Chapter II (3)

Stefanovitch interrupted her. "What!" he cried out, "you heard of that? Yes, it was true; but, Gabrielle, at a moment like this, when my cup is overflowing, I can forgive even Ivan Vassilitch--"

Gabrielle sprang from him as if he had struck her. In an instant she saw the whole truth. The cry she would have uttered died on her parted lips. She remained mute, bewildered, paralyzed with astonishment.

"Ah, you know the man," said Stefanovitch. "I had forgotten that. Well, let him pass, Gabrielle. Come, you are shivering. It is so cold out here. May I come indoors for an hour?"

* * * * *

The ex-captain of Cossacks closed the gate as he left the avenue. He had heard every word. And he had let them go. Why, he might have pistolled Stefanovitch as he stood there!

He remained in the snow-covered road, staring at the darkened fields, pallid with grief and rage.

Suddenly he snatched the Derringer from his pocket. The barrel into which he looked was but a tiny orifice, yet wide and deep as the pit of death. He lifted his arm. A pressure of the finger, that was all that was needed--

"Bah! for a woman? She is not worth it!"

Vassilitch fired into the air. The report echoed and re-echoed--a note of thunder in the quiet night!

_Eccentricities of Equilibrium._

BY LOUIS NIKOLA. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR.

As a preliminary to the practical reproduction of the experiments herein described, it is necessary to invade the kitchen and to carry off the following articles, viz.: four forks, a plate, a tea-cup, a bottle, some corks, the cook's basting-ladle and strainer, and a few other odd things which will be found enumerated from time to time in connection with the experiments in which they become necessary.

1.--TO BALANCE A COIN ON THE EDGE OF A BOTTLE.

The first experiment is a very simple one. Partly fill the bottle with water; then take one of the corks, make a slit in one end in the direction of its length, into which insert a coin. Next stick two forks into the cork, on opposite sides and near the other end, at angles of about 30deg. With the forks so placed, as balance-weights, it is an easy matter to balance the coin upon one edge of the mouth of the bottle, as in Fig. 1. With a steady hand it is also possible to execute the effective termination shown in the lower portion of the same illustration--_i.e._, to slope the bottle gradually so as to pour out a glass of the contents, retaining the while the coin in equilibrium upon the neck of the bottle.

2.--A COIN BALANCED ON A NEEDLE.

By a slight variation of the previous arrangements the coin may be balanced edgeways upon a needle-point and made to rapidly revolve thereupon. Fig. 2 shows the experiment in operation.

3.--THE BALANCED PIN.

To balance a pin upon a needle would seem rather a formidable undertaking; but by an application of the same principle no considerable difficulty is encountered. Stick the pin into another cork in position corresponding to that of the coin in the first experiment, into which also fix two forks as in the previous examples. With a little care it is then quite practicable to rest the head of the pin upon the point of the needle, where it will remain balanced as in Fig. 3.

4.--A PIN OR NEEDLE BALANCED HORIZONTALLY.

By another variation of the conditions it is possible to balance the pin upon the needle-point in a horizontal position and to make it revolve thereon in that situation. The only alteration necessary to the preparations already made is to substitute for the two forks two ordinary pocket-knives. By bending the handles of the knives at an angle to the blade, the pin may be sustained in a horizontal position. Or, by the substitution of a long needle for the pin, the forks may be retained as balance-weights, as in the previous example and as shown in the present illustration. The pin may be rested upon the needle-point as in the figure, and by a gentle touch of the finger may be set revolving. In time, by reason of the relative differences in hardness of the two metals, the commencement of a tiny hole will be drilled by the sharp steel point of the needle in the softer brass of the pin, and if the motion be continued for a sufficient length of time a hole will ultimately be an accomplished fact.

5.--THE SPINNING PLATE.

A further application of similar principles, and a plate may be balanced and spun upon the needle-point. The corked bottle with the needle in position remains as before. Two other corks are taken and split into two by a vertical cut. Into one end of each half-cork, upon the flat side, are stuck the prongs of a fork, and thus the four forks are hung at equal distances around the edge of the plate. Then, with a little care, the plate will be held in perfect equilibrium, as in Fig. 5.

6.--THE BALANCED EGG.

Next cut a slight concavity in one end of one of the corks, so as to adapt it as exactly as possible to one end of an egg. Then insert two forks, as before, into the sides of the cork, letting the hollowed-out end be the lower. Then rest the cork with the forks as counter-weights upon the end of the egg to which the concavity has been adapted. So aided, the egg may be balanced upon the mouth of the bottle, as in Fig. 6.

7.--THE WALKING CORK.

In this case a cork with two balance-weights attached, in the shape of forks as previously employed, is provided in addition with a pair of legs, formed by the insertion of a couple of stout pins or small round-headed nails into the bottom of the cork, as in Fig. 7. The figure is placed upon an inclined narrow slip of wood at the highest point of the incline and set gently oscillating, so that the weight is thrown alternately on one side and then on the other, which will cause the figure to make the descent of the incline in a series of jerks.

8.--THE BALANCED PENCIL.

As shown in the illustration, this experiment is performed with a lead pencil and a razor. The razor is partly opened and the end of the blade fixed into the wood of the pencil about an inch or two above the point, in the position and at about the angles shown in the illustration, Fig. 8, when the pencil may be readily balanced upon its point on the extremity of a stout needle thrust horizontally into the bottle cork, as shown.

