Chapter M: Lefuse (1)

A loud knocking sounded at the door.

"Jean Paulet," cried a voice, "how much longer am I to stand and knock? Unbar the door!"

"Why, it is Monsieur de Marigny!" exclaimed the farmer, and hurried to let his visitor in.

"Ah, Jean Paulet! You are no braver than when I saw you last!" laughed the tall man who entered, wrapped in a great cloak that fell in many folds. "I see you have not joined those who fight for freedom, but have kept peacefully to your farm. 'Tis a comfortable thing to play the coward in these days! And I would that you would give a little of the comfort to this small comrade of mine." From beneath the shelter of his cloak a childish face peered out at the farmer and his wife.

"Ah, Monsieur! that is certainly your little Rosette!" exclaimed Madame Paulet. "Yes, yes, I have heard of her--how you adopted the poor little one when her father was dead of a bullet and her mother of grief and exposure; and how, since, you have loved and cared for her and kept her ever at your side!"

"Well, that is finished. We are on the eve of a great battle--God grant us victory!" he said reverently--"and I have brought the little one to you to pray you guard and shelter her till I return again. What, Jean Paulet! You hesitate? Before this war I was a good landlord to you. Will you refuse this favour to me now?" asked de Marigny, looking sternly down on the farmer from his great height.

"I--I do not say that I refuse--but I am a poor defenceless man; 'tis a dangerous business to shelter rebels--ah, pardon! loyalists--in these times!" stammered Jean Paulet.

"No more dangerous than serving both sides! Some among this republic's officers would give much to know who betrayed them, once, not long ago. You remember, farmer? What if _I_ told tales?" asked de Marigny grimly.

"Eh! but you will not!" exclaimed the terrified man. "No, no! I am safe in your hands; you are a man of honour, Monsieur--and the child shall stay! Yes, yes; for your sake!"

De Marigny caught up Rosette and kissed her. "Sweetheart, you must stay here in safety. What? You are 'not afraid to go'? No, but I am afraid to take you, little one. Ah, vex me not by crying; I will soon come to you again!" He took a step towards the farmer. "Jean Paulet, I leave my treasure in your hands. If aught evil happen to her, I think I should go mad with grief," he said slowly. "And a madman is dangerous, my friend; he is apt to be unreasonable, to disbelieve excuses, and to shoot those whom he fancies have betrayed him! So pray you that I find Rosette in safety when I come again. Farewell!"

But before he disappeared into the night, he turned smiling to the child. "Farewell, little one. In the brighter days I will come for thee again. Forget me not!"

* * * * *

Round Jean Paulet's door one bright afternoon clustered a troop of the republican soldiers, eyeing indolently the perspiring farmer as he ran to and fro with water for their horses, and sweetening his labours with scraps of the latest news.

"Hé, Paulet," suddenly asked the corporal, "hast heard anything of the rebel General Marigny?"

"No!" replied the farmer hurriedly. "What should I hear? Is he still alive?"

"Yes, curse him! So, too, is that wretched girl, daughter of a vile aristocrat, that he saved from starvation. Bah! as if starving was not too good a death for her! But there is a price set on Marigny, and a reward would be given for the child too. So some one will soon betray them, and then--why, we will see if they had not rather have starved!" he said ferociously.

"I--I have heard this Marigny is a brave man," observed the farmer timidly.

"That is why we want the child! There is nothing would humble him save perchance to find he could not save the child he loves from torture. Ha! ha! we shall have a merry time then!"

"Doubtless this Marigny is no friend to the republic," said the farmer hesitatingly.

The corporal laughed noisily as he gathered up his horse's reins. "Head and front of this insurrection--an accursed rebel! But he shall pay for it, he shall pay; and so will all those fools who have helped him!"

And the little band of soldiers rode away, shouting and jesting, leaving Jean Paulet with a heart full of fear.

With trembling fingers he pushed open the house door, and, stepping into the kitchen, found Rosette crouched beneath the open window. "Heard you what they said--that they are seeking for you?" he gasped.

Rosette nodded. "They have done that this long time," she observed coolly.

[Sidenote: "They must find You!"]

"But--but--some time they must find you!" he stammered.

Rosette laughed. "Perhaps--if I become as stupid a coward as Jean Paulet."

The farmer frowned. "I am no coward--I am an experienced man. And I tell you--I, with the weight of forty years behind me--that they will find you some time."

"And I tell you--I," mimicked Rosette saucily, "with the weight of my twelve years behind me--that I have lived through so many perils, I should be able to live through another!"

"'Tis just that!" said the farmer angrily. "You have no prudence; you take too many risks; you expose yourself to fearful dangers." He shuddered.

"What you fear is that I shall expose you," returned Rosette cheerfully. "Hé, well! a man can but die once, Farmer Paulet."

"That is just it!" exclaimed the farmer vivaciously. "If I had six lives I should not mind dying five times; but having only the one, I cannot afford to lose it! And, besides, I have my wife to think of."

Rosette meditated a moment. "Better late than never, Farmer Paulet. I have heard tell you never thought of that before." The sharp little face softened. "She is a good woman, your wife!"

