Chapter XV: Part II (6)

Davis howled. He tried to fight; but Gilliland was too strong for him, and soon he was huddled up in the fore part of the boat, cursing and swearing dreadfully.

After a time he quieted down, and then he became so queer.

"Roast beef!" he murmured, smacking his lips. "An' taters! An' cabbage! An' gravy! An' Yorkshire pudden'! My eye! It's prime! And so's the beer, my hearties!"

He smiled. The anguish died out of his face. He thought he was eating it all. And then he began to finish off his dinner with apple pie.

"Stow your gab!" snarled Evans. "Wot a fool he is!"

And, indeed, it was maddening to hear him.

An hour later he struggled into a sitting posture and turned a rapturous face upon the sea. "Water!" he shouted. "Water! Water!" And before any of the sailors could raise a hand to stop him he had rolled over the side of the boat.

The first mate shouted. The men, feeble though they were, sprang to do his bidding. They were not in time. With a gurgling cry Davis was jerked under the water suddenly. Next moment the water bubbled, and before it grew calm again the surface was stained with blood.

"A shark's got him!" shrieked Hookway. And as he cried the great black fin of some awful thing came gliding after the cutter.

"He's had _his_ dinner," said Gilliland grimly; "and he's waiting for his supper now!"

III.

Oh! that terrible night, with the full moon shining down upon the quiet water! So still! So calm! Not a ripple on the wave! And that awful black something silently following us!

Sylvia lay with her head upon the doctor's knee--one poor thin arm, half bared, across my lap. And so the morning found us.

There was something the matter with Evans--something desperate. He was beginning to look like Davis--only worse. Something horrible in his ghastly face. It was wolfish. And his eyes--they were not like human eyes at all--they were the eyes of some fierce, wild beast. And they were fastened with a wolfish glare on Sylvia's half-bared arm. _He wanted to eat it!_

Stealthily he had got his clasp knife out. And stealthily he was crouching as if to make a spring. And I couldn't speak!

My tongue, as the Bible expresses it, clave to the roof of my mouth. I was powerless to make a sound. And none of the others happened to be looking at him.

I put my hand on Mr. Wheeler's knee and gave him a feeble push. I pointed dumbly at Evans.

"Put down that knife!" cried Mr. Wheeler in a voice of command. "Evans!"

With a cry so hideous--I can hear it now--the man lunged forward. Mr. Wheeler tried to seize the knife; but Evans suddenly plunged it into his shoulder; and the first mate fell with a groan.

Then there was an awful struggle.

Gilliland and Hookway fighting with Evans. And the doctor trying to protect Sylvia and me; and dragging the first mate away from the scuffling feet. And I praying out loud in my agony that death might come to our relief.

He was down at last. Lying in the bottom of the boat, with Gilliland sitting astride him, and Hookway getting a rope to tie him up! The doctor leaning over Mr. Wheeler and trying to staunch the blood, and the first mate fainting away!

And then--Oh! heavens! with a cry--Gilliland sprang to his feet, shouting! gesticulating! waving his cap! Had he, too, now, suddenly gone mad?

"Ship ahoy! ahoy!" he shrieked, and we followed his pointing hand.

And there, on the bosom of the endless sea, we saw a ship becalmed.

I suppose I swooned.

When I recovered my senses, the cutter was creeping under her lee, and the crew were throwing us a rope.

"The women first," said somebody in a cheerful voice. "And after them send up the wounded man."

And soon kind, pitying faces were bending over us. And very tender hands were feeding Sylvia and me.

"They've had a pooty consid'able squeak, I guess," said the cheerful voice.

And somebody answered, "That's so."

We had been picked up by an American schooner.

A STRANGE VISITOR.

BY MAUD HEIGHINGTON.

The Priory was a fine, rambling old house, which had recently come into Jack Cheriton's possession through the death of a parsimonious relative.

Part of the building only had been kept in repair, while the remainder had fallen into decay, and was, in fact, only a picturesque ruin.

The Cheritons' first visit to their newly acquired property was a sort of reconnoitre visit. They had come from Town for a month's holiday, bringing with them Thatcher--little Mollie's nurse--as general factotum.

They had barely been in the house an hour when a telegram summoned Thatcher to her mother's deathbed, and a day or two later urgent business recalled Jack to Town.

"I'll just call at the Lodge and get Mrs. Somers to come up as early as she can this morning, and stay the night with you, so you will not be alone long," he called as he hurried off.

His wife and Mollie watched him out of sight, and then returned to the breakfast-room--the little one amusing herself with her doll, while her mother put the breakfast things together.

Millicent Cheriton was no coward, but an undefinable sense of uneasiness was stealing over her. The Priory was fully half an hour's walk from the Lodge, which was the nearest house. Still further off, in the opposite direction, stood a large building, the nature of which they had not yet discovered.

Jack had never left her even for one night since their marriage--and now she had not even Thatcher left to bear her company.

"Mrs. Somers will soon be here," she said in a comforting tone to Mollie, who, however, was too intent upon her doll to notice, and certainly did not share her mother's uneasiness.

Meanwhile, Jack had reached the Lodge and made his request to Somers, the gamekeeper.

