I could think so," she said, anxiously; "but, anyway, Jim, just run in on your way to the ground, and tell him. Then he will come before he starts on his round."

'"All right," I replied, with a hasty kiss, and off I went.

'In the next street I fell in with another fellow, who was in a great hurry.

'"I say, old chap, we shall be late," he panted, as we dashed into a short cut for the playing-field.

'I wish, Roger, that I could comfort myself by saying that I forgot my mother's request. But as I turned that corner I saw the doctor's house, and thought of it at once. "But, then," I said to myself, "she is only fussing. Phyllis will be all right in the morning, and I dare say the doctor has gone out. It will do just as well after the game."

'For the rest of the afternoon's pleasure, I never gave a second's thought to my mother and sister.'

'There,' said Roger, triumphantly, 'you were just as bad as I, weren't you? And how did the match go on? Did you win?'

'Roger, from that day to this, I have never tried to remember how that game ended. At the end, two of the fellows who lived the other side of the town asked me home to tea with the rest of the team. I felt it hard to be the only one who was out of everything, so I went. I felt a little uncomfortable, and called at the doctor's, just to satisfy my mother, and he came into the hall to speak to me.

'"Anything wrong, my boy? Not Phyllis, I hope?" he said. Phyllis was a pet of his. He attended her pretty often.

'"Just a cold, sir," I said, easily; "nothing serious. Mother's fidgeting, and says she is feverish, and all that. You might call round some time."

'"I will come with you at once," said Dr. Harris, and he took his hat off the peg. I thought he was glad of my company, and gave him a vivid account of the match on the way.

'When we reached our street the hall was dark, and there was no light in the little front sitting-room. But the bedroom overhead was lighted, and the blind was pushed back as we reached the door. The next thing I saw was my mother's face. Shall I ever forget it?'

'Don't tell it, Uncle,' said Roger. 'I can guess.'

'She had been waiting for the doctor. It never occurred to her that I would neglect her message. They let me see my sister for a few minutes, before she died. A few hours, the doctor said, might have saved her life. There! that's all!'

Uncle James blew his nose vigorously, and went back to his paper; but Roger bent his head over his plate. At this point his mother came in. The boy jumped up impetuously.

'Mother dear, I am awfully sorry I broke my promise, I will never do it again, if I can help it--never, so long as I live!'

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 359._)

They walked up the avenue, with Estelle between them, and Lord Lynwood received some answers to his many questions. He thought it was more of a help to talk about things which took Jack's mind off his trouble, than to dwell on it, and unnerve him for the interview. He wished also to show that he had the greatest respect for a man who could go manfully through the ordeal to which poor Jack had pledged himself. At the end of the avenue, just before it widened into the broad sweep in front of the Moat House, was an opening in the thick laurel and rhododendron shrubbery, which, as they passed it, enabled Estelle to see that Aunt Betty--the dear Aunt Betty she was so longing to see--was on the lawn, cutting roses. Without a word, she broke away from her companions and flew across the lawn.

'Wright,' exclaimed Lord Lynwood, hastily following; 'my aunt has been seriously ill with anxiety about my little girl, and we are afraid of a sudden shock for her. Come, we may be wanted.'

Estelle, unconscious of all but that Aunt Betty was there, was calling out in glad tones which made the little old lady turn hastily.

Fortunately, joy does not often kill. Though faint and unable to stand the first excitement, Aunt Betty recovered herself more quickly than Lord Lynwood could have expected. Jack thought he had never seen anybody quite like Aunt Betty--he had not known that any such existed. He had made up his mind to tell the truth about himself to Estelle's aunt, but now that he saw her he did not feel the shrinking he had anticipated. 'She would understand,' was the way he expressed it.

Lord Lynwood, fearful of over-excitement for her, insisted on Lady Coke going into the house with Estelle. She consented, after making Jack promise to come and relate to her all the wonderful things which had happened in those long months of Estelle's absence.

'Auntie,' said Estelle, as she sat on a low stool--low enough to let her look up into the face of her aunt, lying on her sofa--'if I have a lot to tell you, you must have a great deal to tell me; and, chiefly, why it is you look like that. Are you ill?'

'I have been, with grief and anxiety about you, Estelle. But I shall get quite strong now you are at home again. I don't know how to be grateful enough to the good God Who has guarded you from harm all this long time, and to the kind people who have been such friends in need.'

'And have taught me such a lot of things, Auntie. You must meet Goody some day, and then you will know what a dear she is, and how good she is. She has been such a mother to me! And Auntie,' she continued, with some hesitation, 'Jack is going to tell you something by-and-by, something which has made him dreadfully miserable. And if you are grateful to him and to his mother for all they have done for me, you can repay some of it by helping him in his trouble. Father says it is not necessary for everybody to know; only ourselves, and those whom Jack has bound himself to tell.'

Thus Estelle prepared the way for the confession which took place that evening. By dint of great persuasion, Lord Lynwood made Jack put off speaking to Peet till the next day. He was to sleep at Moat House that night, and in the morning the explanation with Peet would take place.

Aunt Betty was greatly touched by the story. Jack related the finding of Estelle, her dangerous illness, and the opinion of the doctor with regard to her memory, which had been fully justified. He made light of the rescue in the cave, the truth and full details of which Estelle told later on. Lady Coke listened with a heart full of thankfulness for the mercies which had shielded her child. So it came to pass that Jack, resolute in his idea of duty, found a very tender, sympathetic listener to his own sad history.

'Your mother must be a good woman, Jack,' she said.

'She has been the saving of me,' he answered. 'Hers has been the purest, the most unselfish love in the world.'

'Yes,' said Aunt Betty, with moist eyes; 'and because her love was capable of so much, you have been led to look beyond, to that greater Love which encircles us every day and hour. Your mother is a grand woman, Jack!'

'Indeed, she is,' replied the sailor. 'It is amazing that such a man as I should have been so blessed! It forces one to believe in the forgiveness of sins, if those I have injured can so forgive and forget.'

It was getting late, and, as Lady Coke looked tired, Jack got up to go. He was to meet Lord Lynwood next morning, and walk down with him to the Bridge House about the time Peet returned for his breakfast.

As he left the room, Lady Coke said to her nephew, 'I like that sailor. His has been a great repentance; as great as Dick's forgiveness has been noble.'

Meantime Estelle, in her own room once more, was thinking how strange it seemed to be in a house with windows and curtains, with Nurse and Mademoiselle making much of her, and all her own pictures and treasures about. She was very tired, however, and had scarcely time to murmur, 'I shall see my cousins to-morrow,' before she fell asleep.

An hour or two later Lady Coke and Lord Lynwood were gazing, with thankful hearts, at their sleeping child, while Jack was kneeling at the window of his room, praying in deepest grief for pardon and for Dick.

(_Continued on page 370._)

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 367._)