The New Boy at Hilltop, Chapter 1

by Ralph Henry Barbour, originally begun December 1906
.

Here again is Barbour, the king of the sports stories, about a young man's struggle to get along in what was considered a typical boys' boarding school. This time the game is basketball, but it's more between Kenneth and a resentful classmate.

A BAD BEGINNING

Hilltop School closed its Fall Term with just ninety-five students; it opened again two weeks later, on the third of January, with ninety-six; and thereby hangs this tale.

Kenneth Garwood had been booked for Hilltop in the Autumn, but circumstances had interfered with the family's plans. Instead he journeyed to Moritzville on the afternoon of the day preceding the commencement of the new term, a very cold and blustery January afternoon, during much of which he sat curled tightly into a corner of his seat in the poorly heated day coach, which was the best the train afforded, and wondered why the Connecticut Valley was so much colder than Cleveland. Ohio. He had taken an early train from New York, and all the way to Moritzville had sought with natural eagerness for sight of his future schoolmates. But he had been unsuccessful. When Hilltop returns to school it takes the mid-afternoon express which reaches Moritzville just in time for dinner, whereas Kenneth reached the school before it was dark, and at a quarter of five was in undisputed possession, for the time being, of Number 12, Lower House.

"We are putting you," the Principal had said, "with Joseph Brewster, a boy of about your own age and a member of your class. He is one of our nicest boys, one of whom we are very proud. You will. I am certain, become good friends. Mr. Whipple here will show you to your room. Supper is at six. Afterwards, say at eight o'clock. I should like you to see me again here at the office. If there is anything you want you will find the Matron's room at the end of the lower hall. Er—will vou take him in charge, Mr. Whipple?"

On the way across the Campus, between banks of purple-shadowed snow and under leafless elms which creaked and groaned dismally in the wind. Kenneth reached the firm conclusion that there were two persons at Hilltop whom he was going to dislike cordially. One was the model Joseph Brewster, and the other was Mr. Whipple. The instructor was young, scarcely more than twenty-three, tall, sallow, near-sighted and taciturn. He wore an unchanging smile on his thin face and spoke in a soft, silky voice that made Kenneth want to trip him into one of the snow banks.

Lower House, so called to distinguish it from the other dormitory, Upper House, which stood a hundred yards higher on the hill, looked very uninviting. Its windows frowned dark and inhospitable and no light shone from the hall as they entered. Mr. Whipple paused and searched unsuccessfully for a match.

"I fear I have left my match-box in my study," he said at length. "Just a moment, please, Garwood, and I will—"

"Here 's a match, sir," interrupted Kenneth.

"Ah!" Mr. Whipple accepted the match and rubbed it carefully under the banister rail. "Thank you," he added as a tiny pale flame appeared at the tip of the side bracket. "I trust that the possession of matches, my boy, does not indicate a taste for tobacco on your part?" he continued, smiling deprecatingly.

Kenneth took up his suit-case again.

"I trust not. sir," he said. Mr. Whipple blinked behind his glasses.

"Smoking is, of course, prohibited at Hilltop."

"I think it is at most schools," Kenneth replied gravely.

"Oh, undoubtedly! I am to understand, then, that you are not even in the least addicted to the habit?"

"Well, sir. it is n't likely you 'll ever catch me at it," said Kenneth imperturbably. The instructor flushed angrily.

"I hope not," he said in a silky voice, "I sincerely hope not, Garwood,—for your sake!"

He started up the stairs and Kenneth followed, smiling wickedly. He had n't made a very good beginning, he told himself, but Mr. Whipple irritated him intensely. After the instructor had closed the door softly and taken his departure, Kenneth sat down in an easy-chair and indulged in regrets.

"I wish I had n't been so fresh," he muttered ruefully. "It does n't do a fellow any good to get the teachers down on him. Not that I 'm scared of that old boy, though! Doctor Randall is n't so bad, but if the rest of the teachers are like Whipple I don't want to stay. Well, dad said I need n't stay after this term if I don't like it. Guess I can stand three months, even of Whipple! I hope Brewster is n't quite as bad. Maybe, though, they 'll give me another room if I kick. Don't see why I can't have a room by myself, anyhow. 1 guess I 'll get dad to write and ask for it. Only maybe a chap in moderate circumstances like me is n't supposed to have a room all to himself."

He chuckled softly and looked about him.

Number 12 consisted of a small study and a good-sized sleeping room opening off. The study was well furnished, even if the carpet was worn bare in spots and the green-topped table was a mass of ink blots. There were two comfortable arm-chairs and two straight-backed chairs, the aforementioned table, two bookcases, one on each side of the window, a wicker waste basket and two or three pictures. Also there was an inviting window seat heaped with faded cushions. On the whole. Kenneth decided, the study, seen in the soft radiance of the drop-light, had a nice "homey" look. He crossed over and examined the bedroom, drawing aside the faded brown chenille curtain to let in the light. There was n't much to see, two iron beds, two chiffoniers, two chairs, a trunk bearing the initials "J. A. B." and a washstand. The floor was bare save for three rugs, one beside each bed and one in front of the washstand. The two windows had white muslin curtains and a couple of uninteresting pictures hung on the walls. He dropped the curtain at the door, placed his suit-case on a chair and opened it. For the next few minutes he was busy distributing its contents. To do this it was necessary to light the gas in the bedroom and as it flared up, its light was reflected from the gleaming backs of a set of silver brushes which he had placed a moment before on the chiffonier. He paused and eyed them doubtfully.

"Gee!" he muttered. "I can't have those out. I 'll have to buy some brushes."

He gathered them up and tumbled them back into his suit-case. Finally, with everything put away, he took off coat and vest, collar and cuffs, and proceeded to wash up. And while he is doing it let us have a good look at him.

He was fourteen years of age, but he looked older. Not that he was large for his age: it was rather the expression of his face that added that mythical year or so. He looked at once self-reliant and reserved. At first glance one might have thought him conceited, in which case one would have done him an injustice. Kenneth had travelled a good deal and had seen more of the world than has the average boy of his age, and this had naturally left its impress on his countenance. I can't honestly say that he was handsome, and I don't think you will be disappointed to hear it. Hut he was good-looking, with nice, quiet gray eyes, an aquiline nose, a fairly broad mouth whose smiles meant more for being infrequent, and a firm, rather pointed chin of the sort which is popularly supposed to, and in Kenneth's case really did, denote firmness of character. His hair was brown and quite guiltless of curl. His body was well set up and he carried himself with a little backward thrust of the head and shoulders which might have seemed arrogant, but was n't, any more than was his steady, level manner of looking at one.

Presently, having donned his clothes once more, he picked up a book from the study table, pulled one of the chairs toward the light and set himself comfortably therein, stretching his legs out and letting his elbows sink into the padded leather arms. And so he sat when, after twenty minutes or so, there were sounds outside the building plainly denoting the arrival of students, sounds followed by steps on the stairs, shouts, laughter, happy greetings, the thumping of bags, the clinking of keys. And so he sat when the door of Number 12 was suddenly thrown wide open and a merry face, flushed with the cold, looked amazedly upon him from between the high, shaggy, upturned collar of a voluminous dark gray ulster and the soft visor of a rakishly tilted cap.


...to be continued

"The Letter Box"

by the St. Nicholas readers, January 1890

From all over the U.S. to "Corea" to Scotland—and the Scottish miss's letter is quite humorous!

Palermo, Cal.

Dear St. Nicholas:

I have never seen a letter from this town as it is only about a year old. It is situated right in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains in the Valley of the Feather. My brother and myself live in a little cabin about a mile from town. If you go along any little creek you will see that the ground has all been picked up by men who came for gold in i849. About five miles from here some men have commenced a mine in the bed of the Feather River where they expect to get gold.

Your subscriber,
Selden S. H.


Chicago, Ill.

Dear St. Nicholas:

Last winter we were away from home for seven months, and during part of the time we visited in Alaska the Muir Glacier, one of the largest as well as one of the most beautiful of that northern region.

On the morning of June i2 we found ourselves in Glacier Bay, with icebergs large and small floating on all sides of us, making the passage very dangerous.

When we caught our first glimpse of the glacier it looked like a cloud or gray mist rolling down the wide valley. About ten o'clock we dropped anchor in front of the great glacier and for the first time heard the thunder of the falling ice. The glacier's front is from three hundred to four hundred feet high. As our eyes glanced along the front of it we caught the many tints of the ice. On the left it was a deep indigo, slowly fading out to a turquoise and then to a snowy white. Its front was broken into huge pinnacles towering over the water. We were landed in life-boats on the rocky moraine, and then scrambled for a mile over huge boulders, rounded pebbles, granite soil, and glacier mud. When we reached the pure snow-colored ice of the glacier its surface was seamed with deep chasms through which melted ice flowed, but it was so far down we could not see it.

At last we had gained the top and could see over the vast glacier, and saw its tributaries far back in the snowclad mountains, the great myriads of icebergs in the bay, and the exquisite coloring of it all. The mountains all around the glacier are worn down almost round, and only the rocks are to be seen, for the soil is all ground off by the slow process of glacial action. After we came back from our tramp in those two short hours it almost seemed as though we could see a change in the glacier. Great chunks of ice had fallen off and revealed new crevices and more dainty colors. The softest, palest blue changed suddenly to a deep sapphire or a crystal white, as a loud report announced the falling of another iceberg.

About five o'clock in the afternoon we steamed away and took our last look at this beautiful and majestic work of nature. As we threaded our way among the floating icebergs it seemed as though their numbers had greatly increased, and after supper we saw a sight never to be forgotten.

To the starboard side was a lovely bay covered with floating ice, and into this poured the great Pacific glacier. Beyond were large mountains towering to the height of thousands of feet, their slopes covered with snow. Above them rose Mt. Fairweather and Mt. Crillon, fifteen thousand feet high, just showing in the fleecy clouds. The mountains were piled unevenly together, their snowy crests shimmering like frosted silver in the soft sunbeams that danced merrily on them. A little farther on we met a canoe with two Indians in it. They were dressed in white, with a white screen before them, and their paddles scarcely rippled the icy water as they flew on. They looked very queer with their black faces peeping out from their white dresses. We found ourselves believing it was some enchanted scene, for the silvered mountains behind, the strange canoe with its two occupants, the mountains before us tinged with a weird golden light, the huge icebergs, and the unbroken stillness gave one the impression of living in a magic dream. The Indians, it seems, were hunting seal and were dressed to look as much like icebergs as possible.

