The Story of a Silver Padlock.

A FRAGMENT.

BY MRS. A. M. GOODHART,

AUTHOR OF "THE GIANT FISHERS OF HERTZENBERG."

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ONCE, in sweet and sunny Italy, I knew a little lad who fell into evil ways, and learnt to utter rough and shameful words, such as leave an ugly stain upon the minds and lips of those who use them, and his mother was sorely troubled, for she knew that her boy could never grow up among "the pure in heart," if he sinned so grievously with his childish lips.

So she thought long and sorrowfully over the matter, and whilst she was thinking, she fell asleep. And when her long black eyelashes were lying motionless upon her sweet worn cheeks, a tiny cherub angel, one of the baby-messengers of Heaven, stole in at the open window, and tenderly laid a scroll upon her weary eyes. And though she was asleep, she read the words as if in a dream, and they seemed like these: "Go to the jeweller, who lives in the Viâ Stradella, and ask him to make a Silver Padlock for thy Leonardo's lips, lest the ugly words offend again."

The baby-angel had given his message, but before he left, he kissed the tired mother's cheeks, and the caress awoke her; yet though no scroll lay there the words shone still before her eyes.

But she was poor, though of gentle birth, and accustomed in her youth to the golden splendour, and the warm luxuriousness of palaces; that, however, was all in the past, and now she was but a poor widow, working with her child for their daily bread; but though food and money did ofttimes fail them, one blessed thing was "ever theirs," and that was "love," love so deep, and true, and tender, that nought else seemed to matter so long as they two were together.

Nevertheless, the heavenly message troubled her; how could she find money for the Padlock? "Silver in the house there was none; that had gone long ago," she thought, as she looked round the room with a sigh; "but stay, where were all those old silver thimbles, pricked into innumerable holes with many a weary hour's sewing to earn bread for herself and her child? Ah, there they were, a worn-out heap, too old and battered for use, but still pure silver; perhaps old Tomasino, if she begged him, would melt them down for her, and make what she required, at any rate she must obey the heavenly message, and try."

So at nightfall, when the stars alone gave forth their light, she took Leonardo by the hand, and led him to the dark musty shop of the old jeweller. Leonardo asked no questions, he thought that his mother was going to sell the thimbles for a few scudi; but when she tremblingly began to say, "A little angel bade me have a Silver Padlock made, because my child hath learnt to soil his lips with ugly words," Leonardo dared not raise his eyes from the ground.

The old jeweller betrayed no astonishment at her strange request. "It shall be ready to-morrow for the signora," was all he replied, and the mother and son walked away in the darkness, and silence and night fell over the earth.

       *       *        *       *        *       *

The morrow came, but the gentle mother never visited the Viâ Stradella again, and Leonardo, with breaking heart and streaming eyes, dashed in upon the old bewildered jeweller.

"Give me the Padlock," he cried; "the last thing she did for me. It shall never leave me as long as I have life."

Then, all in the whirlwind of his passionate grief, he dashed out again into the quiet street, leaving the old man dazed and trembling.

"I am glad he forgot to pay me," he murmured to himself with faltering lips and tear-dimmed eyes. "It was her last wish, and life had been hard to her, but now she is at peace for evermore."

He was very poor and very old, and had hardly the wherewithal to buy his next meal, but it warmed his lonely heart to know that he had been kind to one who was now amongst the angels of God.

       *       *        *       *        *       *

As for Leonardo, he took the silver trinket and hung it on a faded ribbon that had once been hers, and wore it round his neck, as the years rolled by, in many a fight and many a fray, guarding it ever as his most precious treasure, his most sacred possession, until upon a far-off battle-field he lay at rest one summer evening, with a happy smile upon his quiet face, and his fellow-soldiers, gathering round, saw the little Silver Padlock on the faded string, resting upon his sunburnt breast, and with reverent hearts forebore to touch it, taking it to be a love token, as indeed it had ever been, for what can be a truer love token than that which keeps the heart pure, and the lips unsullied in the midst of an evil world?

       *       *        *       *        *       *

Somewhere far away in the shining fields of Paradise that pair of true lovers, that mother and son, are walking together now. We cannot tell the joy that fills their souls, or shines in their radiant eyes . . . Such joy is not for us to know until we too have passed into the clearer light of the Eternal Day.

Two Church Mice.

FOUNDED ON FACT.

BY EMMA WOOD.

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CHAPTER I.

ONCE upon a time there lived in a farm-yard, at the bottom of a corn-stack, a family of mice, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Mouse, and seven baby mice. As yet the babies were quite pink, just like little pigs, but they kept growing and growing, and turning darker and darker, until at last they were quite the family colour, and nearly as big as their parents. Well, one day Papa Mouse said to Mamma Mouse—

"My dear, it will soon be time for our children to get their own living. I think I had better hear what their wishes for the future are, and give them some advice." So he called his children round him, and thus began—

"Sons and daughters, your mother and I think you should begin to work for yourselves, and I should like to hear if you have formed any plans before I proceed to give you my advice. Hop and Pop, as you are the two eldest sons, speak first."

Then up started Hop and Pop, and said promptly—

"Father, we have talked this matter over, and we have both decided to go into the Church!"

"My sons," said their father, "I am sorry to hear it, as Church mice are proverbially poor. I should strongly advise you all to stick to farming, especially the corn-growing branch of it. With good management mice can live comfortably, and bring up large families, if they will only be content with their station; but mice that aspire to the Church always end in being starved."

Then the rest of the family spoke, and expressed themselves quite ready to follow their father's advice, but Hop and Pop were bent on having their own way, so in a short time they said "good-bye" to their loving parents, and kissed their brothers and sisters, and went away to begin the battle of life for themselves.

They started for a beautiful old Church that stood near, and when they reached it the bells were ringing, and people going in at the door, and amongst them a lady holding a little girl by the hand, who instantly caught sight of the brothers, and screamed, "Look, mammy—'two mouses!'"

Hop and Pop were so terrified that they immediately hid themselves in the grass, so that the little girl's mother did not see them. There they stayed, trembling, until all the people had come out of Church again, and they saw the Rector and his sister go away, and last of all, the clerk lock the door, carrying the keys with him. Then they began to breathe more freely.

"Now Hop," said Pop, "we must begin to get our own living, so come along."

So away they went, and managed to squeeze under the bottom of the big door, and then ran into the middle aisle, and looked round.

"Oh my!" said Hop, "won't we have fun though? This is a great deal better than a farm-yard."

And then they played hide and seek amongst the basses, and in and out the pews, and scampered up and down the aisles until at last they were quite tired out, and sadly in want of their supper besides.

"Now," said Pop, "it is time we found something to eat; there must be a good larder somewhere, as so many people come to Church; so you go and look for it one way, and I will go another."

