Tarnished Silver

Cover art

TARNISHED SILVER

By

MARY FRANCES OUTRAM

Author of
"The Story of a Log-house,"
"The Mystery of the Ash Tree," etc

ILLUSTRATED BY STANLEY L. WOOD

LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard
1914

"The eyes of the Lord are in every place,

beholding the evil and the good."

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I [Mr. Field Lays Down the Law]
II [Forbidden Fruit]
III [Judge Simmons]
IV [Timothy's Three Friends]
V [A Thief in the Night]
VI [That Terrible Eye]
VII [The Mysterious Packets]
VIII [Robin Hood's Lair]
IX [The Tramp]
X [A Flash of Lightning]
XI [The Treacherous Shore]
XII [Death and the Tide]
XIII [Near Death's Door]
XIV [Pin-pricks and Pellets]
XV [Alive from the Dead]
XVI [For Conscience' Sake]
XVII [Well-founded Fears]
XVIII [Judge Simmons Again]
XIX [Revelations]
XX [Good Hope]

TARNISHED SILVER

CHAPTER I

Mr. Field Lays Down the Law

In the breakfast-room of a large house near the seacoast Mr. Thomas Algernon Field sat eating a plain boiled egg.

It was a long time since he had tasted such a rarity, and he was enjoying it to the full.

Not that eggs were scarce in his establishment, but it was seldom that they found their way to his table in so simple a form. The Earl of Monfort, the owner of the adjoining estate, regularly ate a boiled egg every morning of his life--three hundred and sixty-five in the year, and one more in leap year, so he made his boast--but to Mr. Thomas Algernon Field this would have been sheer folly and waste.

Mr. Field had a French cook--a French cook whose salary far exceeded that of many a hard-worked clerk; and of what use was such an expensive treasure unless to turn out elaborate and costly menus? So to the detriment of his digestion, but with a brave effort to keep up the honour of his table, the master of the house wrestled daily with complicated dishes burdened with high-sounding names, though often longing secretly in his heart of hearts for plainer and more wholesome fare.

The room in which he sat was a fine one, with long windows opening on to a wide terrace with heavy stone balustrades, over and through which masses of roses climbed in graceful luxuriance of spray and bloom. Beyond lay yet another terrace, wider and larger than the first, with beds gay with many-coloured flowers, set in the greenest of velvet turf. A belt of trees bounded the further side of the lower platform, their topmost branches were bent sideways and shorn by the prevailing winds, while in the distance stretched the straight blue line of the North Sea, now rippling and sparkling in the morning sunshine.

Mr. Field finished his egg and leant back pompously in his carved oak chair.

He was a strongly built man, of medium height and with a tendency to stoutness, which did not improve his already clumsy figure. His neck was short and thick, and more than one layer of what is popularly known as a double chin lurked beneath his square and heavy jaws. Small eyes of a pale tawny brown looked out from under scarcely defined eyebrows, which twitched and frowned nervously, betokening a restless and uneasy mind. A scrubby moustache only slightly hid the thin compressed lips, at the corners of which ran deeply graven lines, as if they sought by their almost cruel hardness to counteract the weakness of the brow. It was a selfish and secretive face, and just at present it was a very self-satisfied one as it turned towards the fair scene beyond the casement.

"Julius," he said, turning to the other occupant of the room, "it's not every lad of your age who starts in life with such prospects. A house like Farncourt and enough dollars to buy up all the landowners round about! My sakes--not many boys in England can boast of that, I can tell you! Don't you forget it, Julius; and don't let others forget it either."

"I think Farncourt is a horrid old hole, father, and what use is it saying you can buy up all the landowners when you can't get the only bit of ground you really want, however much you try, even though it only belongs to a poor fisherman like Timothy Green?"

The speaker was a small boy of about ten years of age. He might have been a good-looking child if it had not been for the discontented expression upon his face, and the ill-tempered mouth and chin. From his speech, if you did not look at him, he might have been double his age.

Thomas Field's countenance darkened as he directed his gaze beyond the terrace boundary, where, in a gap between the trees, a whitewashed cottage could be seen, standing out plainly against the background of sea.

As a red rag to a bull, so was this unpretentious building to the owner of Farncourt.

"It is absurd," he exclaimed, as he had done many a time before, "to think that a beggarly old fellow with one foot in the grave should be able to defy me openly and ruin my view, when I offer him good money down, tenfold more than the ramshackle hovel is worth, if he'll only clear out to a better house and leave me in peace. When the whole of this fine place is mine, honestly bought and paid for, why should he be allowed to stick there in full sight of my windows, so that I can't look out without for ever seeing that one blot which spoils it all?"

"He says he'd rather die in his bed there than own Farncourt," replied the boy.

"Obstinate old duffer," exclaimed his father, "but I doubt he'll get his desire sooner than he thinks. The way the cliff is breaking away there is a caution, and some fine night he may find his precious roof come tumbling down upon his head; which will be a good way out of the difficulty for me, even if it does not benefit him overmuch! I'll not rest till I'm master of all the land I can see from Farncourt Tower, and have the undisputed right to prevent upstarts from loafing about the place."

"There are two new people come to live at Mrs. Sheppard's house," remarked Julius, "a lady and a boy. I saw him on the beach yesterday, and he seemed rather jolly. I mean to have him here to play with me sometimes."

"Listen to me, Julius," said his father; "you get quite enough of your own way as it is, but I do draw the line somewhere. Ask me for anything in reason and you'll get it, but to be allowed to bring within my doors any chance riff-raff you may happen to pick up, that I cannot and will not permit."

"He's not a riff-raff," answered Julius sulkily, "he's quite a gentleman, even if he has rather shabby clothes, and he's not come on chance. John says he's going to live here for some time."

"How often have I told you not to gossip with your groom," retorted Mr. Field. "If the earl chooses to allow his tenants to let lodgings it's no business of mine, and he may turn his end of the village into slums for all I care, but the part that belongs to me, I keep for myself and my own people. I've knocked about the world all my life, and now I've made my pile and settled down on my private estate, no one is to go wandering over it without my permission. I came here for quiet and solitude, and I mean to see that I get it, in spite of all the earls in creation. If you find that stranger woman or her boy trespassing within my grounds, let me know about it, and I'll soon teach them their place."

"I don't see why I shouldn't play with him," rejoined Julius, petulantly pushing back his chair from the table, and kicking his feet about. "You won't let me talk to John, and I don't like the gardener's boys; they're horrid rude fellows and won't do what I want."

"You've got everything you can desire that money will buy," answered his father sternly. "Only last month I gave you that thoroughbred pony which you had set your heart on, and which cost me a pretty penny, I assure you, though you're welcome to another if you wish, for all it matters to me. You've got the best games and books that can be bought, enough to stock a shop, and yet it appears you are not satisfied. There are motors in the garage, and boats on the lake, with servants at hand to do your every bidding, why should you go hankering after loafers you know nothing about, and who have the impudence to hang about my property against my express desire."

"It's no fun playing games by myself," grumbled Julius. "Now that old Finney has gone, I've not even got him to help me. I want a boy the same age as me, that I can lick if he gets cheeky, and who won't call me names, like the gardener's sons."

