'I don't really know, Cousin Aggie, what should be done with a girl like you.'

'Oh, I do, Cousin Gust.'

'Well?'

'Why, leave her alone.'

'Just so. You are very provoking, though I must allow you are pretty when you are provoking. But, really now, dear, I shall never marry until the day when'——

'When what?'

'When I marry you.'

'And you think that day will ever come?'

'It is certain to. Let me see—you are twenty I think?'

'Twenty, yes. No use calling myself any younger for the next ten years.'

'Well, and I am five-and-twenty, possessed of a moderate share of good looks, have a little money, the entrée to good society, and splendid prospects.'

'Your elephant isn't dead, is he, cousin?'

'Oh, I'm not trumpeting, I'm only pleading my own cause, Aggie. And I know that our union would be—nay, but I shall say will be—a very happy one. And what is more, dear cousin, and what may appeal to you as a sensible girl, your father would not be averse to our marriage.'

'Did you ask him?'

'No. That is—well, I didn't quite ask him, but I seem to feel that he wouldn't object.'

'And I suppose you think this is the correct way of wooing a young girl and gaming her affections, do you?'

'A sensible girl, yes.'

'But I'm not a sensible girl, and I wouldn't be a sensible girl for all the world. Sensible girls went out long ago with crinoline and that sort of thing. Probably there was a time when, if a man wanted to marry the daughter, he began by making love to the father. But that sort of thing is quite out of date.'

She touched the bell as she spoke.

'Oh, Dobson, I'll have my horse round in half an hour. The chestnut with the white feet, tell the groom.'

'You are going to hunt?' said Gustie.

'Yes; but I'll go to the meet without a cavalier. My chestnut is in fine form, I'm told, and I do long to have the dust blown out of my hair.'

'I cannot go with you, my pretty cousin.'

'Nobody axed you, sir,' she said, or rather sung.

Now, it happened that Antony's letter had come among others that very morning, and she had left it in her boudoir to read it a second time, but had forgotten it. It is not pleasant to write about shabby actions or disagreeable people, but at times there is no help for it.

Gustie, going to the room some time after in search of his cousin, found she had left. He lingered a little here, and his eyes fell upon the letter. He was quite unfamiliar with Antony's calligraphy—indeed, the two did not correspond, for they had nothing in common.

'Hallo!' he thought, 'a letter to Agg, and from a gentleman too! Perhaps I have a rival.'

He was fingering it now.

'Would it be a breach in my dignity were I to open it, I wonder?'

Footsteps were approaching, so he hurriedly dropped it into his pocket and was studying a picture when the maid entered. She would have retreated at once, but he called her.

‘’Pon my word,' he said, catching her hand, 'a charming little puss. Should like to'——

'Better not, sir.'

'Let me see, I think I have a loose half-crown somewhere.'

'Do you let them run loose, sir?'

'I was just looking for my cousin, but find she has gone. There, you need not mention our little tête-à-tête to your mistress.'

And off he went to his own room, and some time after strolled into the library, where he found Mr Blake, senior, studying Debrett. They talked somewhat indifferently for a time.

Then Mr Blake said, 'You look preoccupied, Gustus. Have you anything particular to say?'

'Well, I have; but it is sometimes difficult to reconcile apparent duty to one with friendship for another.'

'Explain.'

'Well, the letter I found in the hall. Cousin Aggie must have dropped it when going out. I suppose at the time my thoughts had gone a wool-gathering, for I read part of it, enough to cause me to come to the conclusion that you should see it.'

He placed the letter on the table and retired, and there it lay until Mr Blake threw himself into his easy leather-backed chair to smoke. At first he was rather amused, then a shade of disappointment stole over his face, but no anger.

'Stupid boy!' he said. 'When I told him he might have his fling, I didn't mean he was to make a fool of himself.'

Then he got up and paced the floor for a few minutes. Already the evil seed that Gustus had sown so artfully was beginning to swell.

'Confound it all!' said Blake, half-aloud, as he tossed away half a cigar and proceeded to light another, 'that boy can't have much of the real blood of the old Blakes in him. 'Pon my soul, I'd rather he was a trifle wicked than a downright fool. Let me see—he hopes the old dad (that's me) won't take on about this when I (that's Frank) tell him. And it's just "dad," doesn't even honour me with a capital D. No, Frank Antony, the old dad is not going to lose his hair over this. Ah, well, he's only a boy!'

