Volume 1849b
Georges Dodds'
The Ape-Man: his Kith and Kin
A collection of texts which prepared the advent of Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs
Presents
http://www.erbzine.com/mag18/mrjocko3.htm

Tobias stood on one of the rungs of the wooden ladder, which rested on the rock beneath the water and enabled him to descend from the place where the stone steps abruptly came to an end at a point a little below the level of the adit. The iron pump was swinging in front of him, from a chain attached to the winding barrel of the engine overhead. He held a lamp in one hand and guided the pump in its descent with the other. It seemed to meet with some resistance under water, and fell over sideways, whereupon Tobias plunged a long pole into the dark water and probed about for the obstruction, whilst a workman standing above him on the ladder held the lamp.

Suddenly they beheld the leg of a man appear over the surface, with a short boot on it, upon which the workman dropped the lamp, in terror, into the water and fled up the ladder, leaving Tobias in total darkness, when he also retreated, and sharply repri­manded the man. Then he descended again with a coil of rope and a fresh lamp, and examined the limb, which appeared to be the leg of a drowned man. Tobias disengaged the pump from the chain and made a noose of the rope he carried, with which he secured the leg to the hook at the end of the chain. Then he shouted to his men overhead to cause the engine to "haul up." The suspended body of Jem Ritson slowly emerged from the water. Tobias had no idea whose body it was, and looked on in awe and wonder as it was drawn up, head downwards. As it passed him he let the light from his lamp fall on the face, but did not recognise the drowned man. He saw that one of his arms hung straight down, and hanging on the arm, from the wrist, he noticed one of the gins he had fixed in the mouth of the adit. Tobias shuddered on seeing again the thing he fancied he had got rid of. It swung against him as it slowly rose, and he violently pushed it and the body away. As he did so the man's leg seemed to part from the body, which fell back with a sullen plunge into the dark water beneath. Tobias, at same moment, in sudden fright, allowed the second lamp to fall into the water, and then crept up the steps in darkness to the crypt, where the engine was at work. He there [sic] saw, dangling from the rope he had lately carried down the shaft, the limb he had secured with it to the chain below. The workmen drew it from over the shaft and cautiously ex­amined it.

"Blest if it isn't a dummy leg," said one of the men. "There's straps and buckles 'anging on't. P'r'aps they wasn't able to bear the weight o' the man as owned it, who's bin drownded below."

"I'll give five pounds among ye, lads," said Tobias, "if you'll get the unfortunate man as is below out of the shaft. I've 'ad a fright as I'll never forget, and I'm all in a tremble."

The men begged for an instalment of the money to enable them to fortify themselves sufficiently at the "Cock and Bottle" before they made the attempt to recover the body. Tobias reluctantly complied with their request, warning them not to indulge in too much "fortification." Then he sat down on his anvil to study the artificial leg, which lay on the floor. Suddenly it dawned on him. that it might be the "second-hand" article he had been told Jem Ritson had purchased with part of his money. He went into the house at once and procured candles, and during the men's absence descended the shaft again with a rope and a hooked stick, with which he succeeded in capturing the body and dragging it partly out of the water. As yet he did not recognise the ghastly white face, but it occurred to him to thrust his hand into the breast pocket of the man's coat, and from thence he drew out his own sodden pocket-book.

Tobias now tried to disengage the heavy gin from Jem Ritson's wrist, but it resisted all his efforts, and so, fearing the men would return in his absence, he clambered up to the crypt again, and retired to his room to investigate the pocket-book, in which he found a pulpy mass representing the greater part of his notes. Tobias spread them out, as well as he could, on the table to dry, then locked the door and returned to the crypt, where he had to wait still longer for his workmen, who seemed to require a good deal of "fortifying" before they ventured back to the shaft.

The men had described the recovery of the arti­ficial leg to the landlord, who straightway guessed the name of the late owner and sent for the two local policemen, who returned with the hands to the crypt. None of the workmen seemed in a fit condition to venture down the narrow steps, so Tobias was again obliged to descend alone, taking with him on this occasion a hammer and a chisel, with which he succeeded in disengaging the gin, and let it fall into the water. Then he secured the body to the chain and came up to manage the engine himself, whilst the men looked on sulkily, evidently considering that in some way they had been defrauded of the balance of the five pounds which Tobias had promised them, consequently they refused to touch the dead body when it appeared, and left it to be dealt with by the policemen, who bore it to the old tomb at the end of the crypt, and laid it thereon to wait the arrival of the coroner, whom they proceeded to summon.

Tobias retired to see what he could do in the way of drying and pressing out his bank-notes, and told the men to go "play" until after the inquest, about which he was uneasy, lest he should be held in any way accountable for Jem Ritson's death. which event he looked on as a righteous punish­ment that had befallen the ruffian who had robbed and ill-used him. How it happened that Jem came to be there he could only guess, and he imagined that a desire to get possession of the gins again had induced the poacher to return.

Tobias feared that the wound on the dead man's wrist would attract attention, and that if so he would never hear the last of the accursed gins, although he secretly rejoiced to think that one of them had done him good service in capturing his enemy. Finally he read the triumphant song of Deborah on the death of Sisera, which consoled him, and then he retired to rest, having arranged that one of the policemen should remain on the premises to keep up the courage of the two female domestics, who were in a state of terror at the idea of the presence of a drowned burglar on the premises, and decided forthwith to give warning.

The inquest created a great stir in the neighbour­hood and caused Tobias no little annoyance, much of which he would have escaped if he had freely told all he knew at the outset. Suspicion seemed to rest on the missing "Billearl," in whose company Jem was last seen, but as no evidence against him was forthcoming the coroner directed the jury to return an open verdict.

Tobias carried the fragments of the notes to the bank manager at Dudley, who recommended that they should be sent to the Bank of England in London, and there dissected and examined by an expert. Ultimately, after much delay, he recovered all his money save forty pounds, which it was sup­posed Jem had expended.

After an interval spent in discussing the merits of the case, and all the probabilities, at the "Cock and Bottle," the Dudley workmen returned to Madeley Court and fixed the pump, which soon laid the bottom of the shaft dry.

Tobias then recovered both the steel gins, and brake them in pieces on his anvil. In so doing a fragment flew from beneath the hammer and gave him an ugly wound on the forehead, which laid him up for a week, during which period Mr Perkins came over from Dudley with Zeeb and heard the curious tale and the surmises as to why Jem Ritson had returned to meet his fate. Tobias was satisfied there had been a special interference of Providence on his behalf, and was inclined to be jubilant, but his theory as to the poacher's having revisited the place in order to repossess himself of the gins did not find favour with the shrewd Zeeb at all.

" I think Ritson was after something else, father," he said. "The thing is mysterious. Dr Ferrier said that there has always been a legend that there was some kind of treasure buried in the shaft. Per­haps Jem Ritson heard such a rumour, and was led to go in search of it."

That evening Bill Earl returned to the neighbour­hood, and appeared unconcernedly in public. He had read the report of the proceedings at the inquest, and saw that he was in no way implicated.

Beyond the fact that he had left the public house with Jem Ritson, and had absented himself for some days, nothing was stated to connect him with the death of the poacher or the attempt at plunder. His presence in the village, however, excited the suspicion of his former crony Ned Styles, who had first dis­covered the hiding-place of the old oak cask at the bottom of the shaft. Ned knew of no way to get at it except by descending the steps from the crypt, and imagined Jem Ritson had gone down that way and fallen from the steps into the water. He rightly sus­pected that Earl had intended to share the plunder with Jem, and that he was now meditating a second raid on his own account. Ned therefore considered Earl was a traitor, and would have no further deal­ings with him. He decided that his safest plan would be to call on Tobias Miles and try to drive a bargain with him by offering to communicate the secret for a consideration.

When Ned arrived at Madeley Court, Tobias was sitting, with a bandage round his head, in the dining-room. Perkins and Zeeb sat near, and the former had just been advising him to give up his quest for coal, as he was now of opinion that, if any existed, it would only be found at a great depth, and would involve a vast outlay to get at it.

Tobias was feverish from his wound and sick at heart. The recent excitement about Ritson had disturbed him greatly. His domestic arrangements were also aggravating just then, as two new servants had to be sought for, and, to crown all, came Perkins' chilling opinion.

" It's bin an unlucky investment from first to last, Mr Perkins," he said dolefully, "and I'm fearin' this is an unlucky 'ouse. Still, I don't like altogether giving up the 'ope of finding coal, and you admit there is still a possibility."

"Yes, a bare possibility," said the surveyor. "This is a very disturbed locality, geologically speaking, and as yet entirely unexplored for borings or pits. You can start a boring, but the rock I've seen just now is hard, and it will be costly to get a hole down to a point at which we can form a decided opinion. It may occupy you two years or more. To force such a thing too fast might involve disaster."

Just then Tobias' housekeeper came to say that a man named Styles wanted particularly to see him on important business.

"Go and see the man, Zeeb," he said peevishly, "and tell him I'm all. He was one of the men I had here getting the rubbish out of the shaft, and was an idle fellow. I suppose it's something fresh about that ruffian Ritson?"

Zeeb returned in a few minutes and said: "The man is very mysterious. He says, father, 'You'll be sorry, later on, if you don't see him at once.'"

Tobias imagined that Ned Styles had come to try and extort money from him on some pretext, as Jem Ritson had done.

"Tell him I'll give him in charge to the police if he comes here," he said angrily.

Zeeb presently came back laughing.

"I think the man is alittle drunk, father," he said; "he says he wants to tell you of buried treasure which you can lay your hands on if you are only civil and will do what he thinks is right and proper."

Tobias now rubbed his chin in serious cogitation. He had almost made up his mind, just then, to abandon the quest which had brought him to Madeley Court, where he had encountered so much vexation and annoyance. He knew it was likely he would make a loss in reselling the land and house and the large steam engine he had ordered, but still he hoped he would have enough money left to live on comfortably without worry. He was at a critical turning point in his life, when a feather-weight would affect his decision. He fancied Ned Styles might have something to tell him on the coal subject which had escaped the observation of Perkins.

"Let him come in, Zeeb," he said wearily, at length, " but tell him to be short with what he has to say, as my head is aching."

Ned Styles presently shanbled into the room, and deposited his fur cap on a chair.

"I tho'rt I'd see yer by yerself, Muster Miles," he said, speaking thickly, as, although it was early in the day, he had deemed it proper to "fortify" himself for this interview.

"This is my son, and Mr Perkins is here on my business," said Tobias. "If you've got anything to say that concerns me, they may as well hear it."

"Yes, Muster Miles, I've got summat to say as 'ull be worth money for yer to 'ear, and I expex to be properly paid for tellin' wot I knows on, as is on'y fair. That 'ere Jem Ritson and Billearl tho'rt to nobble it for theirselves, and that's w'y Jem was drownded. Now, let's agree on a fair sum, as between man and man -- say yer 'ull give the value of a third on't to me and I'll putt yer in the way o' seein' it before yer dinner."

"You are not in a fit state to go down the shaft just now, Ned," said Tobias, "and it strikes me you 'ad better go 'ome, and come back when you're sober if you've got anything to tell me."

"I'm sober enough to go anyw'eres, Muster Miles," said Ned with contempt, "and ef yer sez done -- done it is in two twos."

Tobias looked suspiciously at the man for a few seconds and again grasped his chin.

"You see, Ned, I'm not well enough to go down the steps to-day," he said. "I've been down oftener than I liked lately, and the sight of the water makes me sick when I remember wot I last saw in't."

"Yer needn't go down yerself at all," said Ned Styles. "I'll go down wi' the young lad 'ere and show 'im wot I knows on, but yer 'ull 'ave to gimme a scrap o' writin' fust, as between man and man."