Pop ran as far as the east window, but Hop only got as far as the pulpit, which he mounted, and there he found "food for reflection," but it was some little time before he found food for his supper; but at last, as he kept getting higher and higher, he alighted on the top of one of the candlesticks, so he sat up, and began to nibble away at the candle until he had made quite a good meal; but just as he had finished, and was thinking of calling his brother to share his feast, he heard a jingling of keys, and then two people came into the Church, but as it was now "pitchy" dark, he could only cling to the candlestick, trembling and quaking.

Presently a match was struck, and then Hop saw from his eminence that the intruders were the Rector and his boy George, and also saw, with terror, that they were making for the pulpit! So down he came in a jiffy, and hid himself in the first place that came handy, and that happened to be the harmonium, which stood under the pulpit, and there he lay panting behind the pedals, thinking—

"I'm quite safe here until they are gone again"—but, horror of horrors! instead of the Rector going up into the pulpit he came straight to the harmonium, and took hold of one end, and George the other, and the poor little mouse found himself being carried out of the Church, out into the churchyard, out into the road, then into the rectory garden, then into the rectory, and finally deposited in the hall, and there the Rector and George left it for a short time.

"Now," thought Hop, "now's my time to run;" so run he did, but, unluckily, just as George was returning, who caught sight of him before he could hide himself. George made a grab at him, but missed him, as he squeezed himself under the study door; but George was like a cat for a mouse, he did not mean to be beaten, so he opened the study door, and on a low chair near the fire sat the Rector's sister, Peggy, who looked round to see who had come in, and George began excitedly—

"If you please'm, there's a mouse just come into the room'm—"

"Oh, George, you don't say so! 'Where' is it?" And she instantly got up and jumped on to the highest chair she could see, gathering her dress round her.

"Are you 'quite' sure you saw one?"

"Yes'm, I'm sure'm, and it came out of the harmonium."

Enter the Rector. "'What's' the matter now?" he said.

"Why sir, there's a mouse, sir."

Well, I'm ashamed to tell you that the Rector was almost as much afraid of a mouse as his sister was, but he put on a brave look, and screwed his courage to the sticking point, and said manfully, "'Where,' George?"

"If you please, sir, it went behind the book-shelves."

Then the housekeeper was called to help to move them, but the united efforts of the household were futile to stir them, so, for the present, Hop was safe. Then the housekeeper spoke up and said—

"'I' know what 'I' should do."

"What should 'you' do, Mrs. H—?" said the Rector and Peggy simultaneously, truth to tell glad of any suggestion.

"Why 'I' should give it some 'supper,' sir, that's what I should do." (Well, Hop heard this from behind the book-shelves, and he thought "what a nice 'kind' woman the housekeeper is"), and Peggy exclaimed—

"'Supper!' then I'm sure I dare not sit here—why it will perhaps be climbing up my dress, and I'm certain if it did, I should go into a fit."

"Oh'm," said the housekeeper, "it won't come out whilst you are here—you need not be afraid; but when you and the master go to bed, I'll mix it some 'nice' supper." And she smiled benevolently, and looked so beaming and good-looking, that if Hop could only have seen her, he would have felt quite satisfied that he had "one" friend, at a rate, on his side. But alas for appearances! The matter was left in Mrs. H—'s hands, and she left some nice-looking supper on a bit of paper on the study floor, and then they all retired to rest.

When everything was quite still, as still as any mouse could desire, and dark besides, our friend Hop began to feel less agitated, and he had already made a plan that he would first get the supper the kind housekeeper had prepared, and then he would creep into the harmonium again, and be carried back to the Church the same way as he had been carried from it. Well, very cautiously he emerged from his hiding place, meaning to have a hunt for his supper, but he found it close to the book-shelves, so without more ado, he began to eat; but hardly had he tasted it, when he turned very dizzy, and then was seized with a violent pain. Suddenly, he thought to himself, "that 'wretched' woman! I do believe she has put 'poison' in my supper! 'I'm a dead mouse;' but she shan't have the satisfaction of finding me dead!" And with that he just managed to crawl back, and in a very short time "died." And that was the end of one Church mouse.

Take advice from parents,
   Children great and small,
Or 'sure as a gun' you'll often run
   Your heads against a wall.

CHAPTER II.

HAVING followed the career of one Church Mouse to its sad end, let us go into the Church again, and see what our other little friend Pop is doing. I think we left him hunting for provender, having parted from his brother in the nave. First of all, he ran as far as the Altar, then up the curtains, then on the super-altar, and vainly tried to climb the tall candlesticks, thinking if he could only reach the candles, he should make a grand supper; but in that respect, he was not so fortunate as his brother, for though he kept trying again and again, the shining brass afforded no hold for his claws.

By this time, he was very hungry and faint, so in despair, he began to attack the flowers in the vases, making a "great" litter, but a "very poor" supper.

After that, he crept behind the Dossal and forgot his woes in sleep.

The next day being Saturday, the Rector's sister came into the Church to rub up the brass Cross, and to put fresh flowers in the vases; but as soon as she saw the litter on the Altar, she exclaimed in consternation—

"Why I do believe there has been a mouse here, too! Whatever shall we do to get rid of the mice?"

Then she fetched her brother, and the housekeeper, and George, to see if they could find the culprit; but Pop, true to his name, had popped quite out of sight.

"'I' know what 'I' should do," said the housekeeper.

"What should 'you' do, Mrs. H—?" said both the Rector and his sister in a breath.

"I should give them some supper, to-night," and she smiled a loud smile from ear to ear.

"Well, Mrs. H—," said the Rector, "as you are cook, I think we will leave the matter in your hands, and mind you make the supper nice and tasty."

"I will, sir, it shall be as nice as 'I' can make it."

Then they all left the Church, and Pop came from his hiding place, feeling dreadfully frightened, and also very miserable because he did not know what had become of his brother, and so hungry he could hardly run. He thought if he could only find the door, he would certainly try and make his way back to his family; but he could not remember in what direction the door lay. At last he alighted on the crimson velvet kneelers on the Altar step, and thinks he to himself—

"These 'smell' good. I will eat through the covering, and there's bound to be something nice inside—may be there will be some 'cheese.'"

Animated by this hope, he nibbled and nibbled, and scratched and scratched at the stuffing, until he had made a hole big enough to hide half-a-dozen mice. Just then, what do you think? he heard first the rattling of keys, then footsteps, and then voices, and the Rector and his sister stood within half-a-yard of his hiding place! Well, what could Pop do but lie very still? and he did it; but the Rector immediately caught sight of the hole in the cushion, and exclaimed—

"Peggy, look here! Actually, a mouse has eaten a hole quite through the velvet, and a great deal of the stuffing besides!"

"'What's' to be done?"

She gazed speechless for a quarter of a minute, and then said cheerfully—

"I shall have to mend it, or in the words of the poet—

"'What's amiss I'll strive to mend,
   And endure what can't be mended.'

"But this can be mended, so I'll fetch my workables at once." So away she went, and very soon brought back velvet, and stuffing, and needle, and thread.

Well, poor Pop heard every word that was said, but he only crept a little further into the cushion, paralysed with fear, and expecting "every moment to be his next."