He smoked for a while, then got up to write, for he was a busy man. Presently he took the letter and went to his daughter's room and placed it on the table, meaning to tell Aggie all about it when she returned. But Polly her maid was before him.

'Oh, miss, w'at do you think?'

Aggie was dressing for dinner.

'Think about what, Polly?'

'Oh, miss, Mr Gustie gave me a kiss.'

'Well?'

'Yes, and a 'alf-crown.'

'Where, and when, and what for?'

'In your budd-oyre, miss, soon's you were gone, not to tell he stole your letter from dear Master Antony.'

'But I found the letter on the table where I left it.'

'Yes, miss, cause master hisself put it there.'

'Did my cousin, Mr Robb, give it to father?'

'That he did. I see'd him with these beautiful eyes, as Mr Gustie called 'em. And I 'eard all 'e said, and master too.'

'Ah! Polly, never mind; but I'm afraid you have neither earned your kiss nor your half-crown. There's a dress of mine, Polly, you can have for the servants' ball next month. It only wants altering.'

'Oh, thanks; and I won't ever let Mr Gustie kiss me or 'alf-crown me never no more. Yours until death do us part, Polly Smiggins.'

Then Aggie Blake went down to dinner.

'Oh, by the way, Aggie,' said Mr Blake, 'did you find your letter? You had dropped it on the hall-floor, and then it was picked up, and I placed it on your desk.'

'Thank you very much, papa. It was only from Antony. He is enjoying himself very much, and is going to travel soon. Shall I give it to you?'

'Oh, you needn't, Aggie. Fact is, seeing it was in Frank's handwriting, I'm afraid I was rude enough to read it.'

'Was it the butler who found it, daddy?'

'Ye—ye—es,' Gustus Robb interjected. 'The fellow picked it up just as I was entering the library, and I handed it to you, Mr Blake.'

The only reply Aggie made was, 'Um—m—m!'

And that might have meant anything.

CHAPTER XI.

BLOWN OUT TO SEA.

There was but little doing in camp at present. The show was seldom visited except when some new feature was advertised in the neighbouring towns. The merman, it was stated in the Murlin and Creel, was hibernating, but sometimes awoke and came to the surface, ravenous for want of food. The dreaded dooroocoolie gave voice but seldom now, but was quite prepared to swallow any boy under fifteen that came within reach of its fearful jaws.

It must not be supposed, however, that there was any such thing as idleness in the camp. No, for every one under Biffins Lee had to work hard for his 'screw.' Moreover, there was to be great doings about the New Year, and when these were over the Queerest Show would be preparing for the spring campaign. But New Year's Day was some distance ahead yet, so Lotty had plenty of time to row, to sail, and manœuvre her New Jenny Wren. She took the skiff out first all alone by herself, but did not venture to sail. So pleased with her seaworthiness was she that she next took Chops with her, and this youth was even a better sailor than Lotty. They tried the Jenny Wren with the mainsail, then with mainsail and jib, and in a second and third cruise also with the gaff most tentatively. The ballast was well secured so as not to shift, and Lotty clapped her hands with delight to see how close to the wind the pretty craft could sail, and how like a 'puffick hangel,' as Chops called her, she behaved.

Then after this Lotty ventured out alone with Wallace, bending what she called her storm-jib, and having a reef in the mainsail, but no gaff. With so well-ballasted and nicely built a boat this was a very safe rig. Last of all, she took Antony himself for a sail, and tried the experiment of having Wallace at the same time lying on a lot of tarpaulin for'ard towards the bows. Everything went well, and young Blake expressed himself as delighted beyond measure.

Lotty's experiments were not nearly all over yet. But the thoughtful child always went alone when there was the slightest danger, and there was always a spice of this when there was a bit of a breeze on. On such occasions the marvel was that the Jenny Wren did not capsize; but her little skipper evidently knew what she was about. She went round, too, with the greatest caution; and sometimes, had she not been one of the strongest girls for her age that ever swung an Indian club, her boat-sail would have defeated her. She always kept her craft well trimmed, and had an eagle eye to the ballast before she put to sea. And such confidence did Lotty gain at last, not only in her own prowess and management, but in the seaworthiness and good qualities of the Jenny Wren, that she feared nothing, and never seemed to be so much at home as when out on the open sea.