"Call you names, like the gardener's sons," repeated Mr. Field incredulously. "I never heard of such a thing. Benson shall have a piece of my mind about this before the day is out, and if he can't teach his cubs to behave themselves, he must look out for another situation, that's all. If things go on at the Good Hope mine as they have done in the past, the world will hear about you, Julius, and at no very distant time either. Folk must climb down when they speak to you, and treat you with fitting respect. You've had advantages that I never enjoyed, and some fine day, if I mistake not, you'll find yourself at the top of the tree; so in the meantime, my lad, don't price yourself too cheap, but just stand up with the best of them. There's a new tutor coming next term in place of Finney--a younger man who has carried off every prize he could win and charges accordingly, so you'd better get as much as you can out of him when he arrives, and leave this shabby young rascal and the gardener's boys to fight it out together upon the beach."

With a satisfied air, as if the last word had now been said, Mr. Field rose from his chair and sauntered out to charge Benson with the enormity of his offence, a congenial task which lost nothing in the doing. Meanwhile Julius, left to himself in the breakfast-room, proceeded to feed Pat, his Irish terrier, with chicken rissoles, until that amusement palled, and he whistled to the dog to follow him out of doors.

Aimlessly the child wandered round to the back of the house, where a row of splendid rabbit-hutches with pedigreed inhabitants claimed his attention for a few brief moments. There was nothing to do there, for the lad specially engaged to attend to their wants had just given them their morning meal, and each silky creature was already contentedly nibbling the tender cabbage leaves so plentifully provided for their repast. To excite Pat by inviting him to put his nose through the wire netting was the only interest in that quarter, and as the dog sensibly refused to respond, there was nothing for it but to go further afield.

For about half an hour Julius watched the cleaning of the great sixty-horse-power car, amusing himself by executing a series of deafening hoots upon the motor horn to the distraction of the chauffeur, who had learnt only too well that to remonstrate only meant a prolongation of the din.

From the garage to the stables was the next move, and the order was given to saddle the new pony.

"I'm going to take Prince over those hurdles again," Julius remarked as John led the beautiful animal out of its stall. "You'd better come to the field to set them up for me."

"The vet said as how Prince had been too hard set at them last time, sir, seeing as he strained his off foreleg a bit," replied the groom, "and the master he told me he didn't wish the pony to jump again for a while, though he was all right for a quiet ride."

"What's the fun of a pony that can't jump?" exclaimed the boy impatiently. "I don't want to walk about the roads as if I was at a funeral. I won't ride at all if I can't try the hurdles, so you may take the stupid beast away."

"There's Red Rover, sir, if you want another horse. I'll saddle him in a jiffey, and he's a rare one at a gallop, even though he's not so light at the fences as Prince."

Julius eyed the smart little cob that had been his favourite mount till the new-comer arrived upon the scene, and felt half inclined to follow the friendly advice. But after all, what was the good of going for a gallop when there was nowhere special to gallop to, and no one to gallop with except John, who was apt to be surly if you went too fast? So he shook his head.

"I don't want Red Rover," he said. "They're a rotten lot, all of them. I'll get father to give me a stronger pony next time, that won't strain its silly old legs by jumping over a footstool."

Turning his back upon the stable yard he made his way slowly into the lane.

"I wish the new tutor was here," he said to himself, "even old Finney would be better than nobody. I think I'll go to Timothy Green's cottage and see how far the cliff has broken away. Father seemed to think it was going pretty fast. I wonder if some day the house will really topple over on to the beach."

With some definite purpose at length in his mind, Julius hurried down the track which led through the copse to the sea. The trees thinned as he neared the cliff, those that were left, standing out gaunt and weather-beaten by the storms which broke upon them so fiercely from the east.

A rough fence enclosing a patch of ground marked the boundary of the small domain which had so excited the wrath of Mr. Field. The cottage lay end on to the sea, its low door facing the south. Hardy flowers bloomed within the little plot, but Julius remarked with surprise that the wall, on the further side of the garden had disappeared since he had last walked that way.

Passing the rickety gate that gave entrance from the lane, he crept cautiously to the edge of the cliff and peeped down.

CHAPTER II

Forbidden Fruit

Far below lay the debris of the crag not yet carried away by the waves which now crept sleepily along the shore. Harmless, gentle ripples they looked that day, softly crooning a lullaby to the pebbles on the beach; very different to the angry guise in which they appeared on winter nights, when the mighty hissing billows came leaping up the cliff like hungry tongues, seeking to lick out the very foundations of the land. Many a great slice had they already snatched away. Acre after acre of fair cornfield and forest had once stood where now the ocean rolled, and every year fresh portions of the fruitful earth disappeared beneath the irresistible onslaught of the foe.

North and south as far as eye could reach, Julius could trace the long rampart of cliff facing the wide expanse of water. In the distance a lonely church stood perched upon the edge, a mere deserted shell, with ruined tower and roofless nave, of which the greater part had long since fallen into the sea. Sole relic it remained of the prosperous city which once in bygone years had clustered round its walls.

As Julius withdrew his gaze from the distant prospect to the nearer one at his feet, he noticed the effects of the last storm on his humble neighbour's property.

A large hawthorn hung head downward, its roots holding on like claws in the crumbling crag, while bits of broken garden fence still clung in untidy festoons over yawning gaps along the upper portion of the cliff. Fragments of bricks and boards were scattered upon the shore below, waiting in disorderly confusion for the waves to finish their handiwork and bury them out of sight. Only a foot or two of solid ground remained between the sea end of the dwelling and the top of the landslip. Already great cracks were making themselves seen in the cottage walls, showing the gradual subsidence of the soil beneath.

"I wonder old Timothy dares to stay in his house when any moment a lump of earth may break away," said the boy to himself. "What a lot has gone since I was here last! I remember there used to be a pigsty here in the spring, but I suppose that's it lying in pieces on the shore. I wonder if the pig was in it when it went down."

As he meditated upon this possible tragedy the door of the house opened and two people came out. Julius at once recognized them as the stranger lady and her little son, whom he had met before and been cautioned to avoid. He crouched down behind a sheltering bush until they should pass by.

"She's got rather a nice face," he murmured, "and the boy's not half bad, in spite of all father says against them."

It was no wonder that the lonely child looked with longing eyes upon the pair. Others as well as he had found comfort in the calm sweetness which rested as the habitual expression on Madelaine Power's fair features. As she turned at the porch to wave farewell to old Timothy, the honeysuckle made a fitting frame to her tall, graceful figure, clad in the simple black gown which tells the story of widowhood to the world.

Julius watched her as she walked down the path towards the gate, her eyes full of mother-love as she met the eager upturned gaze of the curly-headed child at her side, and a sharp pang of jealousy shot through his heart, leaving a sore feeling behind.

"It's a perfect beauty, mother!" the boy was saying. "I think it was just awfully good of Timothy to give it to me."

Julius noticed that the lad was carrying something beneath his jacket, carefully pressed against his chest--something that moved, for it needed both hands and arms to hold it safe.

"We'll have to make a little house for it, Robin," answered his mother. "I'm afraid it will feel rather strange at first, poor creature, in its unaccustomed quarters."

"I wonder what he's got," soliloquized Julius. "I expect it's a puppy or a kitten, or some idiotic thing like that. What's the use of making such a fuss about it, when they're as common as blackberries."

But to Robin the little, warm, furry bundle he held so closely to his breast meant a treasure precious beyond words, the possession of which had suddenly turned his prospects rose-colour. All the way down the lane his busy tongue never ceased. Plan after plan for the accommodation of his new favourite was poured into his mother's attentive ear.

Julius listened enviously until the clear ringing voice had died away in the distance. When he could hear it no longer, he rose from his hiding-place and sauntered slowly and discontentedly home.

