Elena rushed towards her mother, and threw her arms round her neck. "We will! We will! Don't trouble about it, dear little mother," she cried. "What does it matter if we are all together. I will work and dig in the garden, and Boris can be taught to groom Toulu, and be useful—he really can be very sensible if he likes. Then Var-Vara will cook, and Adam and Daria can do the dusting. Oh, we shall manage beautifully!"

Madame Olsheffsky smiled through some tears.

"You are a dear child, Elena! I won't complain any more while I have all my children to help me. But run now Boris, and tell Alexis to get the boat ready. I must go to the other side of the lake, to see that poor child who broke his arm the other day."

Boris ran off to the stables with alacrity. He found it difficult to realize all that his mother had just told them. "Of course it was very dreadful," he thought, "but very likely it wouldn't come true. Then, as Elena said, nothing mattered much if they were all together; and perhaps, if they were obliged to move into the village, they might live near Volodia's shop; and the wicked cousin might let them come and play sometimes in the garden."

"Alexis! Alexis!" he shouted into the hay loft, and a brown face with a shock of black hair, appeared at one of the windows.

"What is it, Boris Andreievitch?"

"Mamma wants the boat immediately," replied Boris. "She is going over to see Marsha's sick child."

Alexis took a handful of sunflower seeds out of his pocket, and began to eat them meditatively, throwing the husks behind him.

"The mistress won't go another day?" he enquired slowly.

Boris shook his head.

"The lake's overflowing, and the dam is none too strong over there by Viletna," continued Alexis; "it would be better for her to wait a little."

"She says she must go to-day," said Boris, "but I will tell her what you say."

Madame Olsheffsky, however, refused to put off her visit; and Elena, Boris, and Daria, looking out from the balcony, saw the boat with the two figures in it start off from the little landing-place, and grow smaller and smaller, until it faded away into a dim speck in the distance.

CHAPTER III.

Late that afternoon the three children were playing with Tulipan in the garden, when they heard Volodia's well-known voice shouting to them—

"Elena! Boris Andreievitch!"

They fancied he seemed to be in a great hurry, and as they flew towards him, they noticed that he had no hat, and there was a look of terror on his face that froze Elena's heart with the certainty of some unknown but terrible misfortune.

"The lake! the lake!" he panted; "where is the mistress?"

"Gone to see Marsha's sick child," said Elena, clinging to little Daria with one hand, and gazing at Volodia with eyes full of terror.

"Ah, then it is true. It was her I saw! The poor mistress! Aie! Aie! Don't move, children! Don't stir. Here is your only safety," cried Volodia in piercing tones. "The river has flooded into the lake, and the dam may go any moment. The village will be overwhelmed. Nothing can save it! The water rises! rises! and any minute it may burst through! The Saints have mercy! All our things will be lost; but it is the will of God—we cannot fight against it." And Volodia crossed himself devoutly with Russian fatalism.

"But mamma! what will happen to her?" cried Elena passionately. "Can nothing be done?"

"To go towards the lake now would be certain death," replied Volodia brokenly. "No, Elena Andreievna; we must trust in God. He alone can save her if she is on the water now! Pray Heaven she may not have started!"

As he spoke, a long procession of terrified peasants came winding up the road towards the great house. All the inhabitants of the village had fled from their threatened homes, and were taking refuge on the only hill in the neighbourhood.

Weeping, gesticulating and talking; the men, women, and children, rushed on in the greatest state of confusion.

Some carried a few possessions they had snatched up hastily as they left their houses, some helped the old bed-ridden people to hobble along on their sticks and crutches; others led the smaller children, or carried the gaily-painted chests containing the holiday clothes of the family; while the boys dragged along the rough unkempt horses, and the few cows and oxen they had been able to drive in from the fields close by.

All, as they came within speaking distance of Elena and Boris, began to describe their misfortunes; and such a babel of sound rose on the air that it was impossible to separate one word from another.

"Where shall they go to, Matoushka?"[B] enquired Volodia anxiously, as the strange procession spread itself out amongst the low-growing birch trees.

[B] Matoushka—little mother.

Elena shook herself, as if awakening from a horrible dream.

"Oh, it is dreadful! dreadful! But you are welcome, poor people!" she cried. "Put the horses into the stables—Adam will show you where—and the dogs too; and come into the house all of you, if you can get in. The cows must go to the yard. Oh, Var-Vara!" she added, as she turned to her old nurse, who had just come out, attracted by the noise. "Have you heard? Oh, poor mamma! Do you think she will be safe?" and Elena rushed into the house, and up the stair of a wooden tower, from which she could see for miles round, a wide vista of field, lake, and forest.

No boat was in sight, and the lake looked comparatively peaceful; but just across the middle stretched an ominous streak of muddy, rushing water, that beat against the high grass-grown dam, separating the lake from the village, and threatened every moment to roll over it.

Elena held her breath, and listened. There was a dull roaring sound like distant thunder.

The streak of brown water surged higher and higher; and suddenly—in one instant, as it seemed to the terrified child—a vast volume of water shot over the dam, seeming to carry it away bodily with its violence; and with a crash like an earthquake, the pent-up lake burst out in one huge wave, that rolled towards the village of Viletna, tearing up everything it passed upon its way.

Elena turned, and, almost falling downstairs in her terror, ran headlong towards the group of peasants who had gathered on the grass before the wooden verandah, and in despairing silence were watching the destruction of their fields and houses.

Beside them stood the old Priest, his long white hair shining in the sunshine.

"My children, let us pray to the good God for any living things that are in danger!" he said.

The peasants fell upon their knees.

"Save them! Save them!" they cried, imploringly, "and save our cattle and houses!"

The blue sky stretched overhead, all round the garden the birch trees shed their quivering glory; the very flowers that the three children had picked for their mother, in the morning, lay on a table fresh and unfaded; yet it seemed to Elena that years must have passed by since she stood there, careless and happy.

"Oh, Boris, come with me!" she cried, passionately, "I can't bear it!"

Boris, with the tears falling slowly from his eyes, followed his sister up to the tower, and there they remained till evening, straining their eyes over the wide stretch of desolate-looking water.

CHAPTER IV.

It was some months afterwards. The flood was over, and the people of Viletna had begun to rebuild their log houses, and collect what could be found of their scattered belongings.

A portion of the great dyke had remained standing, so that the lake did not completely empty itself; and the peasants were able, with some help from the Government, to rebuild it.

Everyone had suffered; but the heaviest blow had fallen upon the great house, for Madame Olsheffsky never returned to it. Her boat had been upset and carried away, with the sudden force of the current, and though Alexis managed to save himself by clinging to an uprooted pine tree, Madame Olsheffsky had been torn from him, and sucked under by the rush of the furious water.

Elena's face had grown pale and thin during these sad weeks, and she and Boris looked older; for they had begun to face the responsibilities of life, with no kind mother to stand between them and the hard reality.

To add to their misfortunes, the wooden box containing the title-deeds of their estate, and all their other valuable papers; had been swept away with the rest of Lawyer Drovnine's property, and there seemed no chance that it would ever be recovered again.

In the interval, as no defence was forthcoming, the lawsuit had been decided in favour of the Olsheffsky's cousin; and the children were now expecting every day to receive the notice that would turn them out of their old home, and leave them without a place in the world that really belonged to them.

The few relations they had, made no sign to show they knew of their existence; but they were not without friends, and one of the first and truest of these was Volodia.

"Don't trouble about this lawsuit, Elena Andreievna," he said, on one of his frequent visits to the great house. "If the wickedness of the world is so great, that they rob you of what rightfully belongs to you; take no notice of it—it is the will of God. You will come down with Boris Andreievitch, and Daria Andreievna, to my house, where there is plenty of room for everyone; and my wife will be proud and honoured. Then Var-Vara can live with her brother close by—a good honest man, who is well able to provide for her; and Adam will hire a little place, and retire with his savings. Alexis shall find a home for Toulu—You know Alexis works for his father on the farm now, and is really getting quite active. You see, Matoushka, every one is nicely provided for, and no one will suffer!"

"But how can we all live with you, when we have no money?" said Elena. "Good, kind Volodia! It would not be fair for us to be a burden to you!"

"How can you talk of burdens, Elena Andreievna! It's quite wrong of you, and really almost makes me angry! Your grandfather gave me all the money with which I started in life, and it's no more than paying back a little of it. Besides, think of the honour! Think what a proud thing it will be for us. All the village will be envious!"

Elena smiled sadly. "I suppose we shall have a little money left, shan't we, Volodia?"

"Of course, Matoushka. Plenty for everything you'll want."

And so, after much argument and discussion, with many tears and sad regrets, the three children said good-bye to the great house; and drove with Toulu down the hill for the last time, to Volodia's large new wooden house, which had been re-built in a far handsomer style than the log hut he had lived in formerly.

CHAPTER V.

Fortunately the winter that year was late in coming, so that the peasants of Viletna were able to build some sort of shelter for themselves before it set in with real severity.

Volodia's house, which stood in the centre of the village, had been finished long before any of his neighbours'.