Biffins Lee, to tell the whole truth, rather encouraged her in rashness than the contrary. This man was inordinately fond of money, or rather perhaps the making of it. To him this was a species of gambling that he could never tire of; and now—at times when Lotty was out in her boat, 'evoluting,' as she called it—he used to walk the beach, watching her through his spyglass, and wondering whether he could not make this infant prodigy of his pay as a daring child-sailor.

It is doubtful whether he had any real love for Lotty apart from the money she brought to his purse, the grist to his mill. Her feats of strength were certainly marvellous enough in all conscience for one so young. Somehow, Frank Antony did not like to see his little friend on the stage performing any of her 'tit-bits,' as she laughingly called them. He had seen her once swinging the clubs to music with a gracefulness of strength and attitudes such as he had never believed possible. But he had not gone a second time. He used to hear the wild shouts of applause sometimes when he knew her to be acting, and was satisfied with that.

There is, of course, a deal of art and artfulness in feats of strength. Every muscle of the body must be made the right use of at the proper time, and every nerve and sinew has to perform its own duty in its own place. There must be method, else, to put it in plain language, one muscle may get in the way of the other.

It was very easy for Lotty, after getting gracefully into position, to have Skeleton to leap nimbly on her shoulders and stand there, a trained cat running up his back and sitting down on his head, and finally a white rat to run up over all, and, standing on pussy's back, wave the Union-jack. It was more difficult for Lotty to balance herself with one foot on Wallace's shoulders and one on his rump, her arms extended, and thus permit Skeleton to take his place on her shoulders. But the main feat of strength undoubtedly lay in rising off the stage, on which she had crouched, with all the weight of Mary the fat lady on her back. This was not only wonderful, but it was positive cruelty to the child. Only, it brought down the house, and that was all Biffins Lee cared about.

There were performing Shetland ponies at the Queerest Show on Earth, and with these not only Lotty, but Chops, Skeleton, and Mary performed in a marvellous way. One pony was but little bigger than Wallace, and the two together never failed to create quite a sensation, so numerous were the tricks they tried. The strange thing is this: in their play not even Biffins Lee himself knew beforehand exactly what was going to take place. There appeared to be the most complete understanding betwixt dog and pony. Sometimes it was Wallace who suggested a new antic, and sometimes it was evidently the pony. But it was certain that both of them were delighted with the roars of laughter they succeeded in eliciting from the audience. At the conclusion of a performance like this Lee would come to the front of the stage, leading Wallace with his left hand and Tony the pony with his right. Both animals bent low their heads and forelegs by way of making a bow, then Lee would put to his audience the question: 'Which is the nobler animal?' and asked for a show of hands, first for Wallace, and then for Tony. It was not always apparent who had it. Only, Wallace was not yet eighteen months old, while Tony scored ten years.

No, it was not Lotty the show-girl whom Antony loved—well, liked, then—but Lotty, his dear, delightful little companion of the woods and wilds.

. . . . . . .

Terrible are the squalls that sometimes rise suddenly during the winter over this far northern sea, and frequently they break the weather for days. Probably Lotty had become too confident in the sailing qualities and prowess of her tiny yacht and in her undoubted abilities as skipper; and she thus grew almost foolhardy. But then she was only a child, albeit an infant prodigy.

There is a long twilight even in winter up in these latitudes; but one afternoon the sea was so inviting, the sky so serene, that Lotty had been manœuvring the Jenny Wren farther from shore than probably she believed herself to be. Suddenly she noticed a huge black cloud rising rapidly up in the south-west. So dense and dark was it that, though fringed along its top-edge at first by the yellow-gold light of sunset, it speedily assumed the appearance of a huge pall obscuring the sky and obliterating every vestige of twilight from the surface of the sea. Lotty could see a line of foam approaching, and for the first time in her boating career she felt nervous. She never lost her presence of mind for one moment, however.

