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COMTUi.IT.
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The bells of Lent rang up, rang down,
Through all the babel of the town;
Hans soft, and clear, rang loud or tow, -
As loud or low March winds did blow.
Through wide-flung doors .he hurrying
throng ■■'■ •' ■■-* ■■ 'i'v'i
Caught hint of psalm and snatch of soug—
Theiiigh-strnng song of plaint and prayer,
Of cross and passion and despair.
One, hurrying by amid the throng,
Who caught the sweetness of the song
Above the turmoil of the street,
Turned suddenly her weary feet.
And through the wide-flung doors passed in
From out the week-day whirl and din.
'•(V.! me away from flesh and sense—
Thy grace, O'Lord, can draw me thence.
In fervent tones the singers sang,
While solemnly the organ rang, '
"From flesh and sense; ' the words struck
clear
Upon the stranger's listening ear. j
"From flesh and sense;" she looked across
The sun-lit aisles where glint and gloss
Of diamond-fire and satin shone—
A princess 1 raiment, that had won
A prince's ransom in the past;
Across the aisles, then downward cast
Her seeking glance in bitter heed
Of raiment that scarce met the need
That winter keen and merciless
Brought home to her with savage stress,
And they, they neither toil nor spin,
These lilliesfair, apparelled in
Tlit*.- costly robes, while others strive,
And mourn to find themselves alive
Beneath the burden of the day,
That leave small time or need to pray.
"Call me away from flesh and sense.
When flesh itself seems half-drawn thence
"For you, for you, oh favored ones,
These- silken stalls, these organ tones,"
Her bitter thought ran, as the prayer
Floated in music on the air.
"For you, for you this house you call
The house of God; forme the thrall
"Of toil and toil, from day to day,
While life wastes sordidly away
In vainest hope and dull despair
Of some sweet time, when one from care
"May pause and rest a little space,
And meet life's bright things face to face.
Hut faint at heart and very low
Of hope and comfort I but know
"In those dark days the needs of earth.
All else seems now of little worth;
And little worth your silken prayer
Against my wail of dull despair."
"BOYCOTTED."
CHAPTER r.
'We are 'Boycotted.'" Yes; "Boy
cotted, 7 in the fullest sense of the term.
Alt our servants have cone. Men-ser
vants and maid-servants. From the cook
to the pantry-boy — butler, housemaids,
ladies-maid—a ll arc gone, bag and bag
gage, all protesting against going, yet all
afraid to stay; and we are all alone in
our glory, and strange to relate, our
spirits have risen in consequence — gone
up to fever height; in fact. We laugh,
actually, as the last menial departs, and
then we look at each other with a sort of
defiant expression, and laugh again, for it
is rather ridiculous, after all.
Here we are — the Desmonds of Castle
Desmond — alone, utterly alone. Bereft
of household servants, of farm laborers,
of coachmen, groom— all, not forgetting
the dairymaid, 'and a dozen cows wait
ing to be milked." What are we to do?
•'Fight it out," Gerry declares with a
gleam in his gray eyes; and we all with
triumphant clamor echo his sentiments.
"Of course we must never give in. I
should think not; give in, indeed!" ex
claim the clear, deiiant, young voices;
for there is a flavor of delicious excite
ment about it all, and we feel like war
horses scenting the battle from afar, and
we are all more or less eager for the fray.
Mamma alone weeps and wails with her
youugest born at her side; and looks
pathetically at Gerry, her eldest son and
master, and owner of Castle Desmond and
its surrounding broad acres.
"Nan is going to stay with me,'' an
nounces the youngest born with charm
ing egotism, "so she shan't suffer a mo
ment's uneasiness."
Poor old nurse, she alone is faithful;
but what can she do?
"Heavens! I believe you have all for
gotten that awful man is coming to
night," exclaims Eily, tragically.
•'Gerry, you must telegraph and stop
him."
"I can't, he is on his road hours ago;
and what is to prevent him coming, i
should like to know?"
"What is to prevent him coming? why,
everything. Who is to cook? or wait at
table? or —
"Make his bed?" Solemnly this last
comes from the irrepressible youngest
born; whereupon we all laugh.
"By Jove! yes— l never thought of
that," muses Gerry, "and Tremaine is
such a terrible fellow for form, and all
that sort of thing."
Nora looks up from some work she is
pretending to do.
"We could stand ' Boycotting' by our
selves, but I don't see how we really can
have a stranger in the house. You see,
there is only old Nan, and you know,
Gerry, dear, we may not be able to get
even provisions, and he might not like to
come now when things arc so very un
settled."
"I have an idea!" My ideas are gener
ally unique of their kind, so the five pair
of eyes turn on me at once.
"Out with it, Mab."
And I cry out, excitedly:
"Eily, will you help me? You and I
can be servants, and wait at table, and
everything, and Colonel Tremane will
never know. Oh, it will be grand fun.
Now, what do you think of my idea?"
"Bosh!" from Gerry.
•Delightful!" from Eily.
And for half an hour we talk ed bet
ter talk, but in the end I carry my point,
and we dash off to work out our scheme.
Mamma is too broken down and ner
vous to care what we do, and Gerry walks
about as if he had the world on his
shoulders; so Eily and I carry all before
us and work like slaves to the detriment
of our hands, for we v «i 5 novices at cook
ery, and surely no o.Doks were so black or
so smutty as we two.
Our efforts are something almost super
human; and were it not for the real grav
ity of "Boycotting," we would enjoy it
all thoroughly. Milking time is the
worst. There stand the cows stalled in
by Gerry, and there stand the pails: but
where is the milk?