"I'm main sorry, sir, but the missus thought as you would want her at eleven--as usual, so she started off early to get her marketing done first. I'll be sure and tell her to take her things up for the night as soon as she gets home."

"Ten o'clock! No Mrs. Somers yet!"

Mrs. Cheriton picked up her little daughter and carried her upstairs.

"We'll make the beds, Mollie, you and I," she said, tossing the little maid into the middle of the shaken-up feather bed.

This was fine fun, and Mollie begged for a repetition of it.

"Hark! That must be Mrs. Somers," as a footstep sounded on the gravel path.

"That's right, Mrs. Somers, I am glad you have come," called Millicent, but as she heard no reply, she thought she had been mistaken, and finished making the bed, then tying a sun-bonnet over Mollie's golden curls, took her downstairs, intending to take her into the garden to play.

What was it that came over Millicent as she reached the hall? Again that strange uneasiness, and a feeling that some third person was near her. She grasped Mollie's hand more firmly, with an impatient exclamation to herself, for what she thought was silly nervousness, and walked into the dining-room.

There, in the large armchair, lately occupied by her husband, sat a tall, gentlemanly looking man.

He had already removed his hat, and was about to unlock a brown leather bag, which he held on his knee. He rose and bowed as Mrs. Cheriton entered the room.

"I must apologise for intruding upon you, madam, but I do so in the cause of science, so I am sure you will pardon me."

The words were fair enough, but something in the manner made Millicent's heart seem to stand still. Something also told her that she must not show her fear.

"May I know to whom I am speaking?" she said, "and in what branch of science you take a special interest?"

"Certainly, madam. My name is Wharton. I am a surgeon, and am greatly interested in vivisection."

"Indeed!" said Millicent, summoning all her presence of mind, for as he spoke his manner grew more excitable, and he began to open his bag.

"I called here," he said, "to make known a new discovery, which, however, I should like to demonstrate," and he fixed his restless eye on little Mollie, who was clinging shyly to her mother's gown.

"I am sure it is very kind of you to take an interest in us--but it is so early, perhaps you have not breakfasted? May I get you some breakfast?"

Would Mrs. Somers never come? and if she did, what could she do? for by this time Millicent had no doubt that she was talking to a madman.

"Thank you, I do not need any," replied her visitor, as he began to take from his bag all kinds of terrible looking surgical instruments, and laid them on the table.

In spite of the terror within her, Millicent tried to turn his attention from his bag, speaking of all kinds of general subjects as fast as they came to her mind, but though he answered her politely, it was with evident irritation, and he seemed to get more excitable every minute.

"This will never do," she thought, "I must humour him," and with sinking heart she ventured on her next question.

"What is this wonderful discovery, Mr. Wharton? if I may ask."

"Certainly, madam. It is a permanent cure for deafness."

Millicent began to breathe more freely as the thought passed through her mind "then it can't affect Mollie," for she forgot for a moment that her guest was not a sane man. Again his eye rested on Mollie, and he rose from his chair.

"The cure is a certain one," he said, "the right ear must be amputated, and the passages thoroughly scraped, but I will show you," and he took a step towards Mollie.

Millicent's face blanched.

"But Mollie is not deaf," she said; "it will hardly do to operate on her."

"It will prevent her ever becoming so, madam, and prevention is better than cure," and he stepped back to the table to select an instrument.

The mother's presence of mind did not desert her--though her legs trembled so violently that she feared her visitor would see her terror.

"It would be a very good thing to feel sure of that," she said. "You will want a firm table, of course, and good light. You might be interrupted here. I will show you a better room for the operation."

"Thank you, madam, and I shall require plenty of hot water and towels."

"Certainly," said Millicent, and leading him to the hall, she directed him to a room which had at one time been fitted as a laundry, and in which was an ironing bench.

With sinking heart, she followed him to the top of the house--pointing the way through two attics into a third.

"I will just leave you to arrange your things while I get hot water and towels, and put on Mollie's nightdress," she said, and closing the door, turned the key. It grated noisily, but the visitor was too much occupied to notice it, and rushing through the other rooms, Millicent locked both doors, and fled downstairs.

Snatching her little one in her arms, she hurried through the garden--pausing at the gate to shift Mollie from her arms on to her back.

She had barely left the gate when a horrible yell of baffled rage rent the air, making her turn and glance up at the window of the attic.

The maniac had just discovered that the door was locked, and rushing to the window caught sight of his hostess and desired patient fleeing from the house.

One glance showed Millicent that he was about to get out of the window, but whether he intended to clamber down by the ivy, or creep in at the next attic, she did not stop to ascertain; only praying that she might have strength to gain a place of safety she sped on, staggering under the weight of her little one, who clung to her neck in wonder.

On and on, still with the wild yells of rage ringing in her ears, until she had put three fields between herself and the house, when she stopped for breath in a shady lane.

Hark! Surely it was the sound of wheels coming towards her. "Help! oh, help!" she shouted. "Help! help! help!"

In another moment a brougham, drawn by two horses, appeared, coming slowly up the hill towards her.