The wind had changed a bit, and well she knew it would soon blow almost a hurricane off the shore. But she was ready. Down went the helm; she lowered sail quickly. The danger was in broaching-to, and she had to act as skipper and crew as well—ay, and the man at the wheel—for she must try to keep the skiffs head to the wind and seas. Only her extraordinary strength enabled her now to unstep the mast, and this with the oars and sail she quickly tied together with some spare rope and the sheet. She worked cautiously, yet with a speed that was wondrous, tying everything securely and with the best of sailor's knots, and finally crawling aft and fastening the boat's painter firmly to the whole as near to the centre of the jib as possible.

Then overboard with a flash went the lashed oars and spar, but not a second too soon. The squall drove down on her with tremendous force, and had the painter snapped nothing could have saved the gipsy lass from a watery grave. But that painter held, and next moment she was crouching in comparative safety between the bows of the Jenny Wren.

There was driving scud and spray, almost whole water at times, and a constant lifting of the after-part of the boat, which seemed to flog the seas with a noise that made Lotty think the timbers were snapping. But as the tiny yacht filled up with water till she was nearly swamped both this movement and the noise became less apparent. Lotty had no intention, however, of letting the Jenny Wren get wholly swamped, so as soon as the first force of the squall had abated a little she set herself to bail the boat. The bailer was semi-shallow and a very useful one. It was lashed so that there could be no danger of losing it.

Both water and wind now were bitterly cold, and the work of bailing put some life in the girl. She did not mind that she was drenched as far as feet and legs went, for she was well used to that, and her body was well protected by a smart oilskin, her head by a natty little sou'-wester tied with a ribbon firmly under her chin. It was the girl's pride to have everything on board the Jenny Wren ship-shape and Bristol fashion. Attached to a girdle round her waist she had even a small compass, and in a waterproof bag lashed under a thwart was a strong electric flashlight. In this bag also were stored provisions and a bottle of milk, to say nothing of a bagful of hazel-nuts and a box of chocolate which Chops had bought her when last at the neighbouring town.

She was thankful that she had not brought Wallace, for he might have got excited and swamped the boat.

It was now very dark, and every now and then the squall came down with merciless force upon her, so that, with the chance of the painter snapping when extra strain was on it, or the lashed spars being driven down upon the bows and staving them in, Lotty's position was that of exceeding great peril. In the midst of it all, however, she felt hungry, and presently crept farther aft; and, in spite of the intense darkness that now reigned, managed to open the bag and secure her supper. At the same time she took out her flashlight and hung this by its ring on to her girdle. She had a long draught of milk and returned the bottle, then—with a portion of food, a few nuts, and all the chocolates—she got forward again and resumed her place under the bows.

Her supper revived her spirits and courage, although as yet she had not taken into consideration the chances of her being able to ride out the storm to leeward of her bundle of oars and spars. It was well for her she did not think much, for she was entirely at the mercy of the wind and the waves, and drifting nor'ard and east into one of the wildest seas anywhere around our coasts. More than a sea was this; it was part of the great Atlantic Ocean, that extended in one unbroken line or expanse till it reached the Arctic and thundered upon the wintry bergs of the sea of ice itself. But, more betoken, the farther away the boat drifted from the shore, the higher became the waves, the less the poor wee gipsy lass's chance of keeping above the stormy waves.

CHAPTER XII.

'OUT YONDER, ON THE LEE BOW, SIR.'

To young Blake the whole affair was too frightful to contemplate. To have tried not to think of it would have been an act of cowardice, and to hope against hope seemed folly. Never till now had he known how his little companion had, with her innocence and winsome ways, wound herself round his heart, entwined herself into his affections. Strong he was, it is true, but in character most gentle and loving. He almost cursed the day now on which he had ordered the new boat. The old one that he had been so awkward as to sink was less safe in reality. Yet Lotty knew it, and would not have dared so much in it.

In about half an hour after the first fierce squall the darkness lifted just a little; then with his best telescope anxiously did Antony sweep the sea, while Biffins with his did the same. Not a speck of anything was to be seen.

'She has gone down,' raved the gipsy Lee; 'boat and all has sunk. And Lotty was the best property of the show. I am ruined! I am ruined!'

Antony was looking at the man hard and angrily.