" I've 'ad bother enough with one man drowning himself," said Tobias, "and I don't want to be worried with any more inquests. Do as I tell you. Go home and sleep off your liquor, then come back to-morrow and tell me wot you want."

"I'm no more drunk than you are," said Ned in anger. "I've on'y 'ad three 'arf pints. You're jest 'umbuggin' o' me, as yer did wi' the men as 'ooked up Jem Ritson for yer. Will yer gimme twenty pounds ef I putt yer up ter trap?"

"What trap?" asked Tobias.

"The trap w'ere the treasures is stowed. Yer 'ull nivvur find it ef yer don't, but others may when next yer back's turned."

"I told you to go," said Tobias, rising to his feet. "If you don't go at once I must ask this gentleman 'ere to help me to put you out."

"You had better go for to-day, my man," said Perkins. "You see that Mr Miles has had a hurt and is unwell."

With this the speculative Ned Styles slowly de­parted, feeling that he had played his cards badly and reaped no profit from the information he had been led to communicate. When he had gone, Tobias said: "There's some­thing valuable 'idden down there which these chaps 'ave discovered. That's wot Jem Eitson was after. He knew of the outside entrance to the adit, but didn't know that the shaft had been cleared out, and so fell into the water, which was just deep enough to drown him."

Tobias deemed it best to say nothing of the share the gin had had in the matter. He rightly surmised that Jem might have escaped with his life but for that accessory. Perkins here suggested that he should descend the shaft with Zeeb and explore the rocky sides, wherein alone, he thought, anything could be con­cealed. Zeeb gladly seconded the proposition, and went away to get the lamps ready.

"I've made up my mind, Mr Perkins," said Tobias in his son's absence, "that if anything worth having is found down there I'll accept it as a good omen and go on with the boring. It may be a lucky shaft after all, like 'Naylor's find' at Kingswinford, as it's said was revealed to 'im in a dream when he'd a'most spent his last shilling."

" I never heard of that miraculous dream," said Per­kins. "You ought to have dreamt about this treasure if there's any. That man seemed pretty sure of it."

In half-an-hour after Zeeb came running back to his father and said: "We've found it, father. There is a hollow place cut out in the solid rock, just below and behind the steps, which was cunningly concealed with blocks of stone. One of them was probably knocked out by the workmen and loosely put in again. I am to take down a pick to Mr Perkins to open the place up."

" I'll go with you," said Tobias in great excitement, forgetting his illness. "Perhaps, after all, the Lord means to recompense me for what I've 'ad to suffer at the 'ands of these sons of Belial."

Zeeb carried down a miner's pick to Mr Perkins, whilst Tobias brought a small crowbar and another lamp, and watched the surveyor with eager interest as he prised out the blocks of sandstone which formed a thin wall shutting off a little cave in the rock from the cylindrical inner surface of the shaft. The space revealed was not more than a yard high and a yard deep, and was apparently filled with a mouldering oaken tub like a stout beer cask. The hoops had partly fallen off or burst, and the staves were open at the joints, but the cavity in the rock was dry.

"We must be cautious in dealing with this," said Perkins. " The cask is like tinder, and if we touch it the contents may fall out into the water."

"I'll go for a couple of sacks," said Zeeb, as he fled back again up the steps. When he returned, Perkins was carefully extracting some tarnished metal articles which had apparently been wrapped in some material which was now decayed and fell off in shreds. Zeeb carried up as much as he safely could in one of the sacks, and spread the contents on the table in his father's room, speedily returning for another and another load. At the end of an hour the whole of the contents of the singular cache was removed -- the last find being a small copper vessel like a cook­ing pot filled with old silver coins, which Tobias Miles took charge of. Perkins carefully searched amidst the dust and rubbish in the little cave to see that nothing remained behind, and then clambered up the steps after Tobias, very dusty and tired from his exertions.

They then proceeded to examine the treasure trove, which consisted of a number of curiously wrought silver articles such as are used in celebrating the Mass -- several weighty candlesticks, in pieces, two crozier heads, some finely chased tankards and dishes, salt cellars, spoons, and strangely fashioned things of the uses of which they could form no idea. The silver was black with age, and Perkins surmised that it would be of more value on account of its design and antiquity than for its weight.

Zeeb wrote out an inventory from his master's dictation, and as it was deemed unsafe to keep so much valuable property in a lonely unprotected place like Madeley Court, Tobias had the whole packed in a strong box and forwarded, in Zeeb's charge, to the bank at Dudley. He presented Mr Perkins with one of the chased cups, and cheerfully told him to make arrangements at once for commencing the boring.

"I shall sell all this lucky find at once," he said, "and spend the money in searching for the coal. I daresay some man who deals in such things may give five 'under'd pounds for the lot, coins and all."

" They mayn't be worth so much," said Perkins. "I recommend you to have them examined by an expert before you offer them for sale."

When Ned Styles returned to Madeley Court next morning, Tobias sarcastically reminded him that if he had, as he stated, made a discovery of treasure in the shaft, his first duty was to have informed his employer, in which case he might have been rewarded, but now he, Tobias Miles, was disinclined to have anything further to say to him, beyond recommending him to ponder well on the fate that had overtaken Jem Ritson and repent him of his equally dishonest intentions.

"Jest stow all that, you ode 'umbug," said Ned. "You've bin down, I s'pose, and ferrited it out, and now yer means to cheat me o' the reward you pro­mised me."

"I promised you nothing," said Tobias, "and if I catches you round 'ere again I'll give you into custody for conspiring with others to rob me."

" Then I'll be revenged on yer some day," said Ned as he strode away muttering curses.

In a week the agent of the "rock-boring " company arrived on the scene and made arrangements with Tobias to commence operations in the bottom of the shaft. Miles was to supply the power from his engine, and agreed to assist in many ways. In a fortnight after the work commenced, and Tobias was in high glee as he saw the strange boring tools lowered into the shaft. He repeated to himself many comforting texts from songs of rejoicing in the Old Testament, and worked with great energy from dawn to dewy eve. So long as he had some active, arduous work on hands he was always con­tented and happy.

Tobias' happiness lasted barely a month. At the end of that period he was startled one morning at the receipt of a letter from Mr Ferrier's solicitors informing him that it had come to the knowledge of their client that he, Tobias Miles, had recently recovered certain valuables and money from beneath the crypt of the chapel at Madeley Court and appro­priated same to his own use, such "treasure trove" being the property of Robert Ferrier, as " Lord of the Manor," and otherwise especially secured to him by clauses in ancient title deeds. The lawyers demanded restitution of the articles forthwith, and in the event of a refusal they intimated that legal proceedings would ensue.

They frequently heard from Paul at Algiers, and were much interested in his account of the treatment of Dr Hafiz, which in about six weeks was entirely successful in relaxing the stiffened ankle joint.

It was in consequence of a letter from Mrs Weston that news of the discovery of the treasure reached Mr Ferrier. She had heard of it from Zeeb, and thought it would interest Paul, and so mentioned it when writing to congratulate him on recovering the free use of his limb. Paul inadvertently told his father, who for some weeks past seemed to have forgotten the existence of Tobias Miles.

"He has no right to keep any 'treasure trove' of the kind," said the old gentleman in an angry tone." In an ordinary case it would belong to the Crown, but in the original grant of Madeley Court to Simon Challoner all 'finds' of the kind are especially in­cluded with the right to the underground minerals. There is no doubt that at the date of the grant there was good reason to think the abbot had secreted pro­perty of some value in the house, and if this nailer fellow has accidentally discovered it he must be made to give it up, because if I do not assert my claim to it now it may affect the question of the owner­ship of the coal if there is any below ground. It is always a dangerous thing to allow an illegal precedent to be set up. Besides, these ancient ecclesiastical curiosities should properly be placed in some local museum."

" I hope you won't raise any legal question with Miles over such a small matter," said Paul. "I learn that he has had a lot of worry lately. A man was drowned in the old shaft, and an inquest was held, at which he was greatly badgered by the coroner, who seemed to think he was in some way or other responsible for the accident."

"From whom did you hear all this?" inquired Mr Ferrier.

"I have heard of it from Mrs Weston, the lady who took so much care of me when I met with the accident. She naturally has been anxious to know how I get on, and now and then gives me a few particulars about events in the old house where I was an inmate for some weeks."

To this Mr Ferrier vouchsafed no immediate reply. He paced rapidly round the gallery of the inn, with his hands behind his back, for half-an-hour and then dashed off a few lines to his law agents in London, who promptly communicated with Tobias Miles to the effect we have seen.

Shortly after this Mr Ferrier and Paul took leave of Dr Hafiz and his wife, with both of whom they had become very friendly. Mr Ferrier liberally remunerated them for their skilful treatment of his son, with whom he set out for England. He made no further open objection to Paul's announced inten­tion to pursue the medical profession, but straight­way took up his abode at Madeley Hall, and set himself to the task of restoring order amongst the inmates and filling up the vacancies. The "wrangler" cook had retired, and the "rotation" system of cook­ing had been introduced, but as yet with uncertain results. Paul entered himself as a student at the Central Hospital in Birmingham, under the wing of the eminent surgeon who had formerly attended him at Madeley Court, and set diligently to work to prepare himself for the requisite examinations of the medical faculty in London. He sometimes saw Oreb Miles at Birmingham, and was sorry to hear that his father had been advised to contest Mr Ferrier's claim to the treasure, inasmuch as the question of his free right to work the minerals, if any were discovered, seemed in some way to be involved. The question was so complicated, Oreb said, that two experienced lawyers to whom it had been submitted had given contrary opinions, but still his father had adopted the one which recommended him to contest Mr Ferrier's claim. It appeared that the articles in dis­pute were found not to be value for half what his father had imagined they were worth, but the mineral rights could not be valued at all, because Mr Ferrier might fix an excessive royalty if his con­tentions were just in law. His real intention, it was feared, was to prohibit Tobias Miles from establishing a colliery in the neighbourhood, and, if possible, compel him to quit the place.

Although Oreb was very civil to Paul, and anxious to remain on friendly terms with him, he evidently looked on Paul's father as an unjust oppressor.

On hearing of this unpleasant state of things Paul journeyed to the manor house and attempted to mediate with his father, whom he found more than usually irritable. When Paul referred to the litigation he was abruptly told to mind his own affairs. Mr Ferrier said he had recently had exceptional trouble with the inmates of the Hall, and that in consequence there had been several changes, and he blamed Paul for his desertion of him at a time when he especially required assistance.

Paul offered to come over from Birmingham once a fortnight, but explained that he could not remain longer than a day, on account of the hospital work he had undertaken. To this his father answered curtly that, then, he might as well remain away altogether.

Just then Paul was obliged to speak to his father about money matters, on which subject up to the present time there had never been the slightest difficulty between them. Mr Ferrier had hitherto placed ample funds at his son's disposal, but ever since Paul had seriously applied himself to the pur­suit of a profession, and taken up his residence at Birmingham, Mr Ferrier had not given him anything, and seemed to ignore the fact that his son had no private income of his own. Paul had now to pay fees and incur other expenses, and ventured to remind his father that he needed some money.

" It has pleased you, Paul, to adopt a course which you know is contrary to my wish," Mr Ferrier said with some bitterness. "I imagined that you had calculated on the cost of so doing before you decided on thwarting me, and I feel in no way bound to supply you with funds to carry out your intentions. If you will return here and assist me, then you can have what money you may require, as before. In fact, I shall at once ensure your future independence."

" I think, father, it will be better that I should try to earn my own living in the future," said Paul. "I believe I will shortly be in a position to to do so. Meanwhile I am dependent on you, and although it is painful to me to ask you for money, I am obliged to do so just now."