The coachman at a word from his master drew up, and Millicent, now nearly fainting from terror and exhaustion, was helped into the carriage.

Giving directions to the coachman to drive home as quickly as possible, Dr. Shielding, for it was the medical superintendent of the Lunatic Asylum, the long building already referred to, drew from her between sobs and gasps the story of her fright.

At length they drew up before the doctor's house, in the grounds of the asylum, and with a hasty word of introduction, Dr. Shielding left Millicent and Mollie with his wife and daughter.

Summoning two burly-looking keepers, he stepped into his brougham again.

"To the Priory," he said, and then related the story to the men, describing the position of the attic as told him by Millicent, adding that he had just returned from a distant village, where he had been called for consultation about a case of rapidly developed homicidal mania of a local medical man, but the patient had eluded his caretaker, the previous day, and could not be found.

"I have no doubt it is the same man," he said, "and there he is!" he added, as they stopped before the Priory gate, to find the strange visitor was trying to descend from the window by the ivy.

There he clung, bag in hand, still five-and-twenty feet from the ground. When hearing their voices, he turned to look at them, and in so doing lost his hold, falling heavily to the ground.

They hastened to the spot, just in time to see a spasmodic quiver of the limbs as he drew his last breath. He had struck his head violently against a huge stone and broken his neck.

The body was removed to the mortuary of the asylum, with all speed, and the relatives of the poor man telegraphed for, and when Dr. Shielding returned home he found that his wife had insisted upon keeping Mollie and Millicent as their guests until Jack's return, to which arrangement he heartily assented.

* * * * *

Jack's face blanched as he read a paragraph describing the adventure in his morning paper the following day, and when his letters were brought in, he hastily broke the seal of one in his wife's handwriting, and read the story in her own words, finishing with, "Oh, Jack, dear, I never, never can go back there again; do come and fetch us home."

They never did return to the Priory, for on his way to the station, Jack put it into the hands of an agent for sale, and when he reached Beechcroft, he begged Mrs. Somers to go and pack up all their personal belongings and send them back to Town.

It was with feelings of deep thankfulness that he clasped his wife and little one in his arms once more, inwardly vowing that come what might, he would never again leave them without protection, even for an hour.

THE THIRD PERSON SINGULAR.

BY LUCY HARDY.

"You remember the old coaching days, granny?"

"Indeed I do," replied the old lady, with a smile, "for one of the strangest adventures of my life befell me on my first stage-coach journey. Yes, you girls shall hear the story; I am getting into my 'anecdotage,' as Horace Walpole calls it," and granny laughed with the secret consciousness that her "anecdotes" were always sure of an appreciative audience.

"People did not run about hither and thither in my young days as you girls do now," went on the old lady, "and it was quite an event to take a coach journey. In fact, when I started on my first one, I was nearly twenty years old; and my father and mother had then debated a good while as to whether I could be permitted to travel alone by the stage. My father was a country parson, as you know, and we lived in a very remote Yorkshire village. But an aunt, who was rich and childless, had lately taken up her residence at York, and had written so urgently to beg that I might be allowed to spend the winter with her, and thus cheer her loneliness, that it was decided that I must accept the invitation. It was the custom then for many of the local country gentry to visit the great provincial towns for their 'seasons' instead of undertaking the long journey to the metropolis. York, and many another country town, is still full of the fine old 'town houses' of the local gentry, who now go to London to 'bring out' their young daughters; but who, in the former days, were content with the gaieties offered by their own provincial capital. Very lively and pleasant were the 'seasons' of the country towns in my youth; and I think there was more real hospitality and sociability found among the country neighbours than one meets with in London society nowadays. I, of course, was delighted at the prospect of exchanging the dull life of our little village for the gaieties of York; but when it actually came to saying good-bye to my parents, from whom I had never yet been separated, I was half inclined to wish that Aunt Maria's invitation had been refused. Farmer Gray, who was to drive me to the neighbouring town, where I should join the coach, was very kind; and pretended not to see how I was crying under my veil. We lumbered along the narrow lanes and at length reached the little market town where I was deposited at the 'Blue Boar' to have some tea and await the arrival of the mail. I had often watched the coach dash up, and off again, when visiting the town with my father; but it seemed like a dream that I, Dolly Harcourt, was now actually to be a passenger in the conveyance. The dusk of a winter's evening was gathering as the mail came in sight, its red lamps gleaming through the mist. Ostlers prided themselves upon the celerity with which the change of horses was effected, and passengers were expected to be equally quick; I was bustled inside (my place had been taken days previously) before I had time to think twice. Fortunately, as I thought, remembering the long night journey which lay before me, I found the interior of the coach empty, several passengers having just alighted; but, as I settled myself in one corner, two figures hurried up, a short man, and a woman in a long cloak and poke-bonnet, with a thick veil over her face.

"'Just in time,' cried the man. 'Yes, I've booked two places, Mr. Jones and Miss Jenny,' and the pair stumbled in just as the impatient horses started.

"'Miss Jenny.' Well, I was glad that I was not to have a long night journey alone with a strange man. I glanced at the cloaked and veiled figure which sank awkwardly into the opposite corner of the vehicle, and then leaned forward to remove some of my little packages from the seat; in so doing I brushed against her bonnet.