'It is only the show you think of, Mr Lee. Have you neither love nor pity for the lost child—your daughter?' It was with difficulty Antony could utter the last two words.

'True, true,' Biffins replied; 'it is a pity about the lass; it is a pity all ways of it, and—I'll never get another like Lotty.'

Blake walked away. He felt that had he waited another minute he would have been tempted to fell the man on the beach where he stood.

He met Mary. Poor fat soul! she was wringing her hands in the anguish of really womanly grief.

'Oh, my bonny bairn!' she was crying. 'Oh, Mr Blake, you loved her, but will never see the lassie mair.'

'Cheer up, Mrs Pendlebury; cheer up, we may still hope.'

'Hope, sir; hope? Na, na; there are few ships on that dark sea at this time of the year. Oh, the cruel winds and the cruel, cruel waves!'

Chops was huddled up beside the great caravan, silent, dumb with the great sorrow that had overtaken him. Having no word of comfort to utter, Antony entered the 'Gipsy Queen' and lit his lamps. Wallace was on the sofa. He whined and cried when Antony came in. Well did he know his mistress was gone. The young man sat down beside him and took his great head in his lap; but the dog refused consolation, and at every outside sound lifted his head, holding it a little to one side as he listened and watched the door.

All this was more than Antony could endure, and he formed a sudden resolve. He would go right away out into the night, and, if he could but find his way through the upland woods, pay a visit to Crona in her lonely cottage. Battling with the wind would help to assuage his grief.

'Yes, Wallace, you may come. We are going to the house of Crona, dear boy.'

The dog sprang down off the couch at once and shook himself in readiness. No doubt he thought he was going to find Lotty.

Antony took a strong flashlight with him, and after telling Mary of his intentions, started off at once. Until well into the very depths of the forest the road was by no means difficult to follow; but it was dangerous from the falling branches, while the roar of the wind among the lofty pines was bewildering. But for Wallace he would certainly have failed to keep upon the little winding footpath. But the trees that Chops had blazed assisted him considerably, and after a tiresome march he came out into the open and could now see the blinking light in the witch's window. He was soon near enough to hear the yapping of the startled fox, and when he reached the door and knocked he speedily heard Crona behind it asking in Scotch, 'Fa [who] be ye that knocks sae bauldly at an auld body's door at this untimeous oor o' nicht?'

'It is me, Crona. Me—Antony Blake.'

Then the door was opened, and the light of the blazing fire fell upon his face.

When he told his story she was not nearly so much astonished as he expected she would be.

'Something told me what would happen,' she replied smiling; 'and I tell you now, Frank Antony Blake, to keep up your heart, for Lotty will return.'

'Oh, Crona, if I could but believe it! But tell me, now that we are alone, have you really the gift of second-sight?'

Said Crona in reply, 'There is no gift about it, dear boy, though to ignorant people who consult me on their future I might put on airs of mystery, and say:

Antony held his peace.

'To you,' she added, 'I tell the truth, that palmistry, even prophecy, if you like to call it so, is only the outcome of long study and science. I know you are fond of your playmate, boy, for you are little else; well, pray if you like, for there is One who heareth prayer.'

'Oh, I have prayed, Crona, ever so much, all the way through the forest. But you give me a little hope, and I am so glad I have come.'

'Lotty will return,' Crona said again.

And Antony was now smiling.

'Think you she has been picked up by some vessel already?'

She did not answer immediately. The blazing peat and wood sent darting tongues of flame up through the blue-white smoke, and it was at these the witch was gazing.

'I can see the dear bairn at this moment,' she said. 'Lotty is crouching under the bows of her boat, and this is riding to the lee of something, I cannot tell you what. That is all you or I will know to-night.' Then she placed her hand on the back of his, and smoothed, patted, and stroked it.

It may have been some magnetic influence, or it may not; but true it is that from that moment Antony mourned no more for Lotty, only hoped.

But now she began to speak of himself, and told him much as she looked at his palm about his past and not a little about his future.

'Have you an enemy,' she said abruptly; 'a tall, dark man?'

'Oh, there is nearly always a tall, dark man in fortune-telling, Crona.'

'I am not fortune-telling, dear, foolish boy.'

Then Antony suddenly remembered his cousin Gustus.

