Chapter D: H. Parry

A Pair of Brave Maids

"GILES, my lady bids you drive more warily!"

Lady Saxilby's coachman turned a wrathful face, red with exertion, towards the speaker, Phoebe. But the coach gave a lurch, and the waiting-maid's head disappeared. The road was terrible, and Giles had his work cut out for him. By his side sat my lard's new servant, Roger Clobery; while inside the lumbering vehicle were Lady Saxilby, her two daughters, and the maid, Phoebe. They were travelling down to Iver Hall, the family country seat, and had already been five days on the road.

Joan Saxilby was fourteen, her sister Letty a year younger, and both were pretty, dark-haired lassies. Their father, Lord Saxilby, lay in the Tower, accused of being concerned in a Jacobite plot, and the girls were surprised at their mother leaving town at such a critical time. If the accusation were proved it would certainly go ill with him. There was a son, nineteen, but he had managed to disappear at the time when Lord Saxilby and some others were arrested, and no news of Dick had come for many a day.

The party were descending a hill within a few miles of Iver when Letty, flung bodily on the top of Phoebe, shrieked, "Mother, we are over!"

It was no fault of Giles that the linch-pin should come out of one of the wheels. He could do nothing, and the coach toppled heavily over on its side, dragging down the struggling horses with it. Giles himself was pitched into a bush; Clobery saved himself by an active spring, and hurried to extricate the young ladies and the weeping Phoebe through the window that was uppermost. When Lady Saxilby was got out it was found that she had hurt her shoulder severely, and they were obliged to carry her to the nearest shelter, a tumbledown farmhouse.

Giles went off on one of the horses to try and find a doctor, and Joan, hovering round her mother in great concern, heard her murmur in a tone of bitter distress:

"It may be too late now."

"Mother, dear, can I not do anything?" said Joan, earnestly.

Lady Saxilby looked at her hesitatingly.

"Joan, would you be afraid to go to Iver to-night by yourself?"

It would soon be dusk, but the girl, impressed, answered sturdily:

"No, mother; I will go."

"The pain gets worse," said Lady Saxilby, faintly; "put your ear close to my lips, Joan. You—you must try to save your father; now, listen."

Joan listened, and her face grew grave and eager. She understood now why someone in the secret ought to go to Iver as soon as possible.

"Burn every scrap," concluded her ladyship, and closed her eyes, exhausted.

Phoebe came back at that instant. Joan beckoned Letty out into the garden, and whispered to her for a few minutes. "I must go with you," said Letty, with decision. "Giles mayn't be back yet, and Clobery—" she paused and looked at her sister.

"I don't like him either," said Joan. "Very well, Letty, we will go together."

She felt that she had a good deal on her shoulders; her mother had been too ill to give her any counsel. And she must not fail either, for brave men's lives were at stake.

The reason of Lady Saxilby's hurried journey was this. She had received from her husband, by the hand of Clobery, a scrap of paper with three crosses marked on it. One cross signified, as she knew, "Destroy all papers at Iver," two that it was urgent, three that his life depended upon it. Lady Saxilby told Joan where the secret hiding-place was, and particularly bade her burn a paper with a long list of names on it. It was hard to leave their mother in her present state, but the girls knew they must not linger; so without saying anything to Phoebe, who was a chatterbox, they stole down the lane, hoping to find their way back to the high road and reach Iver before nightfall.

It was a long and lonely tramp, for dusk came on, and they wandered about a common for nearly an hour before they could discover a path. Tired to begin with, they grew desperately weary, and hungry too into the bargain. The tears came into the girls' eyes, but they struggled on, cheering each other as best they could, and at last their courage and perseverance were rewarded, and they crept up to the side entrance of Iver Hall.

It was a huge, rambling old building, standing away by itself, and many a Jacobite meeting had been held in secret beneath its roof. An ancient servitor and his wife had been left in charge while the family was away, and greatly astonished were they when Joan's voice begged for admittance. Old Doggory unbarred the door, holding a light in one hand. Before he could say a word Joan had snatched this light from him, and was making for the staircase, Letty following her closely. The girls had forgotten their fatigue, they only thought of their father's danger.

Yes, the papers were there. Joan, with trembling fingers, drew them from the cunningly-contrived hiding-place. "Quick, Letty, the light," she murmured.

A step was heard behind them; Letty gave a startled cry, while Joan felt her arm clutched. Looking up, she met the triumphant gaze of Roger Clobery, and in a second he had snatched the bundle of papers from her.

"Nicely trapped," said the fellow, mockingly. "I have been waiting for someone to show me the trick of that sliding panel. We guessed the papers we wanted were down at this old owl's nest."

"You spy!" cried Joan, indignantly, turning very white.

"Call me what you will, young mistress," returned Clobery, grinning, "it matters not. We have got what we have been waiting and working for, and there will be a rare clearance of the rebels, I warrant you, when I get back to town."

The hearts of the two girls died within them; they had failed, and at the last minute too, which made it all the more bitter. Their father would be executed, and who could tell how many more with him? The list of names looked a lengthy one. Joan made one despairing effort. Drawing herself up, and trying to look much older than she was, she said, haughtily:

"Perhaps you need money. How much will you take to give me back those papers?"

Clobery laughed insultingly.

"How much, pray, have you to offer? A couple of gold pieces and a pair of earrings? No, these papers go straight to King George's own hands; he will pay for them fast enough."

With a sob Letty dropped on her knees, and Joan followed her example; together they besought the spy for mercy.

He jeered at them, and, catching up the light, cried: "Farewell, my pretty mistresses, I will e'en borrow this as far as the window, where I made my entry. You have helped me much and I am beholden to you."

He left the room, waving the bundle of priceless documents derisively. Joan and Letty rushed after him, not to be left in total darkness. There was more light in the long corridor, and suddenly they caught sight of a tall figure advancing towards them. It was clad in a long brown cloak with a hood drawn over its head, and for a moment the girls, in terror, fancied it might be a ghost. Then Letty gave a loud cry: "Dick, Dick, get the papers from him!"

The spy dashed the light on the floor and took to his heels; but he had someone after him who knew the house better than he did. Clobery was armed, but so was Dick Saxilby, and when they met, just by the open window by which the traitor had entered, it became a fight to the death. The young Jacobite was a good swordsman, and presently his weapon shot under the other's guard, and Clobery fell with a shriek to the ground.

"You have beaten me," he muttered, and rolled over and died.

There was so little light that young Saxilby could not tell who was his fallen enemy, but the two girls quickly put him in possession of the facts of the case.