9.--THE BALANCED LADLE.

A development of the last experiment may be made with a basting ladle and a razor or folding pocket-knife. Open the knife to an angle of a little over 45deg., and engage the hook of the ladle with the outside angle at the junction of handle and blade, as in Fig. 9, which permits of the whole being placed in self-supporting position upon the edge of the table, as shown. The junction of knife and ladle may be made firm, if necessary, by a slice of cork wedged in beneath the hook of the ladle handle.

10.--THE BALANCED PAIL OF WATER.

Fig. 10 looks a little startling! There is, however, no risk if the experiment is properly conducted. The requirements are: a kitchen table, a pail of water, a stout, flat stick three or four feet long on which to hang the pail, and another and slighter piece of stick. The larger stick is first laid upon the table with about one-third of its length projecting over the edge. The pail--empty--is next hung upon the projecting end of the stick. The smaller stick is then placed with one end against the inside angle of the bottom of the pail at the point nearest the table, and the other end cut away at such a length as will permit it to wedge tightly against the under side of the main stick, at which point a notch may be cut in the latter to prevent slipping. The whole bears a structural resemblance to the balanced ladle of Fig. 9. The pail may then be partly filled with water, when it should remain balanced as in Fig. 10.

11.--THE BALANCED PENCILS.

This is an elaboration of the experiment described in paragraph 4. A pencil is first thrust through the centre of a cork and two forks into the sides of the cork. This will permit of the pencil being balanced horizontally, as in Fig. 11. A second pencil is balanced by the insertion of two pen-holders in positions relatively similar to those which the forks bear to the balanced object in Experiments 1, 2, and 3, and so arranged it may be balanced upon the unsupported end of the first pencil. The whole structure may be made to revolve upon the needle.

12.--THE LADLE AND WINE-GLASS.

Making use again of the basting-ladle, a cork is first fixed into the hook of the handle, and into this is thrust the point of a knife or the prongs of a fork, the latter being at an angle of about 45deg. or so to the former. A glass is filled with water, and by placing the fork or knife-handle upon the edge of the glass the ladle will balance as in Fig. 12.

13.--THE BALANCED BOTTLE.

By still another application of the basting-ladle, or a walking-stick or umbrella, a bottle may be balanced upon a slack cord. All that is necessary is to insert the hook of the ladle-handle or the handle of the stick into the neck of the bottle and support upon the cord, as shown.

14.--THE REVOLVING COIN.

Bend up a piece of stiff wire, such as a hairpin, into the shape shown in the lower right-hand corner of Fig. 14, with a hook at one end and a clip at the other, the latter adjusted to grip a coin tightly. By hanging a fairly heavy finger-ring upon the hook as a counter-weight, the whole may be balanced with the penny upon the point of a needle, and made to revolve on it.

15.--THE REVOLVING PLATE.

A similar experiment may be performed on a larger scale by bending up a longer and proportionately stouter piece of wire, and substituting for the coin a small plate and for the ring a bunch of keys--Fig. 15--or a larger plate and a tea-cup. In the latter case the weight of the tea-cup may be built up to counter-balance the plate by dropping a number of coins one by one into the cup until the required weight is obtained.

16.--THE BALANCED WINE-GLASSES.

This experiment is not a case of pure balancing, but depends principally upon the nice adjustment of the two pieces of stick by means of which the position of the two glasses is maintained. A couple of slender pen-holders may be used, and must be trimmed down at the ends until the right length is obtained. The position of the sticks and the manner in which the glasses are supported can best be gathered by a study of the illustration below.

17.--BALANCING CUPS.

Simple methods of balancing a milk-jug and tea-cup respectively are shown in Figs. 17, A and B. In the first illustration the cork is placed inside the handle of the vessel, in which position it should fit with moderate firmness, so as not to slip, and then two knives are thrust in, one from each side of the handle, between the cork and the cup itself, when the cup may be balanced upon any fixed point. In the second a cork is fixed into the handle, as before, and into the cork the prongs of a fork are fastened, holding the fork in such a position as to bring the centre of gravity below the point of suspension. The cup may then be balanced as before.

18.--THE BALANCED PLATE.

This is a rather more elaborate experiment and one of the most effective of the whole series. The requirements are: a plate, the basting-ladle used in previous experiments, and, in addition, a "skimmer." The handle of the ladle is hooked over the edge of the plate and made secure by a wedge cut from a bottle cork. The opposite edge of the plate is then rested upon the edge of a bottle in the position shown in Fig. 18, and the handle of the skimmer is finally hooked into the bowl of the ladle, making the structure shown.

19.--THE BALANCED TUMBLERS.

Here is a little after-dinner experiment requiring some delicacy of manipulation. The end in view is to balance three tumblers one upon the edge of the other as in Fig. 19. With two tumblers the experiment is comparatively easy: with the third it becomes a genuine test of skill.

20.--THE BALANCED SHOVEL AND TONGS.

A delicate test of balancing may be attempted with the shovel and tongs. The position of the two implements is shown in the illustration Fig. 20. The extremity of one arm of the tongs is rested against the inside of the shovel, and the other extremity is placed in the angle formed by the junction of the shovel with the handle. By delicate poising the two may be induced to remain in equilibrium in the position illustrated. A formation which permits of the tongs being engaged with the shovel after the manner shown is an important factor.