It was early next morning when he met Robin once again.

Yielding to John's persuasions he had condescended to mount Red Rover, and after a good gallop on the heath was returning by the road that led to the sea. He was about to pass in at the lodge gates which guarded Farncourt, when he caught sight of Robin coming towards him on an ancient grey pony, whose sedate bearing and somewhat stiff movements proclaimed a long life of uneventful toil.

"That's a fine old cow you've got," he said rudely, when the pair reached the entrance of the park.

Robin flushed. Pride had filled his heart when he said good-bye to his mother at the garden door, and he and the blacksmith's pony had gone out alone into the great unknown. No boy was he, enjoying a rare and unwonted ride--rather was he a knight in armour on his trusty warhorse, pacing forth undauntedly to do battle with tyrants and dragons in the cause of Right. And now--to hear his charger called a cow! It was galling, to say the least of it, and his spirit rose to the occasion.

"Insult me not, caitiff!" he exclaimed, "or thou shalt rue the day. Stand and deliver!"

With a whoop, more like that of an Indian at Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show than of an errant knight of King Arthur's Table, the boy suddenly applied his whip to the old pony's flanks, making him lurch heavily forward to the charge.

Surprised by the unexpected attack, it required all Julius' horsemanship to calm Red Rover, and stay the plunging of the fiery little cob. Quieted at length, he managed to bring him to a standstill within the gates, and from that safe vantage ground he turned to face the enemy.

"You'd better not come in here with your clumsy beast," he called out. "If you do, you'll be prosecuted. Look, it's written up on that board."

"I desire not to set foot within thy territory," replied Robin grandly. "I go forth to the great battle where the king awaits me, relying upon my trusty sword."

Taken aback by this strange form of address, Julius watched silently as the youthful combatant laboriously turned his steed and passed with sober tread along the road. One more shot came Parthian-wise as they went their way, revealing the boy beneath the knight.

"It's all very well to call my pony a cow, but it can shake hands and open a gate, and I expect that's more than yours can do."

As Julius rode up the avenue one purpose only filled his mind. How could he get to know this lad, and find out more about the delightful game which he seemed to be enjoying all by himself.

"If only we could play at being knights together, what glorious tournaments we could have in the meadow," he thought. "He looked so jolly and brave when he came banging into Red Rover like that, just as if he was a real warrior. I wonder how he taught his pony to shake hands. I wish Prince could learn to do it too. Why does father hate to have anybody here? I don't think it's fair. Anyhow, I'm going to try and see the boy again, whatever any one may say."

The late afternoon sun was shining down on Sea View Cottage as Julius crept up to a small hole in the hedge which separated the garden from the lane. A pretty picture met his eye as he peered through. Not a stone's throw from him stood the little house, nestling in a bower of green, its long slope of rich brown thatch cut into fantastic patterns, across which wandering creepers seemed to cast protecting arms. A profusion of sweet-smelling flowers filled the narrow border on each side of the path, making a bright foreground to the scene.

The stranger lady sat sewing in a low chair beneath a tree, while beside her was the quondam knight, hard at work with hammer and saw fashioning something out of old boxes and wire.

"Where's Peter?" suddenly exclaimed Robin, springing to his feet.

"Who's Peter?" whispered Julius to himself, as he tried to get a better view of the group.

The words had no sooner fallen from his lips than a tiny brown rabbit darted out of the hedge at his feet and hopped rapidly down the road. Quick as thought, Pat the terrier had the little creature in his mouth, from which Julius rescued it a moment later, trembling and terrified, but apparently none the worse for its unceremonious capture.

"What a good thing it was that you and your dog were just passing when Peter slipped out," said Robin to him as he walked into the garden and delivered up the runaway.

It was with certain qualms of conscience that Julius had lifted the latch of the gate and entered the forbidden ground, but he strove to stifle them as best he could. Even if his father did see him, surely he would not blame him for doing such a kind and simple act? It was very unlikely, however, that he would know anything at all about it, for he hardly ever came to that end of the village, and Sea View Cottage lay quite off the beaten track. There would surely be no harm just finding out if the boy was a nice fellow after all, for if he wasn't, he would not trouble his head about him again.

Apparently his investigations proved satisfactory, for it was only when it got too dark to see any more that he reluctantly tore himself away. Never could he remember to have spent an afternoon that passed so quickly. No grand patent rabbit-hutch, perfect in every detail, had ever given him half so much joy as this rough makeshift at which the two boys laboured eagerly as long as it was light.

When at length the crowning moment arrived, and Peter was formally introduced to his new home, Julius was almost as excited over it as was Robin himself. Long did he linger, so fascinating was it to watch the little inmate as it explored the corners of the old packing-case, and stood up on its hind legs to sniff the wire netting which had been so carefully fastened on, with a vast amount of vigorous hammering and super-abundance of nails. He almost danced with delight when Peter went through the narrow doorway, sawn with infinite labour in the hard wood, which led to the sleeping apartment within. How comfortable he would find it, filled as it was with nice dry bracken, which the two lads had gathered from the adjoining wood.

"I'll come back to-morrow early," he remarked to Robin, when at length he could bring himself to say good-bye. "I think everything's right, but there might be a nail or two we could stick in somewhere to make it all quite secure, and we'll be able to see better in the morning."

"I think Robin's the jolliest boy I ever knew," he said to himself as he went home. "I'll often go to see him, if only I can manage without father finding out. We'll have some fine times together, and no one will be any the wiser."

"I couldn't have believed he was such a decent sort of chap," was Robin's comment after Julius had taken his departure. "He seemed such an utter cad when he spoke to me at the gates."

"Poor little fellow," replied Mrs. Power, "you see he's got no mother to help him to behave, and I expect he's not used to meeting people, as Mr. Field leads such an isolated life. We must try and be kind to him if we can."

CHAPTER III

Judge Simmons

"A gentleman to see you, sir," said the footman as he approached Mr. Field with a salver on which lay a solitary visiting card.

"Eh, what? A visitor, did you say?" said his master. "What's his name, Jenkins?"

"It's written there, sir," replied the footman. "He said you wouldn't know him, but he would be glad if you could see him for a few moments on business."

"Judge Simmons," read out Mr. Field, as he took up the card. "Sounds as if he came from America."

"So he does, sir, if you can go by his accent," answered Jenkins.

"Don't like Yankees, though I've spent so much of my life among them," murmured Mr. Field under his breath. "What can this fellow want, coming bothering me here?" he added in a slightly louder tone.

"I don't know, sir, I didn't happen to enquire," replied the footman.

"Don't be impertinent, Jenkins," said Mr. Field looking up sharply. He lived in continual dread that his servants were making fun of him behind his back, and Jenkins' tone was suspiciously polite. "Of course it's not your place to question my visitors, and you'd pretty soon find yourself in hot water if you did."

"Judge Simmons is a better specimen of a gentleman than old Field," was the footman's conclusion as he piloted the visitor into the library, "and I fancy he knows a thing or two by the look of him. I shouldn't like to be faced by him if there was anything shady I wanted to hide. His eyes seem to go right through you, as if he could count your very bones."

Certainly the tall spare figure that crossed the room to shake hands with Mr. Field was a good example of the typical well-bred American. Clean-shaven, with a firm jaw, and quick, piercing eyes, he gave one the impression at once of a strong man, alert and observant, with a sense of humour tempering the sternness of the mouth.

"I must apologize," he said, "for intruding upon you in this manner, but I shall be grateful if you will allow me to speak to you on a matter of rather urgent business."

