ESTHER AND HAMAN.

By M. L. Gow, R.I.

THE QUIVER
ANNUAL VOLUME, 1899

PAPERS, ADDRESSES, STORIES
POEMS, MUSIC

BY

CASSELL and COMPANY, Limited
London, Paris, New York & Melbourne
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

INDEX

THE QUIVER.

THE EMPEROR'S VISIT TO THE HOLY LAND.

By Our Special Commissioner at Berlin.

Illustrated from Photographs.

Few projects of Church extension have attracted so much attention as the forthcoming opening of the Lutheran church in Jerusalem: a movement which has been zealously pushed forward by his Imperial Majesty the Kaiser of Germany and King of Prussia, and will be happily consummated by an imposing ceremony, at which his Majesty and his illustrious consort will be the central figures, just about the time that this number reaches its thousands of subscribers. So important is the movement, and with such close attention has it been watched by the religious bodies of England, that a special representative was sent to Berlin, who was fortunate enough to be received by some most distinguished Personages and kindly furnished with many details of the scheme, and all the information that it was possible to give—so much in advance as the exigencies of a monthly periodical demand.

A VIEW OF VENICE.

(The Imperial Party's Place of Embarcation.)

It will be as well to first speak of the requirements for a new Lutheran church in Jerusalem. For a great many years there has been a considerable German colony in the city, its members steadily augmenting year by year. In the time of Frederick William IV. of Prussia a joint Protestant bishopric (German and English) was established, the right of appointment to lie with each country alternately. The first Bishop was a converted German Jew holding orders in the English Church; two others succeeded him, and then in 1886 Prussia withdrew from the agreement.

THE LATEST PORTRAIT-GROUP OF THE GERMAN ROYAL FAMILY.

(Photo: J. Baruch, Berlin.)

Nearly twenty years previous to this latter date the Sultan had presented to King William I. a disused building, which formerly was the property of the Knights of St. John, in order that a Protestant Lutheran church might be erected on the site. For some reason, the work was delayed for a considerable period, and the members of the German Evangelical Church have been worshipping in a small temporary chapel, by the side of which the handsome new church has been reared. The work has been carried on by a pastor and an assistant teacher, and there has also been a good school in conjunction with it. The foundation stone of the church was laid on October 31st, 1893, and it was thought the consecration would take place in 1897; but things were not in readiness, and so the event was fixed for October 31st of this year—the anniversary of the birth of the Evangelical Church, being the day on which Luther nailed his thesis to the church door in Wittenberg.

The Kaiser and Kaiserin have long cherished a wish to visit the Holy City and tread the land which Christ trod when on earth; and no better opportunity could possibly occur than when a new Lutheran church was about to be consecrated. Both their Majesties have done much—not only by rightly using the immense influence which they possess, but also financially—to further Church work; and, apart from any other cause, the opening of this sacred building for the use of their countrymen in a foreign land could not fail to enlist their sympathetic interest. The undertaking is a pious and domestic, and not a political, one, spite of several assertions to the contrary; and all who have the cause of true religion at heart cannot but rejoice that there will be another pulpit from which the risen Saviour will be proclaimed to the residents of God's chosen land.

Their Imperial Majesties will leave Berlin by special train for Venice, where a brief rest will be taken previous to the embarkation on the royal yacht Hohenzollern. The dignitaries of the Lutheran Church and invited personages will travel in another direction. Leaving Berlin by train, they embark on the Midnight Sun (an English vessel flying the English flag) at Trieste; thence they will proceed to Alexandria. Having explored that city, they will visit Cairo, and thence, returning to Alexandria, they will go on to Jaffa, and so through Palestine to Jerusalem, where they arrive about midday on October 25th. The next few days will be spent in viewing the city and neighbourhood, and on the 31st the entire party will be present at the formal opening of the "Erlöser-Kirche" in the presence of the Kaiser and Kaiserin.

JAFFA (JOPPA) AT THE PRESENT DAY.

But I wish more particularly to draw your attention to the route taken by their Majesties, as this was particularly pointed out to me in Berlin. Venice—the principal port on the Adriatic—will naturally claim some share of the interest of the Imperial couple, and the Palace of the Doges, dating from the fourteenth century, with its many historical and awful associations; the famous cathedral of St. Mark—a venerable building of the eleventh century, rich in cupolas and mosaics, and marble columns to the number of five hundred—as well as other renowned places, will be visited.

At Venice their Majesties will go on board for a voyage of four days down the Adriatic, and up in a northerly direction through the Dardanelles and Sea of Marmora, direct to Constantinople and the Golden Horn. Here the Sultan has made great preparations for their reception. Special buildings are being erected, old roads widened, and new roads made; moreover, all streets to be traversed by the Imperial party are being properly paved—not before it was requisite—thousands of gas-jets are being added to the meagre number which have hitherto done duty, and the Yildiz Palace has been completely overhauled and refitted. In short, Abdul Hamid is incurring tremendous expense in order to entertain his distinguished visitors right regally. The sojourn will extend over several days, and many places will be visited, including the royal palaces—which abound in Constantinople—the mosques, tombs, towers, and bazaars; and as their Majesties will be in the city on a Friday, the "Selamlik," or Sultan's procession to the mosque, will be included in the programme.

On leaving Constantinople, the Imperial yacht will steam round Asia Minor to the Syrian coast, passing many attractive places, amongst which may be mentioned the Plains of Troy and the Isle of Patmos. A run of about three days will bring them to Kaiffa, more generally known as Haifa. Here the Kaiser and Kaiserin will land about midday on October 25th, at the special new landing-stage which has lately been erected for the purpose. The first stone of this was laid amidst much ceremony by the Mutessarif of Acre, in the presence of the entire Consular body, the troops, and all the local notabilities. The ceremony was, of course, a Mohammedan one, a sheep being sacrificed upon the stone, and the blessing of Allah invoked upon the coming Imperial guests.

A VIEW OF MODERN JERUSALEM.

