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L-ALJ, JXlliUXS RESERVED. J #i>###. I A MIDNIGHT EXPRESS f By HELEN WALLACE X X Author of "Blind Hopes," &c. <|> i1<t># "I may do it yet," exclaimed Jim Fellowes to himself, clutching at his bag and rug and leaping out before the leisurely local traim, dawdling into the junction ten minutes late, had come to a standstill. The wind was driving through the great arch of the station, the big arc lamps, fiz- zing and spluttering amid the steam and smoke overhead, were burning unsteadily. Fellowes made a rush towards the platform, where the concentrated bustle showed that the up-express was jUtit. starting. As he came abreast of the tail-lights the whistle sounded. He made a dash for the nearest door, scrambled in somehow, and found himself in a firgt-class smoking compartment, in com- pany with one other passenger. "Not such a bad hit after all," Fellowes thought, with the complacence which every one feels in catching the last train at the last minute. Then he cast a careless glance at his fellow-traveller, who, with his cap pulled well down, and a magnificent fur coat hunched up to his ears, was apparently sound asleep in the further corner of the carriage. "Must be one of the Seven Sleepers if my bundling in has not roused him—wish I could follow his example," was Fellowes' passing thought, before his own pre-occupations gripped him again. And the dry, feverish brightness of his eyes, and the overstrained anxiety of his face suggested that he was sorely in need of that profound sleep which he momentarily envied before he forgot all about the sleeper. He had worn a very different look when, a day or so ago, he had passed through Mereton Junction. Hope and expectation were leaping in every pulse, thrilling in every vein. All but a year had passed since on last Christmas Eve he had looked into Joy Grantley's eyes, and had seen the love and the loyalty shining there, and since they two had stolen away from the great glowing rooms and the music and the dancing, and under the starlight had planned their future together. Fellowes was no match, of course, for the daughter of the rich financier who had turned the grey old grange into a palace. "A rising barrister," "a coming man," so men spoke of him, but what was that compared with what Joseph Grantley had a right to expect for his one daughter. But Joy had made her choice, and Fellowes had been con- scious that it was not as an, unknown man that he was now returning to her. The com- mission which had caused his long year's absence in Australia had established his name. His foot was well planted on the ladder; he might climb high, and, for Joy's sake, what would he not do? There had been no letters exchanged during his absence, so much Joseph Grantley had insisted on, but no doubt had dimmed the young man's high confidence. Under the watching stars Joy had given him her sacred pledge, and now he was on his way to claim it. He believed in her as he believed in, his God. When the liner had touched at Plymouth, he had landed and had gone straight to Wave Manor—everything else could wait. Arrived at the little station, he spoke to no one, but hurried away through the familiar lanes to a wicket-gate by which the house was more quickly reached than by the long circuit of the avenue. Even Nature conspired to heighten his mounting rapture of hope and anticipation. December though it was, the sky was blue, the glossy leaves of the ivy shone in the sun, from a swinging bough a robin thrilled its sweet, plaintive song. He was too absorbed in the prospect before him to notice the unkempt air of the shrubbery walk, and when he emerged on the broad sweep in front of the house he stood stone- still, like a man who has been struck a stun- ning blow. The long rows of windows were shuttered fast, and even in the morning sun the whole place wore the forlorn, desolate look which a deserted house so soon acquires. But a worse shock awaited him when he learned that Joseph Grantley had died sud- denly in Londom, and there were darker hints that he had cut through the desperate tangle of his affairs by suicide. It was certain, at lea5t, that he had been utterly ruined. His chief creditor was Arthur Levy, who had for- merly seemed his closest friend, and who it was thought would get possession of the Manor. Miss Grantley had hurried up to town when the dreadful news had come, but she had never returned; the house was shut up, and no one knew where she was. It had been no one's business to ascertain. Nor for all his inquiries could Fellowes learn more than this from former friends and neighbours and dependents, and all the little world of which Joy had been the gracious, gladsome queen. He had gone here and there, following up various suggestions, but all in vain, and now he was on his way to seek for his lost love in the whirlpool of London. If all other clues failed, Levy, he believed, must know something of the vanished girl, but his heart sank and his face darkened at the thought. He remembered the man only too well-of the grosser Hebrew type, a reputed millionaire, and an avowed admirer of "Miss Joy," as he familiarly called her, trading on his friendship with her father, a friendship and a familiarity which Joy alike detested. And it was on this man that he might be dependent for news of Joy! No wonder that, sunk in black thoughts and blacker dread, Fellowes was unconscious of himself or his surroundings. By and by, and mingling with these only too definite forebodings, there came a strange uneasy presage of ill, a sense of something sinister impending. Fellowes glanced again at the sleeping man, vaguely wishing that he would make -some sound or motion-anything to break the strange still- ness which seemed to have settled down in spite of the roar of the train. Then he decided that since his companion's sleep seemed hardly natural, he had better keep awake, and with the decision a slight drowsiness must have stolen over him. Next moment he was startled broad awake by a loud sudden rattle. He sprang to his feet. It was only the further window which had fallen down, letting in a swoop of icy wind. He crossed the carriage, leaned over the sleeping man, and muttering, "Dead asleep still" slammed up the window not too gently. As he did so he noticed that the sleeper was holding some- thing in his open hand, at which he had apparently been gazing. The yellow gleam of the gas light fell on a. gold circlet in the form of a twining ribbon. It framed a girl's face. Involun- tarily Fellowes stooped nearer. That setting was familiar, though doubtless there were hundreds like it. Then his heart seemed to stop, every power of his being was arrested. It was like the shock when a steamer's engines stop in mid-ocean—next instant every pulse was racing madlt again. With a brain on fire he snatched the miniature from the limp hand. A fair face smiled at him, in the deep violet eyes, on the sweet young lips was the innocent radiant happiness which had made her name so appropriate. Know it? Followes knew it as he knew his own soul. It was the miniature Joy had had painted a year ago as a Christmas gift to her father. She had got a copy made for Jim, which had jour- neyed with him ever since, and which at that moment was next hiff bursting heart. From the painted face his eyes leaped to the sleeping one. He knew that, too! The heavy, aquiline features, the cruel, sensual mouth, with its over-full, over-red lips. Was he dreaming or mad? Joy's portrait in Levy's hand! And he had been gloating over it before he had sunk into his swinish sleep! Like » wild beast on the spring Fellowes clutched the rich fur collar. "Wake up and answer me! How did you get this?" he cried, shaking the sleeper violently. There was neither stir nor answer. The head rolled helplessly to and fro. The gas- light fell full upon the yellow pallor of the face, upon the staring, sightless eyes. As if Daisied, Fellowea' hand droooed down. I u-rèat Tjixi in neaven, tne man was geaa asleep indeed' He was dead. That vague, creeping dread was made plain. Life had I been instinctively shrinking from the pre- sence of Death before the shock of the truth had burst upon him. The carriage rocked sharply round a curve, the dead body swayed and lurched forward into Fellow* very arms. With a cry of horror he thrust it from him and dropped back into his seat, while the train plunged on through the black night. Presently Fellowes staggered to his feet. The gross, heavy body had sunk into a huddled heap, which told its own tale. Levy was past human help, that was plain, but there was no sign of wound or struggle. The diamonds still sparkled on his shirt front, on his thick fingers; the watch ticked in his pocket, though the heart was still. By his side was an open bag full of papers. The man was gone beyond human arraignment, but there, among those papers, might be the answer Fellowes sought. Hardly knowing what he did. Fellowes turned them over with desperate hands. Some he thrust aside, some his trained lawyer's eye glanced over with infinite amazement. These he put carefully together, but what he panted for—some trace of Jov —was not amongst them. Then he drew a deep breath, set his teeth, and turned to- the thing in the corner. A spasm of actual physical nausea seized him as he laid hands on that sumptuous fur coat again. It was hatefully, horriblv like robbing the dead, but what could he do? He thrust his hands into the pockets, shudder- ing at the contact with the still warm body—loose money, a hotel bill, a gorgeous cigarette-case, a gold match-box. Ah! a letter-case! Within-a bundle of crisp notes, a letter of two from various Florries and Lillies, some stray memoranda and scribbled addresses, and in a pocket by itself a cheap sheet of paper, and on it the words "Friday night-the same place and hour." There was neither name nor date nor ad- dress, but it was Joy Grantley's writing. Of that there could be no faintest doubt. Fel- lowes fell back with a groan. He would have changed places with the stiffening corpse if he could. Then he clutched at the door, while the mad impulse seized him tc fling himself and his wrath and despair out into the midnight, and under the thundering grind of the iron wheels. With hard-held breath Fellowes stood out- side one of several doors on a narrow land- ing at the top of a mean tenement house. He looked ten years older than the man who had landed at Plymouth, or even than the man who had leaped into the train at Mereton only a few days ago. But what had those few days not. held? The wretched busi- ness of the inquest, when a verdict of "Death from the visitation of God" had been returned, and the legal formalities by which as Miss, Grantley's representative. Fel- lowes had lodged a claim upon the de- ceased's papers, had been but a small part. The first sickening shock, the first storm of jealous fury over, Fellowes had done des- perate battle with himself, and Joy's violet eyes, her innocent smile, had pleaded her own cause. What right had he to judge her? To what straits might not a scoundrel like Levy drive a girl, left suddenly orphaned and desolate? The man was dead, and it was well he was, for Fellowes knew that had it been from a living and not from a lifeless hand that he had snatched the miniature, he might well in that red, ruth- less rage have been Levy's murderer. But to find Jov-that must be his one task. Only let him see her again, then—then he would know. He had visited every one of these scribbled addresses—with strange enough results often-he had made ceaseless inquiries, he had bribed Levy's entourage lavishly. No need to dwell upon the breath- less efforts of these crowded days. At last he had got what seemed to be a clue. Now it was Friday night-hope or despair lay for him behind that narrow, shabby door. Would no one come? He knocked again. The door opened a seam, a hard, sallow face peered out. "I have come to see your lodger. She is expecting me," said Fellowes boldly. It seemed impossible, but the door opened, he stood in a dark, musty strip of passage. The woman, apparently crushed out of all interest or even ordinary curiosity, opened a door without any pretence of knocking. "The gent to see you," she said indiffe- rently, and jostled past Fellowes towards her own quarters again. Behind that door, in the midst of the sordid room, a girl was standing with clenched hands and tense mouth. Against her cheap, scanty black gown, her face showed white as the wind-flowers in April woods. Her wide violet eyes were dark with hard-held emotion. Bitter pride, mortal dread, burning wrath, and passionate repul- sion struggled in their depths. The knock- ing at the door had startled her to her feet. He was here—the moment had come at last, then. It was an eternity while the landlady's slip-shod feet trailed across the passage- then a man's voice-a man's step—the door opened—God help her now! for she need look for neither ruth nor mercy at this man's hands. She compelled herself to keep her eyes fixed on the opening door, though she shrank from what, next instant, it must re- veal. It opened wide. The dark, low- ceiled room rang to a mighty cry: "You—you—oh, Jim—Jim!" Her very soul seemed to go forth in that cry. and like a dissolving snow-wreath slip- ping down a mountain side, she would have sunk down, but Fellowes sprang forward, caught and held her fast. Doubt and fear vanished at once and for ever. Hearts and lips met-no words were needed. "Joy, darling-why did you not wait for me-why did you hide from me—could you not trust me?" exclaimed Fellowes in tender reproach, when words were possible, looking into the violet eyes which seemed too large for the pale, wistful face. "It was for your sake-for your future," faltered Joy. "It was all so sudden, so dreadful. When I arrived from Wave, father, poor father, was dead."—with a choking sob—"and he was in the house." There was no need to ask who he was. "He told me terrible things-things I couldn't believe about my poor father, but he said they were true—he had proofs; but if I would marry him he would protect father's name." "Marry him!" ejaculated Fellowes. That hound!" "I would have died first," said Joy pas- sionately-utter truth spoken in her voice and eyes. "But to let you marry me, marry the daughter of a the word would not come "would have been to ruin you—to blight your whole life. He said he would see to that. I thought if I could hide from him-yes, and from you, too—for your own sake-it was the only way. I left the house at night-I took nothing with me, I felt I should be a thief if I did, and I did escape him for a time, but he tracked me down wherever I went—oh, it has beeji horrible," covering her eyes. "And at last I had to promise that I would see him to-night, and when the knock came I thought it was he, but it was you-it was you! her voice rising clear and jubilant, her pallid face irradiated with a glory which restored to Fellowes a Joy higher and nobler than even he remembered. "He lied to you, Joy," exclaimed Fel- lowes. "He lied to your father. It is trtie he nearly ruined him, but not quite, and in the most amazing way I got the proofs of his frauds. It is too late for your poor father. I can't bring back the old days, but you may spend Christmas at Waye—you will have your home again." TWrft wnpt it moment's silence. Joseph Grantley had not been an over-tender father. He had wanted a son to carry on hit name, to inherit his acres, and. fegi not cloak,e(i His msappointrneiu. fJLll lll daughter did not remember that now. Then the present called her. youth and love and nature claimed their own. She slid her hand gently into the young man's and said softly: Our home Again the poor room was flooded witVi a rapturous silence, and then Joy suddenly started. "But—but where is hl'?'" f'¡he whispered, looking fearfully round, as if. though her lover's arms were about her. her bliss was not yet secure. Where he can trouble you no more. Levy is dead, said Fellowes, a deep stern note in his voice. "God knows to what I might not have been tempted, but I was saved from it." In a few brief words he told of that ghastly night-watch in the rushing train. The verdict was iue visitation of God. he said in a low voice, "and with all reverence. Joy, it has indeed been such for us."
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[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.J <H'?<?#>1><?'- J THE GHOST OF THE INN By KATHARINE TYNAN i> <§> Author of "Peggy the Daughter," &c. Author of "Peggy the Daughter," &c. l$l<4><-o/t'#<?## The Flying Mercury coach pulled up with a dourish in the inn-ya,rd of the Jolly Post- boys at Dunchestcr, and the guard sprang doWn and opened the door of the coach with a gallant air. Out there stepped a young lady, Miss Cherry Luttrell, no more than sixteen, with eyes as black as sloes, delicate arched brows, red lips, and a dimple in her cheek. He lifted out the young lady, who stood looking about her in the inn yard. Her scarlet cloak had a hood that was over her head and was tied with scarlet ribbons be- neath her chin. The shortness of her skirts displayed her black silk stockings and her neat little shoes with silver buckles. A young gentleman leaning over the gallery that ran round two sides of the inn-yard thought it the prettiest picture he bad seen for many a day. Mrs. Greensleeves, the landlady of the inn, ran out, hearing the clatter of the coach as it came under the archway from the street. "Who have we here, John?" she asked, looking kindly at Miss Cherry. "Mistress Cherry Luttrell, the daughter of Squire Luttrell, of Goldenwood Hall. She has come with me all the way from Bright- ling; you are to' take care of her for the night, Mrs. Greensleeves, and to-morrow you are to hand her over to Peter Smithers, the guard of the Ajax, who will take her on to Docking, where her father will receive her. Peter Smithers will know how to take care of Missie. It isn't the first time he, or 1, for the matter of that, have taken charge of young ladies like Miss Cherry." "Come you in, Miss, and have a warm by the fire," the landlady said, beaming kindly. "Be you hungry, little Miss? Why, then, there's a chicken turning on the spit that will make your little ladyship a meal-" Cherry Luttrell followed the landlady into the inn, unconscious of the eyes that watched her from the gallery above. She stopped at the inn door, before passing in- side, to wave a hand to John, the guard, and to Simon, the coachman, who had been assiduous in seeing to her comfort. The inn was a delightful place, dim and old-fashioned in its winding passages, with fine spacious rooms, such as they do not build nowadays. 'The hall was full of stuffed birds and fishes in glass cases, and deer's heads, and all manner of stuffed beasts who lurked in the corners, showing white teeth as though they were about to spring out on Cherry. At one side a door with coloured glass panels led into the big dining-room of the inn. "This is bespoke to-night for our Hunt Supper," said Mrs. Greensleeves, with her hand on the door-handle. "Would little Missie like to peep inside ?" Little Missie would like to see anything, being very eagerly curious about the world, which she only knew from the glimpses she had of it as she went to and fro between Goidenwood and her very select ladies school at Brightling Dene. She peeped within and saw the long tables set for supper with snowy napery and bright silver and heavy crystal glass, with j tankards and beakers and branching candle-' sticks filled with wax candles. The room I was but ftrelit. The evening fell early this week of Christmas; the light leaped on the fruit in the silver dishes and the wine, ruby and golden, in the decanters. A very pretty sigiit, Miss Cherry thought it, .having led a dull life at Goldenwood, where her father moped since his wife's death, and had no idea of how to make things bright for his one little girl, although he compassionated her loneliness to the degree of sending her to the Misses Primrose's select schpoi, depriving himself of her companionship go that she might be with children of her own age. Afterwards she saw the spits turning in the big kitchen, each bearing its load of chickens and ducks, with beef and mutton and veal, so that little Miss Cherry called out in wonder and admiration. "They must be giants," she said, "to eat such a supper!" "Not giants," said Mrs. Greensleeves, "but healthy, hungry gentlemen. You should see what they will wash it down with—wines, both red and white, our own brown October ale—there is none better in the country eau-de-vie from France, whiskey from Ireland: some will have HoL lands and others rum, on which our navy fights so well. You are not to be frightened, little Missie, if you should hear them going yCo bed late. A good many of them sleep here to-night, including Mr. Anthony Wvcherly, of Mote Place, who is the Master of our Fox-hounds. He is in the corridor above yours. Indeed, his room is over yours. You will bolt your door on the in- side, lest any gentleman should mistake your room for his. I have made you as com- fortable as possible in the Oak Room, which has a bedroom opening off it. I shall send you your supper there, and you will go early to bed. It will not be a time for you to wander about the inn, as there will be so many gentlemen here." She chattered all this as she preceded Mis'? Cherry along the low -corridor, lit by a solitary light at the furiher end. It was as pretty as the rest of the house, so far as Cherry could see it for .the dark, with pictures on the walls and straight-backed chairs against them: a d"p carpet under- foot, a tall, slender old clock at the far end that ticked away merrily, an ancient cup- board full of china and other pretty things. The fire was burning up in the Oak Room, where a maid whom Cherry had seen down- stairs was setting a table. A door opened into a bedroom which Cherry presently dis- covered to be hung with rosy chintz, which curtained also the windows and the big four- poster bed and covered the chairs and the comfortable sofa. The bed, big enough to have held half-a-dozen Cherrys, was matched by the wardrobe and the huge dressing-table with its long pier glass: but it was all so bright and cheerful, even before the maid had lit the fire there, that Cherry had no thought of loneliness. She spent her evening in the Oak Room. There was so much to look at, such quan- tities of old china and curiosities of one kind or another, so many queer old books and pictures, that Cherry was in no danger of finding time hang heavy on her hands. She had her supper, daintily served, which she enjoyed with a wholesome zest, having been in the open air all day. When she had finished it, and the things had been cleared away, she sat over the fire in the Oak Room with an old uCounty History" on her lap, listening to the jolly sounds of talk and laughter that came up the stairs and in at the door, which she had left slightly ajar the better to hear. Mrs. Greensleeves had looked in, seen to the fires, and said good-night, with a recom- mendation to Miss Cherry to go to bed early, as she had been travelling all day and would be off early to-morrow. Miss Cherry promised to do so; but a little later she found the "County History," and became absorbed in its contents. She turned up Dunchester and found Mote Place and the Wycherlys. She did not know why Anthony Wycherly's name, dropped casually by the hostess, should have excited her interest. Perhaps she thought it a pretty name; perhaps she associated it with the young gentleman who had leant over the gallery' and watched her as she stepped from the Flying Mercury, and tripped lightly in, holding her skirts high over the cobbles of the inn-yard. No one would have guessed from Miss Cherry's way of entering the inn that she had known the young gentleman's eyes were fixed on her. Apparently she had not lifted an eyelash; yet she could have described him from top to toe. She was aware that he was hand- some and looked kind. And she was sure he must be Mr. Anthony Wycherly from some- thing Mrs. Greensleeves had let drop about that remtleman beirz already is the house. f mere was a wonctertui description or Mote in the "County History," and a long recital of the honourable and glorious deeds of the Wycherlys in one generation and another for some centuries back. She read every word of it, and having read it went over it again. She wondered if she would ever meet Anthony Wyeherlv face to face. Mote and Golde?jwood Hall were not so far removed as distances go in the country. If only her father were not such a recluse and likely > remain so! Her Aunt Lydia had said that when Cherry was of an age for gaieties she should have a season in town with her; but Cherry was not agog for a season in town. She thought she would I have liked her gaieties in the country, if only they might include Mote and Anthony Wycherly. So far as she could make it out there would not be more than twenty miles of country between them. What were twenty miles to a pair of horses? If they considered twenty miles a barrier why they would have no neighbours at all at Golden- wood. There was a. groat shout from below, and then the sound of a fine tenor voice singing, "Here's to the lass Cherry had a ridiculous idea that it was Anthony Wycherly's voice, as though she could know anything at all about it. She opened her door softly and stepped out in the corridor to listen. Then she noticed for the first time, on a fine, dark, mahogany table opposite her door, a number of candles in candlesticks, which had not been there when she came to bed. A foot coming up the stairs startled her, and she scurried back to the Oak Room with- out hearing the end of "Here's to the lass.! "She took up the "County History" again, and began to read the history of Dunchcstsr. Why, there was something about the Jolly Postboys in it. "This inn dates from the sixteenth cen- tury, and is interesting because of some fine oak carving and panelling it contains, as well as for a ghost ■" r, A ghost! Little Cherry read on with fascinated interest. The ghost attached to the Jolly Postboys was a very unpleasant one, being that of a lady who had poisoned her husband and mother-in-law, and had escaped justice by drowning herself in the hcrse-pond at the back of the iuni. The ghost was supposed to be seen any night leaving the horse-pond, and, with dripping garments, taking her way to the house. Reading, the hairs of Cherry's pretty head stood up, which was something of a feat since it curled in heavy black rings. She looked about her, fcared. The clock in the corridor struck ten, a greatxhour for Cherry, and she was to be up early, as the Ajax left the inn about eight o'clock. She closed the I book with a shiver, preparatory to going to bed. Of course, it was reassuring to hear all j I the jolly sounds downstairs. They were roar- ing "John Peel" now. She thought she had better get to sleep if she could before the house had gone to bed. Once asleep she might hope to sleep till morning dawned. She turned out the lamp in the Oak- Room and went into her bedroom. The fire was burninig brightly, and the room ought to be cheerful enough, seeing that every bit of fur- niture in it was so polished and beeswaxed that it reflected the leaping flames all round the room. The chintz, too, was of the cheer- fullest. Why, then, should Cherry have had a dismal vision of the many dead who had beeni "laid out" in the old four-poster? It wasn't a bit like the child. What a bother that she should have read about that horrid ghost! They were singing "Tom Bowling down- ,stairs now. How could one be afraid with all that jolly life so near one? Cherry undressed hurriedly. She felt very tired, and she was really going to drop off to sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. Unfortunately, just before she got into bed, she- lifted the window-blind and peeped out. It was a night of broad moonlight. She had no idea of what way the windows looked. As it happened they looked on the pond, the black wafers of which were visible in the bright moonlight. To-night would put a film of frost upon them. It was very cold. She dropped the blind with a shiver and got into bed, but got out again imme- diately to look under the bed and in the huge wardrobe and into the powdering-closet; anywhere a foe might lurk. Everything was safe. She bolted her door, left the candles lighting in their sconces, and got back into bed. She was not going to risk waking up im the dark. She went to sleep right enough, but she woke up out of her first sleep with a dreadful feeling that something had happened in the room. As a matter of fact, it was nothing worse than that one of the doors of the wardrobe, which she had not, perhaps, secured properly, had swung open with a click of the half-caught bolt. There was the door staring at her, revealing cavernous depths of darkness beyond. Cherry never associated the open wardrobe door with the something which had frightened nero She sat up in bed. The lire was nearly out. and the candles had guttered and wasted in a draught. There was not much more of life for them. She sat up, peering into the gloomy corners of the room with dilated eyes. The house was quiet. She had no idea of what time it was, but she had a sense of the house being in bed. While she sat there the furniture began to do some of the disconcerting things old furniture has a way of doing. The gentleman's wardrobe that flanked the bigger one uttered a groan. Then some shadowy person got up from the sofa and Walked across the room, making the floor creak, and, judging by the sound, subsided into the comfortable winged chair by the k fire. Cherry stared about her, pale with fear. She fixed a scared eye on the candles with their long stalactites of grease, and gave them mentally half an hour before guttering out. There was no more coal in the- room. She had ascertained that fact for herself before going to bed. All this queer be- haviour of the furniture was bad enough in the light; but with her knowledge of what it might portend it would be terrible in the dark. What was she going to do? She stared at the chintz-covered sofa with a vision of a dripping, drowned woman lying upon it. Then with a wonderful uplifting of heart she remembered the many candles she had seen on the table in the corridor. It never occurred to unsophisticated Cherry that the candles were placed there fOr any specific purpose, unless it might be out of the mercy of heaven to her fears. She took one of the guttering candles in her hand, unbolted the door in a tremen- dous hurry, crossed the Oak Room and out into the corridor. All was dark outside; but by the light of her own candle she saw that the candles were still there. She laid hands upon them eagerly. There were some twenty in air. As" fast as she could she transferred them from the table in the corridor to the table in the Oak Room. There was not a sound in the house while she did it. Plainly, everyone was asleep. She looked anxiously up and down the dark corridor lest the ghost should approach that way. The clock struck while she was doing it. One o'clock! How cold it was. A sharp wind blew along the corridor, chilling her in her pretty night- gown and bare feet. Suddenly she was arrested, almost turned to stone, by a sound close at hand. Follow- jpf? it the house-door slammed below, and a babel of jovial voices broke out. The guests JBho stayed had been speeding the guests whowsnt. She heard one voice above the others, the toice of the landlord apparently. She had caught a glimpse of Mr. Green- sleeves yesterday, a man as big as a tun, with a jolly red face. "Good-night, gentlemen, and pleasant OtWBl to TOU t" Then a door slammed somewhere in tho lower regions, and she heard the feet of the revellers ascending. She stood as though turned to stone. She had transferred the last of the caudles, and turned back to make sure there were no more. She stood with the candle in her hand. Horror! Were the gentlemen going to find her there in her nightdress, bare- footed ? x Someone came up, more light-footed than the others, and was in the corridor before she broke through her stupefaction and flod. He had a dim vision of the white-robed creature disappearing within a doorway. He heard the click of the bolt. He fancied Cherry standing behind her door with a panting heart—the lovely thing Then he fumbled for the matches ..which lav in a certain candlestick which Cherry had annexed as well as the candles, with a pious thanksgiving to the kind Providence who had placed them there specially for her help. In a few seconds the full truth was re- vealed to Cherry, for such a babel of voices broke out in the corridor; and some strong language was used not altogether suitable for Miss Cherry's ears. Some were calling for the landlord, others for Mrs. Green- sleeves; some were objurgating the manage- ment of the Jolly Postboys; some were abus- ing other some. They seemed to be all press- ing and jostling each other in the dark. Doubtless some of the gentlemen had in- dulged over-ireely in the excellent wine for which the' Jolly Postboys was famous. A quarrel seemed imminent when a cool voice broke out over it all. Cherry was certain it was his. "By some mischance, friends," it said, "our candles have disappeared. There is no help for it but to go to bed in the dark." Then there was stumbling up and down steps, collisions with pieces of furniture in the dark, exclamations, oaths. It was quite a long while before the last sound of it died away in the darkness and the trembling Cherry stole off to bed, half-terrified, half- delighted with what had turned out such a prank. The last sound she heard was some- one stumbling and recovering himself in the room overhead. Mr. Anthony Wycherly; oh, she hoped he had not hurt himself. She had a fine illumination through the dark hours. Somehow, she did not feel in- clined to sleep, although she derived a cer- tain comfort from knowing that he slept overhead. If she but closed her eyes the ghost was in the room, so the end of it was that she found a book to read. It was "Clarissa Harlowe," and she was so fasci- nated by it, seeing the features of the un- known young gentleman in Sir Charles Grandison, that she soon forgot her fears. She lit the candles by relays during the lonesome hours. About six o'clock, when the cocks were crowing and Mrs. Green- sleeves was turning over, preparatory to waking, Cherry slipped out and restored the burnt-out candles to their places, and going back to bed slept the sleep of innocence till it was time to awake. She ate her breakfast in a bow-window of the Jolly Postboys that looked on to the street, while tll" six horses were being put into the Ajar, for there had been snow in the night, and it would take all six to pull them through the drift that was always at the foot of Crossdown Hill. She listened to Mrs. Greensleeves calling to her husband across the stable-yard. "John Greensleeves, John, here's Tom, the boots, come downstairs and says the gentle- men are in a fine taking, for no candles nor matches could they find on their way to bed, and broken shins and black eves W are as plentiful as haws before a hard winter. Strangest of all, Tom reports that the candle- sticks are on the table but the candles burnt to the socket. What do you make of it, John Greensleeves?" "That the gentlemen enjoyed theirselves too well, wife," came in a genial bellow from the other side of the vard. Cherry quaked, and to escape from the scene of her exploit was glad to huddle into the coach and hide herself there before it was time for it to start, yet as she ran to the coach-door, looking up to the gallery, she met the eyes of the young gentleman whom she called in her own mind Mr. Anthony Wycherly. She looked up at him and he looked down at her, and their eyes met, and she was suddenly as red as her name and thankful for the shelter of the coach. .That Christmas Eve is yet remembered in those parts for the accident to the coach, for as it thundered down Crossdown Hill-and a mercy the snow acted as a natural brake, or matters had been v§>rse—a wheel sud- denly came off. The horses, feeling the thing dragging behind them, got from under control. For a second or two the coach, full of terrified people, swaying hither and thither, was dragged behind, the horses. Then, amid, screaming and shouting, and Barnaby the driver, and Peter Smithers hanging on to the reins like Trojans, the coach turned clean over in the big drift at the foot of the hill. Then there was a commotion. The passen- gers on top of the coach were flung hither and thither in all directions. There were a good many of them travelling home for Christmas, but they were all men on the top, and they didn't say much, but either lay stunned or picked themselves up slowly, feel- ing all over their bodies to make sure no bones were broken. Peter Smithers was lying very still, with the off-leader partly across his body and his horn lying on the snow a yard away from him; old Barnaby was feebly endeavouring to get the harness cut so that the near- leader could struggle to his feet. From the body of the coach, where there were five women besides Cherry, the screaming and crying were enough to deafen a man. No one seemed to know what to do, else there were plenty of men to do it. Into the commotion came a horseman, leading his horse down the hill-Mr. Anthony Wycherly. He tied his horse to a gate; then took charge. Wonderful what one clear head will do! He sent one grave look towards poor Peter, lying under Blucher. "First the women, gentlemen," he said. The women were pulled out through the window of the coach. The door-handle had twisted and the door refused to budge. But first came an old woman, holding on to a basket, somewhat cut about the face with the glass of the window. Next a genteel- I looking person like a lady's maid, protesting that her chances in life were all gone be- cause she had a long cut across the cheek and the old woman's basket had blackened one eye. Next, a girl from a London shop, who screamed when her arm was touched; then a fine madam in a tippet of fur over black satin, and a painted and powdered face rasped all over with the glass as though the teeth of a harrow had done it. She was fainting, and as the men dragged her through the window it was as though she were a pot of essences. Lastly came Cherry, white and trembling. The other women had fallen on top of her and nearly crushed her little life out, but she had lain in the back of the coach, clear of the windows, and once she could recover her breath she was unin- jured. Meanwhile someone had gone back to the village for help. The injured were laid out on the snow. Cherry, from a distance, where she had gone obeying Anthony Wycherly's kind, imperious bequest, saw what they were doing, how at last they got the horses up and poor Peter free of Blucher. Men were com- ing with mattresses and shutters to carry away the injured. They passed by Cherry, carrying their groaning burdens, going up- hill to the inn. Cherry bore it better when Anthony Wvc^-lv >ul found time to come and tell her that no one was killed, though Peter's shoulcfer was badly crushed. Afterwards they walked up together to the inn, where Anthony Wycherly ordered for Cherry as though she had been his sister. For a while, in the pleasure of being so taken eare of and the fascination of watching Anthony Wycherly's face, the good looks of which were marred by a great bruise that extended from his cheek-bone over his temple to the forehead, that she forgot to think of her father's anxiety when no coach came. But at last she remembered and wrung her hands. "I have thought of that," said Anthony Wycherly quickly. "I am going to take yon home. You shall ride behind me on a pillion. Indeed, you must, my dear, for every inn is full here." Cherry never thought of disputing it, so off they .went in the clear, cold afternoon, Charrr sit-tiiur behind on Tnjjuoeter. one IitiW arm clasping Anthony Wycherlys oig body. 11 And so out into the white country, where the red and orange of the skies faded in the dusk, and presently it was purple dark and all the stars came out. It was a somewhat slow journey, and it might have been a dangerous one if Trum- peter were not so sure-footed and his rider so careful. It was to Anthony Wycherly's credit that he did not cease to be careful, despite the allurements of the little, soft, warm person so close to him, with the little hand clasping him where he might stocfp and kiss it in its glove. And so they rode up to Goldenwood Hall just about the time that Squire Luttrell was growing frantic with his fear for his child. Be sure he was deeply grateful to Anthony Wycherly for what he' had done; and as all the country was impassable it must needs be that he stav and snend Christmas with them. A gooa many things had been said during that ride which it might have taken a month to say if it were not for the intimacy of the pillion. Confession had been made, and par- don given, for the spoiling of Anthony Wycherly's beauty, which was due to walk- ing into an open cupboard door in the dark- ness at the Jolly Postboys. "Besides which, sweet Mistress Cherry," said Anthony Wvcherly, "you owe me amends for the suspicion which fell upon me of being intoxicated by more than the' vision of beauty which met my eyes for a second that night as I came upstairs. Will you make them?" Cherry consented to make amends-after the desired fashion; and so went no more to school, but at the age of seventeen became mistress of Mote, where if you happen to visit you shall see her picture painted by the great Raeburn himself, with the hood of a red cloak over her black locks and a sprig of Christmas holly in her hand.
Santa Claus in History and…
[ALI. BIGHTS EESBSVTO.} Santa Claus in History and Legend BY ERNEST H. RANN, Author of Where Our Toys Come From," Curious Christmas Laws, &c. As we grow older we are inclined to regard Santa Claus as something of a pious old fraud, a mere myth with which practical folk should have little or nothing to do. In- deed, we are convinced of his unreality, but would the boldest among us dare to commu- nicate our cynicism and scepticism to the little children who expectantly hang their stockings on their bedsteads every Christ- mas Eve and awake next morning to find them filled with the good things of this world? The idea is unthinkable. Santa Claus may be an impostor—or do we not rather make him the vehicle of an imposture -yet who would deny his presence as each happy Christmas comes round, and banish him from the hearts of our little ones? THE ORIGINAL SANTA CLAUS. Few people imagine that Santa Claus ever lived, or at any rate that a person of a similar name existed. Yet sober history bears testimony to his having had being some sixteen hundred years ago! He was a bishop in those far-off days—Bishop of Myra, in Lycia. As a babe he was noted for his piety, and as each Wednesday and Friday came round, and the fast days of the Church, he would steadily refuse to take any food. A most phenomenal babe, and one cannot wonder that in the dark years of the fourth century such a being should attain to holy repute and eventually become a bishop and a saint. In course of time St. Nicholas became famed both far and wide for his benevolence and his power of working miracles, though here the warning might be uttered that many of his supposed miracles were due to the imagination of devout admirers of a later age. If Nicholas himself could have been questioned he would probably have said that he did nothing more than any other man, benevolently inclined, could accom- plish. REVEALED IN A DREAM. One of his most wonderful feats was in connection with two children whose father was about to send them to school at Athens. As Myra, the home of St. Nicholas, lay on the way, what more natural than that the lads should be teld to call there to receive the bishop's blessing? And being children they thought the blessing could wait, and so they took up their quarters at an inn for the night. The innkeeper was a man of mur- derous intent and a covetous old sinner to boot. He noted the prosperous appearance of his two young charges, and planned to murder them for their luggage and their money. What is more, he did it while they slept, and stowed their bodies away in a pickling-tub. Thev had such unpleasant ways in those early days. The plight of the two children was St. Nicholas's opportunity. In a vision he had witnessed the innkeeper's fiendish crime, and he immediately adjourned to the inn to face the miscreant with the evidence