"That's what comes of being a rich man," they said to each other, not grumbling, but stating a fact. "He can employ what men he likes; it is a fine thing to have money."

Volodia's shop had always been popular, but with the arrival of the three children it became ten times more so.

Everyone wished to show sympathy for their misfortunes; and all those who were sufficiently well off, brought a little present, and left it with Volodia's wife, with many mysterious nods and explanations.

"Don't tell them anything about it, but just cook it. It's a chicken we reared ourselves—one of those saved from the flood."

Volodia would have liked to give the things back again, but his wife declared this would be such an affront to the donors that she really couldn't undertake to do it.

"It's not for ourselves, Volodia Ivanovitch, but for those poor innocent children; I can't refuse what's kindly meant. Many's the rouble Anna Olsheffsky (of blessed memory) has given to the people here, and why shouldn't they be allowed to do their part?"

Meanwhile, Elena and Boris, were getting slowly used to their changed life. It still seemed more like a dream than a reality; but they began to feel at home in the wooden house, and Elena had even commenced to learn some needlework from Var-Vara, and to help Maria in as many ways as that active old woman would allow of.

"Don't you touch it, Elena Andreievna," she would say, anxiously, "it's not fit you should work like us. Leave it to Adam, and Var-Vara, and me. We're used to it, and it's suitable."

And so Elena had to give herself up to being waited upon as tenderly by the old servants, as she had been during their time of happiness at the great house.

Boris had no time for brooding, for he was working hard at his lessons with the village Priest; and as to little Daria, she had quickly adapted herself to the new surroundings.

She played with Tulipan, made snow castles in Volodia's side yard, and whenever she had the chance, enjoyed a sledge drive with Alexis, in the forest.

"If only mamma were here, I should be quite happy," she said to Elena. "It does seem so dreadful, Elena, to think of that horrible flood. You don't think it will come again, do you?"

Elena's eyes filled with tears, as she answered reassuringly.

"You'll see mamma some day, Daria, if you're a very good girl; and meantime, you know, she would like you to learn your lessons, and be as obedient as possible to Var-Vara."

"Well, I do try, Elena, but she is so tiresome sometimes. She won't let me play with the village children! They're very nice, but she says they're peasants. I'm sure I try to remember what you teach me, though the things are so difficult. I'm not so very lazy, Elena!"

Elena stooped her dark brown head over the little golden one.

"You're a darling, Daria! I know you do your best, when you don't forget all about it!"

Volodia Ivanovitch had devoted his two best rooms to the children. He had at first wished to give up the whole of his house to them, with the exception of one bedroom; but Elena had developed a certain strength of character and resolution during their troubles, and absolutely refused to listen to this idea; so that finally the old man was obliged to give way, and turn his attention to arranging the rooms, in a style of what he considered, surpassing elegance and comfort.

They were plain and simple, with fresh boarded walls and pine floors.

The furniture had all been brought from the great house, chosen by Volodia with very little idea of its suitability, but because of something in the colour or form that struck him as being particularly handsome.

A large gilt console table, with marble top, and looking glass, took up nearly one side of Elena's bedroom; and a glass chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling—where it was always interfering with the heads of the unwary. The bed had faded blue satin hangings; and a large Turkish rug and two ricketty gilt chairs, completed an effect which Uncle Volodia and his wife considered to be truly magnificent.

Boris slept in the room adjoining.

This was turned into a sitting-room in the daytime, and furnished in the same luxurious manner. Chairs with enormous coats-of-arms, a vast Dresden china vase with a gilt cover to it; and in the corner a gold picture of a Saint with a little lamp before it, always kept burning night and day by the careful Var-Vara—Var-Vara in her bright red gold-bordered gown, and the strange tiara on her head, decorated with its long ribbons.

"If ever they wanted the help of the Saints, it's now," she would say, as she filled the glass bowl with oil, and hung it up by its chains again. "The wickedness of men has been too much for them. Aie! Aie! It's the Lord's will."

CHAPTER VI.

Volodia Ivanovitch's house stood close to the village street, so that as Elena looked from her windows she could see the long stretch of white road—the snow piled up in great walls on either side—the two rows of straggling, half-finished log huts, ending with the ruined Church, and the new posting-house.

In the distance, the flat surface of the frozen lake, the dark green of the pine forest, and the wide stretches of level country; broken here and there by the tops of the scattered wooden fences.

Up the street the sledges ran evenly, the horses jangling the bells on their great arched collars, the drivers in their leather fur-lined coats, cracking their whips and shouting.

Now and then a woman, in a thick pelisse, a bright-coloured handkerchief on her head, would come by; dragging a load of wood or carrying a child in her arms.

The air was stilly cold, with a sparkling clearness; the sky as blue and brilliant as midsummer.

Elena felt cheered by the exhilarating brightness. She was young, and gradually she rose from the state of indifference into which she had fallen, and began to take her old interest in all that was going on about her.

"I want to ask you something, Uncle Volodia," she said one day, as they sat round the samivar,[C] for she had begged that they might have at least one meal together, in the sitting-room.

[C] Tea-urn.

Maria was rather constrained on these occasions, seeming oppressed with the feeling that she must sit exactly in the centre of her chair. She spread a large clean handkerchief out over her knees, to catch any crumbs that might be wandering, and fixed her eyes on the children with respectful solemnity.

Volodia, on the contrary, always came in smiling genially, in his old homespun blouse and high boots; and was ready for a game with Daria, or a romp with Boris, the moment the tea things had been carried away by his wife.

"What is it, Elena Andreievna?" he asked. "Nothing very serious, I hope?"

"Not very, Uncle Volodia. It's only that I want to learn something—I want to feel I can do something when our money has gone, for I know it won't last very long."

"Why trouble your head about business, Elena Andreievna? You know your things sold for a great deal, and it is all put away in the wooden honey-box, in the clothes chest. It will last till you're an old woman!"

"But I would like to feel I was earning some money, Uncle Volodia. I think I might learn to make paper flowers. Don't you think so, dear Uncle Volodia? You know I began while mamma was with us; the lady in Mourum taught me. I wish very much to go on with it."

Uncle Volodia pondered. It might be an amusement for the poor girl, and no one need know of the crazy notion of selling them.

"If you like, Matoushka. Do just as you like," he said.

So it was decided that Elena should be driven over to Mourum on the next market day.

Volodia had undertaken, in the intervals of shop-keeping, to teach little Daria how to count; with the elaborate arrangement of small coloured balls, on a wire frame like a gridiron, with which he added up his own sums—instead of pencil and paper.

They sat down side by side with the utmost gravity. Old Volodia with the frame in one hand, Daria on a low stool, her curly golden head bent forward over the balls, as she moved them up and down, with a pucker on her forehead.

"Two and one's five, and three's seven, and four's twelve, and six's——"

"Oh, Daria Andreievna! You're not thinking about what you're doing!"

"Oh, really I am, Uncle Volodia; but those tiresome little yellow balls keep getting in the way."

And then the lesson began all over again, until Daria sprang up with a laugh, and shaking out her black frock, declared she had a pain in her neck, and must run about a little!

"What a child it is!" cried Volodia admiringly. "If she lives to be a hundred, she'll never learn the multiplication table!"

CHAPTER VII.

A post-sledge was gliding rapidly over the frozen road towards Viletna; and as it neared the village, a thin worn man, with white hair, who was sitting in it alone, leant forward and touched the driver.

"I want to go to the great house. You remember?"

"Oh, you're going to see Mikhail? He hasn't come to the great house yet, though. It's all being done up."

"No, I'm going to Madame Olsheffsky's!"

"Anna Olsheffsky! Haven't you heard she was drowned in the flood? Washed away. Just before the children lost their property to that thief of a cousin!"

The driver went on adding the details, not noticing that the gentleman had fallen back, and lay gasping as if for air.

"You knew Anna Olsheffsky, perhaps?" he said at last, turning towards the traveller. Then seeing his face, "Holy Saints! What is the matter? He'll die surely, and no help to be had!"

"She was my wife," said the gentleman hoarsely. "You don't remember me? I am Andre Olsheffsky."

"To think that I shouldn't have known you, Barin!" cried the driver in great excitement, dropping the reins. "Not that it's much to be wondered at, and you looking a young man when you left! Welcome home! Welcome home!"

"Where are the children?" said Andre Olsheffsky, brokenly. "Perhaps they're dead, too?"

"Oh, the children are all well, Barin! They are at Volodia Ivanovitch's."

"Drive me there, then," said Mr. Olsheffsky; and the sledge dashed off with a peal of its bells, and drew up with a flourish in front of Volodia's doorway.

"Do look out, Elena!" cried Boris, who was carving a wooden man with an immense pocket-knife. "Here's a sledge stopped, and a funny tall gentleman getting out—not old, but all white!"

Elena went to the window, but the stranger had disappeared into the shop.

They could hear voices talking, now loud, now soft, then a cry of astonishment from Maria. The door burst open, and Volodia, his grey hair flying, the tears rolling down his cheeks, dragged in the white-haired gentleman by the hand.