" It is very painful to me to refuse," said Mr Ferrier, "but I wish to be plain with you, Paul. Your taking to a profession when there is no necessity whatever is with an object in view which you know well I do not approve of. You want to marry the niece of this nailer fellow who is giving me so much trouble. I do not now object to your marrying in your own station in life, if it pleases you to do so, and I only hope you will be more fortunate than I have been. I shall in such case settle fifteen hundred a year on you, and make my will in your favour. I suppose I may assume that you have not been foolish enough to ask this girl to marry you? If you have done so, then I have nothing further to say. Marry her when you think fit, but expect nothing from me."

" I have not asked her," said Paul. "I think, father, you ought to see Miss Weston and her mother before you speak in this way. Your friend Mr Clement, whose opinion you respect, has seen them both."

"I have spoken with Clement already, Paul."

"Then surely you have received a favourable report from him?"

" Clement had but slight opportunity for forming an opinion. It is the connection with this man Miles I especially object to."

" Miss Weston cannot help that," said Paul. "She had no voice in that matter, or her mother either, but it is not likely that Mr Miles would trouble us much in the future. I am sorry I have had to undergo the humiliation of this conversation on a subject about which I must naturally be sensitive. Your sudden decision to throw me entirely on my own resources is, I think, rather harsh, but I must face it, and seek some employment until I can work my way to an income. I suppose I may take with me from here the instruments I purchased out of the liberal allowance you have hitherto made me? I admit that I want to sell them to pay medical fees and other neces­sary expenses."

"What are the microscopes worth?" Mr Ferrier asked.

"They cost over three hundred pounds, father, but I shall probably only get two-thirds of that price for them. I am sorry to part with them, as they were carefully selected."

" I will purchase them from you at cost price," said Mr Ferrier. " I do not wish to deprive the associates here of their use. You will receive a cheque for three hundred guineas by next post. Just now I am busy perusing counsel's opinion, which I have had to take on these plaguy questions with your friend Miles. I fancy I can make it rather hot for him."

"I think it will be time enough to interfere with him when you learn that he has found the coal, father. He is only boring a deep hole at present, and the poor man finds the occupation a pleasant one. If you leave him in peace, he may never trouble you, and you will escape a lot of worry -- forgive me for presuming again to advise you. If he did find coal, it would enormously increase the value of your property; but I don't think he ever will, and ultimately he will be sure to sell the place and go elsewhere."

"And take his niece with him, I hope," said Mr Ferrier cynically. "Perhaps to find a husband elsewhere -- then I shall be quite satisfied."

To this Paul made no reply. There was an angry light in Mr Ferrier's eyes which warned him to remain silent. He knew that the nominal purchase of the microscopes was only a pretext which his father had adopted to furnish the funds asked for without openly appearing to retract from his ungracious resolution. Still, it was galling to a man at Paul's age to be so dealt with, and he decided to be very economical in future, so that he might not have to appeal to his father again; therefore, when he returned to Birmingham, he removed at once into cheaper lodgings, and gave up many small luxuries he had hitherto indulged in. He also diligently applied himself to his work in the hospital, so that in a few months he was appointed to a post of responsibility reserved for experienced assistants. Paul frequently saw Oreb during these months, and heard with sorrow of the progress of the litigation with his father, which it appeared was costly and vexatious. The attention of the solicitors to the Treasury had been called to the dispute, and they had set up a claim on behalf of the Crown, as they thought the wording of the clause in the original title deeds, under which Mr Ferrier claimed, was obscure.

" I wish my father had never found the old rubbish" said Oreb, "or ever seen Madeley Court. He has been in hot water ever since he went there."

Paul could not help thinking that Tobias Miles had begun his career at Madeley Court by proceedings which usually led to the sort of trouble indicated by Oreb's metaphor. He could not forget hie own suffer­ings, and loss of time and money, and was aware that his father had a lively recollection of them also, especially of the serious outlay in doctors' fees which had been incurred.

"I am afraid, Oreb, that any attempt of mine to interfere in the matter just now would be useless," said Paul; " but I hope it will make no difference between you and me. It is not for the value of the old silver my father is fighting -- there are questions behind that which time alone can solve."

"You have been very good, Dr Ferrier," said Oreb, "we all feel that, and we are thankful to you, but it does seem odd to me that when a man buys land he is not the owner of the coal under the land, if there is any. Nothing is said about it, one way or the other, in the deed conveying the land to my father."

" There are many odd things about land titles and mineral rights, Oreb, which come down to us from feudal times, and which few people who are not lawyers understand. It appears that even those gentle­men are not all of the same opinion. Doctors and lawyers often disagree. It was a fortunate thing for me on one occasion that the doctors did so. Have you heard lately from your aunt or your cousin?"

" Yes, I heard from them the other day. They are going into Moravia, to a place called Brunn, which is a manufacturing town like Manchester. The cloth dyers there are extensively using a process patented in Austria by Ruth's father, and, now that she can speak German well, she is going to look them up with my aunt, and so they will combine a little business with the pleasure of an extended trip. Ruth is clever in matters of business."

Oreb invited Paul to visit the engine factory where he was engaged, and there showed him in an un­finished state the large steam engine which his father had hastily ordered at a time when he was sanguine about the coal question.

"Father seems to have been rash and unfortunate about everything connected with Madeley Court," he said, "and all because he did not obtain proper advice at the outset. He would not engage a solicitor of his own, or ask Mr Perkins' opinion about the coal, lest the secret he imagined he possessed should leak out, and that then someone else would step in and purchase the place, which I heartily wish they had done. Now, he is spending a great deal of money in this boring, and he has had to pay a large sum on account of this engine, which may never be wanted. Still, he was in good spirits and busily occupied, working like a blacksmith, until this litiga­tion began with your father. Zeeb has been over to see him lately, and says 'he is growing dispirited and melancholy.' He has got a curious idea that the ghost of that man Ritson haunts the place, and that he caused his death. He did not seem to trouble himself about it at the time, but now he says it prevents him from sleeping. You know he has had but little education, and believes that the spirits of men who have met a violent death return to haunt the place where they died. That ignorant man Ramsbottom has been over to see him, and I think has made him worse with his exhortations. It was he that sup­plied the gins, one of which injured you. It appears the other got hold of the old poacher when he tried to get into the shaft -- at least that's the story circulated by Jem Ritson's companions, one of whom had some quarrel with my father about the discovery of the treasure and is always sending him threatening letters. I think, Dr Farrier, that wound on the fore­head my father gave himself was a more serious thing than we imagined. He is constantly passing his hand over it, as if he still suffered pain."

" It is probably only the association of ideas," said Paul. "If your father would see me when next I go over to Madeley I would try to find out what is the matter. He ought not to be left in that old house alone, because for a man of his peculiar ideas, and at his time of life, it may result in serious mental dis­turbance. A busy place like this factory is the proper place for him. I am told that he was at one time a foreman in a place like this."

" I am afraid he would not see you, on account of your father's proceedings," said Oreb sorrowfully, "I think he would willingly give up the things that were found, but he will not recognise your father's right to the coal if he finds it; that is the real question which is disturbing his mind. The railway people ought to have told him that in selling him the land they were not selling him the right to the minerals beneath, if there were any,"

"But, you see, Oreb, no one imagined there was any coal beneath -- excepting your father, and he fancied he was getting the advantage of his superior know­ledge."

Just then Paul was leaving the gateway of the factory, and about to take leave of the unhappy Oreb. He happened to look across the street, and saw some billstickers engaged in fixing a huge poster on a hoarding. They had got the heading pasted up, which announced the arrival of Dixon's Circus and Menagerie. In a few minutes the whole of the poster was displayed, showing a coloured picture representing a young woman in a large cage with a number of lions, who were taking flying leaps through a hoop she held aloft.

"That's Betsy," said Oreb. "The circus will be open this evening, and she is to appear in a cage with the lions; but there are only two at present, the others are imaginary."

"Let us go and see the performance," said Paul; "it will cheer you up a bit, Oreb. I also want to see Jocko again. I suppose he is there still?"

"Yes, Jocko is there, and is cleverer than ever."

Paul invited Oreb to dine with him, and afterward they adjourned to the place of amusement where they found that the menagerie had been lately enlarged. The procession on the present occasion represented the Invasion of Tamerlane, in which the whole troupe of male and female performers took part. The lady Tartars, being assumed to be of a warlike nature, rode to battle, in shining tin armour, with the masculine warriors. Oreb discovered Betsy among the horse­women, skilfully managing a fiery steed. There was no jumping or standing on saddles, but a good deal of complicated movement of groups of horses, and she had learned to take her part in this sort of performance. Miss Rorke commanded the female section of riders, and made the splendid black horse she rode kneel before Tamerlane, who was conspicuous by reason of an enormous moustache and a huge curved scimitar.

"That Betsy is a wonderful girl," said Oreb. "I think she has courage enough to attempt anything, Look at the way she manages that restive horse and makes him waltz round. She is a good girl too. She is supporting the whole of her family at Dudley."

"She is a splendid instance of what may be done with a really honest, kindly nature by a little guidance and help," said Paul. "It your cousin had not taken her in hand, Oreh, I am afraid Betsy's courage would have led her in the wrong direction. She might have become a violent virago, such as you see every day here in the streets, and perhaps at last made acquaint­ance with the inside of a prison."

"Ruth does not like her taking to lion-taming." said Oreh. "I believe she has written to Mrs Dixon about it. Perhaps that is the reason Betsy is trying her hand at horsemanship, but to to do any good she should have begun when young."

When Tamerlane had withdrawn his gorgeous cavalcade there was a slight pause, and then Miss Rorke's black charger dashed into the ring, over the barrier, with that lively young lady tied on his back in the character of Mazeppa. The animal careered round the ring several times and then leaped over bars held by the clowns at points in the circle, with Kitty lying extended on his back. At the last jump, just opposite to where Paul and Oreb were sitting, one of the bands by which Kitty was held on suddenly shifted and she fell between the horse and the wooden barrier of the ring. There was a loud outcry amongst the spectators, who feared the horse would trample on the poor girl as he came round again.

Paul sprang over the low harrier, caught her up in his arms, and in a moment, was surrounded by the clowns and attendants, all eager to render assiatance. The ringmaster had stopped the horse by a dextrous cut with his whip across its chest, and then hurried up to ascertain what injurs Kitty had received. She had fainted, and Paul begged him to bring some water, with which Betsy soon appeared on the scene in great alarm, and recognising Paul, said to tye bystanders "It's Dr Ferrier. Let 'im come inside and see if Miss Rorke is much hurt."

They bore poor Kitty to her dressing-room, and laid her down on a couch. Betsy held her in her arms whilst Paul bathed her temples with water. She soon recovered consciousness, and began to weep hysterically.

Mrs Dixon now appeared, and having ascertained from Paul that none of Kitty's bones were broken, and that she had only received a severe shock and some conclusions, desired that she should he taken at once to Sam Dixon's house, which was near to the circus, and there seen to by Mrs Dixon's own medical attendant.

Betsy asked permission to go with her friend, promising to return in time for the performance with the lions in the menagerie.

"Come and see Jocko by-and-by, Dr Ferrier," she said. "I'm sure he will know yon again. I'll put Miss Rorke into bed and then come back in a hurry. Miss Rorke," she whispered in Kitty's ear, "this is Dr Ferrier as I've often told you about. 'Twas he picked you up in the ring and has brought yon round."

"I suppose you are a medical man?" said Kitty to Paul.

" Well, I am only a beginner, Miss Rorke. I am an assistant at the Central Hospital here, and I am glad we had not to take you there. You will probably be all right in a few days if you remain quietly in bed."