"He deserved what he got," was Dick's comment; "and now we must get a fresh light from old Doggory and burn the papers. Faith, I could have managed the business before, but I knew not where they were hidden."

When the deed was accomplished, Joan and Letty heaved a sigh of great relief. What a case of touch-and-go it had been! If Dick had not been in hiding in his own home, which boasted of as many as three secret chambers, and so was as safe a place as any, the papers would assuredly have been carried off.

As it happened, the accusation against Lord Saxilby and his fellow prisoners fell to the ground for want of evidence, and after some months they were released. It was a happy family party that met then at Iver; but Joan and Letty never forgot that night when their father's life hung upon a single thread.

Sheila Braine.

On Board a Pirate Ship

"HAS the boy eaten his fill?"

"Ay, enough for six, the young villain."

"Then pass him along here, Patch," and Captain Firebrace turned to look once more across the tranquil ocean at a half-dismantled vessel, which his own was slowly leaving behind it. The sky was so blue, the air so warm, and the sea so calm that it was difficult to believe that only a couple of days before they had been tossed about by a furious hurricane. Yet so it was, and although the "Morning Star" had weathered the storm, it appeared that other vessels had not been equally fortunate.

"A sail on the weather-bow," had shouted the man at the mast-head, a warning which put Captain and crew instantly on the alert, looking to the priming of the guns. It was for no good and peaceful ends that the rakish-looking "Morning Star" sailed the high seas, as more than a dozen unlucky merchantmen had found to their cost.

On this occasion there was no resistance, for the schooner espied by the watcher was drifting about helplessly, and when Firebrace and his men boarded her, the only living soul they found was a boy locked in a cabin, and half dead of hunger. It was clear that the crew and passengers, expecting the ship to go down, had taken to the boats.

Roger Cary, fortified by a good meal, was able to stand up and reply to the Captain's questions. The ship, he declared, was the "Speedy Return," bound for Jamaica; his uncle, Austin Cary, being the Captain. He himself hailed from Devonshire,—Roger, only son of Squire Cary of Paignton, and he had run away from home, being wild to go a sea trip. He could not say who had locked him into the cabin.

"H'm," remarked Captain Firebrace drily, "failing you, I presume this uncle of yours is your father's heir, is he not? Well, you would have starved like a rat in a trap had we not chanced upon your ship. And now, my young cock-o'-the-west, the point is, what are we going to do with you."

"I will gladly work," began Roger eagerly, but he was interrupted by a hoarse voice, and the huge giant, Patch, thrust forward his grim-looking visage.

"Cap'n," he cried, "'tis our opinion, me and my mates, that the boy should go overboard to the sharks without more ado. We want no spies and mealy-mouths here: our necks be none too safe for that."

Roger turned a shade paler, and fixed his eyes imploringly on the Captain's handsome, reckless face.

"Ay, Cap'n, let him walk the plank," roared Long Andrew, the bo'sun.

Captain Firebrace drew a pistol from his belt and played with it carelessly.

"I'd have you know, Patch and the rest, that I am master here, and if any man disputes it, let him step forward." He paused, but no one accepted the invitation. "Well, then, this lad is going to stop here as ship's boy, and he'll earn his victuals that way, or the rope's end will teach him how. As for being a spy, if we are taken, he will swing the same as we shall, take my word for it."

Roger breathed more freely, for he understood that the Captain was on his side. But he was a shrewd lad and he felt certain that he had fallen in with what was politely termed a gentleman adventurer and his company, otherwise a band of pirates, and he wondered greatly whether he would ever see his home again.

A life of hardships, such as he had never dreamed of, now began for the squire's heir. Instead of being waited on, he was at the beck and call of every one, kicked and cuffed by the sailors, badly fed and overworked. His clothes were soon in rags, and his face and hands tanned a deep brown. His worst enemy was Patch who seemed to bear him a special grudge.

The "Morning Star" had a treacherous trick of flying whatever colours seemed best at the time, and it was under cover of the French flag that it seized a merchant ship sailing from Rouen, and plundered it. The French captain and all the sailors were made to "walk the plank," and Patch, dragging Roger maliciously to the side made him watch them leap, one after another, into the swirling waters below. They died like brave men, shouting. "Vive la France!" but Roger, after that sight, had no mind any more for the joys of a pirate's life, of which he had so often dreamed at home.

Time wore on, and still Roger found no way of escaping from his bondage. The "Morning Star" only put into port at out-of-the-way places, and even then, a strict guard was kept and he had no chance of getting away. And how could he hope that their vessel might be seized by some other, since, if taken, he would certainly be hanged with the rest, as the Captain declared?

Captain Firebrace seemed made of different stuff to Patch, Long Andrew, and the others. He was, in fact, a gentleman adventurer, and dominated his lawless crew by virtue of a stern will and reckless courage. Openly he showed the "ship's boy" no favour, Roger felt nevertheless that the Captain was his friend. Once, when nearly all the men were sleeping after a carousal, he called the boy into his cabin, and plied him with questions about his home and the folks of Paignton.

A year passed, and his own mother would hardly have recognised Roger in the ragged, sunburnt lad who swabbed the decks and helped the cook. One small ray of hope lingered in his mind: the Captain had once whispered in his ear. "Keep up a good heart, lad: thou'lt see Paignton yet." But the time seemed far off, for now the "Morning Star" was cruising in Spanish waters, having had news of a galleon laden with treasure. This put the crew in high spirits, but their chief was plainly uneasy.

"There is a storm brewing," he cried, and presently Roger heard him roar out the order, "Furl all sails!"

"We shall get it hot and strong directly," said Long Andrew, as he went aloft. A white sheet of foam enveloped the waves, the wind shrieked in the rigging, and the men could not secure the flapping canvas to the yards. A furious squall struck the ship; there came a loud crash, and the top-mast snapped and fell with its spars into the sea.

Roger crawled up from below, and saw that Captain Firebrace was at the helm. The waves rose to a terrific height, and it seemed to the boy that every minute would see them engulfed.

They were not far from the shore, which bristled with dangerous rocks, and in spite of the Captain's efforts, it was evident that the "Morning Star" was drifting towards them. One of the crew, a Spaniard, Pedro by name, was acquainted with the coast, and a look at his anxious face was enough to show Roger that their danger was great.

They were so near the land now that they could see a white sandy beach, with a high barrier-reef against which the waves were furiously dashing.

"See, there is a passage between those two rocks," yelled Pedro, "yonder lies St. Diego, and if we can get through we may be saved."