"'I beg your pardon, madam,' I said politely; 'I was removing these parcels, fearing they might incommode you.'

"'All right, all right, miss,' said the man, a red-faced, vulgar-looking personage; 'don't you trouble about Jenny, she'll do very well;' and he proceeded to settle his companion in the corner rather unceremoniously.

"'Is she his sister or his wife, I wonder,' I thought; 'he does not seem particularly courteous to her;' and I took a dislike to my fellow-passenger on the spot. He, however, was happily indifferent to my good or evil opinion; pulling a cap from his pocket, he exchanged his hat for it, settled himself comfortably by his companion's side, and, in a few moments, was sound asleep, as his snores proclaimed. I could not follow his example. I felt terribly lonely, and not a little nervous. As we sped along at what appeared to my inexperience such a break-neck rate (ten miles an hour seemed so _then_, before railways whirled you along like lightning), I began to recall all the dismal stories of coach accidents, and of highwaymen, which I had read or heard of during my quiet village existence. Suppose, on this very moor which we were now crossing, a highwayman rode up and popped a pistol in at the window. I myself had not much to lose, though I should have been extremely reluctant to part with the new silk purse which my mother had netted for me, and in which she and father had each placed a guinea--coins not too plentiful in our country vicarage in those days. And suppose the highwayman was not satisfied with mere robbery, but should oblige me to alight and dance a minuet with him on the heath, as did Claud Duval; suppose--here my nervous fears took a fresh turn, for the cloaked lady opposite began to move restlessly, and the man, half waking, gave her a brisk nudge with his elbow and cried sharply,--

"'Now, then, keep quiet, I say.'

"This was a strange manner in which to address a lady. Could this man be sober, I thought, and a shiver ran through me at the idea of being doomed to spend so many hours in company with a possibly intoxicated, and certainly surly man. How rudely he addressed his companion, how little he seemed to care for her comfort! As I looked more carefully at the pair (the rising moon now giving me sufficient light to do this) I noted that the man's hand was slipped under the woman's cloak, and that he was apparently holding her down in her seat by her wrist. A fresh terror now assailed me--was I travelling with a lunatic and her keeper? I vainly tried to obtain a glimpse of the woman's countenance, so shrouded by her poke-bonnet and thick veil.

"The man was speedily snoring again, and I sat with my eyes fixed on the cloaked figure, wondering--speculating. Poor thing, was she indeed a lunatic travelling in charge of this rough attendant? Pity filled my heart as I thought of this afflicted creature, possibly torn from home and friends and sent away with a surly guardian; who, I now felt _sure_, was not too sober. Was the woman old or young, of humble rank or a lady? I began to weave a dozen romantic stories in my head about my fellow-passengers, quite forgetting all my recent fears about the 'knights of the road.' So sorry did I feel for the woman that I leant across and addressed some trivial, polite remark to her, but received no reply. I gently touched her cloak to draw her attention, but the lady's temper seemed as testy as that of her companion; she abruptly twisted away from my touch with some inarticulate, but evidently angry exclamation, which sounded almost like a growl. I shrank back abashed into my corner and attempted no more civilities. Would the coach never reach York and I be freed from the presence of these mysterious fellow-passengers? I was but a timid little country lass, and this was my first flight from home. It was certainly not a pleasant idea to believe oneself shut up for several hours with a half-tipsy man and a lunatic; as I now firmly believed the woman to be. I sat very still, fearing to annoy her by any chance movement, but my addressing her had evidently disturbed her, for she began to move restlessly, and to make a kind of muttering to herself. I gradually edged away towards the other end of the seat, so as to leave as much space between myself and the lady as possible, and in so doing let my shawl fall to the floor of the coach. I stooped to pick it up, and there beheld, protruding from my fellow-passenger's cloak, _her foot_. Oh horrors! I saw no woman's dainty shoe--but a hairy paw, with long nails--was it _cloven_?

* * * * *

"The frantic shriek I gave stopped the coach, and the guard and the outside passengers were round the door in a moment. For the first time in my life I had fainted--so missed the first excited turmoil--but soon revived to find myself lying on the moor, the centre of a kindly group of fellow-travellers, who were proffering essences, and brandy, and all other approved restoratives; while in the background, like distant thunder, were heard the adjurations of the guard and the coachman, who were swearing like troopers at the other--or rather at the _male_, inside passenger. Struggling into a sitting position, I beheld this man, sobered now by the shock of my alarm, and by the vials of wrath which were being emptied upon him, standing in a submissive attitude, while beside him, her cloak thrown back and her poke-bonnet thrust on one side, was the mysterious 'lady'--now revealed in her true character as a _performing bear_. It seemed that a showman, desirous of conveying this animal (which he described as 'quiet as an hangel') with the least trouble and expense to himself, bethought him of the expedient of booking places in the coach for himself and the bear, which bore the name of 'Miss Jenny'; trusting to her wraps and to the darkness to disguise the creature sufficiently. I will not repeat the language of the guard and coachman on discovering the trick played; but after direful threats as to what the showman might 'expect' as the result of his device, matters were amicably arranged. The owner of the bear made most abject apologies all round (I fancy giving more than _civil words_ to the coach officials), I interceded for him, and the mail set off at double speed to make up for lost time. Only, with my knowledge of 'Miss Jenny's' real identity, I absolutely declined to occupy the interior of the coach again despite the showman's assertions of his pet's harmlessness; and the old coachman sympathising with me, I was helped up to a place by his side on the box, and carefully wrapped up in a huge military cloak by a young gentleman who occupied the next seat, and who was, as he told me, an officer rejoining his regiment at York. The latter part of my journey was far pleasanter than the beginning; the coachman was full of amusing anecdotes, and the young officer made himself most agreeable. It transpired, in course of conversation, that my fellow-traveller was slightly acquainted with Aunt Maria; and this acquaintanceship induced him to request that he might be permitted to escort me to her house and see me safe after my disagreeable adventure. I had no objection to his accompanying myself and the staid maidservant whom I found waiting for me at the inn when the coach stopped at York; and Aunt Maria politely insisted on the young man's remaining to partake of the early breakfast she had prepared to greet my arrival."