Gerry works away with his face very
red, but with very little result. I am
seated on a little low stool, a little afraid
of the cow, it must be confessed, but still
struggling manfully, and yet the milk
Won'Tcome. Eily ditto, laughing, and
telling us she is getting on beaotif ully.
"It's all knack, Mab. Why, I have ex
tracted nearly a piut."
"A pretty hard knack," in a smothered
voice from Gerry, with his head buried
in a big red cow.
"Steady, Cowslip, steady!"
But Cowslip with one kick and a spring
sends me on my back ignominiously —
pail, stool, and all flying; and my precious
pint of milk finds a resting-place in the
straw.
Otherwise there is no damage done,
and I return to the charge. For three
tours ~we are working at those miserable
Otws and at last, very hot and very tired,
we toil into the dairy with our milk
pails.
"By Jove! 1 had no idea it was such
hard work,"' Gerry says, wiping his fore
head.
'•[ don't envy the pretty maid who
went a-milking/' I say, laughingly. "I
always thought a dairy was such a nice
place, with the red floor, the cream, and
all the rest of it; but I see now a dairy
maid's place is no sinecure."
Gerry pulls out his watch.
"I must get the dog-cart and drive over
to meet Treraaine."
Eily looks up from skimming the
cream.
"If it safe for you to go alone?"
"Oh, nonsense, it is safe enough," and
he goes.
Eily and 1 can think of nothing but act
ing up to our new characters as the do
mestics of the Desmond family.
Our dresses, caps, and aprons are all
perfect of their kind, and even mamma
smiles a smile as I rehearse a little for
her benefit, and bring fresh coals for the
drawing-room fire and brush up the
hearth in the deftest fashion imagin
able.
Dot, all befrilled and bebowed by Nan's
careful fingers as if "Boycotting" was a
thing unknown, watches with her big
eyes.
" "13 Mab making a play, mamma?"
"Yes, ray darling."
"The child will tell Colonel Tremaine
the first thing," remarks Eily, as she
draws the curtains and then whisks round
on Dot suddenly.
"Dot, if you tell, I'll— l'll— 'Boycott'
you," she says in an awful voice.
And the youngest-born, awed by the
threat, promises "not to tell — oh, not any
one."
'•She will all the same, I feel convinc
ed," Ely says, as we depart to the kitch
en. "What a nuisance a child is com
ing in at the end of a large grown-up
family."
After which speech she betakes her
self to the mysteries of mashing potatoes.
Nora, the beauty of the family, has ar
ranged the dinner-table to her liking, and
is now dressed and awaiting Colonel
Tremaine's arrival in the drawing
room.
"I would feel easier if Dot was in bed,"
I say.
"Remember 1 am Susan, and you are
Mar}', Eily."
"No; Mab, I am Susan; the name suits
me best. Oh, that wretched colonel, I
hope he likes pepper in his soup, for the
head of the castor has gone in."
"Nevermind. Eila, who is to bring
him his hot water in the morning?"
"You must," promptly. "You look
awfully like a house-maid, Mab; and be
sides I should laugh, I know that I
should."
"But I couldn't go into hi 3 room," in
horrified accents. "Eily, I couldn't; and
he must open his shutters for himself,
and you know I could just knock at his
door and say, "Your hot water, sir."
"And he will say, ' Come in,'" laughs
Eiiy. "Oli, Mab, it is glorious, and per
haps hfl will give us each half a sovereign
when he goes away."
A loud ring at the door! He has come:
and with my heart in my mouth, and
trying to look prim and demure, I pro
ceed to answer the summons. Opening
the hall-door wide I see a tall figure en
veloped in an ulster, standing on the
steps. Gerry is in the dog-cart.
"I shall be" in directly," he calls out,
and drives the trap round to the yard,
having no one to do it for him.
"Will you please come to the drawing
room, sir?" I whispered, timidly, and
surely no handmaiden had ever such a
small voice before.
He iy struggling out of his coat and
mulilers, and I watch him, bursting with
amusement the while at the joke of the
thing.
He is very tall, very dignified, a very
proper sort of man, and it would never do
to let him suspect the harmlese ruse we
are playing on him.
He is to be here only for two days, and
surely we can keep up the farae for
that short space of time. There is dig
nity even in the way he unwinds the
yards of white cashmere from his throat,
and lays it down on his coat. He has a
very grand manner, and he is nice-look
ing, too, quite a handsome man, just the
age I like — about forty. What a pity I
am only the servant! But he has shaken
himself together, and passing his hand
over his hair and straightening himself
as if he was on parade, signifies that he
is ready; and so I precede him across the
hall, and throwing open the drawing
room door, announce:
"Colonel Tremaine," with a flourish,
and retire, feeling that the stage has
lost a great and shining light in me.
Oh! the dishing-up of that dinner, the
heat of our facef , and the desperation of
our manner! Shall I ever forget it?
Gerry pays us a flying visit just as the
soup is being poured into the tureen.
"It is all right," he says, hurriedly.
"Tremaine is delighted with everything,
and hasn't an idea we're "Boycotted."
Mab, you look splendid! Don't laugh,
mind, girls, at dinner."
And off he goes, and Ihe work of dish
mg-up progresses.
"Eily, turkeys don't keep their legs up
like that."
"I can't help it," Eily cries, desperate
ly, struggling with the bird's long, yel
low legs, that are held toward heaven
supplicatingly, while the unfortunate
turkey goes bumping and steamiug about
the table, and refuses to get into shape or
form.
"He will think it is the Irish fashion of
trussing."