The next minute the "Morning Star" was racing towards the rocks. Roger could distinguish people standing on the shore. A sudden shock was felt, the ship, striking on a rock, quivered, stopped short for a brief instant, then heeled over, and was sucked into the depths below. Roger was swept away on the crest of a huge wave; but he felt an arm clutching him, and in the moment before he lost all knowledge of things, saw the Captain's pale, dauntless face close to his own. They were whirled on together by the torrent of heaving water, which closed over their heads.

After long ages, so it seemed to the boy, he woke again, coming back to life slowly. A Spanish woman was looking at him earnestly, and by her side stood Long Andrew. When Roger was sufficiently recovered to hear what had happened, he found that he and Andrew were the only ones who had been saved. Some of the fishermen had rushed into the surf, and dragged out himself and Captain Firebrace, who had been swept through the opening between the rocks, fast locked together. But the pirate Captain had been battered against the rock, and when they drew him out, he was dead.

It would take too long to relate Roger's adventures before he reached his home, which he eventually did. Long Andrew kept to himself the fact that the wrecked ship was the redoubtable "Morning Star," and when he took service again, it was in a more honest way. One thing Roger learned from him, namely that Firebrace was an assumed name, not the pirate captain's true one.

"He was Devonshire born, same as you and me," said Andrew, "and I believe he hailed from Paignton. Otherwise, my lad, likely you'd ha' been given a berth in Davy Jones's locker, 'stead of on the 'Morning Star.'"

Sheila Braine.

How a Drummer Boy Saved a Regiment by G. A. Henty

"ARE you tired, Tommy?" a soldier asked a little drummer boy who was seated on a rock watching a regiment that had just fallen out preparing to bivouac. It was a newly-arrived corps, and had come up from the coast by forced marches to join the army which, having won the battle of Vittoria, was now engaged at various points among the Pyrenees with the enemy, who were trying to bar their passage.

Tommy Pearson was the youngest member of the regiment, being but eleven years old. His father had been the drum-major of the corps, and Tommy was a general favourite, and at his father's death, three weeks before the regiment left England, the colonel was asked by a deputation from the men to allow Tommy to accompany them, promising that he should be no trouble on the march. Young though he was, the boy could handle the drumsticks as well as many of those years older than himself, and the colonel, after some hesitation, granted the request, saying to the major: "One can always find a place on one of the baggage-wagons for him; his weight will make no difference one way or the other to the team; he is a bright little chap, and we may consider him a legacy to the regiment from his father, whom we all liked and respected."

So Tommy, to his great elation, was permitted to go. For the last three years he had, although not on the strength of the regiment, marched in uniform like the other drummers, and many an exclamation of amusement or admiration had been uttered as the little chap walked stiff and upright in the front rank.

The promise the men had given had been carried out on the long march from the sea-coast. Tommy had each morning for some miles marched with the band, and when he had to give up, which he never did until absolutely unable to go farther, he was hoisted on to the top of a baggage-wagon, or, if these happened to be far in the rear, his drum would be taken by one of the buglers, and the boy himself would be carried by the soldiers in turn. During the latter part of the journey he had seldom been obliged to give in, but had manfully struggled on till the regiment reached the end.

"I am a bit tired," he said; "but that doesn't matter. It has been a long march and very much up hill, but it has been cooler than it was, and I could go a mile or two farther, though I don't say I wasn't glad to stop."

The regiment, which now formed part of a column consisting of a brigade of infantry, cavalry regiments, and a battery of artillery, had bivouacked on a plateau a quarter of a mile from the road, which here passed through a defile.

As soon as the men had fallen out, they scattered in search of dried bushes that would afford firewood. The baggage-wagons had not come up, and it would be an hour or two before the bullocks which followed them would arrive; but the men had the day before had three days' rations of cooked meat and bread served out to them, and were therefore independent of the train. Tommy, after a rest of half an hour; joined the other drummer boys, and, after eating his ration, wandered about among the soldiers, most of whom had some cheery remark to make to him.

"I expect, Tommy," one said, "it won't be long before we catch sight of the French, and then we shall have bullets whistling about our ears. You will have a better chance than the rest of us, seeing that you offer such a small mark."

"Tommy will be safe enough," said another; "I expect he will be told off to wait for the baggage and to help to give the wounded water."

"I shall be where the others are," the boy said sturdily; "now that I can do a day's march all right, I can go into a fight with the other fellows."

"The other fellows won't go into the fight, Tommy; in the first place they would be in the way, and in the second place all who are big enough will be stretcher-carriers; those who are too small for that will be stowed somewhere out of harm's way. What would you do if a French grenadier came at you?"

"I don't suppose I could do much," the boy said; "but if he was a brave man, he would not try to hit me."

"Right you are, Tommy: no soldier would care to massacre an innocent: it is only a chance shot you need be afraid of. There is one thing: if by accident you did get near the enemy, you would only have to stand behind a good-sized man to be perfectly safe."

The boy laughed. "Well, we shall see, Jones. I don't know what a fight is like yet or how I shall feel; but I don't suppose that I shall be more frightened than anyone else."

After their long march and the prospect of another the next day, the troops were glad to wrap themselves in their cloaks and lie down as soon as darkness came on, especially as but little brushwood had been found and the fires were already burning low. After the heat of the plains they felt the cool mountain air, and grumbled that the baggage with the tents had not come up. Tommy, although he had chosen a place in the shelter of the rock, found the cold bitter, and as soon as it was dawn got up and stamped his feet to set the blood in circulation.

"Very likely we may not have a long march to-day," he said; "and anyhow, I would rather be tired than be as cold as I am at present." In about half an hour the camp was beginning to stir.

"I will go for a little walk," he said; "they will be an hour or two before they fall in. I may as well take my drum with me: then I shall be ready when the bugle sounds."

It was broad daylight now, and, putting the strap of the drum behind his shoulder, he started. Other soldiers were already moving about outside the ground they occupied in search of firewood, and the sentries paid no to him. The plateau extended for some little distance, and then terminated at the foot of a sharp ascent of rocky ground. The boy climbed up to a small ledge and then sat down to look around. From the point where he seated himself he was only five or six hundred yards from the camp, and, although he could not see it, he knew that he should hear the first sound of the bugle. Looking down into the defile he saw that it ran steeply up, and noticed that it forked a little in advance of him, and that another road joined the one in the defile.