Then Peggy came, and began pushing handfuls of soft stuffing into the hole, so that, of course, our poor little friend could not have run away then, even if he had dared.

At last all was neatly finished, and they left the Church.

Then Pop tried to turn himself in his living tomb, but Peggy had done her work too well for him to escape at his ease. So he lay very still, "thinking." All his father's wise sayings came into his mind, and amongst them was this—"Never say die."

"Well," thinks he to himself, "I'm not dead yet, for certain, and father used to say that adversity was sent to try what sort of material people were made of. Surely no mouse was ever in a stranger fix than myself! but I won't say die, and I'll prove to all mousedom that I'm a mouse of mettle."

So thereupon he began to scratch and scratch, and nibble and nibble, until he had quite eaten through Peggy's neat patch, and found himself once more in daylight. Then he made straight for the big door at which he and his brother had entered, and the next thing that happened, he was in the churchyard, and then—"Home, sweet home."

His appearance was so altered since he had left his family that none of them knew him. He had left home a fine, athletic young mouse, and he returned a broken-down, poor gentleman mouse; but when the first surprise was over, he was received with open arms, and no word of reproach.

Then, after he had had a good meal, he told his tale. He did not spare himself at all, but acknowledged that all their misfortunes had come upon them because they would not take advice from their excellent father, but he humbly hoped that he had learnt a lesson, and for the time to come he would try to be a "wiser," if a sadder mouse.

I must just add that when Peggy found that all her stitches had been in vain, and that she had unwittingly sewed the mouse up in the kneeler, and that it had eaten its way out, instead of being angry, she exclaimed, "Well, I never heard of such a plucky little mouse in my life. It 'deserves' to get away, and I'm 'glad' it did; but I shall have to mend the hole up again, by-the-bye." So she did, and this time effectually.

The New Master.

BY S. BARING-GOULD, M. A.,

AUTHOR OF "MEHALAH," "JOHN HERRING," "COURT ROYAL," &c., &c.

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I AM a little girl. I never was a little boy, as far as I can recollect, and I hope I never shall be, for I think little boys are rough and greedy, and wear out their clothes faster than girls. But here is one thing I should like to be a boy for, and that is to have pockets. I have only one in my frock. Boys have two in their trousers, and one at least in their jackets. Johnny Phillips had got a great coat, and that has got two, one on each side, then there is one on his breast coat side, and one inside, and he has the same three that other boys have. That makes:—

   2 pockets in the skirt of great coat.
   1    "      "    breast    "    "  outside.
   1    "      "        "        "    "  inside.
   2    "    in his trousers.
   1    "      "    jacket.

And he stuffs his pocket handkerchief up his sleeve, so that counts for a half. That makes 2 + 1 + 1 + 2 + 1 + ½ that makes 7½ pockets.

I love my papa dearly. Also I love my mamma. I love my sister Jane, and sometimes my sister Mary. I love my aunt Fanny very much, she gave me a box of candied plums on my birthday. I like my governess, sometimes; but sometimes she gives me smacks. When she gives me smacks, I don't like her. We had some nice people lived next door; their name was Jones. Mr. Jones was a very gentle and sweet sort of man, and Mrs. Jones was middling. They had a great many children, I think twelve, or it may have been a baker's dozen, I mean thirteen. Mr. Jones never knew exactly. When asked, he looked puzzled, and rubbed his nose, and said he thought it was about a dozen, taken all in all. The Joneses didn't keep a governess. We did. We were very superior people to the Joneses. Our name is Brown, and B comes a long way before J in the alphabet, so, of course, we were altogether a chop above them, as Jane says.

They did a lot of crying in their house, did the Joneses. I don't mean Mr. and Mrs., but the children. The nursery was all over the house, the children got everywhere, and when Mr. Jones wanted to do his accounts, and to think of his prospects, he went into the nursery, because he was sure to be left alone there. The children didn't like the nursery, and screamed when taken there. So they were allowed to go everywhere else, and Mr. Jones had it to himself as a sort of study.

The Joneses, my papa said, were in bad circumstances. I have heard the servants say that they did not pay their butcher's bills regularly. I didn't mean the babies, but Mr. and Mrs. Jones. That explains what Jane meant when she said they were a chop behind or below us; she meant that we paid for our chops and they didn't, and so we were sometimes a chop, and even more ahead of them, for they couldn't get the butcher to send them a new chop when they hadn't paid for the last one.

At last things got very bad there, and they became bankup, I think the nurse said, I know it was something like hiccup, and there was a nasty dirty man, who smelt of tobacco, stuck into the house, and he ordered all about, and had his food taken to him in the sitting-room, and smoked, and had mugs of porter in the best bedroom, and stretched his legs out and stuck his dirty boots one on each side of the ormolu clock on the drawing-room chimney-piece. They said he was a bailiff, and that he made himself master in the house.

Mr. Jones went about more sweet and gentle than ever, and sniffed every now and then; nothing can be imagined more meek, and gentle, and forbearing, and suffering, than he was. But then he was no longer master of the house. The bailiff was. He sat at the nursery window, and tried to keep the children there, but they cried, and kicked, and screamed; they wanted to go and see the bailiff, but the bailiff didn't want to see them, so Mr. Jones sat on a stool, the nurse's stool, on which she used to sit when tubbing the baby; but they had no nurse any more, because they were bankups. The nurse had gone away, and had not been paid her wages. And so Mr. Jones sat at the window and looked out and sniffed, and all the children squalled and kicked. It was very terrible to think of, that house and all these children, and the ormolu clock, and the antimacassars, and the lawn mowing machine, and Mrs. Jones, and the parrot, and the umbrella stand, all had a new master in the house—that horrible bailiff. Then there came a sale, and nearly everything was sold, except Mr. and Mrs. Joneses toothbrushes, on which papa said a fancy price was set, and they were bought in by some rich relative of the family. Papa said perhaps they were heirlooms.

It was all very miserable. After that Mr. Jones went away, and sniffed piteously as he went. Mrs. Jones went after him, and Mr. Jones carried the baby, and Mrs. Jones carried the last baby but one, and then after Mrs. Jones came ten children, or eleven, I cannot say which. I was as uncertain as was Mr. Jones, because, you see, they never would keep quiet in one place for me to count them, but bobbed about here and there, and put one out in reckoning.

My dear mamma was not very well at the time, and was much upset at all this. She was so kind, she would have helped Mr. and Mrs. Jones if she could, but papa said they were past help. The only way was to buy that horrid tobackerish man out of the house, and it would cost a lot of money to do that, and next year he would be there again, and Mr. Jones would never be a twelvemonth master in his house.