Once landed at Haifa, thenceforth the Imperial expedition will be entirely under the guidance of Messrs. Thomas Cook and Son, the well-known tourist agents, Mr. Cook himself personally conducting the party to Jerusalem. The Sultan had previously offered tents, horses and carriages for the journey, but these the Emperor at first declined, as he was anxious to avoid giving any political significance to an expedition undertaken solely on religious grounds, and for the purpose of the formal opening of the Church of St. Saviour or the Redeemer. At the earnest solicitation of the Sultan, he, however, finally consented to use horses, mules, carriages, and wagons provided by the Turkish monarch. The journey will be performed in true Oriental style, everything else necessary being furnished by Thomas Cook and Son.

HAIFA, AND THE BAY OF ACRE.

(The Landing-Place of the Imperial Party.)

The Kaiser will make the journey on horseback, the Kaiserin in an open carriage. The route is to be exactly the same as that followed by ordinary tourists, and the entire party will camp out at night in the usual way. The first day's journey will occupy nine or ten hours, and tents will be pitched for the night outside Cæsarea, in full view of the Mediterranean. Thence the party will ride to Jaffa, a journey of ten hours. The town is beautifully situated, and extensively planted with orange groves. There is a good carriage road from it direct to Jerusalem, and a railway, which was opened some six years since. The Imperial party will spend the night under canvas outside the city, the view of which has an added interest, inasmuch as there is within its walls a considerable German colony. The remainder of the journey to Jerusalem will be carried out in the same manner over ground that is scripturally historical and highly picturesque, passing as it does over the Plains of Sharon, by Lydda and Emmaus—where Christ walked with His disciples after the Resurrection—and so on through the Valley of Ajalon, by Kirjath and Jesrun; arriving at Jerusalem on Saturday, October 29th, where tents will be pitched on ground acquired by the Evangelical Jerusalem Fund.

THE JAFFA GATE AT JERUSALEM.

(From here the Emperor and Empress go on foot to the Holy Sepulchre.)

The actual entrance of the procession into the city will be imposing, but, once within the Jaffa Gate, the Kaiser and Kaiserin purpose going on foot to the Holy Sepulchre, with an entire absence of any State surroundings. The route from the gate to the Sepulchre has been entirely renovated for their Majesties by the Sultan. Needless to say, this block of buildings containing the Chapel of the Sepulchre is surrounded by much that is legendary, and has been the scene of many and fierce contentions. Now it is under the protection of the Sultan, and Moslem soldiers guard it, and are stationed within the vestibule to keep order amongst the various Christian pilgrims who visit it. Various chapels credited to various nations are within its portals, the Church of the Sepulchre being, of course, the chief place of interest.

The rotunda of the sepulchre is the principal part of the building. In the centre of the adjoining vestibule, or Angel's Chapel, lies the stone which is said to be that which the angel rolled away from the mouth of the sepulchre; then by passing through a lower door you enter the Chapel of the Sepulchre; it is very small, only holding three or four persons at one time. Very much controversy has taken place regarding the correctness of the site of the Holy Sepulchre. It must of necessity be an uncertain matter, as the course of the city wall has not been clearly ascertained, and it seems an undoubted fact that in the fourth century the actual site of the tomb was completely lost sight of. Pilgrims who visited Jerusalem at that period centred their entire interest on the place of the Ascension of the Lord, worshipping and revering the living, and not the dead, Christ.

It is perhaps hardly necessary here to point out the difference between ancient and modern Jerusalem. Many of the old landmarks are still in existence, some of which I shall have occasion to mention later. There is a large German colony now resident there, and during his Majesty's visit he will receive representatives of this colony at the German Consulate.

CHURCH OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE.

Sunday will be a memorable day for the expedition, the first event being the attendance at morning service in the Church of the Nativity at Bethlehem, to be followed by the opening of an orphanage for Armenian children.

In the afternoon certain sacred places on the Mount of Olives will be visited. The entire Mount is replete with interest, for there is no other place which was frequented so much by Christ when on earth. It is a significant fact that, so far as can be ascertained from the Scriptures, Jesus never spent one night within the precincts of Jerusalem, but was wont to spend them on the Mount of Olives.

The Brook Kedron and the valley of Jehoshaphat are each near, and are amongst the places to be visited by the Kaiser and the Kaiserin on that special Sunday. But as interesting as any event of the day will be an open-air service to be held on the Mount, attended by their Majesties, the whole of the personages forming the expedition, and the German settlement in Jerusalem. The bands of the royal yacht and the escorting squadron, which will have journeyed up from Haifa for the purpose, will perform the musical part of the service.

DR. BARKHAUSEN OF BERLIN.

(Organiser of the Tour.)

(Photo: Johannes Hülsen, Berlin.)

The next day—Monday, the 31st—the consecration of the Church of the Redeemer in the Mâristân will take place; the ceremony will be somewhat imposing, as a large number of clergy and distinguished personages will be taking part in it. The list of representatives who will be present reads as follows:—The members of the Evangelical Church Council specially formed for the Jerusalem expedition; the representatives of the German Evangelical Ecclesiastical Governments; the invited Foreign Church Corporations; the Knights of the Order of St. John; the invited representatives of the missionary societies who are working in Palestine and Syria; the Gustave Adolf Society; the whole of the Evangelical Church in Jerusalem; their Imperial Majesties and suite. I may say that everyone present who has gone out from Germany will wear a decoration that has been specially designed, known as the Jerusalem cross; these, in fact, will be worn the whole route of the journey. The military element will be in the minority, consisting only of about sixteen men, eight of them belonging to the Imperial Body Gendarmerie, and eight to the Kaiserin's bodyguard; these, however, will not travel up with the Imperial party, having gone out from Berlin some little time beforehand to accustom themselves to the habits of the country.

THE NEW LUTHERAN CHURCH, JERUSALEM.

Immediately subsequent to the ceremony at the church the Kaiser and Kaiserin will start for a two or three days' visit to places of interest around Jerusalem, commencing by riding to Jericho, which will take about six hours. The Imperial party will halt there for the night, camping at the foot of Jebel Harantel.