Mr. Field motioned him to a chair, and replied that he would be pleased to assist him if it was in his power to do so.

"Well," continued the stranger, "the fact is this. I have a young friend over in Mexico, who is rather too fond of embarking on commercial enterprises of a decidedly risky and precarious nature, and as I am in a way his adviser, I feel a certain amount of responsibility when he asks my opinion about things. He has just written, saying he has the option of purchasing some land in which rumour says that silver maybe found, and he wants to know what I think about it. It is quite out of your beat, Mr. Field, as I know your mines are in California, so I felt it would not be trespassing on your preserves if I asked you to be kind enough to answer a few questions in a friendly way as to the risks of such a speculation, knowing what an authority you are upon the subject. I am staying with Lord Monfort, and, hearing that you resided so near, I ventured to make myself known to you, hoping that my nationality would perhaps appeal to you, seeing you have lived so long in my country."

Mr. Field's features, which at first had been decidedly forbidding, relaxed at the mention of the earl. Aloof though he held himself from the ordinary run of mankind, it was his secret ambition to mix with that society into which, except for his great wealth, he could never hope to obtain entrance. To know that he had been the subject of conversation at Lanthorne Abbey was as nectar to his aspiring soul.

"I shall be glad to do what I can for you," he said urbanely, "if you will kindly give me some particulars as to locality and the like."

After about half an hour's conference Judge Simmons rose to go.

"You will stay to lunch, won't you?" urged Mr. Field. "It's getting on towards one o'clock, and I shall be pleased to welcome you, if you will be content with merely the company of myself and my little boy."

"I've only once been down your way," remarked Judge Simmons as they were seated at table, "and that was some years ago, before you had made that corner of the world a household word. Everyone knows the Good Hope silver mine and its apparently exhaustless resources, but I wish I could locate it better in my own mind. I don't seem able to fit it in with what I remember of the place. I went with a nice young fellow named Barker who was prospecting then in those parts, and he staked out a claim somewhere thereabouts. I recollect he called it Wild Goat Gully. I've quite lost sight of him since, and have never been up there again, but I fancy he didn't strike it rich, or we should have heard of it before now."

"I was told that he went completely to the dogs, and was at last drowned when crossing one of the big rivers," replied Mr. Field. "He certainly made nothing out of his Gully, so far as I heard, and the very name he gave it has died out."

"One peculiarity about it struck me much at the time," remarked the judge. "There was a high precipice bounding it on one side, with a great orange streak right across it as if it had been daubed on with a brush. Some geological freak, I suppose."

"Why, how funny!" exclaimed Julius, who had been sitting silently listening to the conversation. "That's just like the Good Hope cliff. It looks exactly as if some enormous giant had thrown his pot of yellow paint at the rock."

"Strange," said the judge, glancing up at Mr. Field, "I heard there wasn't another formation like it in the whole country."

"What nonsense!" ejaculated Mr. Field testily. "I've explored every part of the district for miles round, and know every inch of it well, and I could show you half a dozen valleys where there were similar rocks, any one of which might be Wild Goat Gully."

"I don't think there are, father," chimed in Julius, "for I asked old Joe the trapper, who has lived there all his life, and he told me just the same as Judge Simmons. He said it was 'unique,' and I remember when I asked you what that was, you said it meant there wasn't another like it in the world."

"If you contradict me in this way, Julius, you may just leave the room," said his father in an angry tone. "I won't have lies told at my table, even by my own son. Do you hear me, Julius? Be off with you this instant, or I'll give you a thrashing that you won't soon forget."

"It's quite true, father," stoutly asserted the boy. "You know you've often said to me that no one could equal the Good Hope mine any more than they could match the yellow splash on its cliff."

A box on the ears was Mr. Field's only reply, as he grasped the lad by the arm and hustled him out of the door.

"I am sorry, sir," he said when he returned to the table, "but I am ashamed to say my boy has developed a terrible faculty for telling the most deliberate untruths, and I have to do my best to check him. He seems to take a perfect delight in inventing stories without a shadow of foundation, and in sticking to them at all costs."

"I believe the child's version was the right one," said Judge Simmons to himself as he motored back to Lanthorne Abbey. "Why should Field be so anxious to demonstrate that orange streaks were such very ordinary things?"

Suddenly he sat up and gave a low exclamation.

"What if he wished to prove to me that Good Hope mine could not possibly be the same as Wild Goat Gully? That's a question which opens out some interesting answers. I guess I'll make some enquiries when I get back to California again."

CHAPTER IV

Timothy's Three Friends

Madelaine Power wandered along the shore idly watching the waves as they came tumbling in, their white crests curling in a succession of long feathery lines, until with a roar and a hiss they were flung upon the beach, spreading themselves out like great fans of foam upon the shingle.

No figure but her own was to be seen on the narrow pebbly strip, which ran like a yellow ribbon between the foot of the cliff and the incoming tide. No sound was to be heard save the monotonous music of the breakers, and an occasional wild cry as a stray sea-gull circled above her head.

Madelaine gave a little shiver as her eye followed the desolate track.

"Only eleven years ago this month since Gerald and I trod this very shore," she said. "Only eleven years, and yet what a lifetime it seems! Truly much of it has been to me a sad and solitary way. It has been heavy walking, and most of it against the wind!"

She stood for a moment gazing at the coast-line, up which a sea-mist was slowly travelling, blotting out the distant view of ocean and headland.

"Just as my troubles have blotted out my sun," she thought to herself, as she morbidly let her mind dwell on the dark days of the past.

It was not strange that her spirit failed her at times, for the road had indeed been toilsome to her young feet.

The only child of a struggling country doctor, and left an orphan at the age of seventeen, she had early engaged in a hard fight for existence, earning a scanty livelihood by teaching in the neighbouring town. It was there that the girl made the acquaintance of the handsome young surveyor whose friendship made so great a difference to her lonely lot. Small wonder was it, when he asked her to be his wife, that she should feel as if a new and glorious era had suddenly dawned. No matter that her home was to be henceforth in the unknown West. The heart's love of her strong and generous nature had been given wholly to him whom she would gladly have followed to the ends of the earth.

With high hope the youthful couple had gone forth to try their fortune in the New World, and for some months things went cheerily enough with them. Then came speculations and accompanying failure, and Madelaine learnt only too well the weak side of the man whom she still loved, but with the pitiful sustaining tenderness of a nobler and braver character than his own.

After the birth of their boy, Gerald had for a time displayed greater energy and perseverance in seeking to better his position, journeying often long distances in search of work. It was during one of these absences that Madelaine received the letter which almost broke her heart and sprinkled her chestnut hair with grey.

It told her how her husband had been suddenly smitten by the cold hand of death while travelling in a wild part of the country, his body being laid to rest in the depths of the trackless forest. His watch and chain and an unfinished diary were the only tokens enclosed in the accompanying package, and the young widow was left to realize as best she could the desolate and penniless position in which she and her infant were now placed.

Neither she nor Gerald had any relatives to whom she could appeal, and had it not been for the aid given to her in her distress by an eccentric and benevolent neighbour she would indeed have been destitute. Touched by the forlorn condition of the hapless pair, this aged recluse invited them to share his humble dwelling, and when he died about three months later, Madelaine found to her surprise, that he had willed the whole of his little property to herself and her son. One solitary stipulation he made, and that a hard one in the faithful Madelaine's eyes. Only by adopting his name could she and the boy claim the legacy that he left. It was after much searching of heart that finally the thought of the benefit which would accrue to her child outweighed the repugnance she felt in setting aside the sacred name of her dead husband, and as Madelaine Power she set sail with her baby for England, and settled down in their new home.