"I jest wanted to know" said Kitty, sobbing, "because I'd not like anyone but a doctor to see me all draggled and wet like this. I am afraid I look a fright with my hair down and my face smeared with tears and paint."

"You should be thankful its no worse, Miss Rorke. I thought at first you were killed."

I'd rather be dead than disfigured or crippled so as I couldn't ride again," said Kitty. "I've 'ad many a bad fall, but never before in such a tight place, between the boss and the ring. It wasn't the hoss's fault, though -- some strap or a buckle gave way in the surcingle. Betsy tells me it was you that picked me up, and I'm thankful to you."

"Yes, I was afraid the horse would come round again and trample on you."

"Circus bosses never do that. They know better. I guess you found me a light weight?"

"Very light indeed."

"That's what saved me-- I'm just as light as a bag of feathers. I wish you'd call at Mother Dixon's to-morrow and prescribe something for me to put a little flesh on my bones."

"Miss Rorke," said Betsy, intervening, "Mr Dixon is waitin' outside the door, and there's a lot of our people as is wantin' to see you, and time is slippin away. I'm fearin' I'll be called directly."

"All right, my guardian angel. You and the young doctor here had better carry me out and hand me over to Sammil like a damaged bale of goods. Where's Mother Dixon gone to?" " She went 'ome in a hurry, Miss Rorke, to get your room ready, and to fetch her own doctor to see you. She thought that p'r'aps you may be more hurt than you think in your inside."

"I daresay I am, but you must come to see me too." she said to Paul; "and don't let Mrs Dixon's old doctor give me a lot of physic. I know his ways of old."

They carried little Kitty out and placed her in an invalid chair, by the side of which Sam Dixon stood waiting with his watch in his hand.

"Is she much hurt?" he anxiously inquired of Paul in a whisper.

"I think not, Mr Dixon, but a good deal shaken, and likely to be laid up for a while. She is a wonderfully plucky girl."

A number of the members of the circus troupe pressed round to take Kitty's hand in turn. She was evidently a great favourite, and several of the women were crying. Sam Dixon filled out a glass of wine and held it to her lips. "I'm glad to hear there are no broken bones, Kitty," he said. "You'll be all right, old girl, after a week's nursing. We will have no more of that Mazeppa business; you know I never liked it. Our vet will take you over to my house with Miss Jecks, who is a good nurse. Betsy is wanted just now in the menagery."

"I'll be 'ome before eleven, and I'll sit up wi' you to-night, Miss Rorke," Betsy said as Kittv was borne away; then she hastened off to assume a curious dress, representing a kind of red and green scale armour, which Samuel had designed as the proper costume for a female lion-tamer.

Paul made his way round to the menagerie through the stables, and had frequently to stop and answer inquiries about Miss Rorke from the grooms, who adored the daring little equestrienne who had done so much to raise the fame of the circus and was known to be so kind-hearted to others when hurt. He was astonished to find so much real sympathy amongst a class of men who are generally looked on as rather destitute of feeling.

" There ain't a female rider as comes a-nigh her out o' Lunnon," said one of the grooms, who held a long web band in his hands. "It was the tongues o' them two buckles as guv out and let her down," he said, holding up the broken articles. "That cuss Tubbs was told to take 'em to a harnessmaker's yesterday and forgot it. He's 'ad the sack twice, but Miss Borke begged the guvnor to take 'im on again. She 'adn't a chance of 'olding by the hoss's mane, you see. 'cos o' lyin' on her back."

Paul found Oreb in the menagerie, waiting for him at Jocko's cage and talking to Tom Jones about the late accident. Jocko was dressed for some performance in the ring which had been 'cut out' in consequence of Betsy's absence in attendance on Miss Rorke, and was restlessly peering through the bars of his cage in search of his mistress.

"He knows when his time is come to go in wi' Betsy, as well as any on 'em." said Jones. "She taks 'im 'ome to Mrs Dixon's 'ouse ivery Saturday night to spend Sunday in the garding climin' trees. He don't want to be told the day o' the week, 'ee don't, but 'ee don't like to see Betsy in the lions' cage opposite. You'll see how fidgety he'll be jest now."

Paul turned to look at the large lions' cage at the opposite side, and saw that a number of people were taking seats, which were arranged in a semicircle in front of the cage, so he hastened across with Oreb to secure good places.

Sam Dixon soon appeared and made a short introductory speech, describing the two lions as ex­ceptional creatures of great gentleness, brought up from infancy on a diet specially devised to eradicate all ferocity. He pointed to a large dark lion in the end compartment of the same cage as an illustration of the savage character of such animals when fed on meat, and begged the audience not to be alarmed when they beheld "Miss Bettina " in the cage with the two well-behaved lions he had described, who were then quietly lying down, licking their paws.

As Sam Dixon concluded a small door was opened in the side of the cage and Betsy marched in, clad in her singular dress, with a whip in her hand, and straightway commenced to put the two fine animals through the tricks she had taught them. They seemed glad to see her, and readily leaped through a hoop and over her head, and then lay down so that she might sit on their backs and open their mouths to show their teeth to the spectators.

The dark lion in the adjacent compartment could see all that went on in the cage, and at one moment thrust his great paws through the bars and snarled. Betsy approached and struck him sharply on the mouth with her whip, on which he withdrew his paws, but snarled all the more. He kept out of reach of the whip during the remainder of the performanre, but was evidently hostile, as he never took his glowing eyes off Betsy, who left the cage sooner than usual on this occasion. She came in front and spoke a few words to Paul and Oreb before she hurried away to Kitty's bedside.

"I'm sorry you didn't see Jocko in his new part as I've taught 'im," she said. "He comes inter ring dressed as a little sojer, and fires off a small gun and beats a drum and does lots o' funny tricks."

"I hope you will keep out of reach of that dark lion's claws, Betsy," said Paul. "He ought to he in a separate cage."

" He's a bad 'un, 'ee is," said Betsy, "and I don't know w'y ever Muster Dixon bought 'im; but we've no other place to put 'im in. I hope you'll come again soon, Dr Ferrier. I've a lot to tell you 'bout Jocko as you'll like to hear."

"Miss Rorke has 'ad a restless night," she said. "Miss Jecks, who shares her lodgings, was with her part of the time, and Betsy the remainder, and our doctor has just called, and I am sure will be glad to see you if you can wait."

Paul said he would wait to hear the doctor's report.

"We have 'ad but few mishaps at the circus," she continued. "Sammil is so careful, and never keeps a hoss as bites or kicks, but Miss Rorke is always goin' in for something out of the regiar line, and persuades Sammil to give in to her."

Paul said he had heard of Miss Rorke's ambition to excel others in her vocation.

"You see, Dr Ferrier," Mrs Dixon continued, "Kitty is an excitable girl, always full of life and spirits when she is well and able to ride, and down-'arted whenever the least thing 'appens to lay her up for a few days. She set her mind on doing 'Mazeppa' because of the fuss they are making over an American woman who is performing at Astley's in London, as I hear lots of foolish young 'swells' wants to marry, and I'm told has been married twice already. Sammil didn't like it, as being so risky on a bare-backed 'oss, but Kitty wheedled 'im into letting her try. I am afraid she won't be able to ride again for some time. 'She's got no stamina,' the doctor says. and won't drink stout, which 'ud be good for her. Kitty only drinks tea, and eats no more than a midget, so her living oughtn't to cost her much, and yet I know that she doesn't put by anything out of her good salary. Someone elsewhere is spending it, and she's just a silly little goose to let 'em. She won't say who it is when I ask her. She used to be rather extravagant in dress when first she came, but that's all over. Kitty will wear a dress now until it's threadbare, and turn it herself."

"Can there be a good-for-nothing husband in the background?" Paul inquired.

"No, Miss Rorke was never married, although she has 'ad chances enough amongst our people. We lost two good 'riding-masters' -- that is two of the well-dressed men that keep in the centre of the ring with long whips -- because Kitty wouldn't 'ave either of 'em, although I think she encouraged one of 'em a little. I never could make her out, but she is a good girl, though fond of being admired for her riding and her pretty figure, as is only natural with female hartists -- but she's growing thinner and thinner. It's my opinion she is fretting about something."

Just then Mrs Dixon's medical man, who was a portly elderly gentleman, entered the room rubbing his large soft hands together.

"We are doing nicely, Mrs Dixon," he said, "con­sidering what has happened, but our little friend is very unhappy at the idea of remaining in bed for a couple of weeks. Please let me have a sheet of paper. I want to make an alteration in her medicine."

"Dr Benson," said Mrs Dixon, "this is Dr Ferrier, the gentleman who picked up Miss Rorke and carried her out of the ring."

"Glad to see you, sir," said Dr Benson. " You are in the medical profession I presume?"

Paul modestly explained his present position, and asked a few questions as to the condition of the patient, upon which Mrs Dixon discreetly withdrew.

"I can say nothing positively for a few days," said Dr Benson. "She has had some bruises, and very likely a slight concussion of the spine, but the young woman is more depressed than I should expect to find in such a case in her profession. I have treated her before for some simple contusions, and she always made light of them. These circus ladies think little of such things as a rule. Thay are wiry and muscular, and learn to fall without receiving much damage, like indiarubber balls." With this the elderly doctor retired, promising to look in again in the evening, and evidently taking but slight interest in the case.

Presently Betsy appeared and said: " Miss Rorke 'ud like to see you, Dr Ferrier. She is in low spirits because that old doctor has been tellin' her she won't be able to ride for a long time,"

Paul did not like interfering in a case where a medical man was already in attendance, but followed Betsy upstairs, where he found Mrs Dixon seated by Kitty's bedside. The poor girl's eyes were red with weeping, and she looked anxious and depressed.

"I'm telling Kitty to have more patience," said Mrs Dixon. "If she goes on worritin' herself she won't get any sleep, which, in my opinion, is better for her than all the medicine in the world. Sammil won't give her place to anyone else, and she can stay here and welcome as long as we remain in town, which will be for over a month yet. She has got Betsy to nurse her and help to cook her food properly. What more can she want?"

"Dr Ferrier," said Kitty, "would you ask one of the best of the doctors at the hospital to come and see me? I want to be made well soon."

"Yes, Miss Rorke, I'll ask one of them who is a friend of mine to meet the gentleman who is attend­ing you at present."

"He only frightens me," said Kitty. "I want soon to be well and able to earn my salary. I can't expect Mr Dixon to pay me when I'm not riding to bring in money."

"You know, Kitty, that Sammil always pays half salaries when anyone is hurt," said Mrs Dixon.

"Yes; your husband is always very kind, but I want to be made well soon, so as to be able to ride. He can't keep my place long vacant."

Paul was looking intently in Kitty's face whilst she spoke to Mrs Dixon, and fancied he saw an expression in it like that of a hunted animal. He concluded that there was some special cause for her anxiety to resume her position at the circus. As he went down­stairs he met Betsy ascending with some food for her friend.

"I want to speak to you, Betsy." he said. "Come down again for a moment." Betsy straightway fol­lowed him into the hall.

I want you to find out for me what is troubling Miss Korke," he said. "She has something serious on her mind, and it will hinder her recovery."

"Yes, there's summat as troubles her," said Betsy gravely, "but it isn't anything as is her own fault. She is worritin' herself 'bout others. It's her mother, as I'm fearin' is a bad 'un. Miss Rorke was talkin' to herself in the night and tellin' her mother to keep away, but p'r'aps she'd not like me to speak on't?"

"You should ask her to tell Mrs Dixon, who is a kind, sensible woman," said Paul.