"Oh, children! children! this is a happy day. The Barin's come home. This is your father!"

CHAPTER VIII.

The next morning Elena and Boris awoke with a delightful feeling of expectation.

It seemed impossible to realize that their father had really come back to them, and that he was dearer and kinder than anything they had imagined!

"If only mamma were here," sighed Elena, "how happy we should be!"

"Perhaps she knows," said Boris soberly. "She always told us papa was a hero, and I'm sure he looks like one."

Andre Olsheffsky felt his wife's loss deeply. The children were his only comfort, and every moment he could spare from his business affairs he gave to them.

With Elena he discussed their position seriously.

It would be impossible, he said, to prove their claim to Madame Olsheffsky's estate unless the lost box could be recovered, but if that were ever found the papers inside would completely establish their right. "I have sent notices to all the peasants, describing the box, and offering a reward. Who knows, Elena? it may be discovered!"

Time passed on, and though Mr. Olsheffsky made many expeditions into the town of Mourum, and drove all round the country, making enquiries of the peasants, he could hear nothing of the wooden box.

"It's one of the secrets of the lake," said Volodia. "That's my opinion; it's lying snugly at the bottom there; and it's no good looking for it anywhere else."

But Mr. Olsheffsky continued his enquiries.

One day, just as Daria and Var-Vara were about to start for a morning walk—Elena and Boris having gone for a drive with their father—an old man in a rough sheep-skin coat and plaited bark shoes came up to the house door, and taking off his high felt hat respectfully, asked if he could speak to the Barin.[D]

[D] Master.

"The master has gone out," said Var-Vara, "but I daresay you can see him in the afternoon. Have you anything particular to ask him?"

"Nothing to ask, but something to show," and the old man blinked his eyes cunningly.

"Not the wooden box!" screamed Daria. "Oh, let's go at once! Come, Var-Vara! What a surprise for papa when he gets back! Is it the wooden box? You might tell me," cried Daria, fixing her blue eyes on the old mujik's face pleadingly.

"It may be, and it mayn't be," replied the old man. "You may come along with me if you like, Daria Andreievna. I'll show you the way to where I live—near the forest, you know. Of course, I've heard all about the reward," he continued, "and as I was clearing a bit of my yard this morning, what should I find but a heap of something hard—pebbles, and drift, and sticks, and such like. When I came to sorting it out—for I thought, 'Why waste good wood, when you can burn it? the good God doesn't like waste'—I struck against the corner of something hard, and there was a——. Well, what do you think, Daria Andreievna?"

"A box! A box!" cried Daria, seizing one of the old man's hands, and dancing round him in an ecstasy of delight.

"Not at all, Daria Andreievna! The legs of an old chair."

Daria's face fell. "I don't see why you come to tell papa you've found an old chair!" she said crossly.

"Stop a bit, Matoushka. There's more to come. Where was I?"

"The chair! You'd just found it," said Daria, pulling at his hand impatiently.

"So I had. A chair! Well, it had no back, and as I pulled it out it felt heavy, very heavy. It wasn't much to look at—a poor chair I should call it—and I thought, 'This isn't much of a find;' but there inside it was something sticking as tight as wax!"

"The box!" cried Daria, "I felt sure of it!" and seizing Var-Vara by one hand, and the mujik by the other, she dragged them down the street, the old peasant remonstrating and grumbling.

"Not so fast, Daria Andreievna!" said Var-Vara, gasping for breath at the sudden rush. "Let Ivan go first; he knows the way!"

Daria could scarcely control her impatience during the walk.

"Make haste, Var-Vara! we shall never get there," she kept crying; and old Var-Vara, who was stout, and had on a heavy fur pelisse, arrived at the hut in a state of breathless exhaustion.

"Aie! Aie! what a child it is! Show her the box now, Ivan, or we shall have no peace."

Ivan went to the corner of his hut, where a large object stood on the top of the whitewashed stove under a red and yellow pocket-handkerchief. He carefully uncovered it, and stepping back a few paces said proudly,

"What do you think of that, now?"

It was the box, safe and unhurt, Madame Olsheffsky's name still on it in scratched white letters.

Daria was wild with joy, and almost alarmed Ivan with her excitement. She danced about the room, threw her arms round his neck, and finally persuaded him to carry the box to Volodia's house, so that it might be there as a delightful surprise to her father on his return.

CHAPTER IX.

The children, Volodia and his wife, Var-Vara, and Adam; all stood round eagerly as Andre Olsheffsky superintended the forcing open of the precious box.

"It's my belief the papers will be a pulp," whispered Volodia. "We must be ready to stand by the Barin when he finds out the disappointment."

But the papers were not hurt. The box contained another tin-lined case, in which the parchments had lain securely, and though damaged in appearance, they were as legible as the day on which they were first written.

"Oh, papa, I am so glad!" shouted Boris and Daria; and Elena silently took her father's hand.

"I always thought the Barin would have his own again," cried Volodia triumphantly, forgetting that only a moment before he had been full of dismal prophecies.

Adam and Var-Vara wept for joy, and Ivan stood by smiling complacently. He felt that all this happiness had been brought about entirely by his own exertions, and he already had visions of the manner in which he would employ the handsome reward.

"No more troubling about my old age," he thought. "I shall have as comfortable a life as the best of them."

That evening Mr. Olsheffsky started for Moscow, carrying the parchments with him.

The two months of his absence seemed very long to the children, though they heard from him constantly; and there were great rejoicings when he returned with the news that their affairs had at last been satisfactorily settled. Mikhail Paulovitch had withdrawn his claim, and the great house was their own again.

All the peasants of the neighbourhood came in a body to congratulate them. Those who could not get into Volodia's little sitting-room remained standing outside, and looked in respectfully through the window; while the spokesman read a long speech he had prepared for the occasion.

Mr. Olsheffsky made an appropriate reply, and then, turning to Volodia and the old servants, he thanked them in a few simple words for their goodness to the children.

"You might have knocked me flat down with a birch twig," said Uncle Volodia afterwards, when talking it over with Adam. "The idea of thanking us for what was nothing at all but a real pleasure! He's a good man, the Barin!"

The springtime found the children and their father settled once more in their old home, with Adam, Var-Vara, and Alexis; and life flowing on very much as it had always done, except for the absence of the gentle, motherly, Anna Olsheffsky.

Uncle Volodia continued to look after his shop with zeal; and the two rooms with the gilt furniture, which Mr. Olsheffsky had insisted on his not removing, became objects of the greatest pride and joy to him.

He never allowed anyone but himself to dust them, and in spare moments he polished the looking-glass with a piece of leather, kept carefully for the purpose in a cigar box.

"It's a great pleasure to me," he remarked one day to a neighbour, "to think that when I leave this house to Boris Andreievitch—as I intend to do, after old Maria—it will have two rooms that are fit foranyone of the family to sleep in. He'll never have to be ashamed of them!"

On his seventieth birthday, Elena—now grown a tall slim young lady, with grave brown eyes—persuaded him that it was really time to take a little rest, and enjoy himself.

He thereupon sold his stock, and devoted himself to gardening in the yard at the back of his house; where he would sit on summer evenings smoking his pipe, in the midst of giant dahlias and sunflowers.

Here Daria often came with Boris and Tulipan; and sitting by Uncle Volodia's side, listened to the well-known stories she had heard since her babyhood—always ending up with the same words in a tone of great solemnity—

"And this, children, is a true story, every word of it!"



THE ANGEL AND THE LILIES.

A Norwegian Story.

It was a room at the top of a rough wooden house in Norway. Though it was only a garret, it was all very white and clean; and little Erik Svenson lay in the small bed facing the barred window, through which the moonbeams streamed till they seemed to turn the walls into polished silver.

As Erik tossed about, he heard his mother working in the room below.

The thump, thump, of her iron, as she wearily finished the last of the clothes, that must be sent home to the rich family at the farmhouse, early next morning.

"Poor mother! how hard she works," thought Erik, "and I can't do more than mind Farmer Torvald's boat on the fiord. If I could only be employed in the town, I might be able to help her!"

Thump, thump, went the iron. The clock chimed twelve, and still the poor washerwoman smoothed and folded, though her heavy eyes almost refused to keep open, and the room began to feel the chill of the frosty air outside.

"Erik sha'n't want for anything while I have two arms to work for him," she said to herself; and went on until the iron fell from her tired hand, and she sank back in her chair in a deep sleep.

Erik, too, had closed his eyes, and was dreaming happily, when he was awakened by the brush of something light and soft, across his pillow.

Starting up, he saw that the moon was still brilliant, and in its clearest rays stood a faint white figure, with shadowy wings outstretched behind it.

A vapoury garment enveloped it, and the face seemed young and beautiful.

"Oh, how wonderful! How wonderful you are!" cried Erik. "Why have I never seen you before?"

