A little gipsy lass

Lee started as if shot, and stood there before the witch, pale, perspiring, and trembling.

But Crona only laughed.

'Come with your fairy godmother, darling.' She placed an arm around Lotty, and together they left the stage.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE AMBITIONS OF CHOPS JUNIOR.

'Mustn't—tell—me yet? Ye said "yet," didn't ye, Miss Lotty?'

'I said "yet."'

'But then some day I'll know, won't I? So I'll live in 'opes o' that some day. An' some day,' this queer boy went on, 'some day summat helse be agoin' to 'appen. Ye know the song, Miss Lotty, "'E never told 'is love"? Well, that's me. An' I'm goin' to be honest an' straight with ye as ever was. An' till the day w'en by savin' an' savin' I makes a bit o' money, an' is old enough to lead ye to the halter, I'm goin' to be a helder brother to ye. So 'elp me, Billy-o.'

Who Billy-o was it would be difficult to say; but Chops's adjuration certainly sounded a strong one. But evidently the lad liked Lotty very much, and it would be wrong to laugh at love even in the crude.

Chops was silent for a time.

Wallace was lying down perilously close to the edge of the cliff—so close, indeed, that Lotty feared to call him lest he should miss his foothold and tumble over to destruction. But it was only the dog's way, and he was perfectly safe.

But Lotty's newly constituted elder brother broke the silence at last.

'Miss Lotty,' he said, 'Chops, yer friend, will neither give sleep to 'is heyes nor slumber to 'is heyelids until 'e 'as prayed hover an' thought hall about the scheme for runnin' away. If so be,' he added, 'that it seems best for ye, Chops will tell ye to-morrer mornin' has ever was. No more at present from yours truly till death do us part—Chops junior.'

Wallace had drawn away from the cliff, much to Lotty's relief, and come forward as if to listen to the conversation.

'Oh, Chops, by the way,' said the girl, 'you said Chops junior. I've been often going to ask you had you ever, ever a father, Chops?'

'Wot then, Miss Lotty? Think I 'ad two mothers hinstead? Or that baby Chops floated ashore on a 'urdle? My father, Miss Lotty, is a jobbin' gardener, as does hodd jobs in 'Ighgate 'Eath, as good a man, t'old pa'son says, has hever drew the breath o' life on a Monday mornin'.'

'And your mother, Chops?'

'Does laundryin'. 'As a sweet little cottage—three rooms an' a hattic, a porch afore the door, nice little garden, an' a nice wash'ouse behind. Oh! my people be swells in a way, Miss Lotty.'

'Any brothers or sisters, Chops?'

'Just one bit o' a sister o' ten, Miss Lotty, an' she be a girl like. There is no boys to be brothers. As sharp's they makes 'em Mariar is. W'en not at school she runs herrands, goes for poor father's 'arf pint o' cold fourpenny, an' takes the washin' 'ome o' Saturday nights to the haristocracy.'

'Chops, why didn't you ever tell me all this before?'

‘’Cause, Miss Lotty, t' old pa'son says to me, "Chops," 'e says, "it's allers manners to wait till you're haxed."'

'Highgate Heath, Chops—is that a nice part?'

'W'ich it's puffikly lovely, an' wot they calls a charmin' locality, an' freekwented mostly by the hupper-ten.'

After a pause, Lotty put her hand on her companion's shoulder.

'Chops!'

'That's me, Miss Lotty.'

'Did your mother ever take a lodger?'

'No, little sister—but—but'——

Then at that moment Chops began to dance and to caper so wildly there in the starlight that Wallace was forced to back astern to bark at him.

'I 'ave it, Miss Lotty. Lor' love ye, I've got it!' he cried. 'Wonder it didn't strike me at onct.' Then he lowered his voice to almost a whisper. 'If so be as ye does run away, Lotty, an' does get as far as Lunnon town, my dear, it's straight to 'Ighgate 'Eath ye goes, to the 'ouse o' my parents, an' lodge there as 'appy as a May Queen till ye gets summat to do.'

'Oh,' said Lotty, 'this is so very kind of you, Chops. I hope I'll be able to thank you some day, Chops—some day.'

'W'en I leads ye to the halt'——

Lotty put her little hand on his mouth. 'You shall always be my friend, won't you?'

'Oh lor', wot a question to hax!'

'But if I go to London—if I get to London—I'll be sure to call on your parents at Highgate Heath. Then, Chops'—— she said somewhat anxiously.

'Me again?' said Chops.

'Does my father—does Mr Lee—know your parents, or know where they live? Did he meet you there first?'

'Miss Lotty, Biffins Lee, the man as was yer father, but ain't now no more, doesn't know nuffin', an' I wouldn't go for to trust 'im not the valuedom of a tin whistle. Biffins Lee picked me up at a penny gaff, w'ere I were a hactin' the horphan chee-ild.'

'Well,' said Lotty, thoughtfully but cheerfully, 'I think if I went to your mother's cottage till I got teaching or something, I would be very happy.'

This somewhat adipose lad had a very good-humoured face and a kindly eye; but he could have struck no one as being a devotee at the histrionic shrine. Yet, nevertheless, his one ambition was to become some day a tragedian, and strut the boards, perhaps even as Othello himself. At this very moment he must strike an attitude, and with arm uplifted towards the eastern stars give voice as follows:

'The lot in life o' this poor son o' toil 'as not been a joyful one 'itherto. Torn from the harms o' 'is weepin' parents at a hearly age, 'e was attached to the great conglomeration o' Biffins Lee. Though fed like a queen-bee in order that 'e might take the part of Roly Poly in the Christmas pant., or 'Umpty Dumpty on the Wall, with every bite 'e got to heat 'e received a buffet, an' on the cold, cold ground on w'ich 'e slept tears used to chase each other hover 'is face as large as limpet-shells.