21.--A TOWER OF GLASS.

An effective combination is shown in Fig. 21. A carafe, partly filled with water to give stability, forms the basis of the structure. Upon this a trio of wine-glasses, lying horizontally, are arranged, and so held while the bottle, half filled with water, is placed in position above them. A little careful adjustment will secure an accurate reproduction of the experiment as illustrated.

22.--ANOTHER ARRANGEMENT.

A similar structure, formed with seven glasses and a carafe, is shown in Fig. 22, which is self-explanatory.

23.--THE REVOLVING COIN.

A simple experiment for impromptu performance at the table can be made with a couple of pins and a coin. The accomplishment consists of picking up the coin by two opposite edges between the points of the two pins, as in Fig. 23, in which position it may, with steady hands, safely be held. By blowing smartly upon one edge of the coin it may be made to rapidly revolve between two points. The feat has the appearance of an exhibition of considerable skill, but, as a trial will show, it is in no way difficult of execution. The selection of a milled-edged coin will facilitate the matter.

24.--AN EXTEMPORIZED TRIPOD.

With three forks, a serviette ring, and a plate, one may improvise a stand for a soup tureen or water carafe. The forks are merely passed through the ring and spread into the form of a tripod, the handles resting upon the table. A plate placed upon the prongs of the forks locks the whole and provides the necessary rest for the article to be supported. The fruit dish in the illustration happens to be of just the right size to rest in the support formed by the extremities of the forks, the plate being in this case unnecessary.

25.--KEYS TO EMINENCE.

In our last example we have a succession of keys built up by interlocking the wards and bows one within the other, upon the summit of which may, by special care, be balanced a bottle or similar object. Where the bottle is added to the pile, it takes the place of the uppermost key shown in our illustration, and rests upon one taking a more gentle incline, as in the case of the one immediately below. This rather ambitious structure forms a fitting climax to our series, and may be left to the ingenuity of the reader, whose accumulated experience should by this time be good equipment for the negotiation of the difficulties to be surmounted.

_Miss Cairn's Cough-Drops._

BY WINIFRED GRAHAM.

I.

Little Hal Court knew nothing of towns; he had been brought up in the solitude and beauty of Northern Ireland. The country had given to this small boy something of its own peculiar charm, a wildness wedded mysteriously to peace. He could be so still and thoughtful, or so full of life and movement, he might have borrowed his child's personality from the waves of the great blue sea.

Nature made a bold nurse--a teacher who whispered to Hal of things intense, of stories wonderful, bringing him the funds of her vast wisdom, the fairy tales of a country-side teeming with romance.

"I live with my grandmother," he told his new governess, "because I have a different kind of mamma to other boys. She isn't the ordinary sort that stays at home; she--she's a celebrity!" He paused before alighting upon the correct word, bringing it out with so grave an air that Miss Ainsworth could hardly repress a smile.

"Yes," he continued, hugging his knee and gazing through the window at the turbid waves of the Lough, a lovely inland sea, sending its green waters brimming to the verge of Castle Stewart's old garden. "She sings, you know! She sings--well, just like an angel, people say; but the angels don't have to travel about and leave their little boys at home. Mother makes heaps of money when she sings a song. They send for her right across the world, and she travels like a Princess; the people crowd to see her get into the train. It's always that way if you can sing. Don't you wish you had a voice like an angel, Miss Ainsworth?"

"Yes, indeed."

A sudden, almost painful, longing rang in the reply, as the dazzling picture of a world-famed artiste was conjured up by the simple description of a child.

"I expect," added Miss Ainsworth, "you miss your mother?"

"Why, of course. I wear this picture of her round my neck, and I love her so much I don't mind when other boys call it girlish; one doesn't mind being girlish for her!"

A throb as of martyrdom crept into the child's voice--an almost passionate hunger for the mother-love denied him.

"She said," he continued, "she would be back for the New Year. She can't get here in time for Christmas, because the boat from Australia won't bring her fast enough, but she promised to come for certain on New Year's Eve. I am to write to her in London. I always begin my letters now, 'Don't forget about the New Year,' because she has so much to remember. Then she answers back, 'Dear little boy, I'm safe for the New Year,' or something of that kind. The winter seems very long here, and one rather wants a mother. In the summer I don't mind her being away so much."

His wistful eyes saw in fancy the smiling summer-time, which sped on lightning wings. For him the warm days spelt gladness, giving beautiful little bays for playgrounds and creeks with wooded shores, while winter presented unlighted rocks and shoals lashed by one of the strongest tides in the kingdom. He had grown to love and reverence the castles of old Kings which faced each other across the tide, and to know intimately those wonderful islands which dotted the sea. But to Miss Ainsworth, freshly arrived from a busy city, Castle Stewart in mid-winter held something of terror with its watery wastes, guarding the little village of Slaneyford.

She liked hearing her small charge talk of his mother: it brought a human note into all the dreariness and desolation of this storm-swept country. Since her arrival she had been forced to associate Slaneyford with a driving whirlwind of ceaseless rain.

"We sha'n't mind the weather when mother comes," said Hal, cheerfully. "Everything is different then; she's so jolly, you know. She will bring me lots of toys in her box, but I don't want them when I've got her to play with, and her cheek is so much softer to kiss than grandmamma's."