Your loving friend,
Julia T. M.


The Eagle's Nest, Old Mission, Mich.

My Dear St. Nicholas:

We have a little pug-dog, and when he gets on his collar he is very pretty indeed. When we came up from Chicago on the steamer "Petoskey " he was very lonely, and the porter fed him and was kind to him, and when he saw him the next time the boat came in, he jumped all over him and licked his hands so joyfully that it was all we could do to get him away from the porter when the boat started. He likes to play ball, and when we play tennis he thinks it is his business to get the balls and bring them to us. When we lose a ball, we say, "Find it; find it, Trix."

I am eleven years old; I like you very much indeed; especially I like the "Bunny Stories,"— they are very interesting indeed.

The reason our cottage was named "The Eagle's Nest " was because there was once an eagle's nest in one of our trees, and we used to sit and look at it. Sometimes we would see the mother eagle on the nest.

Your interested reader,
Hortense L.


"East Lynne," Ocean Beach, N. J.

Dear St. Nicholas:

I have taken you for nearly six years, and have written twice before, but my letters were not printed. I hope you will print this.

We are down here for the summer, my mother and my little sister Ethel, and are staying at a very pretty house called "East Lynne"; it has a high tower which, at night, is lighted up, and the sailors can see the light on stormy nights, and know where they are, for our light is the only one between Barnegat and Sandy Hook. In the winter we go to a boarding-school in West Philadelphia.

My mamma's aunt knew Mrs. [Mary Mapes] Dodge very well, and I think her stories are splendid. I was very much interested in the account of "Laura Bridgman"; I have read Dickens's account of her in his "American Notes."

I am fourteen next month, and my favorite novelist is Dickens; my favorite poet, Longfellow.

We go in bathing here nearly every day; it is great fun. I can swim a little; my little sister is just learning. Please, St. Nicholas, will you tell me how to make a "salt tumbler"? I remain one of your many devoted admirers,

May I. J.


Springfield, Ill.

Dear St. Nicholas:

My sister and I have taken you for five years and have always looked forward to your coming.

Papa, Mamma, my sister, and I visited a fort this summer. It seemed so funny to ride in an ambulance drawn by four mules.

One day we went out to target practice; when the men would shoot, it sounded like a bunch of fire-crackers going off. After the men were through, we rode down and found many bullets.

The ground where the bullets hit looked as if some one had plowed it.

Your constant reader,
S. D. M.


New Rochelle.

Dear St. Nicholas:

Your stories I like very much. I think the "Bunnies" are great fun, and the "Brownies" too. I am going to tell you how glad I was when my mamma brought the first St. Nicholas. I am always reading them, and so glad when my mamma brings a new one home to me. I am an English boy, but very glad that I am over here. I never had such fun over there, as all the boys have here. I live in New Rochelle and like it very much.

Good-bye now.

Yours truly,
Wallace S.

P. S.—Thank you so much for making dear old St. Nicholas larger. You could not make it too big; not too thick, I mean. I liked "A Story of a Horse" in the November number so much.—W. S.


Fusan, Corea.

Dear St. Nicholas:

I have often thought you would like a letter from this part of the world, as I suppose it is the first.

I am an English girl, twelve years old, and the only foreign child in Fusan.

This is a Japanese settlement, founded some three hundred years ago; the Corean people live some distance away.

I have many pets,—a little Corean pony which I brought from Seoul (the capital), and called "Prince"; he is a beauty, and very intelligent and amiable. I have also a canary and a cat, both of which came from Hankow, in China, with me; several pigeons, and a dog.

Our house is by the sea, and we—that is, Mamma, Papa, and I—have greatly enjoyed sea-bathing during the summer heat.

I study at home, not very regularly, as so many things interfere; but expect to go shortly to school in Chefoo, China, four days journey by steamer from here.

I greatly enjoy reading you, and am always very anxious that the steamer should not miss the mail in Japan.

I very much hope to see my letter in print, as it is the first I have written to any paper.

If you care to know anything about Corea and the Coreans, I will gladly write to you about Seoul.

Your constant and appreciative reader,
Beryl H .


Little Boar's Head.

Dear St. Nicholas:

Don't you think this place has a queer name ? When we applied for a post-office, the Post-office Department said the name was too long; but, as we told them of some other places with names just as long, they let us keep the name.

There is a little Indian pony here whose name is "Flaxie," and upon him I have had a good many long rides. Unhappily pony has a stubborn will of his own. The other day I was in a hurry, and was galloping fast, when we came to a sharp turn that led back to his stable, so, though I wanted to go straight ahead and tried to pull him round, he took the bit in his teeth and went round the corner, when the girths broke and I found myself on the ground! I was not hurt, however, though I lost my ride.

I wonder how many of your readers know that "Old Ironsides" is still in existence, and is at Portsmouth as a training-ship? I rowed under her bows the other day. They have, however, built her upper deck out over the sides, and then roofed it in to use as a ball-room, which gives it a topheavy and uncomfortable look.

I have taken you ever since 1879, so I hope that you will print this.

Your constant reader,
Donald McI—.


West New Brighton, S.I..

Dear St. Nicholas:

Will it be wrong to point out two or three little mistakes in that very charming historical tale, in your November number, "The Prince and the Brewer's Son"? Errors in historical matters, or even in the embroidery work which surrounds the history of all great men, cling like burrs to a child's mind.

For instance, Queen Elizabeth died March 24, 1603, and James I. did not leave Edinburgh until April 5th; and he took a month to reach London. For this, and other reasons, it is not probable that he made another journey that year. Then, too, Oliver Cromwell was born April 25, 1599, and Charles I. was born November 9, 1600; therefore, in 1603 it would have been Oliver who was four years old, for Charles was not quite three. If, however, the date of the story were 1604, we could reconcile that year with the ages of the children, for in the legend Oliver is always represented to have been five years old in his first encounter with his future king.

Again, in 1603-4, Charles was not his father's heir; but Prince Henry, his older brother, was the heir to the throne.

It was for this prince that, in 1599, before Queen Elizabeth's death, James, who was then King of Scotland, wrote the "Basilicon Doron," the Royal Gift, and it was for him, too, that Sir Walter Raleigh, while a prisoner in the tower, began to write the "History of the World." Prince Henry was a great friend of Sir Walter, and said that no one but his father would keep such a bird in such a cage.

This was not a very filial speech, and I doubt if at this time there was much love lost between the father and son. Some people believe that James was jealous of his son, Prince Henry, and say that the prince died under suspicious circumstances.

However, the usual story of his death is, that Prince Henry left Richmond, where he had been ill for some time, and came to Whitehall to help on the preparations for his sister's wedding. This sister was the Princess Elizabeth who, the next year, 1613, on St. Valentine's Day, married the Elector Palatine of Bavaria, Frederick V., who was afterward King of Bohemia, and it is this same princess, Elizabeth, whose descendants have reigned over England since 1714, for she was the grandmother of George I.

But long before the wedding Prince Henry, one cold, raw day, went out to play a game of tennis, and, throwing off his coat in the heat of the game, he had a severe chill and died, within two weeks, of what was called "putrid fever." His death occurred in the latter part of 1612, when he was in his nineteenth year, while Charles was at this time only twelve. Charles, of course, then became the heir, but he was not made Prince of Wales until 1616. And, by the way, Charles I. was executed January 30, 1649, not 1648.

Is it likely that Cromwell would ever have been heard of in history if Prince Henry had lived?

Yours truly,
G. O. H.


Fort Hamilton, New York Harbor.

Dear St. Nicholas:

I often read in your invaluable magazine of families where the "grown-up children" express themselves as delighted to "still keep on reading St. Nicholas," although "so old." I wonder what they would say to me, a young mother, with a son a year and a half old, who reads every number she can get?

With heartiest good wishes for the long life and prosperity of the good Saint (I mean to bring my boy up on him, I assure you), I remain,

Very truly yours,
May H. R.


Boston, Mass.

Dear St. Nicholas:

I am just twelve years old. I live in Boston. In summer we all stay at our cottage by the sea.

I thought I would write you a letter about our "Tommy." I suppose almost every little girl has a cat; but we think our Tommy a very wonderful one. He is at least fourteen years old, Papa says. He is of a bright black color, and has a white tip on the end of his tail. He is good-natured, and very affectionate. He always eats his dinner with the family, and has a stool and plate all to himself. He is very neat and does not soil the table-cloth. He knows us all when we come into the room, and gives us a kiss with his black nose. One evening the maid was going to bed, and she went to the cellar to let Tom up; she called "Tommy, Tommy," but no Tommy came. The next morning he did not come home, nor did he all day long. At night she was waiting on the table, and suddenly the family heard a cat mew. She went to the door to let him in. He ran to the dining-room and got up on his stool. He was very weak, and his feet (which really were white) were black as coal. We thought he had been taken away and shut in a coal-bin. When he hears the dinner-bell, he runs, and is the first one at the table. I have a dress he likes very much. When we go to the sitting-room after dinner, if I have on the dress he likes, he lies in my lap and takes a nap while I read. Tommy is getting so old now that sometimes we have to carry him upstairs; but he loves us all very much, and we are very fond of him. He knows us all when we come in, by our voices. Mamma has painted a portrait of him for Grandpapa.

Edith B——.


The Manse, Scone, Perth, Scotland.

Dear St. Nicholas:

It is now nearly five years since I began to read your delightful pages. A kind American friend who was once here has sent you to me all this time; and I think some of your readers would like to hear something about the place I live in, as I have never seen a letter from this part of Scotland. This is one of the oldest parts of the world. There is not very far from our house a grand old palace, near which stood the stone upon which all the kings and queens of Scotland have been crowned. But in the thirteenth century the English were so covetous of it that they took it away from us, and now it stands in Westminster, London, and upon it stands the coronation chair where all the English sovereigns have been crowned, and upon which, I believe, Victoria sat at her Jubilee, two years ago. Some people say that this is the very stone that Jacob used as a pillow when he dreamed the wonderful dream of the ladder—but Father says that is nonsense.

This stone, however, has something wonderful about it. It has been called for more than a thousand years the "Stone of Destiny." And this has been said of it:

"Wherever rests this holy stane,
The Scottish race shall surely reign!"

Up to this time, this has turned out true. All the people of your country who come to England go to see this stone.

Although you have no king or queen, yourselves, I have no doubt if you had a stone like this you would soon get one, and save the trouble of so many elections. I remain, your constant reader,

Bessie T. B., age 13.