In a few minutes he saw a general officer closely followed by two light dragoon officers and accompanied by a peasant ride along a plateau similar to that occupied by the regiment, and facing him on the other side of the defile. Some fifty yards in their rear were two mounted orderlies. The general stopped when nearly opposite Tommy, and the peasant was evidently explaining to him the nature of the road, the difficulties to be met with, and the direction in which it bore after crossing the crest of the hills. The boy instinctively slipped off the ledge on which he was sitting and seated himself behind a rock, and thence watched the proceedings of the party, who were some three hundred yards from him. The wall of the defile was there very steep indeed, almost perpendicular, and from the spot where the general had halted, a few yards from its edge, he could not see the road immediately beneath him.

Suddenly the boy saw a troop of cavalry emerge from the other road. Thinking that the cavalry had sent out scouting parties, he paid but little attention to them. Behind them came a battery of artillery, with infantry marching in single file on either side of them. Suddenly an idea occurred to him and he leapt to his feet. Surely these were not English soldiers! they might be the Spaniards! He watched them until the cavalry were nearly abreast of him; then, as a battalion of infantry followed the guns, he saw a flag that he recognised: it was the enemy. His own regiment had led the way, and the other three regiments of the brigade were encamped some three miles away. He started to run back; then an idea struck him and he seized his drumsticks and beat the alarm. As he hurried along, glancing across the ravine, he saw one of the officers with the general leap from his horse and, going to the edge, look down into the ravine. Then the general galloped forward until he came to the edge of the gorge through which the French were marching. He and his companions dismounted and went forward a few steps, evidently to obtain some idea of the strength of the enemy.

Tommy could now see the camp: bugles were sounding the assembly, and the men hastily ran in. The alarm had been given, and, slinging his drum behind him, he ran forward. As he did so, he saw the colonel ride out to the edge of the plateau, which was three hundred yards from the spot where the troops were falling in. A single glance sufficed, and he galloped back, shouting as he did so, and, without waiting for the men to form up, led them back. Those who arrived first at the edge of the descent had at once opened fire upon the troop of French cavalry; the rest as they arrived were hastily formed up, and the two flank companies dashed down the steep descent and flung themselves upon the battery, while the rest, lining the whole edge of the ravine, opened a murderous fire upon the French infantry.

These replied, but in some confusion, for they had no idea that the British had already ascended the pass, and had anticipated taking up a position near its mouth to prevent them doing so. The attack on the guns was completely successful, and the cavalry, of whom many had been killed from the first fire, had turned their horses and galloped back, carrying the thin line of infantry before them and spreading confusion among the artillery. These knowing that the infantry brigade would bar their retreat and would speedily come up to their assistance, fought stoutly, but were unable to withstand the impetuous assault of the British infantry. The struggling horses and the guns completely blocked the ravine, and the infantry, falling fast under the fire from above, were unable to make their way through them. They were wholly unaware of the strength of their enemy, and, although their officers succeeded in restoring something like order and leading parties up the steep ascent, they were unable to withstand the fire to which they were exposed, and in a short time the trumpets sounded the retreat. Just as they did so, the general, who had ridden back to point where he could gain the road and ascend the other side, rode up.

"I congratulate you, colonel," he said; "you have given them a smart check. As far as I can judge, there must be close on five thousand men, and if they had taken that strong position lower down, where a bridge crosses a torrent, we should have had hard work to dislodge them, and should certainly have suffered heavily in doing so. They can have had no idea that we had pushed up the pass; if they had persevered, they would have put you off altogether. I was in ignorance that the side road came in here: these Spanish maps are altogether untrustworthy, and the guide that I have with me answered my questions about the road ahead, but said nothing of the one coming down into it. It was well indeed that you posted that drummer in advance, though of course a sentry would have done as well. I see your men have taken all the guns of that battery."

"Yes, sir, it has been a very fortunate affair; but I certainly can take no credit to myself for the drummer being up that hill. Of course I had sentries round the camp and one placed so as to command a view of the road ahead and to warn us of any troops coming down the crest; but from its position he could not see down into the defile below. I knew nothing of that side road, or of course I should have placed a sentry to watch that also. During the night I had an outpost out on the road, but they marched in at daylight and either did not observe the other road or, at any rate, they made no report of its existence when they came in. How the drummer came to be out there is a mystery to me, and I was astonished at hearing the alarm beaten; there is no doubt that it saved the regiment, for, as you say, had the enemy passed the spot where we turned off to march up here we should have been completely cut off, though they would not have captured us without a sharp fight, for I should have known that the rest of the brigade would have come up to our assistance as soon as they heard the sound of firing." He turned to one of his officers: "Ask Sergeant Wilkins to come here."

The sergeant who was in charge of the drummers came up in two or three minutes.

"Sergeant, did you send a drummer out this morning?"

"No, sir; I should not have thought of doing such a thing without an order."

"Then who was it that beat the alarm?"

"That I cannot say, sir; they had not paraded this morning, so I do not know who was missing and I was amazed when I heard the alarm. I thought at first that it must be one of the lads who had taken his drum and had gone out to practise, though I could hardly imagine how any one of them could have ventured to do so and to risk causing an alarm."

"Weil, parade them here."

In a few minutes they paraded before the colonel.

"Which of you was it that gave the alarm?" the latter asked.

Tommy stepped forward and saluted. "Please, sir, I did."

The colonel and the general both smiled. "But how came you to be out there?" the former asked.

"I was so cold, sir, that I could not sleep, so I got up and walked about till the soldiers began to go out to look for firewood, and I thought that I would go out too."

"But, in that case, why did you take your drum?"

"I took it, sir, so that if I heard the bugle sound I could run straight back and take my place with the others. I was sitting down when I saw the French come running into the road. I did not know that they were French at first; I saw that they were not our men, but I thought they might be Spaniards till I saw a French flag among the infantry, and then I thought the quickest way was to beat the alarm."

"You did very well," the general said kindly; "if it hadn't been for you a whole regiment would have been captured, to say nothing of myself. Why, colonel, how is it that such a brat as this should be in the regiment?"

The colonel gave him the reasons for which he had brought the boy. "The men are all fond of him," he said, "and he has certainly kept his promise that he should be no trouble. At first he could not keep up with the marches, and was either perched on a baggage-wagon when he could go no farther, or if the baggage was all in the rear of the brigade they would take him on their backs; but for the last week he has managed to keep up well."

"He must be a sharp little beggar," the general said; "it is not every boy of his age that would have thought of beating the alarm, and every minute was of importance. Well, lad, you have begun well," he said, "and should turn out a smart soldier some day. Of course I shall report the matter to Lord Wellington. He is a man who does not forget things, and I have no doubt that if your colonel is able when you are old enough to recommend you for a commission, what you have done to-day will go a long way towards your obtaining it."