"Well, your fright did not end so badly after all, granny," remarked one of her listeners.

"Not at all badly," replied the old lady with a quiet smile; "but for my fright I should never have made the acquaintance of that young officer."

"And the officer was----"

"He was _Captain_ Marten then, my dears--he became _General_ Marten afterwards--and was _your grandfather_."

"HOW JACK MINDED THE BABY."

BY DOROTHY PINHO.

The _Etruria_ was on its way to New York. The voyage had been, so far, without accidents, or even incidents; the weather had been lovely; the sea, a magnificent stretch of blue, with a few miniature wavelets dancing in the sunlight.

Amongst the passengers of the first-class saloon everybody noticed a slight girlish figure, always very simply attired; in spite of all her efforts to remain unnoticed, she seemed to attract attention by her great beauty. People whispered to each other, "Who is she?" All they knew was that her name was Mrs. Arthur West, and that she was going out to New York with her two babies to join her husband.

Every morning she was on deck, or sometimes, if the sun was too fierce, in the saloon, and she made a charming picture reclining in her deck-chair, with baby Lily lying on her lap, and little Jack playing at her feet. Baby was only three or four months old; hardly anything more than a dainty heap of snowy silk and lace to anybody but her mother, who, of course, thought that nothing on earth could be as clever as the way she crowed and kicked out her absurd pink morsels of toes.

Master Jack was quite an important personage; he was nearly four years old and very proud of the fact that this was his second voyage, while Lily had never been on a ship before, and, as he contemptuously remarked, "didn't even know who dada was." He was a quaint, old-fashioned little soul, and though he rather looked down upon his little sister from the height of his dignity and his first knickerbockers, he would often look after her for his mother and pat her off to sleep quite cleverly.

We must not forget to mention "Rover," a lovely retriever; he was quite of the family, fairly worshipped by his little master, and the pet of the whole ship. He looked upon baby Lily as his own special property, and no stranger dare approach if he were guarding her.

On the afternoon my story opens baby Lily had been very cross and fretful; the intense heat evidently did not agree with her. Poor little Mrs. West was quite worn out with walking up and down with her trying to lull her off to sleep. Jack was lying flat on the floor, engrossed in the beauties of a large picture-book; two or three times he raised his curly head and shook it gravely. Then he said, "Isn't she a naughty baby, mummie?"

"Yes, dear," answered his mother, "and I'm afraid that if she doesn't soon get good, we shall have to put her right through the porthole. We don't want to take a naughty baby-girl to daddy, do we?"

"No, mummie," answered Jack very earnestly, and he returned once more to his pictures.

"There, she has gone off," whispered Mrs. West, after a few moments. "Now, Jackie, I am going to put her down, and you must look after her while I go and see if the stewardess has boiled the milk for the night. Play very quietly, like a good little boy, because I don't think she is very sound asleep." And, with a parting kiss on his little uplifted face, she slipped away.

The stewardess was nowhere to be found; so Mrs. West boiled the milk herself, as she had often done before, and after about ten minutes, returned to her cabin.

Little Jack was in a corner, busy with a drawing-slate; he turned round as his mother came in. The berth where she had put the baby down was empty.

"Was baby naughty? Has the stewardess taken her?" she asked.

"No, mummie; baby woke up d'rectly you went, an' she was so dreff'ly naughty--she just _wouldn't_ go to sleep again; so I thought I'd better punish her, an' I put her, just this minute, through the porthole, like you said; but I dessay she'll be good now, and p'raps you'd better----but what's the matter, mummie? Are you going to be seasick?" for his mother had turned deathly white, and was holding on to the wall for support.

"My baby, my little one!" she gasped; then, pulling herself together with a sudden effort, she rushed towards the stairs; little Jack, bewildered, but suddenly overcome by a strange feeling of awe, following in the rear. As she reached the deck, she became aware that the liner had stopped; there was a great commotion among the passengers; she heard some one say, "Good dog! brave fellow!" and Rover, pushing his way between the excited people, brought to her feet a dripping, wailing bundle, which she strained to her heart, and fainted away.