"I am Vanda, the Spirit of the Moon," said the Angel gently. "Only to those who are in need of help can I become visible. Your mother knows me well. Winter and summer, I have soothed her to sleep; and to-night, as you looked from the window, your thoughts joined mine, and I was able to come to you. What will you ask of me?"

"Oh, Vanda, dear Vanda! Show me how to help my mother; I ask nothing else!" cried Erik.

He jumped from his bed, and threw himself at the feet of the shadowy Angel.

"Do you see that window?" said the Moon-Spirit, pointing to the small panes that were now covered with a delicate tracery of glittering frost-work. "Of what do those patterns remind you?"



"Of flowers!" cried Erik. "I have often thought so. Sometimes I can see grasses, and boughs, and roses, but always lilies, because they are so white and spotless."

The Angel smiled softly.

"To-night I shall shine upon them, and make them live," she said. "Take what you will find upon the window sill at sunrise, and sell them in the town. Bring the money back to your mother at night-time."

With the last words the Moon-Spirit melted into the white light, leaving Erik with a feeling of the happiest expectation.

Long before daybreak he was awake, and his first thought was of the wonderful ice-flowers. Would the Angel have kept her promise? What would he see awaiting him?

As the rays of the sun shot over the fiord, he sprang out of bed and ran to the window. There lay a bunch of beautiful white lilies, nestling in a mass of delicate moss-like green.

"They are the frost-flowers!" cried Erik, and wild with joy he rushed into his mother's room, and held the bunch up for her to look at.

"Look, look, mother! See what we have had given us. We shall soon have enough money to rent the little farm you have always been longing for!"

* * * * *

Erik's visit to the town was very successful. He sold his flowers directly, although he had some difficulty in answering all the questions of the townspeople, who wanted to know where he had grown such delicate things in the middle of a severe winter. To everyone he replied that it was a secret; and they were obliged to be contented.

He returned home in good time for his work upon the fiord, and if it had not been for the store of silver pieces he poured into his mother's work-box, he would almost have imagined that he had only been dreaming.

That night, as he laid his curly head upon the pillow, his mind was full of thoughts about the Moon-Angel. He wondered if she would appear again, and whether she would once more leave him her gift of the white frost-flowers.

The moon shone with silvery clearness into the garret; and as the boy strained his eyes towards the window, the bright form slowly floated through the bars and stretched a pale hand towards him.

"You have done well, to-day, Erik. Look to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, until my light has waned and faded; and every day you will find the lilies waiting for you."

Again Erik felt the soft brush of Vanda's wings, and she disappeared in the path of the moonbeams.

The next morning the flowers lay fresh and fair upon the window-sill, and for days the frost-lilies were always blooming.

But each time the bunch grew smaller and smaller, until at last, when the moon was nothing more than a thread of brightness, Erik found one single blossom lying half drooping on the window-frame.

"Vanda's gifts have ended," thought Erik, "but she has been a good true friend to us! We have gained enough money for my mother to put away her iron, and take the little farmhouse by the fiord. How happy we shall be together."

* * * * *

The winter was nearly over, and Erik and his mother had settled down to their happy life in the farmhouse.

Frost-flowers, with delicate fantastic groupings, still bloomed upon the window-panes; but the Moon-Angel was not there to give them her fairy-like gifts of life and beauty.

She had gone to console other struggling workers.



THE ALPEN-ECHO.

Long, long years ago, a young girl wandering with her herd of goats upon the Mettenalp, lost her way amidst a mountain storm, and fell into a chasm of the rock, where she lay white and lifeless.

The terrified goats reached the valley beneath, but the young girl was never again heard of.

The spirits of the great mountain had claimed her for an Alpen-Echo, and every day, for hundreds of years after, she floated amongst the snow-covered peaks and crags of the Mettenalp, answering every horn that sounded from the hunters or cow-herds, with a soft, sweet note, so sad and distant it was like a soul in pain, and tears came to your eyes—you knew not why—as you listened to its exquisite music.

"Come, follow me! Follow me to my secret haunts," wailed the Echo. "Give me my soul! Give me my soul!"—but no one through all the centuries had ever climbed to the Echo's hiding-place.

"If only I could make them understand!" sobbed the Echo, "my long bondage would cease. The first foot that treads my prison, frees me, and gives me rest."

* * * * *

However, all the world was too busy to listen to the poor Echo, and she called and cried in vain through the misty ages!

* * * * *

A boy, with a long Alpen-horn in his hand, stood by a chalet far away in the wilds of Switzerland. Every now and then he blew a few wailing notes upon the horn—notes that echoed across the valley, up to the snow-covered heights beyond—and he smiled as the answer floated clearly back again.

"The echoes are talking together, to-day," he said to himself. "They love the bright air and the sunshine;" and again he blew a long, changing note, that died away softly into the far distance.

"Tra-la-la-a-a" came faintly from the opposite mountain—but to the boy's astonishment the echo did not now cease, and fade away, as it always had done before. It shifted from point to point; its elfin tones ringing sweet and sad like the bugle of a Fairy Huntsman.

All that day the Echo sounded in the boy's ears, all night it whispered amongst the mountain tops; and as soon as it became daylight he sprang up, determined that he would climb the side of the opposite valley, and find out the reason of the strange music.

A pale-green light tinged the sky, the mountains looked dark and forbidding, and from the peaks above came the soft sighing of the distant Echo.

"It is like a soul in pain," thought the boy. "I must find out what it means!" and he began to climb higher and higher, until the valley lay far beneath him, and his home looked a little brown speck amidst a sea of fields and pine trees.

Before him still sounded the Elfin voice, now dying into a whisper, now ringing clear and distinct, as though close beside him—but always with the same beseeching sadness: "Follow me! Follow me to my secret haunts! Give me my soul! Give me my soul!" And the boy climbed on until he reached the rocky crag which formed the summit of the mountain.

"At last!" he cried, as he stretched out his arms to clasp the Echo's fairy-like form that floated mistily before him ... but the Echo had faded from his sight as he approached her; and her last words were borne faintly towards him as she vanished into the golden glory of the sunshine—

"At last! At last! I am at rest at last!"

* * * * *

The boy had learnt the secret of the Alpen-Echo. He had freed her soul from its long bondage, and a few days afterwards they found him lying with a smile upon his face on the topmost peak of the Mettenalp.



THE SCROLL IN THE MARKET PLACE.

In the pale light of the moon the sleeping town lay hushed and noiseless. At its foot the river rolled, spanned by the curves of the old grey stone bridge, and behind rose the giant hills, clothed with tracts of pine and birch trees. A high wall surrounded the town, with towers at intervals, from which gleamed the light of the watchmen's lanterns.

All was silent on the earth and in the air, when through the deep blue of the star-sprinkled sky a little Child-Angel winged his way from Heaven, and hovering over the steep red roofs beneath him, folded his wings and dropped softly into the deserted Market Place. In his hand he held a Scroll with strange writing upon it, and crossing the Square over the rough cobblestones, he fixed the paper to the Fountain, and spreading his white wings, flew up again to the home from which he came.

Next day the country people flocking into the Market Place saw to their astonishment a track of beautiful white flowers springing up from amongst the cobblestones, and stretching from one corner of the Square to the Fountain.

They were star-like flowers, with bright-green leaves, and they grew in patches—"like a child's footsteps," the women said.

A little crowd soon gathered round the paper fastened to the ancient Fountain. On the top of the Scroll was written, very clearly—"All those who can read the words beneath shall be rewarded generously," but the lines that followed were in a strange language, and in such crabbed characters that they defied every effort to decipher them.

All day the crowd ebbed and flowed round the Fountain, while the learned men of the town came with their dictionaries under their arms and spectacles on nose, and sat on stools, attempting to make out the crooked letters of the inscription.

In the end each one decided upon a different language, and the argument became so warm between them that they had to be separated by a party of watchmen, and conducted back again to their own houses.

Professors from the University on the other side of the mountains journeyed over the rough roads, and brought their learning to the old stone Fountain in the Market Place—but they, too, went away discomfited.

No one could read the strange writing, and no one could pull down the paper, for it appeared to be fixed to the stone by some means that made it impossible to tear it away.

Time went on, and the snow covered up the Market Square, threw a white mantle over the steep roofs, and buried the old gardens in its soft deepness.

In one of the houses near the spot where the little Angel had first touched the earth lived a poor, lonely woman. She worked all day at some fine kind of needlework, but when, in the evenings, the sun had set and the twilight began to fall, she would steal out for a few minutes to breathe the fresh air. Often, though she was so wearied with her incessant stitching, she would carry in her hand a flower from the plants that grew in her latticed window to a neighbour's sick child. It was a weary climb up a steep flight of stairs to the attic where the sick child lay, but it was reward enough to the woman to see the bright smile that lighted up the little drawn face as she laid the flower on the counterpane.

All the summer the poor sempstress had been too busy during the daylight, to afford time even to cross the Square to study the strange paper on the Fountain. "If learned men cannot read it, a poor ignorant woman like me could certainly never do so," she said to the child, and the little girl looked up at her with tender love in her eyes.