"True, true! She is a good woman, and you would not care for her to be widowed. Consider if it would not be better if I placed you in safety elsewhere."

"Jean Paulet! Jean Paulet!" mocked Rosette; "I doubt if I should do your wife a kindness if I saved your skin."

Jean Paulet wagged a forefinger at her angrily. "You will come to a bad end with a tongue like that! If it were not for the respect I owe to Monsieur de Marigny----"

"Marigny's pistol!" interrupted Rosette.

"Ah, bah! What is to prevent my abandoning you?" asked the farmer furiously.

Rosette swung her bare legs thoughtfully. "Papa Marigny is a man of his word--and you lack five of your half-dozen lives, Jean Paulet."

"See you it is dangerous!" returned her protector desperately. "My wife she is not here to advise me; she is in the fields----"

"I have noticed she works hard," murmured Rosette.

[Sidenote: To the Uplands!]

"And I will not keep you here. But for the respect I owe Monsieur de Marigny, I am willing to sacrifice something. I have a dozen of sheep in the field down there--ah! la, la! they represent a lifetime's savings, but I will sacrifice them for my safety--no, no; for Monsieur de Marigny, I mean!" he wailed. "You shall drive them to the uplands and stay there out of danger. I do not think you will meet with soldiers; but if you do, at the worst they will only take a sheep--ah! my sheep!" he broke off distressfully. "Now do not argue. Get you gone before my wife returns. See, I will put a little food in this handkerchief. There, you may tell Monsieur de Marigny I have been loyal to him. Go, go! and, above all, remember never to come near me again, or say those sheep are mine. You will be safe, quite safe."

Rosette laughed. "You have a kind heart, Jean Paulet," she mocked. "But I think perhaps you are right. You are too much of a poltroon to be a safe comrade in adversity."

She sprang from her chair and ran to the doorway. Then she looked back. "Hark you, Jean Paulet! This price upon my head--it is a fine price, hé? Well, I am little, but I have a tongue, and _I know what my papa de Marigny knows_. Ah! the fine tale to tell, if they catch us! Eh? Farewell."

She ran lightly across the yard, pausing a moment when a yellow mongrel dog leaped up and licked her chin. "Hé, Gegi, you love me better than your master does!" she said, stooping to pat his rough coat. "And you do not love your master any better than I do, eh? Why, then you had better keep sheep too! There is a brave idea. Come, Gegi, come!" And together they ran off through the sunshine.

* * * * *

It was very cold that autumn up on the higher lands, very cold and very lonely.

Also several days had passed since Rosette had ventured down to the nearest friendly farm to seek for food, and her little store of provisions was nearly finished.

"You and I must eat, Gegi. Stay with the sheep, little one, while I go and see if I can reach some house in safety." And, the yellow mongrel offering no objection, Rosette started.

She was not the only person in La Vendée who lacked food. Thousands of loyal peasants starved, and the republican soldiers themselves were not too plentifully supplied. Certainly they grumbled bitterly sometimes, as did that detachment of them who sheltered themselves from the keen wind under the thick hedge that divided the rough road leading to La Plastière from the fields.

"Bah! we live like pigs in these days!" growled one of the men.

"It is nothing," said another. "Think what we shall get at La Plastière! The village has a few fat farmers, who have escaped pillaging so far by the love they bore, as they said, to the good republic. But that is ended: once we have caught this rascal Marigny in their midst, we can swear they are not good republicans."

"But," objected the first speaker, "they may say they knew nothing of this Marigny hiding in the château!"

"They may say so--but we need not believe them!" returned his companion.

"Ah, bah! I would believe or not believe anything, so long as it brought us a good meal! How long before we reach this village, comrade?"

"Till nightfall. We would not have Marigny watch our coming. This time we will make sure of the scoundrel."

Rosette, standing hidden behind the hedge, clenched her hands tightly at the word. She would have given much to have flung it back at the man, but prudence suggested it would be better to be discreet and help Marigny. She turned and ran along under the hedge, and away back to where she had left her little flock, her bare feet falling noiselessly on the damp ground.

"Ah, Gegi!" she panted, flinging herself beside the yellow mongrel, "the soldiers are very near, and they are going to surprise my beloved papa de Marigny. What must we do, Gegi, you and I, to save him?"

Gegi rolled sharply on to his back and lay staring up at the skies as if he was considering the question. Rosette rested her chin on her drawn-up knees and thought fiercely. She knew in what direction lay the château of La Plastière, and she knew that to reach it she must cross the countryside, and cross, too, in full view of the soldiers below; or else--and that was the shorter way--go along the road by which they encamped.

Rosette frowned. If they spied her skulking in the distance, they would probably conclude she carried a message that might be valuable to them and pursue her. If she walked right through them? Bah! Would they know it was Rosette--Rosette, for whose capture a fine reward would be given?

She did not look much like an aristocrat's child, she thought, glancing at her bare brown legs and feet, and her stained, torn blue frock. Her dark, matted curls were covered with a crimson woollen cap--her every garment would have been suitable for a peasant child's wear; and Rosette was conscious that her size was more like that of a child of seven than that of one of twelve. She had passed unknown through many soldiers--would these have a more certain knowledge of her?