"No, she'd not tell Mrs Dixon if it was a thing she thought 'ud disgrace her," said Betsy. "But she might tell you, Dr Ferrier -- most folks 'ud trust you, I think -- and p'r'aps you could 'elp her to a way out of her trouble, if there is a way. Some troubles never ends till those as causes 'em is dead. I'll speak to Miss Rorke when Mrs Dixon leaves her and tell her what you say."

" Have you ever seen Miss Rorke's mother, Betsy?" Paul inquired.

"Yes, I see'd her when we was at Leamington, where I think she lives now. She came to the circus and wanted to see Miss Borke, to get money from her. I got her into a cab, as if to go and find her daughter at her lodgings, and drove 'er to a p'leece-stashun. I'm fearin' the circus folks thought she was my own mother, as is in 'Eving. I never told Miss Rorke, but I think she knows on't, and that's why she's bin so good to me."

"The mother was drunk, I suppose?" Paul said.

"Yes, very drunk and mad. She tried to bite me when she saw where she was took, but she's never come again to the circus."

"It's a miserable thing, Betsy. Tell Miss Rorke I would gladly help her if I knew how, and comfort her all you can."

Paul slowly walked away thinking of the sad story he had just heard. Each week brought some similar tale to his ears in connection with the outdoor work of the hospital, which he had frequently to undertake. He often had to witness a class of misery for which there seemed to be no earthly remedy. To cure the craving for drink, when once it had got firm hold of a woman, was, he knew well, almost a hope­less task. He had seen many homes of industrious mechanics made desolate and wrecked when the wife fell under the influence of drink. He thought of Betsy's keen observation, -- "Some troubles never ends till those as causes 'em is dead." That was his own opinion. Death alone could bring relief in such cases, for which the law provides no remedy: the compul­sory restraint of dipsomaniacs was then, and is to this day, but a dream of the philanthropist. Paul remem­bered the look on poor Kitty's face, and guessed that she was thinking with dread of the disgrace which would ensue from the advent of her degraded mother if she could not keep her at bay by remitting her a large part of her salary each week; but he did not know as yet the full extent of Kitty's anxiety. He heard later on from Betsy, who had been commis­sioned by Kitty to inform him of what she could not bring herself to speak of, that the little circus rider had a younger sister whom she had placed at a board­ing-school when her mother's habit became continued, and that the wretched woman constantly threatened to take the child away and make her work for her and live with her.

Paul was glad to learn that evening from the hospital surgeon who had visited Kitty, that her injuries were not in themselves very serious, but he said she was suffering greatly from nervous prostra­tion, and had probably been in a state of extreme nervous tension for some time, and required complete rest and, if it could be managed, a trip to the seaside. Upon which Paul had again visited the menagerie, where he heard the further particulars of Kitty's trouble from Betsy.

"You must ask her to let me talk it all over with Mr and Mrs Dixon, Betsy," he said. "Something must be done at once to give her peace of mind -- no other medicine will do her good."

" She might 'low you to talk to Muster Dixon," said Betsy, "but she'd not like Mrs Dixon to know."

"Mrs Dixon seems to know a good deal about it already, Betsy. Try and persuade Miss Rorke to tell her all when you go home."

"Miss Rorke 'ud be afraid Mrs Dixon 'ud talk on't 'ithout thinkin' to some o' the other artises," said Betsy thoughtfully; "but if you could call on Sunday mornin', Dr Ferrier, and tell her what oughter be done, she might agree. Jocko 'ull be in the garding, and you'd like to see 'im climin' trees 'ithout a chain on 'im and comin' down direckly when I calls 'im. Miss Rorke 'ull see 'im out o' winder if it's fine, and it will do her good. Just come and talk to 'im a bit. When I feels like to cry 'cause o' Miss Rorke's trouble and other things I go and play wi' Jocko, and tell 'im all about it. When you're writin' to Mrs Weston you can tell her 'bout 'im. I s'pose you often write?"

"Sometimes, Betsy. I hope soon to see them back again."

"I 'ope they won't live no more with Muster Miles, who I hear is goin' queer in his 'ead along o' the death o' Jem Ritson, as was no great loss."

" No; I think they will live at Warwick, where their friends live."

Then you can often go to see 'em from 'ere, and p'r'aps they'd come to see me and Jocko. Don't yer think, Dr Ferrier, he's gettin' 'andsomer and cleverer? And see, he knows you, and wants to shake 'ands. I'll let 'im out and you can feel 'ow soft his fur is, 'cos I comb and brush 'im every day."

Paul tried to show renewed interest in Betsy's pet, who was so well cared for and intelligent, but his mind was preoccupied at the moment with serious thoughts.

"Jocko has no anxiety to worry him, Betsy," he said; "he is better off than a great many human beings."

"You're thinkin' of Miss Rorke's trouble," Betsy said.

"Of hers, and of some other cases like hers, that I know of."

"If her mother could be put in a 'sylum, or on a desert island where there 'ud be no public 'ouses, that might cure her," said Betsy. "It's 'cause there's such lots o' public 'ouses selling gin and spirits to women that there's so much trouble; or p'r'aps, if Miss Rorke's little sister was took from school and hid away somewhere else, so as the mother couldn't find her, then she couldn't frighten Miss Rorke by threatenin' to 'ave 'er 'ome -- that's the 'old she has on her. If Mrs Dixon 'ud tak the sister for a time, until the mother 'ud give up lookin' for 'er, that 'ud help a bit. It 'ud be worth 'er while, as Miss Rorke is such a favourite and draws folks to the circus. Mrs Dixon has no children of 'er own, and might get fond of the child, as Miss Rorke says is 'andsome."

Paul called next Sunday at Sam Dixon's and found the genial circus proprietor in the garden with Mrs Dixon, seated under one of the large elm trees, which was not far from the windows of the house. Paul in­quired how Miss Rorke was getting on, and was glad to hear that she was better, and was now able to sit up for a little and look into the garden from her bed­room window. She was just then watching the antics of Jocko, who had climbed high up in the tree over their heads.

"Jocko will come down direckly when Betsy calls 'im to his dinner," Mrs Dixon said; "she is now in the 'ouse getting it ready."

Betsy presently appeared with a bowl and spoon, and a little basket of fruit, and said she was glad Dr Ferrier had come in time to see Jocko fed, because she particularly wanted him to see how good and clever he was. She placed the food on a table and sat down close by; then she called to Jocko, who was heard chattering merrily overhead, and soon appeared in sight on one of the lower limbs of the tree. Betsy made some private signal to him. and he immediately clambered down the trunk of the tree and sprang into her lap.

"Go and shake 'ands wi' Dr Ferrier first," she said, pointing to Paul. Jocko sprang to where Paul sat and presented his small hand, which Paul took. "Now, shake 'ands wi' Mr and Mrs Dixon, and thank 'em for a good dinner," Betsy continued. Jocko instantly obeyed, and gallantly stooped to kiss Mrs Dixon's hand, then bounded back to Betsy, who tied a napkin round his neck and handed him the spoon, with which he quietly fed himself from the bowl, carefully wiping his muzzle with the napkin when he had finished, and then looking wistfully at the little basket of fruit on the table, but not venturing to take any until Betsy selected some.

" One, -- two, -- three, -- four," she said, laying down four strawberries in a row on the table. "Now, Jocko, you can tak number three."

Jocko instantly clutched the strawberry repre­senting number three and was patted on the head.

"Four," Betsy said. The ape straightway pounced on the fourth in order.

"Two," said Betsy, and number "two" was promptly seized and disappeared.

"Give Mr Ferrier number one," she said, again indicating Paul, whereupon Jocko took up the last strawberry, with a sad expression on his face, and slowly handed it to Paul, who returned it to him, when he straightway swallowed it and chattered his thanks.

"Now I'll tak 'im to see Miss Rorke, who'd like p'r'aps to give 'im the rest," said Betsy, extending her arm, up which Jocko rapidly climbed to her shoulder, whereupon she marched off with him and the fruit basket to the house.

"Isn't it wonderful?" said Sam Dixon, "and he's learned it all from Betsy, without a touch of a whip."

"Betsy 'ud give anyone something to remember who'd dare to use a whip to Jocko," said Mrs Dixon. "I believe she lies awake o' nights thinkin' on new tricks to teach 'im. She's that fond of him that she'd break her 'eart if he died."

"She seems to have some subtle influence over him and other animals," said Paul; "but I fear she will never be able to tame that dark-maned lion at the menagerie. You should get rid of him, Mr Dixon. He is dangerous."

"He is not to be tamed," said Sam Dixon. "He is the sinful example of ferocity, like the confirmed drunkard the temperance lecturer used to exhibit."

"Then I should put him in another cage," said Paul. "His bad example may corrupt the minds of the two well-behaved lions, and he may suddenly catch hold of Betsy as she passes the bars of the partition."

"Do 'ave another cage made for 'im, Sammil, or sell 'im to the Zoological Garding people," said Mrs Dixon earnestly. "If Betsy came to any hurt I'd never forgive myself for it, although 'twas her own wish to be a female lion-tamer. There's no danger with the two young lions she performs with, as we reared ourselves, and are always good-tempered and playful."

"Yes, I'll 'ave another cage made for 'im," said Sam. "I was took in about that lion by the man that sold 'im to me. He said he was only two year old, and now our vet thinks he's more'n six; but he's a grand beast, and 'tracts attenshun. Still, I'd be very sorry if he got the chance to put a claw through the bars on Betsy, as most folks is fond of. Here she comes again with Jocko."

Betsy carried the ape to a spot under the tree where a rope swing was dangling from a stout branch overhead.

"Now, Jocko, jump," she said; "you're to show Dr Ferrier 'ow yer can perform like Mr Pledge at the circus as you've bin watchin' so often wi' me."

Jocko sprang aloft and caught the trapeze, upon which he went through various clever antics, pausing occasionally to see if his performance was properly appreciated, and chattering to return his thanks when applauded. When tired, he again climbed aloft and sat on a large branch of the tree, to crack and eat some nuts which Betsy had thrown to him as a reward for good conduct.

Just then Paul saw a shabbily dressed woman approaching from a side path which led past the house from the external entrance gate. She wore a large faded velvet bonnet surmounted by an alarm­ing bunch of artificial flowers, and had an old plaid shawl hanging from her shoulders, over a dark cotton dress, the skirt of which was frayed and mud stained.

Paul heard the window of the room from which Miss Rorke had been watching Jocko suddenly closed, and then the stranger addressed Mrs Dixon in a husky voice, with a trace of an Irish accent in it.

"I want to see me daughter, who I'm told is living here," she said. "I'm her mother, and I've heard that Kitty has met with a accident. It was in the newspapers. I've bin to her lodgings, and they sent me here."

"You can't see Miss Rorke just now." said Mrs Dixon decidedly. "The doctor has left orders that she is to be kept quiet in her room."

"I'll not disturb her more'n I can help, and you've no right, ma'am, to pervent me from seeing me own cheild. I've come a long way to see her, and I've no money to pay the railway fare home again to Leaminton, where I live."

"I'll pay your fare back," said Mrs Dixon, taking out some silver. "Here is five shillings for you; but Kitty must be left in peace. You can't see her while she is here. If you will go away quietly, I'll tell her you've called."

"I'll not go unless I see her. Five shillings is no good to me. I 'aven't had me dinner yet, and the fare is three-and-six."

"Betsy, you can get her something to eat in the kitchen," said Mrs Dixon, who was anxious to get rid of the wild-looking woman; "but don't let her go upstairs to disturb Miss Rorke on any account."

Upon which Betsy approached the woman, who had clutched the five shillings and put it in her pocket, but was still nervously twisting her claw-like hands.

" Come wi' me direckly, Mrs Rorke," said Betsy. "You've seen me before, I think, as you'll remember no doubt."