"You are so good, you could do anything," she whispered, and clasped the worn hand on which the needle-pricks had left the marks of many long years of patient sewing. "I should like to see the paper so much," continued the child, after a thoughtful pause. "I wish I could walk there, but it is so long since I walked, and the snow is so deep now," and she sighed.

"Some day, if the good God pleases, I will carry you there," said the workwoman—and the child as she lay patiently on her little bed, dreamt and dreamt of the mysterious paper that no one could read, until the longing to see it became uncontrollable, and her friend the sempstress promised that she would spare an hour the next day from her work, and if the sun shone she would carry the invalid across the Market Place to the old stone Fountain.

The next morning the child's face was bright with anticipation, as the woman wrapped her in a warm shawl and carried her fragile weight down the staircase. The cobblestones hurt the poor sempstress's feet, and she staggered under the light burden, but she persevered, for the child's murmurs of delight rang in her ears—

"How sweetly the sun shines! How white the snow looks! How beautiful, how beautiful it is to be alive!"

When they reached the Fountain the sun shone brightly upon the Angel's Scroll.

The workwoman seated herself on one of the swept stone steps, still holding the child in her arms, and they gazed long and earnestly at the writing above them.

Gradually a smile of delight spread across both their faces. "It is quite, quite easy!" they cried together. "How is it people have been puzzling so long?"—for as they looked the crabbed letters unrolled before them, straightened, and arranged themselves in order, and the Angel's message was read by the poor workwoman and the sick child.

"Love God, and live for others," said the Scroll, and a soft light seemed to stream from it and shed a glow of happiness right into the hearts of the two who read it. The air was warmer, the sun shone more brightly, and just by the foot of the Fountain, pushing through the snow, sprang one blue head of palest forget-me-not.

As the letters on the Scroll became plainer and plainer, the paper slowly rolled up and shrunk away, until it had disappeared altogether.

The sempstress carried back the child up the steep staircase, laid her tenderly on her bed, and hurried away to her own attic.

In her absence strange things had happened. The room was swept and tidy, the flowers were watered, and the piece of work she had left half done was lying finished on the broad window seat. The poor woman looked round her in astonishment. She went downstairs to enquire if any neighbours had prepared this surprise for her, but they only stared at her, and told her "she must have left her wits in the Market Place," and that "that was what came of leaving your own duties to look after other people's."

The sempstress did not listen to their taunts, for a song of joy was welling up in her heart—a song so sweet and true, it might have been the echo of that sung by the angels. Never had life seemed so beautiful to her. The ill looks of the neighbours appeared to her to be smiles of kindness and love; their hard speeches sounded soft and altered; the steep stairs to her room were not so steep, her attic not so bare and desolate. Life was no longer lonely, for the song in her heart brought her all the happiness she had ever hoped for.

The sick child, too, found the same wonderful change in all that surrounded her. The aunt with whom she lived, who had always been so careless and unloving, now seemed to the child to be kind and gentle. Her aching back was less painful, her thoughts as she lay on her bed were bright and happy. The Angel's message had brought sunshine to the lives of the only two who could read and understand it.

* * * * *

In time the sick child went to live with the sempstress, and their love for each other grew and strengthened, and overflowed in a thousand little acts of kindness to all who came near them. Their room was filled with brightness. The birds flew to perch on the window-sill and sing in the early mornings; flowers bloomed in the cracks of the old stonework; the sempstress sang as she worked, and whenever she left her sewing to carry the child out into the Market Place to breathe the fresh air she would find her work finished when she returned.

"It was a happy day that we read the message in the Market Place," she said to the sick child; "indeed we have been rewarded generously."



A SCRAP OF ETRUSCAN POTTERY.

Deep down in a buried Etruscan tomb there lay a little three-cornered piece of pottery.

It had some letters on it and a beautiful man's head, and had belonged to a King some three thousand years ago.

Its only companions were a family of moles; for everything else had been taken out of the tomb so long ago that no one remembered anything about it.

"What a dull life mine is," groaned the piece of pottery. "No amusement, and no society! It's enough to make one smash oneself to atoms!"

"Dull, but safe," replied the Mole, who never took the least notice of the three-cornered Chip's insults. "And then, remember the dignity. You have the whole tomb to yourself."

"Except for you," said the Chip ungraciously.

"Well, we must live somewhere," said the Mole, quite unmoved, "and I'm sure we don't interfere. I always bring up my children to treat you with the greatest respect, in spite of your being cr-r—br-r—. I should say, not quite so large as you used to be."

"If only you had belonged to a King," sighed the Chip, "I might have had someone of my own class to talk to."

"I don't wish to belong to a King," said the Mole. "There's nothing I should dislike more. I am for a Liberal Government, and no farming."

"What vulgarity!" cried the Chip.

"It's a blessing it's dark, and he can't see the children laughing," thought the Mole-mother, "or I don't know what would happen."

"Everything that belonged to a King should be treated with Royal respect," continued the Chip.

"As to that, I really haven't time for it," replied the Mole; "what with putting the children to bed, and getting them up again, and all my work in the passages, I can't devote myself to Court life."

"If you like, you can represent the people," said the Chip. "I don't mind, only then I can't talk to you."

"You can read out Royal Decrees, and make laws," said the Mole; and to herself she added, "It won't disturb me. I shan't take any notice of them."

"Who's to be nobles?" said the Chip, crossly. "I'd rather not do the thing at all, if it can't be done properly!"

"Well, I can't be people and nobles too, that's quite certain," remarked the Mole-mother, as she tidied up her house. "Besides, the children are too young—they wouldn't understand."

"What's it like up above?" enquired the Chip languidly after a short pause, for it was almost better to speak to the Mole, than to nobody. "People still walk on two legs?"

"Why, of course," answered the Mole, "there's never any difference in people, that I can see. They're always exactly alike, except in tempers."

The Chip was sitting upon a little stone-heap against one of the pillars. He fondly imagined it was a Throne; and the Mole-mother, with the utmost good nature, had never undeceived him.

As the last words were spoken, a lump of earth fell from the roof, flattening out the stone-heap, and the Chip only escaped destruction by rolling on one side, where he lay shaking with fright and calling to the Mole-mother to help him. But the Mole had retired with her family to a place of safety. She knew what was happening. The tomb was being opened by a party of antiquarians, and in a few more minutes the blue sky shone into the darkness, and the three-cornered piece of pottery was lying wrapped in paper in the pocket of one of the explorers.

* * * * *

When the Chip recovered himself, he found he was reclining on the velvet floor of a large glass case full of Etruscan vases. Here was the society he had been pining for all his life!

"What are Moles compared to this?" he said to himself, and quivered with joy at the thought of the pleasures before him.

"How did that broken thing come into our Division?" enquired a Red Dish with two handles.

"I can't imagine! The Director put him in just now," replied a Black Jug. "It's not what we're accustomed to. Everything in here is perfect."

The Chip lay for a moment, dumb with horror and astonishment.

"I belonged to a King," he gasped at last. "You can look at the name written on me."

"You may have names written all over you, for all I care," said the Dish. "You're a Chip, and no King can make you anything else"—and she turned away haughtily.

"And to think that for all those years the Mole-mother was never once rude to me!" thought the Chip. "She was a person of real refinement. Whatever shall I do if I have to be shut up with these ill-bred people?" he groaned miserably.

"How the woodwork does creak!" said the Director as he came up to the glass case, with a young lady to whom he was showing the treasures of the Museum.

"That's the most recent discovery," he continued smiling and pointing to the three-cornered piece of pottery—"All I found in my last digging."

"It has a beautiful head on it," said the young lady, "I should be quite satisfied if I could ever find anything so pretty."

"Will you have it?" said the Director of the Museum, who after all was only a young man; looking at the young lady earnestly.

She took the despised Chip in her little hand.

"Thank you very much. It will be a great treasure," she said—and looking up at her face, the three-cornered piece of pottery knew that a happy life was in store for him.

* * * * *

"In spite of the rudeness of my own people, I am in the Museum after all," remarked the Chip, as some months afterwards he hung on a bracket on the wall of the young lady's sitting room. "In what a superior position, too! They only belong to the Director, but I belong to the Director's wife!"



THE GOATS ON THE GLACIER.

CHAPTER I.

The Heif Goats lived close to the Heifen Glacier, one of the largest in Switzerland. In fact, their Chalet, or the cavern which they christened by that name, overhung the steepest precipice, and was inaccessible to anyone except its proprietors.

"It is such a comfort to be secluded in these disturbed times," the Goat-mother often remarked to her husband. "If I lived near a high road I should never know a moment's happiness. The children are so giddy, they would be gambolling about round the very wheels of the char-a-bancs, turning head over heels for halfpence, before I could cry Goats-i-tivy!"

The whole glacier valley swarmed with the kin of the Goat family. There were the bond-slaves who worked for the peasants, and the free Goats who possessed their own caves, cultivated their ground industriously, and lived greatly on the sandwich papers left by tourists in the summer-time.

"Such a treat, especially the light yellow sort with printing, that always has crumbs in it," said the Goat-mother. "It makes a delicious meal. We generally have it on fete days."