Need I narrate what had happened? When little Jack had "put naughty baby through the porthole," Rover was on deck with his two front paws up on the side of the vessel, watching intently some sea-gulls dipping in the waves. He suddenly saw the little white bundle touch the water; some marvellous instinct told him it was his little charge, and he gave a sudden leap over the side. A sailor of the crew saw him disappear, and gave the alarm: "Stop the ship! man overboard!"

A boat was lowered, and in a few seconds Rover was on deck again, holding baby Lily fast between his jaws.

Mrs. West never left her children alone after that; and when, a few days later, on the quay at New York, she was clasped in her husband's arms, she told him, between her sobs, how near he had been to never seeing his little daughter.

MY GRANDMOTHER'S ADVENTURE.

_A STORY FOUNDED ON FACT._

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

My grandmother was one of the right sort. She was a fine old lady with all her faculties about her at eighty-six, and with a memory that could recall the stirring incidents of the earlier part of the century with a vividness which made them live again in our eager eyes and ears. She was born with the century and was nearly fifteen years old when Napoleon escaped from Elba, and the exciting circumstances that followed, occurring as they did at the most impressionable period of her life, became indelibly fixed upon her mind. She had relatives and friends who had distinguished themselves in the Peninsula war, in memory of one of whom, who fell in the last grand charge at Waterloo, she always wore a mourning ring.

But it was not at Waterloo that my grandmother met with the adventure which it is now my business to chronicle. It was a real genuine adventure, however, and it befell her a year or so after the final fall of Napoleon, and in a quiet, secluded spot in the county of Wiltshire, England, not far from Salisbury Plain; but as I am quite sure I cannot improve upon the dear old lady's oft-repeated version of the story, I will try and tell it as it fell from those dear, worn lips now for ever silent in the grave.

"I was in my sixteenth year when it was decided that, all fear of foreign invasion being over, I should be sent to London to complete my education and to receive those finishing touches in manners and deportment 'which a metropolis of wealth and fashion alone can give.'

"Never having left home before, I looked forward to my journey with some feeling of excitement and not a little of foreboding and dread. I could not quite make up my mind whether I was really sorry or glad. The quiet home life to which I had been accustomed, varied only by occasional visits from the more old-fashioned of the local country families, made me long for the larger life, which I knew must belong to the biggest city in the world (life which I was simple enough to think I might see a great deal of even from the windows of a boarding-school), and made me look forward with joyful anticipation to my journey; while the fear of flying from the humdrum that I knew, to discipline I knew not of, made me temper my anticipations with misgivings and cloud my hopes with fears. To put the matter practically, I think I was generally glad when I got up in the morning and sorry when I went to bed at night.

"My father's house stood about a hundred yards from the main road, some three miles west of Salisbury, and in order to take my passage for London, it was necessary that I should be driven into Salisbury in the family buggy to join the Exeter mail. I well remember the start. My carpet-bag and trunk had been locked and unlocked a great many times before they were finally signed, sealed, and delivered to the old man-servant who acted as gardener, coachman, and general factotum to our household, and when we started off my father placed a book in my hands, that I might have something with me to beguile the tedium of the journey. My father accompanied me as far as Salisbury to bespeak the care and attention of the guard on my behalf, but finding that the only other inside passenger was an old gentleman of whom he had some slight knowledge, he commended me to my fellow-passenger's protection, and with many admonitions as to my future conduct, left me to pursue the journey in his company.

"I was feeling rather dull after my companion had exhausted the commonplaces of conversation, and experienced a strange loneliness when I saw that he had fallen fast asleep in his comfortable corner enveloped in rugs and furs. Driven in upon my own resources I opened my book, and began to read, though the faint light of the coach lamp did not offer me much encouragement.

"The volume was one of 'Travel and Adventure,' and told of the experiences of the writer even in the lion's mouth. It recounted numerous hair-breadth escapes from the tender mercies of savage animals, and described them with such thrilling detail that I soon became conscious of those creepy sensations which are so well calculated to make us take fright at the least unusual circumstance. I had just got to a part at which a wounded lion had struck down his intrepid hunter and was standing with one paw upon his breast roaring his defiance to the four winds of heaven, when suddenly the coach pulled up with a suddenness that threw me into the arms of my companion and somewhat unceremoniously aroused him from his slumber. The next moment the coach rolled back a few paces and the next plunged forward a few more. Meanwhile, the shouts and cries of the outside passengers and the rumbling and clambering on the roof of the coach made it clear that something terrible had happened. Naturally nervous, and rendered doubly so by the narrative I had been reading, I concluded that all Africa was upon us and that either natives or wild animals would soon eat us up. My companion was no less excited than I was, excitement that was in no way lessened by his sense of responsibility for my welfare, and perceiving a house close to the road but a few yards in the rear of the coach, he hurried me out of the vehicle with more speed than ceremony, and in another moment was almost dragging me towards the door. As we alighted, our speed was suddenly accelerated by the unmistakable roar of some wild beast which had apparently leapt out of the leaves of the book I had been reading and was attempting to illustrate the narrative which had so thrilled my imagination. There was no mistake about it now; some wild beast had attacked the coach, and I was already, in thought, lying prostrate beneath his feet. The next thing that I remember was awakening in the presence of an eager and interested group gathered round a fire in the waiting-room of a village post-house.