Miss Ainsworth noticed that the thought of his mother's coming predominated Hal's mind. Everything reminded him of some past action or saying of hers--what she liked or disliked. When he became silent and dreamy, his watchful companion knew well that the child-soul wandered to a mother's knee, through the bright mazes of imagination.

In restless moments his energies ever centred in arranging some surprise for the fair lady of song--shells he had collected for her in the summer were to be hidden under her pillow, and long dried ribbons of white seaweed found their way to the guest-chamber prepared for Mrs. Court.

Miss Ainsworth herself caught his feverish excitement--the coming of the famous singer held the charm of novelty.

As yet she had met none of the celebrated people of the world, but founded her social creed upon the daily lives of the middle classes.

Even little Hal, with the strain of his mother's genius running in his blood, came as a revelation of something peculiar and mystifying.

"I sha'n't notice Christmas at all," he told Miss Ainsworth, as the festive season drew near; "I shall just wait for mother and the New Year and open all my presents then. She will like to be the first to see them." So the Yuletide drifted by uneventfully, save for a thrill of expectation heralding the arrival of a beloved traveller--that child-like counting of days and hours in which the oldest may share, when the heart pines and the spirit yearns for the touch of an absent hand.

The days were drawing near to New Year's Eve when Mrs. Court wrote announcing her safe arrival in London. Hal's grandmother read the letter aloud, and Miss Ainsworth watched the rapt expression on his face with a strange intuition of coming sorrow, a fear lest disappointment, black-winged and ugly, should mar the seraphic beauty of the child's features. The little mouth, slightly inclined by Nature to droop, smiled softly as the older woman read, and a flush crept over the boy's cheek, while his whole attitude denoted breathless excitement. So keen was the tension that, as the letter closed, Miss Ainsworth felt she could hardly bear the concluding words:--

"It is just possible, tell Hal, that, after all, I may not get to Slaneyford for the New Year. Your account of the weather is not encouraging, and, dearly as I long to be with you, I am bound to be cautious and not run any risks. I have a slight cold in my throat, and the thought of the floods round Castle Stewart holds terrors, with their suggestion of dampness. My doctor advises me to give up all thought of visiting Ireland while these stormy days of deluge last. Ask my sweet boy to write to me."

Grandmamma laid the letter down with quite a matter-of-fact air, remarking, "Cristina was very wise!"

Miss Ainsworth took a sidelong glance at Hal. He had not moved, but his lip trembled and he stared very hard at the floor.

"I shall be writing to-day," said grandmamma, "so you had better put in a line, Hal, and she will get it in London to-morrow morning."

Hal nodded. His voice sounded odd and strangled as he replied:--

"Please, I would rather send my letter quite alone in an envelope by itself."

"Very well."

The boy walked slowly to the door. The pathetic droop of his shoulders spoke more eloquently than words, telling of a spirit crushed by hope deferred, of a little heart breaking under a childish tunic of blue serge.

"The day after to-morrow will be New Year's Eve," he thought; "and she--she is afraid of the weather, because of her voice!"

Perhaps he had always been unconsciously jealous of that wonderful gift which took her away from him, though to the child's pure nature all hurtful emotions came as aliens, tarrying but for a moment on forbidden ground.

He crept to the far corner of the school-room, and, hiding the tiresome tears that made writing difficult, scribbled hastily in his new drawing-book.

"She shall have the first sheet as a letter," he said, tearing it out, and re-reading the words, clearly written in a bold, childish hand. "Perhaps she will come after all, when she gets this."

Miss Ainsworth saw with relief Hal looked happier as the post-boy trudged with a bag of correspondence down the soaking drive.

The following morning there was a certain watchfulness about Hal. He could settle down to nothing, and appeared to be constantly listening; every bell sent him running to the hall door.

At last his energy met with reward, for he was the first to bring in a telegram addressed to his grandmother. He waited by her knee with glistening eyes, his pulses throbbing painfully as she read the flimsy paper: "Shall be with you to-morrow; crossing to-night.--Cristina."

It seemed to the boy that his heart stopped beating and would never go on again as he heard the wonderful intelligence. He struggled for breath as he gasped out the good news to Miss Ainsworth, who had just appeared to take him for a walk.

"She will be here for New Year's Eve! She rests in Dublin, you know, and gets to us late in the afternoon," he cried, his face like a sunbeam. "She changed her mind when she got our letters; I expect she saw we wanted her very, very badly."

The hours flew quickly with so much gladness in store, and Hal was quite ready to go to bed early, that to-morrow might come the sooner--to-morrow, the day of days, long waited for, through weary months of watching. Miss Ainsworth came to the boy's bedside fearing he would never sleep--with his brain in such a whirl of feverish expectation.

She found him open-eyed and flushed. Immediately he began speaking of his mother.

"To-morrow night she will come in, shading the candle with her hand," he said. "She will wear a lovely dress she calls a tea-gown, all soft and lacey, and she doesn't mind how much I crumple it." He smiled at the thought and hugged his pillows.

"I wonder why she suddenly changed her mind?" murmured Miss Ainsworth. Hal sat bolt upright, his eyes very alert.

"It was all through my letter," he answered, triumphantly.

"What did you say?" Miss Ainsworth felt very curious as she put the question; she had never before dealt with a child of uncommon character.