I was sent away soon after to school, mamma was not well, and wished it; and my sister Jane and Mary went with the governess somewhere for a little holiday trip. I thought it very hard that when they went for a holiday I should have to go to school. I fancy that the governess, Miss Smith, could not manage to teach my sisters and me together, for they were a tremendous awful way ahead of me, and if Miss Smith had to be doing what are called equations with Jane, and compound fractions with Mary, and then with me to come to simple addition and multiplication; or be doing the celestial globe, or one hemisphere with them, and come down to the terrestrial globe, or at a stride to the other hemisphere with me, it would be too great a jump, and she might strain her back, and have to lie on a board like one of the elder Joneses, till the board was sold at the auction and went for four and sixpence.

I was sent to school, and I was very unhappy there at first, it was all so new and so strange to me. I wanted mamma to come and kiss me when I was in bed; and then I couldn't have jam on my bread always at tea, as I did at home. They did not set me very hard lessons to do at first, but they were not out of the books I had at home. At home, when I had done a sum, then I could suck my slate pencil and look-out of the window, or play with puss, till Miss Smith had done with Jane or Mary or both, so I had a good long rest after each effort I made to add numbers together. But at school I was kept sharp at work, and when I had done one sum was set another; and when I had written one line in my copy book, I was not allowed to run to the teacher and tease her to look at it and say it was beautiful, before I went on to write the second line.

I did not like the cat either. It had been white once, but it was not well cared for, or did not care for itself properly, and it always made me think of Mr. Jones, it had such a way of screwing up its nose, just as he did when he sniffed. Often when I was alone in my bed I thought about the Jones family, and how terrible it was for them to have that nasty man put into the house, ordering them about, eating their food, drinking their stout, and acting as their lord and master.

One day, about a fortnight after I had gone to school, I had a letter from Aunt Fanny.

This is her letter.

   "MY DARLING TOOTSIE,

   "What do you think? What will you say, my sweet pet? Strange things have happened since you went away. It is perhaps well that you are not at home now, nor Jane, nor Mary, for the house has been quite turned topsy-turvy.

   "I can hardly think you will believe your old auntie when she tells you that a NEW MASTER has invaded the house, and holds sovereign sway there. He is a perfect tyrant. What he wants he yells for, and it must be given him at once. Never was there seen anyone more exacting and despotic. Your mamma is ill, but perhaps she is as well as might be expected under the circumstances. As for your dear papa, he is nowhere—simply nowhere. I also am made a slave of this tyrant, and all the servants are kept dancing attendance on him.

"Good-bye, my sweetest pet,

"Ever your doting aunt,

"FANNY."

There! I uttered a cry, and burst into tears. It had come about in our dear, dear home as it had in that of the Joneses. There was the same horrible tobackerish man in our beautiful drawing-room, putting his legs up on our mantelshelf, where was such a sweet bit of embroidered vandyke work mamma had done, with sunflowers on it.

O my mamma! my mamma! I threw myself on the floor and sobbed.

The teachers came to me and told me not to cry. They asked me what was the matter, but I could not, I would not, tell them that a horrid tobackerish bailiff as a new master was in our home, our sweet home; that my own darling papa was now nowhere—I suppose had run away; that the servants—dear Martha, who always gave me a lollipop whenever I went into the kitchen, and Susan, who had such funny stories to tell me, all were trampled under foot by this cruel, tyrannical, nasty tobackerish monster.

What did Aunt Fanny mean by saying papa was nowhere? Did she mean that he was dead, or that he was running away? That little boy in Struvelpeter who went out in the wind and rain with a big umbrella was carried off by the wind, getting smaller and smaller, till he smalled to a pin's head, and then was nowhere—was darling papa going, or gone, like that little boy?

I sobbed and cried all night. I could eat nothing next day, I was so unhappy. I thought how my poor mammy must suffer with that new master roaring for his stout and pipe, and beefsteaks and potatoes, and just what he liked, and setting down his porter pot on mamma's polished piano, and puffing his smoke into the cage where are Jane's canaries.

Then a new idea came into my head. I remembered that that nasty man, the bailiff, could be bought off. I had heard my father say as much, that the only way to be rid of him was to give him money. So I pulled out my purse, a sweet little purse that Aunt Fanny had given me on my birthday, and in it was a jubilee florin, all of silver, quite bright, like our spoons at dinner. I had also a fourpenny bit that Miss Smith had given me, and a sixpence from mamma, and another sixpence from papa, and that made—

   1 Jubilee florin
   1 Fourpenny bit
   2 Sixpences
   —
   4 Shillings; no, five sixpences—no, I can't do it, as I am not yet in compound addition.

I dried my tears and asked one of the school mistresses how much money it was, and she said three shillings and fourpence. But I had a wax doll that had blue eyes which rolled, and when you squeezed its stomach it said "Pa!" I thought I would sell it, so I offered it to all the girls in the school, and one girl gave me tenpence for it, and a button that had sparkling sort of stuff on it. That increased my store to four shillings and twopence. I thought if I could only get a little more and make up five shillings I might be able to buy out the odious man, and then perhaps my darling papa might come sailing down to us out of nowhere, and mamma might get better. But the head mistress of the school heard that I was selling my toys and my pink sash, and she was very angry, and called me to her, and asked me what I was about. When I was asked I was obliged to answer, for papa and mamma would not wish me to disobey, and certainly not to tell an untruth, so I said, "Please, Miss Tomkins, papa is bankrup', and there's a nasty beastly—"

"Hush, don't say beastly."

"A horrid, awful, tobackerish bailiff in the house, and mamma is ill, and papa has run away, and is—and is—is—is—is Nowhere!" Then I burst into tears, and I thought my heart would break.

When I looked up I saw Miss Tomkins looking almost green. She called to her an attendant, and said she must at once send a telegram to have me removed. I was too delicate, too unsuited to scholastic life, to remain any longer under her charge.

I found Miss Tomkins rather stiff towards me after that; she did not seem to pity my darling mother for having that dreadful creature in the house, nor my father for having been blown away into nowhere, but rather to pity herself for having taken me in, the child of such distressed and afflicted parents.

Next day I was sent off to the station, and committed to the guard, who put me out on the platform at the town where is my home. There was Aunt Fanny waiting for me. I uttered a cry, and flew to her arms.

"Oh, auntie! auntie! Is he still there?"

"Who, darling?"

"The—the—new master?"

"Of course he is."

"O dearest auntie. I have got nearly—not quite five shillings. Can I get rid of him for that?"

My dear aunt looked grave.

"You are not jealous, are you, pet?"

"Jealous! Oh aunt! I hate him! I could kill him."

"My Tootsie! this is not yourself, indeed it is not. Your mother will not love you the less because of him."

I smothered my tears. My heart beat furiously. I did not know how to bear it—the sight of the horrid, beastly, tobackerish monster in our pretty, tidy, sweet home.

I said no more in the cab to auntie, who I felt was hurt at what I said; but aunt is so good and so kind that she could not hate or be uncivil even to such an one as the New Master.

We reached home. The door was opened. Susan was smiling. Then I saw Martha—she held some sweets in her hand; she was laughing.

"Oh, missie! what will you say! He is such a darling!"

He—the bailiff, smelling of smoke! putting his pot of stout on my mamma's piano!

"How can you say so, Susan? You are wicked, heartless," I said.