I cannot speak for laughing as Eily
settles the bird in a dish with its legs in
the air.
"Mab, you go en with the soup. See,
he is loking more natural, and the beef
is really beautifully done, and the sauce
does away with the effect of this animal's
legs, I think."
"Yes," I answer, dubiously, looking
at the white sauce flowing round and
the long strings of celery hanging like
garters round the terrible yellow ankles
of that most miserable bird.
But, putting a good face on the matter,
I carry in the soup, feeling a little ner
vous aa I announce dinner and see them
all coming in. Gerry gives me one de
lighted look.
Mamma is murmuring to Colonel Tre
maine about the state of the country, and
her tears for Gerry's safety; and Nora is
acting her part to perfection. So tLcy
take their places, and Eily and I hand
round the soup without any disaster.
Sherry with soup, and I gravely nil
Colonel Tremaine's glass and go round
the table. The pepper in the soup makes
them all cough, but the conversation
goes evenly oa, and we are wailing ad
u-irably.
"I thought you had more sisters, Des
mond?" the colonel asks; and Ei'y dashes
off with more haste than sense, and I
hear a smothered laugh.
"They are away," mutters Gerry, red
as a peony; and Nora steps into the
breach:
"I am sorry you have missed them,
Colonel Tremaine; they will be here
next week, I think."
Nicely put, and she has not said anj-
thing that is not true. And then — hor
ror of horrors! — I hear that awful colonel
telling Gerry that he will be able, after
all, to stay for at least a fortnight on a
long-promised visit of hunting.
A fortnightl when the man wrote to
say he could only stay two days on his
: way to pay a visit to somebody else.
We shall never be able o keep this up
i for a fortnight. However mamma aad
THE SAINT PAUL SUNDAY GLOBE, SUNDAY MORNING, JULY 3, 1881.
Gerry are expressing their pleasure at the
delightful prospect.
The turkey, legs and all, has made its
appearance, and 1 have at last, after
three trials, hoisted the roast beef over
mamma's shoulder and set it on the table,
nearly falling over Colonel Tremaine as
I do so.
"Oh, I beg your pardon,'" I cry, taken
off my guard, and speaking in my own
voice, forgetting to say. "Sir," in the ex
citement of the moment.
Gerry laughs; it was nearly all up with
us then, but Eily is thrusting a plate of
turkey under the colonel's nose, and I
have a few moments to recover myself.
Gerry's face, frowning at those uplifted
appealing legs of that fearful bird, is a
sightr but he carves on.^and the dinner
progresses on the whole in a very satis
factory manner.
The snipe are raw, and a little feath
ery; it must be confessed, and their legs
have the same upward inclination as the
turkey's had, but Colonel Tremaine de
vours'thc blackened, fluffy morsel, for we
anxiously watch his every mouthful; and
I breathe freely when he declines Eily's
most unpalatable-looking pudding — it
took her hours to make it— but the result
is not all her fancy painted.
With the dessert that most awful child
Dot comes in and makes for mamma; but
aurse must have trained her pretty well,
for she says nothing to Eily and me; but
presently, when her first shyness has
worn off, she looks at Colonel Tremaine,
and says, with terrible distinctness:
"1 know a secret, and you don't."
'•Dot," shouted Gerry, "come to me for
an' orange."
So she goes round the table, making
matters worse by saying:
"Oh don't be frightened. Gerald; for I
won"t tell him the secret."
The awful dinner is over at last, and we
are back in the drawing-room talking it
over with mamma and Nora.
Mamma says she does not like it at all;
the plan never met with her approval;
Colonel Tremaine will be sure to find
out, etc., etc. But what can we do.
"Boycotted," we are, and "Boycotted,"
we must remain.
"Colonel Tremaine rather admires the
Irish peasantry," Nora says, smiling.
"He said our maids were the prettiest
girls he had ever seen, and the tall one
with the great eyes was a real beauty,
much better-looking than half the Lon
don beauties. Now, Mab, what do you
say to that?"
"He will be making love to Mab when
she is bringing up his boots and shaving
water," says Eily, delightedly.
"Oh, 1 saw him admhingher that time
she nearly sent the beef spinning into
his lap — don't look so indignant, Mab,
and come and make the coffee, and you
can carry it in to the colonel."
It may be great fun, but it is very
risky. Every instant the chances of dis
covery seem to increase. When I pro
ceed to the drawing-room, coffee-tray in
hand, I find the colonel and Gerry al
ready located there — Colonel Tremaine
in close proximity to Dot, with — oh! hor
ror of horrors! — an open photograph book
between them, Dot with a desire of im
pairing information explaining who every
one is.
"That's Gerry, and this is me; and that
— oh!— that's Mab."
Here she stops and looks up at him,
gravely, nodding her head.
"That's the secret, and I mustn't tell
you."
"Coffee, sir," I whisper in agony.
And straight from contemplating the
photograph Colonel Tremaine looks right
up into my face, gives one quick, puzzled
startled look, first at me, then down at
the photograph, and then his eyes are
lifted again and meet mine full, and I air
sure there was a gleam of amusement in
his face — a sort of ray of enlightenment
as he takes his coffee-cup slowly from the
tray; while, crimson with humiliation, I
make one more heroic endeavor to retrieve
the moment by saying to that dreadful
child, in a voice that will be shaky in
spite of myself:
"Miss Dot, nurse is waiting for you to
go to bed."
Round-eyed she stares.
"Why, Mab!" is on her lips, but I give
her a terrible look that recalls her to her
senses, and take myself and coffee-tray
out of the room.
But lam sure that the colonel more
than half guesses that I am not the Susan
1 pretend to be.