"The Far Horizon"

by Hildegarde Hawthorne, February 1922

Here Hawthorne switches subjects, from books to challenges in life. Note her definition of a politician as compared to a statesman!

Do you not find something thrilling, something that stirs your imagination, in those two words, far horizon? Are they not like a call, like a beckoning to something beyond the commonplace, the trivial, the every-day? A call to things far off, but still attainable? A call you want to follow, that will lead you to where air and earth meet, where the sea ends in a line of gold, where mountains march mysteriously, where sun and stars appear and disappear.

Our land, our America, is a land of far horizons. On one side she looks out across the Atlantic, on the other across the Pacific, and you may ride for days through her immense prairies or her deserts and see the horizon recede distantly from you, far and wide indeed. Her mountains lift you far upward, and from their splendid tops you see a still farther horizon, and beyond what you can see it still stretches, horizon beyond horizon, and all America! Surely the spirit in you springs up when you gaze, and your eyes fleet over miles of cultivated ground or miles of wilderness, and you know that it is your own country on which you are looking, a land of great spaces and mighty extents, a land that calls to the imagination.

Probably we could get along very well in our business of living if we were able to see only a few hundred yards. We could perceive what we needed to see, and we could see whatever we saw in time to avoid peril or to get our required food or to perform every necessary act. Many animals and birds and insects and fish have eyes that see only a short distance compared with the limit given to our sight; but for all practical purposes, their eyes are far-seeing enough. So, doubtless, if our eyes were like theirs, we should manage quite nicely. But there would be no far horizon!

Our mind, too, has its far horizon. And perhaps it is for the joy of the mind, rather than for purely practical reasons, that our eyes can see a hundred miles and more, can see the strange far things as easily as the near and usual ones.

Having, then, an eye that takes the distance and a mind that can see before and after, not hampered by the bourne of time and place, it is well for us to make sure that we give ourselves the full benefit of such magnificent possessions. It is well to live with both the eye of the body and that of the mind upon the far horizon; we need to feel the sweep of immensities; we need to interest ourselves in things that extend beyond the narrow scope of our own close environment.

You, in whose hands lies the future of America, you who will so soon be men and women, have thrilling possibilities before you. For to-day, as never, perhaps, before in human history, the far horizon widens and shines magnificent. Lifting your eyes above the circle of your immediate needs, you can let mind and heart reach out to the farthest limits of the world. For you are to be not only citizens of America, but citizens of the world, in the sense that America is likely to play a great and generous part in the world, as great, as generous as it lies in you to become. If you are content merely to look at the small circle of your home town and to remain within it in what you do and think; if you are content to make your particular business the limit of your interest in the affairs of America; if you confine your notion of responsibilities as a citizen to what is of value to your locality rather than to what is of value to your country, then you lose the far horizon; and in so far as you lose it, it is lost to America by that much.


Local pride and local ambition are excellent things and belong in every person's life, if it is to be a full and useful life. You can not spend your day with your eyes on the gleaming blue of whatever far horizon. But the immensely important thing, it seems to me, is never to forget that the horizon lies beyond, and that it, and not the little ring close about you, is your' true measure of sight and opportunity. The difference between a statesman and a politician is that the first allows himself the fullest breadth of outlook possible when working for his country; that he seeks the greatest good, not the small profit; that his eyes are on the future, as |well as the momentary present; while the politician is interested only in the immediate result, and is eminently willing to sacrifice the larger good for a local issue. He cares only for what is within reach of his own hands. America is not America to him, it is merely the particular village, town, or city where he happens to reside. We need fewer men of that type, and more, many more, who serve their country with their eyes on some far horizon, however close they may stick to particular questions.

And even as you will wish to look at America, and yourself in regard to America, with a far-reaching eye, so will you wish to look at your own life.

Life can be cramped down to small things and close constructions, or it can find its way to wide spaces, where the soul and the spirit of you have free play. You are given great possibilities. You can look out from the mountain on a great and varied landscape or seascape, crowded with all imaginable things. Do not stay in a back yard. There are a thousand paths leading away from it, and a thousand are not too many for you to take. Over the hills of the world they go, each a wonderful way. All the little home duties, the every-day things, are linked up with world duties and great, everlasting things. For the far horizon begins right where you are. You are forever on its rim, as well as looking outward toward it. And this is the amazing and satisfying thing about life, that it links up with all other life. If you follow the links, if you look for them and let them lead you, there is no limit to the distance you may go, to the interesting things you will find or can do. The wonders of the world of science make their start right in the home kitchen, where miracles are constantly in progress. The magic of art begins in a picture on the living-room wall, in the hue of a curtain, or the shape of a vase. The vine on the house, the butterfly hovering over a daisy, are the first link connecting you with the endless, alluring horizon rim of nature. You can see, if you choose, merely a pot boiling on the fire, a bit of painted canvas, a few leaves against the brick, or you can lift your head and look far out to the mysterious horizon, ready with all its adventures for you.

The big thing in life is to remember that life is big, and that you are yourself fit for its bigness. Vastness is outside of you, but it is measured by the vastness of your own spirit. The more you realize the far horizon surrounding you, the more you develop the horizon within you. And that is a glorious thing to do. Nothing seems to me so sad as those lives which grow more and more shrunken with the passing of time; lives that have turned from their opportunities, centering on the small circle close about them until they have lost power to realize that all that is really worth striving for is beyond them, marching afar in purple and gold, where their near-sighted eyes and nearsighted spirit can not see it or feel its appeal. Such people have cramped themselves into a hole too small for them, but they have shrunk at last to fit the hole, and the hole itself has been growing smaller. For there is a law that insists that what begins to shrink shall go on shrinking—just as that which broadens and grows shall somehow contrive to keep on growing. And what a pity to have been given eyes to see the faroff golden glory, and a mind that might lead you to the companionship of great and beautiful things, and never to have looked and never to have enjoyed!

There is a tyranny in what is close by that is compelling, unless you guard against it carefully; no doubt of that. What is in your own yard seems so generally more important than everything that lies beyond. What concerns you at the moment appears more valuable and more pressing than those faroff, divine events of which Tennyson sang. You have, as we know, only so much time, no more and no less. Things near at hand must be attended to, days are crowded as it is, and you are interested in what is close by.

All very natural. Crowding events and near-by things will have their place and their importance always in your life. But do not let them become tyrants. Do not let them persuade you that they are sufficient for a full human life in a marvelous world. Do not be like those who, dwelling at the foot of a mountain, never find the time or feel the call to climb its sides and to look out from its white peak upon immensities. Be of those who climb with joy and enthusiasm, at whatever sacrifice of daily, pleasant affairs or pressure of what appears to be compelling duty. You owe the mountain duty, too. You owe that far horizon, waiting for your eye to see it, duty. Precious things in you are called out by the mountain and the horizon, things that you must cherish and develop. Do not let them be tyrannized over by other things, even though these, too, are precious.

In the story of Martha and Mary, it is Mary who is commended. It is Mary who finds time to climb the mountain; or, to put it differently, Mary knew that the greatest thing in life must not be neglected at whatever cost to lesser things. Martha was occupied, and usefully occupied. So much so, that it did not appear to her possible to leave her pressing duties. Mary sat at the feet of the Lord. For her, the wide horizon shone, and in her it spread a glory.

Those who sacrifice the far horizon for the small circle lose too much. The country whose citizens know it not will be a small country, however great its stretch of miles. It will be a country of small souls, and out of such no mighty structure can be built. To lose the far horizon is to lose the immortal issues in life, to shrink and dwindle into dust.

Rejoice in your clear, far-seeing eyes, and let them gaze their fill on distant and splendid views. Be glad that you can look far, and that you have a mind that can move widely forth, taking in your whole great country, taking in the world itself, leading you on to work far beyond the daily, necessary task, to labor for generations yet to come and for issues transcending the ordinary. Don't hesitate to use yourself generously, for you are fit for generosity, made for it, made to reach to the uttermost horizons that sweep to the very stars of heaven.

You young people, boys or girls, are apt to be athletic, to join in school and college games, to race, leap, and extend yourselves. That is it, to extend yourselves. You know the delight of a swimming or a running race, of the swift contest in tennis or in basketball, when you do all that in you lies, and more than you had thought was possible, in some happy crisis or breathless period. That is the far horizon, that is what you will do in life, if life is to be rich and fine and joyful for you, and if you are to be fit citizens of this land of far horizons, our America.

The Story of Betty, Chapter 20

by Carolyn Wells, originally begun January 1899
HOME AT LAST

On reaching Lakewood the travelers drove to the beautiful hotel Laurel-in-the-Pines, which, as they entered, seemed to Betty to be all made of glass and gaslight. She was given a room adjoining Mrs. Van Court's, and she immediately began to make her toilet for dinner.

But Mrs. Van Court declared she could not go down to the dining-room that evening, she was so tired and exhausted from the long journey, and so she said she would have her dinner sent to her room, while Betty could go down to dinner with Richard.

"But," said Mrs. Van Court, "don't attempt to look up your Irvings to-night. Wait until to-morrow, and we will set about it properly."

"Yes, 'm," said Betty; and then she proceeded to put on her prettiest frock, a flowery organdie with rose-colored ribbons.

She presented herself to Mrs. Van Court, who said, "You look very sweet, my dear "; and then Mr. Richard came and with his charge went down the wide staircase and through the long gallery of great palms, and on through the marble hall to the dining-room. After dinner they sauntered around the rooms until they came to the music-room, at the entrance of which a small notice was posted up.

Mr. Van Court read it, and then turned to Betty with an exclamation: "Popinjay, we 've found her!"

"Who?" said Betty, bewildered by his mysterious tone.

"Read that notice! But no—you don't understand French, do you ? Well, it tells of a concert to be given here to-night, at which a lady will sing who is called L'Alouette. Now, L'Alouette is French for 'the lark,' and I have no doubt it is the lady whom Mr. Ross called Lallowet."

"Of course it is!" cried Betty, clasping her hands together to keep from clapping them, "and she is my aunt, William Irving's daughter!"

"Perhaps she is, but don't get so excited. You 'll be doing the 'grasshopper act' next. Now listen. If you 'll promise to sit quietly, and not make a scene, we 'll attend the concert; but if not, I 'm going to show you to your room at once and put you in mother's care."

"Oh, I will be good! I 'll sit as still as a mouse, and not say a word. Only let me see her and hear her. Do, please, Mr. Dick!"

Of course Mr. Dick consented; and as the audience chairs were rapidly filling with people, he led Betty to a seat near the back of the room, for he did not know what demonstrations the impulsive child might be guilty of.