he had ac- quired in his sleep. Had the accusation come from anyone below the rank of a bishop the fellow might have flouted it; but in the special circumstances of the case he confessed his misdeeds and craved for forgiveness. The bishop prayed to the Lord to restore the two children to life, and thus prove to the murderer that his sin was forgiven, and no sooner was the prayer finished than the two little chaps came tumbling out of the pick- ling-tub. To this day you can often see pic- tures of the saint, standing near a tub out of which two children are thrusting their heads. THE NOBLEMAN OF THE FOREST. St. Nicholas was always on the lookout for similar opportunities for doing good, and his visions were of the utmost use to him in this respect, much better than the final editions of the evening papers.1 Thus it came about one year, as Christmas approached, that he learned in his sleep of a wicked nobleman who intended to put his three daughters to death on Christmas Day, by mixing poison in their drink. It was not that the nobleman was a heartless parent; his intention was to be crufel only to be kind, because, being ex- tremely poor, he was unable to provide the girls with dowries, and no rich princes were forthcoming to take them off his hands. So being unwilling to leave them to the scant mercies of this wicked world, he resolved to put them to death. St. Nicholas would not listen to the pro- position, even in his sleep. Hastily slipping into his sandals and snatching up a purse of gold that was curiously ready to his hand, he hurried off through the forest, and did not stop until the wicked nobleman's house was reached. But, although he walked many times round the house, he could find no means of getting in-so great was the darkness- and it was only when he had blown the clouds away, as none but a saint could do, that the moonlight disclosed an open window, through which he threw the purse. It fell at the feet of the astonished father, and before he could say "Jack Robinson," or the fourth century equivalent of that excla- mation, St. Nicholas had disappeared. HANOINO UP THE STOCKINGS. Om the following night thfe saint paid a similar visit, and threw into the room a second purse of gold, which he intended as a dowry for the second daughter. The third night lie came again, but the nobleman was on the alert, and seized the saint. Explana- tions followed, and the upshot of the whole affair was that the girls' lives were saved. What wonder, as these feats were noised abroad, that the fame of St. Nicholas spread, and he came to be regarded as having the little ones under his special benevolent care? His day was December 6th, and on the vigil thereof thousands of children came to look for his coming and his gifts. It is said that the girl boarders in the convents first set the fashion, by hanging their stock- ings at the door of the abbess's sleeping apartment, but the children in ordinary homes were quick to follow the example, ancl gradually the custom spread all over turope.
Christmas Fun.
Christmas Fun. FATHER'S CONCERN. Man of the World (to young son leaning over the gallery railillgat the Christmas pantomime to obtain a good view of tha house): "Joey, my son, mind you don't fall. You'll 'ave to pay 'arf-a-crown in the pit." COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON. Doctor: "Well?"' Podgers (feeling the effect of his Christ- I mas dinner): "No, you idiot, ill!" SO FORTUNATE. A lady in search of a present for her son walked up and down between the piles of books in a large shop closely scanning the titles. At last she picked up a volume and handed it to the shopman. "Is this a good book?" she asked. "An excellent book, madam," replied the assistant, as he wrapped it up, "and the only copy we have left." "How fortunate I am to have secured it. then the delighted woman exclaimed. "My son is most enthusiastic over the game, and 1 wanted to get a good authority on it, so that he could learn to play it properly." The shopman looked dazed as he handed his customer the copy of Charles Dickens's "Cricket on the Hearth," and she had been gone some time before it dawned upon him what a mistake she had made. No one knows what the boy said. AT-KISS-MISS-TIME. At Christmas time, so runs the Rhyme,, 'Neath Mistletoe and Holly, A Man may Kiss a pretty Miss When otherwise 'twere Folly. He'll bless the Days when Sylvan Fays, First wrought the waxen Berry, For Mistletoe and Kisses go I To make a Christmas Merry. A SIGN OF THE TIMES. "The farmer seems to be getting very fond of me lately," said the turkey. "Well," replied the cat in a knowing grin, "take my advice, and don't lose your head over it." BEYOND HIM. Gerald: "I wish I knew just what MollJ would like for a Christmas present." Harold "Why don't you ask her? Gerald: Oh, I couldn't afford anything like that! c RECEIVED A MISS. Pray, give me something new for Christmsa Day. I have more scarfs than I can ever wear;j For slippers, let me say, I do not care. Though a good book is never in the way, I have no time for reading. Give me, pray,. No more cigars; I have cigars to spare. Give me no fountain-pens-they make me swear; No knives before my tortured eyes display < My pretty Edith overheard my plaint, And knowing well I loved her, blushing, said, "How very deep, it seems, is your despair! Your troubles sure, would aggravate a saint; And so I think''—and here she bowed her; head— "I'll give you just myself; so take me, There! THE DUTCH USE SHOES. In England the children are not supposed to see St. Nicholas, or Santa Claus, but it id different on the Continent. Im the little Moravian village of Emaus, in Pennsylvania; —not the American Pennsylvania — St. Nicholas, or "Pelznickel," as he is called,, visits every household in the village om Christmas Eve, and distributes gifts to the children. In certain parts of Austria he dons clerical dress, and examines the children in their catechism. If they answer well the are rewarded by sweets; if not, demons are admitted to frighten them. In Holland, St. Nicholas still makes his visit on the eve of his owni day. The Dutch children, instead ofl hanging out their stockings, put out theic shoes in front of the fire, and fill them with; straw for the donkey on which the saint rides. Next morning the shoes of the good children are filled with presents, but tb4 shoes of the naughty ones contain a birch.