'But who would pity the sorrows o' the poor fat boy? No heye was bedewed with tears to see 'im rolled across the stage as the livin' football, carried in a net as a string o' honions, trussed an' carried in a tray with carrots an' turmots on a baker's 'ead to represent "ye first-prize Christmas goose." An' no one wept w'en 'e was placed on the table to be carved by Prince de Gourmand—no, not w'en 'e swore 'e was old an' tough, an' then threw 'im at the 'ead o' the pantaloon. I've been a roast suckin'-pig with brown gravy, I've been a turkey with sassingers, I've been a pigeon-pie with my 'ead an' my toes a-stickin' through the crust, an' I've figured as cold side-dish at the board o' the King o' the Cannibul-high-lows. An' against these indignities my proud soul 'as burned within me, an' I kept silence honly because somefin allers told me my day would one day come. An' I see it now a-comin'. I see a glorious vista openin' up before my mental heyes o' triumph hafter triumph as Hengland's greatest tragedian.

'An', Miss Lotty,' he said, coming down to the terrestrial, 'if ye goes to Lunnon, who knows but what Chops junior will follow ye, an' in the fullness o' time strut the stage as a star o' the fust magnitude?'

'Don't you think, Chops, it is time we went to camp to dinner now?'

Next day—because it was after the 'fast,' and everybody in the parish had been to church—was a great one in the camp of the Queerest Show on Earth. Bruin danced his very drollest, the Skeleton performed the most wonderful tricks. The dreaded dooroocoolie, it was said, had got loose; there was the most fearsome roaring, and the struggle in surrounding it once more with its clanking chains was more dreadful than the battle of St George and the ten-clawed Dragon. But the performances of Lotty Lee were encored till the poor child was well-nigh tired to death. Then the whole strength of the band discoursed the sweetest selection while the limelights were turned on the merman's tank.

The astonished rustics gaped with dread and with curiosity when Biffins Lee, stepping forward, announced to the ladies and gentlemen that to-night they would see something that they would not only marvel at, but remember as long as their toes held together on the face of the earth. The merman, it was said, expected his daughter early next week, the real live and beautiful mermaiden who had been seen afloat in Partan Bay; and so her father to-night had determined to have a great spring cleaning of his cave. The public were requested to inspect for themselves; and, sure enough, there was the merman in all his hideous ugliness asleep in the corner of the tank. Then Biffins waved the audience back, and almost immediately afterwards they would have gladly gone still farther back if they had had a chance, for the awful old merman appeared suddenly on the surface of the tank, and began to eat pieces of fried fish that were handed to him.

'He used to eat this raw,' the showman explained, 'but he is far more civilised now.'

The trumpets brayed, the drums beat louder, the crimson light played across the tank, and with an eldritch shriek the merman disappeared. But presently, to the surprise of everybody, up to the surface of the water bobbed a cane-bottomed chair.

Now, there is not by any means a confusing amount of romance about a cane-bottomed chair. No one would go so far as to say that. And this chair was a very ordinary one, the seat of it even calling out aloud for repair. Nevertheless, it had been sent up by the merman in a business-like way, and the people with one accord lifted up their voices and cheered that old bedroom chair; and when a small deal table came to the surface next, followed by a somewhat dilapidated washstand, they cheered all the more, for the British public is certainly a strange animal; but when a three-legged stool next appeared the British public mingled laughter with its cheers. Meanwhile busy hands of supernumeraries seized article after article as it came to the top of the tank, and commenced scrubbing it with hot water and soap.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' said Biffins, with his most artistic bow, 'I feel constrained to apologise to you for the somewhat meagre, not to say shabby, appearance of the furniture sent up to undergo spring cleaning. I must admit that it is scarcely the sort of articles one would naturally expect in a merman's cave. We might have looked forward to a better display than this: furniture inlaid with gold and precious stones—the onyx, the jasper, the opal, and coral white and crimson—carpets of green sea-moss, and curtains of the velvety sea-weeds, with candelabra that would have dazzled the eyes, and articles of bigotry and virtue. But our merman came here in a hurry, and left his caves and his marble halls all behind him. I have not myself been down to the bottom of this mighty tank, and have not, therefore, had a peep inside the merman's cave; but, judging from these specimens, I should fancy the poor merman has had to "furnish throughout on the hire system."'

At this moment the merman himself came to the surface, puffing and blowing as if choking with dust. He was wearing an old flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and had a dust-pan in one hand and sweeping-brush in the other, while round his head was pinned a dirty old rag of a towel. He signed to Biffins Lee for a drink, and a tumbler of some brown liquor like rum was handed to him. This he tossed off, threw the glass at Biffins's head, and dived below to work again.

By-and-by he came up once more, and, receiving article after article, critically examined it for specks of dirt, then dived with it and appeared again to grasp another, and so on until all the furniture was down below. After this the creature came to the surface, tore off the old woollen garment and the disreputable-looking towel, rolled them together, and threw them disdainfully at the showman. Then it yawned in a tired way, stretched itself as if much fatigued, and dived below.

'Now,' said Biffins Lee, 'the great spring cleaning is all over, and next week I hope to have the extreme felicity of introducing to your notice the merman's only daughter, the beautiful mermaid herself.'

But Biffins Lee was too confident. He was at the height of his glory at present with his Queerest Show on Earth, and he little knew what was in store for him.

CHAPTER XXIII.

'WELL, CHOPS, TO RUN AWAY.'

It was springtime. Spring, indeed, was in its first fresh glory. The sea she loved, the sea out yonder stretching away and away to the illimitable north, may have lost none of its beauty—the blue of its waves when the sun had climbed the mountains, its opal and silver-gray on that cloud-streaked noon, its emerald streaks where sky's blue mixed with the yellow of half-hidden sandbanks, the pearl where the billows broke lazily over the brown-black of weed-capped rocks, its ineffable glory of sunset or moonlight clear gleaming. No, the sea must be the same, and yet it awakened less response, less sympathy, in the heart of the little gipsy lass.