"Come and see him, and kiss him," said my aunt.

"Kiss him! I will die first."

"See him, at all events."

"I don't want to see him. I want to see my mamma—and oh, where is my papa?"

Then mamma's door opened, and out came papa, back from Nowhere. I rushed to him. I was in his arms in an instant.

"Come and see him," said my father, and he carried me into my mother's room.

"Where is he?" I asked, looking round for the monster.

"Here, pet; kiss him," said mamma—and held up to me the sweetest, dearest Baby Brother!

Peter.

A RUSSIAN STORY.

BY FANNY BARRY.

————————

IT was Fair Day in the village of Vuicksa, and a throng of gaily dressed peasants, walked up and down the broad, sandy road between the booths, or stood in groups bargaining or talking with the proprietors of the various stalls. There was a deafening clatter, the sellers, striving to attract the buyers, by descriptions of their wares, shouted out at the top of their voices; and all were busily eating their favourite sunflower seeds—the husks of which, peeled off and thrown aside, strewed the ground thickly in all directions.

In one place, a tall woman with a brilliant handkerchief tied over her head, and a holiday gown of brightest red; was haranguing an old wizened man in a long grey coat, bound round the waist with a green sash.

"It's all very well, Ivan Panovitch. You ask a rouble for these shoes, and your conscience tells you they are not worth eighty copecks. Satisfy yourself now by doing a just deed. Let me have them for eighty-five! You will sleep better for it, you will indeed."

The old man shrugged his shoulders, and turned towards an impish-looking boy, who sat cross-legged on a box by his side.

"What do you say, Peter, shall we let the worthy Katrina have them for eighty-five?"

The child shook his long dark hair, and looked at the old man with a sharp glance from his bright grey eyes.

"Certainly not," he said, decidedly; "they are worth ninety—not a copeck less."

He got down leisurely from his box, and coming up to the counter, took one of the shoes and tapped it critically.

"Good work and good material," he said, gravely; "not a copeck less than ninety;" and he clambered up on to his seat again.

"He is a clever child, my Peter," said the old man, chuckling with glee. "He knows the price of every shoe in the stall better than I do myself. He has had an eye for a shoe ever since he was a baby."

After more haggling, "the worthy Katrina" finally bought the pair of shoes she had set her heart upon, and prepared herself for a little neighbourly conversation. She lived in a little wooden house next door to the one-roomed log hut inhabited by Ivan Panovitch and his adopted child, Peter; and frequently ran in to do a little sweeping up and scrubbing for the old man, whom she had known from her childhood.

Who little Peter was nobody knew. Ivan had found him early one morning as he went to his work in the great iron foundry close by, done up in a shawl of grey homespun, and lying upon a heap of "slag," the refuse of the smelting furnace.

Peter was a baby then, but even at that period of his life he was not like other babies. He looked up at Ivan with a pair of bright, serious eyes, and did not cry when he was lifted up and carried into the old man's house.

Ivan did not know in the least what to do with him, and felt embarrassed as the sharp eyes followed his every movement.

He had never had anything to do with children, but his first thought was that the baby must be hungry, and he hesitated and considered deeply as to what it would be best to give it to eat. "I can't leave it out there for any stray dogs to sniff at," he said to himself. "I wonder where it comes from! I shall go to the priest, and the police, to enquire, but meantime what shall I do with it? I'll warm up a little kwass, and give it some pieces of black bread in it."

This strange food was accordingly prepared, and the baby, who remained solemnly staring at everything about it, was fed by the old man with bits of the soaked bread, administered in a gaily-coloured wooden spoon.

Katrina happening to pass by, and seeing the door open, came in just in time to see Ivan seated on a stool with the little grey bundle on his knees, holding up its head with one arm, whilst with a face of the greatest gravity he prodded at its mouth with the spoon.

"Hi! yi! Ivan Panovitch, what have you got there? A child! What a strange-looking creature! It is solemn as a young owl! And what in the world are you doing to it?"

"I am feeding it," replied Ivan Panovitch, with some pride. "It was not exactly crying, but it had a hungry appearance. Where it comes from, I know no more than you do. I found it by the slag heap and what I am to do with it, the good Lord alone knows!"

Ivan crossed himself devoutly, spoon in hand, and laying down the infant on the old sheepskin spread on the white plastered stove, he put the wooden bowl he had been using on the shelf; wiped the spoon on the tail of his long grey coat, and looked at Katrina as if expecting that she would make some suitable suggestion.

"I guess who the child belongs to," she said, seating herself beside the baby, and beginning to examine its clothing to see if there was any mark or sign to distinguish it. "Did you see those gypsies, little father, who came through the village, yesterday, with the dancing bears? One of the women—a miserable creature with black hair—had a child tied up in a bundle on her back. Look at this little 'charm,' Ivan Panovitch, tied round the poor thing's neck. It isn't a Christian cross, or a Saint's picture, but a strange three-cornered brass thing with a hole in it. 'That' means no good, you may be sure. The people have cast off the child, and are far enough away by this time."

"If that's so I shall keep it," answered Ivan Panovitch, and as he was slow in taking up an idea, but held to it tenaciously when he had once got it, Katrina did not remonstrate, but only observed with Russian fatalism,—

"Well, little father, certainly it is the Lord's will, and we cannot struggle against it. I can't take it myself, for I have too many to look to already, but I will fasten it up a cradle, and look after it sometimes, when I can. Don't feed it on kwass though. I will show you how to make it some food that won't kill it."

So it was that Peter became an inmate of Ivan Panovitch's little log hut, and though enquiries were made in every direction, no one found out anything more about him.

Ivan had him christened by the priest, and tied a cross round his neck by the side of the brass triangle, which, for some reason he could hardly have explained to himself, he left where some loving hand had perhaps tied it.

"It can't do any harm," Ivan said to himself. "The cross must be stronger than any heathenish sign like that, and he may as well have every chance he can."

The choice of a name had very much perplexed the old man, but he finally decided on "Peter," as, being the name of a favourite brother, and of a Saint, it seemed a happy combination which it would be impossible to improve upon.

So little Peter stayed, and grew in a slow but visible manner. He never cried, but would lie all the time Ivan was at the works, in his swinging cradle hung like a hammock from the ceiling, looking round at the log room with his great grey eyes, and playing with the wooden figures Ivan carved for him from pieces of pine wood.

Ivan was astonished what a difference the baby made in his life. It was quite an affair to feed him before he started to his work, and a still greater affair to give him a bath on Saturday evening, when the old man would cover himself with the sheepskin for an apron, and let Peter splash about in a tub full of warm water.

Peter thoroughly enjoyed this ceremony, and would take the wooden animals to bathe with him, and delighted to splash old Ivan as he looked at him with admiring delight! The drying process was generally hurried over very rapidly, as Peter would wriggle about like a little eel, and make faces at Ivan every time he attempted to touch him with the sheepskin apron, which also acted as a towel.