Helping out the small income by typewriting and fine needlework, she had managed hitherto to make a fairly comfortable living; but at present the thought of Robin's education weighed somewhat heavily upon her heart. To be either a doctor or a surveyor was the summit of the boy's ambition, but how to give him the training he required for such a career was a problem she had not solved as yet.

As she let her mind wander again to the future, she chanced to look down upon the beach where a wave had run up higher than its fellows, almost to the spot where she stood. There at her feet lay a tiny fish, struggling vainly on the sand, a helpless waif, left high and dry by the retreating sea.

"You poor little thing," she cried, as she stooped, and, lifting it gently, threw it with a steady hand into the deep water beyond. "I couldn't leave you to die there all by yourself. How strange to think that in all these miles of desolate shore you should have been washed up just at my feet. I wonder if God knew? Yes, of course He did, for we're told plainly that the eyes of the Lord are in every place. If He hears the young ravens when they cry, and notices if a sparrow falls, He knows surely when the humblest of His human creatures are in need."

She turned and walked back by the shore, now brightened by a gleam of sunshine, as the sea-mist cleared away. The waves seemed to sing a new refrain as she passed along, the melody of which put vigour into her steps and a light into her eyes;

"How much more .... How much more

Will He clothe you,

O, ye of little faith?"

"I may as well go up and pay Timothy a visit," she thought, as she reached a rough ladder-like staircase which gave access to the top of the cliff from the beach below. The wall of the aged fisherman's cottage could be seen almost on a line with the edge of the crag.

"How terrible it must be to live there," she exclaimed as she looked up. "I hardly like even to go in to visit him for a few minutes, and to think of trying to sleep in such a place!"

She knocked at the door, and entered the little kitchen, which was fortunately at that end of the house which was furthest from the sea.

It was a low room with heavy wooden rafters and whitewashed walls. The old man was sitting by the open fireplace in his high-backed chair, placidly smoking his pipe, while at his elbow stood an oak table an which lay a well-worn Bible in its brown leather binding, and a pair of horn spectacles.

After a few words of greeting, Mrs. Power's thoughts turned naturally to the danger threatening the occupant of the perilous dwelling.

"I wonder you're not afraid, Timothy, of staying here all by yourself. Any night the waves may break away another piece of the cliff, and the house may go."

Timothy slowly took his pipe out of his mouth and laid it carefully upon the table; then placing both his withered hands upon his knees, he leant forward and nodded his head gently, while he kept his kindly eyes fixed on the face of his visitor.

"I be ninety-four year old come next Lady-day," he commenced in his high quaking voice, "and I've seen many a good friend pass away. The old wife she's gone, and the two little ones that God took with the whooping cough when they were but babes. My brothers are all gone, and my three sisters, and the fine comrades I started with on life's journey. We went together down to the sea in ships, and not one on 'em's outside the harbour now, except my old worthless self. They're all gone, all my good true friends, all gone but three. And them three, I think on them by day, and I dream on them by night, the only three on 'em that's left. Like as not you'll smile when I tell you their names. They be right strange friends even for an old man like me."

"Tell me who they are?" said his visitor, for Timothy had ceased speaking and was gazing absently into the fire.

He hesitated a moment.

"Well," he said at length, "I'll tell you. One on 'em's Death, and another be the Tide, but the third be the best One of all."

"What do you mean?" asked Madelaine, for the old man had paused, as if his thoughts had wandered back again to long past days. "How do you count them your friends?"

"This here little house was my father's before me," continued Timothy, as if talking to himself, "and man and boy I've never lived elsewhere, though when I was a little lad there were two fine fields between us and the cliff. I was always a running to the edge to watch the tide, it fair bewitched me to see it come creeping up and then backing away, day in, day out, like some mighty living thing with a living breathing heart. And when I got a bit older, that there sea made a fisher of me. Summer and winter it gave me my daily bread; it never failed me yet. The sea's been a rare good friend to me from the one end of life to t'other; a rare good friend it's been. It'll not go back on me now, it won't. 'Twould be a mean trick to play on me, it would, if it took the old place from under my feet, after four and ninety years of good fellowship! I'm not afraid of the Tide."

Mrs. Power knew not what to say. No arguments rose to her lips, though she vainly longed to remonstrate.

"Well, Timothy," she said at last, "I can't say that I'm as well acquainted with the ways of the tide as you are, but the other of your friends that you seem so sure of, I have often heard mentioned as the great Enemy."

Timothy's face lit up with a triumphant smile as he raised one hand and pointed upwards.

"And why?--I reckon it's because they don't understand. I thought that once myself, but I see clearer now. The Tide's a good friend, but Death's better."

"How did you find that out, Timothy?" questioned Mrs. Power.

"It was many a long year ago now," was the reply. "The old clergyman's sister, Miss Alice, she was a good one, she was, and she would have us young chaps up at the big house to learn us summat when the winter nights did come, and the sea was too rough for the fishing. She was always for book learning, was Miss Alice.

"'Don't go and waste your life, lad,' she would say, 'thinking it's enough to feed the poor body; 'stead of that, do something for the soul too.'

"It's dead and buried she's been this long while now, but she comes back to me plain, she do, my eyes they seem to see her sitting there yet, same as I saw her last, the week before she died. She sent for me, she did, seeing I was one of her old scholars, to tell me she was going home, and to bid me take more thought for heaven. She was always a wonderful kind teacher, was Miss Alice, and her face fair shone when she spoke of God and the golden city.

"That evening she was sitting by the fire, and on the wall just behind her was a big picter. Well--that picter it transfixed me wholly; it stuck in my mind, it did, I have it before me now, as plain as a pikestaff."

"What was it like?" asked Mrs. Power.

"There was an old chap--as it might be me," answered Timothy, "and he was sitting in his big arm-chair--as it might be this 'un, and his Bible by his side, and his vittles on the table--just as I have here. He did look so wonderful tired, that poor man, and he was resting so comfortable in the big chair. His eyes they were shut, and his head it was leaning back, and he was sleeping so quiet and peaceable-like. But you'd never guess what was in that room along of him. No, you'd never guess."

"I would rather you told me," said Madelaine, "I'm not good at guessing."

"Well," continued Timothy, "along side of the table was a great big skeleton, dressed up in long flowing clothes, and its face looked right kind and gentle, it did, and its hands were stretched up, a-pulling the rope of a great bell that hung in the belfry over the old man's head. The sun was just sinking, you could see it out of the little window in the back of the picter. Says I to Miss Alice, 'The old chap'll be finely scared when he wakes up and sees the ghost.' 'No,' said she, 'there's writing here below, and it means something quite different. The name of that picture is "Death as Friend." It means that he's come to call the poor man away from all his want and all his weariness, and to tell him it's time to go up to the beautiful city and the light of God.' He's no enemy--he's a right good friend for an old man to have."

"So you're expecting him to come for you, Timothy," said Madelaine gently.

"Yes, I'm just waiting here for my friend," was the quiet answer. "He won't be long now, and the other friend down below there, I know he'll wait till I'm in the mansions of gold before he takes down the walls of my little house here. I'm waiting quite patient, and I'm not afraid. We're waiting, all of us, my friends and me, for we're all in the Hand of Him that's mightier than the mightiest, Him that's the best Friend of all. I be safe to trust in Him, for He knows the end from the beginning, and the times and the seasons are His alone."