The concert was a delightful one, and music-loving Betty enjoyed every number, and was so happy listening that she almost forgot to be impatient for L'Alouette's appearance. But when that lady at last came on the stage, Betty turned pale with excitement, and her hands grew cold. She said nothing, but her eyes shone like stars as she looked fixedly at the beautiful singer.

L'Alouette was well named. Her clear, bird-like notes rang out like the song of a lark, and though her voice had not great volume, it was full of sweetness and sympathy.

Mr. Van Court was almost as much agitated as Betty, for he could see—what the child could not—that there was a wonderful resemblance between the face of L'Alouette and that of the little Irish girl. It was not so much in feature as in expression, and the young man felt convinced that it was really a family likeness, and that Betty had at last found a relative. But though it would never have occurred to Betty that she could resemble that beautiful lady, yet she was equally certain that she was looking at her own aunt; for Betty saw—what Mr. Dick did not—that L'Alouette's white silk gown was very like the one Mlle. Francois had made, only of a more modern fashion. And, aside from any circumstantial evidence, Betty felt in her own heart a kinship with the lovely lady as unexplainable as it was certain.

After L'Alouette had finished her song, and had sung an encore, Betty said:

"Mr. Dick, that's my own aunt, and I know it. I like the concert, but I don't want to hear any more to-night, and I think, if you please, I 'll go to my room now."

Mr. Van Court was surprised at her calmness, but felt so relieved that she was willing to wait before making herself known to her new-found relative that he only said:

"Very well, my child. Do you know where your room is?"

"Oh, yes; I have the key with me. I brought it that I might not disturb Mix Van Court if she should be asleep when I return."

So Mr. Dick took her to the stairs and consigned her to the care of a passing maid, who showed her to her room.

Betty unlocked the door noiselessly, and then as carefully closed the door between her room and Mrs. Van Court's. Then she sat down and thought a long while.

She had no intention of waiting until morning to claim her own aunt—not she! And besides, the way was clear to speak to the lady that night without making any scene such as Mrs. Van Court dreaded.

As soon as L'Alouette appeared on the stage in the music-room, Betty had recognized her as the lady whom she had met coming out of a door just across the hall from her own. She had noticed the gown particularly, and she knew she was not mistaken. "And now," she thought, "I will just go to that room across the hall, and see if it is really hers; and if it is, I will wait for her there until she comes up-stairs."

It seemed a rash act, and Betty's heart beat fast at the thought of it; but something impelled her to do it, and she felt that she just could n't wait until morning.

So she opened her own door softly, and seeing no one in the hall, she stepped across to the opposite door, and knocked.

A sleepy-looking maid opened the door and regarded Betty with some surprise.

"Is this L'Alouette's room?" said the little girl, timidly.

"Yes, miss," answered the maid; "did she send you for anything?"

"No," said Betty, with a dignity born of excitement; "I am a friend of hers, and I wish to wait here until she returns."

"Yes, miss," said the maid, pleasantly enough; and she offered Betty an easy-chair and a footstool.

Then Betty sat down and waited.

She did not mind waiting; she had made the plunge, and now she must accept the consequences, whatever they might be.

Her mind was full of fancies and anticipations; she planned a dozen different phrases with which to greet her aunt; and finally—she dropped asleep and continued her castle-building in her dreams.

An hour or so later, L'Alouette came in. She looked at the sleeping child and then turned to her maid for an explanation.

"Who is this, Lisette?" said she.

"A little girl, madame, who tapped at the door this evening, and said she was a friend of madame's and would wait for her."

L'Alouette gazed earnestly at the stranger, and then caught her breath quickly, while a great wonder filled her eyes.

Then she said quietly: "You may go, Lisette; I will wait on myself to-night."

"Yes, madame," said the maid, and she went away.

Then L'Alouette came and knelt beside Betty, and looked at her a long time. Then she gently wakened her by kissing her on the cheek.

Betty opened her eyes, and was awake and alert in an instant.

"Who are you?" she cried. "Are you my aunt, my dear mother's sister? Oh, say you are!"

"I am L'Alouette," said the lady, smiling; "and now, who are you?"

"I am Betty McGuire," said Betty, speaking very fast; "and my mother was an Irving of Boston, and my grandfather was William Irving. But my mother was killed in a railroad accident when I was a baby, and oh—I "hope you are her sister."

L'Alouette gave a little cry, her eyes closed, and Betty thought she was going to faint. But she did not; she recovered herself, and with a quick, tense gesture she grasped Betty's hands, and looking into the little girl's eyes, while her own fairly blazed, she said:

"And who was your father?"

"Martin McGuire," answered Betty; "he too was killed when I was a baby—"

But she got no further, for L'Alouette clasped her in her arms, and showered kisses all over the wondering little face, as she said:

"Betty—my baby Betty, I am not your aunt; I am your mother!"

"My mother?" said Betty, almost solemnly. "Then do you love me?"

"Yes," said L'Alouette, the beautiful light that had come into her eyes growing deeper and deeper; "I love you with all my hungry mother-heart, with a love that tells me you are really my own baby, though I was forced to believe that you had died years ago."

"And I believed you were dead," said Betty, clinging to L'Alouette as if afraid she might even yet disappear. " Were n't you killed in the railroad accident?"

"No, darling; I was injured, and taken to a hospital in Chicago, where I lay ill for months. And after that I tried every possible way to search for my husband and child, only to be convinced at last that they must have perished."

"My father was killed," said Betty; "I know that—because I was taken to an orphan asylum, and they told me so afterward. And I know it, too, from my Grandfather McGuire's papers. And you are the one Mr. Ross called Lallowet—and I have worn one of your white dresses!"

"And do you know Mr. Ross? How much we have to tell each other! But who is here at Lakewood with you? and with whom do you live, and where?"

And then, still clasped in her mother's embrace, Betty told the whole story of her eventful little life; and then L'Alouette told of her own sad years since last she had held her little girl in her arms.

After vainly using every effort to find her husband and child, either dead or alive, she had given up the quest and resigned herself to a life of loneliness and sorrow. Music was her only consolation; and as her voice developed under training, she was urged to sing on the stage; but this she refused to do, though she finally consented to sing at an occasional concert.

Her teacher had often called her L'Alouette, and as this name appeared to advantage on a program, she had used it.

They talked far into the night; and then—for L'Alouette could not give her up—Betty remained and slept beside her mother. But Betty's mother could not sleep, and all night she watched over her new-found child as if afraid the whole meeting might be only a repetition of an old and dear dream.

Next morning Betty awoke to find a happy face smiling at her. She flung herself into her mother's arms, crying: "It's true this morning, is n't it? I was n't quite sure of it last night."

"Yes," said Mrs. McGuire, "it is true; and now you must go at once to Mrs. Van Court, for I fear she will miss you and be worried."

"Oh, she never wakes up early," said Betty, confidently; "but I 'll go back to my own room and dress for breakfast, and as soon as I can see her I 'll tell her all about it."

Mrs. Van Court was so surprised and delighted at Betty's wonderful news that she did n't reprimand her for "making a scene"; and, indeed, she felt now that Betty was no longer under her charge, and that her responsibility had ceased. Mr. Dick was sincerely glad of Betty's new happiness, and the Irvings and the Van Courts soon became fast friends. Mr. and Mrs. Irving proved to be ideal grandparents, and their affection for Betty was only second to that of Mrs. McGuire herself.

Betty wanted them to come and live at Denniston; but the old people were too fond of their own home for that. So they all decided to remain a few days at Lakewood, and then Betty was to take her mother home and install her as mistress of Denniston Hall.

Mrs. McGuire expressed herself as perfectly willing to adopt Betty's whole family as her own; indeed, she would have agreed to anything that insured her continued nearness to her idolized child.

"You 'll like Grandma Jean," said Betty to her mother, "she 's so kind and obliging; and you 'll like Jack, I know; and you 'll just adore baby Polly."

"Yes," said her mother, "I 'm sure I shall; and I 'm already fond of Ellen and Pete, because they were so good to my little Betty when she was poor and motherless."

When at last they went home to Denniston, Mrs. McGuire was warmly welcomed because she was Betty's mother; but it was not long before she was loved by the whole family because of her own goodness and gentleness.

Grandma Jean was in no way made to feel that she was meant to assume an inferior position. She was expected to be the same responsible housekeeper she had been before; and being a sensible old lady, she felt no jealousy of the charming young mistress who had usurped Betty's place rather than hers. Jack was shy at first, but his timidity soon melted away before the tact and kindness of the new-comer; and Polly fell in love with her at first sight.

As for Betty—she was happy now, truly happy; and she realized that all her life she had been starving for true human affection. This was the longing that had kept her hungry heart unsatisfied, and now that it had been fulfilled, her beautiful Denniston was perfect. At last mother-love had made for Betty a home.


THE END

"A Little Lady of Mercy"

by Rupert S. Holland, November 1911

This article was written just after the death of the noted Miss Nightingale.

It was late spring-time in England, just when the hawthorn dons its wonderful veil of pink and white along the roadsides, when the lilac bushes are bursting into purple blossom, and the soft turf beneath the stately oaks and beeches is thickly carpeted with daffodils. Then the sun has work to do, like any gardener. That spring he had done it well, for the girl who stood on the terrace of the splendid house of Lea Hurst thought she had never seen the hillsides and the valley and the far-circling moors such a deep, rich, warm green before. This was a very beautiful part of English country, and the girl loved it better each time she came back to it from her other home in the south. It was the rolling, romantic land of Derbyshire, right in the heart of England. Through the valley below slipped the silver river Derwent, a ribbon winding in and out among the hills. Beyond the nearest valley rose gently sloping wooded heights, and towering above them was the bold promontory called Crich Stand. On the other side were little hamlets nestling here and there in the rolling country, each hamlet with its group of thatch-roofed cottages, and each strung like a bead on the chain of a broad white road.

"Oh, but is n't it lovely, Max!" the girl exclaimed, looking down at an Ayrshire terrier who was rubbing himself against a big earthenware jar that held a cluster of pink-and-purple fuchsias.

The dog stopped rubbing and looked at the little lady above him. "Come along," she said; "we 'll see what the garden's done. Come!" And so girl and dog raced around the house to the southern side. The gardens here sloped down in a series of wide terraces joined by stone steps. They lay radiant with colors in the sun. The girl stopped and drew a long breath of delight. Then she ran down the steps and bent above the flowers, murmuring fond messages to each.