When once he was in the cradle again Peter would crow and chatter, and laugh till—as his indulgent foster father remarked—"it was more like a monkey than a child!"

Ivan devoted every spare minute to him. He had his own coloured wooden bowl on the shelf—the best one the house could boast of—he had the gayest spoon, the warmest covering, and strange little garments composed by Ivan himself with much toil and thought in the long winter evenings.

At a very early age he had a pair of odd little blue trousers sewn for him. They were cut out after the same design as Ivan's own; his best pair being spread out flat, and nailed against the wall, that their shape might be exactly copied.

They turned out when finished to be too long in the leg, but this difficulty was obviated by the addition of three tucks, "which could be let out as the child grew," as Ivan sagely remarked. They also evinced an inclination to drop off when Peter moved, and a string had to be run into the waistband to tie them up—but this also was a good thing, as it could be enlarged when the child got older.

Ivan, indeed, felt that he should never be capable of undertaking a second pair.

"I have made them now because I am in the full use of my faculties," he said to Katrina, "but in a year or two I shall not have the brain for them. That pair and the shirt have aged me. A woman would hardly understand the trouble I had in letting in the pieces under the arms. Threading the needle alone took me hours. I have trained Peter to do that now. He sits by me and hands me the thread and pins as I want them. He is a very intelligent child."

So little Peter grew up. He soon learned to help his adopted father, and became more handy than boys twice his age. He could cook the soup for dinner, brew tea in the Samivar, wash out the hut when it had to be treated to such a luxury, salt the cucumbers and fish for the winter, bargain at the market, and get better bargains than Ivan himself.

He was still a strange-looking boy, small and thin, with great dark eyes and a shrill voice. He took violent likes and dislikes to everyone he came across. Katrina was never a friend of his, she had corrected him too often when he was a baby, but her children he was fond of, and their dog "Panoff" was his devoted slave.

He loved Panoff, though he was old, ugly, and despised—perhaps because of that—and he placed him in his affections only next to Ivan, his foster father, who he looked upon as a being quite apart from all the rest of the world.

Ivan had endeavoured to instil his own simple beliefs in religion into the child's mind, and they went to Church very regularly and observed all the fasts, eating no butter or animal food, but having a little oil with their fish occasionally as a treat.

Peter wearied of this sometimes, and would have liked to buy some of the nice things he saw at the baker's, but he never dreamt of asking his father for a copeck, and stifled his longing without saying a word about it to anybody but Panoff.

By the side of their hut stood a little box-like shelter, shaped like a dove cot, on the top of a tall pole—a kindhearted preparation for the birds in winter time, which is often seen outside a Russian peasant's house. This Peter always kept strewn with grain or crumbs, scrambling up the pole for the purpose like a young monkey; and sometimes when it was freezing and food was scarce, he would save a piece of his own black bread, without saying anything to Ivan.

"I couldn't let the birds starve," he would say to himself, and would overcome the temptation to eat up the last morsel, which often came over him so strongly, he could hardly resist it—but somehow he always "did." When he was very hard put to it, he made a little prayer, and begged that his appetite might become smaller; but he was surprised to find that this never seemed to be answered.

Ivan Panovitch worked at the iron works, until he became too old for the hard life. Out of his earnings, he had managed to save, what appeared to him, and to his neighbours, quite a little fortune; and with it he had invested in a store of boots and shoes of all kinds. Plaited bark shoes, such as were worn by himself and most of his friends; women's boots, with showy patent leather ornaments and elastic sides; black leather holiday top boots for the men, with bright red tops; and shoes of every imaginable sort and description.

"I want the child to be brought up to some thriving trade," he said to Katrina, when he first started his stall at the weekly market. "I want him to feel he can get on, and make a way for himself, and I think boots are as thriving as anything. You see, I have argued it all out. People 'must' have boots whatever happens; they can't walk about on 'slag' barefoot; and as the 'slag' won't cease to exist, but will probably spread about more and more, and as people are every day wishing to become more and more fashionable, I am pretty sure always to have a market. Why only yesterday old Marsha Ivanovna, who has never known anything but a bark shoe since she was born, came driving her cart out of the forest, and sold a pig in the market to buy herself a pair of smart shoes, and all because her grand daughter-in-law from Mourum was married in kid slippers with sandals! These new fashions will make my fortune, but I don't like them."

No sooner was the shoe trade started than Peter became a connoisseur in boots, and indeed very soon knew far more about them than his adopted father, who looked on at his acquirements with more than parental pride.

"You save me all trouble, my child," he often said to Peter. "You are the pride of my life. Fortunate was the day I found you on the 'slag' heap!"

Many people might have thought—and indeed, did not hesitate to say—that Peter was not much to be proud of. He was certainly a very ugly little boy, but to old Ivan he appeared (for love is a wonderful softener of defects) the most remarkable child that ever lived.

He still wore the celebrated blue homespun trousers, which had become a sort of part of himself—a portion of his being, without which he would not have been Peter at all.

The last tuck had been let out long ago, and the string had departed from the waistband.

Ivan himself had become so used to them, that ever since the letting out of the last tuck he had measured the child's height by them with a measuring stick, which he borrowed from a shop close by. The measures were written in charcoal high up on the white plaster of the stove (so that they should not be rubbed off), and in large round figures of a peculiar make, known only to Ivan himself, whose everyday calculations were conducted on a many-wired frame, with a series of little coloured balls that slid up and down.

The list was headed by a large "Peter," in Russian, and the date, followed by a sketch of a leg in a trouser, with "1st year, 4½ inches" ("from the ground to the hem," as Ivan would explain to anyone who asked him), "2nd year, 6¼ inches," "3rd year, 7½," and so on, up to the day when Peter and his "father" stood in the stall at the Fair, and bargained about the shoes with the "worthy Katrina."

Thus the blue trousers became historical, and were immortalized in a frescoe, and Peter approached rapidly to the time when he would arrive at the dignity of his first pair of top boots. These he was to choose himself on the very day my story commences, and he had been enduring much wear and tear of spirit in deciding which pair of the numerous stock would be the best and wisest to fix upon.

Some had better soles, some brighter "tops," some better leather. Altogether he was quite worn-out with the struggle to decide.

He had put three pairs on one side, and whenever he was not observed by his adopted father, he hovered over these, pinching the leather, and tapping upon the soles, and then, putting them in natural attitudes, as if they were walking, he would go off to a distance to contemplate the effect. Each boot was good of its kind, each had some almost cruel advantage over its brethren. At last Peter decided that he would draw lots for them. He marked the boots with numbers on the soles, and gave Ivan small papers to hold with figures to correspond. He then drew one, and the number he first chose was to be the decisive one.

He positively trembled as he put out his little hand and took a paper; but he never thought of disobeying the verdict.

Number five became his property. A good, stout, serviceable pair of boots, though not so red at the tops as he could have wished. Still you cannot have everything in this world, and "use is better than show," as he told himself with much philosophy.