The old man took off his fisherman's cap as he spoke, and closed his eyes as if in prayer. Mrs. Power did not like to disturb him, but silently left the hut.

The sunny landscape look blurred to her as she walked home along the edge of the cliff.

"I've had a lesson," she said to herself. "The Lord knoweth them that are His. Surely we may well commit ourselves to the care of our Best Friend."

CHAPTER V

A Thief in the Night

It was a warm August evening, and the windows of Sea View Cottage were opened wide to let in the faint breeze which had risen with the turning of the tide. The lamp was lit in the little sitting-room, and in its soft glow sat Mrs. Power, her head bending low over her work.

Suddenly she looked up.

"What was that curious noise?" she exclaimed. "It sounded as if someone was in the garden. I really wish old Mrs. Sheppard would keep a dog. It is not safe to be so far off the high road, and she so deaf."

She rose and went to the window, peering vainly out into the darkness, where nothing was to be seen save the dim outlines of the trees lazily waving their branches against the starlit sky.

"I wonder if it was Robin walking in his sleep again," she said. "I'll take the light and see if he's all right."

She turned to go, but before lifting the lamp she glanced at the watch which lay beside it on the table.

"Half-past ten!" she remarked, as she took the key and wound it up. "Late hours for this Sleepy Hollow, but I think I'll go on a little longer with my embroidery before I go to bed."

Replacing the watch, she disappeared with the light into the passage. As the door closed, a man's face glanced stealthily in at the window, and the next moment a rough figure in a long overcoat had crept unobserved into the room.

"Ladies shouldn't leave their jewellery so tempting-like in a poor man's way," he muttered. "What else can they expect but to find their trinkets gone when they come back? Serves 'em right for dangling them in front of a fellow's nose!"

He made his way cautiously to the table and groped about with his hands until he found what he wanted. "Gold!" he ejaculated, "I'm pretty sure of it by the feel, and a gent's too, by the size of it; not to speak of a good thick chain that'll bring in a nice little sum by itself."

He slipped his spoils into the pocket of his coat, and stood pondering for a moment.

"Is there nothing else that I could nab?" he said to himself. "Silver spoons aren't usually found in country lodgings, so it's no use looking in the sideboard, but I think I caught sight of a missionary-box on the mantelpiece which might be worth enquiring into, seeing there's not much else to bag.

"Ha! Pretty heavy!" he added, as he weighed the box is his hand. "With no disrespect to the missionary, I'll relieve him from having to dispose of too much wealth. Pennies, no doubt, mostly, but they tell no tales, and come in handy for a drink."

As he was in the act of putting the box into his other pocket, he saw to his dismay that the light was again approaching the door.

"I've particular reasons for not showing my attractive face in this neighbourhood, lady," he continued under his breath, "so with your leave I'll decline the pleasure of making your acquaintance this evening, and go back by the way I came."

He made his way hastily to the window, and was in the act of getting out, when the light of the lamp flashed out over the garden from the porch.

Madelaine had found her little son fast asleep in the tiny room which opened off her own, and her motherly anxiety being allayed, her thoughts turned again to outside dangers.

"I'll close the parlour window," she said, "as it's getting late, just in case there might be some one loitering about."

By experience she had discovered that to do this efficiently it was necessary to push the sash up from outside, so placing the lamp on the porch-seat, she walked a few steps along the path which led by the front of the cottage, and proceeded to shut up the casement with a bang. The stranger had just time to withdraw his hands from the sill, and to start back into the darkness of the room.

"Look out there!" he growled low to himself, "I don't want to leave the tip of one of my fingers in exchange for what I've taken. Now," he added, "the question is--how shall I get out of this hole? My knowledge of old Mother Sheppard's diggings in the past ought to serve me in good stead to-night. If I can only manage to slip into the dark passage that leads to the kitchen, I know there's a capital hidey-hole under the stairs, where I've lain in ambush as a boy, and into which I expect I could squeeze again at a pinch."

Sure enough, before Madelaine had re-entered the house and reached the sitting-room with her lamp, the intruder had gained the coveted refuge, and was crouching down unseen within the recess. Here he remained, cramped and silent, until the last sounds had died away in the house, and the uneasy watcher had laid herself down to rest. Not till then did he creep forth from his shelter and make his way to the kitchen, into which he walked as one intimate with the place.

"Mother Sheppard generally had a shakedown in the room at the side," he soliloquized. "If she's as deaf as she used to be, there's not much fear of disturbing her, even if I dance a hornpipe on the table. Anyway, there's no doubt she's a good sleeper, judging by the noise she makes over it. Sounds more like a concert of tin whistles and drums, than one old woman snoring!"

The burglar peeped in at the half-open door, and by the light which came from the still flickering fire in the kitchen, he made out the humble couch whereon Mrs. Sheppard lay.

"Wonder if she keeps her hoard under her pillow," he continued. "They say these skinflints usually do. Anyhow it's worth a search, and I'll hope for a bit of good fortune this time."

He went up to the bed and gently inserted his hand beneath the bolster, on which reposed the aged head with its close-fitting nightcap and neat grey hair.

"Nothing there!" he said. "Perhaps it's under the mattress. I'll have one more try, and then I'll go."

If a flash-light had been turned at that moment suddenly upon the scene, it would have disclosed the evil look of triumph which just then rested on the man's face. With a sardonic grin he withdrew his arm, clutching in his hand a leather bag, tied tightly up with knotted string. Returning to the kitchen, he quietly let himself out by the back door, after having feasted royally upon goodly slices of the bread and ham which he found so conveniently ready to his use in the old dame's cupboard.

"Now, where are those two nice fat ducks I collared so cleverly before I went round to the front?" he said. "One of them nearly gave me away when I cotched it round the neck. I thought some one would be sure to hear its parting quack. I'll be off with them and the rest of the swag to Westmarket, before the sun is up, and amuse myself there for a few days, before coming back here to pay my respects to the old man. No one saw me to-night, and if I turn up like a good innocent prodigal son in a week's time, not a soul will connect me with this neat little job."

It would indeed be difficult to decide which of the three inhabitants of the cottage was most distressed when the morning revealed to them their loss.

Poor old Mrs. Sheppard sat rocking herself to and fro in her chair by the kitchen fire, her hands over her face, and the tears streaming down her shrivelled cheeks. "It's all my little savin's as have gone," she moaned, "every mortal halfpenny as I've worked so hard to put by. There's naught to keep me out of the workhouse now--not even enough to bury me, if so be as I die of a broken heart to-night."

"I don't believe I should mourn the theft of all the money I have in the house as I do that of the watch," said Madelaine, as for the twentieth time she hunted in every likely and unlikely place in hopes that she might absently have laid it down somewhere the night before. "That which my dear husband always wore, and which was sent to me after he was dead! It may be silly of me, but the face of that watch seemed to me as the face of a friend. It comforted me when I looked at it, and made me feel nearer my lost one than anything else."

As for Robin, he was inconsolable. To think that his beloved Lily and Snowball should have been carried off! His two special pets who were so tame they would follow him all round the garden and eat out of his hand! It was too dreadful to think that their pretty sleek necks had been wrung, and that they would be plucked and eaten like any common barndoor fowl. Such a possibility had never before entered his head. To him they were only the beautiful creatures which the good God had created for his special joy. It is to be feared that the disappearance of the missionary-box sank into comparative insignificance beside this larger grief.

It was vain to recount their woes to the stolid village policeman who came pompously to enquire and make elaborate notes of all.