'That man,' said Crona, 'will work you and yours evil. Beware of him.'

The fire was making Blake drowsy perhaps. He could see Tod Lowrie curled up in a corner into which Wallace had quietly rolled him, as he always did; pussy nodding in the binkie; and, not far off, Joe himself with his head buried underneath his ragged wing. Then he knew nothing more until daylight. But he went back home to camp with a new hope in his heart that nothing could entirely extinguish, and told poor Mary all his adventure.

. . . . . . .

Perhaps at the very time that Antony awoke in Crona's cottage, Lotty also awoke, but under sadly different circumstances. The wind was still roaring across the sea, but the boat was almost empty of water, and, crouched up as she had been, she was fairly dry and warm. But she noted now that one of the lashings of the sail she had fixed around the oars and mast was coming undone. She got hold of the painter and commenced, against the scud of the sea, to round in the slack of it, thus working the little boat at great risk up to her floating moorings.

It took her a whole hour to make things taut and trim and safe. But they were so at last, and now the child discovered that she was very hungry. So she opened the bag and looked over the stores, as she termed the food. Quite as wise and provident was Lotty as any skipper who had been to sea all his life. She found that the food would last for a whole day, and the milk longer. Then there would be the nuts—Chops's nuts.

'Poor Chops!' she sighed. 'Why, the stupid boy loves me so much that he will be half-dead with grief.'

She had a meagre breakfast and a little sup of milk, but felt very cold after eating, and her legs were cramped. But Lotty did not dare to stand up, the wind was so high. She simply stretched her numbed limbs, and this relieved her a little.

The whole of that day, whenever the boat was on the crest of a high wave, she kept looking out. But nothing saw she until the red sun was nearly setting and turning the spray into frothy blood; then, oh joy! a steamer bearing right down towards her. Oh joy! and oh hope! but oh grief and collapse when it passed on its way and never saw the Jenny Wren!

Then down went the angry sun, and, slowly to-night, came darkness on. But although the spray dashed inboard so much that she scarce could look to windward, the sky was clear and a thousand bright stars were shining.

Later on there was the aurora borealis. Later still, and after eating a few nuts, the gipsy lass, still crouching in the old place, fell into a deep, sound sleep while saying her prayers.

. . . . . . .

'But I tell you it is, sir. Just out yonder on the lee bow, sir; my night-glass never told me a fib yet.'

'Well, mate, if you like to keep away a bit and maybe save a life, as you suggest, you may do so; only, don't let her get stove on top of some floating wreckage.'

'The wind is nearly down, skipper, though the seas are a bit high.'

'Hard a-port!'

'Hard it is, sir!'

'Easy, steady as you go!'

A short, sturdy sailor was this mate, a bearded man with a kindly eye, who had roughed it far away in the Greenland Ocean even from his boyhood, and the bark he was now on board of was the Nor'lan' Star of Hull, on a voyage now to Archangel for timber. Few vessels dared so dangerous a voyage at this season; but those brave fellows who did managed to make a very good thing of it. There was a big lump of a boy standing by his side in the starlight.

'Take a look through that glass, Ben, my lad.

Focus her to your own tune, and squint ahead. See anything?'

'Ay, that do I, mate. Summat dark but dippin', dippin' ahind the seas like.'

'I thought your young sight was better than mine. See anything else?'

'It is a small boat, sir, and she is moored to leeward of something floating. And oh, sir, I can see a figure for'ard. Now, now I see a hand raised!'

Lotty's hand might have been raised in a dream, yet was she fast enough asleep.

'Ben, hustle aft with all your might and fetch me a Roman candle.'

There was a bright dazzling light all around the little boat, and Lotty awoke with a start, very much bewildered to see stars, bright crimson, blue, and green, falling all about her in the sea.

But she had sense enough to know it was a rocket of some kind, and quickly pulled herself together. A noise of voices shouting came down the wind, and she flashed her light over and over again to show the sailors of that huge, dark ship that someone was alive in the boat. Presently the black hull of the bark was looming within fifty yards over her, and she could see her masts waving back and fore among the glittering stars. She did not forget to thank God for the deliverance that was close at hand. She, too, had been praying until, childlike, she had fallen asleep in the middle of 'Our Father, who art.'