CHAPTER 11.
Seven o'clock on a raw February morn
ing is not the pleasantest moment of the
day, and it is not an hour calculated to
make "Boycotting" appear a bearable or
deal.
But wo bravely proceed to the farm
yard, and manfully struggle with those
melancholy cows again. Our success is
not brilliant and we grow a little cross,
and grumble at the hardship, and look
with horror at the long row of white, red
and roan backs, all waiting to be milked.
Gerry has gone to the stable to attend
to the horses, and Eily and I are patient
ly filling our milk-pails by thunblefuls.
"I cauget on famously with one hand,
but when I try two I get out of time."
Eily says, dismally.
"So do I," I answer, in equally mourn
ful accents. "Oh, Eily!"
A tall figure rises up beside Clover, who
looks as if she would kick over the milk- |
pail; and I put on the Susan face and milk
away for dear life. What possessed the
man to come out at this hour of the
morning? lahere he stands, calmly sur
veying our frantic efforts, and I feel that
he is smiling — nay, laughing.
"Allow me."
Whether such politeness is meant for
tke cows or me! know not; but he pushes
up between Strawberry and Clover, and
stands looking down at me.
"Miss Desmond, you might have told
me that you were 'Boycotted.' "
It is all over then, and I look up blank
ly. Then the ludicrous side of the ques
tion seems to strike all three of us at
once, for we all burst out laughing, aud
the laugh takes away the awkwardness.
"How did you find out?" I ask, when I
can speak again.
♦•Your little s : ster let out the secret,"
he answers, "and I partly guessed when I
recognized you in the photograph book."
"What a shame! And we were flatter
ing ourselves that you should never find
out."
"I am very glad I have, heartily; for
now I can help you. Let me have a try
at the milk-pail; I used to be a capital
hand at it long ago."
We laugh, we talk, and surely the Feb
ruary morning has grown warmer; for
when we carry the pails of white frothing
milk to the dairy we are rosy aod smiling,
and it seem? to Eily and me as it" we had
known Colonel Tremaine tor y< ars.
What fun we had cooking the break
fast, each mishap and each disaster caus
ing fresh bursts of merriment
The colonel fries bacon and eggs, and
does it to perfection.
Norah's face, when she comes into the
kitchen, is a sight worth seeing; but we
soon explain and matters progress swim
mingly. Colonel Tremaine announces
his intention of lending us his valuable
services as long as we are "Boycotted,"
and when Gerry comes in he tmds us at
breakfast, praising up our own cooking,
and all feeling in a state of high good
humor.
"lsr T ove!" he says, standing in the
open doorway, "the u.anncis of the Irish
peasantry are forward, don't you think
so, Tremaine?"
"The murder is out," the colonel re
plies, "and 1 apply for the post of coach
man, Gerald, old man."
"You can't get it, then, for I have just
engaged a man, and he is coming in to
breakfast."
V;r" Who?" simultaneously from all. L
"George Dane. He came over and vol
unteered his services this morning," say 3
Gerry, giving a quick look , at Eily, who
flushes scarlet and looks daggers.
"I am sure we can dispense with his
services, she retorts, scornfully.
George Dane has been Eily's devoted
slave for three years; she has refused him
twice, and now they have quarrelled hope
lessly. -
"Don't «Boycot' me," says a humble
voice at the door, and George Dane makes
his appearance with a would-be contrite
smile on his face.
$He is quite good looking enough, quite
nice enough and quite rich enough, too,
if Eily could only see it; but she is a ver
itable coquette, as poor George has found
out long ago.
* -..*..• ♦ *. * ' ■•:
We have been "Boycotted" for three
weeks, and we are holding out still— very
grimly, as in a beseiged garrison; provis
ions are getting scarce. The last turkey
has met its end, the last goose ditto, and
groceries are at a premium; but I — well, I
sing:
"If we must starve, ah, why must it be
now?"
For in my heart I find myself blessing
the land league, and counting those three
weeks in which I lived; hitherto I only
existed.
But what a fool I am. Colonel Tre
maine will marry Nora, mamma thinks
so, Gerry thinks so, and Nora Is sure of
it.
Why on earth should he think of me!
one of the young ones, not out yet, even.
Of course he looks upon me as a jolly
sort of girl, a very good companion, while
Nora—
The family have it all settled without
saying anything, but mamma leaves them
together on every opportunity, and Nora
wears a look of "conscious pride and im
portance.
I am only Mab to him, nothing ■ more,
while — oh, what fools we woman
kind are from seventeen to seventy. I
could lay down my life for this grave,
dignified man, and give it all without a
sigh; and he doesn't want me or my life,
only Nora.
He is thinking of her now, I feel sure,
as we stand together in the stable-yard.
He is grooming Nora's pony, and hissing
softly like a cobra over the process, and I
am watching him; while in the harness
room I can hear Eily and George Dane
carrying on a laughing argument. Eily
has been very civil to him of late. Col.
Tremaine stops hissing and looks .at me
over the pony's back.
Young Dane looks very happy to-day,
don't you think so?"
"I don't know," 1 said, gravely.
He laughs a little.
"Don't you know anything about love
and lovers, Queen Mab?"
"No," I make answer, "indeed I do
not;" and laugh back at him, looking not
at him as I speak.
"It will come some day," he replies;
and then he lowers his voice suddenly,
and the color flames up in my face hotly.
"I didn't think it would ever come to
me."
So softly he whispers the words, and
yet they strike full and strong, like a
sledge-hammer, -ii -!;
Is he going to tell me of his love for
Nora?