"Many versions of the story were current for years among the gossips of the country-side, and they differed very materially in the details of the narrative. One said it was a tiger which was being conveyed to the gardens of the Zoological Society in London, another that it was a performing bear which had suddenly gone mad and killed its keeper while on its way to Salisbury Fair. Of course the papers published various accounts of it, and the story with many variations found its way into several books. As you know, I was not an eye-witness of the circumstances any further than I have described them, so I am dependent upon others for the true account of the facts. The fullest account that I have seen in print appeared in a book I bought many years after the event, and now if you will get me my spectacles I will read you the remainder of the story from that volume.

"'Not many years ago, a curious example of the ferocity of the lioness occurred in England. The Exeter mail-coach, on its way to London, was attacked on Sunday night, October 20th, 1816, at Winter's Law-Hut, seven miles from Salisbury, in a most extraordinary manner. At the moment when the coachman pulled up, to deliver his bags, one of the leading horses was suddenly seized by a ferocious animal. This produced a great confusion and alarm. Two passengers, who were inside the mail, got out, and ran in the house. The horse kicked and plunged violently; and it was with difficulty the coachman could prevent the carriage from being overturned. It was soon observed by the coachman and guard, by the light of the lamps, that the animal which had seized the horse was a huge lioness. A large mastiff dog came up and attacked her fiercely, on which she quitted the horse, and turned upon him. The dog fled, but was pursued and killed by the lioness, within about forty yards of the place. It appears that the beast had escaped from a caravan, which was standing on the roadside, and belonged to a menagerie, on its way to Salisbury Fair. An alarm being given, the keepers pursued and hunted the lioness, carrying the dog in her teeth, into a hovel under a granary, which served for keeping agricultural implements. About half-past eight, they had secured her effectually by barricading the place, so as to prevent her escape. The horse, when first attacked, fought with great spirit; and if he had been at liberty, would probably have beaten down his antagonist with his fore-feet; but in plunging, he embarrassed himself in the harness. The lioness, it appears, attacked him in front, and springing at his throat, had fastened the talons of her fore-feet on each side of his gullet, close to the head, while the talons of her hind-feet were forced into the chest. In this situation she hung, while the blood was seen streaming, as if a vein had been opened by a lancet. The furious animal missed the throat and jugular vein; but the horse was so dreadfully torn, that he was not at first expected to survive. The expressions of agony, in his tears and moans, were most piteous and affecting. Whether the lioness was afraid of her prey being taken from her, or from some other cause, she continued a considerable time after she had entered the hovel roaring in a dreadful manner, so loud, indeed, that she was distinctly heard at the distance of half a mile. She was eventually secured, and taken to her den; and the proprietor of the menagerie did not fail to take advantage of the incident, by having a representation of the attack painted in the most captivating colours and hung up in front of his establishment.'"

My dear old grandmother quite expected to see "the lions" when she reached London, but she was not quite prepared to meet a lioness even half way.

A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS EVE.

BY LUCIE E. JACKSON.

I was always a very fearless girl. I do not say I never knew what fear was, for on the occasion I am about to relate I was distinctly frightened; but I was able to bear myself through it as if I felt nothing, and by this means to reassure my poor mother, who perhaps realised the danger more thoroughly than I did.

Norah says if it had happened to her she would just have died of fright, and I do think she would have, for she is so delicate and timid, and has such very highly-strung nerves. Mother and I always call it our adventure. I, with a laugh now; but mother, always with a shudder and a paling of her sweet face, for she and Norah are very much alike in constitution. She says if I had not been her stay and backbone on that occasion she must surely have let those awful French people rob her of all she possessed. But I am going on too fast.

It happened in this way. Father had some business to transact in France in connection with his firm, and had gone off in high spirits, for after the business was finished and done with he had arranged to do a little travelling on his own account with Mr. Westover--an old chum of his.

We had heard regularly from him as having a very good time till one morning the post brought a letter to say he had contracted a low fever and was lying sick at a wayside inn. He begged us not to be alarmed for his friend was very attentive, and he hoped soon to be himself again. Mother was unhappy, we saw that, but Norah and I tried to cheer her up by saying how strong father always was, and how soon he shook off any little illness. It was his being sick away from home and in a foreign country that troubled her.

A few days after a telegram arrived from Mr. Westover. He said mother must come at once, for the doctor had serious misgivings as to the turn the fever might take.

"Mother, you must take Phyllis with you," decided Norah, who was trembling from head to foot, but trying to appear calm for mother's sake.

I looked up at mother with eager eyes, for though the thought of dear father lying dangerously ill chilled me all over, yet the idea of travelling to France made my heart leap within me.

Mother was packing a handbag when Norah spoke. She looked up and saw my eyes round with delight.

"Yes," she said, "I would prefer a companion. Phyllis, get ready at once, for we haven't much time."

Her voice sounded as if tears were in it, and I sprang up and kissed her before rushing away to my room.