"He's been a clever fellow, that!" was the verdict. "But whoever he is, he's got clear away, and left no clue either. It's a mystery, m'am, and a mystery it will remain for ever."

"It's a pity I've just come a few days too late," said Benjamin Green, old Timothy's son, as he sat taking a glass at the "Bull Inn," the Saturday after the burglary. "Hopeless stick-in-the-muds you are in this out-of-the-way place. If you want to be wakened up it's to America you should go, where I've been all these years. Away there, they'd have hunted the scapegrace out in no time, aye, and strung him up on the nearest tree too, for daring to rob widows and children in that heartless manner. If only I'd been here in time, I bet you I'd have found him for you! It's just my luck only to have arrived to-day."

"Have you been up to see your old father yet, Green?" asked one of the men.

"No," answered Ben. "I thought I'd fortify myself here before setting out for the affecting interview. It's not every day that a long-lost son returns home, and I always feel the better for a dram."

"What be you a-going to do with him, now you've come back?" continued his questioner. "Be you going to leave him to tumble over the crag along with the house, or be you going to make him move, and take Squire Field's offer before it be too late?"

"What offer is that?" asked Ben. "I haven't heard of it before."

"Mean to say you've been half an hour in the place, and nobody's told you how the squire says he'll give old Timothy one hundred pounds for the bit of ground he owns on the top of the cliff? Which sum he'll pay in solid gold the day the old man quits the house. They say he's wild to pull down the whole place seeing as how it spoils the view from his grand windows."

Ben whistled.

"I've not been up to see my father yet, but I warrant you, he'll not stay much longer in yonder cottage if that's the way the wind blows. One hundred pounds in solid gold! What can the old chap be dreaming of? Why on earth didn't he move the same hour as the offer came?"

"Says he'll never budge till he's carried out feet foremost," replied another of the company.

"There's no use argufying with him. He's wonderful firm."

"It's not argument I'll use," answered Ben. "It's common sense first, and then force, if need be. You tell me the house may fall on to the beach any day now, and if that happens Mr. Field may cancel his bid for the land. Of course one might draw him again by threatening to build another house a little further back, but that's a risk. If the offer is in writing it would be safer to hold him to it now, so long as the walls are there. Catch me losing a hundred pounds for the sake of an old man's fads. I'll go up to-night, and we'll soon see who's got the strongest will!"

It was a strangely assorted pair that sat opposite each other in the little cottage on the cliff that evening.

Ben's countenance was dark with passion, and his eyes were fixed with a vicious scowl upon his father's frail shrinking form.

"You say you'll not move," he shouted. "You dare tell me that, and a hundred pounds at stake."

"I dare," was the answer, and the quavering voice seemed to take on a new strength as he said the words. "Never will I sleep under any roof but this. Here was I born, and here will I die, and no man has a right to say me nay. Many a time have I prayed for thee, Ben, and longed to see thee again, my only child, but for such a home-coming as this did I never reckon. It had been better that you had never returned at all. Go now, and leave your old father to die in peace, alone with God."

For a moment, even Ben's rough spirit was checked as he heard the quiet decision come from the pale thin lips.

The old man looked up with calm and reproachful eyes into his son's face. "I'm in the Hand of the Almighty," he added. "I'm not afraid."

As he spoke, a sudden sound like the report of a gun made the two men look round, and Ben involuntarily took a few steps in the direction of the door.

"Why, it's a great crack just come in the ceiling beyond the passage," he exclaimed. "The next thing will be that the wall itself will be down. If you don't think it worth while saving your own neck, I certainly shan't risk mine a minute longer. But you needn't flatter yourself that the last word has been said. If the house is still standing to-morrow morning I'll be up by sunrise to carry you out bodily, with or without leave, it matters not to me, and I'll see to it that the money's paid--cash down--before that same sun has set."

With an oath, Ben hastily quitted the house and went back to console himself in the hospitable parlour of "The Bull," where he aired his grievances before an admiring and sympathizing group, only too glad to drink at his expense to the success of his desires.

CHAPTER VI

That Terrible Eye

The sun rose on Sunday morning in a cloudless sky, and as the day wore on, continued to pour down his golden beams upon the earth.

The bells of the little church rang out their invitation to the villagers to come and worship in the house of prayer, and from far and near quiet groups of country folk wended their way through leafy lanes and ripening cornfields to hold their tryst with God. Robin and his mother were there betimes, and old Mrs. Sheppard took her seat as usual in the foremost pew, her shawl pinned across her stooping shoulders and her old-fashioned bonnet tied with large black ribbon bows under her chin.

Service ended, the little knots of worshippers scattered once more in pleasant anticipation of the Sunday dinner awaiting them at their journey's end, and the hot afternoon wore on to its close, its silence broken only by the low murmur of the tide upon the beach.

The sun was now nearing the end of his giant's race across the sky, but old Timothy still sat peaceful and unmolested in his cottage upon the cliff, untroubled by the angry threats hurled at him by his son the night before.

The truth was that Ben was in no state that Sabbath morning either to carry out his designs against his father or to think again of the tempting bait held out by Mr. Field. His time in the "Bull Inn" the preceding evening had been only too zealously employed, and all that long summer day he lay a useless and helpless log in an upstairs chamber of the little hostelry, sleeping off the effects of his night's excesses.

Another inhabitant there was of that seaside village to whom this day had been a blank. For Julius, the lonely child of Farncourt, Sunday brought no pleasant memories. The Sabbath bells meant nothing to him, for Mr. Field had long since given up church-going, and his little son connected the day only with the dreary fact that even the gardeners and grooms would be away during all the long and cheerless hours.

On this particular afternoon he felt more than usually dull. The glimpse he had got of Robin and his happy home interests made him long to share again in the latter's pursuits. Neither his rabbits nor his dog seemed altogether satisfying after having once tasted the joy of a congenial friend.

"I'll go down to the Cottage," he said to himself, "and see how Peter is getting on in his new hutch. I know father's gone off in the motor to call at the earl's, and he can't be back for an hour at least, so I'm pretty safe not to be caught."

There was no one in the garden as he walked up the little path, but just as he reached the door of the house Robin rushed out with a paint-box in his hand.

"Hullo, Julius, is that you?" he said, coming suddenly to a stand.

"Hullo, Robin," was the reply. "How's Peter?"

Without more ado the two boys made their way to the rabbit's dwelling, and stood for a few moments wrapt in contemplation of their joint handiwork.

"I mustn't keep mother waiting any longer," said Robin at last. "I'm going to paint a text while she reads to me. We're sitting in the summer-house, as it's so hot in the sun."

"What do you mean by painting a text?" asked Julius. "I thought texts were in the Bible."

"You are funny, Julius," replied Robin. "Of course they're in the Bible, but these are printed on cards in nice big letters with borders and flowers. I'm allowed to paint them on Sunday, and they're really jolly to do."

It was not long before Julius was introduced to the series of large outline texts which Robin displayed with pride and the eager energy which characterized his every action.

"If you like," he said, "perhaps mother will let you paint one with her colours. She's lent me her paint-box as it's so much better than mine."

"I've got a far finer one than that," remarked Julius, "with ever so many more paints in it."

Robin looked up in surprise at the unmannerly comment, but his mother signed to him to pass it by, and spread out the texts for the boys to choose.

"I find there are two exactly alike," she said, "suppose you each take one, and we'll see who gets on the better."

Robin read out the words as she held them up for him to see.