There were beds of peonies and wallflowers, rainbow-tinted primulas and pansies, delicate forget-me-nots and slender lilies, mignonette and heliotrope and jasmine, and border bushes of candytuft in bloom. They seemed like old friends to the girl; she knelt beside them, and touched her face to theirs, and whispered how glad she was to be back with them again.

While she was so busied with the flowers two gentlemen came down the stone stairway that led from the library to the flagged terrace of Lea Hurst. "There's Florence," said one of the men to the other. "Give that little daughter of mine flowers or birds or animals of any sort to care for and she's as happy as the day is long."

The other man, who was the vicar of the country church, smiled. "She ought to love such things. How could a girl with the lovely name of Florence Nightingale do otherwise?"

They walked down the steps of the garden. The girl, hearing thei" voices, sprang up and ran to meet them. "Oh, I 'm so glad to see you again, Mr. Ritchie!" she cried. "We 've missed you so much all winter."

"And we have missed you. little Lady Bountiful," said the vicar. "Mrs. Ritchie will be glad to know you 're back in Derbyshire."

"Are you riding home now?" Florence turned impulsively to her father. "Please, sir, may I ride over with him to take tea with Mrs. Ritchie at the vicarage?"

"I 'II see her safely home," said the clergyman.

Mr. Nightingale nodded. "Tell Sanders to saddle your pony and bring him with Mr. Ritchie's horse to the door. I wish I could go, too, but I 've letters to write."

The girl ran to the stables, and a very little later she and the vicar were picking their way down the sloping drive of Lea Hurst to the valley of the winding Derwent. A short time and they were out upon the downs, riding with loose reins, making the wide circle of a flight instead of taking the short way. On every side spread the soft yellow-green reaches of the level uplands, flecked here and there with dark purple patches where clouds were floating across the light of the sun. On and on they went, the vicar on his big horse, Florence, her brown hair flying in the wind, near him on her fleet-footed moorland pony.

The downs were dotted with grazing sheep, and finally the riders came to a place where they found a shepherd, an old bent man, trying to collect his scattered herd by hobbling after them and calling in cracked tones to them. He was working without success; the sheep only scattered farther.

The riders drew up and watched the old man's efforts. The vicar knew him. "Where 's your dog, Roger?" he asked.

"The boys hereabouts have been throwing stones at him, sir," answered the shepherd, "and they've broken his leg, poor beast. He 'll never be good for anything again, and I 'm thinking of putting an end to his misery."

"You mean poor old Cap's leg is broken?" asked Florence. "Oh, can't we do something for him, Roger? It's cruel to leave him all alone in his pain. Where is he?"

"You can't do any good, missy," said the old shepherd, sorrowfully. "I 'll just take a cord to him to-night—that 'll be the best way to ease his pain. I left him lying in the shed over yonder."

Florence looked pleadingly at Mr. Ritchie. "Oh, can't we do something for poor Cap?" she begged.

The vicar, seeing the pity in her face, turned his horse toward the distant shed; but Florence, with a word to her pony, dashed past him. She reached the shed first. Dismounting, she ran inside. In a corner lay the poor moaning sheepdog. Florence knelt down on the mud floor, and, with the greatest care not to hurt him, touched his head with her soft hands and whispered soothing words to him until the dog lifted his big brown eyes and looked gratefully into her face.

The vicar had now come into the shed, and kneeling beside Florence, he examined the dog's leg. After a few minutes he said: "The stone only cut it. The bone 's not broken. A little careful nursing ought to put him all right again."

"Oh, I 'm so glad!" exclaimed Florence. "I love nursing. What should I do first?"

"Well," said the vicar, smiling at the girl's interest, "I should advise a hot compress put on Cap's leg."

"What 's a compress?" asked Florence.

"It 's a bandage made of cloths wrung out of water and laid on the wound," explained Mr. Ritchie.

Delighted at the thought of helping the poor dog, the girl went out of the shed. Very near stood the shepherd's cottage, and lying on the grass in front of it was the shepherd's small boy. She went toward the cottage. "Is your mother at home?" she asked the boy.

He shook his head. "She 's gone to Derby town," he said.

"Well, I want some boiling water," she explained. "Come help me," and without more ado she went into the cottage kitchen.

The boy helped her light a fire, and they soon had the kettle boiling. Florence looked about for cloths for bandages, and saw the old shepherd's clean smock hung up behind the door. "That's the very thing," she exclaimed. "If I tear it up Mama 'll give Roger another." So she took the smock and tore it into strips. Then she told the boy to bring the kettle and a basin, and went back to the shed.

With the help of the vicar Florence soon had the hot bandages placed on Cap's swollen leg. She sat beside him, whispering to him, and calmed him so that he scarcely stirred when she changed the wrappings. At length Mr. Ritchie thought she ought to be going home. "Oh, no," begged Florence. "I want to see him get better. A nurse ought not to leave her patient. The boy can take my pony and ride over and tell them where I am."

The boy departed with his message, and the little nurse stayed with her charge, perfectly happy to be caring for him.

Shortly after sunset old Roger came sorrowfully to the shed. He had a rope in his hand because he thought his faithful friend would never be able to chase the sheep again. But as soon as he entered the shed Cap greeted him with a whine of pleasure, turned his head toward him, and tried to get on his feet.

The shepherd was very much astonished. "Deary me, missy," said he, "why, you 've been doing wonders! I never thought to see the poor dog greet me again."

"Yes, does n't he look better?" said Florence. "You can throw away that rope now, and help me make compresses."

"That I will, missy," agreed Roger, heartily, and kneeling beside the girl and the dog, he fell to work with the strips of cloth and the hot water, helping her as best he could.

"But I shall come again to-morrow, Roger," said Florence when she came to go. "I know Mama will let me when I tell her about Cap. I want to look after him until he 's running about again."

"I hope you will, missy," answered the grateful shepherd. "I hope you will."

Florence gave the dog a final caress and whispered in his ear that she would come again. then she and the vicar left the shed. The boy had come back with her pony, and she monted and was soon flying back across the moors to Lea Hurst.

There were two girls at the manor-house, Florence and Frances, and they were so nearly of an age that they studied and played together. They both loved flowers and animals, and each had her own garden and her own particular pets. But Florence's heart was always touched by the poor beast or bird that had been hurt and had no one to care for it, and by the roadside wild flowers which had a hard time to escape cart-wheels, and the seedlings which had been blown to bare and rocky soil. Mr. Nightingale soon saw that this daughter was a born gardener. When the day's lessons were over she would pick up her little basket, which held a trowel, gardener's scissors, a water-bottle, and a bundle of sharpened sticks, and hasten out of doors. Sometimes he would follow her at a distance, and watch her in the corner of a meadow digging up weeds that grew about the cowslips, or watering a little clump of daffodils that were trying to hold up their heads in the shade of a tree. Often she went far afield, outside the gardens and meadows of Lea Hurst, where the hedges and the flowers were not so well cared for, and here she found plenty of work to do, propping up bruised plants, watering faded ones, and protecting others from the careless cattle. Sometimes she found new flowers, and transplanted some of them to her own garden at home; sometimes she found just the place where she thought lilies or marigolds ought to grow, and there she would plant and tend her charges so that another summer should find them blooming. At home in the evenings her father told her much about flowers, and encouraged her to do all she could to search for old garden flowers which were growing scarce in Derbyshire and to cultivate them, to plant hardy blooms in waste places, to care for wild flowers, and to mend broken hedges. Besides her own formal garden on the terraced slopes of Lea Hurst she soon had a dozen wild gardens scattered through the fields and half a hundred little flower-beds which she visited regularly.

She loved the birds and the animals as much as her flowers. "Florence was born a nurse," said Mr. Nightingale to his wife: "I found her yesterday making a nest in a bush for a robin that had broken a wing. I dare say she intends to try and feed it."

So she did; whenever she found a bird that was hurt, a dog that was lame, any creature that was suffering, she took the care of it to herself, and invented ways by which it might be cured. The family called her "The Little Sister of Mercy," and her father gave her a place in one of the greenhouses for a hospital where she might look after her invalid birds and dogs.

The Squire, as Mr. Nightingale was called, took a great interest in the village that lay at the foot of the slope that was topped by Lea Hurst. With his wife and two daughters he was continually planning picnics for the children, and throwing open the gates of his beautiful manor to them and to all the neighbors. He loved to have them all share in his delight at the exquisite gardens, the perfect velvet lawns, the thick and well-kept hedges of yew and box, and the stalwart old shade-trees that had been the glory of the place for many decades. The great event of the summer was the children's "feast-day," when all the boys and girls met at the school-house and marched in a procession to Lea Hurst, the girls with big bouquets, or "posies" as they called them, in their hands, and the boys with sticks wound with flowers, like small May-poles, carried over their shoulders. The Squire always ordered a band, and this headed the merry march which swept out of the village and trudged up the hill to the great gates of the manor. There the children found tables waiting for them on the lawn, and they had only to camp there to be served with strawberries and cream and cakes and tea like real grown-up guests. After this high tea the band played and the children danced over the lawn and on the floor of a great tent Mr. Nightingale had set up in the garden. The Squire's two daughters were continually inventing new games and leading in all the fun, and at the same time keeping a watchful eye for the smaller children who might tire easily. When the long summer twilight began to fade and the rich purple clouds to gather over the still valley of the Derwent, the band struck up a triumphal march, and the children formed in line again and trooped up to the top terrace of the lawn. Here stood Mr. and Mrs. Nightingale to say good night, and as each guest went by, Florence or Frances gave them a present from a long table on the terrace. Then each girl would bob a curtsy and each boy make a bow, and march on down the hill after the stirring band. So the "feast-day" would come to a successful close, and the lord of the manor entertain his neighbors as was the good old English custom.

It did not take long for the people who lived near Lea Hurst in Derbyshire or in the neighborhood of Embley Park in Hampshire, where the Nightingales spent the autumns and winters, to lose their hearts to "Miss Florence," as they called her. If any one was sick or in trouble, there "Miss Florence" went, carrying flowers or fruit or a present of some sort with her, but always with the greater gifts of her happy smile, soft voice, and gentle, loving touch. The old people at the windows waved their hands to her as she drove down with her mother to Cromford Church, and smiled at the sight of the slender girl, dressed in a light summer muslin, with a silk spencer over it, her sweet face, with the soft brown hair smoothed down each side of it, beaming from the depths of a yellow Leghorn bonnet wreathed with roses.