It may well be imagined that after this Tommy's popularity in the regiment greatly increased, and there was much grief when he was wounded at the battle of Toulouse. He recovered, however, and drummed his hardest when the regiment advanced for a final attack upon the Old Guard on the field of Waterloo. Six years later he obtained a commission, and commanded the regiment in which he had once been a drummer boy at the hard-fought battles of the campaign which terminated with the conquest of the Punjaub in 1845-6.

Never Trust a Stream

THE thunder had roared up in the hills where the old engine-houses stood ruined and bare against the sky, and the lightning twice over flickered out of the black clouds and seemed to play round the grey granite stones, before down came the rain like a thick mist and blotted everything out.

And all the time down in the lowland toward the sea it was a brilliant summer's day—"perfect weather," Sydney Lee's father said, "for July."

Linny, Syd's sister, brightened up, for she had looked solemn and disappointed. Syd was at home for the midsummer holidays, and brother and sister were making the best of them. In fact, there was a project on that day, planned by Syd. It had something to do with the little punt lying in the stream which turned the waterwheel which in turning worked the stamps used for crushing the tin ore brought up out of the deep mine by the men working under Syd's father, who was the manager to the mining company, and lived in one of the prettiest houses that a Cornish valley could show.

But that project had something to do as well with little trout which hid under the stones in the clear water, and under wildflowers on the bank, and possibly with a late nest of a certain dipper which Syd had seen flitting about, like a great black-and-white cock-tailed wren gifted with the power of walking about and swimming under water to catch beetles and other insects, and looking all the time as if its black jacket was dotted with pearls, which rolled off and proved to be air-bubbles, as soon as it came to land.

But there were endless things to see in the swift little stream that ran by Huel Vro, and Linny saw them so much better when she had Syd with her to pole the punt along, and catch jack, or wade for the various treasures they found.

So they were off on the expedition when the storm came on, made a tremendous fuss in the hills miles distant, and then began to die away.

"What a glum face!" cried the manager. "I believe there are tears ready to come."

"No, no, Papa, I won't cry," said Linny; "but it is so disappointing, and Syd's holidays are so short."

"All the sweeter while they last, Lin," said the manager. "There, cheer up; the storm is passing along the hills. Be off with you. Not a drop of rain will fall this side."

"Oh!" cried Linny joyously, and she made a spring at her father to reward him for his good news, while he helped her by jumping her up breast-high.

"Going to take the little punt, Syd?"

"Yes, father."

"Very well, but keep out of the dam."

"Oh, yes, father; of course."

"That's right. Then you cannot get into mischief."

The young folks dashed off past where the waterwheel was going and the stamps turning, while where the ore was being washed below the stream ran red and thick, but upward beyond the house it was clear as crystal.

The punt, which was like a washing-tub grown out of knowledge, lay in a shallow tied to a post, and Syd ran into the carpenter's shop, where the man who did the repairs to the mine machines good-humouredly took out his saw from the tool-basket, cut a short board in two, and gave it to the boy for seats. These two were carried down to the punt and placed across fore and aft, after Syd had waded in to draw the punt ashore. Linny jumped in and took her place forward, Syd lifted the short pole which lay in the bottom, and then began to thrust the boat along through the shallow water, in and out among the pieces of granite which half filled the bed of the stream, and, after getting aground at least a dozen times, Syd managed to get up to the most beautiful part of the tiny river, where the fishing and flower-gathering began.

Syd had the former all to himself, for, as he said, it was not girl's work to wade about, sometimes knee-deep, and get your arms wet feeling under ledges and among stones for tiny trout.

"You get your flowers," he said, and to help his sister he thrust the boat head in here and there close under the rocky banks which ran straight up and often hung over in the shady places where the most beautiful flowers grew.

And so an hour of real delight passed away, with the clear water sparkling in the sunshine here, and turning dark there, where the ferns hung over the great stones which looked as if they had been built up like walls by giant hands.

"Oh, I am glad the storm did not come our way," said Linny, standing up to balance herself on her seat so as to reach up and pick at a cluster of purple loosestrife. "Oh!" she cried, springing down to crouch directly, for she nearly went overboard. Then, seeing her brother's mocking face where he stood with the water just gliding by the knees of his knickerbockers, "what a shame, Syd! you joggled the boat."

"I didn't," he said.

"You did, sir!"

"I didn't—only poked this end down a little."

"Well, it was a shame. You might have made me tumble in—splash."

"Never mind; I'd have spread you out on the hot stones there in the sun to dry. There, hold tight; I'm going to push the punt up higher. There isn't a trout here."

Linny gave her long yellow hair a shake, sending her straw hat into the bottom of the boat and her curls hanging loose all over her shoulders, as she took her place carefully so as to trim the boat, while Syd stepped in, took the pole once more, and sent the punt upstream a couple of hundred yards, before he laid down the little pole and began to look round for a likely place for a trout, while his sister's eyes wandered amongst the floral riches of the lofty fern-hung bank for the choicest flowers.

"I say, Lin," said Syd: "what's that?"

"That?"

"Yes: that grumbling noise."

"Thunder dying away in the hills," said the girl. "Push the boat to the other side. I want some of those orchids—out there in the sun."

But the boy did not speak; he sat down and began to look up toward the hills.

"I don't see any clouds over there," he said thoughtfully, "and yet that noise goes on. Here, Lin," he cried suddenly, and in an excited tone, "I'm going to push the boat in here. You jump out and climb up the bank."

"No," said the girl, "not yet. I want some of those orchids. Push the boat over there first."

"You do as I tell you," cried the boy firmly, and his brown face began to turn white. He stopped down to seize the pole, but he was too late, and dropped upon the seat in the stern again.

For all at once with a roar and a rush, a wave of foam-crested water swept round the curve above them, and in an instant it was upon them, leaping into the boat, which was directly after a quarter filled, and turning the limpid trickling stream into a furious rushing torrent, which tossed the boat from side to side, nearly overturning it before sending it downward at a furious pace.

"Oh, Syd!" shrieked the girl, "what is it?"

"Sit still, and hold tight," he shouted. "Water—come down from the hills."

The boat steadied directly after, but glided down at a furious rate, promising to be capsized against one or other of the huge stones which lay in the stream, as the boy seized the pole and stood up to try and fend off the boat from the rocks or from being overturned against some projecting block at the side.

But it was impossible to keep standing, for in thrusting with the pole it slipped into a chink between two blocks of granite, stuck, and the next moment was snatched out of his hand. There was nothing for it but to sit down again, and to do that which he shouted to his sister.

"Hold on," he cried, "tight!"

And then away they went, sometimes head first, sometimes stern, and not only broadside but turning round and round as one end or the other of the punt crashed against some rock with a blow that threatened to shiver the boat to pieces.