"Mab!'-
Only my own name, but I cannot bear
to hear it in his voice.
"May I tell you about it, dear?"
"No!" I gasp, with one wild look at
his transformed face, one wild wish that
that look and that smile were for me; and
then I speed away with flying feet, and
leave him there, and I wish that it was all
over, and that he and Nora were married.
On the way I meet Nora. So calm and
unruffled she looks; a fit wife for him, such
a contrast to my wild, turbulent nature.
And yet 1 wonder if Nora has one-tenth
the love for him that 1 have— l who have
given it all unasked, unsought, whose
love must die uncared for, unthought of.
"Where is Colonel Tremaine?" asks
Nora; and I answer, without looking at
her:
"In the yard. You will find him out
there."
"Mamma is anxious about Gerry," she
continues. "Some one told her he had
gone to Liscree about those tenants, and
she is in a fidget. Will you go to her,
Mab?"
But I cannot face any one now, and so
I walk far away down the avenue, out of
sight of everybody, and think over all
these past days; the days when he and I
worked together, gay and merry always,
though we were "Boycotted" and in dan
ger in this our own land; and I was hap
py, with a happiness that comes but once
in a life-time, until I awoke to find it was
all a mistake. How he and I used to be
such friends, such companions, and Eily
and George Dane.
Working together in the kitchen, cook
ing, laughing always, or helping to look
after the farm, or the horses, or the thou
sand-and-one things that our awkward
hands had learned to do so deftly now, it
was always he and I, we two; and now —
"Oh, what a fool I am! My cheeks are
wet, and the first tears that a man ever
brought to my eyes are coming thick and
fast.
A boy springs out of the bushes sud
denly, and shoving a dirty piece of paper
in mv hand, vanishes like lightning.
Everything startles us, these strange,
terrible times, and I fee! frightened as I
examine the missive. But the fear
changes to terror as I read the few badly
written words:
"The young master will be shot as he
passes the lime-kiln coming home to
night. A warning from a friend."
The lime-kiln! Quick as thought I
remember the place — a lonely bit of road
a mile or more away, and Gerry mustpas3
it coming home, there is no other way for
him to come.
Something must be done. He mu9t be
warned.
Sick and cold with horror I read and
reread the scrap of paper, but make
nothing more out of it.
Whoever goes to warn Gerry must pass
the lime-kiln.
Who is to so?
I hide my face for a second, and feel as
if I must choke, and my heart swells
with love for Jerry and that other love.
Ge,rrv must be savei, but not by him. I
know well that he would go at once; I
know so well what he would do — how he
would go himself to the limekiln, and
save Gerry that way. And they might
fire at him, perhaps.
No, no; my life before his! And so I
speed back to the house, and running in
white and desperate, ttand face to face
wiih Colonel Tremaine.
"Mab, what bas happened? You are
as white as a sheet!"
"Nothing," I answer, hastily. "lam
tired. I have a dreadful headache."
So 1 have. My head willburst, I think,
and Gerry's life lies in my hands.
His fingers touch mine.
"Mai), have 1 offended you?"
As he speaks the clock strikes out five,
and Gerry will be here immediately, or
rather there."
"Let me go!" I cry out, with a sob, a
wild, biitcr look, up into his face; for
have 1 not almost chosen between my
brother's life and his? Oh, no, not that!
And I fly up stairs and !eave him there,
with that grave, pnzzled look in his eyes.
There is such a little time to do anything
in. Gerry must be on his way home now,
coming nearer and nearer to that dread
ful place.
I suppose I have a good deal of pres
ence of mind or self-control, for I am
outwardly calm enough as I go to the
nursery and say quietly to the nurse that
1 wish she would go down stairs and get
me a cup of tea. When she is gone I turn
to Dot and send her down to the draw
ing-room to say 1 am going to lie down
with a headache. The child"runs off and
the moment has arrived.
In the wardrobe hang 3 nurse's long,
black cloak with its heavy hood. Snatch
it from the peg, I dart away, and creep
ing cautiously to Gerry's room, take a re
volver from its case. We have been
practicing every day and 1 know I am a
good shot.
I may want it this evening, I think, as
with cold hands I hide it, and slip away
down the back stairs, unseen by anybody,
and run as fast as my feet will carry me
through the shrubs, and reach the avenue
b}' a path that is unseen from the draw
ing-room windows.
Once outside the gate I put on the long
cloak, and with the hood over my head I
fly as if for my life along the white, hard
road, my fingers tightly clutching the
revolver.
The life of the man I loved better than
life was safe, but if I had sacrificed Geny
for him?
Was it wrong? 1 scarcely know; on and
on, walking and running, feeling like one
always feels in a terrible dream, utterly
unable to get on, running and stumbling,
struggling every nerve to be on time.
A long way off now I can see the old
limekiln, and my heart gives one wild
bound as further on ' beyond that, just
where the road winds, 1 see a solitary
horseman, and know that it is Gerry all
unconscious, riding home.
Which of us will reach the spot first? I
am the nearest, but dare not run now for
I might be seen.
The cloak hides me well. Who would
notice a country girl passing along this
lonely country road?
A little further on, and I can recognize
Gerry quite well, and the gray horse.
He is coming so fast, trotting, and I am
almost screaming out as I see him com
ing faster and faster, and I am far away
yet from the limekiln.
It must be all over in a minute, either
way.
I am running now, shaking with fear
and excitement, and I who piqued myself
oa being a good shot, know that my
trembling hands couldn't hit a hay-stack
now. Oh, heavens! they are waiting for
him; I see a head cautiously peeping from
behind the old wall, and I draw nearer
the hedge. God give me strength now!