[Sidenote: "How am I to Settle it?"]

"Oh, Gegi!" she sighed; "how am I to settle it?"

Gegi wagged his tail rapidly and encouragingly, but offered no further help.

If she went across country the way was longer far, and there was a big risk. If she went near those soldiers and was known, why, risk would become a certainty. That Death would stare into her face then, none knew better than Rosette; but Death was also very near Rosette's beloved de Marigny, the man who had cared for her and loved her with all the warmth of his big, generous heart.

"Ah! if my papa de Marigny dies, I may as well die too, Gegi," she whispered wearily. The yellow mongrel cocked one ear with a rather doubtful expression. "Well, we must take the risk. If papa de Marigny is to live, you and I, Gegi, must take him warning!" Rosette cried, springing to her feet; and Gegi signified his entire approval in a couple of short barks. "I will take the sheep," his little mistress murmured; "'tis slower, but they will be so pleased to see them. Poor Jean Paulet!" she thought, with a faint smile.

Gegi bounded lightly through a gap in the hedge, and dashed up to the soldiers inquisitively. With an oath, one of the men hurled a stone at him, which Gegi easily dodged, and another man stretched out his hand for his musket.

"There are worse flavours than dog's meat," he observed coolly. "Come, little beast, you shall finish your life gloriously, nourishing soldiers of the republic!" He placed his gun in position.

"Hé! you leave my dog alone!" called Rosette sharply, as she stepped into the roadway. "He has the right to live," she added, as she moved jauntily up to them. Her pert little face showed nothing of the anguish in her heart.

"Not if I want him for my supper," observed the soldier, grinning at his comrades, who changed their position to obtain a better view of the coming sport.

"But you do not," corrected Rosette. "If you need to eat dog, search for the dog of an accursed fugitive!"

The men laughed. "How do we know this is not one?" they asked.

"I will show you. Hé, Gegi!" she called, and the dog came and sat in front of her. "Listen, Gegi. Would you bark for a monarchy?" The yellow mongrel glanced round him indifferently. "Gegi!" his mistress called imperiously, "do you cheer for the glorious republic?" And for answer, Gegi flung up his head and barked.

"You see?" asked Rosette, turning to the grinning man. "He is your brother, that little dog. And you may not eat your brother, you know," she added gravely.

[Sidenote: "Whose Sheep are those?"]

"Hé, by the Mass! whose sheep are those?" cried a soldier suddenly.

"They are mine, or rather they are my master's; I am taking them back to the farm."

"Why, then, we will spare you the trouble. I hope they, too, are not good republicans," he jested.

"I have called them after your great leaders--but they do not always answer to their names," Rosette assured him seriously.

"Then they are only worthy to be executed. Your knife, comrade," cried one of the men, jumping to his feet. "What, more of them! Six, seven, eight," he counted, as the sheep came through the gap. "Why, 'twill be quite a massacre of traitors."

"Oh, please! you cannot eat them all! Leave me some, that I may drive back with me, else my master will beat me!" implored Rosette, beginning to fear that her chances of passing towards the far distant village were lessening.

"Your master! Who is your master?"

"He is a farmer down there," nodding vaguely as she spoke.

"Hark you! Have you by any chance seen a man bigger than the average skulking thereabouts?"

She shook her head. "There are few big men round here--none so fine as you!" she said prettily.

The man gave a proud laugh. "Ah! we of Paris are a fine race."

Rosette nodded. "My Master is a good republican. You will let me take him back the sheep," she coaxed.

"Why, those that remain," the soldier replied, with a grin. "Sho! sho! Those that run you can follow. Ah, behold!" Rosette needed no second bidding, but started after the remnant of her little troop.

"Hé!" called one of the soldiers to his comrades--and the wind bore the words to Rosette--"you are fools to let that child pass! For aught we know, she may be spying for the rebels."

As the men stared after her irresolute, Rosette slackened her pace, flung up her head, and in her clear childish treble began to sing that ferocious chant, then at the height of its popularity, which is now the national hymn of France. So singing, she walked steadily down the long road, hopeful that she might yet save the man who was a father to her.

* * * * *

It was almost dusk outside the desolate, half-ruined château of La Plastière. Within its walls the shadows of night were already thickly gathered--shadows so dark that a man might have lurked unseen in them. Some such thought came to Rosette as she stood hesitating in the great hall. How silent the place was! The only noises came from without--the wind sobbing strangely in the garden, the ghostly rustling of the leaves, the moan of the dark, swift river. Ah! there was something moving in the great hall! What was it? A rat dashed by, close to Rosette's feet; then the hall settled again into unbroken silence.

The child's heart beat quickly. She hated, feared, the shadows and the quiet.

Yet she must go forward; she dare not call aloud, and she must find de Marigny, if, indeed, he was still there.

She groped her way to the broad stone stairs. How dark it was! She glanced up fearfully. Surely something up above her in the shadow on the stairway moved. She shrank back.

"Coward! little coward!" she muttered. And to scare away her fear she began to sing softly, very softly, a tender little song de Marigny himself had taught to her.

"Stay thy hand, man! It is Rosette!" cried a voice from above her, shattering the silence. And the shadow that had moved before moved again, and a man from crouching on the step rose suddenly in front of her.