The Squire's daughter Florence came to be a very "lady of grace" to the poor of the Derwent valley. She would ride her pony over the heath to lonely cottages, with a basket at her saddle-bow filled with puddings and jellies, or carrying an armful of primroses and bluebells to some delicate woman or girl who longed for the wild flowers of the fields and hedge-rows, but could not go to them.

Everything about this girl was sunny. She had been born in the beautiful Italian city of Florence, the city of flowers, and had been named for it, and it seemed as though she had inherited that city's love of blossoms. Her gardens and the opportunity she had to nurse stricken pets were the chief joys of her childhood, and they were joys which grew as she grew up.

There were few good nurses in England in that day, and no schools where they could be taught. Florence Nightingale met a remarkable Quaker woman named Elizabeth Fry, who was trying to help women who were in prison. Together they visited many English hospitals and studied the methods of nursing. These methods were of the poorest, most useless sort.

At Kaiserswerth on the Rhine, in Germany, a school for nurses had just been started, and there Florence Nightingale went to study. She learned a great deal and returned home to teach others. After a time England went to war with Russia in the Crimea, in eastern Europe, and Miss Nightingale knew that many of the soldiers would lay down their lives there for want of proper nursing in the military hospitals. She felt that this was her call to service, and she offered to take a band of women nurses out to the Crimea to serve through the war.

Before that war had ended Florence Nightingale had come to be as beloved by the British soldiers as the little girl of Lea Hurst had been by her father's neighbors. She was a wonderful nurse, because she was always full of courage and cheerfulness, never tiring, never shirking any labor that would ease suffering. Thousands of wounded men watched for her to pass by their beds in the hospitals, and declared they were better just for the sight of her face or the sound of her voice. She often took charge of men whose wounds the doctors had declared beyond curing, and brought them back to health by her tireless care and patience.

After a time she fell ill of cholera herself, and all England waited for news from her bedside. She recovered and was taken home. She went back to Lea Hurst and rested there, while the whole country called her blessed. When the war was over she returned to the London hospitals.

It was chiefly due to her that the profession of nursing has become the noble work it is to-day. For many years she was one of England's most famous women. King Edward singled her out as the one woman to receive the Order of Merit, and the people of London gave her the freedom of their city. She died last August, having celebrated her ninetieth birthday in May. The Dean of Westminster Abbey asked that she might be buried in England's temple of fame, but in her will she had left other directions. Her memory does not need that honor, for her monument stands in the record of her noble life.

The story of the work of this woman who tended the sick and the poor is one of the most beautiful in history. She asked nothing but the chance to serve, and thereby won the love of all the world. To tend her flowers, to nurse the sick, to serve her fellow-creatures, were the dearest wishes of the girl of Lea Hurst Manor and of the woman we know as Florence Nightingale.

"The Children's Hour in the Old South Meeting House"

by J. L. Harbour, November 1905

Can you imagine a time when the Old South was not a historical monument?

An alert boy of twelve or thirteen years, visiting Boston for the first time, was asked what historical building he would like to visit first, and he replied very promptly:

"The Old South Meeting-house. I like to see places in which there has been something doing in the past. They did things in the Old South Meeting-house, both before and during the Revolution, did n't they?"

Indeed they did! No building in America has been the scene of more thrilling events than has this ancient house of worship.

Had this boy, who was eager to see the Old South Meeting-house because of all that it stands for, been in Boston on the 29th day of last April, he might have gone into the time-honored old building in company with hundreds of other boys, and a great many girls, who came from all parts of the city to be present at the "Children's Hour" in the "Old South." This is a semi-yearly event in Boston. It is a part of what is called the "Old South Work"; which is a good work, having for its chief purpose the bringing of the young people of Boston and America into an intimate knowledge of early American history.

On this 29th day of April the Old South Meeting-house was packed with boys and girls from the public schools, to hear about William Blackstone, the first settler in the city of Boston. A large orchestra of boys and girls from one of the public schools played patriotic airs, and I remember that at one "Children's Hour" in the Old South two hundred school-girls sang the ode which was composed and sung when President George Washington visited Boston in 1789. You see that they still "do things" of a patriotic nature in this old meeting-house—hallowed, as it is, by memories of Washington and Adams and Otis and Hancock and all the good men and true who helped to give our country its most valued possession—independence.

The ground on which the Old South stands was the dwelling-place of Governor Winthrop. Benjamin Franklin was baptized in this meeting-house. The voices of Adams and Hancock and Warren and Washington have been heard within its walls. You will see, back of the pulpit platform and below the quaint old sounding-board, the very window through which General Joseph Warren came to deliver his famous oration on the anniversary of the Boston Massacre because the crowd in and around the church was so great he could not enter by the door.

In this church were held some of the great meetings leading up to the famous Boston "Tea-party." Indeed, it was from this "Sanctuary of Freedom," as it has been called, that the band of men disguised as Indians started for the wharf to board the ships and throw overboard the taxed tea that had created such a turmoil in Boston. If you should follow the exact route taken by that band of "Mohawks" on that eventful December day in the year 1773, you would finally reach a modern building on the site of Griffin's wharf, at which lay moored on December 16, 1773, the three British ships with cargoes of tea. This house bears a tablet commemorating the famous "Boston Tea-Party," which threw the cargoes into the sea.

Did you ever hear the story of how the Old South was "saved"? Reverence for historic landmarks did not run so high thirty or forty years ago as it does to-day, and in our centennial year of 1876 it was proposed to sell the Old South simply for the value of its bricks and timbers, and tear it down, that a modern business block might be built on its site. Indeed, it was sold—"knocked down" at auction to a bidder for the meager sum of thirteen hundred and fifteen dollars!

Suddenly a wave of patriotic feeling swept over the city of Boston. The papers and some of the people began to protest against the tearing down of the old "Sanctuary of Freedom," and a movement was set on foot to raise funds to buy the church from its purchaser, and to buy also the ground on which it stood. This good plan might never have succeeded had it not been for one noble and loyal woman in Boston, Mrs. Mary Hemenway, of hallowed memory. When the difficulty of securing funds for the purchase of the old meeting-house became known to her, she came forward with a gift of one hundred thousand dollars, and thus the old meeting-house was saved—to stand as an object-lesson to the children of future generations.

Having given such a large sum to help save the Old South Meeting-house, Mrs. Hemenway felt that it should be something more than a mere silent monument. She determined that it should be a real, living force in our country, and particularly to the children of Boston. She determined that it should renew and increase its fame as a temple of freedom, and that its sacred walls should again echo and reecho to the sound of patriotic utterances, and that some of these utterances should come from the lips of the boys and girls of Boston; and thus the Old South Lecture Course and the Old South Prizes were established. Each year a prize of forty dollars and another of twenty-five dollars are given to the graduates of the Boston high schools who write the best essays on historic or patriotic topics. The committee having this work in charge announce the subjects in June, just before the schools close, and the competitors must submit their essays the following January. Then on Washington's Birthday there is a patriotic gathering of the school-children of Boston in the old meeting-house, and the names of the prize-winners are announced.

The young graduates who win these prizes must do excellent work, for the standard set by the judges is very high. The two hundred and more young people who have competed for these prizes have formed themselves into an organization called the "Old South Historical Society." They hold monthly meetings, at which historical papers are read; and if you think that these meetings are in the least "dry," you are greatly mistaken. Its members go on "historical pilgrimages" to places like Plymouth and Andover and King Philip's Country. These pilgrimages are delightful excursions, lasting all day, and they occur in June after the schools have closed. The Society helps to make the "Children's Hour" in the old meeting-house a great success. If you should happen to speak of the Old South Church before a member of this society, he or she would probably say very courteously:

"I beg your pardon; but it is the Old South Meeting-house, and not Church."

In the old days the churches were always called "meeting-houses." It seems inappropriate to give the Old South any other name.

No one can estimate the power for good that has gone forth from this old meeting-house. No one can estimate the full extent of its influence for good upon the boys and girls of to-day.

Every summer a course of free lectures for the young folk of Boston is given from a fund left by Mrs. Hemenway. The old church is crowded at every one of these lectures, and the few grown-ups who are privileged to slip in go away grateful for the fact that there are so many boys and girls of to-day who are interested in their country's history, and are glad to hear about the men and women of other years who helped to create the great American republic.

The Story of Betty, Chapter 19

by Carolyn Wells, originally begun January 1899
A DAWNING HOPE

Autumn had passed and winter had fairly set in, when one morning, as Betty was toasting her feet at the library fire, Polly came trotting in with her hands behind her.

"I dot somefin' for oo," she said. "Pete binged it."

"What is it?" said Betty, smiling lovingly at her little sister.

"Dess," answered Polly, demurely.

"Well, I guess it's a letter," said Betty, for this performance was gone through nearly every morning.

"It is, it is!" cried Polly, capering with glee; and she gave Betty the letter and then waited for the kiss which was always her fee on such occasions.

But Betty had caught sight of a foreign stamp and an Australian postmark, and even her beloved Polly was forgotten in a moment of such excitement.

It was from Mr. Morris, of course, and Betty eagerly tore it open and read this:

To Miss Elizabeth McGuire.

My Dear Betty: Yours received duly, and I have done what I could in the matter. I have looked over your grandfather's papers,—all your grandfather's papers,—and I can find nothing, absolutely nothing, by which to trace the family connections of your mother, except one slight allusion. There is an unfinished letter, evidently begun by your grandfather to some friend, whom he addresses as "Dear Michael." In this letter there is a statement to the effect that Martin McGuire married a Miss Irving, a daughter of William Irving of Boston. This information, though vague, very vague, may prove a clue to your parentage, and may aid you in finding your mother's relatives. I hope, I sincerely hope, it will help you, and I will endeavor to find out more details, more definite data, concerning them.

With kind remembrances to the Van Court family, and best wishes for your own health and prosperity, I am

Your obedient servant,
John Morris.

Betty read this letter over twice, and then she took the mystified Polly on her lap, and said decidedly: "Pollykins, we 're going to have a grandfather."

"Gran'fader?" inquired Polly.

"Yes. There 's one in the world for us—at least, perhaps there is; and we 're going to find him and bring him here to live with us."

"Yi, yi!" said Polly, not specially elated at the prospect.

"And, baby," cried Betty, excitedly, "I 've just thought of something—oh, something wonderful! Where 's Jack?"

"Jack 's studyin'," said the little one, confidently, "'cause when I speaked to him he just said, 'Clear out, Pollypops.'"

Betty gave a long, low whistle, which was their signal when either wanted the other, and in a moment Jack appeared at the door.

"What's up, Betty?" he said.