On he comes, poor Gerry, cantering on
the grass at the side of the road.
Little he dreams that there are murder
ers lying in wait as he comes nearer and
nearer, and never notices me as I fly for
dear life toward him; but I cannot get to
the limekiln first.
He has won the race!
"Gerry!" I shriek, and run out into the
middle of the road and wave him back.
<; Gerry, Gerry! go back!"
On he comes; I can see his face: and I —
oh heavens, for a little more strength!
Spent, breathless, exhausted with run
ning, it is a very hoarse cry that breaks
from my lips, and then—
Oh, if I live to be a hundred 1 must see
it all then as I see it now.
A shot fired, and then a horse dashed
riderless away, and Gerry lying on his
face on the road, quite still, and over the
wliite fields a man running like the
wind.
"Gerry, Gerry!"
And like one bereft of reason I fall
prone beside him, and wild with agony
unspeakable, hide my face, for my broth
er is dead, and it is my fault; It seems to
me a long time, but 1 believe it is only a
moment or two after all, till I feel Gerry
struggling and getting upon hisfeet, and
hear him say:
"Thank God!" under his breath.
Not dead — not hurt.
"Mab?" he cries, as I lift my head and
look at him, "what brings you here, and
what on earth does it all mean?"
Mine is a gasping, incoherent story,
but Gerry's face flushes as he listens.
"Brave girl," he whispers fondly.
"You saved me, Mab. I thought you
were some maa woman, but your cry
must have frightened that wretch, for the
shot never touched me."
"You are sure, Gerry?"
"Yes; I'm not touched. The horse
shied and pitched me off, and 1 suppose I
was stunned for a second."
And then his cheeks grow suddenly
white.
"To think they should have tried to
murder me. Mab, it was a very close
shave."
"Yes," I whisper, brokenly. "Oh Ger
ry, dear, if I hadn't been in time."
"And I fall to sobbing and crying as if
my heart would break.
"Come, Mab, old woman, don't break
down now, for you were so plucky be
fore; and I say, here comes Tremaine on
the horse. I wonder what he will say to
it all."
He says very little, but listens in silence
as Gerry gives a very excited account of
the narrative, and I never once look in
his direction, but I cling to Gerry's arm
with downbent face, down which the
tears are falling.
When it is all told, Colonel Tremaine
draws a long breath, and looks quickly
around.
"Which way did the man go?"
Then I speak:
"You could never overtake him; he ha 3
been gone for ten minute for more. Gerry
don't try, but go for the police."
"Mab is right; it would only be a wild
goose chase. Tremaine, will you take
Mab home, and I will ride on at once and
let the police know about this work."
So Gerry rides on, and we two are left
standing, with no sound but the retreat
ing beat of the horse's hoof.
"Mab, why didn't you let me help you?
You risked your own life, and might not
have been able to save his."
No answer; I turn my face and walk
slowly on.
"You might have been hurt," added
he, presently, in a low voice.
"It wouldn't have mattered much," I
whisper almost inaudibly. "My life is
not of much value to any one."
"That is for others to judge," returns
he, and there is something in his voice
that makes my heart cry out with a long
ing unspeakable.
"Take me horne — oh, please take me
home," I cry out, brokenly.
He puts my hand on his arm, and takes
the revolver from my cold fingers.
"So it, was this you came to the house
for? Mab, I wondered at your white
face, and followed you here; and I met
Gerry's horse and came on as quick as I
could; but why didn't you let me help
you save your brother? A man's Judg
ment might have been needed." \nd
this from him.
"They might Lave shot you," I return,
in a low voice. "And— and I thought
they would not notice me."
"My God! And if you had come to
harm!"
Strong and quick, half to himself, the
words fall from his lips, and over my
hand his fingers close suddenly.
"Why did yon run away from me to
day?"
No answer — I cannot speak.
"Why did you run away?" he repeats,
and I know from his fond, tender voice,
that he is thinking of Nora.
"Mah, I had something to say to you,
and you would not listen; and then Nora
came. And what do you think happened?
Eily and George Dane have made up, and
i it's all right now."
! "Oh, lam so glad," I cry, heartily.
j "Did they tell you?"
"Yes; they settled it all to-day, over
the mysteries of harness cleaning, I
believe. I thought George meant more
than cleaning saddles and bridles this
J afternoon."
"It means a bridal, any wav," I say,
and laugh nervously at the bau pun.
"Yes; and double harness," he rejoins,
and sighs sudden ly. ' 'Mab — Queen Mab —
I little thought that the first night you
opened the door, and looked such a de
mure little handmaiden helping me off
with my coat that, that "
"Let us hurry home," I say, hastily.
"What is the good of us talking nonsense
when Gerry has only just escaped from
being/ murdered?"
"You shall listen to me," sharp and
stern; and then his voice breaks. "Mab,
don't you know I love you? Won't you
give me one little bit of your heart, even
Griffith's valuation, Mab, mydarhng?"
It is Nora, he is speaking of, not me;
it must be Nora, and yet "his darling!"
One look in his face, one brief, shy
glance, and I know it is not Nora at all,
only me.
"My own! My own!"
* # * * *
It takes us an awfully long time to get
home, and he knows now why I would
not let him know of Gerry's danger; and
a graver, deeper look comes into his face
as he listens, and whispers softly:
"For my sake? Oh, Mab!"
♦ * * * #
I don't suppose the man who fired at
Gerry will ever be found out, but I hope
matters will have quieted down before
a certnin happy day, when there is to be
a double wedding in the old church.
And I know that Eily and I bless the
day that we were "Boycotted."