"Why did you not speak? I thought we were like to be discovered, and I had nearly killed you. Curse this dark!"

"Hush!" whispered Rosette. "Hush! you are betrayed! The soldiers are coming. Oh, Papa de Marigny," she murmured, as he came down the stairway, "they are to be here at dusk. Is it too late? I tried to get here sooner, but--it was such a long road!" she ended, with a sob.

De Marigny gathered her in his arms. "And such a little traveller! Never mind, sweetheart, we will cheat them yet," he said tenderly. "Warn the others, Lacroix!"

[Sidenote: Flight]

But Lacroix had done that already. The house was full now of stealthy sounds and moving shadows descending the great staircase. De Marigny, carrying Rosette, led the way across the garden behind the house, towards the river that cut the countryside in half. The stillness of the night was broken suddenly by the neighing of a not far distant horse.

"The soldiers! the rebels, papa!" cried Rosette.

De Marigny whispered softly to one of his companions, who ran swiftly away from him, and busied himself drawing from its hiding-place a small boat. They could hear the tramp of horses now, near, very near, and yet the men seated silent in the boat held tightly to the bank.

Hark! The thud, thud of running footsteps came to Rosette, nearer, nearer, and the man for whom they waited sprang from the bank into their midst.

A moment later they were caught by the swift current and carried out into the centre of the broad river.

"Now, if my plan does not miscarry, we are safe!" cried de Marigny exultantly.

"But, papa, dear one, they will follow us across the river and stop our landing!" cried Rosette anxiously.

De Marigny chuckled. "Providentially the river flows too fast, little one, for man or horse to ford it. The bridge yonder in the field is the only way to cross the river for many miles. And I do not think they will try the bridge, for I was not so foolish as not to prepare for a surprise visit many days ago. Look, little one!" he added suddenly.

Rosette held her breath as away up the river a great flame streamed up through the darkness, followed by a loud explosion, and she saw fragments of wood hurled like playthings high into the air. Some, as they fell again to earth, turned into blazing torches. For far around trees and hedges showed distinctly; the gleaming river, the garden, and the château stood out clear in the flaming light.

Round the château tore two or three frightened, plunging horses, and the desperate gestures of their riders could easily be seen by Rosette for a moment before their craft was hidden by a turn in the river bank.

* * * * *

Monsieur de Marigny rejoined the loyalists across the river, and, animated by his presence, the struggle against the republic was resumed with great firmness.

Whenever de Marigny rode among his peasant soldiers, he, their idol, was greeted with many a lively cheer, which yet grew louder and more joyful when he carried before him on his horse Rosette, the brave child who had saved their leader's life at the risk of her own.

[Sidenote: A few plain hints to the teachable.]

Golf for Girls

BY

AN OLD STAGER

I veil my identity because I am not a girl--old or young. Being, indeed, a mere man, it becomes me to offer advice with modesty.

And, of course, in the matter of golf, women--many of them no more than girls--play so well that men cannot affect any assurance of superiority. On my own course I sometimes come upon a middle-aged married couple playing with great contentment a friendly game. The wife always drives the longer ball, and upon most occasions manages to give her husband a few strokes and a beating.

However, I did not start out to write a disquisition on women as golfers, but only to offer some hints on golf for girls.

And first, as to making a start.

The best way is the way that is not possible to everybody. No girl plays golf so naturally or so well as the girl who learned it young; who, armed with a light cleek or an iron, wandered around the links in company with her small brothers almost as soon as she was big enough to swing a club. Such a girl probably had the advantage of seeing the game played well by her elders, and she would readily learn to imitate their methods. Of course, very young learners may and do pick up bad habits; but a little good advice will soon correct these if the learner is at all keen on the game.

A girl who grows up under these conditions--and many do in Scotland--does not need any hints from me. She starts under ideal conditions, and ought to make the most of them. Others begin at a later age, with fewer advantages, and perhaps without much help to be got at home.

How, then, to begin. Be sure of one thing: you cannot learn to play golf out of your own head, or even by an intelligent study of books on the subject. For, if you try, you will do wrong and yet be unable to say _what_ you are doing wrong. In that you will not be peculiar. Many an experienced golfer will suddenly pick up a fault. After a few bad strokes he knows he is wrong somewhere, but may not be able to spot the particular defect. Perhaps a kindly disposed opponent--who knows his disposition, for not everybody will welcome or take advice--tells him; and then in a stroke or two he puts the thing right. So you need a teacher.

Generally speaking, a professional is the best teacher, because he has had the most experience in instruction. But professionals vary greatly in teaching capacity, and cannot be expected in every case to take the same interest in a pupil's progress that a friend may. If you are to have the help of a relative or friend, try to get competent help. There _are_ well-meaning persons whose instruction had better be shunned as the plague.

Let your teacher choose your clubs for you, and, in any case, do not make the mistake of fitting yourself up at first either with too many clubs or with clubs too heavy for you.

As to first steps in learning, I am disposed to think that an old-time method, by which young people learned first to use _one_ club with some skill and confidence before going on to another, was a good one. In that case they would begin with a cleek or an iron before using the driver.