Katrina had been looking on at the "lottery" with her little daughter Maria, who was the greatest contrast to Peter that could possibly be imagined. Maria was almost white-haired, through bleaching in the sun; she had a fair, rosy face, and blue eyes, and her long holiday cotton dress of emerald green was tied in round the waist with a bright gold band. Her little legs were rolled up in linen bands tied with string, instead of stockings, and bark shoes were on her feet. She also was eating sunflower seeds, and looking at Peter out of her small eyes, as if wondering what he would do next. Indeed she regarded him as so eccentric that nothing would have surprised her.

"Will you come for a walk with me, and get a cake?" said Peter very grandly, as he jumped over the counter, and took Maria's little soft hand. "Panoff shall come too; and see, I have my new boots on," and Peter looked at his new acquisitions with secret pride. "Next year I am to have a felt hat with peacocks' feathers round it, like father Ivan's. Shan't I look grown-up then, Maria?"

"Quite a tall man," said little Maria, admiringly.

The children threaded their way through the noisy groups till they came to the sweet stall, where cakes of every description, and most unwholesome appearance, decorated with gold leaf and pictures, were disposed in tempting heaps.

Peter bargained for a cake horse on which Maria had set her affections, and when this was secured he turned away, having bought a very dry-looking biscuit for Ivan, and nothing for himself.

"Oh, Peter, you shall have one of the legs," said Maria. "How kind of you to spend all your money on me."

But Peter would not hear of breaking up the animal. He liked to do things in a princely manner, and was secretly much pleased at the added respect with which Maria spoke to him now he had acquired the dignity of top boots.

Ivan accepted the biscuit gratefully, as he would have accepted a handful of sand if Peter had chosen to make him a present of it!

"He is a marvellous boy," he said to Katrina, who like some other people was not too fond of hearing any children praised but her own.

"Oh, I daresay," she replied, "but wait till it comes to doing anything he doesn't like—we shall see then!"

Peter, who heard this, looked at her with flashing eyes. "You are a disagreeable woman," he said hotly, but Ivan hushed him up, and apologised to Katrina—keeping the peace as well as he could between these two who never understood each other.

So the Fair went on, and Peter worked very hard to attract customers to his adopted father's stall. He felt very proud as he threaded his way amongst the throng, with a string of gaily-coloured shoes across one shoulder; and he fitted them on to several barefooted and unsuspecting infants before they knew what he was doing, and so talked over the parents that they were induced, by the handsome appearance of their children's feet, to buy the slippers on the spot. Very likely they repented it five minutes after, but that was not Peter's affair.

As he was crossing the sandy road to return to Ivan with his roubles, he stumbled up against two gentlemen who were evidently strangers to the place. They were dressed very fashionably, and Peter noticed their pointed patent leather boots with a feeling of professional awe and admiration.

They had rather disagreeable faces, though their hats were so wonderfully new and shiny. One of them had a large red pin in his necktie, that was almost the size, and just the shape, of a bird's egg. "Perhaps it 'was' a bird's egg," thought Peter. "If so, how pleasant it would be to live in a country where birds laid such eggs as that!"

"Why here's a young bootmaker, Nicholas!" said one to the other, with a laugh. "Not the kind 'we' want, though, is it?"

His companion smiled, so that his black waxed moustache seemed to curl up to his eyebrows.

"It may be a twig of the same branch, though," he said, with what Peter thought a very disagreeable expression indeed.

"Here, you child," said the first speaker, "come up to the Post House to-morrow morning, and bring some thick boots for us to see. Come alone—do you hear?—and early. We don't want a crowd."

"We may be able to dig something out of him; he looks sharp," he added in an aside to his friend.

Peter flew off to his adopted father, with his unusually large mouth extended to its utmost limits by a broad smile.

"Oh, little father, such luck! We must give a candle to S. Peter! The grand gentleman at the Post House wants boots. I am to take them there, quite alone, to-morrow morning!"

The next day, about nine o'clock, Peter set off for the Post House, carrying the boots in a bag over his back.

He was shown into an empty room, and putting his bag on the floor behind the door, he looked about to see what he could amuse himself with until the gentlemen came in.

There were some Russian and French books strewed about the table, which was covered with what Peter considered to be an exceedingly elegant table cover, with vast pink roses on a red ground. There were cigarettes, and cigar cases, and writing materials; but better than all, Peter discovered underneath the table a row of the most beautiful shoes and slippers!

He was afraid of pulling them out, in case their owners should come in, in the middle; so he dragged the edges of the table cloth well round him, and began to examine the treasures with sparkling eyes.

What soles! What stitching! His heart beat with emulation. "If only I could sell shoes like that, I should be quite happy!" he said to himself.

Before Peter had half finished his admiration the door opened, and, to his horror, in walked the two gentlemen of the Fair!

Peter was quite paralyzed. How could he come out from his ridiculous position without making himself appear a mere silly child? They could not know he had been prompted only by professional zeal. They would refuse to buy boots of him. He would be degraded for ever!

While these thoughts chased each other rapidly through his head, the two gentlemen had seated themselves by the window, and lighted their cigarettes.

"We shall get him now, or someone quite near enough," said the man with the black moustache. "As soon as the Cossacks come we can do the thing quietly. We must satisfy Boris somehow. As we were told to hunt down a 'Nihilist shoemaker' we can't do better than take old Panovitch. I daresay he has no ideas at all, but that's not 'our' business. We must think of the reward. He has been 'plotting against the Tzar,' endangering the peace of the kingdom; away with him to Siberia!" and the young man leant back in his chair, and laughed heartily.

The first part of this speech Peter had listened to in blank astonishment; at the last words he sprang from under the table with a roar like a little wild animal.

His violent movement upset the table, and the two strange gentlemen bounded from their seats.

"Oh, it's our young friend of the Fair," said the Black Moustache, coolly, as he picked up the tablecloth and gazed at Peter, whose eyes were literally blazing with fury.

"I'm not your friend," cried Peter, in a voice he could scarcely recognize as his own—it was so loud and fierce. "I 'hate' you! but you shan't kill my little father. You shall send me to Siberia thirty times before you touch him!"

The boy had seized a paper knife from the floor, and even his odd scanty blue trousers could not deprive him of a certain wild grace and freedom, which in spite of his plain face, moved the two gentlemen to look at him with more attention.

"We can't bribe such a creature as this. What shall we do with him?" said the fair-haired man, gazing at his friend helplessly. "If he goes home all our plans will be upset, and we shall have to start off again on this vile, fatiguing journey to find another shoemaker, who mayn't be so easy to manage."

"Leave it to me. I've thought of a plan," replied Black Moustache. "I know of a nice safe place, where our friend can be taken care of till the evening," and before Peter could scream out he had tied a thick handkerchief over his mouth and bundled him up in a long cloak which covered his head and pinned his arms down to his sides.

Peter felt himself lifted up roughly and carried down some steps, and then along level ground, in spite of his struggles to get free, which seemed to amuse the two gentlemen, who laughed more and more loudly.