Towards the forest, where she went wandering away alone with Wallace, because she wanted to think, things seemed strangely altered somehow. Was the moss that carpeted the beech-woods less soft and bright, or the bark of the birch-trees less snowy? Were the clouds of needled foliage on the brown-stemmed pines more black and solemn, and had the tasselled larches with buds of crimson lost already their spring-green tints? And where was the glory of the golden furze? Where the music of the rose-linnet? Ah! surely the fluting melody of the blackbird and the wild, ringing song of mavis, ay, and the bold lilt of the chaffinch, were less loud and stirring. Yes, and the cur-r-r and croodle of wood-pigeon in the planting's green shade, that used to thrill the heart, sounded farther away now and grown more sad and mournful.

The hero was gone. And, girl-like—well, childlike then—this wee gipsy maiden sat down upon a stone and burst into tears, much to the concern of ever-faithful Wallace, who did his best to kiss those tears away. But sorrow often ends in slumber; it is as if Nature needed the solace of sleep to make her forget. A colder breath of air appeared to sweep through the tree-trunks; and, drawing her tartan plaid up around head and dishevelled hair, Lotty lay down in the lee of the mossy stone, and, drawing up her knees, fell fast asleep, with Wallace at her back.

Crona some hours after this heard a low, ominous growl, and, looking in the direction whence it came, beheld the raven face and brown eyes of the honest dog. The witch-wife was doctor to half the fisher-families that dwelt in little villages by the sea, and she had been out wandering over the moors and through the forests looking for roots and simple herbs, when she came to the spot where Lotty lay.

'Poor Wallace, so your little mistress has gone to sleep? Yes, dear fellow; but it isn't on the damp moss it is safe to lie.'

Crona's cottage was but three hundred yards away, and when Lotty awoke she found herself lying in a gleam of sunshine on a wooden bench or dais by the cottage door. She sat up, wondering for a moment or two where she was, then back came all her grief, though she tried to hide it from her fairy godmother as much as she could.

This dear soul had spread a wee table with a white cloth, and placed thereon a cup of heather-ale—her own brewing, and she was famed for this—with barley-meal scones, butter, and honey. There was even a vase of fresh primroses on this little table, which she had drawn close up to Lotty's side.

'Eat, my lamb,' she was saying. 'If young folks would live, young folks must eat.'

She was smoothing Lotty's brow and hair. And the girl tried to eat and drink only just to please Crona, for she felt a little shivery and of appetite she had none. Besides, her fairy godmother's kind sympathy now touched her heart and made the tears stream down her face afresh. Indeed, unromantic though it may seem to say so, some of her tears fell among the heather-ale.

'I am not a witch, dear Lotty, though they say so; but this I can tell you, that you will, in course of time, see Frank Antony once again. So don't mourn for him, dearie.'

'But fa-fa-father has been so unkind! Do you know what he said, dear godmother? He sai-sai-said that by not being Grace Darling Redivivus I was the ruin of the show and all his prospects.'

But Crona laughed and talked so quietly and nicely that she soon had Lotty smiling also. After the witch's heather-ale and the scones the spring air felt warmer, and something of its freshness seemed to have returned to the greenery of woods and wilds, the crimson and yellow and white of the flowers, and the gold of the scented furze. She felt she could even take an interest in Crona's pets now, and was a little cross with herself for not having asked before how little Tim was, for this affectionate mite had been ailing; but her godmother said he was once more as hearty and robust as before his indisposition. She told Lotty that she had journeyed six miles to procure certain roots for Tim, and that from the very day he had begun to nibble these there had been a marked change in both his physical and mental condition. And he slept now every night under pussy's chin.

To-day Wallace had found Tod Lowrie just commencing to feast upon a fine fat fowl, but which particular farmyard it had come from inquiry by Crona had failed as yet to elicit, only she always paid for Lowrie's extravagances. Wallace stood over Tod Lowrie for a moment, looking down at him with his head a bit to one side.

'Dear me, Lowrie,' he said, 'you'll never get through that fowl all by yourself. Then the bones you know—just fancy how you'd feel if a bone stuck in your throat and you required to send for Dr Heron to take it out! But,' continued Wallace, 'I have an excellent method of dealing with dead fowls. Artistic in a manner of speaking. Permit me,' and he gently drew the fowl quite away from the fox, and retired with it under the dais.

Poor Tod Lowrie had simply to sit on his haunches and look on; and, truth to say, all his share consisted of the feet and the head and the feathers.

'Beautiful, isn't it?' said Wallace when he had finished.

'Beautiful!' said Lowrie with a deep sigh.

All Crona's pets loved each other, and agreed very well on the whole; but of course little differences will at times arise in the best-regulated families. Pussy and Joe to-day, for example, had a little dispute on the boards.

Cats seem cruel; but it is just their nature, and perhaps they are no worse than human beings. Anyhow, pussy to-day had returned from the forest with two baby hedgehogs; she had killed them both, and now kept one safely between her forelegs until she should finish eating the other. And Joe chose to be very nasty and sarcastic about it, though of course she wasn't bound to go and catch young hedgehogs for him. He stood, showing an attitude of impudent grace, some two feet from her.

'Joe's cross! Joe's cross!' he cried. 'Ho, ho, ho! Set you up indeed! Joe's very cross!' He was looking at her with one evil eye. But pussy took no heed. Her tail was spread right out behind her carelessly enough, and now Joe took one long hop towards it and gave a cruel pinch. This was too much for any respectable cat to stand; and, just as Joe was holding back his head to laugh, puss sprang at him and gave him a box on the ear that sent him spinning round like a feathered whirlwind. Then the cat went back to resume the feast.

'Hallo! Why, where is the other hedgehog?'

Not echo, but Tod Lowrie could have answered 'where?' But he didn't. He had swallowed it, and Joe was high up in a tree now, laughing that wicked laugh of his—sarcastic, almost sardonic—'Ha, ha, ha!' and 'Ho, ho, ho!' And the cat's ears were laid far back as she eyed him. 'Just wait till I catch you, Master Joe,' pussy seemed to say.