The learner should give great attention to some first principles. Let her note the _grip_ she is told to use. Very likely it will seem to her uncomfortable, and not at all the most convenient way of holding a club in order to hit a ball; but it is the result of much experience, and has not been arbitrarily chosen for her especial discomfort.

In like manner the stance, or way of standing when making a stroke, must be noted carefully and copied exactly. In private practice defy the inward tempter which suggests that you can do much better in some other way. Don't, above all, allow yourself to think that you will hit the ball more surely if you stand farther behind it--not even if you have seen your brother tee a ball away to the left of his left foot and still get a long shot.

[Sidenote: "Keep your Eye on the Ball"]

Don't think that the perpetual injunction, "Keep your eye on the ball," is an irritating formula with little reason behind it. It is, as a matter of fact, a law quite as much for your teacher as for yourself. And don't suppose that you _have_ kept your eye on the ball because you think you have. It is wonderful how easy it is to keep your eye glued--so to speak--to the ball until the very half-second when that duty is most important and then to lift the head, spoiling the shot. If you can persuade yourself to look at the ball all through the stroke, and to look at the spot where the ball was even after the ball is away, you will find that you not only hit the ball satisfactorily but that it flies straighter than you had hitherto found it willing to do. When you are getting on, and begin to have some satisfaction with yourself, then remember that this maxim still requires as close observance as ever. If you find yourself off your game--such as it is--ask yourself at once, "Am I keeping my eye on the ball?" And don't be in a hurry to assume that you were.

Always bear in mind, too, that you want to hit the ball with a kind of combined motion, which is to include the swing of your body. You are not there to use your arms only. If you begin young, you will, I expect, find little difficulty in this. It is, to older players, quite amazing how readily a youngster will fall into a swing that is the embodiment of grace and ease.

Putting is said by some to be not an art but an inspiration. Perhaps that is why ladies take so readily to it. On the green a girl is at no disadvantage with a boy. But remember that there is no ordinary stroke over which care pays so well as the putt; and that there is no stroke in which carelessness can be followed by such humiliating disaster. Don't think it superfluous to examine the line of a putt; and don't, on any account, suppose that, because the ball is near the hole, you are bound to run it down.

Forgive me for offering a piece of advice which ought to be superfluous and is not. I have sometimes found ladies most culpably careless in the matter of divots. It is a fundamental rule that, if in playing you cut out a piece of turf, you or your caddy should replace it. Never, under any circumstances, neglect this rule or allow your caddy to neglect it. Nobody who consistently neglects this rule ought to be allowed on any course.

A word as to clothing. I _have_ seen ladies playing in hats that rather suggested the comparative repose of a croquet lawn on a hot summer's day. But of course you only want good sense as your guide in this matter. Ease without eccentricity should be your aim. Remember, too, that whilst men like to play golf in old clothes, and often have a kind of superstitious regard for some disgracefully old and dirty jacket, a girl must not follow their example. Be sure, in any case, that your boots or shoes are strong and water-tight.

[Sidenote: Keep your Heart up!]

Finally, keep your heart up! Golf is a game of moods and vagaries. It is hard to say why one plays well one day and badly another; well, perhaps, when in bad health, and badly when as fit as possible; well, perhaps, when you have started expecting nothing, and badly when you have felt that you could hit the ball over the moon. Why one may play well for three weeks and then go to pieces; why one will go off a particular club and suddenly do wonders with a club neglected; why on certain days everything goes well--any likely putt running down, every ball kicking the right way, every weak shot near a hazard scrambling out of danger, every difficult shot coming off; and why on other days every shot that can go astray will go astray--these are mysteries which no man can fathom. But they add to the infinite variety of the game; only requiring that you should have inexhaustible patience and hope as part of your equipment. And patience is a womanly virtue.

[Sidenote: A mere oversight nearly wrecked two lives. Happily the mistake was discovered before remedy had become impossible.]

Sunny Miss Martyn

A Christmas Story

BY

SOMERVILLE GIBNEY

"Goodbye, Miss Martyn, and a merry Christmas to you!"

"Goodbye, Miss Martyn; how glad you must be to get rid of us all! But I shall remember you on Christmas Day."

"Goodbye, dear Miss Martyn; I hope you won't feel dull. We shall all think of you and wish you were with us, I know. A very happy Christmas to you."

"The same to you, my dears, and many of them. Goodbye, goodbye; and, mind, no nonsense at the station. I look to you, Lesbia, to keep the others in order."

"Trust me, Miss Martyn; we'll be very careful."

"I really think I ought to have gone with you and seen you safely off, and----"

"No, no, no--you may really trust us. We've all of us travelled before, and we will behave, honour bright!"

[Sidenote: Off for the Holidays]

And with a further chorus of farewells and Christmas wishes, the six or seven girls, varying in age from twelve to seventeen, who had been taking their places in the station 'bus, waved their hands and blew kisses through the windows as the door slammed, and it rolled down the drive of Seaton Lodge over the crisp, hard-frozen snow. And more and more indistinct grew the merry farewells, till the gate was reached, and the conveyance turning into the lane, the noisy occupants were hidden from sight and hearing to the kindly-faced, smiling lady, who, with a thick shawl wrapped about her shoulders, stood watching its departure on the hall steps.