The family of the Heif Goats consisted of the Heif-father, his wife, and their four children, Heinrich, Lizbet, Pyto, and Lenora.

The young Goats had been brought up with some severity by their parents, who had old-fashioned notions with regard to discipline; and three things had been especially enjoined upon them from their infancy. Always to speak the truth, never to mess their clean pinafores, and last, but not least, never to play with the Chamois!

"They are too wild and frivolous," the Goat-mother used to say, with a nod of her frilled cap. "Such very long springs are in exceedingly bad taste. The Chamois have no repose of manner."

Under this system the children grew up very well-behaved. The daughters worked in the house, the sons helped their father; and in the evening they all descended to the Glacier to collect any remnants of food left by the endless stream of visitors, who all through the summer toiled up to the Eismeer, and down again to the Inn on the other side of the valley.

These travellers were a perpetual source of interest and amusement to the Goat family.

They could never quite make out what they were doing, but the Heif-mother finally decided that their journeys must be some religious or national observance.

"People would never struggle about on the ice like that—tied to each other with ropes, too!—unless it was a painful duty," she said. "I consider it very praiseworthy."

Sometimes the young Goats in their invisible eyrie, would go off into shouts of merriment as a group of excursionists crawled slowly into sight; the ladies in their short skirts and large flapping hats, alpenstock in hand, clinging desperately to the guides as they ascended every slippery ice-peak.

But on these occasions the Goat-mother always reproved them.

"Remember," she would say severely, "that because people are ridiculous you shouldn't be unmannerly. They can't help their appearance, poor things! They may think themselves quite as good as we are."

"Well, at all events, we don't look like that," said Lizbet. "I am sure you would never allow it."

The principal news from the outer world was brought to the Heif family by a Stein-bok pedlar, who wandered about the country with his wares, and was so popular that he was a friend of all classes, and supplied even the Chamois with their groceries and tobacco.

He generally arrived at the Chalet on the first of every month, and spread out his wares on the grass plot in front of the cave, while the Goat-mother and her children walked up and down, and bargained good-humouredly for anything they had taken a fancy to.

CHAPTER II.

It was a bright sunny day, and the Goat-mother sat with her daughters at the door of the cavern. The Goat-father had gone off by himself to get some provisions at a village on the opposite side of the Glacier, and Heinrich and Pyto were digging in the fields at the back of the Chalet; when the Stein-bok, in his well-known brown cloth coat, appeared panting up the narrow pathway.

Throwing himself down on a stone bench, he tossed his Tyrolese hat on to the ground, and fanned himself with his handkerchief.

"Good morning, Herr Stein-bok. You seem exhausted," said the Goat-mother.

"I am, ma'am, and well I may be. Five miles with twenty pounds on my back is no joke, I can assure you."

"Shall I bring you a glass of lager-beer?" enquired the Heif-mother.

"It would be acceptable, ma'am, and then I will tell you my news. You've heard nothing of the Goat-father, have you?"

"Nothing," said the Goat-mother. "I am beginning to feel very nervous. I never knew him to stay away two days before."

The Stein-bok looked round darkly.

"I have something to tell you," he whispered. "Prepare for bad news. The Goat-father has been captured."

The Heif-mother gave a wild shriek, and fell back upon Lizbet, who was peeling potatoes in the doorway.

"When—where—how—who—what?" she cried frantically. "Tell me at once, or I shall faint away."

"Be calm, ma'am," said the Stein-bok soothingly. "I heard it from the Chamois, who have a habit of bounding about everywhere, as you know. Your dear husband reached the middle of the Glacier in safety, when—being hampered by a satchel and a green cotton umbrella—he fell in attempting to jump an ice-pinnacle, and sprained his foot so severely that he was unable to move. Though he bleated loudly for help, no one came except some huntsmen who were in search of Chamois. They picked him up, and dragged him to the Inn on the other side of the valley, where he was locked up securely in a shed, and there he is at the present moment."

"My brave Heif in prison! He will never, never survive it!" cried the Goat-mother, shedding tears in profusion.

"Oh yes he will, ma'am," replied the Stein-bok, "they're not going to kill him, their idea is to take him down to the village."

"That they shall never do!" cried the Heif-mother, starting up, "not if I go myself to rescue him! Go, Lizbet, and call your brothers. We must consult together immediately."

Lizbet darted off, and the Stein-bok continued.

"I have still something else I must let you know, ma'am. As our great poet observes—

'Whenever green food fades away, Some dire misfortune comes the self-same day.'

In plain words, troubles never come singly. I discovered while having a friendly game of dominoes with the Head Chamois, that they intend to seize upon your house next Tuesday, in the absence of the Heif-father."

"And to-day is Friday!" shrieked the Goat-mother. "Oh! this is hard indeed!"



"Compose yourself, ma'am, and listen to my advice," said the Pedlar. "You lock up your house, or leave me in charge with Lizbet and Lenora, and you and the two other children start off at once to ask the help of the Goat-king. He is a mild, humane creature, and will very likely order out a detachment of the 'Free-will' goats to help to defend your household."

"That is the only thing to do," said the Goat-mother mournfully. "I certainly know the way, for of course I have always been to the yearly Goat Assembly, but I always started three days before the meeting, and went down the back of the mountain, over the slopes. I don't know how I'm to manage the short cut."

"Oh, easy enough, ma'am," replied the Stein-bok; "you'll get on very well. Don't go in goloshes, though, for they will be sure to catch on the nails. I wouldn't wear my waterproof mantle either—too large for a walking tour. Put on a shawl, and tie it round you."

By this time Heinrich and Pyto had hastily dressed themselves in out-door costume, and the Goat-mother was rushing about her house, collecting an extraordinary number of things, which the Stein-bok had some difficulty in persuading her not to take with her.

"Not sugar nippers, ma'am, I beg; or your large work-box, or the mincing machine! Quite useless on a long journey; and your best cap you won't want, I assure you."

"I thought I might perhaps wait a moment in the ante-room and put it on before entering the presence of Royalty," bleated the Goat-mother. "But no doubt you know best."

The luggage was at last reduced to a small leather handbag; and the Goat-mother, after solemnly bestowing her blessing on Lizbet and Lenora, and the door-key on the Stein-bok, set off down the garden path with her children, upon their adventures.

CHAPTER III.

Meanwhile, the Goat-father was languishing in a dark shed attached to the Inn on the other side of the Glacier. His bleats had failed to attract any attention. In fact the only person who had heard him at all, had been an old Goat-slave, who while browsing on the hillside with a bell round his neck, had been attracted by the cries, and creeping up to the shed, peeped through a crack to see what could be the matter.

"Is there anyone near?" enquired the Goat-father in a whisper.

"No. There's a party in the Inn, but they are too busy eating to take any notice of us. I am just loitering here, in case there should be any pieces of sandwich paper flying about."

"Is there any chance of my making my escape?" enquired the Heif-father. "Are they very watchful people?"

"Excessively so," replied the old Slave. "I've never been able to get away for the last ten years."

The Goat-father groaned. "Then it wouldn't be possible for you to take a message to my family?"

"Quite impossible, my dear friend, I assure you. Can't you find any crack in the shed where you could break through?"

"There's nothing," cried the Goat-father. "I've searched round and round, and the door is as strong and tight as a prison."

"Well, I'll go off and see if I can find a messenger," said the old Slave good-naturedly. "Perhaps the old fox would manage it."

"A fox! Oh, I don't think that would do," said the Heif-father. "It mightn't be safe for my family."

"Oh, he's all right," said the Slave. "He's been in captivity so long, it's taken all the spirit out of him. He might live in a farmyard. He's a good-natured creature, too, and I daresay he'll go to oblige me."

The Goat-father pulled a band and buckle off his necktie, and poked it under the door.

"Not to eat!" he whispered warningly, "but for the fox to take with him, that my wife may know the message comes from me; and be quick about it, my good friend, for I really am positively starving!"

"All right," said the old Goat, "I'll send the fox off, and come back in a few minutes to bring you some stale cabbage leaves."

"A friend in need, is a friend indeed!" murmured the Goat-father; and went to sleep that night with more hope than he had felt since the moment of his capture.

CHAPTER IV.

"Come along, mother," cried Heinrich, grasping the Heif-mother's hand as they left the garden before their Chalet, and commenced the dangerous descent of the mountain.

Far below them they could see the great stretch of the dazzlingly white Glacier, with its rents and fissures shining greenly in the sunshine. On either side rose bare crags topped with grass, and above all, the snowy summits of the mountains.

The first part of the journey led along a narrow pathway, which the Goat-mother managed very successfully, but when they came to the precipice on which rough iron spikes had been driven at long intervals to assist the climber, her heart failed her, and in spite of her desire to hurry, she entangled her shawl and dress so constantly on the nails, that her children began to fear she would never reach the level of the Glacier.

At last, however, the little party succeeded in making their way across the Eismeer, and arrived without further mishap at the river leading to the Goat-King's Palace.