HOLLIE AND THE BEAR.
A True 3 ory of "Ye Olden Time."
He sat in the doorway eating a turn
over, this little Hollie of whom I am
going to tell you, one sunshiny morning
in August, ninety years ago. The corn
tassels were waving in the soft breeze,
and beyond the small clearing, among the
tall, old forest trees, the birds were giv
ing a morning concert. Everything was
so fresh and sweet and beautiful that
Hollies heart sang, too, a glad little song.
Perhaps the turnover had something to
do with that.
Just as he had finished the last mouth
ful he saw his father coming along the
path from the corn-field, walking very
fast, and with a very red face.
Hollie jumped up in a hurry. "It's
the bear!" he cried, excitedly. "I do
believe it's the bear come again! Isn't
it, father?"
"I should say it was," returned his
father, crossly; "and either he's a mon
strous big fellow or there's more'n one of
him. He's tramped down a square rod
of the corn-patch. It's enough to pro
eoke a saint, that's what it is!"
And I think it was almost. Every
night for a week except the last one had
Hollies father taken down his trusty
queens-arm and gone, at twilight to the
further edge of the corn-field there to
wait and watch until the morning bright
ened in the east. For several nights he
stood guard, and the bear did not come.
The eighth night he slept, and the bear
did come. Wasn't it provoking?
"I shan't have enough corn left to fat
my pig," he went ©n, as Hollies mother
looked out of the low doorway. "If I
could only shoot that tarnal critter,
though, we'd get meat enough out o' him
to last a good spell. He must be a liefty
chap; his track's as big over as a plate."
How large a plate did he mean, do you
think?
"When are you going to watch for
him again!" asked Hollies mother,
"Not very soon, I reckon. The brute
has too much sense to come when I'm
there, and I wouldn't lose another week's
sleep, anyway, for forty patches of corn."
Hollies eyes were twinkling like very
bright stars, indeed. "Oh, father, let me
watch one night, please!" he cried. "I
know how to fire the musket. "Mayn't
I, father?"
And of course his father said "Non
sense!" very decidedly. You knew he
would, didn't you? Your father would not
let his little boy spend a night in a forest
stretching away on all sides, and with no
company save the katy-dids, an old mus
ket and a possible bear, would he? No
more would Hollies father.
Nevertheless the idea grew and grew
until it filled Hollie'B bright little mind
completely. If he could but kill that
bear!
"Father didn't say I mustn't try," he
declared over and over to himself, "he
only said 'Nonsense!"
You see, don't you, that Hollie was
very like a good many little boys, now-a
days.
So, in the afternoon, he crept around
and loosened some of the boards which
were nailed across the place for a win
dow in his bedroom. There was but two
rooms in this little log house. The
larger was kitchen, dining-room, sitting
room and bedroom in one; the smaller was
Hollies bedroom, and the old queens-arm
hung from a peg in the wall just at the
foot of Hollies cot-bed.
That night when Hollies father and
mother were sleeping soundly, and there
were no signs of life anywhere about the
little house, the man-in-the-moon, just
peeping above the eastern tree-tops, saw
those loosened boards drop noiselessly
down from the window-hole, and a little
boy crawl through softly as any mouse,
dragging a very big %nusket out after
him.
How very still everything was! Hollie
had half a mind to be frightened. There
was no sound of life save the monoton
ous "Cro-ak, cro-ak, cro-uk, cro-uk!" of
the frogs down by the brook. The well
sweep had an unfamiliar look, and the
corn rustled and shivered as it never rus
tled and shivered in the bright sunlight,
surely.
But Hollie walked along boldly enough,
toward that part of the cornfield nearest
the wood. Almost there, he stopped —
suddenly. A rustling, much louder than
the rustling of the soft winds among the
corn, came to his ear — a sound of tramp
ing and champing.
"I just b'lieve it's one of the oxen got
loose,' he thought; "faint a bear at all.
Ho! ho!" and he laughed softly to him
self, thinking of the joke it would be to
tell his father in the morning.
He went nearer. Through tall, thick
growing cornstalks, he caught a glimpse
of a great, dark creature busily chewing
off the half-ripe ears of corn.
"It's old black Star!" said Hollie, stoop
ing to pick up a stone. "Hur rap, there,
sir."
The champing ceased. There was a
low growl, and then the big, black crea
ture rose upon its haunches and looked
about.
Poor, frightened, little Hollie. For an
instant he stood in mute terror, his breath
coming in short, quick gasps, his heart in
his throat. But through all the fear
shone a faint gleam of triumph Here
was the bear which his father had long
and vainly watched for. He raised the
old queens-arm; there was a heavy crash
which set the woods singing, mingled
with a horrible whistling scream from the
bear.
Hollie turned and ran; all his life long
he never forgot that wild race to the
house. Nor how, when he flung himself
upon the closed door, its leather hinges
parted, and he and the door fell with a
great clatter, into the kitchen.
"Land alive!" cried his mother.
"He— he's after me! He's right behind
me!" shrieked Hollie, scrambling to his
feet. "He-— he chased me— me clear to
the door!"
"What did?" demanded his father, who
had bounced out of bed upon the floor at
the first alarm, and now, with great pres
ence of mind, seized sharply on Hollies
ear and held him still; "What chased you,
Hollingsworth?"
"The bear," said Hollie, meekly, and
then, with many long-drawn breaths he
told the whole little story.
When he had finished, his father went
to the doorway, looked out and listened.
Then he gave a soft "I don't believe it,"
sort of a whistle.
"You've been dreaming and walking in
your sleep, 1 reckon," he said to Hollie.