"I begged her to come," he replied, his tone vibrating with the energy of a youthful passion. "I said I would like her to lose her voice on the way and never find it again; then she would stay with me always, like other mothers, who live at home with their children. I put: 'Never mind about the old voice, dearest; it's always a bother, taking you away,' and lots of things like that, just to show her how much I cared. Oh! and I dropped some tears on the letter, so it all went crinkly."

An expression of intense longing lit his face as he paused, clutching Miss Ainsworth's sleeve. "Do you think she will lose her voice on the journey?" he gasped, hopefully. "It would be lovely if she did!"

Miss Ainsworth listened horrified; righteous indignation surged within her well-meaning breast as she pictured the mother, torn by natural affection, driven to risk her glorious gift of song for the whim of an exacting child.

"Oh!" cried Miss Ainsworth, shaking him off angrily, "I had no idea you were such a wicked little boy. I thought you really loved your mother, and now I see you don't at all; you are thoroughly selfish and horrid. Your letter must have hurt her very deeply. Of course, she values her voice above everything. God gave it to her as a wonderful inheritance, a divine talent, and you--you _hope_ she will lose it, never to find it again! I don't want to talk to you any more, but if ill befalls your mother it will be a judgment on you! Naturally she ought not to travel against the advice of her doctor, but she is sacrificing her health for the sake of granting an unkind and inconsiderate request!"

With these scathing words of rebuke Miss Ainsworth snatched up the candle and strode from the room, shutting the door firmly behind her without saying "good-night."

Hal remained very still. All in a moment the room had become peopled with dark fancies and ugly forms. Dread stole like a human presence to the disconsolate little soul. Hal shivered and, shrinking down, hid his head in the sheets. The lecture, with its awful truths, returned like a heavy blow, causing physical pain to the sensitive temperament of the highly-strung boy. He had meant no harm by the ignorant words, whose child-like pathos touched the deepest chord in the heart of the famous singer. Not for the world would she have had one syllable of Hal's letter altered by the tutoring hand of a shocked Miss Ainsworth, while tears and smiles together answered the appeal of that quaint, unstudied expression of the boy's mind.

But Hal knew nothing of this as the darkness gathered round him. He heard only the condemning phrases: "You are thoroughly selfish and horrid! I thought you really loved your mother! If ill befalls her it will be a judgment upon you!" He set his lips and pressed his knuckles firmly to his eyes. What was this dreadful thing he had done--all unconsciously--to the mother for whom he would willingly have given his life? She was on the sea now, against her doctor's advice, and the wind was beating on his window-pane and moaning round the house. He felt he could hardly bear the thought, and the sound of the pitiless rain tortured him.

Of course, Miss Ainsworth was right; he had been inconsiderate and unkind. If mother lost her voice God would be very angry, because Miss Ainsworth said it was a "divine talent." Whatever happened, the precious voice must be preserved, even if it took the one he loved away from him to the end of the chapter. As he mused a sudden thought came, bringing with it one bright ray of hope through the terrifying gloom.

Away across the mile-wide tideway, in the small town of Ferryport, a certain Miss Cairn, an old, wrinkled spinster, kept a wondrous sweet-shop, renowned for its good wares. When last Hal paid her a visit one calm autumn day she had shown him a large glass jar of cough-drops, bidding him remember when the winter came that for loss of voice, or sore throat, she knew no equal in all the wide world. Miss Cairn confided to him she had once assisted in a chemist's shop, and knew the dark secrets of medicine. These drops were her own manufacture, and held the magic of deep knowledge acquired in the past.

Her words came back now with a force and power which made the great flood surging between him and the desired goal as nothing compared with the thought of saving mother's voice! The very difficulties in the way made the staunch little heart resolve to let no human power stay him from the task ahead.

What matter that the ferry could not traverse the foaming waters? Old Micky (known as Mad Micky, for risking his life in the wildest weather) crossed every morning in his worn boat with the regularity of a postman!

The inhabitants on either side were glad enough to make use of his fearless enterprise, for to be cut off from communication often proved highly inconvenient. So they paid him to carry their wares, and traded with each other, while they shrugged their shoulders at the danger entailed.

"Poor craythur!" they would say; "shure, and he's bound to go under some day, but there's none at home to mourn him, and he's set his mind on a watery grave!"

To Hal that night Mad Micky appeared as the one bright spot on the dark horizon of his childish sorrow.

If only he had Miss Cairn's cough-drops safely at Castle Stewart when Mrs. Court arrived, all anxiety could be at an end. The lost voice must needs return under the influence of such wonderful round, coloured lozenges, with purple or pink stripes for choice. He fancied mother would like the pink stripes best, because they were prettier.

Lulled by the glad notion of repairing his sinful past, little Hal let his heavy, tear-stained eyes close, and dreamt of a beauteous lady in a tea-gown, of Mad Micky, and sweets in a huge glass jar away across the tide.

II.

When Hal, after many difficulties, escaped the watchful eyes of Miss Ainsworth, and running through torrents of rain hid himself under a drenched tarpaulin at the bottom of Micky's boat, the supreme moment of his life had been reached.

He suspected that on such a morning of storm even Mad Micky might possibly refuse to pilot human cargo across the rough water, for New Year's Eve outvied the previous days of tempest.