The woman scowled for an instant at Betsy, then suddenly sprang at her like a wild cat, with her talons well out in front to scratch Betsy's face, who quickly recoiled before the haggard fury, who had recognised her as the girl who had handed her over to the police on a previous occasion.

" Come, none of this, my good woman," said Sam Dixon, rising from his scat. Just then, and before ho could interfere, there was heard an angry scream from Jocko overhead. Paul glanced up and saw him swing himself from the trapeze straight on to the large bonnet the woman wore, in which he fastened his little fingers, tearing at the bunch of red flowers and scattering them right and left, while he chattered loudly in anger.

The woman turned and fled screaming from be­neath the tree, carrying Jocko with her, perched on her head and shoulders, and still busy demolishing the bonnet.

Sam Dixon collapsed into his chair, purple with laughter, whilst Betsy, fearful for Jocko's safety, pursued Mrs Rorke to the gate and rescued her precious pet, then pushed the excited and terrified woman outside the gate and bolted it.

"He'll bite yer nose off' if yer comes inside o' gate again," said Betsy. "It's well yer didn't get yer 'ands on me or he'd 'ave killed yer. Miss Rorke sent yer five pounds last week as I knows on, 'cause I posted the letter for 'er. Wot 'ave you done wi' the money?"

"I had to pay me doctor and a bill for medecine," whined Mrs Rorke, who could see over the top rail of the gate, and was sadly contemplating the ruins of her bonnet.

"Yes, in course, most of yer med'cine comes from the public 'ouse, I'm thinkin', and yer doctor lives behind the bar. If ever yer comes inside this gate again I'll let Jocko loose at yer. He knows all about yer tricks."

"I'll poison the cursed divil, you see if I don't," shrieked Mrs Rorke, shaking her clenched fist at Jocko, who was clinging to Betsy with his arm round her neck, and panting with the excitement of his late encounter.

Just then Paul came to the gate on his way home. "

Listen to her, Dr Ferrier," said Betsy, half choked with indignation. "She is the wickedest woman in the world, and says she'll poison Jocko, as 'ud be a murder for which she oughter be hung. She should be thrown to our big lion at the circus, as 'ud scrunch her bones."

"Go back to Mrs Dixon, Betsy," said Paul, "and do not bandy words with this wretched woman, who, I think, has been drinking. You had better put Jocko to bed and let him sleep off his anger. Such excite­ment is bad for him. You can feel that his heart is beating too fast."

Paul held his hand on Jocko's heart, feeling the rapid pulsations, and endeavoured to soothe the excited animal, who looked round now and then at Mrs Rorke and showed his teeth. "He is very fond of you, Betsy," he continued, patting Jocko's head, "but he is a nervous creature, like your friend Miss Rorke, and must not be vexed, or he might have a fit and die in it, poor old fellow."

Mrs Rorke was gazing fixedly at Paul, and said as Betsy slowly retired with Jocko, into whose ear she was whispering words of consolation: "You seem to care more for the feelin's of a horrid brute like that than for a mother as wants to see her cheild. I heerd that pampered hussy calling you 'Dr Ferrier,' and I suppose you can tell me how me darlin' Kitty is doing?"

"She is doing well," said Paul; "but she must be left in peace, so you had better go home and wait until she is strong enough to see you."

"Are you any relashun to Mr Robert Ferrier, a lawyer who used to live in London?" asked the woman, drawing closer to the gate and scrutinising Paul's face. "You are like him anyway, and a hard man he was."

"I am his son," said Paul; "but I don't know you."

"I knew your mother well. I was nursemaid in your father's house when you were a baby. I was your mother's own maid after that, when she lived by herself."

Paul thought the woman was inventing a fable to induce him to give her a gratuity.

"Please to allow me to open this gate," he said with some feeling of annoyance.

Mrs Rorke had planted her arms on the top rail of the gate the better to look in his face, and seemed inclined to remain in that attitude.

"You don't believe me," she said, "I can see you don't, but I can satisfy you I'm speaking the truth. Your mother was a good friend to me before she took to religion so much and went abroad to join a sisterhood that receives married women if they have money."

Mrs Rorke said much more, but Paul strode out of hearing, and then at length she also departed, in the opposite direction, nodding her head and clenching her skinny hands.

Paul was engaged all that afternoon in his work at the hospital, and when returning to his lodgings in the evening, thinking of Mrs Rorke's singular utterances, but satisfied that the woman had invented the statement she had made, he suddenly came on Oreb and Zeeb walking towards the railway station from which the trains for Dudley departed. Paul turned and accompanied the two Midianites, who looked very grave, to the station, hoping to hear something of Ruth and Mrs Weston. It appeared that Zeeb had been lately at Madeley Court, and had come over to consult with his brother as to the state of things he found there.

"My father is very strange in manner, Dr Ferrier," Zeeb said. "These wretched law proceedings are worrying him. He got up a little coal out of that thin seam in sight to use with the engine, and he has been served with notice of an injunction by Mr Ferrier, who was immediately informed by one of the workmen. It was just enough to raise the question, but of no value in itself. He can't stop my father from going on with the boring, but I wish he could. It is costing a great deal of money, and I am now quite certain is a useless outlay, judging from the rock recently gone through, which grows harder and tougher every day, and is not in the least like any strata in the coal measures."

"Then they both seem to me to be fighting for a shadow," said Paul, "for rights which would be of no use to either of them if they possessed them, I wonder the courts entertain the matter at all. It's like two silly children quarrelling for a piece of the moon."

"But my father has been advised that, as the land was purchased by the railway company under an Act of Parliament, and resold by them to him, Mr Ferrier has no such rights as he now claims, of which he never gave the company notice. Still, I am afraid that as he has the longest purse he may ruin my father with costs in the end."

"I wish I could prevent that," said Paul. "Would your father see me if I went over? I might be able to arrange at least for a cessation of hostilities until they both know if there is anything worth fighting for, which I understand there is not."

"I am afraid he would not see you or listen to you, Dr Ferrier," said Zeeb. "He actually forbade us to talk to you if we met you, but you see we have rebelled."

"I am glad you had the courage to do that," said Paul. "We may yet have a chance to put an end to this strife if we pull together when it comes. I am a sort of outlaw from Madeley Hall at present, on account of the strained relations that exist, but I am thinking of going over to beard the lion in his den. Perhaps he has got tired of his own company, and will be glad to see me again. I'll venture to call on your father also. He can't eat me."

"But he may say something very harsh to you, Dr Ferrier," said Oreb. "Leave it to another time. None of us can do any good until something happens to give us the chance you speak of."

Just then there appeared to be a great commotion round one of the third-class carriages, and presently two porters appeared supporting under the armpits a woman whom Paul recognised as Mrs Rorke, who had invested most of the five shillings she had received from Mrs Dixon in a further supply of ardent spirits. She now fought vigorously against her forcible removal and made loud out­cries.

Paul approached the porters and inquired as to the cause of the disturbance.

"This 'ere woman has a return ticket for Leamington," a porter said, "and she should a-bin at the other station, but she's bin drinkin' 'ere at the refreshment bar, where they oughtn't have served 'er, and she's quarrelsome. She's hit our inspector in the heye, and he's gone for a stretcher so as to send 'er comfortable-like to a p'leece-stashun."

Here Mrs Rorke furiously declaimed against the porter, and used exceedingly strong language, ex­pressing an intense desire for the possession of his liver. When the stretcher was brought into view, she flung herself on the platform and shrieked louder than the neighbouring locomotive, but was finally strapped down and borne off to her destination.

Paul followed to the police-station and saw the officer in charge, whom he persuaded to place the wretched woman in a cell by herself, promising to call next morning and pay the fine which would be imposed and to see that she was safely deported out of town.

"I am afraid, sir, you'll have her often on your hands if you pay her fines," said the inspector. " I think she's one of the reg'lars, though she don't belong to this town. What's her name?"

"She has a respectable daughter in this town just now," said Paul. "One whom probably you know by reputation; but her name cannot be mentioned. Please to call this woman Eliza Smith on your charge sheet."

The inspector wrote down "No. 65, Eliza Smith, drunk and disorderly," and then turned to deal with case "No. 66, of the same class, who also seemed anxious to possess someone's liver."

Those who have travelled in the Austrian dominions in the summer and autumn will no doubt have ob­served a great number of invalids in the trains con­verging on the baths of Karlsbad, and amongst them are frequently to be recognised, by their peculiar dress, members of the various orders of nuns, always travelling in pairs, and holding but little intercourse with their fellow-passengers.

Ruth and her mother were placed in a compartment in which two of these ladies sat alone, both of whom appeared to be middle-aged women -- one of them was evidently suffering from illness, and looked pale and anxious. She seemed to breathe with great difficulty, and now and then her features were contracted as if by spasmodic pain.

Mrs Weston had received some letters from England at her hotel just before starting, and amongst them one from Zeeb, in which he described in dark colours the condition of his father at Madeley Court, which he attributed chiefly to mental worry caused by the oppressive proceedings of Mr Ferrier.

English people frequently forget that the foreigners in whose company they are travelling may perchance understand English. Mrs Weston, being under this impression, discussed Zeeb's letter with Ruth, and regretted that Paul should have been involved in any difficulty with his father by reason of the dispute with Tobias Miles, which fact Zeeb had mentioned as an additional proof of Mr. Ferrier's hardness.

Ruth happened to galance at the face of the invalid nun seated opposite to her, and saw that she was deeply interested in the subject of their conversation.

Her companion was trying to make out a time table in the fading light of evening, and paid no attention: in fact she only understood French and Flemish, and soon settled herself comfortably to sleep. The elder of the two nuns suddenly addressed Mrs Weston in English.

"I heard you speak of a Mr Robert Ferrier and of his son," she said, "do you know them well?"

Mrs Weston said she knew Dr Paul Ferrier, the son, very well, and the father only by reputation.

"I have not seen Paul since he was a little child; would you kindly tell me what he is like?" said the invalid.

Mrs Weston described Paul's personal appearance as well as she could, and mentioned his present occupation.

"Then he does not live with his father at present?"

"No, I believe not; but he lives not very far off. The father is said to have a peculiar hobby for establishing an order of secular monks in his house, and Dr Ferrier did not find the life a congenial one. He is a young man of great promise, and very social and amiable."

"And I suppose Paul has been educated as a free­thinker, like his father?"

"He has enlightened views on subjects which are now freely discussed everywhere without reference to what is called Revelation," said Mrs Weston. "He is studying social problems in one of the great manu­facturing centres of England, with a view, I think, to improving the condition of the industrious poor, and he is at the same time studying the practice of medicine. He wishes to lead a life of usefulness, and to earn his living in a profession for which he has special talents."

"You seem to be very much in his confidence," said the stranger.

"Yes; he often writes to me because he knows I take great interest in his welfare. He seems to have no female friends or relatives. May I ask your name, in order that I may tell him who has been making inquiries regarding him."

"He would not know me," said the strange lady sadly. "I am called Sister Frances, and I live at the convent of the order of the Dames de St Andre at Tournay. I am very ill, and am going to Karlsbad for the baths: but I fear I cannot go much farther."

Mrs Weston noticed that an ashen paleness bad overspread the face of the nun and that she gasped for air. Ruth hastened to produce some eau-de-Cologne and sprinkling some on a handkercliief, held it to her lips, whilst the companion nun slept peace­fully close by.

Presently the train entered the station at Prague. "Please to awaken her," said the invalid, pointing to the sleeper. "We have to change here, I think."