This river flowed on the centre of the Glacier, between steep banks of transparent ice, every now and again disappearing into some vast cavern, where it swept with a hollow echoing under the ice-field.

"Follow me, mother," said Heinrich. "I see the entrance to the Palace just in front of us."

The Goat-mother gathered up her skirts, and assisted by Pyto, began to scramble down the bank to the side of the streamlet.

"Where is the boat kept?" she enquired.

"In a snowdrift close to the entrance," replied Heinrich. "Don't jump about near the crevasses, Pyto, and I'll go and fetch it."

The boat was soon dragged from its hiding place, and Heinrich paddled it to the spot where the Goat-mother was resting on a snow-bank.

She embarked with some nervousness, clutching desperately at her handbag. They pushed off, and were immediately carried by the current through the little round opening of the cave into the pale green glistening depths of the mysterious world beyond.

CHAPTER V.

There was no need for the Heif family to row. They were swept along past the ice walls, and in a few minutes reached the Goat-King's landing-place. A small inlet with a flat shore, on which were arranged two camp stools and a piece of red carpet.

"Here we are at last, dear children," said the Goat-mother. "What a relief it is, to be sure! Is my bonnet straight, Pyto? and do pull your blouse down. Your hair is all standing on end, Heinrich! How I wish the Stein-bok had allowed me to bring a pocket-comb!"

The Court Porter, seated in a bee-hive chair, came forward as soon as he saw them, to ask their business.

"The Goat-King is at home to-day till five o'clock," he said. "If you will step this way, I will introduce you immediately."

The Goat-mother trembling in every limb—for she had never had a private interview with Royalty before—clutched a child in each hand and followed the Porter.

They passed down two passages, and finally reached a large ice-grotto, with a row of windows opening on to a wide crevasse.

The room was filled with a flickering green light that yet rendered everything distinctly visible.

On a carved maple chair on the top of a dais sat the Goat-King—a snow-white Goat with mauve eyes and beard; completely surrounded with cuckoo clocks, and festoons of yellow wood table-napkin rings, and paper-cutters. The walls seemed to be covered with them, and the pendulums of the clocks were swinging in every direction.

"The King thinks it right to patronize native art," said the Goat-Queen, who with three of the Princesses had come forward graciously to welcome the visitors.

"I find the striking rather trying at times, especially as they don't all do it at once, and sometimes one cuckoo hasn't finished ten before the others are at twelve again."

"I wish all the works would go wrong!" muttered one of the Princesses crossly. "An ice-cavern full of cuckoo clocks is a poor fate for one of the Royal Family!"

"We must encourage industries," said the Queen. "It is a duty of our position. I should rather the industries were noiseless, but we can't choose."

"Bead necklaces and Venetian glass would have been more suitable," said the Princess, who had been very well educated, "or even brass-work and embroidered table-cloths. We might have draped the cavern with them."

At this moment there was a violent whirring amongst the clocks; doors flew open in all directions, and cuckoos of every size and description darted out, shook themselves violently, and the air was filled with such a deafening noise that the Goat-mother threw her apron over her head, and the Goat-children buried their ears in her skirts, and clung round her in terror.

"Merely four o'clock; nothing to make such a fuss about," said the Goat-King. "And now, when we can hear ourselves speak, you shall tell me what you have come for."

As the voice of the last cuckoo died away in a series of jerks, the Goat-mother advanced, and threw herself on her knees before the Royal Family, first spreading out her homespun apron to keep the cold off.

The King listened to her tale with interest, and his mauve eyes sparkled.

"If this is true," he cried fiercely, "the Chamois shall be crushed! My official pen, Princess; and a large sheet of note paper!"

"Rest yourself, petitioner, you must be tired," said the Queen, and pointed to a row of carved and inlaid Tyrolese chairs that stood against the wall.

The Goat-mother and her children seated themselves gratefully, and as they did so, a burst of music floated upon the air, several tunes struggling together for the mastery.

"Yes; it's very unpleasant, isn't it?" said the Goat-Queen, seeing the expression of surprise and uneasiness that showed itself on the visitors' faces. "We're obliged to have all the chairs made like that, to encourage the trade in musical boxes. I get very tired of it, I assure you, and I often stand up all day, just for the sake of peace and quietness. I really dread sitting down!"

Meanwhile, the Goat-King was busily writing, covering his white paws with ink in the process; and the Queen, in a very loud voice to make herself heard, was conversing with the Goat-mother about her household affairs.

"Supplies are most difficult to procure in this secluded spot," she said mournfully. "Would you believe me, that last week we dined every day off boiled Geneva newspapers and cabbage? So monotonous, and the King gets quite angry!"

"I wish we could live on boiled cuckoos!" cried the eldest Princess, who with her sisters was seated on a bench by the window, spinning; the pale green light of the Glacier shining upon their white dresses, and the little brown spinning-wheels that whirred so rapidly before them.

"Petitioner, the order is ready," said the King at this moment, waving a large envelope. "Go straight home, and send this paper round to all the Goats of the neighbourhood. It is an order to the 'Free-will' Goats, to arm, and assemble at your house for the defence of your family, and the rescue of the Heif-father."

The Goat-mother curtsied to the ground, kissed the Queen's hand, and retired with Heinrich and Pyto through the passages to the landing place.

At the last moment one of the Princesses came running after the Goat-mother, to press a cuckoo clock upon her, as a parting present from the Queen.

The clock was large, and they had some difficulty in getting it into the boat, but the Goat-mother did not dare to refuse it.

With the Porter's help they got off at last, and started upon the return voyage, Heinrich and Pyto rowing their hardest; for the current swept through the ice-caves with such force that the Goat-mother had some difficulty in steering.

As they came out into the daylight, they saw that the sun was almost setting, and a faint pink light tinged the snow-fields, and the tops of the distant mountains.

"We must hurry, or we shan't be back by nightfall!" said the Goat-mother nervously; and they landed on an ice-block, covered up the boat again in its hiding place, and set off towards home, across the Glacier.

CHAPTER VI.

The weary travellers almost sank with fatigue as they stumbled over the rough ice.

In addition to the handbag, they now had the cuckoo clock, and though Heinrich had insisted on carrying it strapped on his back like a knapsack, his mother could see that he became more and more exhausted, and at last she determined on taking it from him and carrying it herself.

The difficulty was heightened by the fact that the clock continued to tick, and the cuckoo to bound out of the door at unexpected moments, startling the Goat-mother so, that she almost dropped it.

"It's the shaking that puts its works out," said Heinrich. "Hold on tight, mother, and we shall get it home safely at last!"

"I wish it was at the bottom of the Glacier!" groaned the Goat-mother, staggering along; her bonnet nearly falling off, her shawl trailing on the snow behind her.

"Be careful, Pyto! Careless Goat!" she cried. "Test the snow-bridges carefully with your alpenstock before you venture on them!"

But Pyto, who was young and giddy, went gamboling on; until suddenly, without even time for a bleat of terror, he fell crashing through the rotten ice, and disappeared from view into one of the largest crevasses.

"Goats-i-tivy!" cried the Goat-mother. "He's gone! Oh, my darling child, where are you?"

The cuckoo clock was thrown aside, and she ran to the edge of the crack and peered down frantically.

"All right, mother," said a voice, sounding very faint and hollow, "I've stuck in a hole. Let me down something, and perhaps I can scramble out again."

"What have we got to let down?" said the Goat-mother. "Not a ball of string amongst us! Oh, if ever we go on a journey again, I'll never, never listen to the Stein-bok."

"Well, mother, we must make the best of what we have," cried Heinrich. "Take your shawl off and tear it into strips. We may be able to make a rope long enough to reach him—anyhow we'll try!"

The Goat-mother consented eagerly, though her shawl was one she was particularly fond of. She snatched it off, and taking out her scissors, she soon cut it into pieces, which Heinrich knotted one to the other, and lowered into the crevasse.

"Can you reach it?" he cried, putting his head as far over the edge as possible, and peering into the green depths.

The Goat-mother leant over, too; but in stooping her head her bonnet became loosened, and slid with a loud swish down the ice, darting from side to side until it disappeared from sight in the darkness.

"Oh, what misfortunes! My child, my shawl, and my bonnet, all gone together!" she cried, wringing her hands. "Take hold of the rope, my Pyto, and let us at all events rescue you!"

"All right, mother," cried the distant voice. "Don't drag me up till I call out 'Pull.'"

In a few minutes the Goat-mother and Heinrich, listening intently, heard the welcome shout, and pulling both together they landed Pyto—very much bruised and shaken, but not otherwise hurt—upon the Glacier beside them.

"Oh, what a warning!" cried the Goat-mother, and after embracing Pyto warmly, she turned to look for the cuckoo clock. But it had tobogganed down a steep bank into an ice stream close by, and was floating away in the distance, cuckooing at intervals as it danced up and down upon the water.

Two travellers who had just reached the opposite bank, paused in astonishment to listen.

"You see," said one, "this proves what I have always told you. Nothing is impossible to Nature. You may even hear cuckoos on a Glacier!"