The boat, moored at the Castle Stewart end of Slaneyford Lough, lay in sight of the roaring sea, whose billows broke upon innumerable creeks made alive by the hurrying presence of foam-crested waves.

Hal had collected all the money he possessed in his small pockets--silver for Miss Cairn, and three big pennies for Mad Micky when the moment should arrive to reveal his hidden presence.

No wonder the boy's heart beat furiously, for of all his life's adventures this appeared the most thrilling and terrifying.

It was one thing to play at shipwrecked mariners and to storm castles in which no ogres dwelt--it proved a different matter to lie calmly concealed while Micky, who "had set his mind on a watery grave," let his frail barque tear across the Lough under a single head-sail.

The boy knew enough of the treacherous current and the strength of the tide to realize fully the perils of his passage.

Peeping from under his covering he could see the reckless face of his unconscious guide, fully aware that no man valuing his safety would sail as Mad Micky sailed that morning.

The child's sensitive nature would have been tortured by fears but for the encouraging influence of a great unselfish love.

"It's for mother's sake!" he said, hiding his eyes from the swift, deep body of water, whipped into fury by the wind as it viciously lashed the sail.

"It's for mother's sake!" he repeated, when the personal discomfort of his position warned him there can be few places wetter or more cheerless than a small boat unprotected from the elements when the rain descends in really gross solidity.

* * * * *

Mrs. Court felt none the worse for her journey as she drove to Castle Stewart late that afternoon.

She was really rather amused at having flung caution to the winds, and was by no means depressed at landing in a hurricane of squall and dirt on the dear, familiar Irish shore.

Her first thought was for Hal as she crossed the threshold of her old home, and a sudden keen misgiving pierced her like a knife when faces of frightened distress greeted her on the doorstep.

"Where is Hal?"

The words broke sharply; the bright, magnificent eyes flashed a glance of terror from right to left.

"We don't know!" The answer came unsteadily from faltering lips. "He disappeared this morning; he was last seen by one of the gardeners, running towards the Lough, slipping over the slimy stones and rocks. The man wondered we allowed him out in the wet to play on the weedy boulders, but the foolish fellow said nothing till it was too late. When he heard Hal was missing he spoke, but not till then. The shore has been searched, but----"

Mrs. Court stayed to hear no more. The blank, hopeless faces of the speakers told the rest.

Miss Ainsworth was weeping hysterically, and grandmamma's features grew stone-like in their set misery.

All the new-comer realized was that Hal--her Hal--had met with some disaster. Only the gravest accident would keep him away at such a moment. Her mind leapt to the worst fears. Like one possessed she rushed alone down the long drive, hardly knowing what she did, till her feet reached the very brink of the flowing tide.

Surely the cry of her heart must call, even above the storm, to little Hal, the tender, clinging child, accustomed to think always of her pleasure during the happy days they spent at home together.

As if in answer to her soul's appeal, along the bank of the Lough's dark, swollen water, running at full speed, came a small breathless figure, drenched to the skin, holding aloft a tiny paper packet, which he waved victoriously.

"Dearest, it was for you!" he cried. "And, oh! I'm so sorry to be late, but Micky nearly got shipwrecked this time, the wind was so high, and his mast broke. I was frightened you'd lose your voice, so I went to Ferryport to buy Miss Cairn's cough-drops. They are splendid, dearest; try one and see!"

Already he had ferreted into the bag, and was holding between a salted thumb and finger a brilliant specimen of Miss Cairn's triumph in pink-striped lozenges.

As Mrs. Court heard the eager tidings: "Dearest, it was for you!" a rush of tears to her eyes and a sudden choking in her throat made Hal anxious.

"You--you _have_ caught a cold!" he exclaimed, with conviction, forcing the sugared cough-drop into her protesting hands.

"No, darling boy--no," she stammered, mastering her emotion with an effort; "the New Year gladness choked me for a moment, that's all!"

_Solutions to the Puzzles in the December Number._

TRACKING THE FUGITIVES.

The solution of this amusing problem is as follows: The fugitive started from station No. 1 on foot, carrying the child; at station No. 2 he mounted a bicycle and, still carrying the child, rode to No. 3; there he placed the child in a wheelbarrow; as indicated by the marks of the legs of the wheelbarrow, he stopped before reaching No. 4 and put down the child, who walked by his side to the station; thence he continued his journey on a tricycle, which also carried the child; at No. 5 he changed his tricycle for a monocycle (that is, a single-wheeled cycle, such as is used by trick-riders), but the child which he was carrying caused him to lose his balance and he fell; he then took the child in his arms and carried it to No. 6; thence he started holding the child by the hand, but farther on he again took it in his arms and so completed the journey at No. 7.

THE QUARRELSOME BROTHERS.

The solution of this problem will be found in the above sketch. Of course, the problem may be solved by drawing the lines the reverse way.

TO RECONSTRUCT THE CLOWN.

The reader will see, by inspection of the accompanying drawings, that the only way to solve this problem is by making a cut along the dotted line "A" before making that along the dotted line "B." This is the only possible method of obtaining four pieces with two cuts of the scissors. This being done, the method of rejoining the pieces so as to form the clown, as shown in the smaller diagram, will easily be followed, the pieces being numbered in order to show more readily where they fall.

A STRANGE SIGNATURE.

It will be seen that the signature is that of the celebrated French General, Marshal Ney.