On the succeeding day visits will be paid to the Dead Sea and the Jordan, the latter one of the most wonderful rivers of the world, with a history running through the entire Bible. Various other places of much interest will be seen, and then their Majesties return to Jerusalem, going back to the coast by train, and taking ship again at Jaffa for Haifa.

From here they will visit Nazareth—which is memorable as the home of Jesus. It is still a flourishing place, partly built on rocky ridges. There is a Latin chapel which is supposed to be built over the workshop of Joseph; also a small chapel known as the Table of Christ, which is merely a vaulted chamber containing the table at which the Saviour and His disciples sat. Tiberias and the Sea of Galilee will be visited. Bethsaida, the birthplace of some of Christ's disciples, and other small places in the vicinity, will each come in for a share of attention.

A PRESENT-DAY VIEW ON THE JORDAN.

Proceeding northward, the expedition will view other places, but none, perhaps, so beautiful as one at which they will make a brief stay—Damascus, the oldest city in the world. It is situated on the western side of the great plain, at an elevation of two thousand two hundred and sixty feet above the level of the sea, and is beautiful beyond all description. On an elevated part of the Anti-Libanus, which rises to a height of nearly four thousand feet, there is erected a dome of victory, from which the best view of the city and the seven rivers can be obtained, as also of the white-streaked mountains, the chocolate plain, and the rich and varied colours of the foliage of the trees. Within the city stands a citadel and a palace. Damascus has seventy mosques, and about one hundred and fifty other places of worship in addition; and each of the principal religious communities occupy different parts of the city. In the same way different industries are carried on, each in their own quarters exclusively, having their own bazaars for the sale of goods. The place is highly prosperous, and its appearance is, as I have said, extremely beautiful. Thence the Kaiser and Kaiserin will journey on to Egypt, seeing Alexandria, Cairo, and going up the Nile; but here space forbids us following them.

It is a visit which cannot fail to impress all; the Kaiser himself to no ordinary extent, considering his remarkable power of grasping the religious and romantic elements of ancient history and its famous scenes. What he will see will stir his heart to no ordinary degree, sensitive as is his mind to all such impressions. It must also sensibly appeal to the cultured members of every religious community, and all will watch this Imperial pilgrimage with unusual interest, and wish for it a happy and prosperous finale.

I cannot close this without tendering my respectful thanks for the gracious kindness accorded me in Berlin, and for the valuable assistance rendered me by Dr. Barkhausen, the President of the Evangelical Church Council for the Jerusalem Expedition, this gentleman being chiefly responsible for the entire arrangements.

PLEDGED

By Katharine Tynan, Author of "A Daughter of Erin," Etc.

CHAPTER I.

FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

Mr. Graydon and his daughter Pamela were jogging leisurely home from the little market town of Lettergort. There was no reason to hurry, and if there had been, Frisky, the little fat pony, whose frisky days were long over, would not have been aware of it.

It was very hot, a morning of late summer; but Pamela's creamy cheeks were as cool as the firm petals of a lily. She bore as if accustomed to it the jog-trot of the pony and the frequent ruts into which their chariot bumped, flinging her from the seat as though she were the football in a hotly contested game.

Mr. Graydon kept up a contented whistling when he was not commenting on the fields and the cattle as they passed. That had been a long, hot summer, and for once in a century people had begun to long for the patter of rain on the leaves.

"Woa, Frisky—woa, little lad! That's a nice colt of Whelan's down there by the sally-tree. Do you see, Pam? Now, I hope the poor fellow will get a handful of money for it. He'll need it this summer," Mr. Graydon would say.

Or, again, it would be a farmer going their own way from Lettergort.

"Good-morning, John."

"Good-morning, your honour. How did the calves do wid your honour?"

"I'm not complaining, John. Murray of Slievenahoola gave me thirty shillings apiece for them. It was as much as I hoped for."

"Aye, they wor but weanlin's. An' 'tis no use keepin' stock this summer."

"How did you do with the heifers, John?"

"Didn't get the price of their feed, your honour. Wirra! 'tis a desperate summer. The hay wasn't worth cuttin', and the oats is pitiful."

Again, it would be a labourer with a scythe on his shoulder whom Mr. Graydon would stop to ask after his household concerns. Everywhere they passed a smile followed Mr. Graydon's broad back in its faded homespuns.

"'Tis a rale pleasant word he has in his mouth, God bless him! an' him a rale gentleman an' all," followed him from many a cottage-door.

"You've done your marketing, Pam," said her father, turning to her.

"I'd plenty of time, dad, while you chatted to your million acquaintances."

"And sold my calves, Pam."

"You might have sold a thousand in the time."

"Well, well, Pam, it is my little world, you see. I hope the perishable things won't be broken when we come to the rut by Murphy's gate. 'Tis a foot and a half deep at least. Johnny Maher ought really to mend this road."

"You ought to make him, dad. What's the good of being a magistrate?"

"What indeed, Pam! Sure, I never get a job done for myself. There's old Inverbarry now, and he a lord, and he's getting the private road through his park mended at the public expense. And he as rich as Crœsus, the old sinner!"

Mr. Graydon rubbed his hands with benevolent amusement. His daughter glanced at him with a pucker between her white brows. The violet-blue eyes under curling black lashes exactly reproduced her father's, though at this moment the expressions were widely different.

"You're too easy-going, dad. You should make Johnny Maher mend the road."

Mr. Graydon dropped a rein to pull one of his daughter's silky black curls.

"You wouldn't be having me too hard on the poor fellow, and he with a sick wife and an old mother and a pack of children. Eh, little Pam?"

Pamela shook her head severely, and the red mouth, which had drooped at the corners when she was serious, parted over white teeth in a laugh fresh as a child's.

"How did the calves do wid your honour?"

"You've no conscience, dad, any more than Lord Inverbarry or Johnny Maher. You're conniving at their wrongdoing, you see."

"Maybe I am, Pam—maybe I am. Only I don't suppose it seems wrongdoing to them—at least, not to Johnny Maher, poor fellow. Inverbarry ought to know better."

They jogged along for a few minutes till there was another jolt. Simultaneously there was a crash at their feet, and Mr. Graydon pulled up with an exclamation.