My little bag was packed before mother's, but then she had money arrangements to make which I had not.

Two hours after the receipt of the telegram we were driving down the road to the railway station two miles from our home.

Our journey was of no moment at first starting. We crossed the water without any mishap, and on arriving at Dunkirk bore the Custom-house officers' searching of our handbags with a stoical calmness. What mattered such trifles when our one thought, our one hope lay in the direction of that wayside inn where father lay tossing in delirium?

We spent one night at an hotel, and the next morning, which was Christmas Eve, we were up early to catch the first express to Brives. From Brives to Fleur another train would take us, and the rest of our journey would have to be accomplished by _diligence_.

It was cold, bitterly cold, and I saw mother's eyes look apprehensively up to the leaden sky. I knew she was fearing a heavy fall of snow which might interrupt our journey.

We reached Fleur at three o'clock in the afternoon, and took the _diligence_ that was awaiting the train. Then what mother feared took place. Snow began to fall--heavy snow, and the horses in the _diligence_ began to labour after only one hour's storm. Mother's face grew paler and paler. I did not dare to look at her, or to think what we should do if the snow prevented us getting much farther. And father! what would father do! After two hours' weary drive we sighted the first stopping place.

"There is the inn!" said a portly fellow-traveller. "And a good thing, too, that we'll have a roof over our heads, for there will be no driving farther for some days to come."

"We must make a jovial Christmas party by ourselves," said another old gentleman, gathering all his belongings together in preparation for getting out.

I looked at mother. Her face was blanched.

"But surely," she said, "this snow won't prevent the second _diligence_ taking my daughter and myself to the _Pomme d'Or_ at Creux? It is only a matter of an hour from here."

"You'll get no _diligence_ either to-day or to-morrow, madame," was the answer she received.

The inn was reached--a funny little old-fashioned place--and we all descended ankle deep into the newly-fallen snow.

The landlord of the inn was waiting at the door, and invited us all in with true French courtesy. The cosy kitchen we entered had a lovely wood fire in the old-fashioned grate, and the dancing flames cast a cheery light upon the whitewashed walls. Oh, if only this had been the inn where father was staying! How gladly we would have rested our weary limbs and revelled in that glorious firelight. But it was not to be.

Mother's idea of another _diligence_ was quite pooh-poohed.

"If it had been coming it would have been here before now," announced the landlord.

"Then we must walk it," returned my mother.

"Impossible," was the landlord's answer, and the portly old gentleman seconded him. "It is a matter of five miles from here."

"If I wish to see my husband alive I must walk it," said my mother in tremulous tones.

There was a murmur of commiseration, and the landlord, a kindly, genial old Frenchman, trotted to the door of the inn and looked out. He came back presently, rubbing his cold hands.

"The snow has ceased, the stars are coming out. If Madame insists----" he shrugged his shoulders.

"We shall walk it if you will kindly direct us the way."

As she spoke my mother picked up her handbag, and I stooped for mine, but was arrested by a deep voice saying,--

"I am going part of the way. If madame will allow me I will walk with her."

I saw the landlord's open brow contract, and I turned to look at the speaker. He was a tall, dark, low-browed man, with shaggy black hair and deep-set eyes. He had been sitting there on our arrival, and I had not liked his appearance at first sight. I now hoped that mother would not accept his company. But mother, too intent on getting to her journey's end, jumped at the offer.

"_Merci, monsieur_," she said gratefully. "We will start at once if you have no objection."

The fellow got on his feet at once, and stretching out his hand took a slouched hat off the chair behind him and clapped it on his head. I did see mother give him one furtive look then--it gave him such a brigand-like appearance, but she resolutely turned away, and thanked the landlord for the short shelter he had afforded us. She was producing her purse, but the landlord, with a hasty glance in the direction of our escort, motioned her to put it away. He and the two gentlemen came to see us start, the landlord causing me some little comfort by calling after us that he would make inquiries as soon as he was able, as to whether we had reached our destination in safety.

Our escort started ahead of us, and we followed close on his footsteps. We had journeyed so for two miles, plodding heavily and slowly along, for the snow was deep and the wind was cutting. Our companion never once spoke, and would only look occasionally over his shoulder to see if we were keeping up with him, and I was beginning to lose my fear of him and call myself a coward for being afraid, when suddenly the snow began again. This time it came down in whirling drifts penetrating through all our warm clothing, and making our walking heavier and more laboured than before. It was all we could do to keep our feet, for the wind whistled and moaned, threatening at every turn to bear us away.

Then only did our companion speak.

"_C'est mauvais_," he shouted above the storm, and his voice, sounding so gruff and deep and so unexpected, made me jump in the air.

Mother assented in her gentle voice, and we plodded on as before, I wishing with all my heart that we had never left that cosy kitchen, for I could not see how we were to cover another three miles in this fashion. I said not a word, however, for I would not have gainsaid mother in this journey, considering how much there was at stake.

It was she herself who came to a standstill after walking another half mile.

"Monsieur," she called faintly, "I do not think I can go farther."

He turned round then and, was it my fancy? but I thought, as he retraced his steps to our side, that an evil grin was making his ugly face still uglier.