TO MAKE A HEN OUT OF AN APPLE.

The white lines on the diagram given above of the apple will show in what manner the piece is to be cut out of it, which, being placed in its proper position, forms the neck and head of the hen. The stem being cut off and divided into two parts, as shown by the dotted lines, will give the legs, which, when attached to the body, complete the figure.

TO TURN THIS MAN INTO ANOTHER.

This problem is one of the most difficult of our collection. The dotted lines in the first of the accompanying three illustrations show how the original sketch has to be divided, while the other two show the manner in which the pieces require to be put together in order to form the new figure.

A CURIOUS MENAGERIE.

Unlike the preceding one, this problem is quite easy, and no doubt many hundreds of our readers will have found the correct solution. In order to obtain this it is only necessary to take the last triangle and paste upon its three sides the three other triangles, so as to complete the cat, the dog, and the cock, at the same time producing one large triangle composed of four small ones. The three summits of these triangles are then brought together, thus forming a pyramid. The menagerie, with the swan, the eagle, and the rabbit complete, will then be found to have been reconstructed.

A STRANGE GEOMETRICAL FIGURE.

The following design gives the solution of this curious problem. The dotted lines show in which way the figure is to be cut, and the numbers indicate the new position of the pieces.

THE FACETIOUS SCHOOLBOY.

Our readers will see by a glance at the accompanying drawing what features of the original landscape it was necessary to preserve in order to solve the problem, and which were produced by the schoolboy's pencil and must accordingly be removed. The drawing represents a light-house built on the edge of a cliff.

ROUND THE CAPSTAN.

This drawing gives the solution of the problem, showing to what bodies the respective heads and legs should be attached.

THE SIGNS OF THE ZODIAC.

The two signs of the Zodiac which it is necessary to choose, and the method of placing them among the stars and dots, are here shown.

TO COMPLETE THE BIRDS.

Cut the paper into an exact square just containing the birds and fold it in the well-known manner of making a "paper bird," when the two birds will appear, one as shown, and the other on the reverse.

TO MAKE A FLOWER OUT OF FOUR FREAKS.

The method of making a flower out of the four grotesque heads which were represented in the diagram is one of the simplest of the series. All that is required is to cut out the four heads, remove the white part, and place them one upon the other. The space left empty then forms the flower, as will be easily understood by inspecting the two designs here given. Each figure is represented by a dotted line.

THE SERPENT AND THE FILE.

Roll the strip of paper in a spiral, and the pieces of the serpent will be joined, while the file will disappear.

A BLOT OF INK.

Four black discs will be obtained by making six folds the long way of the design and two across it, as shown in the two accompanying drawings.

WHAT ANIMAL IS THIS?

The animal is an elephant, as the reader can see for himself, and the method of forming him will also be readily apparent without further explanation.

THE CASTLE IN THE FOREST.

The outline shows the track which is to be followed by the traveller in order to penetrate the forest and reach the castle in the centre.

A MOTOR-CAR PROBLEM.

The following is the series of eighteen movements which are required to transfer motor-cars from one shed into the other:--

1. Move car No. 5 into the refuge.

2. Move No. 2 into the place of No. 5.

3. Move No. 3 into the space between the refuge and the lower
shed.

4. Move No. 5 into the place of No. 3.

5. Move No. 3 into the place of No. 2.

6. Move No. 2 into the refuge.

7. Move No. 6 into the space between the refuge and the upper
shed.

8. Move No. 2 into the place of No. 6.

9. Move No. 6 into the refuge.

10. Move No. 3 into the lower shed in the place of No. 5.

11. Move No. 1 into the space between the refuge and the lower
shed.

12. Move No. 6 into the upper shed in the place of No. 1.

13. Move No. 1 in the place of No. 2 in the upper shed.

14. Move No. 3 into the space between the refuge and the upper
shed.

15. Move No. 4 into the refuge.

16. Move No. 3 into the place of No. 4 in the lower shed.

17. Move No. 1 into the lower shed.

18. Move No. 4 into the upper shed.

THE RIFLE RANGE.

The point is shown in the diagram below:--

BY E. NESBIT.

Copyright, 1904, by George Newnes, Limited.

VII.--CATS AND RATS.

When you hear that the four children found themselves at Waterloo Station quite un-taken-care-of, and with no one to meet them, it may make you think that their parents were neither kind nor careful. But if you think this you will be wrong. The fact is, mother arranged with Aunt Emma that she was to meet the children at Waterloo when they went back from their Christmas holiday at Lyndhurst. The train was fixed, but not the day. Then mother wrote to Aunt Emma, giving her careful instructions about the day and the hour, and about luggage and cabs and things, and gave the letter to Robert to post. But the hounds happened to meet near Rufus's Stone that morning, and, what is more, on the way to the meet they met Robert, and Robert met them, and instantly forgot all about posting Aunt Emma's letter, and never thought of it again until he and the others had wandered three times up and down the platform at Waterloo--which makes twenty-four trips in all--and had bumped up against old gentlemen, and stared in the faces of ladies, and been shoved by people in a hurry, and "by-your-leaved" by porters with trucks, and were quite sure that Aunt Emma was not there.