The rough sailors carried her tenderly on deck and aft, and even the Jenny Wren was hoisted. Then sails were filled, and northwards once more sailed the Nor'lan' Star.

The skipper had his wife on board, and she hardly knew how kind to be to poor Lotty, who was soon sound asleep on the saloon sofa, all her cares forgotten for the time being.

. . . . . . .

The time in camp went wearily by—oh, so wearily!—day after day, a whole week, and there was no word or sign of Lotty.

Antony got all the newspapers he could think of, and read them, inch by inch, handing them quietly to Biffins Lee to glance at after he had finished. As long as he found nothing about Lotty in the paper hope lived in his heart, but again and again, to keep it burning, he had to recall the words of Crona. He feared, somehow, to go back there again notwithstanding, lest she might have received some second revelation that would dash all that hope aside.

Wallace followed him everywhere and slept in his caravan at night. But the dog seemed very nervous at times, and would start as if with fear when he heard the slightest unusual sound. Antony avoided Biffins as much as he possibly could, because the man appeared to have but one string on which he cared to harp—namely, the utter ruin to the Queerest Show that the loss of Lotty Lee was bound to entail.

But one day a strange thing happened. Antony Blake was walking sadly enough by the seashore at some distance from the camp, and Wallace himself quietly followed. Suddenly the great dog gave a yap of impatience, and, looking about, the young man saw him rush seawards, and, with a howl of mingled joy and despair apparently, take the water with a splash. And to his horror Antony noticed that the dog was making for some sort of cloth or garment that was rising and falling on the waves a long distance out. His heart almost stood still, and there were beads of cold perspiration on his brow as the dog seized the fearful something and was seen making his way inshore with it. It must be, young Antony thought, poor Lotty's dead body. He placed his hand over his eyes and kept it there for quite a long time, until he heard the dog bark again close beside him on the beach. What he had brought in was the mast and sail of the Jenny Wren. And Antony could breathe more freely now. But that night he made his way again to Crona's cottage, and, strangely enough, the old lady was waiting to receive him.

CHAPTER XIII.

ON BOARD THE 'NOR'LAN' STAR.'

Yet she could not help wondering what o'clock it might be, so she just opened her eyes wide enough to look lazily through the lashes at the wee clock that ticked up in the skylight. Lo! the clock was not there. That was a skylight sure enough, but not Lotty's, and—why, surely it was moving, and everything else seemed moving, even her bed and her body. What a droll dream to be sure! Then the sound of voices close beside her, and the music of knives and forks and plates fell upon her ears, and the whole appeared to be very real. What could have happened? Where could she be? She remembered nothing.

'Wasn't it a blessing, mate, that you discovered that bit of a boat?'

'It was a 'tarposition of Providence, and that's what I calls it. God is ever kind, and those that has got to live He will bring again up out of the depths of the yawning deep itself.'

'That's so, mate; that's so.—How sweet and pretty the child looks asleep there. I declare, wife, I would like to go and kiss her.'

'Then why don't you, dear?'

'Well, Maggie, at present my mouth's about half-full of kippered herring, and it seems to me that kippered herring and kisses are not on the same quarterdeck like.'

Lotty was beginning to think this surely could not be a dream, so she opened her eyes a very little way again and looked round her. She appeared to be inside a large German concertina, for this saloon was perfectly octagonal, but very cosily curtained and pretty, with plenty of pictures and photographs on the bulkheads. At the round table in the centre were seated four red people all looking her way—a rosy, motherly-like lady; a red-faced, good-natured-looking sumph of a lad, somewhat like Chops, but not so fat; a redder-faced, brown-bearded figure, jolly-looking, and dressed in blue pilot; and another man dressed similarly, the jolliest-looking and reddest of all—painted red by the sea every one of them, and by the spray of salt waves and the wild winds that had brushed their cheeks for many a long year.

Perhaps the skipper's wife had seen the flickering of the child's eyes, for she got up now and knelt down beside the sofa, taking Lotty's hand.

'Are you better, darling? You've had such a nice sleep.'

The bonny blue eyes were wide enough open now.

'It isn't a dream then?'

'No dream, little un,' said the skipper across the table. 'You are saved.'