Ruth aroused the companion, who bustled about vigorously collecting some parcels, talking volubly the while in bad French to the invalid, and urging her to alight speedily. Mrs Weston had already done so, and was trying to ascertain from a Bohemian porter in which direction to seek her luggage. Ruth saw that the invalid nun rose to her feet with diffi­culty, and seemed scarcely able to walk. She assisted her to alight from the train, which she did slowly and cautiously.

"I cannot go further," she said in a faint voice. "Would you kindly help me to a waiting-room?"

The companion came promptly to Ruth's aid, and between them they helped the invalid out of the hurly-burly. Then there ensued a discussion between the two nuns as to the possibility of proceeding, Sister Agatha urging with earnestness that Sister Frances should make an effort to do so, as arrange­ments had been made for lodgings at Karlsbad. Ruth was obliged to leave them, still engaged in the discussion, in order to rejoin her mother, who had secured the luggage and a carriage. Just as they were driving off, Sister Agatha appeared in tears, and appealed to them for aid, saying that her companion had fainted. Mrs Weston promptly returned with Ruth, and succeeded after some trouble in reviving the sufferer, who begged that she might be taken to an hotel for the night and not urged to travel further. She whispered a few words in Mrs Weston's ear which made the latter start with surprise, and then promptly to arrange for taking the suffering woman away with her to the inn where they had ordered rooms, leaving the brusque Belgian nun to follow in another vehicle with the baggage.

It seemed very doubtful whether the invalid would live through the night. She had frequent fainting fits, and seemed to suffer from heart spasms. Next morning Ruth heard from her mother that the lady in the dress of a nun had hurriedly stated to her at the railway station that she was Paul Ferrier's mother, of whom Paul had once spoken to her as having lived abroad, and apart from her husband, ever since he could remember, and of whom he knew almost nothing. Ruth had never previousiy heard of Mrs Ferrier, and imagined that single women only were admitted into the religious orders of the Roman Catholic Church. The poor woman looked so feeble and exhausted when seen next day that Mrs Weaton feared to ask her any questions which might cause her excitement The companion nun was a matter-of-fact sort of woman, and not very communicative; but they gathered from her that they had both been on a visit to a religious establishment in Styria, famous throughout Catholic Europe as a place where women suffering from mental trouble found peace and consolation, and where they also generally under­went severe bodily penance. Upon the hardy frame of Sister Agatha the penance seemed to have pro­duced no particular effect, beyond that of increasing her appetite. She was of a phlegmatic disposition, and rather stupid, like the average Belgian peasant, but long vigils and fasting had told severely on the weak frame and highly-strung temperament of the emaciated Englishwoman, who for some obscure reason had adopted what is termed the "religious life."

It was found that there was no physician speaking French or English at Prague, and therefore, as Sister Frances, or Mrs Ferrier as we shall call her in future, did not speak German well, Ruth was obliged to interpret between her and the Bohemian doctor called in by the hotel proprietor, who was anxious that if possible the sick woman should be removed to one of the hospitals attended by the Sisters of Charity, lest she should die in the hotel and so cause extra trouble.

The doctor strongly recommended that the patient's friends should be communicated with at once, but refused to sanction her removal from the inn in her feeble condition, upon which Mrs Weston had a talk with Mrs Ferrier, and obtained her consent, to the dispatch of a telegram to her son in England, asking him to come and see her, if possible, before her decease. At the moment it appeared to Mrs Weston that that event was imminent: indeed she feared that Paul would scarcely be able to reach Prague before it occurred. She would have preferred to have written, but the urgency of the case seemed to require the shorter proceeding, although it was difficult to frame a message in terms which would explain the position in a few words, and also difficult at that period to get a message in English correctly transmitted by the Czech clerks in the telegraph office of the Bohemian capital, Mrs Weston wrote her message thus: --

 

"To Dr FERRIER    Central Hospital      Birmingham, England.	From WESTON    Hotel Kaiser,      Prague, Bohemia
"Accidentally met here a lady who says she is Mrs Ferrier, and I fear is dying. She desires to see you speedily."

 

"To Mr FERRIER    Central Office      Western Hotel, Birmingham.	From HOTEL KAISER    Prague,      Bohemia
"Accidentally met here by lady who says she is Mrs Ferrier, and fear is dying. She desires to see you speedily."

In London Mr Ferrier obtained the information that there was such an inn as the "Kaiser" at Prague, and telegraphed to the proprietor that he would leave at once for that city, signing the message "Ferrier."

That evening he crossed the Channel, and hurried, via Dresden, to Prague as fast as the train service permitted him to do. At Dresden he rested one night, and obtained the services of a courier acquainted with Prague and the Bohemian language, and in five days after he had left London he arrived at the hotel from which the telegram that had brought him thither had been dispatched a week previously. He had no idea that the message had been sent by Mrs Weston, or it is probable he would not have made the long journey, nor, if he could have prevented it, would he have allowed Paul to go. It was the idea that the woman who at one time had made his life so wretched, and had chosen to place herself beyond his ken during so many years, so that he was unaware of her place of abode, had met with some dreadful accident and desired to see him on her deathbed, that caused him suddenly to decide on granting her last request.

During the week previous to Mr Ferrier's arrival, Mrs Weston and Ruth had become much better ac­quainted with his wife, and had no longer any doubt as to her identity. Sister Agatha at first seldom allowed Mrs Ferrier to be alone with the two English ladies, who she feared might be proselytising heretics and would in some way imperil the future state of the poor woman, over whom she kept up a kind of espionage, although nominally under her orders; but by degrees she began to see that it was only with the alleviation of the bodily sufferings of the sick woman the Englishwomen concerned themselves, and she observed that in this they were skilful. Mrs Ferrier had taken a strong liking to Ruth, who talked to her about England and brought her flowers. Sister Agatha did not understand a word of what was said, but she was satisfied that Ruth was not abusing the "blessed saints," which, she had been taught, was a practice English heretics indulged in. She was surprised that two strangers should devote so much time to the comfort of a sick sister of another faith, even if the sister were an Englishwoman, but she saw that it did console her unhappy companion very much in the intervals of acute pain, and therefore she made no alarming reports to headquarters. In few days she even went out for purposes of exercise or devotion, leaving Mrs Weston or Ruth to take charge of the patient in her absence. They considered it a privilege to be allowed to do so, as in some way atoning to Paul's mother for the injury formerly inflicted on her son by Tobias Miles.

When Mr Ferrier reached the inn at Prague, he was told that he would find the sick woman in charge of a young English lady upstairs, and that just then the young girl's mother had gone out. The hotel pro­prietor, seeing that the English gentleman travelled with a courier, was very obsequious, and placed some of his best rooms at his disposal, but did not throw any light on the nature of the accident, about which Mr Ferrier desired to be informed. He recommended the latter to send up his card to announce his arrival, which he did soon after.

When Ruth was handed the card, and saw that it was Mr Ferrier and not his son who had arrived, she naturally imagined that when Paul had received the telegram he had thought it right at once to inform his father, and that the latter had thought fit to come himself. She deemed it best to go and see him at once, and inform him that Mrs Ferrier had only con­sented to seeing her son, and that his presence, if the invalid were suddenly made aware of it, might cause her serious agitation; therefore she hastened to in­form him of her mother's absence at the moment, and of the difficulty of the situation, of which, by this time Ruth and her mother had formed a tolerably correct opinion, based on the wandering remarks of the sick woman when under the influence of morphia, which had to be administered to allay her suffering.

Mr Ferrier was standing at the window of a large room overlooking the river Moldau, and gazing out abstractedly on one of the most picturesque prospects in Europe, when Ruth entered and addressed him by name. He turned abruptly, and she saw that he held a telegram in his hand.

"I received this message some days since," he said, "and I deemed it best to come here at one. May I ask what accident has happened to cause my being summoned? The landlord could not say. and I pre­sume you are one of the two English ladies to whom he refers me."

Mr Ferrier stood before Ruth, with his head bent forward and the tips of his fingers pressed together, and spoke in quiet tones, with grave politeness, so that Ruth thought he did not appear to be at all like the "cruel oppressor" Zeeb had been writing about. He handed her the telegram as he concluded, which she read through before answering him.

" I am afraid, sir." she said, "there has been a mistake made by the telegraph people. There has been no ac­cident beyond that of our meeting this sick lady in the train. I have here a copy of the message as it was sent." Ruth took from her pocket-book a duplicate of the message and handed it to Mr Ferrier, who held the two documents side by side and carefully compared them.

"My mother will be here soon," Ruth continued. "She thought that someone might come to-day, and deemed it best for one of us to remain in this hotel, lest you should arrive in the absence of both. The companion who is with Mrs Ferrier might not be able to explain to you, or, perhaps, would not be willing to see you. She is a Belgian nun."

Mr Furrier was much perplexed. He had as yet no idea that the pretty English girl who spoke so correctly, and had such a quiet, self-possessed manner, was the niece of Tobias Miles, of whose personal appearance he had formed quite another mental por­trait. He had an idea, that he had seen this dark-eyed young lady somewhere before, which arose from Ruth's resemblance to Madame Hatiz.

"This message was apparently intended for my son," he said. "I thought it had been sent to me to a place called Madeley, and forwarded from thence to Birmingham, on the chance of catching me by the station-master who saw me leave for London. May I ask how you obtained my son's address?"

"We knew Dr Ferrier's address," said Ruth. We lived for a while at Madeley Court when he was taken there on account of the injury he received. My name is Ruth Weston. I though you knew already."

Mr Ferrier had just read the name "Weston" on the copy of the telegram, but it had not called to his mind any association with Madeley Court.

"Surely you cannot be the niece of Mr Miles?" he said with surprise.

"I am afraid I am, sir," said Ruth, smiling at Mr Ferrier's startled expression.

"Will you kindly take a seat, young lady," he said, grasping his arms and pinching himself to make certain that he was not dreaming. "I am thankful there has been no accident," he continued, "but I feel that I ought not to have come here. I am not wanted. I can do no good. The telegraph clerks must have been possessed. But it is not your fault nor your mother's, only I wish you could tell me what I ought to do now. I am utterly bewildered by this chapter of accidents," Here he clasped his forehead with his hands and bowed his head on the table in evident distress of mind.

Just then Mrs Weston entered the room and sat down near Ruth, who indicated to her that it was wise to keep silence until Mr Ferrier recovered his com­posure. Presently he looked up with a white troubled face and saluted her. "You can perhaps tell me, madam, what I should do?" he said.

"I think, sir, you would do well to obtain the advice of an English physician who resides at Karls­bad, and ask him to bring an English or French-speaking nurse, if he can obtain a reliable person. The Belgian nun who is here is not very sympathetic, and is rather stupid."

"I daresay she knows the name of every saint in the calendar, and but little else," said Mr Ferrier cynically. "I'll send a courier who is here with me with a note to the doctor you recommend. I suppose this unhappy woman has just worn out her strength by self-inflicted mortifications and penances?"

"Yes, I am afraid that is the case," said Mrs Weston, "It appears she was lately at a convent in Styria where such practices are carried to great lengths. Shu suffers from a kind of rheumatism that affects her heart and causes syncope, so that I fear she may die suddenly at any moment."

Mr Ferrier here got up and paced up and down the room, with his hands behind his back, muttering to himself, and apparently oblivious of the presence of Mrs Weston and Ruth, who occasionally caught a few connected words, such as: "Cursed Jesuitical priests, creeping into houses and leading astray silly women. This is what it all ends in -- a wrecked and perverted life and a miserable death. Oh! the utter want of common sense, the folly, the pity of it!"