CHAPTER VII.

The Goat-mother arrived at home in a pitiable state of cold and exhaustion, but she was much cheered by finding the house in good order, and a warm supper awaiting her, prepared by the hands of the careful Stein-bok.

Lizbet and Lenora immediately started off with the Royal Order; which was sealed with a large crown of red sealing wax fastening down a wisp of mauve hair.

The next morning all the Goats of the neighbourhood collected in a secret cavern, where they held a patriotic meeting, and discussed their plans for the rescue and protection of the Heif-father.

Six of the strongest and most daring spirits were to start that afternoon for the Inn on the other side of the Glacier, while the rest of the Free-will corps would take it in turns to remain in ambush in the Heif-goat's garden, in case the Chamois should attempt their raid before the day they had appointed.

They all agreed that the corps should be armed to the teeth, and there was such a demand for sandpaper that the store in the Stein-bok's pack was soon exhausted.

"A rusty sword is all the deadlier, when it once gets in," said the Goat-Lieutenant. "I shan't trouble myself about petty details."

The Heif-father rescue party started to cross the Glacier as soon as it became twilight—for they did not wish to attract attention.

The Lieutenant carried a blunderbuss, but the five privates were more lightly armed with a collection of rapiers, carving knives, daggers, spears, and sword-sticks.

Their uniforms were varied, but each wore a mauve badge on his hat, with the motto—"Goats and justice."

After half-an-hour's steady walking they reached the opposite mountain, and climbing the ladders that led to the Inn, they skirted the Chalet carefully, hiding behind the loose rocks and bushes until they were well in the shadow of the outbuildings.

"Where are you, Herr Heif?" bleated the Lieutenant in a low tone. "We are friends. You needn't be alarmed."

"In here," answered a cautious voice from one of the larger sheds. "You can't get in, though—there's no hope of breaking the door open. Iron staples and bars, and the strongest hinges. How many of you are there?"

"Six," replied the Lieutenant. "Free-will Goats, armed to the teeth!"

"You might look at the place and see if you can find a crack anywhere," whispered the Goat-father.

The Lieutenant and his followers walked slowly round the house, examining it at every point; but it was all built of strong tree trunks tanned brown by the sunshine. Suddenly his eye lighted upon a small window. It was very high up and quite out of reach of anyone within, but the Lieutenant thought that by standing on something he might be able to raise himself sufficiently to reach it, and cut away the glass.

"Is there anything inside that you could stand upon?" he enquired.

There was silence, and a sound of scuffling; then the voice of the Heif-goat: "I've been examining things, and there are two barrels. I think I could put one on the top of the other. They might reach to the window, but it has two great wooden bars, I couldn't break through."

"Leave that to us," said the Lieutenant, and he turned to his followers.

"Two of you get on each other's shoulders, and then I will be assisted up. The other three mount in the same way by my side," he said quickly. "We who are at the top will cut through the window frame with our knives, collect the glass, and drag out the Goat-father in no time."

This plan was carried out, and in spite of the unsteady position of the topmost Goats, and the uncomfortable shaking of the lower ones, the wooden bars were at length sawn through, and the glass carefully gathered together by the Lieutenant in his felt hat.

"Steady!" cried the Lieutenant, "I'm coming down in a minute, and you're beginning to shake about so, I can hardly keep my balance. Hi! Do you hear me? Steady, there!"

"I can't stand this a moment longer—my legs are giving way beneath me!" bleated the lower Goat. "I know I shall double up!"

As he spoke his feet slipped from under him, and he fell full length upon the hillside, carrying the others with him; and there they all lay in a confused heap, scarcely able to realize what had happened to them.

Fortunately, however, no one was seriously hurt. They picked themselves up and went to work again with renewed vigour.

"Climb up now, Herr Heif!" cried the Lieutenant. "Put your head out, and gradually lower yourself. We'll stand below and catch you."

"I'm a little afraid, for I know I should fall heavy!" said the Goat-father, in a quavering voice; but he did as he was told, and shutting his eyes firmly, he slipped from the window-sill and fell with a heavy flop into the arms waiting to receive him.

CHAPTER VIII.

The Goat-mother had lit a comfortable fire in the Heif Chalet, and the Goat-father's slippers were warming against the stove; when a sound of approaching voices and footsteps made her start up in excited expectation.

The voices came nearer and nearer. Now she could distinguish the National Goat Song, and in another moment the door flew open, and Herr Heif rushed in accompanied by his rescuers.

The children screamed, the Goat-mother wept tears of joy; and after a general rejoicing, the whole party sat down to a comfortable meal, during which the Lieutenant's health was drunk by the Goat-family amidst loud cheering.

"I am sorry we can't invite the whole corps," said the Goat-mother. "It's very cold for them outside, but the fact is I haven't sufficient crockery. As it is, I am forced to make use of oyster shells and the flower pot, though it's very much against my principles."

"Hush!" said the Goat-father, "there's someone knocking!"

There was indeed a hurried rapping at the door, and one of the Watch-Goats put in his head to say that the band of Chamois were seen advancing towards the Chalet.

The tallow candle was immediately put out, the Lieutenant and his detachment seized their weapons, and concealed themselves behind the door, and the Goat-mother and her children were shut up in an inner room, where they waited in fear and trembling.

On came the Chamois with noiseless leaps, bounding into the garden, and approaching the front door with the utmost caution. Everything appeared to be turning out according to their expectations, and they already saw themselves in imagination seated in the Heif-house, revelling in the contents of the Goat-mother's store cupboard.

Their long green coats fluttered in the air, the large bunches of edelweiss in their hats, glistened in the moonlight.

But a low, clear whistle suddenly sounded.

Each Goat sprang from his hiding place, and with a rush that took the Chamois completely by surprise, they fell upon the invaders, and drove them over the precipice.

It was a real triumph; for the Chamois flew down the mountain in the wildest confusion, falling down, and darting over each other in their hurry, and never stopping until they had reached their own haunts in the region of the distant Eismeer.

"A glorious victory!" cried the Lieutenant, "and not a drop of blood shed."

As to the Goat-mother, she had passed through such a moment of terror that she had to be assisted out of the back room by three of the guard, and revived with a cabbage leaf before she could recover herself. She then embraced everyone all round, and the Goat-father broached a barrel of lager-beer; while the tame Fox from the Inn (who had appeared at the Chalet soon after the departure of the rescue party) ran about supplying the visitors with tumblers.

The next day the Free-will Goats were disbanded, and returned to their homes; after receiving in public the thanks of the Goat-King for their distinguished behaviour, and a carved matchbox each "For valour in face of the horns of the enemy."

The Stein-bok Pedlar was begged to make his home at the Heif Chalet, but he loved his wandering life too much to settle down.

"Keep the tame Fox instead of me, ma'am," he said, as he shook hands warmly with his friends at parting. "The poor creature is miserable in captivity."

He then made the Goat-mother a handsome present of all his remaining groceries, and departed once more upon his travels.

That same afternoon a special messenger from the Goat-King arrived with an inlaid musical chair, "as a slight token of regard," for the Heif-father.

"Well, at all events, it's better than a cuckoo clock," said the Goat-mother resignedly, "but let me warn you seriously never to sit down upon it! I know its ways, and though kindly meant, I should have preferred paper-knives!"



THE GREAT LADY'S CHIEF-MOURNER.

It was a large white house that stood on a hill. In front stretched a beautiful garden full of all kinds of rare flowers, on to which opened the windows of the sitting-rooms.

Everything was handsome and stately, and the lady who owned it was handsomer and statelier than her house.

In her velvet dress she sat under the shade of a sweeping cedar tree; with a crowd of obsequious relations round her, trying to anticipate her lightest wishes.

"How nice it must be to be rich," thought the little kitchen-maid as she looked out through the trellis work that hid the kitchens at the side of the great house. "How happy my mistress must be. How much I should like to try just for one day what it feels like!"—and she went back with a sigh to her work in the gloomy kitchen.

Through the latticed window she could see nothing but the paved yard, and an old tin biscuit box that stood on the window-sill, and contained two little green shoots sprouting up from the dark mould.

This little ugly box was the kitchen-maid's greatest treasure. Every day she watered it and watched over it, for she had brought the seeds from the tiny garden of her own home, and many sunny memories clustered about them. She was always looking forward to the day when the first blossoms would unfold, and now it really seemed that two buds were forming on the slender stems. The little kitchen-maid smiled with joy as she noticed them.

"I shall have flowers, too!" she said to herself hopefully.

One day, as the mistress of the house walked on the terrace by the vegetable garden, the little kitchen-maid came past suddenly with a basket of cabbages. She smiled and curtsied so prettily that the great lady nodded to her kindly, and threw her a beautiful red rose she carried in her hand.

The kitchen-maid could hardly believe her good fortune. She picked up the flower and ran with it to her bedroom, where she put it in a cracked jam-pot in water; and the whole room seemed full of its fragrance—just as the little kitchen-maid's heart was all aglow with gratitude at the kind act of the great lady.