"Oh," groaned the boy to himself, "if we had only had time to jump out!" But this was to himself, for he fought hard and bravely not to do or say anything likely to frighten the poor girl seated holding on with both hands in the front of the punt.

But Syd thought a great deal.

"We shall be upset directly," he thought, "or broken to pieces on the stones."

But just then as he was gliding down backwards at an increasing speed, so much water had come down that it grew less furious as it became deeper, and in a few minutes they passed with a rush through the narrowed part where the sides had been built in by the miners and masons so as to shape buttresses to bear the ends of the wooden bridge which carried the mine road.

Under it they passed, being almost shot under towards some blocks of granite, at which the girl glanced in horror, for the water foamed among them; but they escaped Syd's notice, for he was going backwards.

"Can you see anyone down by the water-gates?" said Syd suddenly.

"No, no," cried the girl. "Oh, Syd, Syd, Syd, are we going to be drowned?"

"No," he shouted back. "Don't be frightened. The boat will be upset soon, and then I shall swim ashore with you and climb up the bank."

"Thank you, Syd," sobbed the poor child. "Do, please. It would be dreadful for poor Papa if we were drowned."

"Poor Papa" was standing below, gazing upstream with starting eyes, for the roar of the torrent had awakened him and those above ground to the danger, and the men had followed the manager to the water's edge.

"I see 'em, sir!" shouted the carpenter.

"Yes, here they come," cried Mr. Lee. "Hands, my lads—hands!"

He caught at the carpenter's extended hand and leaped into the water, while three more men joined hands to form a human chain, which swayed and nearly gave way before the pressure of the water, as the manager reached out more and more to try and catch at the rapidly descending boat.

"I shall never do it," he groaned. "Oh, my poor children!" and in imagination he saw them swept out to sea.

But as he thought, he made a snatch at the boat's side, the effect of which was to throw both children into the bottom, where the water washed to and fro, while the men lost their footing, but not the desperate grip of their hands.

There was a terrible struggle in the broken water, but the party, boat and all, were borne close in, and more help coming from the stamp-mill, in another minute all were safe, though drenched and breathless, while the torrent for the next hour literally raged between the little river's stony banks, which it was washing clear of flower and fern and bearing all out to sea.

"Our poor boat, Syd!" said Lin, a couple of hours later, when the water was sinking back.

"Yes," said the boy, with a sigh. "She's swept right away."

He was quite right, but the next morning a fisherman brought her back, while the little river was once more flowing soft and clear.

"Jean-Pierre"

THE STORY OF THE ST. BERNARD

IT was their first winter in England, and the Buckland children were staring out of the window at the snowflakes that tumbled over each other in their hurry to reach the ground.

"They're like tiny white sails," cried Oswald.

"Or dream-fairies' wings," suggested Molly, who had been reading Grimm.

"Or feathers from the sofa cushion we tored this mornin'," said Bobs practically, hugging his arms in a queer little way he had when anything delighted him. Jim did not say anything, but his wistful grey eyes looked sadly at this strange snow that had already covered the lawn, and he shivered a little as if he felt the cold.

"The proper thing to do now is to make snowballs," remarked Oswald, remembering a thrilling snow-fight he had read of when he was in India.

"Hooray!" the others shouted, and the rafters of the old house rang with their footsteps as they clattered off downstairs.

All but Jim. Jim stayed behind because he knew that if he went he might spoil their fun, for though he was nearly three years older than Bobs, he couldn't run half as fast, and grew tired quickly. He was thin and pale and very small—"two sizes too small for his age," his aunt had told him when he arrived. Since then he had done his best to oblige them and grow big, but even Aunt Margaret, who had the prettiest dimples and talked more gently than her sisters, could not say he had succeeded.

"Never mind, old fellow," she would whisper. "You'll make a start when the spring comes, and catch up Bobs. You'll see."

"Spring was a long time coming," thought Jim, as he turned from the window towards the fire. The Viking, a big St. Bernard who belonged to Aunt Margaret, and was far too dignified to romp with even the nicest children, made room for him on the hearthrug, and actually allowed him to lean against his fine broad back. Jim stroked him admiringly as he stretched his magnificent limbs in front of the fire, and wished that he too could be "splendid and big and brave."

"All in good time," said the Viking soberly. "But you needn't wait to be 'big' before you are 'brave and splendid' you know—Jean-Pierre was that, though he was as small as you, and had a crooked back besides."

"Jean-Pierre?" Jim questioned eagerly. The Viking shook himself, and turned his head so that his broad muzzle rested against Jim's shoulders, close to his ear.

"I was born in Switzerland," he said, "high amongst the mountains, where the snow falls for weeks at a time, and sometimes buries whole families beneath it. The monks of St. Bernard had trained my father, with many other dogs of the same kind, to rescue travellers who lost their way in trying to cross the mountains, and, but for an accident, that would have been my work too. My father loved the life, and I should have been as proud as he to share its dangers."

"Won't you tell me about it?" Jim asked coaxingly. "I want to hear about Jean-Pierre, and why you say he was so 'splendid.' Did he wear a beautiful shining sword, like Uncle Mark does? And could he fight?"

"Jean-Pierre had never seen a sword," the Viking said, "and though he could fight well, it wasn't with enemies that you could see, but with Hunger, and Fear, and Cold. But if I am to tell you what I know about him, I must begin at the beginning."

"Twelve years ago I was one of a littler of sprawling puppies. My mother declared that we were the handsomest she had ever had, but my father said that size had nothing do with pluck, and that it was only pluck that counted."

"How we puppies longed to be grown up, so that we too might show that we were brave, and how we loved to see our father and his companions start off in search of some lost traveller. The monks would fasten flasks of brandy round their necks, and rugs and blankets on their backs, and wish them 'Godspeed' solemnly. 'Mon Brave' they used to call our father, and we often heard them speaking to visitors of his wonderful sense of smell, and how he would dig out lost people from the deepest snowdrift."

"One afternoon we learnt that two children were missing. They had no mother, and their father, who had gone to a neighbouring village to lay in food for the winter, had been cut off from them by the snow. The storm had come before it was expected, and for days he had not been able to reach his cottage. When he did, he found it empty. Pinned to the table was a letter from the boy, who had been left in charge of Rose Marie, his little sister. 'The Fairy of the Mountains' people called her, because she was so very fair, and the boy—it was Jean-Pierre—loved her more even than his father."

"The letter had been written the night before, and said that he and Marie had been without food for three days then, and when morning came were going to try 'the lower pass' in hopes of reaching the Monastery. 'I shall take care of Rose Marie,' he added, 'and keep the cold from her.'"

"That day the snow had fallen more heavily than ever and the monks shook their heads as they looked at the sky. 'Do your best, Mon Brave,' they said to our father, and sent him off in advance of the other dogs."

"It was almost the coldest night we had ever known, even in the Monastery; we puppies snuggled ourselves together beneath the straw, and shuddered as we listened to the stories our mother told us of dogs and travellers who had been buried under masses of fallen snow."

"But in less than an hour we heard the deep baying of the dogs, which meant, we knew, that the children had been found. Some of the monks seized their lanterns—for it was very dark, and set out for the perilous track, that was so narrow in places that they could only move sideways, and but few inches at a time."

"After a while the deep baying we had heard came nearer, and presently 'Mon Brave' bounded over the snow and into the courtyard. Strapped to his back was a tiny girl, 'The Fairy of the Mountains,' and when the monks who had stayed behind unrolled the blankets from her, we saw that over her woollen jacket she was wearing a boy's coat, and that boys' socks covered her sodden shoes, while the flannel shirt wrapped round her must have been Jean-Pierre's too. He had 'taken great care of her' as he said he would, and kept her from the cold."

The Viking's voice died dreamily away. Jim wanted to ask him what had happened to Jean-Pierre, and why the Viking had come to England. But while he was deciding which question to ask first, Oswald and Molly and Bobs came rushing in.

"It was splendid," they cried together, and Jim said "splendid" too. But he was thinking of Jean-Pierre, and how he had taken care of Rose Marie.

Lilian Gask.

The Jailer's Little Son

THE little child was quivering all over. Hidden behind the arras of the stately room where her sad-faced mother sat talking with sympathising friends, little Patricia was listening with eager ears to the earnest talk of the elders. The child knew that her father was in prison—in the big prison which they could almost see from the windows of the house they had come to live in to be near him. A knight faithful to his King in the dreadful war only just ended, he was lying in prison, and every day they feared to hear that his life had been made forfeit. Every night little Patricia's pillow was wetted by her tears; every night and morning she added to her customary childish prayers a petition for her dear father's liberation. But she knew he was in the hands of stern political and Puritan foes, and that her mother's heart was very sore and heavy, and that the friends who came and went, and sought to comfort them, feared the worst themselves.

But now her eyes were shining with excitement. Her little heart was beating high with a new hope and purpose. When the door had closed upon the last of the visitors, the little one came out from her place of concealment, and, approaching her mother, she said:

"Mother, sweet, give me the letter. I will get it to father."

The lady looked down with her sad eyes full of wonder.

"My child—what do you mean?"

"Mother, I heard them talking. They said so much had been done. They said all arrangements had been made; and that if only father could get a letter—could read it and know—he might escape easily out of his prison. That is the letter I want."

"But, my sweetling, they will not let you go to your father. We have asked too oft—and have failed."

"I know, mother; I shall not be able to give it him myself. But little Giles will give it for me!"

"My child—what mean you—are you dreaming? Who is Giles?"

"Why, mother—you must see him often on the green. He is the jailer's little boy. He walks after us often. I give him my hand to kiss sometimes. But only when there is nobody to see. He took a kiss from me to father once; and gave me that from father too. I did not show it you before. I thought it would but make you weep afresh," and the child held up a little bit of wood, fashioned somewhat into the likeness of a horse; the sort of thing that prisoners while away the time in seeking to whittle with any little bit of metal which they may find about their dress or in their cell.

The lady's tears fell fast as she pressed the little image to her lips, and closely questioned the child about the boy, of whom she spoke with such confidence.

Little Giles lived within the precincts of a prison, but he was a bright-faced, brave-hearted little lad, whose merry voice had not learned the nasal drawl of his father's friends, and who could not make shift to subdue his natural gaiety of disposition in the way it was desired of him. Perhaps his mother secretly encouraged him to be blithe; perhaps he watched the cavalier gentlemen with too much satisfaction and admiration to be a very staunch Puritan himself. And of late, since that little cavalier maiden with the big brown eyes, the rosy lips and the golden cloud of hair had come into the place, he had thought and dreamed of little else than of being her faithful follower and esquire all the days of his life.

He knew that her father was one of his father's prisoners; and he sought every opportunity of making an errand into that part of the prison where the cavalier knight lay, and of trying to see him whenever it was possible. Giles was a handy little lad, and very willing and obliging; so that he was sometimes sent on errands by his father or his underlings, and not infrequently took the prisoners their food; but some other and older person invariably accompanied him to lock and unlock the doors, though he assisted by taking in the rations.

Just now and again the turnkey would pass on to another room for a minute or so, leaving Giles in the one before; and thus he was able very occasionally to comfort the heart of some captive by a whispered hint as to what was going on without, or by a message from some loved one hungering after news. No one suspected how the little fellow longed to help and comfort the prisoners, or how his kind heart was moved by any sight of suffering and sorrow.

But his little lady filled his thought now almost to the exclusion of all else. He knew that she came daily to the green which lay betwixt the fortress and the town, and he was ever on the watch for her, counting it a red-letter day in his calendar when she should bestow a smile upon him—still more when she should pause to speak a word to him.

She was never alone. Some servant was always in attendance. But upon this bright June morning she came out with only a lad following her, and in her hand she held a small bow and some arrows.

She did not seem to notice Giles, and shot her shafts here and there, the boy running to pick them up. Giles would have loved to fill this office himself; but the little lady gave him no encouragement, and he stood shy and silent a little behind her.

Suddenly she shot an arrow more strongly than its fellows, and it fell behind a low wall which guarded a small garden belonging to the chaplain of the prison.

"Go, boy," she said, "you can climb the wall and find the arrow."

He ran to do her bidding, and was quickly lost to sight behind the wall. There was nobody on all the green but the two children. The little maid turned upon Giles and beckoned him to her side. With an eagerly flushed face he came, quivering all over.

"Giles," she said very solemnly, "do you love me?"

"With all my heart and soul!" he answered with breathless fervour.

"Would you like to do something for me?"

"I would love it, little lady."

"But suppose they killed you dead for it?"

"Let them!" cried Giles, "I would not care one whit!"

"Giles," she said, slipping a letter into his hand which he instantly hid in his doublet, "if you can give this letter to my dear father in the prison, they say he will be able to get out, and his head won't be cut off. But if anybody else finds it, they will kill him, and you too. Boy, do you dare do it?"

"Of course I dare. I would die for you, little lady, or for anybody you loved. I will give him the letter. If they kill me for it afterwards, I shall not mind."