"There goes some of your crockery, Pam. I hope it's not the lad's looking-glass."

"Never mind," said Pam, with a sigh of despair. "Perhaps now you'll get Johnny Maher to see to the road. If it's his looking-glass, he'll have to shave as Mick St. Leger used, with the lid of a can for his looking-glass."

"Ah, poor Mick was used to our ways. He didn't mind. But this is a public-school man. We'll have to furbish up for him, little Pam, and put our best foot foremost, eh?"

"It looks like it," said Pam, gazing down at the jumbled parcels at her feet. "I'll tell you what it is," she said: "it's the glass for his bedroom window. It is all in smithereens. He'll have to put up with the brown-paper panes, as Mick St. Leger did."

"Never mind, never mind. The lad's a gentleman, and he'll see we're gentlefolk, though we're as poor as church mice. He won't mind, you'll see, Pam; gentlemen never do mind these things."

"You're thinking of Mick still, dad. You forget that Gwynne man who wouldn't stay because he got nothing but potatoes for three days. As if we could help the roads being frozen and Frisky not being able to get to Lettergort! Do you remember Gwynne's face over the potato-cake the third day? Yet I'm sure Bridget had done her best. What with potatoes in their jackets, and mashed, and with butter, and without, and in a salad, and at last in a cake, I'm sure there was no sameness about the diet."

"Gwynne was a—well, of course, he was a gentleman, but as disagreeable as a gentleman can be. Besides, Pam, potatoes probably didn't agree with him; they don't with everyone, you know, and Gwynne was dyspeptic. I don't know what the lads are coming to. In my young days we didn't even know the word dyspepsia, much less the thing."

"Gwynne was hateful," said Pamela. "He expected us to kill the chickens for him when every single chicken was a pet, and so tame, dear things! that they would walk into the drawing-room and perch on your knee."

"Perhaps that's why Gwynne wanted them killed," said Mr. Graydon.

"Nasty thing!" said Pamela. "I was glad when we saw his back. He couldn't bear the dear dogs lying on his bed either, though Mary told him it was a proof of their friendliness towards him. He fired his bootjack after Mark Antony, you remember, and though it's not easy to stir up Mark Antony, yet I'm glad he had the spirit to go for Gwynne's legs."

"Mark Antony had been burying bones under Gwynne's pillow, my dear."

"Only because it was a wet day, and he never liked to go out in the rain. I daresay if he'd had time he'd have removed the bones to the garden. However, I don't suppose this youth will be like Gwynne. What do you think, dad?"

"His father was the best fellow ever stepped on shoe-leather. If the lad is like him, we shan't complain. What a handsome, dashing fellow he was! I can see him now in his scarlet and gold lace that night at Lady Westbury's ball, where I first met——"

He broke off suddenly with a little sigh. "That was another world, Pam."

"A world well lost—was it not?—dad."

"Aye, a world well lost, little girl."

It was plain to see that a tender intimacy existed between this father and daughter.

"I daresay he'll find my ways rather old-fashioned, Pam. It was an odd thing that his father should have remembered me, and have wished the lad to come to me."

"It would have been odd if he hadn't," said Pam shortly.

"There are new ways and new methods in the world since I was at Oxford. I daresay the lad'll find me rather rusty in my knowledge."

"You'll teach over his head, as you always do, and you'll get great delight out of it. You'll forget all about your pupil, and you'll go mouthing Greek poetry till we think downstairs that the study chimney is on fire. And while you're growling and thundering the youth will be making caricatures of you under the table, or cutting his name deep in the oak of your precious study table."

"Is that my way, little Pam?"

"That's your way, dad. There was never one of your pupils that could follow you, only little Sells, and he died young, poor boy!"

"Ah, little Sells. I am proud of Sells. He died fighting the small-pox with all the heroic soul in his little body. He had the making of a fine scholar."

"Never mind, dad. None of us can do more than die heroically. And Sells would always have been a poor curate. They'd never have made him a bishop."

"I suppose not, poor lad! Scholarship doesn't count for much, Pam."

"Or you wouldn't be here, dad."

"I'd always be in the ruck, Pam; I'm afraid I'm a worthless old fellow. From what you say, Pam, I'm as much of a failure at the teaching as anything else. I'm really afraid it's true."

"Never mind, dad. As Mick St. Leger said, you taught them better things. It isn't your fault that you're over their heads."

"Did poor Mick say that, now?" said Mr. Graydon, answering the first part of her sentence. "Mick was a good boy; but no scholarship in him. A child could beat Mick at the Greek verbs."

"He was more at home with a rod or a gun," assented Pamela. "Only for the noise he made you'd never know he was in the house. There was no fun he wasn't up to."

Mr. Graydon's face suddenly became serious.

"You'll remember this lad's not Mick, Pam," he said; "you and Sylvia, I mean, for, of course, Mary is always prudent. Don't behave with him as if you were all boys together. Now, that locking Mick in the hayloft, or going with him to Whiddy Fair, would never do with this boy."

"That was five years ago, dad," answered Pamela, looking with a demure smile at the hem of her pink cotton frock where it covered her shoes. "We were wild little colts of girls, then, with our hair down our backs. Besides, we never meant to leave Mick in the hayloft; we only forgot he was there in the delight of finding a wild bees' nest; and we cried coming home from Whiddy Fair, we were so tired and so hungry."

"Till I overtook you with Frisky, and drove you home and comforted you."

"You should have spanked us, dad, and sent Mick to the right-about."

"So I should. If you'd been boys, I daresay I'd have known a better way with you. But what can one do with little girls? Then poor Mick. I knew it wasn't Mick's fault. You'd been leading him astray, as usual."

But Frisky had pulled up suddenly at a rather dilapidated gate, with a post falling to pieces, and the two halves of the gate fastened together with a piece of string. Out of the lodge within poured a stream of blue-eyed and chubby children, who stood regarding Frisky and his freight with shy and friendly smiles.

"Halloa, you rascals," called out Mr. Graydon, "run and call your mother, some of you. Gone with your father's dinner, is she? She seems to be always gone with your father's dinner. You can't get down to open the gate, Pam? No, I see you can't; you're built in with parcels round your feet. Here, take the reins, and I'll get down myself. Only don't let Frisky get his head, or he'll run off with the other post, as he did with that one."

"Frisky is not likely to do that, dad. He's got more sedate since those days. It was about the same time that Sylvia and I locked Mick in the hayloft."

"Five years ago, Pam? It can't be five years ago. I'd never have left that post unmended five years. Why, it was only the other day I was saying I'd have over the mason from Lettergort to mend it."

He had now done fumbling with the tie of the gate, and Pamela drove into the overgrown avenue. While he was replacing the bit of string he kept up a running fire of jests with the small, shame-faced children, to which she listened with a half-smile.

"Dear old dad," she said to herself. "He has been so long letting things go that he even forgets that he has let them go. And I'm his own daughter."

She took up a breadth of her pink frock and looked at it. There was a rent of at least three inches in it. Pamela shook her head in mute self-reproach.

"It'll never do for 'Trevithick's lad,' as the dear dad calls him. I don't suppose he's used to young women with rents in their frocks. And I am a young woman, and so is Sylvia, though our own father has never found it out."

As she sat waiting, a dreamy smile came to her lips and a softness to her eyes. It was like a prophecy of what "Trevithick's lad" was to bring—like the dawn of love, sweet and bitter, that was to bring Pam the hoyden into her woman's inheritance.

"Come along, dear," she said with a start, turning to her father: it seemed as if his head-pattings of the children would never come to an end. "Frisky's getting uneasy, and will bolt with me and the crockery, if you don't hurry up."

Her father jumped into the little cart with a laugh.

"I forgot that you were waiting, Pam, those infants have such pleasing ways. But as for Frisky running away with you, why, bless me! he's had time to get old since he ran away with the post; at least, so you say, though I should never have believed it—never!"

"And now," said Pam, "you're going to be turned out of house and home for the next few days. Unhappy man, you little know how you've carried soap and scrubbing brushes for your own destruction."

Mr. Graydon gave a gasp of genuine alarm.

"Soap and scrubbing brushes! But what for, Pam? I am sure everything is very clean—except my books; and I won't have the books touched, mind that—I won't have my books touched."

"Indeed, then, and I'd advise you to say that to Bridget yourself, for I'm sure I won't. She's taken a fit of industry, and says she might as well be living among haythens, wid th' ould dust an' dirt the masther's for ever gatherin'. 'Them ould books of his,' she says, 'would be a dale better for a rub of a damp cloth, and then a polish up wid a duster.'"

"Pam!" cried the unhappy gentleman. "She wouldn't dare put a damp cloth near my books."

"She'd dare most things, would Bridget. It's your vellum covers she's after chiefly. She says they're unnaturally dirty."

She looked at the beloved face, which bore a look of genuine dismay over its genial ruddiness.

"Never mind, dad," she said. "Bridget promises great things; but between you and me I believe the great clearing up will just end in what she herself calls a lick and a promise. I don't suppose she'll ever get so far as your possessions—I don't really believe she will."

"Don't let her, Pamela darling, will you?" said her father entreatingly. "Why, good gracious! my classics in vellum! A damp cloth! And Bridget's damp cloth! It would be enough to send me to an asylum."

"Come along," she said.

CHAPTER II.

PREPARATIONS.

"When I was at Lord Carrickmines's," began Bridget.

"Bother Lord Carrickmines!" said Miss Sylvia Graydon. "We know everything that happened at Lord Carrickmines', and that can't have been much, seeing you've lived in this house since before I was born."

"When I was at Lord Carrickmines's," went on Bridget with a kindling eye, "the young ladies—and sweet young ladies they were, Miss Mabel and Miss Alice—would have scorned to sit on the kitchen table swingin' their feet an' givin' advice they worn't asked for when there was work to be done in the house. They were more likely to come an' help——"

"In their pink and blue silks, Bridget dear. You know they always wore pink and blue silks. Besides, I only advised you for your good. You're going the wrong way entirely about mending that chair. The first time Sir Anthony sits on it he'll go flat on the floor."

"Well, then, it won't be you'll go flat on the floor, Miss Sylvy, so you needn't be talkin' about it. There, bother the thing! The more nails I drives in it the more it splits, till the cracks in it is like the spokes of a wheel. I believe 'tis you sittin' there givin' me impudence, Miss Sylvy. Sure it's the contrary ould thing entirely. I wish I'd never bothered after it."

"Why did you, then? Why can't he sit on his trunk, as Mick used to do? I'm sure he can't be better than Mick."

"There's a deal o' differ, Miss Sylvy, between the rank of a 'Sir' an' the rank of a meleetia leftenant, though Mr. St. Leger was a real nice young gentleman, when not led into mischief by you or Miss Pamela. You see, I learnt the differ when I was at Lord——"

"I'll tell you what, Bridget," said Miss Sylvia, jumping off the table, "I'll go and pick currants in the garden. You were saying yesterday they were dropping off their stalks for want of picking."

"Aye, do, dearie. I'll be makin' jam as soon as I get this weary cleanin' done, an' you'll help me with the stirrin', Miss Sylvy, an' write the labels for me?"

"That I will, Bridget, on condition you give me a pot for myself."

Bridget looked fondly after the slender young figure as it went out in the sunlight, followed by a very fat bull-dog which had been basking before the fire.

"There," she said to herself, "Miss Sylvy's real willin', if you only take her the right way. Sure, as I was sayin' to the master the other day, you'd never miss a young gentleman in the house as long as you'd Miss Sylvy. Miss Pamela's real pleasant, too, but give me Miss Sylvy, for all she's more like a boy nor a girl. But there, a household of females is apt to weigh on the spirits, as I say, so it's well we have Miss Sylvy, for the master's ever abroad or shut up wid his musty ould books."

At this moment a lieutenant of Bridget's appeared on the scene. This was Mrs. Murphy, a stout village matron, who had been brought in to assist in the great cleaning up, preparatory to the arrival of the new pupil.

The good woman was steaming like her suds, of which she carried a very dirty bucketful.

"Well, that job's done," she observed, "an' the room ought to be clane enough to sarve him another twelvemonth. I don't know what the gentry wants wid all the clanin' at all. 'Tis meself wouldn't like ould buckets o' suds rowled round the flure o' my little room at home. They say washin' flures is the cause of a many coulds. How is the work wid ye, ma'am?"

"I'm not progressin' much, ma'am. I was just tellin' Miss Sylvy that it was her sittin' and laughin' at me was puttin' out my hand. Sit down for a minute, ma'am, an' have a noggin o' buttermilk to cool ye. There's time enough to be pullin' up the master's ould carpet that hasn't been up in the memory o' man. He won't be home this hour yet."

"Gentlemen doesn't like clanin' times, Miss Flanagan," Mrs. Murphy observed, as she seated herself.

"Indeed, they're contrairy cratures, like all men. They like claneness, but they don't like to be claned. See how they're always moppin' themselves in could baths enough to give them their end, and yet water about their rooms is somethin' they can't endure. When I was at Lord Carrickmines's, the housekeeper put me, as it might be you, ma'am, to pelt an ould bucket o' water round his lordship's studio. He was a hasty man, an' he caught sight o' me enterin' the door—oh, bedad! he took the ould blunderbuss an' promised me the contints of it if I didn't quit."

"The master here's rale quiet, though. He won't be for murdherin' you, glory be to goodness!"

"I daresay he'll raise a pillalew all the time," said Bridget philosophically, "but 'tis no use mindin' him."

"Yez have great preparations anyway, an' people's comfort all out o' the windy. I suppose 'tis a rale grand young gentleman yez are gettin'?"

"Well enough, well enough," said Bridget loftily. "He's what ye call a baronite."

"Rowlin' in gould, I suppose?"

"Well, then, ma'am, I was never curious enough to ax his fortin'."

Undeterred by this glaring snub, Mrs. Murphy went on placidly:

"He'll be a fine match for wan o' the young ladies."

"He might be," assented Bridget, as if she had thought of it for the first time.

"Miss Sylvy now'll dazzle the eyes of him wid beauty. I wouldn't ask a greater beauty meself if I wor a young gentleman."

"Oh, the beauty's there, never fear. You wouldn't find a sweeter angel than Miss Sylvy sittin' up in church on Sunday, wid the feathery hat she made herself, poor lamb. The little face of her, and the big shiny eyes, an' the darlin' hair puffed out about her. Och, indeed, you'd go a long way to bate Miss Sylvia in beauty."

"So the young gentleman'll think, I'll be bound."

"Indeed, then, I hope he won't be wastin' his time, for if he was to come makin' love to Miss Sylvy, 'tis as like as not she'd make a face at him."

"Well, then, it'll be Miss Pamela."

"May be, may be. Anyhow, it won't be Miss Sylvy, for she's just an imp of mischief, for all she has the face of an angel. The master calls her 'Boy.' 'I was lookin' for a boy,' says he, 'an' 'twas herself that come. But sure, after all,' says he, 'I'm not sure 'twas any mistake at all, at all.'"

"And now, Mrs. Murphy," said Bridget, with a sudden return to authority, "I'd be obliged to you if it was your work you was gettin' about, an' not sittin' here idlin' all day. Stir your lazy bones, woman, an' be off to the master's studio, or 'tis never done 'twill be at all."

"Well, indeed, ma'am," said Mrs. Murphy, with a justly aggrieved air. "Here I wouldn't be at all, exceptin' by your own invitation."

"Gentlemen doesn't like clanin' times, Miss Flanagan."

Bridget hurried upstairs through the quiet house flooded with morning sunshine. Carrickmoyle stood on a plateau, and looked away over the bleached country and the summer-dark coppices. It was a square house, kindly of aspect, despite its ruinous condition, and around it lay a rich old garden, full of damask roses and such wealth of fruit as only come with years to a garden.

An orchard, gnarled and overgrown, was down in the hollow. A delightful place it was to dream away a summer day, with no sound to break the stillness save only the moan of the wood-dove or the dropping of ripe fruit.

As Bridget went upstairs she paused at a window. Below her, flitting here and there through the raspberry canes and currant bushes, she caught a glimpse of Sylvia's blue frock.

"There she is, the lamb," muttered the old woman, her face softening. "There she is, wid that Mark Antony at her heels, helpin' himself to the raspberries, I'll be bound. An' she, pretty lamb! 'tis more she'll be atin' thin pickin', I'm thinkin'. But never mind, never mind, we can't be young but wance."

In the room intended for the new pupil Mary Graydon, the eldest of the three girls, was sitting, puckering her forehead over a mass of muslin that overflowed her lap.

"What are you in trouble about, Miss Mary?" asked Bridget.

"I don't know how to cut this into curtains for the window at all, Bridget dear," said the sweetest, most plaintive voice; "it's so narrow and the window so wide."

"What have you got at all, child? 'Tisn't your poor mamma's muslin slips?"

"It is indeed, Bridget. They were only going to pieces where they were, and we can't afford curtains, and I'm sure if mamma was alive she'd tell me to 'take them.'"

"Indeed, then, I'm sure she would, Miss Mary, for she was like yourself; she'd give the clothes off her back to anyone she thought wanted them worse. Give me the scissors, jewel, an' I'll just cut them out for you. I once got a prize in Major Healy's lady's sewin'-class for cuttin'-out when I was a girl; though you'd never believe it, to see the botch I made of the chair I was tryin' to mend."

"It isn't quite the same thing, Bridget, you know. Oh! thank you, that is clever. How are you getting on downstairs?"

"Pretty well, Miss Mary, but 'tis aisy does it wid that woman, Mrs. Murphy. She's a great ould gossip of a woman; 'tis no wonder Tim an' the childher are the shows of the place. I was hard put to it to shut her mouth—her tongue's longer thin my arm—an' get her to the master's studio before he came home."

"Oh, poor papa! You're surely not invading him, Bridget?"

"Aye, am I. The woman's up to her shoulders in dirty soap-suds by this time, unless she's found someone more ready to listen to her thin I was. There, Miss Mary, there's the curtain; I've made a nate job of it, haven't I?"

"You have indeed, Bridget. I wish you'd teach me some of your cleverness."

"Arrah! what would you want with the like? Sure, 'tis only by rayson of a little inconvaynience that rale blood-ladies like yourselves has to lift your hands, if it was only to wash your faces."

Mary Graydon shook her head. Hers was a face which seemed irradiated with a quiet inward light, and her eyes were gentler than the eyes of doves.

"You must teach me all you know, Bridget, for I shall always be poor."

"You mane when you marry Mr. St. Leger, Miss Mary?"

The girl nodded without speaking, but a sudden rush of happy colour covered her innocent face.

"Don't be thinkin' of that, my lamb. The ould lord'll come round before that. Sure he couldn't be as hard-hearted a naygur as he lets on."

"I'm afraid not, Bridget. He has a little son of his own now, you see, and so the less reason for forgiving papa."

Bridget lifted her eyes and hands.

"Him wid a little son indeed! Cock him up wid a little son, an' him wid wan foot in the grave! Well, there's no gettin' over the ways of some people. But 'tis time for me to be gettin' about my work, or I'll be as bad as that Murphy woman. Just you call to me, Miss Mary, if you want to know anything; but don't go spoiling them eyes on Mr. Mick, puttin' too fine work into that baronite's curtains."

She went off then, and for a time there was silence in the room, broken only by the occasional efforts of Pamela's Irish terrier, Pat, to better Bridget's bed-making. The windows, brown-paper panes and all, were flung wide open, and there was a lovely prospect of plain and hill, and wood and river, stretching away into the pearl-grey distances. A little wind sang like a lullaby in the leaves of the sycamore outside the window, and from the garden below came a drowsy humming of bees.

But to the girl who sat there dreaming dreams a scene widely different presented itself. She saw a parched Indian plain and a row of low white buildings. All around there was a clearing, but beyond was the mass of the jungle, where the jackals cried by night and the lions roared thunderously. Somewhere in that baking place she saw the face she loved—the plain, honest, devoted face of Mick St. Leger, who had passed from the Militia to be a subaltern in a marching regiment. Five years at least would elapse before he came home—five years, with all their chances of trouble and loneliness, and, alas! of death.

Mary Graydon trembled over her sewing as the longing for her lover became almost intolerable. Then she snapped a thread off short, and lifted her eyes in a quiet way which had become natural to her when she was alone. She could not know what was happening to her dear boy under those deadly skies; but there was One who knew and whose love was greater still, and she could trust that love even if its will was to slay her.

There was a quick step on the stones, and the sound of someone rushing up two steps at a time.

"Oh! here you are, Molly," cried Pamela, rushing in breathless. "We've got home, papa and I; and the glass for these windows is all in a smash, and three of the new tumblers, and the youth's shaving-glass. And what do you think, darling? The youth's coming to-day—this afternoon. That dear old dunderhead of a father of ours has been reading 'Thursday' for 'Tuesday,' and has just had a telegram to undeceive him."

Mary lifted her hands in dismay.

"Dad's to meet him at Lettergort at four-thirty. It's just as well it happened, anyhow, for, instead of going into his study to read the Sentinel, I've headed him off for the stables to see if Frisky must have a shoe. So he hasn't discovered yet the terrible havoc among his household gods. Maybe, if we can get things to rights before he finds out, he'll never know his room has been cleaned at all, at all. I'm sure Mrs. Murphy will leave as few traces of the cleaning as possible."

"What are we to do, Pam?"

"Why, do nothing. It's just as well the glass is broken, for there'd be no time to put it in. Besides, I'm of Bridget's opinion, that brown paper's a deal comfortabler-looking in the could weather."

"But his dinner, Pamela?"

"Why, kill the red cock. He's been insufferable, strutting about with his hoarse crow, since he killed my dear bantam. Besides, he can't live much longer; you know he's very old."

"But won't he be tough? Besides, how are we to catch him?"

"As to the toughness, the youth will think it's the habit of Irish fowl. As to catching him, I think he might be trapped in the rose-bush opposite the hall-door, where he and his wives have taken to roosting; and a nice thing they've made of the rose-bush. He's so old, poor dear! that he goes to bed while yet the sun's high; but, mind, I'll have nothing to say to catching him, lest it should savour of revenge for my Dick."

"But, Pam, the house is upside down; and Sir Anthony comes at four-thirty, you say?"

"Four-thirty his train is due. But papa must take him a round that'll keep him till seven. You may trust Frisky, if Frisky gets a chance, though in the ordinary course of things they'd arrive here from Lettergort in half an hour. Then the train may be more late than usual, to oblige us."

"I suppose papa must keep him out?"

"Yes, of course, he must. It's an interesting country and a charming day. Later on, of course, he'll find out that Lettergort Station is only round the corner, so to speak; but he'll think the long drive was an aberration of his Irish host."

"But won't he be tired after his long journey?"

"He'll be more tired if he has to help us to catch the red cock; that is, if we don't succeed in surprising the poor thing."

"Yes, I suppose we'll have to ask papa to do that. And Pam, darling, do run down and see what Mrs. Murphy is doing in the poor dear's study. He has always been so happy there that it's a shame to disturb him with the knowledge that it has been invaded."

"Leave that to me. You'd say I was a born general if you saw the way I headed him off when he came in. I'll lock Mrs. Murphy in, if necessary, and then make a prodigious search for the key."

"Don't do that, Pam, darling."

"Only as a last resource. Never you fear, I'll keep the poor darling's mind undisturbed. You'll see he never suspects anything, even when I ask him at lunch where I shall find the quotation, 'Alas, unconscious of their doom, the little infants play.'"

And Pamela did ask him at lunch, and the poor gentleman gave her innocently the information she asked. Though, as she said afterwards, it was a shame to keep him in the dark, for he loved a joke so dearly that he would have enjoyed one even at his own expense.

Mary lifted her hands in dismay.

CHAPTER III.

SIB ANTHONY TREVITHICK.

"Well, if the ould train isn't batin' herself for bein' up to time!" said Pat Sheehan, the porter at Lettergort Station. "She'll draw up at this platform twenty-five minits before she's due be the time-table, an' an hour an' twenty-five before her usual time."

"'Tis Timothy Dolan that's drivin' her," said the person addressed, a little old woman like a robin, with a soft little voice hardly bigger than a bird's twitter.

"The power of love is wonderful," she went on; "sure Tim's spakin' to Mrs. Doyle's little Katty, an' he's raced the thrain so that he can dart up an' see the little girl while the ould ingin' is pantin' the sides out of her like a dog after a gallop."

"More than punctual!" commented a young gentleman, who was standing in a first-class carriage, looking from the shining landscape to the face of his chronometer.

He was a good-looking fellow, with honest brown eyes and a face that told of constant living in the open air. He was lean as a hound, and almost as long; presumably he would fill out, but even now his long-legged youthfulness was not without its attractive side.

As the train drew up at the platform he pocketed his watch, and began to gather his belongings leisurely. They seemed to be a good many—gun-case, golf-sticks, fishing-tackle, hat-case, rugs and umbrellas, and all the rest of it. While he was thus engaged a good-natured face, belonging to the red-bearded and red-haired giant who was guard of the train, looked in at the window.

"No hurry, sir, if you're not goin' on. If you are, there'll be time to take a dander up the town an' get a bit of dinner."

"Indeed? I didn't know you made a long stop here," said the youth, pausing in his occupation of locking a small portmanteau.

"No more we do. We're supposed to skelp along wid the letters for Ballintaggart beyant the mountains there. But you see, sir"—insinuatingly—"the driver's gone to see his sweetheart. That's how we got in so early. Tim is the boy for not lettin' the grass grow under the thrain when he has a mind. I remember when this ould thrain was bet in a race wid a pig; but Tim's put another face on her."

"Oh—indeed. And when will you start again?"

"Whenever your honour likes. I wouldn't be for hurryin' a gentleman over his dinner, to say nothin' of Tim, that's a dacent boy, an' deserves a good turn."

The traveller laughed with an enjoyment that lit up a face grave in repose.

"You don't mind letting the people at Ballin—what's-its-name?—wait for their letters?"

"Och, surely not. Maybe 'tis a week before some o' them 'ud hear be chance there was a letter for 'em at the post-office, an' be that time every wan in the place'll know what's in it. It'll be: 'There's a letter below at the post-office for you, Judy, wid an order in it for a pound from your Uncle Con in Philadelphy'; or, 'Miss Geraghty below at the post-office was tellin' me there's grand news from the daughter in New York—twins, no less, an' all doin' well.' Sure, the people themselves is the last to hear, barrin' the polis."

"But why should the police be in the dark?" asked the young gentleman, as he finally concluded putting his traps together. "Here, help me out with these, please. I'm getting off here, or I'd be delighted to fix the hour for going on."

Mat Connor, the guard, beckoned to Pat Sheehan.

"Here's a man 'ull run 'em anywhere you like in his ass-cart for you, sir, an' welcome. As I was sayin', sir, the polis has nothin' to do but pick up news, and there's an objection to doin' away wid their ockypation—that's all. They're dacent men, the polis."

"I expected a carriage or something to meet me."

Mat Connor looked up and down the platform, where the little woman stood alone, enjoying the excitement of the train's arrival. Then he went to the door and looked out. As he came back he again carefully scanned the platform, as though he might have overlooked such a thing as a carriage.

"Not a sight of one I see at all, at all, sir. Where might you be for, if I may make so bould as to ask?"

"I'm going to Mr. Graydon's, of Carrickmoyle. I daresay he'll be here presently, as he knows the hour the train is due."

"Och, Mr. Graydon'll be here, never fear. He'll be rowlin' round in his little car in less thin no time. The gentleman's for Mr. Graydon's, Pat. Just get his things on the ass-cart an' run them around before another train's due."

"It is not far, then?"

"If you turned to the right when you wint out, an' kep' your eyes shut, only feelin' your way by the wall, you'd be turnin' in at the gate of Carrickmoyle in, maybe, half an hour. But sure, here's Mr. Graydon himself comin' to look for you. I suspected he wouldn't be long."

The young gentleman turned round and saw coming towards him along the platform a lively, fresh-coloured man, of fifty or thereabouts. In spite of his old Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers of grey homespun, yellowed and browned with hard wear, there was no mistaking Mr. Graydon for anything but a gentleman. His face beamed cordiality on the new arrival, and his blue eyes shone with pleasure.

"You are welcome, my dear Sir Anthony, very heartily welcome to Carrickmoyle! Have you been waiting? I'm so sorry. I made certain to be in time. Indeed, I had an errand to do a little further, but, of course, I turned in as soon as I saw the train had arrived."

"You are welcome, my dear Sir Anthony."

"The train was over-punctual, sir, and I have been very well entertained while I waited."

"I daresay, I daresay. There are worse comrades than Mat. Many a pleasant day's shooting I had with Mat for companion. Eh, Mat, you don't forget the night in the Moyle river when our legs froze waiting for wild duck, and we thought we'd have to stay there till the hot weather set us free."

Mat grinned delightedly for response.

"The worst of Mat is he's a born poacher. Doesn't respect Inverbarry's preserves or anybody else's, and isn't to be frightened, though I tell him Inverbarry'll lock him up one of these days."

"Not wid your honour on the bench. But 'tisn't me that poaches. 'Tis the bit of a dog. You couldn't insinse respect for the law into that little baste's head wance he's put up a hare or a partridge."

"Well, good-bye, Mat, good-bye. Tell the old mother I was asking for her. How are you, Mrs. Kelly? What's the last news from Nora? The best, that's a good hearing. Come along, Sir Anthony. Don't drop any of the gentleman's things on your way, Pat."

Mr. Graydon bustled his new pupil out of the little station, and into the very disreputable pony car, with a blissful oblivion of its shortcomings.

"You won't mind coming to the village with me till I deliver my message? I was very near forgetting it. Then I'll have you home in less than no time. You'll be glad of a wash-up and a cup of tea."