'Oh, I don't like Salvation Army people,' cried Lotty; 'the band is vile. But this can't be heaven surely?'

'A long way off that port, my pretty. But you are saved, all the same, from a watery grave.'

'It were a 'tarposition of Providence, it were,' said the first mate. 'Hadn't been for the boy Ben, here, who is doin' dooty as second-mate, I wouldn't have seen Miss Mite. It's 'im ye've got to thank, little missie—nobut Ben.'

'And God,' said the skipper reverently.

'And God,' assented the mate.

'I remember all now,' said the gipsy lass, 'and I am very thankful; but they will all be so sad on shore, Chops and Mary and all. You couldn't land me, could you?'

'Ay, little dear,' laughed the skipper, 'we'll land ye; but it will be in Trondhjem. But we've made up our minds to make ye as happy as Arctic summer days are long.'

Having once comforted herself with the thought that, although Antony and Chops and all the rest would mourn for her for a time as dead, there would be such a joyful meeting to make up for all when she got back again, she settled herself to be happy and to enjoy her strange, new life. When the captain and the mate and the boy Ben went on deck, the motherly lady dressed her and tidied her hair as much as it ever would tidy—for it was, like Lotty herself, very irrepressible—she sat down to breakfast. Lotty was not shy, no well-brought-up child of the world ever is. She could not even be timid beside so kindly a soul as the skipper's wife.

No, she did not care for fish. 'It was nearly all fish in the camp,' she told Mrs Skipper Paterson; but the English bacon was a treat, and the English toast, and, 'Oh those eggs, how beautiful! What are they?'

'Sea-gulls', dear, from the rocks of Tromsö.'

'How large and pointed they are, and so sweetly green; and what are those curious streaks of black and brown, like a baby's writing, all over them?'

'Well,' said Mrs Skipper, who was just a little romantic, as all true sailors are, 'well, Lotty, I think that every egg is a love-letter written by a gull to her charming mate.'

'It seems such a pity to break them though.'

'So I have often thought, but one doesn't mind so much when one is hungry.'

'I love the sea-gulls,' said Lotty, 'and they all love me, and don't mind coming close up; and then they are so neat and so clean, never a feather awry, and with eyes ever so clear and bright. I think they are just little bits of the waves with souls put into them.'

When Lotty got on deck she could hardly keep upright, for it was blowing half a gale from the west, and now the bonny bark, with her close-reefed topsails and storm staysails, was standing nor'-east, and away where black clouds had painted the sky from zenith to horizon. The girl looked a queer figure—a wee sou'-wester on her head, which could not hide her hair nor her beauty, and a huge pilot jacket belonging to Ben, the sleeves a bit too long and the garment itself coming right down to her heels. She swayed and swayed till the red-faced mate came to her assistance, tucked her under his arm, and trotted her off for a stroll under the weather bulwarks. Then she felt as if she had been at sea all her life.

Kaye—kaye—kaye! screamed the birds, for there were sea-gulls even here, playing at tack and half-tack around and over the quarterdeck, darting through the fountainheads of wind-vexed seas, circling, swirling, swishing in every beautiful attitude conceivable—kaye—kaye—kaye! Oh, how happy, how glorious, those feathered children of the ocean!

Lotty just longed to catch one, tie a message to its leg, kiss it, and tell it to fly home with this to the little gipsy camp by the lone seashore.

Up and down, fore and aft, the two walked together, and the girl thought she could never tire listening to the mate's strange stories of the sea, while he was quite as pleased to have so innocent and sweet a listener.

So a whole hour passed quickly by, and then something happened. A full-rigged ship was seen bearing towards them from afar, very close-hauled and with snow-white sails.

'A Yankee from Bergen, I'll lay my last sixpence on that. I'll try to speak her if she crosses our hawse, and tell her you are safe.—Ben!' he shouted. 'Ben, my boy, look lifty.'

'Ay, ay, sir.'

'Bring my megaphone.[D] Sharp's the word, lad; quick's the action.'

Next minute Ben had hurried aft, and presented his superior officer with a large tea-tray and a lump of chalk.

'A very old-fashioned arrangement,' he said, 'but does well enough for us.'

In huge letters on the back of his 'megaphone,' as he grandly termed it, he hastily wrote: