. . . . . . .

It was only going to be a tour of a few weeks if all went well; but when once out and away on the road in his splendid palace-upon-wheels, with the glorious bracing breeze blowing, wild romantic scenery all around him, and the sun shining on the sea, he took a deep and satisfied breath. He was inhaling freedom itself. He felt at that moment, as did Byron's Corsair, 'his heart awaken and his spirit soar.'

Not far in the rear was the beautiful little 'Silver Queen,' the fat lady looking ever so pleasant as she drove the one willing horse with his glittering harness all decked out in polished brass. This caravan was called the 'Silver Queen' because, for lightness' sake, much of her outside was built of aluminium, and its sheen on this bright January morning was, like stars on the sea, resplendent. Behind her, on a rocking-chair, sat Lotty herself, quietly knitting. Still more in the rear was a large light wagon with stores, tents, and baggage of all sorts.

No wonder that the children in the little romantic towns through which they passed—many of them hardly yet dressed, so early was it—rushed to their doors to wave their caps or stockings at the show as it passed.

The 'Gipsy Queen,' with her large windows chastely but brightly curtained, her varnish and her gilding, looked as elegant and beautiful outside as she did inside. And not a single article had been forgotten that might conduce to comfort or luxury. There was even a small yacht-piano in one corner of the large caravan, and bright fires of coal and coke burned in each.

When they drew rein in the square of a small market-town to water the horses, quite a crowd of well-dressed, wondering people gathered round to see the sight. But one glance told them that this was no ordinary show, but gentle gipsies on a tour.

Antony lifted Lotty down from the coupé of her carriage after he had given orders to put the nose-bags on the horses and cover up their loins. Then, while Mary entered the large caravan to see about things generally, youth and beauty went gladsomely off hand in hand to look at the shops and make little purchases, for souvenirs in the shape of photos of scenery would be bought wherever they went.

But every village all around and about here had a strange, romantic interest. It was, or had been, a Jacobite country, and the sturdy races still dwelt up among the mountains yonder whose forefathers had fought and died for bonny Prince Charlie. Though more than a hundred and fifty years had passed since Culloden, that unfortunate Prince, Antony soon found out, still held a place in story and song and deeply down in the hearts of the people. At one shop where our young folks called, Antony happened to allude to Charlie as the Pretender. He could see from the mantling blood in the shopkeeper's brow that he had made a mistake.

'Pardon me, sir,' he said, 'but you must not use that word in this part of the country, and still less up in the hills. Charles was the rightful king by descent from the ancient Stuart line, and no pretender.'

The weather was certainly cold, but it was gloriously fine for the present, and one beauty of the tour lay in the fact that there was no need to hurry, and no rehearsal at midday for exhibition at nightfall. The midday halt for luncheon was made by the roadside, deep down in a pine-shaded glade, and near to a clear stream that ran seawards over a bed of yellow sand. They were lucky enough, moreover, to secure at night a pitch for the caravans in a delightfully quiet and level little meadow, and no sooner had they been drawn in than Mary proceeded to cook dinner. This was done partly on the large oil-range in the pantry of the 'Gipsy Queen,' and partly outside on a fire built in the real gipsy style on the sward.

Lotty had disappeared, and Antony was wondering where she was, when she came tripping along with her lap full of beautiful flowers and foliage.

'Why, Lotty, wherever did you get these at this time of the year?'

'I only mentioned to the hotel master,' said the girl, 'that I loved flowers, and that you, Mr Blake, did. That was all; and he went straight away to his glass-house and gathered me all these.'

'Oh, won't we be gay?' said Antony.

'Yes; and now I shall go and arrange them.'

What a quiet and pleasant evening was spent after dinner, eaten with an appetite that only sailor-folks and gipsies ever know anything about!

The small caravan was drawn up so close to the big one that, although Mary would not have presumed to come and sit in the 'Gipsy Queen,' she could hear the music very well; for Antony was a good pianist—'good at nothing else earthly,' he used to tell his friends—and piano and violin go well together.

There had been cows and a horse or two in the field when they first drove in, but the kindly landlord took them all away lest they might annoy the wanderers during the night.

Wallace seemed very happy and contented; but though he kept in the big caravan all day he told Antony that it was his duty to be with his mistress by night; but if any attack should be made by evil tramps, he, Antony, had only to shout, and the tramps would be sorry they had come.

The camp cat had insisted on becoming the caravan cat, and a splendid fellow he was; and it may as well be stated here that never, during all this romantic tour, did pussy absent himself of a morning, although he might have been out all night long. On such occasions, just as the horses were about to start, and although there may have been no appearance of him before that, out of somewhere he would come rushing with his fuzzy tail in the air, and take his seat on the coupé. 'Sorry if I've kept you waiting,' he would seem to say, 'but I've been spending the evening with some friends, and time does pass so quickly on such occasions.' But puss made up for his want of rest by night by sleeping on the sofa all the forenoon. Happy cat, no responsibility and never a care!

The weather continued open and sunny for a whole week, and by the end of that time Antony found himself camping near to, and his horses stabled at, the great Highland Spa Hotel at Strathpeffer, with scenery all around him which, although the mountains were clad from foot to summit in driven snow, was charming in the extreme. But there is a charm about this romantic country in winter which does not exist when summer is in its prime, albeit then the trees are green, the wild-flowers are springing, and wild birds are singing in brake and bush and fern. Then during winter, though oak and elm and mountain ash are leafless and bare in the valleys, meadows are green, and if not borne down by a weight of frozen snow the pine-trees wave dark and glorious in the forests that clothe the hills and braes; and though lochs or lakes may be ice-bound, they afford opportunities for many a roaring game, and become for weeks at a time the paradise of the skater. But, more betoken, the rivers, which were high before the frost fell, became streams of fairy-like beauty, and the waterfalls were dream-like in their silent silver sheen.

Antony was not surprised when the kindly landlord emerged from the door of the great Spa Hotel and shook Mary by the hand and Lotty too.

'So glad to see you back again, my dearie'—this to Lotty; 'how bonny you look! And here comes Wallace to shake a friendly paw, and the same old cat to rub his bonny back against my leg.—How do, pussy?—How do, Wallace?'

'There are two Wallaces,' said Mary.

'Dear me, yes,' said the hotelkeeper. 'In the pleasure of seeing you, Mrs Pendlebury, I had quite forgotten that my name also is Wallace.'

He soon found out that Blake was travelling for his pleasure.

'Ah, but, sir,' he said, 'you should see this place in summer, when the lawns are all in their glory, the Italian gardens and banqueting-hall open, bands playing every night!'

'And fountains too!' said Lotty.

'Ay, my dear, and fountains, and well-dressed people from all ends of the earth. But come in, Lotty darling, and warm your toes. And you, Mr Blake, you must dine with us; a denial is out of the question.' Then striking an attitude he sang:

And Antony found it.

CHAPTER XVIII.

SNOW-BOUND IN A MOUNTAIN-LAND.

Away they moved early one lovely, hard frosty morning, with the Ben to the left, sometimes seen, sometimes hidden by the dense woods they penetrated, past the romantic Falls of Rogie, and westward and north away.

Antony was a little anxious, however, about the weather. The wind was down. Hardly a breath moved the twigs. But strange banks of rock-like clouds began slowly to arise in the west. Like ships becalmed at sea, they were waiting for the wind. Even a little breeze would have sufficed to have carried them upwards and over the sky, obliterating the blue and bringing night and darkness on a full hour before its time. But that breeze came not for the time being; and as they champed their bits and jingled their harness—sweetest music to a gipsy's ear—the very horses seemed glad of the respite. But the country soon became lonesome in the extreme, and its aspect one of threatening dreariness. Never a soul did they meet on the road except one Highland shepherd with his dog and a few half-wild sheep. Antony pulled up his cavalcade to question this wiry old fellow, whose plaid was right over his head.

'What think you of the weather, my friend?'

And here is Donald's reply: 'Oh loshins! my good people, if it's going far you are, whip up your fine horses and make the quick and proper haste. For sure enough the snow will soon be down on you even more also. Get into shelter soon.'

'Much of a fall, think you, Donald?'

'Och, it may not be so much of a fall, my dear laddie, but it's the wild wind that will be roaring. The blizzard, the blizzard; and if it's only bits of English bodies you are, it will snow you up and smother ye!'

And so Donald went on with his shivering sheep and his hardy dog. It was but poor heartening he had left behind him. But there would be no going back.

About two miles farther on Antony could not help gazing uneasily at the moorland around him. It was very far as yet from the inn where they hoped to get stabling and a good pitch, and here there was shelter of no kind. But, above all, a low wind began now to sweep moaning over the veldt, the clouds had come up, had met the sun and obscured it, and, worse still, snow had begun to fall. Moreover, Antony was a fairly good student of nature, and knew that the little pellets that were now coming down, although no bigger than grains of mustard-seed, would soon be succeeded by huge dry flakes that would cover the ground inches deep in an hour and entirely impede progress. But in far less than that time, so thick was the storm, it was impossible to see many yards ahead. A milestone had not been visible for hours, nor was there a finger-post, and the force of the wind kept increasing almost momentarily.

Antony, like the good caravan-captain he was, sent his scout forward to prospect for a good place on which to draw up and form a gipsy laager. He was not long in returning. He had found just the spot, well sheltered by rocks on two sides. So Antony ordered him ahead to act as guide.

Yes, the ground was hard, and was but little likely to give way under the wheels; so, in the midst of the blinding drift and wind-whirled ice-dust, he drew off the road and formed as comfortable a pitch as was possible under the trying circumstances. The large caravan was positioned close to the little one to shelter it, the wagon was located handy, a stable-tent erected under the rocks with poles and canvas, to harbour the hardy horse that dragged the 'Silver Queen.' With this horse the groom was to sleep.

After things were made fairly snug, the coachman and his four good nags were sent off to fight their way to the distant hotel, the groom going along with orders to return if possible, and if it were not too dangerous, as soon as the horses were stabled and their comfort secured. Then, as the wind might change at any moment and wreck the 'Gipsy Queen,' Antony quickly got out his four strong iron pegs, and the ropes which were as thick as the painter of Lotty's yacht, and in less than an hour had the huge caravan safely anchored. She might and she would roll and toss and tug at her anchors, but hardly a hurricane itself would be strong enough to pull her from her moorings.

'Yes, Mrs Pendlebury, a good idea. We'll be glad to have dinner an hour earlier, even if we have to get some supper later on!'

After dinner, and as there was no chance of the groom returning that night, for darkness had already fallen, Antony went down the back steps to have another interview with his housekeeper, and to see that the one horse was snug for the night. He was nearly blown off his feet and half-suffocated with the choking ice-dust raised by the whirling blizzard before he was able to reach the back door of the little caravan. Being in comparative shelter, she was rocking far less than the large house-on-wheels; but Antony was glad enough to get inside.

'Sit down, Mrs Pendlebury; this is not a night to stand upon ceremony.' He held up his forefinger. 'Hark!' he said, almost solemnly.

Rising and falling in mournful cadence was the shriek of the wind. Hungry wolves howling on lonely Russian steppes, wild beasts in forest jungle, these seemed to be the voices that fell now on the listening ear. Anon they would lull a little, only to increase next minute with redoubled rage and force, while frozen moss torn from the rocks and mixed with snow was blown against the window-panes, threatening every moment to dash them in. It was difficult even to hear each other talking.

'I greatly fear, Mary, that we may be storm-stayed for days. I came to ask how we are off for stores and oil.'

Mary was understood to report as follows: Two gallons of oil in the kettle under the big caravan, groceries (including butter) enough for a week, milk (only condensed, but plenty of that), eggs a dozen; item, a leg of mutton uncooked; item, two cold roast-fowls (if Mary had said frozen she would have been nearer the mark); item, a roast-goose that the kindly proprietor at the Spa had insisted on putting inside the little caravan just as she started.

'And fixings, Mary?'

'Plenty of potatoes and green kale, and oat-cakes galore.'

Antony was understood to say 'Hurrah!' but the sound was drowned in an extra blast of the storm-wind which was now tearing through the camp with more than hurricane force.

'And I,' he said, when it lulled for a few moments, 'have among my stores, Mary, two unopened bottles of wine of the Highlands, which, before we get out of this we may be glad to dispense to keepers.'

It brightened a little after this, and Antony took advantage of the change to rush out and put up the shutters on both the caravans. He returned to the 'Silver Queen' almost immediately after, and glad enough was he to get inside, for the blizzard appeared to be now at its very height; and, curiously enough, the thermometer as well as the barometer had gone down with a run, and the former now stood at three degrees below zero, and the cold was intense.

'Shall I light the lamp, sir?'

The lamp, by the way, hung on gimbals, like that on board a ship.

'Oh, not for a while; I have banked my own fire in the 'Gipsy Queen,' and Wallace and pussy are lying snugly on the rug; but by your fire, if you will let me sit a short time, I think it will be ever so much more cosy without the lamp.'

The firelight in the pretty wee grate was certainly far more romantic, for it flickered and flared on their faces as they sat around it, while at their backs it was all shadows Rembrandtesque. Antony would fain have conversed, or even told stories, but the noise was every now and then so terrific that it was impossible to do so with any amount of profit.

But to sit and look at each other's faces, or the play of the light thereon, grew a little irksome at last; then quietly, and without being told, Lotty took down her violin-case and opened it almost with a species of reverence, for no little girl ever looked half so well after her doll as she took care of her beautiful instrument. There was a soft silk handkerchief over it, visible when the case was opened, and this carefully lifted off revealed the violin itself, its breast between the f-holes white with the powdered resin from bow and strings. That bow itself was worth more than many a good violin would fetch in the market.

The child smiled when she took this baby of hers out of its velvet-lined bassinet. She looked for a moment at her left-hand finger-tips as if to make sure the nails were correctly trimmed, then glanced at the fire as if fearful that a piece of coal might tumble out and dust arise. And now with exquisite tenderness she drew the bow across the strings before adjusting them to tune. Every string that Lotty possessed was well stretched before being tried, so that there was seldom much to do in the tuning way. Fastidious, indeed, would he have been who could not listen to-night with pleasure to the music this infant prodigy elicited from her favourite instrument.

But part of Lotty's power to please lay in the fact that she never played much on any evening, having apparently a latent dread of tiring an audience. To-night, at all events, Antony was not tired; in fact, he could have sat and listened to the sweet strains until long past midnight. And, oh! methinks that if harps are twanged as angels sing in heaven, the violin itself must lead. But the music, weird and dreamy, ceased at last, and Lotty put the child of her heart back again into its cosy case.

Well, all that fearful night the wind raged and howled with unabated violence, and it was probably owing to this, and to the rocking and tossing of his palace-upon-wheels, that Antony slept so long next morning, for when he flashed his electric light upon his watch, lo! he found it was nearly eight o'clock. He leapt out of bed and lit his lamp, and had just finished dressing when rat-tat-tat came to the back door. It was not until then that Antony noticed that the wind had gone down completely, the storm-spirit had spent its violence, and through the frozen panes of the skylight the beams of the rising sun were trying to struggle. So hard still was the frost that these panes of glass were not only covered by fern-fronds and flowers, but with powder.

'I thought, Mr Blake, it would be a pity to disturb you before.'

'Thank your kindness, Mary.'

'But breakfast is all ready, sir.'

'Well, ask Lotty to come in this morning and keep me company.'

He had, with his own hands, lit the stove half an hour ago, and the fire burned bright and clear in the frosty atmosphere.

'She will be delighted, I'm sure, but'——

'But what, Mary?'

'You'll have to carry her through the snow-wreaths.'

And when Antony looked out, lo and behold! he found that the 'Gipsy Queen' was embedded in a bank of snow as high as the steps themselves, and that a bank fully fourteen feet in height and shaped like a huge beach-comber separated the camp from the highway. A shovel and a spade were part of the caravan outfit, but this snow was far too powdery to be dug; so, enveloping himself in oilskin leggings and coat, Antony left Mary to put the caravan straight and lay the cloth, while he scrambled through to the back steps of the 'Silver Queen.' He found Lotty dressed as neatly and prettily as if she were going to be a Gipsy May-Queen. She gave him smiling welcome, and appeared quite delighted with this turn affairs had taken.

'Oh, isn't it beautiful and romantic, Mr Blake?'

'No doubt of that, dear; but goodness knows how many days, weeks, or months we may have to lie here.'

'And I hope it will be for quite a long, long time. What fun Wallace and I will have!'

There was a large kettle standing over the stove.

'Pray, what is in there, Lotty?' said Antony.

'Oh, that is snow cooking for tea, you know.'

And then Antony remembered that there was not a drop of water in either caravan.

'Breakfast is waiting, Mr Blake, and will soon get cold,' said Mary, bustling in.

'Come on, Lotty!' He was standing beneath the steps, the snow high above his knees, and holding out a pair of mittened hands. 'Jump into my oilskin, dear.'

'What! Have I to be carried like a baby?'

'Like the baby you are. Jump!'

Lotty jumped, and was soon deposited high and dry in the large caravan.

Wallace had gone away somewhere a jet black dog; he now returned a pure white one, and it took Antony full two minutes to make him presentable.

Real finnan-haddocks (hot, done to a turn, and served up between snow-white towels), oat-cakes, butter as sweet as spring primroses, new-laid duck-eggs, and coffee whose fragrance and aroma filled the whole saloon.

Antony was hungry, with a hill or mountain hunger, and gay with it all. So, too, was his little companion. Kind and generous treatment spoil some children; but Lotty was far too old-fashioned, pretty and lady-like though she was, to be spoiled.

'Isn't this life idyllic, my little pal?'

'I'm sure, Mr Blake, it is perfectly idyllic. But what does idyllic mean?'

'It means just this,' he answered with youthful rapture, 'it means all the beauty and the romance and peace and poetry we see around us both outside and in. That is idyllic.'

CHAPTER XIX.

SPORTING-TIME IN WOODS AND WILDS.

Antony was a hopeful young fellow, however; and though a month in his snow-prison might not have hurt, he thought that in three months things would become a trifle monotonous, especially as they were a long journey from the camp of Biffins Lee. He need not have feared starvation, however, nor loneliness either, for when the sun began to shine once more he had many visitors who had made long pilgrimages to see the snow-bound camp and caravans. There were small lochs about moreover; and to one of these, in spite of the heavy walking, Antony and his little companion made frequent journeys. Both had skates and both knew well how to use them. Antony, however, had made one mistake: he had imagined he could show the northerners a thing or two, as he slanged it. It was quite the other way, for the northerners have practice almost all the winter through, and are therefore very expert at skating.

But on the ice, whether curling or skating, Antony could not help making acquaintance with some very nice people; and though at heart neither a hermit nor recluse—because, as he explained only to his sister Aggie, society bored him—he was not proof against some of the many kind invitations he received from really good families. The roads now were passable in most parts to light dogcarts and to sleighs, although the 'Gipsy Queen' dared not attempt them. He tried to stave off some of these invitations by saying that he could not leave his housekeeper and Lotty in the evening. But there was an easy answer to this objection.

'Let your big, beautiful dog stay with the caravan, and also your groom. These can protect your housekeeper, and you bring the child with you.'

Well, there was moonlight at present, and really—under a clear, star-studded sky, with hard snow under the runners and jingling bells at the horse's neck—sleighing, well wrapped up in warm furs, is a very delightful sensation, and Lotty enjoyed it immensely. Perhaps she enjoyed quite as much a ride in a swift motor-car, and some families had these, and they seemed to run along where the roads were open at about a hundred miles an hour, although they might have been doing barely forty. And wherever she went Lotty took her violin with her, so that it is no wonder this infant prodigy was an immense favourite. The verdict on her was very much the same wherever she went: 'So gentle and well-behaved, so lady-like, and so unlike all one's conceived ideas of a show-child.' For, of course, Antony had thought proper not to conceal what Lotty really was—just a little gipsy lass.

But there was one thing which probably accounted in some measure for Lotty's nice manners. Biffins Lee had not neglected her education; and this not out of any real kindness to the child, we may well believe, but because his desire was to have her an infant prodigy in every way possible. At places where a sojourn was determined upon, if of only a few weeks' duration, Biffins had seen to it that she had the best of teaching from the best of teachers in every branch of education that would tend to bring out her brightest qualities. Little wanderer though she was, Lotty loved knowledge, and learning was a delight to her. Everything taught her fell upon the best soil and took root, therefore rendering her mind not the barren and inhospitable desert we too often find it in children, who seem to regard teaching and education of all kinds as penal, as a kind of punishment from which they long to emerge and speedily forget.

Lotty knew English well, and so she read the best of English authors old and new, and her knowledge of French was the key that opened to her the doors of a great library which was stored with marvels.

And whenever Biffins had the chance he was fond of drawing Lotty out before people to show how much his child—he always put great emphasis on the possessive pronoun—knew.

With music it was the same. But, after all, her accomplishments were all meant to bring grist to his own mill and make Lotty more valuable as a property.

At one house a children's party was got up all for Lotty's own sake, and the little ones who met her were kept laughing at all her marvellous tricks till long past their usual bedtime.

So, upon the whole, being snow-bound in a caravan in the dead of winter Antony found was not such a terrible experience after all. He kept in touch with Biffins Lee, but only by telegrams, and these were just as brief as he could make them, and few and far between. One ran thus: 'Storm-stayed;' another, 'Snow-bound;' a third, 'Still snow-bound,' and so on and so forth. He took the trouble to prepay these, and the replies were always consoling enough: 'Don't hurry—all right in camp;' or 'Keep my properties as long as you have a mind.'

While storm-stayed among the beautiful snow, with pure air blowing around him, and the scenery of mountain, forest, and stream so fairy-like and enchanting, Antony could not help thinking of the kind of life that his father had half-recommended to him—namely, that of London. Comparisons are odious, it is true; still, for once in a way, Antony could not help making them.

'Frank Antony Blake,' he said to himself, 'I will tell you something, but you are never to let it go any farther. All around you here there are beauty and romance that nothing on earth could surpass, while yonder in the city are the black mire of muddy streets, bare trees dripping soot, darkness, and choking fog. Frank Antony Blake, you have the better of it, you lucky old dog!'

He had frequent letters from Manby Hall, from Aggie, for she was the only real scribe; and almost every one of these now breathed the wish that he might soon return. Antony's mother wrote but seldom, being very much of an invalid and taking but little interest in anything.

'Still frozen in,' he said in a telegram to Aggie.

Well, there were sports in winter here that were not to be despised, and one of these was white hare shooting. Antony thought himself fit, and he was fairly so; but he found that a twenty-mile walk over the mountains after these Alpine hares, and the same distance back, was trying to his heart as well as to his legs. Yet the sturdy fellows who went with him, and the hardy Highland keepers, thought nothing of it. One day in particular he felt so tired when nearing home that he scarce could carry his gun; but very much surprised was he to be told by a keeper that he was going to walk five miles to a ball as soon as he changed his kilt, and would no doubt dance all night and go to the hill after breakfast in the morning.

Heigh-ho! pleasure of every kind comes to an end in this world, and sooner or later the world itself will come to an end. So, after innumerable adventures on the road, Antony with his caravans found himself one forenoon rolling into Biffins Lee's camp once more. But never, never could he forget the joys and romance of that winter tour in the Highlands. All hands gathered round to hear them tell their story, and everybody was pleased to see them back once more safe and sound.

Although the real home of a dog is wherever his master or mistress is, still no one nowadays would be listened to who disputed the fact that the honest fellow thinks and remembers, and that he can no more forget the days of auld langsyne than can a human being. Indeed, on his return Wallace's behaviour was very human. He not only went a round of inspection all about the camp, as if to see that everything was as before; but he must say, 'How do you do?' in his own way to every animal in the show, especially Bruin the bear, whom doubtless Wallace looked upon as a hero. But Bruin was very glad to see him, and proved this by actually getting on his hind-legs and performing a wild dance of his own which would have looked very ridiculous had he not been so really sincere.

The springtime had commenced—that is, it was the middle of February, and this is Nature's spring, let astronomers rule it otherwise if they please. But the buds that had first shown life in November by thrusting off the old leaves, that fell withered and brown on pathway and bank, showed signs now of fullness and bursting. They but waited in silence for balmier breezes to blow and for the sun to shine more warmly at midday. Then the coy young leaflets would begin to show. On banks beneath the rocky cliffs and on old gray boulders the velvety moss assumed a brighter face, and wee olive-leaves appeared on the honeysuckle, which is ever the first to give show of life to wild hedge or copse.

Away in the woods the hoodies were building a nest here and a nest there in pine-tree or tall elm, for they are not social birds. These worked in silence; but high in the larches the magpies made more din and chattering.

Birds of all kinds were more gaily dressed now to welcome the incoming season of joy and love. The mavises and blackbirds sang loud and jubilant in the plantation's shade; they wanted all the world to know that they were happy. But even the tinier birds, songless as yet, that hopped from tree to tree, looked very busy and vastly important, for each little feathered bosom held a sweet secret that none but themselves should know.

The sea-birds came as usual to the knoll to be fed; but even their plumage looked cleaner, if that could have been possible, and more ornate. They were quicker on the wing too, and their voices were shriller and more musical. By the highway sides anemones began now to snow the turf, and many a little nameless yellow flower, and the gowans or mountain daisies spread wide their crimson-tipped petals to woo the sunshine.

To be out of doors at this season, in this romantic and beautiful sea-laved land, was heaven itself, a happy, hopeful time that Frank Antony, with his big poetic heart, could have wished would last for aye. It was better far, he thought, than the red rush of summer, with its floral glory that would end so soon in autumn brown and sear. But some hearts are built to love spring and only spring. They want to have the buds and flowers always springing, and birds singing their first and therefore their real songs of happiness and love.

Lotty would be thirteen this year.

'Dear me,' she said looking additionally wise for a moment, 'what a long, long life!'

Poor little gipsy lass, that long, long life had not been wanting in sorrow! And it was probably for this reason that it seemed to her so long.

They were bird-nesting among the yellow gorse that scented all the air around them and hugged the moorland in great golden patches; and it was here the rose-linnet had its cosy nest and sang so sweetly to its little brown mate so quiet on her speckled eggs. Both Antony and she loved to see birds' nests, but it is needless to say they touched them not.

'I'll soon be old, Mr Blake!'

Her companion laughed; and Wallace, fancying he saw the joke, gave Lotty's ear a friendly lick in passing.

'Soon be as old as Crona, won't you, dear?' said Antony.

'Oh, I don't know how long it takes to be as old as Crona, though somehow I never think that my fairy godmother is aged.'

'You are a happy girl to have so good a godmother.'

'Oh yes, and I feel cold sometimes to think how miserable I would be if there were no Crona. I have Chops—Chops comes next after Wallace; and then Mary, and then Bruin, and then Skeleton.'

'You put Bruin before Skeleton?'

'Yes, Bruin before Skeleton; because I've seen more of him, you know—more of Bruin than even Wallace, though Wallace is wiser. But, Mr Blake, I can remember a time when there was no Wallace, and then it was always either Chops or Bruin who came with me when I went to visit Crona. But I was never afraid of ugly men when Bruin was with me.'

'I should think not indeed.'

'And once, I mind, it came on too quickly dark in the forest—that was before Chops had blazed the trees—and I lost myself. The bear and I soon grew tired and lay down to rest. I would have been very cold if Bruin hadn't been so warm, so I soon fell sound asleep.'

'A very pretty pair of babes in the wood you must have looked!'

'It was very early when I awoke, but quite light, and I was so dreadfully afraid now, because Bruin was sitting and roaring loud and angry. Will Wisely the poacher was standing there not far off, and shaking with fear so that he could hardly speak.

'"Oh Will," I cried, "get up into a tree for fear Bruin kills you and eats you."

'It was a very tall, close spruce-tree, and up went Will as quickly as he could. I thought Bruin would not follow; but he did, because Bruin, I'm sure, believed that all the forest belonged to him and me, and that Will Wisely had no business up in one of our trees. So the bear roared more loudly than ever, and went off up the tree, and then Will was forced to slide out over the point of a big branch and lower himself to the ground.

'"Run, Will," I said, "run, Will, for your life, and I'll try to keep Bruin in the tree."

'So I climbed up a bit myself, and the bear growled and was very angry because I wouldn't let him down to get a piece of Will Wisely. But I wouldn't, and so Will got away, and Bruin and I soon found our way home to camp. Oh, I love Bruin! And, Mr Blake, when you go away'——

The child suddenly stopped speaking, and, to Antony's surprise, threw herself on the ground close beside the golden furze there, where the rose-linnets sang, and burst into a fit of sobbing and tears.

CHAPTER XX.

IN THE DARK O' THE NEAP.

But young folks like Lotty, who have come through the hard, do often wonder to themselves what will become of them in after years. And this gipsy lass had been so happy ever since Frank Antony had arrived in camp that the very thought of his going away and being to her as if he had never come to cheer her and make the days seem all too short, was one which loomed before her like a big dark cloud which ere long must engulf her, and from which her sun of life might never emerge. No wonder, then, that as she thought of this she shed bitter tears that morning on the moor. And what could Antony do but just try to comfort her as best he could? For there was sorrow and sadness even at his own heart. And the birds sang on, and the perfume of spring was all around them; only poor Wallace seemed much concerned and whined pitifully as he licked poor Lotty's hands and ears.

But the child's grief did not last a great while, and soon she was smiling through her tears, after heaving one or two half-heartbroken sighs.

'I'm such a little silly, amn't I?' she said.

Antony raised her from the sitting position and soon they were walking hand in hand across the moor towards Crona's cottage, singing as was their wont—she in her sweet treble, he in his bass—and the dog bounding and barking with joy, half-hysterically one might have said, to see his mistress happy once more.

They were always sure of a hearty and loving welcome at the witch's house. The cat met them to rub head against legs, even Wallace coming in for a share of her affection. Indeed, the great Newfoundland appeared to be a hero with pussy, though no doubt he considered himself somewhat superior to her in intellect. On this occasion she showed her affection for the dog by running off in front and whacking poor Tod Lowrie, who was sound asleep at the sunny side of the cottage door.

'Get up, you lazy Lowrie,' she seemed to say, 'and welcome a bigger dog than ever you'll be.'

Nevertheless, pussy kept her gloves on all the time she whacked the fox. So it was only play and fun, born of her sudden joy at seeing her friends Lotty, Antony, and big, wise Wallace. And when Joe with a craik-k! and a croak-k! his wings drooping on the ground, rushed forward and jumped nimbly on top of the fox and pecked at pussy, anybody could see this was also fun and play got up on the spur of the moment.

'Hurray—ray!' cried the strange bird. 'Joe's alive! Hurray—hurray—ray!'

When Joe did at last manage to land a dig in pussy's brow he held back his head and laughed as if possessed of something not canny.

'Ha—ha—ha! Ho—ho—ho! Joe's alive. Ha—ha—ha!'

Pussy shook her head, and retired to wash her face.

Well, Crona and her friends spent a very happy day together, and the sun was down before they even dreamt of parting. The sun went down, and then came a long twilight, with a gradually rising wind; so, bidding Crona good-night, they set out with all speed to get clear of the woods before darkness fell, and to-night there would be no early moon, for it was the neap.

Chops had come as far as the high cliff to meet them, and as he was looking unusually serious Antony asked him if anything was the matter.

'W'ich I don't go for to say there is,' answered Chops, 'not on my own like; only Kelly the coastguard tells us that the bark hout yonder isn't likely to weather the Partans' Rock.'

Before Antony and Lotty had got quite clear of the woods the wind had suddenly increased to almost the force of a gale, blowing right on to the land, with, if anything, a bit of eastering in it. And out yonder in the fast-gathering gloom they could see a bark under very little sail standing westwards, but perilously near to the shore.

The word 'partan' signifies a crab, and the rock out yonder was never visible except at very low tides, such as occur at the neap.

Presently Kelly himself came along. He was an Englishman and a good sailor, and he was stationed with a chum or two far along the coast here.

'Hallo, Kelly!' said Antony, 'from the little a landsman like me knows of the sea, yonder ship seems in a nasty place.'

'Ay, sir, that she be; and though the tide isn't out so far as it will be, the Partans' Rock, sir, is all awash. I mind,' he added, 'when the Fair Maid o' Wales went on shore on that same ugly rock three year and more agone.'

'Went to pieces, did she?'

'Went to pieces? Ay, that she did. A cat couldn't have lived out there that night.'

'Any one lost?'

'Nobody saved, sir—not a living soul.'

'Is there a lifeboat anywhere near?'

'No nearer nor B—— and it's there I'm going as fast's I can; but it's ten good miles yet.'

'Won't detain you,' said Antony. 'But could nothing be done to warn the station?'

Kelly was moving on.

'Ay,' he shouted up the wind, 'if the fools on the bark show a rocket or two; but they won't do that till they strike, and then'—— Kelly was supposed to have added the words 'too late,' but they were not distinctly heard.

Antony took Lotty's hand, so that together they might run down the distance that intervened betwixt this high outlook-cliff and the camp. The child was trembling all over.

'You're not afraid, are you, dear?'

'No—that is, not much, Mr Blake,' she replied; 'but, oh, wouldn't it be dreadful if the ship went to pieces on the Partans' Rock, and poor dear dead sailors were washed up through the firth to our camp?'

'But I don't think it will be so bad as that, Lotty. Those coastguards generally make the worst of things.'

'Did not Kelly say something about rockets?'

'Yes, dear.'

'And we have lots in our camp.'

'But, child, the bark may have some; anyhow, our sending up rockets would, I feel certain, only confuse the coastguard. They would know even in the dark that these were sent up from the shore, and imagine we were only just having some fireworks.'

'That is true; but, oh dear, it is terrible!' Then suddenly she added, 'I think we should light a fire just here; that would warn them off.'

'Yes, Miss Lotty.'

The child let go Antony's hand now, and he knew she meant business. There was dead wood, with withered furze, lying about here, and all hands commenced at once to collect it. Even Wallace brought piece after piece and wisely laid it down beside the rest. And in five minutes' time a red, roaring fire was gleaming through the darkness far across the sea.

Those on that devoted bark saw the fire even if they could not perceive the treacherous rock; and, knowing too well what it meant, tried to luff and get farther out to northwards. From the lights which now appeared upon her, Lotty could tell that she had put about and was trying to work into the wind's eye.

They left the cliff, and left Chops there to feed the flames, and by making all haste were not long before they reached the camp. It would now be about nine o'clock, or hardly; and so heavy were the clouds that nothing was to be seen, never a star above, and only the shifting lights in the camp. Little to be heard either except the wash and swell of the breakers and the occasional wild scream of a sea-bird. That was an ugly coast at night for vessels to get near when the shore was a lee one, and more especially in the dark o' the neap, with a falling tide.

As they were still gazing, with hands above their eyes, out into the pitchy gloom of that wild sea, suddenly there was a flash as of red lightning, then a gun roared out, awakening a hundred echoes among the rocks.

'Oh, Mr Blake, Mr Blake, the bark has struck!'

'I fear she has, Lotty. But nothing can be done. Why, I wonder, do they not fire a rocket?'

'Because, dear Mr Blake, perhaps they haven't one.'

'Well, calm yourself, Lotty. We can only pray for them, and before long the coastguard may come with the lifeboat crew.'

'Ay, but they will never know. Kelly will take two long hours to reach B—— and by that time, oh dear, oh! there may not be a soul left on board the bark, nor a plank for a drowning man to cling to.'

Biffins Lee himself had come up.

'A sad business out yonder in the dark o' the neap, I fear, Mr Blake.'

There was no sign of sorrow in the man's voice. In fact, he seemed but looking upon the whole affair from a spectacular point of view.

Another flash and another reverberating roar.

'One more gun!' said Biffins coolly. 'She can't hold together long if she be on the Partan,' he added, 'or even inside it, which is more likely. I'm going to tell Mary to heat water and to set men to watch the surf for dark things—bodies—coming in. We may save life, Mr Blake, and what a fine advertisement for the Queerest Show on Earth!'

Probably Frank Antony had never troubled himself to hate the man before, but he did now; and, though the young man's arm was held down by his side, he clinched his fist and gnashed his teeth. Then came the questioning thought to his mind, just as it had often come before: 'Can this brute really be the father of the sweet child who is standing by my side?'

And as Lee went out of sight, up out of the dark o' the neap seemed to arise the answer: 'He cannot be her father, be the mystery what it may!'

Antony turned now to speak to Lotty. He missed her. She was here not a minute ago, but now she was gone.

'Lotty, Lotty!' he called, and even Wallace raised his voice, barking a strange, querulous kind of bark, and that was Antony's only answer.

'She is off to light the lamps in the "Gipsy Queen,"' he said to himself. So he lit a cigar, and went smoking towards the caravan. But it was all in darkness.

He met Mary.

'Have you seen Lotty?' he said.

'A few moments ago. Yes, Mr Blake. She was going towards the big marquee.'

Ee-yowf barked Wallace again. It was the strangest sort of bark ever the young man had heard him utter—speakingly strange, in fact. Then he started off in the direction of the swinging, swaying petroleum lights of the camp.

He found the honest dog in the marquee looking for his mistress, and it was evident enough he was on trail. He went dashing out now with his head low towards the turf; and, as far as Antony could see him, he appeared to be making tracks for the river. And Antony followed as quickly as he could, a strange, wild thought having suddenly taken possession of his very soul. He felt it was foolish, but he could not help it.

He found Wallace standing by the little boathouse looking helplessly out towards the sea. Antony quickly opened the back-folding doors and threw the gleam of his flashlight inside. It was empty! The Jenny Wren was gone!

He had not a single doubt now in his mind as to what must have happened.

'Oh, how daring! how mad!' he said to himself half-aloud.

The little gipsy lass had evidently gone right to the big marquee to find rockets, and with these in her possession she had no doubt set out in the little boat towards the stranded bark, over that wild and stormy sea, in the dark o' the neap.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE WRECK OF THE 'CUMBERLAND.'

Presently he got up, and descended the steps. He met Mary bustling around, and told her his fears.

All she answered was, 'Then God help our bonny bairn this dread and awful night!'

No comfort in that quarter.

'I fear the worst, Mary,' he said.

'Let us hope for the best, then,' said Mary.

Then he set himself to walking rapidly up and down the beach as if to work away his awful anxiety. And thus a good half-hour was passed. 'Had she succeeded in reaching the doomed ship,' he told himself, 'there would have been some sign ere now. Hallo!'

Another flash, another report, and almost immediately after the meteor-track of a splendid rocket rising high in air, turned a little towards the west, then bursting with a dull sound into brightest flame.

'Thank God!' cried Antony, 'the daring child has got safely on board.'

Something cold and damp touched his hand, and he found Wallace by his side; and the gentle touch gave him both comfort and hope. But just at that moment Antony made a strange discovery, which he put into words, though these were not spoken aloud, but to his heart, as it were.

'I love that child,' he told himself with the frankness of youth, 'more than is good for my peace of mind, more than is good for my future happiness or probably hers; for if she is spared this sad night to get safely on shore, soon now the parting must come, and I go away on my road in life and Lotty on hers. Heaven help the child and me!'

Just as he was communing with himself, the dark o' the neap was riven once more by a rocket's gleam that swayed and rose and burst as before.

It will be better to go back a little and follow the gipsy lass's movements as she went sweeping down the river that night and headed straight for that boiling sea. Surely she had more than the strength and skill of any two man-o'-war's men, and more than the daring of a Grace Darling to venture forth on such a forlorn hope.

But she had reasoned thus with herself: 'Even if I fail to reach the ship, I can, I think, sweep my light skiff quickly round and go rushing back to the river on the scud of the furious sea, and if I miss that the surf will rush me right up upon the beach, and I will not lose either my life nor Antony's Jenny Wren.'

Both wind and waves tossed the little boat about, but bravely did Lotty keep her head to the mountain seas. So high and wild were some of the breakers that they lifted the bows high in air and almost sank the skiff stern first. The first quarter of an hour's pull was the worst. After this, though the waves were higher, they did not break so much. Ah! but Lotty soon saw that they were sweeping high and horrible right over the stranded vessel, and for quite a long time she hovered near, hesitating how and when to approach.

At last she said to herself, 'It must be now or never.'

So high on a wavetop was she as the boat went dashing on from windward that the brave girl could see right down on to the wave-washed deck. Perhaps it was well for Lotty that the bark was so firmly, so steadfastly fixed on the rocks; bad for the ship, it is true, for from this position never could she move except in staves and broken timbers.

The sailors had seen the coming skiff, and three of them, at imminent peril, rushed to the side and seized it in time; and next moment Lotty, safe for the time being, was on the slippery upper deck of the bark, and even the Jenny Wren was hauled on board. Right aft in the skiff was a little locker, and it was in this Lotty had stowed the rockets.

On the beach, about an hour after this, shapeless black things were driven up by the spume and the rush of the waves, and these were quickly seized by the hands of the ready fishermen who had been attracted to the spot. Antony himself was there, in fear and trembling lest one of the bodies washed in might be—oh, terrible!—Lotty's own.

. . . . . . .

Bob Stevens was a hard, rosy-faced man, bold and blue-eyed, strong in muscle, without one superfluous ounce of fat. Those eyes of his had peered into the darkness overcanopying many a stormy sea, those hard brown hands were at home with either tiller or oar, and more than at home with tack or sheet; a fisherman by trade, a sailor bold as ever trod a slippery deck, and master of the B—— lifeboat. Bob had gone quietly into the bar-parlour of the 'Lovat Arms' on that evening, with three of his pals, all life-boatmen, and they were smoking and enjoying modest glass and yarn when a man in oilskins rushed hurriedly in.

'Bob, you'll be wanted,' he said. 'There's a ship on the Partan Rocks.'

'God help her if she's there to-night!' said one of Bob's crew.

'Up with your drams, lads, and we'll get the Maiden out at once.'

In an almost incredibly short space of time, and just as the second red rocket cleft the darkness of the sky, the Maiden was launched and standing out to sea. So quickly had they gone that the men's wives knew nothing of their going until they had made good their offing and were swallowed up in the dark o' the neap. The Maiden could sail as close to the wind as any boat on the coast; but it needed all her seaworthiness and all Bob's skill to-night to battle with these fierce and seething seas.

Never in this world will all the brave deeds done by our British lifeboats' crews be recorded. Perhaps—quien sabe?—their stories may be told on the shores of the Heavenly Canaan, where it is to be hoped we shall all meet.

But now, through the darkness, the ocean lit up by the white of the curling waves, the Maiden toils on, up the watery hills, down with a rush into the vales between, hit, buffeted, overwhelmed, and shivering, but still striving on and on and on.

Will she be in time?

Perhaps hardly not, for the last rocket has been fired, and out of the goodly crew of seventeen men and a boy that left London but two weeks ago only nine are now alive. The rest have been swept away into the black, yawning seas, and washed shorewards to death on the turn of the tide.

Lotty is down below, for here is the captain's wife and baby, whom the little gipsy lass is doing her best to comfort. And she is thus engaged when her quick ear is sensible of knocking and scraping along the leeside bulwarks, and presently she cries aloud with joy, her eyes sparkling, her face sweetly flushed in the light of the lamp in gimbals.

'Saved, dear lady, saved!' she says to the skipper's wife. For she has heard strange voices on the deck, manly voices shouting strange orders high above the wail of wind and dash of raging sea.

She and her companions are soon lifted by some of the rescuers and carried as if babies in the strong arms of the rough but kindly men; and in a few minutes all are on board the lifeboat, the last man to throw himself in being the brave skipper himself.

Bob Stevens presently feels a tug at his arm, and a young girl's voice says in his ear, 'Do not try to beach her; the sea is high and the bottom is rock. Up the Burn o' Bogie with her. I'm going forward,' continued the voice; and Bob said, many a time after this, it sounded to him like the voice of a seraph—'I'm going forward with my flashlight, and will guide you safe up the burn.'

It is needless to say that the voice was Lotty's, and next minute she was as far forward as one could get in a boat like this, with the light in her hand. She could see the fearful, roaring white of the seas that dashed on shore; but there were hills with their black heads yonder too, and it was by these she kept the course, till, with boiling waves high and threatening on both sides of her, the lifeboat glided into the still, deep waters of the Burn o' Bogie.

It was Antony himself who lifted Lotty from the bows and landed her safe on shore; and in all the vast crowd, that had gathered from every part of the country, hardly was there a dry eye or a heart that did not throb with joy in thinking of the brave deed done this night by the little gipsy lass.

. . . . . . .

'And to think, my dear,' said Mrs Oak the skipper's wife of the lost bark Cumberland, as she was leaving for the south two or three weeks after this, 'that I may never have a chance of doing you a favour for all your brave kindness to us! Oh surely,' she added as she pressed Lotty's hand, and would not let it go, 'the King himself will hear of your gallantry and pluck, and thank you. Good-bye, Lotty, oh good-bye, and God be with you aye!—Kiss the child, James,' she said to her husband; 'kiss the darling that saved our lives.'

Big, brown-bearded James did as he was told. And Lotty was made to promise that if ever she came to Shepherd's Bush she would pay Capstan Cottage a visit, where she, this burly skipper's wife, lived when her husband was far at sea.

But as she made this promise, little did Lotty think how soon she would meet this kindly woman once again.

. . . . . . .

They say it is an ill wind that blows nobody good. The storm that caused the sad and awful wreck of the good bark Cumberland had been by no means an ill-wind to the showman Biffins Lee. No one knew better than he did how to take advantage of a windfall. Immediately after the disaster his people had all to work extra time. No extra pay—that was quite another matter. But the Queerest Show had to be got into full swing, for hundreds of people from all directions flocked towards it, not only to see the scene of the wreck and to pick up souvenirs thereof on the beach, but to see Lotty the heroine, or to listen to the story of her daring and courage from the lips of Biffins Lee; for the girl herself was far too modest and shy to say one word concerning it. In fact, she thought very little about the matter, and could not have been made to believe that she had given evidence of any extra courage in doing what she had done. She knew from the first that in her Jenny Wren there would be no great difficulty in taking out a few rockets to the stranded ship, and she did so. Of course, it had been a little awkward getting alongside, and all that; but then—well, she was successful, and that perhaps as much by chance, she thought, as her own good management.

She shrank instinctively, therefore, from being made a hero of, and lionised; and when she saw newspapers effulgent with flowery language descriptive of her deed of daring, and calling her the second Grace Darling, and all that, she could have torn the pages out and burned them. Indeed, that is precisely what she would have done, only the papers belonged to the show and not to her.

But Biffins Lee had extracts made from these articles, printed in big, attractive capitals, and posted up near to the show, and great posters here and there at roadsides, with big black hands and pointing fingers on them:

THIS WAY TO THE QUEEREST SHOW ON EARTH.
————
GRACE DARLING,
WHO SAVED THE CREW OF THE 'CUMBERLAND.'

EVERY VARIETY OF AMUSEMENT,
SERIOUS AND COMICAL.

BEARS, APES, LIVING SKELETON, AND
THE DREADED DOOROOCOOLIE.
ONLY LIVING MERMAN IN THE WORLD.

Well, Lotty could not help this; but when told that she must appear on the stage in front of a specially prepared scenic screen—rocks, sea, and wrecked ship, with the little Jenny Wren bounding over the waves, and she in it; and that, moreover, she must dress as 'Grace Darling Redivivus' and describe her adventure, then for the first time in her life she became a beautiful but tearful little rebel.

'Father, father,' she cried, 'I cannot, will not do this!'

'Will not, eh? Well,' was the reply, 'and when I tell you that you must and shall, what is your answer to be?'

'That I sha'n't.'

The scene that followed is one which no author would care to dwell upon. But, losing all control over himself, the fat and burly showman advanced with his fist clenched and eyes aflame, and no doubt might have done poor innocent Lotty serious injury. But just at that moment came a fresh actress on the scene, in the person of Crona herself. Dressed as usual in the clean starched mob-cap or mutch, her tartan plaid and garments fluttering around her in the breeze blowing off the sea, a long staff in her hand, and Joe the raven on her shoulder, she appeared as suddenly as if she had sprung from the earth, and interposed her presence 'twixt the showman and child.

'Back!' she almost screamed, 'back, Biffins Lee. Lay but a finger on that child, and there is an end to your show and to your career as well.'

'How dare you, woman! Who are you that interferes with the legal right of a parent to reprimand a disobedient child?'

'Who am I, Biffins Lee?' she repeated. Then she made one step towards him and hissed something in his ear.