"Oh, Jack, I 've had a letter from Mr. Morris, and he says my mother's father was a William Irving of Boston; and don't you know those people that spent the summer with Mr. Ross were named Irving, and they were from Boston, and maybe they 're the ones!"

"And maybe they 're not. Nonsense, Betty; there are plenty of Irvings in Boston."

"Yes, I know it—but these are the only Boston Irvings we 've ever heard of, and I 'm going to hunt them up first, and if they 're not the ones, I 'm going to keep on, if I have to go to every house in Boston to inquire; but first I 'm going over to the Van Courts'. Tell Mr. Mixon I won't be at lessons to-day; I 'm too excited to study."

Then Betty rang for Pete, and asked him to have Dixie put to the cart, and soon she was flying toward Mrs. Van Court's.

The three Van Court ladies were sitting by their cozy fireside when Betty came dancing in. She greeted the ladies cordially, and, flinging off her coat and hat, she picked up a small footstool, and, holding it in her arms,, stood for a moment looking at her three friends. Then, prompted by an instinctive feeling that Mrs. Van Court could do the best for her, she placed the stool beside that lady and sat upon it.

"I want you to help me, ma'am," she said. "I 've found out the name of my mother's people, and I want to search them out, wherever they may be. Will you go with me?"

"Go where, Betty? What are you talking about?" said the lady, somewhat bewildered, but very kindly disposed toward the earnest child who was asking her assistance.

"Well, I 've had a letter from Mr. Morris, ma'am, and he says my mother's name was Irving, and my grandfather was William Irving of Boston; and you know, Miss Grace, it was Irvings of Boston who used to spend summers with Mr. Ross, and something in my heart tells me they were my people."

"But that's nonsense," said Miss Margaret; "of course they might be your people, or connections of them, but there's only about one chance in a thousand that they are."

"I know it, ma'am, but that 's the chance I 'm takin'. And so I want to go down to Mr. Ross's house again and ask him the Boston address of his Irvings, and then I want to go to Boston and find them. And dear Mrs. Van Court, I want you to go with me."

Betty's voice was so wheedlesome, and her little face looked so sweet, that Mrs. Van Court would have felt inclined to go to Australia with her, if she had asked it; so she said:

"Well, we 'll see about it, child, and I 'll help you all I can. But first you must see if you can get the address from Mr. Ross."

"Yes, 'm. I think I 'll drive down there right off."

Miss Grace volunteered to go with her, and shortly after the Denniston carriage started on its trip to the old farm-house.

Betty's hopes were high, and during the drive down she chatted gaily to her companion of her new grandparents, whom she had already begun to love.

"And who do you suppose 'Lallowet' can be, Miss Grace?"

"Why, if Mr. and Mrs. Irving are your grandparents, then, as Lallowet is their daughter, she must be your aunt."

"Yes, 'm, I 'm sure she is; and the reason I liked that white silk dress so much is because it belonged to my aunt. Aunt Lallowet—that's a funny name, is n't it?"

"Yes. I think it must be a nickname, and I doubt if they called it exactly right."

But alas for the uncertainty of human hopes! When they reached the old house they found it locked and apparently deserted.

Betty was ready to cry with disappointment, but she bore it bravely, and said:

"Let's inquire of the neighbors where Mr. Ross has gone."

The nearest neighbor was half a mile away, and when they reached there they could only learn that Mr. and Mrs. Ross had gone to live with their son in Chicago. Poor little Betty's fairy-castles crumbled away. But, as she said to Miss Grace on the way home:

"One disappointment is n't much. I must expect lots of them. And I 'm going to find my people in spite of everything."

Both the Van Court and the Denniston households were much disappointed at the failure of Betty's first plan for pursuing her search, but they all agreed that it was a plan so unlikely to lead to success that it made little difference. And then each began to think of some way by which William Irving could be found.

Jack was for going to Boston and hunting Irvings systematically by means of the directory. Mr. Van Court said that could be equally well accomplished by staying at home and writing letters. But Betty took no interest at all in "other Irvings"; she felt sure that the Ross Irvings were her Irvings, and that the white silk dress, which she now cherished more lovingly than ever, had once been worn by her own aunt.

One night, after she went to her room, she was looking at the dress, caressing it, and fancying how her aunt had looked in it, when something inside the bodice caught her eye. Then a thought flashed into her mind, and with an exclamation of delight she darted to the couch and grabbed her pillow confidant.

"Pillow," she whispered to it, "what do you think? I know a way—a sure way to find my Irvings. In that white dress, Pillow, is a belt with the name of the dressmaker in gilt letters; and it's Mlle. Francois, and it tells the street and number in Boston, and she can tell me all about Lallowet and her parents. Oh, Pillow, I 've found her at last! I believe I 'll begin to pack now for my Boston trip."

And the impetuous child did. And early the next morning Betty announced to the family at Denniston her discovery of the dressmaker's address, and her determination to go at once to Boston; then she went over to lay her plans before Mrs. Van Court. Her impatience had made her start early, and she found her friends still at the breakfast-table. They were much interested in her news, and Mr. Dick declared she was downright clever and would make a detective yet; he said, too, that whenever Betty and his mother were ready to go to Boston, he would offer himself as their escort.

Mrs. Van Court thought it would be just as well to write to Mlle. Francois and see if she were still at the same place. But Betty felt sure she could learn more by going there than by writing, and as Mrs. Van Court was acting for Betty's good, she made no further objections, but said she would be ready to start the next day.

Mr. Dick went with them, and the three had a delightful trip. The great steamboat of the Fall River line seemed to Betty like a wonderful floating palace, and she began to think that even if her second attempt to find her grandparents should fail, the time would be well spent.

After an early breakfast on the boat, next morning, they took the train for Boston, and on their arrival went to a hotel.

Betty was wild with impatience, and wanted to run at once to the street and number she was so anxious to find; but she had learned to be a polite little girl and consider others' wishes before her own, and so she waited patiently until Mrs. Van Court, who was wearied with the journey and wanted to rest, proposed that they start out to find Mlle. Francois.

They found the place without difficulty; but though it was still a modiste's shop, the sign bore the name of Mme. Villere instead of Mlle. Francois.

Betty's heart sank; but she still hoped to get information of some kind, so they went in.

Mme. Villere proved to be a voluble little French lady, who answered Betty's rather incoherent questions with great kindness.

"Mlle. Francois? Perfectly, but she ees gone. I am her—vat is it?—successor. And do I keep her customers? Oui, mademoiselle, almost all. But Irving? No; I do not know Mme. Irving. Yet stay—we will see ze books—ze old books of Mlle. Francois."

And sure enough, when they referred to the carefully indexed accounts left by Mlle. Francois, they found the name of Mrs. William Irving, 72 Rutherford Place.

"There!" cried Betty, triumphantly, "I knew we 'd find it! Oh, can't we go there right away?"

The little Frenchwoman did n't quite understand what it was all about, but complimented the ladies in every possible way, and artfully referred to her own superior modes and latest fashions. Betty would willingly have given her an order for a new frock then and there, but she was so excited over the success of her scheme, so far, that it did n't occur to her.

So, cutting short Mme. Villere's voluminous adieus, they started for Rutherford Place.

When they arrived they found that No. 72's windows showed only dark-green shades, and its front door was boarded up.

"No one lives here, Popinjay," said Mr. Dick, cheerily, "but don't let that discourage you. We 're not going to allow Mr. William Irving to escape us so easily as that. We 'll ask the neighbors as to his whereabouts."

But neither the residents of 70 nor 74 could tell him anything about the people who lived in 72.

"Well," said Mr. Van Court, after thinking a minute, "we 'll go back to the hotel now, Betty, and then we can lay our further plans."

So they went back, Betty a little downcast at the apparent difficulties in her path, but still hopeful, and much cheered by Mr. Van Court.

When they reached their hotel the young man announced that he was going on an errand, and would meet his mother and Betty again at dinner-time, and meanwhile they were to go to their rooms and rest. The beautiful appointments of the hotel reminded Betty of her visit to New York and her stay at the hotel there; and she thought how much she had learned since then. And indeed she had. From a bewildered, ignorant child she had changed into an intelligent, well-behaved one; and half instinctively, half by reason of her education, she conducted herself in every way as a little girl of her age should.

At six o'clock Betty and Mrs. Van Court went down to the parlor, and found Mr. Dick awaiting them with a smiling countenance.

"I know you 've heard some important news," said Betty, smiling too; "what is it?"

"'The sky is falling; I must go and tell the king,'" said Mr. Dick, teasingly.

"Well, I am the king," returned Betty; "tell me all about it."

"Well, my child, I think we are once again on the trail of your elusive grandparent. I have been interviewing a man in the post-office, and he tells me that Mr. and Mrs. William Irving of 72 Rutherford Place are now sojourning at Lakewood, New Jersey, at a hotel called 'Laurel-in-the-Pines.'"

"Oh," said Betty, breathlessly, "when can we start?"

Mrs. Van Court smiled.

"Betty," she said, "are you a grasshopper? Do you think you can spring across the country at a leap? I will go with you to Lakewood, but I must get my breath before we set off on another wild-goose chase."

So the next day they let Mrs. Van Court rest while Betty and Mr. Dick went on a sight-seeing tour; and at night they started for New York and thence to Lakewood.


...to be concluded

"Skate-Sailing for Life"

by C. H. Claudy, February 1910

A rare outdoor adventure with a young woman as the plucky heroine.

"Put in an extra pair of heavy socks, please, Fanny; it will be bitter cold to-night. Jack, get me the brown blanket for Jim. He 'll need it when I stop at Harriges."

Mr. Billings spoke quietly, but his heart was in a tumult. It was not easy for him to leave his sixteen-year-old daughter and eighteen-year-old son alone in a trapper's house in middle Canada, at the height of an unusual "snap" of cold. But his partner, in camp forty miles away, had been hurt by a falling tree, and had sent word by a neighbor asking for him; and Mr. Billings had to go.

"And, Jack," he called, as his son came with the horse-blanket, "take care of Fanny; you 're the man here now. And keep off the river. I saw wolf tracks this morning."

"Why, Father!" cried Jack, "are you sure? It must have been a dog. We have never heard of a wolf this far south since we 've been here."

"They were wolf tracks. Son," was the answer. "I know a wolf track when I see it. It 's the unusual cold and the deep snow that have driven them down out of the woods. You stay away from the river until I get back. I 'll be home in two or three days."

This was all there was to his leave-taking. They were not emotional people, these Billingses. That Father had to go forty miles, with the thermometer twenty-five below zero; that they two had to keep house alone, in a place where loneliness stalks barefaced always, were things to think of, to regret, to sorrow over, if need be, not to make a fuss about. Frances and John Billings were both children of the wilderness, and something of the stoicism of the men and the women and even of the beasts and the trees that live alone, far from their kind, and weather the rigors of seven months' winter, was theirs, even at the age when youth and high spirits fight bravely against cold and silence and hard work.

The house was lonely. It was bad enough to have Father gone, but to have him away and not to know whether "Partner Uncle Phil" would ever come again or not, to have only empty rooms and empty chairs to face, was more than uncomfortable.

The two young people looked at each other gravely across the supper-table.

"Don't let 's mope, Jack," said Fanny. "Let's clear up the attic. It needs it, and work is more fun than sitting still."

"Too cold, Sis," answered Jack. "You 'd think you were outdoors. And listen to that wind! I 'll wager Father 's glad he has that sleeping-bag over his legs!"

"Never mind Father!" said practical Fanny. "We can't do him any good thinking about him, and Father always has taken care of himself. If we work fast, the attic won't hurt us. I 'm going up!"

The girl arose, took a lamp, and went lightly upstairs. In a moment Jack, unwilling to sit and hold his hands and think, joined his sister. Together they dressed as if for outdoors, and then went up to the big, dim, cobwebby attic. It was cold.

"Whew !"said Jack. "Let's begin. Let 's start on that pile of junk over there!" and he stepped toward it as he spoke.

Whether he stumbled and fell or hit her arm by accident, he could never tell, but the next instant he was working madly to extinguish the flames which the oil from a broken lamp was spreading, while Fanny beat at his face and body with a blanket she had swept from a rafter. Luckily, they put the flames out, but when it was all over, save the smoke, Jack was curled up on the floor, moaning, his face black, and his cry all:

"Oh, my eyes—my eyes! Oh, my eyes!"

Very gently Fanny led him down the stairs, into the warmth and light of the sitting-room. As the warm air struck him, he gasped with pain.

"My collar, Fanny; get it off—oh!"

Quickly the girl unbuttoned his collar and opened his shirt at the neck. He was badly burned. Deftly she bathed the tortured face and neck, bound up the burns, and oiled the bandages. Then there was nothing to do but sit and watch.

Jack was a man in heart if a boy in years. Beyond his first involuntary cry, he set his teeth and said nothing. But Fanny knew. Once when she left the room noisily and crept back, she heard him moan, "My eyes! Father, my eyes!"

It was too much for Fanny. She said to herself:

"If I were hurt, Jack would never sit still and watch. He 'd do something. He needs a doctor. It 's only twenty miles to town by river. I can make it under the hour with the sail."

Even as she began to get together skates, cloak and gloves, sweater, and the fur "danco," she stopped.

"Wolves! Father said he saw a wolf track. And Father told Jack to stay off the river. If Father were only here! If I only had another horse! But I 'm not afraid. At least, I 'm not much afraid. And he did n't tell me to stay off."

Quietly she made her preparations. There were Jack's skates, longer and sharper than hers, but she knew she could use them. There was the fur danco, which fits head and neck and shoulders; there the thin mittens and the thick fur ones to cover them, the sweater, the belt, and the fur cloak. The skate-sail she meant to use was in the barn. She had already seen that the wind was quartering the river.

Fanny stepped into the sitting-room.

"Jack," she said, "Jack, I 'm going to skate to town and get Dr. Perry. He 'll be here in a few hours, and I ll come back with him. I can't see you suffer like this, and he may be able to do you a lot of good. No, don't say anything—I 'm going."

Whether Jack heard, or, hearing, understood, she did n't know. He put out a hand to her, and she grasped it and kissed it—an unusual demonstration for her to make—then ran from the room. The tears, which blinded her at that feeble motion of her usually strong, well brother to keep her by him, froze to her lashes as she stepped out. It was bitter cold, and even through her fur the north wind's icy knife cut true and sharp.

"This is n't the time for tears; it's the time for me to be a man," she said, half sobbing, to herself, nor smiled at the words.

She ran to the barn, and took from the wall her brother's skate-sail. Shaped like a big kite it was, nine feet long, five broad, with two crossed spars to hold it taut. She remembered how she and her father had laughed at Jack when he made it, after some plan he had seen in one of their rare magazines, and how he had had the laugh on them and the envy of all the countryside youth when he carried it and outstripped the fleetest skater of them all. Then she caught her breath with the thought, "Will he ever skate again?" shook the dread from her, and tried to think only of Jack as well and strong. It was with profound gratitude and eyes that would fill that she worked over the heavy sail and remembered that she had a generous brother who had shared his sport with her and taught her how to use the thing, so graceful when well managed, so cumbersome to the novice.

"I 'll make you a lighter one; this is too heavy for you," Jack had said.

But she was glad she had learned to use the heavy one.

Slipping on her skating-gear quickly, Fanny drew the straps tight—tight.

"Feet 'll shrink with the cold; must n't get loose," she thought.

Then, confident, and with fears behind her, she stepped off the little wharf on to the black surface of the Skatchawattomie. She was not cold now; the excitement of her adventure had gripped her. A few strokes brought her to the middle of the little river. The skate-sail she held horizontal over her head, well knowing that to bring it broadside to the wind before she was ready was to be thrown or have it torn away from her. Then carefully she set her feet, the right one in front, drew in her breath, and, with a sudden motion, brought the skate-sail upright along her right side. Before the wind could whip it about, her left hand had caught the horizontal spar which rested on her shoulder, her right grasped the upright, and, almost as if shot from a gun, she spun away down the cracking, booming ribbon of ice which stretched so far, so black, in front of her.

It is an exhilarating sport, this skate-sailing, almost like flying. So swift the motion, so birdlike and so effortless, the body seems without weight. Keen air whips the blood to the face with such a tingle, and the excitement of the possibility of a spill and of the motion and the necessity for alertness of guiding is so great, that, purely as a sport, it has few equals. But, joyous as Fanny had always found skate-sailing, it was not sport to-night; it was business. She had little time for enjoyment; every nerve was strained to get to town and get the doctor back to that poor burned body in the house, already far behind. Yet it was impossible to keep some feeling of exultation from her heart, even though she chided herself for it.

Even as she exulted in the swift motion and shook with a little shiver of pleasure at her speed, her face blanched. Seeming an answer to the loud ring of skates on brittle ice there came through the air from behind a soft, high, keen note. She had never heard it, but she knew what it was.

"Wolves," she whispered; "wolves!" And then again, "Wolves!" She could not be mistaken.

Well she knew, from many a camp-fire story told by hunter and trapper as well as from thrilling tales her father had told, what a pack of winter-starved wolves may mean to the unwary traveler. One wolf can be scared away, two or three need but little vigilance, but a pack is death to one man, be he armed how he may.

For a moment panic gripped her. But always she saw in her imagination the picture of a suffering, dearly loved face, a freckled hand groping for her. The young face steeled itself.

"It 's for Jack. He 'd do it for me," she thought, and swung a little closer to the wind.

The black ribbon of ice swung steady and low beneath her feet, and there was but little noise, only the hiss of the skates as they cut into the cold-cracked surface, and an occasional "clang" as she struck with one foot or another a frozen bit of wood, an air-hole, or a crack. She was thankful for her brother's long skates, that saved many a tumble, and for her strong ankles. With every bend in the river she must change the position of her feet, and sometimes swing the heavy sail over her head and down the other side. Cold she was not. Going with the wind, she felt none; across it, and the sail protected her. Only her feet were getting numb, from vibration rather than from cold.

Then again she heard it, nearer now and louder, a keen, high cry that was half a howl and half a growl and wholly terrifying. She looked back. There was nothing in sight. But—

"Horror!" she thought. "Horror! They are coming—coming—and soon I 'll see them behind me. Give me strength!"

The banks of the river were as black as the surface. Starshine only lighted the path, and she prayed as she flew that no bad air-hole might throw her. Even as she thought it, one foot went through and caught, and it was with a wrench and a jar that she got her feet together again. Then, as if the high gods were indeed testing her courage, while her heart still beat with terror of the thought of an injury to her leg or foot, right behind her, it seemed, came the noise of the pack, in full cry now, and scenting well the flying quarry just ahead. But Fanny, her blood up high and her brother's helpless cry still in her ears, forgot to be frightened as she turned and looked back.

"Small pack," she thought, as they swung into sight, eager and lank and swift, pin-points of light for merciless eyes, "but big enough for me."

Then she turned her face to the work in front. She had to change sail several times to make a difficult turn, and she felt she was losing ground. But a flaw in the wind took her just then, and instead of easing off, as she had been doing, to relieve the terrific strain on ankle and leg, she bore up against the wind, leaning hard against the sail. It was like pulling a throttle wide open! For the few minutes the flaw held, she spun along at a rate that would shame an ice-boat. Then the flaw fell, and her speed dropped. Behind her, closer and closer, she heard the occasional cry of the pack.

"But it is n't far now," she thought. "It can't be far now. It 's just around that bend," hopefully.

Fanny did not know the river as Jack did, and the night and the excitement and the wolves had confused her as to just where she was.

Now she swung into a long and narrow stretch with the wind dead across it, and she had to tack or lose speed. And as she tacked, looking round her sail, she could see the black mass of terror sweeping straight down the lane.

"It 's now or never," she thought, as she reached the bend of the river.

But it was to be "now."

"Yes, there it is! There it is!"

Fanny's thought was a cry aloud. The lights of the little town were in sight. And with the wolfpack trailing twenty yards behind her, she flung herself at the low wharf, pitched the sail to the pack, and, while they worried it, flew, skates and all, into the little store, gasped out her story to an astounded crowd of men, and then faded quietly into a land where there were neither wolves nor ice nor burned brother Jack.

In the long days of convalescence, when no one knew whether he would ever see again or not, Frances had to talk and to read much to keep both from thinking too often of those hours of horror: for Jack, when, blinded and pain-racked, he waited helplessly for the aid which seemed so long in coming; for her, when, coupled with the thought of being torn to pieces, was the other terror that, should she fail, her brother might suffer for days before relief, or—the end.

But the terror of these memories grew less with each passing hour, and vanished on the day when Dr. Perry took the bandage from Jack's eyes and he saw again.

"It was that, and a girl's pluck, that saved your eyes, young man," he said, pointing to the torn sail standing in the corner of the room.

But Jack only raised his eyes and took his sister's smiling face between his thin, scarred hands.