For some moments longer she remained silent, immovable, her eyes directed towards the distant gate. But her glance went far beyond. It had crossed the gulf of many years, and was searching the land of "Never More."

At length the look on her face changed, and with a sigh she turned on her heel and re-entered the house.

And how strangely silent it had suddenly become! It no longer rang with the joyous young voices that had echoed through it that morning, revelling in the freedom of the commencement of the Christmas holidays.

Selina Martyn heaved another sigh; she missed her young charges; her resident French governess had left the previous day for her home at Neuilly; and now, with the exception of the servants, she had the house to herself, and she hated it.

A feeling of depression was on her, but she fought against it; there was much to be done. Christmas would be on her in a couple of days, and no sooner would that be passed than the bills would pour in; and in order to satisfy them her own accounts must go out. Then there were all the rooms to be put straight, for schoolgirls are by no means the most tidy of beings. She had plenty of work before her, and she faced it.

But evening came at last, and found her somewhat weary after her late dinner, and disinclined to do anything more, except sit in front of the blazing fire in her own little room and dream. Outside, the frost continued sharper than ever, and faintly there came to her ear the sounds of the distant bells practising for the coming festival, and once more for the second time that day her thoughts flew backwards over the mist of years.

She was a lonely old woman, she told herself; and so she was, as far as relatives went, but miserable she was not. She was as bright and sunny as many of us, and a great deal more so than some. Her life had had its ups and downs, its bright and dark hours; but she had learnt to dwell on the former and put the latter in the background, hiding them under the mercies she had received; and so she became to be known in Stourton as "sunny Miss Martyn," and no name could have been more applicable.

And as the flames roared up the chimney this winter night, she thought of the young hearts that had left her that morning and of their happiness that first night at home. She had known what that was herself. She had been a schoolgirl once--a schoolgirl in this very house, and had left it as they had left it that morning to return to a loving home. Her father had been well off in those days; she was his only child, and all he had to care for, her mother dying at her birth. They had been all in all to each other, and the days of her girlhood were the brightest of her life.

He missed his "little sunbeam," as he called her, when she was away at Seaton Lodge--for it was called Seaton Lodge even then; but they made up for the separation when the holidays came and they were together once more, and more especially at Christmas-time, that season of parties and festivities. Mr. Martyn was a hospitable man, and his entertainments were many, and his neighbours and friends were not slow in returning his kindnesses; so that Christmas-time was a dream of excitement and delight as far as Selina was concerned.

[Sidenote: A Bank Failure]

But a break came to those happy times: a joint stock bank, in which Mr. Martyn had invested, failed, and he was ruined. The shock was more than his somewhat weak heart could stand, and it killed him.

His daughter was just sixteen at the time, and the head pupil at Seaton Lodge. She was going to leave at the end of the half-year; but now all was changed. Instead of returning home to be mistress of her father's house, she would have to work for her living, and the opportunity for doing so came more quickly than she had dared to hope.

With Miss Clayton, the mistress, she had been a favourite from the first day she had entered the school, and the former now made her the offer of remaining on as a pupil teacher. Without hesitation the girl accepted. She had no relatives; Seaton Lodge was her second home; she was loved there, and she would not be dependent; and from that hour never had she to regret her decision.

When her father's affairs were settled up there remained but a few pounds a year for her, but these she was able to put by, for Miss Clayton was no niggard towards those that served her, and Selina received sufficient salary for clothes and pocket-money.

After the first agony of the shock had passed away, her life was a happy if a quiet one. Her companions all loved her; she was to them a friend rather than a governess, and few were the holidays when she did not receive more than one invitation to spend part of them at the homes of some of her pupil friends.

She had been a permanent resident at Seaton Lodge some three years when the romance of her life took place.

Among the elder pupils at that time was Maude Elliott, whose father's house was not many miles distant from her friend's former home. She had taken a great fancy to Selina, and on several occasions had carried her off to spend a portion of the holidays with her, and it was at her home that she had made the acquaintance of Edgar Freeman, Maude's cousin. A young mining engineer, he had spent some years in Newfoundland, and had returned to complete his studies for his full diploma at the School of Mines, spending such time as he could spare at his uncle's house.

Almost before she was aware of it, he had made a prisoner of the lonely little pupil-teacher's heart, and when she was convinced of the fact she fought against it, deeming herself a traitor to her friend, to whom she imagined he was attached, mistaking cousinly affection for something warmer.

Then came that breaking-up for the Christmas holidays which she remembered so well, when she was to have followed Maude in a few days to her home, where she and Edgar would once more be together; and then the great disappointment when, two days before she was to have started, Miss Clayton was taken ill with pneumonia, and she had to stay and nurse her.

How well she remembered that terrible time! It was the most dreary Christmas she had ever experienced--mild, dull, and sloppy, the rain falling by the hour, and fog blurring everything outside the house, while added to this was the anxiety she felt for the invalid.

Christmas Day was the worst of the whole time; outside everything was wet and dripping, and even indoors the air felt raw and chilly, penetrating to the bones, and resulting in a continual state of shivers. There was no bright Christmas service for Selina that morning: she must remain at home and look after her charge, for, save the invalid, the servants and herself, the house was empty.

But there was one glad moment for her--the arrival of the postman. He was late, of course, but when he did come he brought her a budget of letters and parcels that convinced her she was not forgotten by her absent schoolgirl friends. With a hasty glance over them, she put them on one side until after dinner, when, her patient having been seen to, she would have a certain amount of time to herself.

But that one glance had been sufficient to bring a flush of pleasure to her cheeks, and to invest the gloomy day with a happiness that before was absent. She had recognised on one envelope an address in a bold, firm writing, very different from the neat, schoolgirl caligraphy of the rest; and when her hour of leisure arrived, and over a roaring fire she was able to examine her presents and letters, this one big envelope was reserved to the last.

[Sidenote: Romance]

Her fingers trembled as she opened the still damp covering, and saw a large card with a raised satin medallion in the centre, on which were printed two verses, the words of which caused the hot colour to remount to her cheeks, and her heart to redouble its beats.

There was no mistaking the meaning of those lines; love breathed from every letter, and, with a hasty look round to make sure she was alone, the happy girl pressed the inanimate paper, satin, printer's ink, and colours to her lips as though in answer to the message it contained.

The feeling of loneliness had vanished; there was some one who loved her, to whom she was dearer than all others, and the world looked different in consequence. It was a happy Christmas Day to her after all, in spite of her depressing surroundings; and Miss Clayton noticed the change in her young nurse, and in the evening, when thanking her for all she had done for her, hoped she had not found it "so very dull."

That night Selina Martyn, foolish in her new-found happiness, placed the envelope, around which the damp still hung, beneath her pillow, and dreamed of the bright future she deemed in store for her.

He would write to her, or perhaps come and see her; yes, he would come and see her, and let her hear from his own lips what his missive had so plainly hinted at. And in her happiness she waited. She waited, and waited till her heart grew sick with disappointed longing.

The days passed, but never a word came from the one who had grown so dear to her, and as they passed the gladness faded from her face, and the light went out from her eyes.

At last she could but feel that she had been mistaken. It was only a foolish joke that had meant nothing, and her heart grew hot within her. How could she have been so weak and silly as to have imagined such a thing? She put the envelope and its contents away, and, saddened and subdued, fought bravely to return to her former self.

Miss Clayton made a slow recovery, and when convalescent went for a change to the sea, carrying off Selina with her, for she had noticed the change in the girl, and put it down to her labours in the sick-room.

School-time commenced again, but without Maude Elliott as a pupil; she had gone to be "finished" to a school in Lausanne, and it was months before Selina received a letter from her, and then she only casually mentioned that her cousin Edgar had left them directly after Christmas for a good appointment in Brazil, where he expected to remain for some years.

With that letter the last traces of Selina Martyn's romance ended. It had crossed her life like a shooting star, and had only left a remembrance behind.

But that remembrance never entirely died; its sharp edge was dulled, and as the years went on--and in time she took Miss Clayton's place as the head of Seaton Lodge--she came to regard the unrequited bestowal of her young affections as an incident to be smiled over, without any vindictive feelings.

And now, when the silver hairs were beginning to make their appearance among the ruddy gold, she would each Christmas take out from its hiding-place in the old-fashioned, brass-bound writing-desk the time-stained envelope, and compare the old-world design within with the modern and more florid cards, and in her heart of hearts she found more beauty in the simple wreath of holly with the couple of robins perched above and the bunch of mistletoe hanging below than in its more ornate followers of the present time.

[Sidenote: Christmas Morning]

It was Christmas morning--an ideal Christmas morning. The frost had been keen the previous night, and the branches of the trees had donned a sparkling white livery. The sun shone brightly, but there was little warmth in its rays, and the snow had crunched and chittered as "sunny Miss Martyn" had made her way over it to the church, smiling and sending bright glances to right and left of her, for there were few in Stourton with whom she was not acquainted. And now, her lunch over--she was going out to dinner that evening--she sat by the fire with a big pile of envelopes and parcels beside her. Her pupils never forgot her, and the day would have seemed incomplete to each one of them without a card despatched to Miss Martyn.

Her bundle was a large one, and took some time to get through; and then the cards had all to be arranged on the mantelpiece. But at length her task was done, and as her custom was, she went to the brass-bound desk standing on a table in the corner, and, taking out the now worn envelope, resumed her seat by the fire.

She had gazed on its contents on many a Christmas day before, but on this particular day--she never knew why--the memory of the sorrow it had caused her seemed keener, and she found the tears were gathering in her eyes, and that one of them had fallen on the edge of the satin medallion bearing the verses.

With her handkerchief she wiped it away, but in doing so a fold of the cambric caught the filagree, and she learnt what she had never known before--that the medallion opened like a little door, and that below it a folded scrap of paper lay concealed.

What could it mean?

With fingers that trembled so much that they almost refused their task she took it out, unfolded it, and, spreading it flat, read the words that long years ago would have meant all the world to her.

How cruel had Fate been to her to have hidden them for so long! But the thought only remained in her mind a moment, being blotted out by the remembrance that he was not heartless, as she had grown to believe.

The faded lines before her laid a strong man's heart at her feet, and begged for her love in return, stating that he had been suddenly called to a distant post, and asking for an answer before he sailed. The writer felt he was presumptuous, but the exigencies of the case must be his excuse. If he had no reply he should know his pleading was in vain, and would trouble her no more; but if, on the other hand, she was not entirely indifferent to him, a line from her would bring him to her side to plead his cause in person. There was more in the letter, but this was its main purpose.

And this was the end of if: two loving hearts divided and kept apart by a damp day and an accidental drop of gum.

No wonder the tears flowed afresh, and "sunny Miss Martyn" belied her character.

She was still bending over the sheet of paper spread out on her knee when, with a knock at the door, the servant entered, saying:

"A gentleman to see you, Miss."

Hastily brushing away the traces from her cheeks, Miss Martyn rose, to see a tall, grey-haired man standing in the doorway, regarding her with a bright smile on his face.

She did not recognise him; he was a stranger to her, and yet----

The next moment he strode forward with outstretched hand.

"Selina Martyn, don't you know me? And you have altered so little!"

A moment longer she stood in doubt, and then with a little gasp exclaimed:

[Sidenote: "Edgar!"]

"Edgar! Mr. Freeman--I--I didn't know you. You--you see, it is so long since--since I had that pleasure."

And while she was speaking she was endeavouring with her foot to draw out of sight the paper that had fallen from her lap when she had risen.

He noticed her apron, and with an "Excuse me" bent down, and, picking it up, laid it on the table. As he did so his eyes fell for a moment on the writing, and he started slightly, but did not refer to it.

"Thank you," she said, and her cheeks had suddenly lost their colour, and her hand trembled as she indicated an armchair on the other side of the fireplace, saying, "Won't you sit down?"

He did so, easily and naturally, as though paying an ordinary afternoon call.

"Selina Martyn, you're looking remarkably well, and nearly as young as ever," he continued.

She raised her eyes shyly, and smiled as she replied, "Do you really think so, Mr. Freeman?"

"Call me Edgar, I like it better; and we've known each other long enough to account for your doing so." He did not give her a chance of objecting, but continued, "I only landed in England yesterday, and you are the first person I've called on. I got your address from my cousin, Mrs. Perry--Maud Elliott that was; she's living in Monte Video, you know; I saw her for a few hours as I passed through. Really, Selina, you're looking prettier than ever, I declare!"

"You mustn't flatter an old woman, Mr. Freeman--well--Edgar, if you wish it. I don't think perhaps there is anything unmaidenly in my using your Christian name. We've known each other a great many years now, as you say."

"We have indeed, my dear lady. And we might have known each other a great deal better if--if--well, if you had only seen your way to it. But there--that's all passed now. And yet----"

"Yes, that's all passed now." And Selina gave a little sigh, yet loud enough for her visitor to hear it, and he moved his chair from the side to the front of the fire as she continued, "Do you know--Edgar--just before you came in I made a discovery--I found something that reached me a day or two before you sailed, and that I had never seen till half an hour ago," and she looked down at her fingers that were playing with the end of the delicate lace fichu she was wearing.

A smile came over her visitor's face, but he only said:

"'Pon my word, Selina, you're a very beautiful woman! I've carried your face in my memory all these years, but I see now how half-blind I must have been."

"You mustn't talk nonsense to an old woman like me. I want to tell you something, and I don't know how to do it."

"Don't try. Let me guess, and you tell me if I'm right."

Miss Martyn did not answer in words, only bowed her head, and he continued, with a glance at the paper lying on the table:

"You once received what you considered a very impertinent letter from me?"

"I don't think impertinent is the right term," replied Selina, not raising her eyes.

"Then, my dear lady, why did you not let me have an answer?"

"Oh, Edgar, I only discovered it a few minutes before you came," and casting aside all reserve, she told him of the unfortunate combination of the damp Christmas morning and the drop of gum that had so disastrously separated them.

Long before the recital was complete her visitor had shifted his chair again and again until it was close beside her own.

"You poor, dear woman!" he exclaimed, as his arm stole quietly round her waist, and Miss Martyn suffered it to remain there.

"Why did you hide your letter inside, Edgar?" she asked quietly.

"I suppose because I didn't want to startle you, and thought you should see the verses first. May I see it now?" he continued. "It's so long since I wrote it, you see."

"Yes, you may see it," replied Selina, without raising her eyes; "but it's all passed now," with another little sigh.

His disengaged hand had secured the letter, and hastily glancing over the writing, he exclaimed with sudden fervour:

[Sidenote: "I'm Waiting!"]

"No, Selina! Every word I wrote then I mean to-day. When I left England years ago it was with your image in my heart, and with the determination that when I was rich I would come back and try my luck again. And in my heart you, and you alone, have reigned ever since. And when after long years I heard from my cousin that you might still be found at Seaton Lodge, you don't know what that meant to me. It made a boy of me again. It blotted out all the years that have divided us, and here I am waiting for my answer."

"Oh, Edgar, we mustn't be silly. Remember, we're no longer boy and girl."