"The eyes of the LORD are in every place, beholding the evil and the good."

"That's my favourite verse," he added. "Let's paint that."

"I don't think that's at all a nice one," said Julius. "I don't want God's eyes to be always looking down at me, seeing everything I do."

"It just depends on how you feel about God," said Mrs. Power, "whether you look upon Him as your enemy or as your friend. You remind me of two little stories I once heard. I'll tell them to you and then you'll understand what I mean.

"There was once a prisoner who had been sentenced to solitary confinement in a gaol. He was condemned to live for months in a cell with no window except a tiny grated one so high up in the wall that he could not see out of it. It was bad enough to be obliged to endure this, but there was something else which made it much worse. In the door of the cell a little round hole had been made, and behind it a jailor was always stationed so that he could look in through the hole and watch the prisoner."

"How horrid!" exclaimed Robin. "I wonder how he could bear it."

"The thought of that eye always upon him and taking note of everything that he did, nearly drove the poor captive mad," continued his mother. "Sometimes he would dash up suddenly to the little aperture and thrust his face close to it, if by this means he could perhaps startle the jailor and make him withdraw if only for a moment from the unceasing watch. 'That terrible eye,' he would call it, when he was at length released, and could recount his experiences to his friends."

"I'm sure God's eye is terrible," said Julius. "It makes me frightened when I think of it."

"Listen to the second story then," answered Mrs. Power, "and you'll see the other side.

"My mother used to tell me that when she was quite a little girl she was dreadfully afraid of two things--a brindled cow that had been known to run at a child, and the butcher's large black dog. My grandfather's cottage was at the side of the road, and there was a straight piece that led from its door to a small shop just at the entrance of the village. You could see the entire length from the corner of the garden, and it would not take you more than five minutes to run the whole way between the two houses. One day my mother was sent to fetch some groceries which had been ordered at the store, and as the sister who usually went with her was ill, she had to go alone. Now this was very alarming to her, as the brindled cow's field lay beside the road, and she had never been quite so far by herself before. 'Don't be silly, Lizzie,' said her father, who was smoking in the porch. 'You're getting too big a girl to be frightened at nothing. I'll watch as you go along and see that no harm comes to you.' So off she started with her pennies in her hand, and a very anxious little heart beating beneath her white pinafore. To her dismay, just when she had got about half-way, the head of the brindled cow appeared above the hedge, and a moment later the creature had forced its way through and was standing in the lane. The child turned, and would have fled homewards, but there, trotting leisurely towards her in the middle of the path, whom should she see but none other than her second enemy, the butcher's dog."

"What did she do?" asked Robin breathlessly. "Did she climb up a tree and get safe?"

"There was no tree to climb," replied Mrs. Power. "The only thing she could do was to crouch down, crying and trembling on the ground, and try to hide herself under the brambles by the road-side. Her one thought was, 'I'm so glad father's looking, for he'll be sure to come and help.' Sure enough before either the brindled cow or the dog had reached the spot where she lay, her father's hearty voice was calling to her not to fear, and the next moment she was safe in his strong arms, clinging to him with all her tiny might."

"What a good thing he kept his promise and didn't forget to watch!" exclaimed Julius. "Supposing he'd been looking the other way when the cow got out!"

"There's my lesson," said Mrs. Power, smiling. "To know that her father's eye was following her all the time was the greatest comfort she had. It is just the same with us in regard to God. If we look on Him as our kind, loving Father and Friend, ready to help and to save, it will only give us joy to think of His watchful eye upon us, noticing everything that happens to us. It will make us more careful than ever not to displease Him, but all the same it will cause us to feel very safe and happy. It is a perfectly different case to that of the poor prisoner living in constant dread of the terrible eye of his jailor."

"I think I'll paint the verse after all," remarked Julius after a pause, in which the boys had been silently considering the matter.

"I'd like to feel God was my Friend," he said to himself as he walked home. "But all the same there's a heap of things I wouldn't like Him to see."

Mr. Field drove up in the motor as Julius arrived at the door. A glance at his face showed the boy that his father had not returned in the best of tempers. His eyebrows were drawn together in a nervous frown, and his voice, as he gave some orders to the chauffeur, was harsh and imperious.

"Did you see the earl?" asked Julius.

"No, I didn't," was the abrupt reply. "Don't come bothering me with questions, Julius. I haven't time to listen to your chatter just now."

The truth was that Mr. Field's visit to Lanthorne Abbey had not turned out so successful as he had expected it to be. The interview with Judge Simmons had given him the opportunity to call which he had so long and vainly sought, and it was under pretext of seeing him once more that he had set off that day.

"I'll be certain to find them all in on Sunday afternoon," he meditated, as he made his plans, "and as I know the judge is leaving to-morrow early, it will only look neighbourly if I run over to give him a few more tips about that mine before he goes."

It was therefore a great disappointment to him to find that the earl was not at home, it being his invariable custom to walk over to tea with his mother every week, at the Dower House about two miles away, where she had resided ever since his father's death. The countess too was absent, so he was told, when he enquired for her.

Only Judge Simmons was in, and his manner towards his visitor was chilling, to say the least of it. Mr. Field could not get rid of the impression that the American was trying to read him like some enigmatical book, of which the title-page had given him a distaste. It was with feelings of relief that he once more found himself leaning back in his car, and speeding swiftly down the long avenue.

"Queer fellow, that judge," he mused. "I was rather an idiot to run my head against him unnecessarily. I'd sooner have his room than his company any day."

It was not till Julius came to say good-night that his father deigned to take notice of him again.

"Well, what have you been doing with yourself, my boy?" he said. "I've hardly set eyes on you since morning. Been up to any mischief, eh?"

"I wish I had," answered Julius, "but I've no such luck. It's awfully dull, father, playing all alone."

"Nonsense!" said Mr. Field. "You've got everything and more than any sensible fellow can wish. I hope you've not been dangling after that strange lad that I warned you against, Julius?" he added sharply, eyeing the doleful face before him.

"No," was the answer. "I haven't seen him again."

"Good boy," said his father. "Keep yourself to yourself till you find someone worthy of you. That's sound advice. Go to bed and sleep upon it."

As Julius lay that night restlessly tossing to and fro, did the angels gaze in pity upon the poor ignorant child?

"I know God saw, and God heard," he murmured to himself. "I believe He's looking down at me now. I want to shut out His eye, but I can't. I know He can see even in the dark."

He covered his head with the bedclothes, but to his excited imagination the eye seemed to pierce right down into his very heart.

"I'll ask Mrs. Power how I can make God my Friend, so that I won't mind Him watching me," he said at length. "I liked the story of the little girl."

Dwelling again in thought upon the simple incident with its happy ending, the weary boy finally dropped off to sleep.

Robin had knelt that evening as usual at his mother's knee, but when he had finished his prayer, a dreamy look stole into his face, as if he was thinking of some great and solemn thing. Madelaine waited quietly, wondering what new revelation had come to her little son.

"Mother," he said earnestly, "I'm so glad God can see everything, not only the good things, but the bad too. I'm really glad he sees the bad."

"Why is that, Robin?" enquired Madelaine.

"Because then I'm sure that He won't leave one single sin behind when I ask Him to 'Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow,'" replied the boy. "I can't recollect them all, but if He has seen everything He will know when the very last one is blotted out."

"The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin, little Robin," said his mother. "You can trust Him to complete His gracious work, for He is able to save to the uttermost them that come unto God by Him."

CHAPTER VII

The Mysterious Packets