Patricia's little face suddenly quivered all over.

"Boy," she said, "O dear, dear good Giles, I don't want you to be killed—I don't indeed. I love you next best to my father and mother—and the King!"

And she suddenly threw down her bow and clasped her little arms about Giles's neck, and pressed a kiss upon his lips.

Giles walked on air as he went homeward that day. Whatever else betided him his little lady had kissed him: she had given him a share of the love of her little childish heart.

* * * * *

Long years afterwards, when King Charles the Second had been brought triumphantly back to his kingdom, and exiled cavaliers were flocking joyfully to these shores, a beautiful lady, traveling with her husband and parents, stopped their coach at a certain town where a grim fortress dominated the dwellings of the inhabitants, and asked if one Giles Dorman lived within its walls.

Before long a fine and stalwart man appeared, at sight of whom the young and lovely lady leaped lightly from the coach, and with a little cry of recognition stepped forward with outstretched hands.

"Giles!" she exclaimed, "do you remember me?"

The man's bronzed face flushed from brow to chin. He slightly bent the knee as those soft white hands met his own, and he bowed over them and touched them with his lips.

A fine-looking gray-haired man now stepped up, and laid a hand on Giles's shoulder.

"I must speak the words of thanks my daughter is scarce able to do, and tell you that our errand to-day is to ask whether you will accept the post of steward upon her estate; as she says she knows she will never find anyone to serve her so faithfully and so well as Giles, the jailer's son, of whom she has never ceased to talk in terms of gratitude and praise."

She looked at him with eager eyes. Times had not been very kind to Giles. He had grown up under a cloud of suspicion since the escape of a certain prisoner. His face lighted as though a sunbeam had touched it. The clouds were all rolling away.

"You will come then, Giles?" spoke the lady with kindling eyes.

"I will come with you to the world's end—and be your faithful servant ever. I ask nothing better," said he.

E. Everett-Green.

A Ride for Life

"YOU'RE not afraid?" said father, turning at the door of the hut to give me an anxious backward glance.

"Now, Dad, what should I be afraid of?" I answered, "there's no one near to hurt me, except Deerfoot, and you don't suppose he would harm me?" and I laughed right merrily, for I had known Deerfoot ever since I had been a tiny little girl, and father and mother and George and I had come to live out in the forest.

Now father and I were the only two left, for mother was dead and George had left home the previous day on his way to New York City, where he was to be given a place in our uncle's office.

Father was a little disappointed in George I think, and no one knew how dreadfully I missed my quiet, studious brother. He was slight and delicate and looked little like a farmer's son; but I knew that he had a heart of gold, although he could not bear a farmer's life, and father sometimes laughed at him for a molly-coddle.

On this particular day father had to go a long way off into the forest to superintend the felling of a number of trees, which would afterwards be floated down the river to the city.

"I shall hurry back," he said; "so have the kettle boiling about five o'clock, and take care of yourself, little one."

I had a great deal to do and the morning passed quickly enough, so that I never even guessed it was past dinner time until my healthy appetite warned me. Then I sat down and made a hearty meal, and was just about to clear away the dishes when something happened which startled me very much.

There was a sudden "whir" and a blood-stained arrow came flying through the open door and quivered in the wall behind me.

At first I tried to persuade myself that Dad had come home early and had done it by way of a joke; but the sight of the arrow tipped with a white feather dyed with an unmistakable red, made me turn pale and shudder. Father would never play me a joke like that. I went out to call Deerfoot; but he was nowhere to be seen, and then it occurred to me that I had not seen him all the morning.

What could it mean? I walked about the outbuildings, calling to him, but I was afraid of the sound of my own voice. I opened the stable door, and Hector whinnied with pleasure, and shook his bridle invitingly. But why was Hector bridled, and saddled? Suddenly it occurred to me that some danger really menaced, and this was Deerfoot's warning. In a flash I remembered the tales I had heard as a child of Indian risings, and I remembered father's troubled face that morning. I had laughed at fear then; but now it held me in its grip. I dare not stay in the quiet house, and I led Hector out into the open, sprang upon his back and was off like lightning for the clearing, where I hoped to find father.

I was only just in time, for I had scarcely got right away when I heard a yell, and, turning in the saddle, I saw a party of howling and maddened Indians riding towards our home.

I waited to see no more, but rode on and on for dear life towards the clearing. I had not gone far when I met father.

"Why, dearie, what's wrong?" he cried. "I was cowing home early, for those red rascals never turned up to-day, and so I only marked the trees I wanted felled."

"Oh, Dad," I gasped, "there's a rising—I know there is—and they're going to murder us!"

I told him briefly all that had happened, and without waiting for comment, father mounted Hector, whilst I clung on behind him, and the good beast was urged to its utmost speed.

A smell of burning and a glare in the sky told us that our home was in flames, and by and by a distant yell of triumph warned us that the Redskins were on our track.

Father said not a word, but by the beating of his heart I knew he had heard. On and on we raced, but the horrid yells, came nearer and nearer—the Indians were gaining on us. Now they were close behind; an arrow whizzed past us, and I closed my eyes, hoping death would come swiftly.

But now an answering yell arose, this time a shout of wild encouragement, and it came from a white man's throat I knew. I still kept my eyes tightly closed and clung to father's belt; but suddenly I felt Hector being wheeled round, I was swung to the ground, and opening my eyes, I saw I was in my brother's arms. He placed me behind a mound, and from there I watched the fierce and terrible fight which took place, and saw our foes completely routed and put to flight by the little band of white men whom George had brought to our rescue.

When it was all over, George told us that at one of his resting places news had been brought of the murder of a family of white people by the Indians, and, fearing for our safety in our lonely home, he had persuaded a party of men to return with him to bring us away until the rising, if rising it proved to be, had subsided.

Well, they had only been just in time, and indeed, if it had not been for Deerfoot's friendly warning to me, both father and I must have perished.

The poor old fellow had been loyal enough towards us, and had tried hard to persuade the chief to spare both us and our home but when he saw that if he persisted in his entreaties he would be suspected of being a traitor to his own people and would probably lose his life at their hands, without benefiting us, he determined to warn us of the danger which threatened us.

As his friends suspected him of some such intention he was watched, and could not, therefore, approach the house closely, though he had managed to let fly the blood-stained arrow, hoping we should read its message aright.

I am glad to say he came to no harm during those troublous times; but lived to serve us faithfully for many a long year.

As for father and George, they were brought very near together in that terrible fight; for father learnt what a brave fellow he had for a son, even though he would not be a farmer.