"I'll go and see. Where's the musket?"
But Hollie couldn't tell, and his father
didn't care to face even an imaginary
bear, without his good queens-arm in
hand. So presently, the door was propp
ed up, and the little house fell asleep
again.
And when, early next morning, Hollie
and his father went out into the corn
l'eld, they found the musket just where :
Hollie had let it fall in his fright; and,
twenty feet away, the body of a huge,
white-faced; black bear, which had
dropped in his tracks, with a bullet
wound in his breast.
So, you see, it was Hollies imagina
tion which chased him to the door. Im
agination does play queer prank 3 some
times.
Of course there was a jubilee. A piece
of Hollies bear was sent to each and
every neighbor for miles around. The
story was told and told again, and Hollie
was a hero. But for all the praise and
petting,- and for all that his mother fried
a lot of the most delicious turnovers in
his honor and allowed him to eat as
many as he chose so that he did not
make himself ill, there was something
about the exploit which Hollie didn't
quite like to remember. Can you guess
what?
THE BIRDS' CaATTXRZXGS.
When they chatter together, the robins and
sparrows,
Bluebirds and bobolinks, all the day long,
What do they talk of ? The sky and the sun
shine,
The state of the weather, the last pretty
song.
Of love and of friendship, and all the sweet
trifles
That go to make bird-life socareless and free;
The number of grubs in the apple-tree yonder,
The promise of fruit on the big cherry-tree
Of matches in prospect. How Robin and
Jenny
Are planning together to build them a nest;
Howßobolink left Mrs. Bobolink moping
At home, and went off on a lark with the
rest.
Snch mild little slanders! Such innocent gos
sip!
Such gay little coquetries, pretty and bright;
Such happy love-making! Snch talks in the
orchard!
Such chatterings at daybreak, such whis
perings at night.
Oh, birds in the tree-top 6! oh, robins and spar
rows!
O bluebirds and bobolinks! what would be
May
j Without your glad press nco — the songs that
you sing us,
And all the sweet nothings we fancy you
say.
— Caroline A. Mason, in St. Nicholas.
Cetywayo in Captivity
[London World.]
"De oude Molen," or the old mill,
which is at present the prison of the ex-
King of the Zulus, is a two-storied farm
house, some four miles from Cape Town.
The mill has dissappeared, but the house
is in good repair, well-built, with large,
airy rooms. It would be hard to find a
finer view. In the matter of scenery and
accommodation the captive lias little to
complain of. Visitors to Cetywayo must
be furnished with an order from the office
of the Secretary for Native Affairs— a
precaution very necessary to prevent
annoyance to the ex-King, who is regard
ed by the crowd of passengers calling at
Cape Town as a kind of zoological speci
men. Among the names inscribed on the
visitor's book are those of Edward and
George (the two sons of the Prince of
Wales) written in boyish hands. The
drawing-room is cheery in aspect and
scroupulously clean, but coldly furnished
with half a dozen American kitchen
chairs, on one of which sits Cetywayo in
a blue serge suit, with a gorgeous smok
ing-cap on his head. No description
would, perhaps, hit him off as Falstaff's
ideal portrait of himself: "A goodly,
portly man i' faith, and a corpulent; of a
cheerful look, a pleasant eye, and a most
noble carriage." It is Cetywavo to the
life.
Conversation is carried on through the
medium of the interpreter. Cetywayo
remarks that he is too old "to learn Eng
ish," but adds, "My son shall do so."
He liked the young Princes much; "they
were fine boys, and he could see that they
were of royal blood. He liked "De oude
Molen;' but what was the good of liking
anything? he was dead now." "I and
Landabale," remarks hiserewhile Majes
ty, "are like two pauws (bustards) down
here"— meaning birds who have no home
— not a bad paraphrase of David's "Par
tridge on the Mountains." He followed
every step of our conflict with the Boers
through the newspapers which the inter
preters read out to him daily and on
learning the death of Gen. Collcy, dic
tated entirely from his own idea a letter
of condolence to the governor of the col
ony. Before leaving "Do oude Molen,"
the visitor will be introduced to the four
wives — great strapping women in good
condition, about as contented with their
lot as stalled ox, whose common intellect
they much resemble. Court dress is,
though, becoming enough, but scanty,
and suits their bronzed figures well — just
a Sergeant's plaid of the ninety-first tar
tan as a sort of shawl, which seems to be
regarded as an encumberance. They are
meery, light-hearted creatures, who fleet
the time carelessly enough in a golden
world of idleness and Kaffir beer.
The ex-King, too, is fond ol his joke,
and the house sometimes rings with his
laughter at some-natured chaff. "Can
you use a knob-keirie?" inquired one
young visitor, a tall fellow of some six
feet three. "Well," said Cetywato, "if
I can't do that I can do nothing," and
picking up a stick, in a few rapid passes
he disarmed his inquiring friend; then,
with a hearty grasp of the hand, burst ma
a shout of laughter. Literature, the
great consolation of more civilized cap
tives, is literally a sealed book of Cety
wayo. He can not compose philosophic
reflections, like the illustrious prisoner of
i Ham; nor write his memoirs and recol
lections, like his ereater uncle; nor can
he even, like his own bitterest oppo
nents, solace an enforced leisure by writ
ing justificatory art idea for the Nine
teenth Century. There is no resource
beyond a dismal brooding over his own
misfortunes, and the vain hope of a pos
sible restoration.
Vulgarity in high ife is al' the more
conspicuous because of its elevation.
As fire is discovered by ita own light,
so is virtue by its own excellence.