Then suddenly the true truth of what he had forgotten to do came home to Robert, and he said "Oh, crikey!" and stood still with his mouth open, and let a porter with a Gladstone bag in each hand and a bundle of umbrellas under one arm blunder heavily into him, and never so much as said "Where are you shoving to now?" or "Look out where you're going, can't you?" The heavier bag smote him at the knee, and he staggered, but he said nothing. When the others understood what was the matter I think they told Robert what they thought of him.

"We must take the train to Croydon," said Anthea, "and find Aunt Emma."

"Yes," said Cyril, "and precious pleased those Jevonses would be to see us and our traps."

Aunt Emma, indeed, was staying with some Jevonses--very prim ladies. They were middle-aged and wore very smart blouses, and they were fond of _matinées_ and shopping, and they did not care about children.

"I know mother would be pleased to see us if we went back," said Jane.

"Yes, she would; but she'd think it was not right to show she was pleased, because it's Bob's fault we're not met. Don't I know the sort of thing?" said Cyril. "Besides, we've no tin, except my tip grandfather gave me, and I'm not going to blue that because Robert's gone and made an ass of himself. No; we've enough among us for a growler, but not enough for tickets to the New Forest. We must just go home. They won't be so savage when they find we've really got home all right. You know auntie was only going to take us home in a cab."

"I believe we ought to go to Croydon," Anthea insisted.

"Aunt Emma would be out, to a dead cert," said Robert. "Those Jevonses go to the theatre every afternoon, I believe. Besides, there's the Phoenix at home, _and_ the carpet. I votes we call a four-wheeled cabman."

A four-wheeled cabman was called--his cab was one of the old-fashioned kind, with straw in the bottom--and he was asked by Anthea to drive them very carefully to their address. This he did, and the price he asked for doing so was exactly the value of the gold coin grandpapa had given Cyril for Christmas. This cast a gloom--but Cyril would never have stooped to argue about a cab-fare, for fear the cabman should think he was not accustomed to take cabs whenever he wanted them. For a reason that was something like this he told the cabman to put the luggage on the steps, and waited till the wheels of the growler had grittily retired before he rang the bell. "You see," he said, with his hand on the handle, "we don't want cook and Eliza asking us before _him_ how it is we've come home alone--as if we were babies."

Here he rang the bell; and the moment its answering clang was heard everyone felt that it would be some time before that bell was answered. The sound of a bell is quite different, somehow, when there is anyone inside the house who hears it. I can't tell you why that is--but so it is.

"I expect they're changing their dresses," said Jane.

"Too late," said Anthea; "it must be past five. I expect Eliza's gone to post a letter and cook's gone to see the time."

Cyril rang again. And the bell did its best to inform the listening children that there was really no one human in the house. They rang again, and listened intently. The hearts of all sank low. It is a terrible thing to be locked out of your own house on a dark, muggy, January evening.

"There is no gas on anywhere," said Jane, in a broken voice.

"I expect they've left the gas on once too often, and the draught blew it out, and they're suffocated in their beds. Father always said they would some day," said Robert, cheerfully.

"Let's go and fetch a policeman," said Anthea, trembling.

"And be taken up for trying to be burglars--no, thank you," said Cyril. "I heard father read out of the paper about a young man who got into his own mother's house, and they got him made a burglar only the other day."

"I only hope the gas hasn't hurt the Phoenix," said Anthea. "It _said_ it wanted to stay in the bathroom cupboard, and I thought it would be all right because the servants _never_ clean that out. But if it's gone and got out and been choked by gas--and, besides, directly we open the door we shall be choked too. I _knew_ we ought to have gone to Aunt Emma at Croydon. Oh, Squirrel, I wish we had. Let's go _now_."

"Shut up," said her brother, briefly. "There's someone rattling the latch inside."

Everyone listened with all its ears, and everyone stood back as far from the door as the steps would allow.

The latch rattled and clicked. Then the flap of the letter-box lifted itself--everyone saw it by the flickering light of the gas-lamp that shone through the leafless lime tree by the gate--a golden eye seemed to wink at them through the letter-box, and a cautious beak whispered:

"Are you alone?"

"It's the Phoenix," said everyone, in a voice so joyous and so full of relief as to be a sort of whispered shout.

"Hush!" said the voice from the letter-box slit. "Your slaves have gone a-merry-making. The latch of this portal is too stiff for my delicate beak. But at the side--the little window above the shelf whereon your bread lies--it is not fastened."

"Right O!" said Cyril.

And Anthea added: "I wish you'd meet us there, dear Phoenix."

The children crept round to the pantry window. It is at the side of the house, and there is a green gate labelled "Tradesmen's Entrance," which is always kept bolted. But if you get one foot on the fence between you and next door, and one on the handle of the gate, you are over before you know where you are. This, at least, was the experience of Cyril and Robert, and even, if the truth must be told, of Anthea and Jane. So in almost no time all four were in the narrow gravelled passage that runs between that house and the next.

Then Robert made a back, and Cyril hoisted himself up and got his knicker-bockered knee on the concrete window-sill. He dived into the pantry head-first, as one dives into water, and his legs waved in the air as he went, just as your legs do when you are first beginning to learn to dive. The soles of his boots--squarish, muddy patches--disappeared.

"Give us a leg-up," said Robert to his sisters.

"No, you don't," said Jane, firmly. "I'm not going to be left outside here with just Anthea, and have something creep up behind us out of the dark. Squirrel can go and open the back door."