It seemed to Peter that they must have been walking miles before he was thrown down, not too gently, on to the ground, and half-dazed, found himself on the plain outside the village.

A belt of pine and birch trees hid them from the houses, and it was such a solitary spot that he knew very well that even if he screamed his loudest no one would be in the least likely to hear him. The road to Mourum ran across the plain, about two hundred yards from the spot on which they were standing, but it was very seldom used by either foot passengers or carts, as there was little traffic between the two villages.

The plain was all dotted over with disused ore pits and with piles of "slag," which had been carted there in past times, and now lay about in great heaps, grown over by rank weeds and bushes.

The gentleman with the black moustache seized Peter firmly by the hand and led him towards the mouth of one of the old shafts, which gaped black and gloomy like the entrance to a well.

Peter felt instinctively that it was no use trying to touch the hearts of his two tormentors. "My only chance would be to wriggle away and then run for it," he said to himself; and then, because he was a plucky little boy, and determined not to allow his enemies to see that he was on the point of crying, he forced back the tears and looked round to see if there was any hope of rescue. He had guessed instantly what they intended to do with him. He was to be let down one of the ore pits and left there until the evening.

"Don't be frightened, my dear little savage," said Black Moustache, cheerfully. "We will come and take you out again on our way to Mourum this afternoon. I should be sorry to leave you here longer than was necessary, and if you had not been such an unnatural child we should not have had to take all this trouble. You see what comes of deceit and interference."

As he spoke Black Moustache took a long piece of cord out of his pocket, and, notwithstanding that Peter fought for his liberty like a little tiger cat, the rope was tied firmly round his waist and he was lowered into the hole close beside them.

Down, down, Peter went, and the light got dimmer and dimmer, until he was in absolute darkness. He did not scream or cry out, but two great tears fell splash on to his hands as they clutched at the rope round his waist. What would father Ivan say if he could see him now! Oh, if he had only, "only" not met those gentlemen at the market! At last, to his relief, his feet touched the ground, and he saw that he had not gone so very far, after all. The opening at the top of the shaft was quite visible, and he could hear the two gentlemen talking as they walked rapidly away.

They had thrown the cord in on the top of Peter, and it fell in a tangled heap round his head. His first thought was to gather it up and fold it carefully together. He then examined the walls of his prison, groping about as well as he could in the darkness; but the sides of the shaft were too straight and crumbling for him to find any foothold, and he had to resign himself to the fact that it was hopeless to think of liberating himself.

"Ivan! Ivan Panovitch! Help! help! It is I, Peter! Panoff! Help!" he shouted again and again, but nobody answered. Indeed, he had very little hope that they "would," for he knew that it was seldom indeed that anyone wandered into the desolate neighbourhood of the iron pits.

His one chance was that "Panoff" might hear him, for the old dog was sometimes in the habit of straying about the country, poaching. So the child continued to shout until he was quite hoarse, and it seemed to him that hours must have passed by since he was first captured.

Peter had always been a little afraid of the dark; for, like most Russians, he was superstitious, and had heard terrible tales of ghosts and goblins. These now all came crowding into his mind; he could almost fancy he saw mocking faces grinning at him from the darkness; but he was really a brave child, and he determined that he would not give way to these horrible fancies.

He remembered what father Ivan had often told him—that nothing could hurt him while God and the holy angels watched over him; so he fingered the little cross round his neck, and prayed fervently that someone might be sent to take him out of his prison, or that, if this could not be done, father Ivan might be saved without him.

"Let me stop here, if you'll only save him!" cried little Peter, simply. "If you haven't time to do both, please, 'please' take care of father Ivan!"

No heroic soul ever made a greater sacrifice of self than Peter made at that minute, for the black hole became every moment more horrible to him, and a rustling of wings—which turned out to belong to a grey owl—almost paralyzed him with terror.

"Panoff! Panoff! Ivan! Help! help!" he screamed again; and this time his voice was answered by a loud and joyful bark, which sounded just at the edge of the shaft's mouth. Then a black head was thrust over, with more noisy barks of recognition, and Peter saw to his delight that it was Panoff indeed!

"Good dog! fetch someone! Fetch someone to help me! Hi! Panoff!" cried Peter, and Panoff wagged his tail, and ran round and round the pit, peering down, and whisking a small shower of sand and pebbles on to the child's head.

Peter's heart beat high with hope. If he could only make Panoff understand!

"Hi! Panoff! Fetch someone!" he shouted again and again; and at last the old dog seemed to realize what was expected of him, and galloped off, leaving Peter in a fever of excitement and suspense.

He could hardly believe his good fortune, when, in a very few minutes, Panoff came trotting back, barking reassuringly, followed by the sound of eager voices; and almost before Peter had realized what had happened, he found himself drawn up to the surface, and blinking like a little owl in the bright sunlight.

Panoff gambolled about him in excessive delight, jumping up to lick his face a dozen times in a minute.

The party of rescuers looked on curiously. They were dark-complexioned, rough-looking men, with long black hair, whom Peter knew at once to be gypsies.

He had often heard about them from his foster father, and looked upon them with awe as a roving people who never settled down anywhere in "Christian" fashion.

However, he determined to try and induce them to help him, and as soon as he had recovered himself a little he poured out his tale, and begged them frantically to save Ivan Panovitch from the police and Siberia.

The group consulted together in low voices. Then one of the men stepped forward, and took up the metal triangle that hung round Peter's neck, and which had slipped out over his shirt as he was pulled up.

"Where did you get this, young one?" he asked.

Peter described how father Ivan had found him, a little baby, lying on the "slag" heap.

"He is so good—there never was anyone so good!" cried Peter. "If only you'll hide him till these wicked gentlemen have gone away, Katrina will take care of the house and the boots."

"Well, we'll help you as much as we can," said the man, when Peter had finished his little story. "That badge round your neck shows that you once belonged to our tribe. Don't be frightened—we have too many children to want to claim you! Run off as fast as your legs will carry you and bring your old father here, and take this dog and lock him up safely somewhere. Do you hear? We don't want him to follow us. He is too fond of you, and might bring the Cossacks after us. Our carts and the rest of our people are waiting on the road yonder, for we were on our way to Vuicksa, but as soon as you join us we shall branch off into the forest. Hurry! hurry! We will lend you some old clothes, though you look the gypsy enough without them."

Peter scarcely waited to hear the end of the sentence. He had flown across the plain, rushed into the yard at the back of the hut, closely followed by Panoff; and, finding Ivan and Katrina planting some sunflowers there, he breathlessly related his adventures, and hurried the astonished old man through the woods to the place where the gypsies were waiting, almost before he had realized the unexpected misfortune which had overtaken him.

The gypsies instantly hurried the two away to their carts, and turning the horses' heads, they galloped off towards Mourum again. As they went along they threw an old coat over Ivan, and rubbed his face and Peter's with some crushed berries, which made them appear a dark brown colour. They next gave Peter an old shirt and some ragged brown trousers in exchange for his cherished blue ones.