Ah, well, there is one good thing about cats and dogs—they bear no malice, and very likely at dinner-time Joe would be forgiven, and all Crona's pets eating out of the same dish.

Her fairy godmother, as Lotty always called Crona, kept the child that day as long as she possibly could. But duty was duty, and Lotty had to leave at last. It was already getting dusk, and she must try to get through the forest before the gloom of night came down over sea and land.

The girl feared nothing when Wallace was with her; the faithful dog would have laid down his life defending his little mistress. Nor was she afraid of losing herself; for, thanks to the foresight of her friend Chops, the trees were still blazed. Indeed, the boy had but lately renewed the markings. And he was to meet her to-night somewhere in the wood where the footpath went winding through it. Footpaths never go straight, and perhaps that is the chief charm of them. But this narrow beaten track was probably more winding than most of them. It wound in and out and round about clumps of the thicker, darker spruce-firs and big moss-covered rocks, down into gloomy dells, where in the season the capercailzie gave vent to his ghostly crow and cushat doves croodled mournfully on the tall larch-trees. Down into one dell, over a more open hill, and down into another, where one had to cross a brown, roaring, 'jouking' burn by a tree-bridge.

And this green hollow with the streamlet running through it was supposed to be haunted. Real fairies, they told one, used to dwell here at one time, before the ferns withered away. But five fairies used to be seen at once floating downstream on a plantain-leaf, which they used as a raft—pleasant little parties of five male and apparently rather reckless fairies, for they danced and sang and quaffed honey-dew from acorn-cups. But they were polite, and when a lady-fairy went floating past in a foxglove bell they never failed to lift their hats and hide their cups for the time being, as well as their pine-needle cigars.

But the fairies did not come back after the ferns were withered, only ugly warty toads, and they are not fairies. And the reason why the ferns withered in the dell was that a ghost had come to walk at midnight here. It was the ghost of a gamekeeper, and his story was a gruesome one. He was killed here, but the man who slew him was never found out, and that is why the ghost walks there. Some of the gamekeeper's blood, it is said, trickled into the stream, and that is how it has been brown ever since.

Well, something happened on this very night. At one side of the tree-bridge was a rail, and it was pretty dark by the time Lotty had her hand on it. And she was pausing here for a moment to listen to the gurgling song of the brooklet, and also to hear if Chops was coming. Chops always whistled to keep his courage up when coming through this wood at night. But she could not hear him, nor did Wallace, else he would have barked a half-hysterical bark of joy. She was just about to move on, when, lo! she was startled by seeing a light like that of a candle moving straight upstream towards her. She certainly was a little trembling, but she could not have been called frightened.

The light stopped not far off, and bobbed about and round and round, sometimes low to the ground as if the invisible thing that held it was looking for something that could not be found. Lotty tried to cry 'Who is there?' and was very much surprised that she could not say the words; all the sound, indeed, that she made was a little pitiful 'Hoo—hoo,' like what one hears from a dog when he is dreaming.

Then the light went suddenly out, and now Lotty ran quickly on up the brae, and some distance from the top thereof she listened again, and now she distinctly heard Chops whistling the air 'Fra poco a me,' and presently she met him.

Chops listened wonderingly to her story of the strange light.

'An' it were nought else, Miss Lotty, but a dead-candle. An' more's seen't nor you on still nights like this. An' they do say that dead-candle will never be laid till the man as killed the keeper is found an' 'anged on 'igh on a gallows-tree. An' ain't ye glad I've come, Miss Lotty?'

'Oh, so glad, Chops!'

'Oh Miss Lotty, I wish they was more ghostes if they'd allers make ye glad to meet yours truly, Chops, his mark.'

'You're a funny boy; but let us get home now as soon as possible. Poor Mary will think I'm lost.'

'Take my 'and, Miss Lotty, won't ye? It's a honest one.'

'I know that, Chops; you've always been good to me, and I'm never going to forget you, Chops, never, never, never.'

'Miss Lotty, ye speaks queer-like to-night,' said Chops.

'Yes, I think it is because Crona and I have been talking such a lot, and it was nearly all about Mr. Blake.'

'Ye won't hever forget he, Lotty, I'll lay.'

'Oh no, Chops, and I felt somehow that I could have dropped and died—like—like a dead mouse or something'——

'A dead rose-lintie, eh?' Chops suggested.

'When he told me he was going away, and we might not meet again for ever, ever so long. Ah, Chops, I've no right to think of him, even as my only brother, which he called himself, and me only a mite of a gipsy lass. I should have said "I only," Chops, but somehow "me only" seems sweeter.'

They had reached the cliff-top, and stars were out in the north and the east, and glinting on the sea.

'We've often stood here together, Chops, looking at the stars and the sea.'

'Us has,' said Chops.

'Well, Chops, I won't see them much longer now.'

'Miss Lotty, wot yer a-saying of? Cold water be a-tricklin' down my spine. Was it the dead-candle wot'——

'No, no, Chops. But I made up my mind to-night in the dark wood, when all alone with Wallace, to—to—— Eh, maybe I mustn't tell even you.'

'Oh, Miss Lotty!'

'Well, poor Chops, to run away.'

CHAPTER XXIV.

'I SAVED IT UP FOR A RAINY DAY.'

Big, rough Bruin, with his jacket like a motor-driver's coat, could never have danced so well and heartily had he not been encouraged by kindness. The blackbird in the copse would scarce have sat so eident, so patient, and so long on her grass-lined nest had not her beautiful orange-billed mate been trilling his song to her from morn till dewy eve, and if she did not know that the flute-like music was meant for her ears and her ears only.

Ay, and those sturdy, bare-legged fisher-dames, with their creels upon their backs, would not have worked so hard had it been for themselves alone; but their Jimmies were on the sea, and their lads of husbands loved them, and so they blithely sang:

Then Lotty's own heart was overflowing with kindness for all creatures. Yes, and she even had a bit of love to spare for Biffins Lee. That she was merely a property in his eyes she knew full well; he had scolded her too, he had pinched her arms, and several times almost dashed her from him till she had stumbled and fell and burst into piteous tears; but—well, she had known him so long, and perhaps he really could not help it. He had been more cruel to her since she had shrunk from making a vulgar exhibition of herself in the Cumberland wreck affair. She was going away though, and she would be sorry to vex even Biffins Lee. Happy thought: she would go and speak to him, and perhaps he would be a little more kind to her for the last few days or weeks.

Ah! perhaps she was wrong. She did not go actually into his presence as if she were seeking for an interview, she merely put herself in his way.

'Ah, Lot,' he cried gruffly, but not quite unkindly, 'you're there, are you? Rather wanted to see you. I think our merman made a bit of a hit last night'—he rattled the silver in his pocket. 'Now, if I could have you next week to pose as the mermaid'——

'What!' cried Lotty, aghast.

'It would be the best hit in the countryside. It would make a man of me—make a man of us all, so to speak. Another thing,' he continued without giving her time to reply, 'is this: I don't care any too much for that witch-wife Crona. I want you to stop going there, and I'll give Chops the same order. She is only putting nonsense and idle stuff into your head.'

'But, father, she has been such a good and kind friend to me, and I could not well go through the forest to the station or anywhere without seeing her. Besides'——

'No more, no more. I don't want to lose my temper, for I'm really a good-natured fellow.'

Again he rattled the cash in his capacious pocket.

Lotty said not another word, but went quietly back to her little caravan, to Wallace and to Mary.

'Mary,' she said, 'what do you think?'

'Couldn't guess, dear.'

'Mr Biff—my father, I mean—wants me to pose as mermaid next week, and he seems very determined. I wish he would tell me to go away and get work at some other show.'

'He won't do that, Lotty. But I'll see him for you, and let him know there will be a general strike if he attempts to make you mermaid. But it would not be for a fortnight anyhow.'

'A fortnight!' Lotty's spirits began to rise. She hoped to be far enough away before then. And now she was smiling as she said, 'Mary, couldn't you tell him that you would be happy to be the mermaid?'

'Me a mermaid, wearing a very low-bodiced dress, as I'm told mermaids do! Me a mermaid, Lotty, with my fragile, fairy-like form, twenty stone and over. Ha, ha, ha!'

And good Mary laughed till the cups and saucers rang in the caravan cupboard.

But Lotty grew a little serious again.

'Mary,' she said, 'I am going to be debarred from ever going to see my fairy godmother any more. What shall I do?'

Mary put one fat arm round Lotty's waist and drew her nearer.

'I cannot ask you to disobey your father,' she said; 'but in this case, I myself, with Skeleton, shall waddle over to Crona's to-night, and Crona will write through me to the boss, and I think this will alter matters very much, so that you and Chops can go to the cottage as often as you have a mind to.'

'Mary, did Crona ever tell you anything in particular?'

'No, dear; but I simply think that as a witch or palmist, or something, she can read the boss's future, as perhaps she has read his past, and has a great influence over him. Lotty,' she continued, 'did Crona ever tell you anything in particular?'

'She did, Mary; but I must not mention it even to you. Some day, though, I may.'

Mary was hard on herself when she talked about her outdoor movements as mere waddling, for once she started she could walk very well indeed, and at climbing hills she could make even Skeleton puff and blow a bit. Neither Skeleton nor she had been at the witch's cottage for six months at least; but she was made heartily welcome now, and so was her bony goodman. Even Tod Lowrie allowed Mary to smooth his triangular head, and pussy ensconced herself in Mary's lap and at once began to sing. 'It isn't often,' she appeared to think, 'that I have so comfortable a lap as this to lie on, so I'll make the best of it for an hour or two.'

Joe the raven was impudently criticising towards the Living Skeleton. He was perched on his favourite birch-tree branch when the bony one appeared, and chuckled low to himself. 'Ho!' he said, 'set him up! Ha, ha, ha! Well, well, well! Ho, ho, ho!'

Then, as Skeleton took no notice of his taunts, he grew even more insulting. He whistled like a 'glaud,' screamed like a curlew, and cackled like a hen that has just dropped an egg somewhere. Kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk, kay-ay-kuk! Tee-hoy-it! Tee-hoy-it! Whew-ew-ew! 'Tod Lowrie, Tod Lowrie! Have a bone, poor boy, have a bone, kuk-kuk-kuk! Have a bone, have a hen, a hen, a bone, a bone, bone, bone.' Scray-ay!

'Surely,' cried Skeleton at last, 'surely, Crona, that bird is possessed of an evil spirit?'

'It's just his exuberance,' said Crona, laughing; 'but I'll march him indoors, then we'll all have tea; for, dear me, I am pleased to see you. And, by the way, Mrs Pendlebury, here is a letter to our dear Lotty. I told Mr Blake to send it through me, you know.'

'Joe, Joe, come down here.'

'I sha'n't—I won't—won't, sha'n't, sha'n't, sha'n't, sha'n't. Ho, ho, ho!'

'Come at once when I tell you, sir!'

The bird came down obediently.

'Go directly into the house to your perch, sir.'

Joe obeyed and went waddling off with trailing wings. But just on the threshold of the door he looked up at Skeleton again, and laughed so derisively that if there had been a boot anywhere handy he would have shied it at him.

'Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho! Set you up!'

'We'll have peace now,' said Crona.

Said Biffins Lee to Lotty that evening: 'From the way Mary puts it, I find that Crona isn't a bad sort after all. You may visit her, and take Chops and your dog for safety. But mind'——

'What, father?'

'The mermaid—in ten days' time.'

Lotty did not care much. There was a joy at her heart to-night. She had just received such a dear, kind letter from her Mr Blake, and had still to read it—for the fifth time.

. . . . . . .

Antony's caravan was going to be taken to the district station, round by the road, with farmer Duncan's three sturdy horses, his own having been shipped to England days ago. And the duty of packing it so that nothing should be broken during transit was to devolve upon Mary, with the assistance of Lotty and Chops.

Now, it is really wonderful how little a great caravan, say twenty or more feet long, is moved or shaken during a long journey by train after the wheels have been taken off, and she lies snugly on the trolley, her weight supported on her own springs. Instead of going by slow luggage-train, on which her superb varnishing, gilding, and ornamental scroll-work would have the certainty of being smoked and soiled, however well covered up, she was to travel special rate, by passenger-train, so that she would not really be on the road—so the railway traffic-manager promised—more than four-and-twenty hours, from the far north through London itself to Bristol. And here Antony Blake had resolved to meet her himself, with his splendid horses, and drive down to Manby Hall, in order that his people might see for themselves what a palace-on-wheels the 'Gipsy Queen' really was.

The caravan would be protected by sheeting, soft and white but impervious to dust and rain. This was made in different pieces, not as one clumsy whole, nor did it hang too tightly, for if it had done so it would, with its various ropes, tauten up during rain and injure the sides.

The skylight itself was not covered, so that the saloon and the bedroom both had plenty of light. Indeed, the side-sheets and roof-piece had often been put over her when doing her great winter tour in the early part of the year; and, independent of these, the fore and aft coloured glass ports of the large domed skylight could be carried open for fresh air.

Mary determined that the caravan should be quite ready for Antony to step into as soon as it arrived at its far-off destination; so she carefully fixed every vase and glass and cup in the cupboard, so that, although they could not shift, they did not appear to be fixed. The same with his books, fairy editions of a great many of his favourite authors, in a fairy-like bookcase. It was Lotty herself who dusted and arranged these, and it was indeed a labour of love, a labour to linger over, thinking sadly as she did so of the kind and handsome friend she might never see again.

But everything was ship-shape at last, and she spent all the time she could spare in the dear old saloon so fraught with many happy recollections. But one night, not long before the caravan was going to start, while sleeping in her own little cot in the 'Silver Queen,' Lotty dreamt a dream, and woke early in the morning thinking of it. She thought that she was travelling all by herself, not in an ordinary third-class carriage as she had intended, but in his—Antony's—caravan.

Lotty was a brave girl, and the romance of that dream appealed to her so much that she determined it should come true. She would only be twenty-four hours on the road, and she could let herself out when it reached London, and, locking the door again, find her way to Highgate Heath. Oh! the plan was delightful above all things, if it could only be managed; and so she confided her plans to Chops, and between their two wise heads it was determined that carried out they could and should be.

Crona was also taken into their confidence, and so was the kindly porter at the railway station far away over the moor. Chops had been sent across to purchase the little lass's ticket, and told the honest fellow. He was, like everybody else, very fond indeed of Lotty, and delighted now that she had taken him into her confidence.

'It'll be all right, won't it, George?' said Chops.

'Ay, that it will. Lo', I wouldn't mention the matter even to the wife o' my boozum.'

Chops and Lotty worked together an evening or two before the 'Gipsy Queen' started as secretly as if they had been a couple of smugglers or pirates.

There was Lotty's big box to be sent away; but that would go after her, and he, Chops, would see to it. During her journey she would only have her best clothes on, and one bag that she could carry.

But then there were provisions and stores to be thought of—milk and water and fruit, and a big box of chocolates that Chops had bought her. Not even were candles and matches nor Lotty's flashlight forgotten.

As to Wallace—who was watching the pair of them, and no doubt wondering a good deal what was up—he was to be left in the charge of Chops until happier days came round, when she should meet them both again.

Well, the caravan was to start at midnight from the station, but she was taken away to that place in the afternoon. The very last thing that Lotty did was to gather a lapful of the wild-flowers he—Antony—loved so well, and bedeck the saloon and bedroom therewith.

At long last Lotty had one more look round the camp to say good-bye to Bruin. She dared not excite suspicion by saying good-bye to any one else; but Mary noticed the poor girl had been crying, and wondered much what was the reason of her sadness.

She only said, 'Good-night, Mary. Crona wants me to stop a while with her, and I want to see her again.'

'See you to-morrow, anyhow,' said Mary.

That was all. And if Lotty had really told a little white fib, and she feared she had, she was much concerned about it. She was very silent all the way through the forest, and permitted Chops to lead her most of the way. But just as they came in sight of Crona's cottage Chops stopped.

'Miss Lotty,' he said, 'which we've been good friends, hasn't us?'

'That we have, dear old Chops.'

'Well, ye wouldn't like to see me angry, just real angry, would ye?'

'Oh no, Chops.'

Then he popped a little paper-parcel into her bag. 'I don't want that,' he said. 'I saved it up for a rainy day; and, oh Lotty, the rainy day has come!'

Well, so far as the poor lad's face was concerned, it had, for Chops was crying.

CHAPTER XXV.

'WE'VE GOT A LITTLE STOWAWAY HERE, GUARD.'

But presently the puff-puff-puff of the starting train resolved itself into a steady roar, and she knew she was off and away. But she was tired and sleepy as well as very heavy-hearted and sad, so she flashed her light a little and found a big plaid to cover her; and, arranging the pillows, she lay down on the sofa to think. With that plaid—a good Gordon tartan it was—around her she did not feel half so lonely. It was just as if its owner were sitting somewhere near to her in the saloon. She said, 'Good-night, Chops,' and Good-night, Wallace,' and 'Good-night, Mr Blake.' This, of course, was merely make-believe. In three minutes more she was as sound asleep as ever she had been in her life before, and it was quite daylight before she awakened. She looked her little watch—a present from Crona herself—and found it was nine o'clock, and past. She got up now, and, going away back into the pantry, permitted water to flow into the basin and had a delightfully cool wash. Then she felt hungry, and had a nice breakfast—a cold boiled egg, nice scones and butter, and a glass of milk.

After breakfast she put her hand into her bag to get the chocolates, and big, luscious ones they were. She found Chops's little parcel. It was rolled in a great many pieces of newspaper and tied ever so many times with pieces of wool; but at last it revealed two gold sovereigns, three half-crowns, and ever so many threepenny bits.

'Dear good Chops!' she could not help saying aloud, and her eyes were dim as she thought of him. She put it safely away, and sat down to think and wonder how soon she could pay it all back again. But then, of course, it wasn't spent yet, and Lotty resolved to save it all she could.

A small jewelled clock stood in a case right over the table, and this Lotty now wound up and put right. Sometimes, when the train stopped a few minutes at a station in comparative quiet, this clock could be heard ticking; but whether ticking or not it was really a great comfort to her. She was so glad there was plenty of light. What would she have done had the skylight itself, like the windows, been closed up?

Twenty-four hours; but it would be a long, long day to her with nothing to do! Only, she had been in caravans nearly all her life, and knew from experience that if one lies down the time seems to pass ever so much more quickly. So she found a nice book, and hauling the plaid up over her, for it was none too warm here without a fire, she lay down to read and think and dream day-dreams. But she dropped the book presently and thought she would count these chocolates just to make them last. Oh, what a nice big, deep box! And they were such good ones too, and coyly crisp to the teeth. She found there were twoscore and ten all told. Well, she would have five to begin with. But when these five were done for—five chocolates won't last for ever—she was afraid she must have three more.

Then she resolutely put away the box and as resolutely began to read. She was glad it wasn't a silly love-story, and felt sure that Mr Blake was far above books of that sort. This was a volume of startling adventures far, far away in the wild interior of Borneo. And there were terrible savages in it, who had big holes bored through their ears and their upper lips to carry ugly knives in; and there was much fighting with white men; and there was a poor boy who was carried off to be fattened and eaten by a real cannibal king, but a pretty black princess who took pity on him just as he was nearly fat enough and doomed to be killed, and cooked with curry and rice the very next day. So this princess cut the thongs that bound the poor boy, and took him into the forest, and bade him keep on and on towards the eastern sun, and after many weeks he would come to the big blue sea and be sure to find a boat. But there was a great chase after him, and he was nearly captured many times, and had most astounding adventures, all of which occupied fully two hundred pages; and then, lo! it was one o'clock and time for dinner.

Just one chocolate—no, two, and that would make the other five!

Lotty had a beautiful pie for dinner, which Crona had made for her, and she left the half of it for supper. She had a bottle of nicely made coffee too, though it was cold, besides some fruit. She felt ever so much better now, and took out of her bag some knitting and set vigorously to work.

But she didn't get on very quickly, she had to pause to think so often—sometimes about the camp, and Chops, and Crona, and Wallace, and sometimes about Antony. Also, she spent much time in wondering what sort of a home Chops's mother would give her, and if ever she would see the skipper's wife of the wrecked Cumberland any more.

She put away the knitting at last and had coffee for her tea, with bread and butter and some fruit. Then she sat down to write a letter to Mr Blake, and to confess how wicked it was of her, and how naughty above all things to travel in his beautiful caravan. After she had come to the words, 'This is all at present,' she thought how foolish it looked, so she tore it up and wrote another, and laid it down till she should address the envelope. Then she read it over and found she had spelt saloon with two l's—thus, 'salloon.' 'But has it one "l" or really two?' she said to herself as she began to chew the end of her fountain pen. 'Let me see—balloon has two "l's;" what has saloon or salloon ever done that it shouldn't have two. Oh, bother, I'll tear it up and write one more.'

She wasn't pleased even with that, but she put it in the envelope and dropped it into her bag to be posted. No, she wouldn't though; she took it out again and pinned it to a book, where he would be sure to see it. 'Second thoughts,' she told herself, 'are always best.'

She really hadn't meant to have any more chocolates; but somehow her hand went gradually towards them, and—she had six before she halted!

Lotty took her violin out of its case now. Luckily she had brought that with her, for it was light and easy to carry, so she fingered the strings, not daring to use the bow, and played thus to herself for two whole hours. This was by no means a fast train, and it made many very long stops. But something had happened during the previous night that Lotty was not aware of, being sound asleep. Part of the train had been detached and shunted into a siding somewhere up near Huntly, and it had not started again till nearly nine, when the girl awoke. She managed to hear the name of every station they passed through, and about one hour south of Glasgow, lo! the train stopped altogether, and Lotty could hear a stationmaster saying to porters, 'That truck with the gipsy wagon on it must be detached and lie here, to go down with the ten-fifteen passenger to-morrow forenoon.'

This was bad news for poor Lotty, but it could not be helped. She was angry on Mr Blake's account too, for he had paid special rates, and this was how he was being treated.

It was now nearly eight o'clock, and everything was still and quiet inside, for the 'Gipsy Queen' had been shunted into a siding. What was Lotty to do? Well, she had her supper, and then some more chocolates. But the night fell, and it was ever so lonesome, dark, and silent.

It might have been about half-past twelve when she awoke with a start and sprang to her feet. She was trembling now like the leaves of the aspen, for she could hear voices muttering outside the back door, and some one tried the handle. Most girls would have screamed. Lotty did not; she drew nearer to the door, and listened.

'This is the caravan, Lintie, a nobleman's, they say. Let's try those keys. I'll break the lock afore I'm beaten. Plenty o' swag in here, Lintie, and nobody'll know the crib has ever been cracked.'

Key after key was tried in vain, and poor Lotty was nearly fainting.

'Here, Lintie, the jemmy; hand it up. I'm going in whatever happens.'

There was glass in the back door; and, hardly knowing what she did, Lotty flashed her electric light through that, full in the hideous, grimy face of the would-be burglar. She stamped her feet at the same time, and rattled the door-handle. The next moment, with something like an oath and a smothered shout, the burglars made off.

But Lotty slept no more till daylight, and when she awoke the train was far on its way to the Border. It was moving very quickly too; she knew that from the motion. But, oh! how she hoped and prayed the train would go right on now to London, for she determined she would leave it anywhere rather than be shunted into the dark of a siding again. But, much to her joy, the train went rattling on and on, so after breakfast and some more of Chops's chocolates she forgot all her troubles, even opened the front door and went out to sit in the coachman's seat and gaze on the beautiful landscape gliding swiftly past her like some splendid panorama.

The sun was shining brightly to-day, the sky everywhere clear and blue, with only a few white clouds on the western horizon. It was the sunshine of earliest summer, a sunshine of promise, a sunshine, too, that seemed to find an echo in this little gipsy's heart. Even the train's rapid motion accorded with the girl's feelings, making her feel that she was leaving something of sorrow and darkness behind her and bringing her every hour nearer and nearer to a happier future.

Yet Lotty could not help thinking, while she sat here in the bright forenoon sunshine, how sad it was that so much of real joy should have been in her camp-life mingled with the embittering gall of misery. For, as far as her relations with Biffins Lee had existed, her life had been one long woe. She bore him no ill-will, however; he had been a hard taskmaster, and she merely a little white slave, useful to him in his business, a mere property, that was all. What her life as a show-girl would have been without Crona, Chops, and Mary she could not have told you. 'Oh,' she would have said, 'it would have been no life, for I would simply have died.'

She tried even now to think back to some little kindness of deed or even speech of Lee's that was not born of self-interest. She could not find even one; as regards her education, he had been most particular, and had paid her teachers well, but this was merely in order that as a property she might have more value.

And then, all at once, a cold hand seemed to clutch at her heart, and some evil thing appeared to whisper to her the words: 'Biffins Lee will find you wherever you go, and take you back by force to his show.' Poor girl! She did not know then that he had no legal right to do anything of the sort. But the thought, once implanted in her mind, took firm root, and grew and increased till it made her miserable. But for the time being only. Who could be miserable any length of time on so glad and bright a day as this? With the fresh air on her face, she began to feel drowsy.

'But,' she said to herself, 'I might drop off to sleep, and fall right down out of the caravan and be killed.' So once more she sought the interior, comforted herself with a few more chocolates, carefully counted how many were left, then got in under the plaidie to read. But to read was to feel drowsy, and in a few minutes' time this little gipsy lass was safe in the kind arms of Morpheus.

. . . . . . .

Chops, going back homewards through the moor and the woods, felt so lonesome that the evening actually seemed cold, for grief has this chilling effect at times. He was very glad, indeed, when at long and last the light from Crona's romantic wee cot blinked out through the gloom of the gathering night-shadows. It might have been this light that accounted for what immediately followed, for Chops had a sudden inspiration. Although he was a poet—or thought himself so, and few even of the best of us get much farther—it was seldom indeed that Nature vouchsafed him a sudden inspiration. And when this one came he stopped short at once, and a beaming, fatty sort of a smile illumined his face to such an extent that for a moment it might have been mistaken for a will-o'-the-wisp.

'I'll do it,' he said. 'Yes, I'll do it to-morrow mornin' right away. Wonder I didn't think of telling Miss Lotty. But w'ich it'll be a pleasant serprise for her.'

He hurried on now, and was soon inside the cottage; and Crona, knowing Chops's weakness, set about laying the supper.

'Just 'ad a henspyration, Crona!'

'And what is it, dear boy?'

'The henspyration,' said Chops impressively, 'is a tillygrum.'

'A telegram, Chops? There, you'll find that a nice bit of supper!'

'A tillygrum, Crona, to-morrow mornin' fust thing. Runs with it my single self to make sure. And that tillygrum will be to Mrs Oak, derelict of Capting Oak of the wretched ship Cumberland, Capstan Cottage, Shepherd's Bush, London. An' it will say—the tillygrum will say—"Meet Lotty at King's Cross in the caravan, on Friday first as ever was.—Yours to order, Chops."'

'Very good idea of yours, Chops; but you couldn't put all that in a telegram. Besides, Captain Oak isn't dead, so Mrs Oak isn't a relict, let alone a derelict. I'll write the telegram, Chops, this very night.'

. . . . . . .

The lights of London were beginning to spring up here and there in windows as the train drew into the gloom of King's Cross, and Lotty seized her little bag and fiddle-case, got out, locked her door, and leapt off the truck and almost into the arms of kindly Mrs Oak and the stationmaster himself. After the first greetings, the guard came hurrying up.

'We've got a little stowaway here, guard,' said the man with the gold band, laughing. 'Travelled all the way from Scotland in her own caravan!'

'Well, well, well! And a pretty little stowaway she is. 'Pon my soul, if I'd known she was with me, stationmaster, I would have been sorely tempted to neglect my duty, and travelled with her in the same carriage.'

'Thanks, dear,' he said when Lotty gave up her ticket.

'I suppose,' said the little gipsy, 'I was infringing orders.'

'I don't know really if we have a bylaw that would cover this case; but, depend upon it, that if your friend Mrs Oak hadn't come I should have made you a prisoner, and taken you home to my wife, if only for the sake of seeing a little more of so interesting and pretty a stowaway.'

For verily, verily, reader, even a stationmaster is 'gallantly personified' where beauty is concerned.

Lotty did think it so kind and thoughtful of Chops to send that telegram, and it certainly was a most pleasant surprise to her. She much needed rest, too, and so she gladly went home that night with Mrs Oak to Capstan Cottage, and was glad to meet her husband James once more. He was on shore for just a fortnight, then bound for the West Indies in a better ship than ever he had commanded before. But, tired though she was, Lotty did not go to bed until she had written both to Crona and to Chops himself. And next day Mrs Oak went with Lotty all the way to Highgate Heath.