Then he came and stood opposite to Ruth and looked at her long and earnestly. "Young lady," he said in grave tones, "that poor woman who lies here, so ill, was once young and healthy and handsome as you are. She was full of life and spirits, and had everything about her to make her happy. Then unfortunately she inherited some money, the income from which was placed entirely at her disposal, and in consequence she became an object of interest to a crafty priest, who persuaded her that the ordinary duties of home life were to be made entirely subservient to an eternal round of religious dissipation. How it all began I never knew, but you see where it has ended. For many years I have only known of her existence by the fact that her trustees were regu­larly called on to pay the interest of the money to the agents of some foreign society with which she was connected. In all other respects she has been to me and my son as one who had died long ago. I do not know why I should trouble you with all this, but I do not wish you or your mother to imagine that I am without feeling. I did all in my power to prevent this, but it was too late. Now, if you please, Mrs Weston, I will arrange for the visit of this doctor. I am afraid you have both had a vast amount of trouble, and I feel under a deep obligation to you. I suppose you will soon be leaving this singular old place?"

"We have not been able to see much of it yet," said Mrs Weston. "We proposed to spend a fortnight here, as my daughter wishes to see the glassworks in the vicinity. She takes an interest in art manufactures, and we have letters of introduction to the owners of several of them."

"Perhaps you would kindly allow me to accompany you, and to make my courier useful when he returns. It is no use staying indoors when one can do nothing, I am glad, Miss Weston, you interest yourself in practical things like glassmaking. Do they make anything else, here?"

"They make nice boots and shoes by machinery in a factory full of little Jew boys. Their chief markets are in America and in our colonies," said Faith.

"I should like to see that very much," said Mr Ferrier. "I always like to see useful things made, excepting nailmaking, because the nailers are so wretched and dirty -- there are a lot of them in a town near me at home." Mr Ferrier paused suddenly, fear­ing that he had trodden on dangerous ground in alluding to the nail trade.

"There is a nail factory here where everything is done by machinery, and the work-people are all well dressed and clean," said Ruth. "I would like to show it to you. The Austrians are very ingenious in inventing labour-saving machines."

"Yes, I'd like to see that factory also," said Mr Ferrier. "I imagined there was very little to be seen here be­yond a lot of modern churches. Judging from the num­ber of spires, there would appear to be one church to every hundred of the inhabitants, and probably there are a dozen lazy monks attached to each church."

"It's not quite so bad as that," said Mrs Weston; "but there appears to be a great number of churches, and one seldom sees anyone in them excepting old women, unless on great festivals when there are plenty of wax candles burning."

"Lighted candles, when effectively disposed, have a powerful effect on the imagination of weak-minded per­sons," said Mr Ferrier. "I begin to understand why the Ritualists in England make such efforts to introduce them again on their altars. They were very useful in the conversion of the South American Indians. I doubt if the Roman Catholic Church could maintain its hold on the people without a large expenditure in wax."

"There is certainly a large expenditure in that article in this country," said Mrs Weston. "It is, I believe, a source of great revenue to the ecclesiastics who own or license the candle manufactories attached to each church."

"Let us go and see the bootmaking factory," said Mr Ferrier. "Civilised people ought to wear boots and shoes -- they are almost a necessity to comfortable existence -- but to pay priests for wax candles to be burnt in churches is a waste of money, which the poor ignorant people need to buy food and clothing. It is all part of a great system of plunder. I am glad, Mrs Weston, you have no sentimental sympathy with such absurdities." Mr Ferrier seemed anxious at the moment to escape from the inn into the outer air, in order to find some object of interest to distract his mind from a subject which always deeply disturbed and distressed him, and which had its central associa­tion in the wasted life of the poor woman who lay dying upstairs unconscious of his presence.

"I am here," Mr Ferrier wrote from the Hotel Kaiser at Prague, "chiefly by reason of the omission of the final syllable in the first word of the enclosed message, which was intended for you. So far as regards the object of my coming, which was to see your mother before her decease, my journey is as yet fruitless, and will probably remain so. It has been deemed best by a lady, in whose judgment I think you place confidence, that I should not see her. She is now in the charge of two females belonging to a foreign religious community, which it appears she joined many years ago, one of whose inferior members was travelling with her when she was taken ill, and the other, who is, I believe, an intelligent woman, has arrived here recently. At first, I am told, your mother expressed a wish to see you, but she appears to have forgotten this, or has been dis­suaded. I doubt if you would be permitted to see her if you came. I am told by an English medical man whom I sent for that she cannot live very long, and that now she does not suffer much, and often remains in a semi-conscious state for hours. I some­times feel that I ought never to have come here, and although I do not wish to influence you in regard to this painful situation, I think you will do no good by coming, and I advise you to remain content with the knowledge that the unhappy woman, who chose to abandon you and me so long ago, under some strange hallucination, has wanted for nothing in her last illness. Fortunately she met Mrs Weston and her daughter at a critical moment, and was brought here and well cared for. It has been to me a piece of good fortune to meet your two friends in this out-of-the-way place. I wish I had known them earlier. The reopening of a sad chapter in my life, which I thought was closed for ever, has disturbed me greatly, and I have found much solace in converse with rational educated people like Mrs Weston and her daughter, who have been very kind to me. I regret that I have had any difference with Mr Miles, as he is connected with them, and I have given instructions to my agents in London to put a stop to all proceedings. I wish you would go over to the Hall and see how they are doing. I left in such a hurry that I had no time to make arrange­ments. I enclose a cheque to meet any requirements there. The Institution grows more difficult to manage every day, and I often wish I had never undertaken it. This is a very interesting city, and I obtain some distraction from gloomy thoughts in visiting objects of interest with your two intelligent friends. Miss Weston is singularly like Madame Hafiz, and it made me feel as if I had known her a long while. -- Faithfully yours, my dear Paul,

"Robert Ferrier."

Betsy had a serious tale to tell as to the recent action of Mrs Rorke. "That wicked woman 'as bin and taken away Miss Rorke's little sister from her school," she said, "and Mrs Dixon thinks I'd better go over with Miss Jecks next Sunday morning and try to get the child away from her. Then she could go with Miss Rorke to a quiet place called Rhyl, where the sea is, so as she may get strong again. The mother couldn't find 'em there, and Mr Dixon is to tak her in 'and and try to make a bargain with her to send her money every week as long as she keeps away in an island he will send her to, where there's lots more like her drinking theirselves to death. The trouble will be to get the child away from her and then to get her away."

"You must be careful not to get into any trouble yourself in this business, Betsy," said Paul. "I would like to speak to Mr Dixon about the proposal."

" Mr Dixon has asked a p'leece inspector about it," said Betsy. "He says that's the only way to do, and that the law won't 'elp us; but he won't trouble us if Mrs Rorke comes 'ere to mak a rumpus, 'cause he knows Mr Dixon, who gives the p'leece-officers and their fam'lys free tickets whenever they wants 'em. I'm thinkin' she'll be afraid to come 'ere again along o' Jocko, as she said she'd poison. I've told the in­spector on't, and he'll keep an eye on her. I tak Jocko 'ome wi' me to Mrs Dixon's in a cab every night now lest harm should come to 'im, so he is scarcely ever long out o' my sight. Jocko is the great 'trackshun at the circus when Miss Rorke is away; but I'm fearin' he has the toothache sometimes, he gets so sorrowful lookin'. He has a bad jaw tooth, and I took 'im to a dentist as pulled out one for Miss Jecks, but the man's afeerd that Jocko 'ud bite 'im if he meedled wi' his teeth. Will you look at it, Dr Ferrier, and see if it can be stopped wi' summat? or p'raps you could tak it out ? Jocko wouldn't bite you, 'cause he knows you well, and you won't hurt him more'n you can help."

Paul looked at Jocko's teeth, and saw that one had broken and was decayed. "I have drawn teeth now and then, Betsy," he said, "but I daresay I hurt the unfortunate owners twice as much as a practised dentist would. Jocko might forget that I was a friend and put some of his sharp teeth through my hand before he knew what he was doing."

"Do you think, Dr Ferrier," she said, "if he was to see a tooth pulled out o' someone else's mouth he'd know 'twas for his good you wanted to do't?"

"Well, perhaps he might, Betsy. Have you got any bad teeth yourself?"

"No, mine are all sound, and Jocko 'ud not let you touch me; but Butty Tubbs has a lot o' bad 'uns. He's always 'avin' his 'ead tied up, and 'twill be well for 'im to have some on 'em out."

Betsy straightway called the unfortunate Tubby from the other side of the menagerie and desired him to open his mouth for Dr Ferrier's inspection, who saw therein several bad teeth. Tubbs was then told by Betsy that it would be good for him to have one of them drawn there and then.

"I'll give yer a shillin' for't, Butty," she said, "if yer doesn't holler or mak 'orrid faces to frighten Jocko."

Tubbs promised to look as happy as he could under the circumstances, and seemed rather pleased at the idea of having a troublesome tooth drawn free of cost and then sold for a shilling. Paul took out his pocket case of instruments and selected a small forceps with which he thought he could manage the extraction, whilst Betsy placed Jocko in a good posi­tion at a corner of the table from whence he could see the operation, in which he seemed to take much interest. The tooth Paul selected was easily drawn, and shown by Betsy to Jocko, who inspected it with curiosity. Betsy then spoke to him, telling him that a similar operation was needful in his own case, and often touched his bad tooth with her finger. She made him open his furry jaws very widely, but for a time the animal either misunderstood her instructions or his courage failed him when he felt the cold touch of the forceps, as he always gently pushed Paul away with his small hands and made as if he desired to return to his cage. Then Betsy appeared to grow sorrowful, and held a handkerchief to her eyes as if weeping, making at same time much pantomimic gesture indi­cating suffering from toothache, and holding up the tooth Jocko had seen extracted. At length the animal seemed to take courage, and looked wistfully at Paul for a few moments as if to beg of him to be very merciful, then firmly closed his eyes and allowed him to perform the extraction, which was not difficult. Betsy took Jocko in her arms and comforted him for a while, then made him kiss Paul's hand, and re­warded him for his fortitude with a lump of sugar.

"He won't want Tubbs to show 'im 'ow to have teeth drawed next time," said Betsy triumphantly. "I think I'll teach 'im to come into the ring wi' a pair of little pincers like yours, Dr Ferrier, and mak Butty Tubbs sit in a chair as if he was 'aving another tooth out. Jocko 'ull not soon forget 'ow it's done. and he'd like to pull out every tooth in Butty's 'ead for reasons he's told me in private."

"I came here, Betsy, to tell you about your friend Miss Ruth," Paul said, "and I've almost forgotten it on account of Jocko. She has met my father abroad by chance, and he appears to like her; she is at a place called Prague, in Bohemia, with her mother."

"I heerd your father couldn't a-bear women folk," said Betsy. "P'r'aps he'll learn better now if he sees much of Miss Ruth; but he may 'ave 'ad to deal wi' women as made 'im hard. If a poor man 'ad to do wi' one like Mrs Rorke I think he'd be driven mad;but look at Miss Rorke, she is as good as a princess— so it's just a lottery. Our vet says it's the same wi' young bosses; there's no two on 'em as is alike in ways. ' If he lived a thousand years, like a Methu-saler,' he says, 'he'd never meet another Jocko, as grows wiser every day and knows more and more wot's said to 'im.' Do you think, Dr Ferrier, he will ever learn to speak, even little words?"
"I am afraid not, Betsy; but you seem to under­stand him somehow, and evidently he understands you."

"Yes, if I can see into his eyes, if he made no noises at all, I can mostly tell wot he's thinkin' on when he looks at me so human like. He's saying just now it's near time we was getting dressed for going in the ring. He's to walk on the tight rope wi' a little pole, like our Mr Pledge, as I think is getting jealous of 'im. I'll tell Mrs Dixon how good you've bin' 'bout Jocko's tooth; she put some laudnum in't, but it made 'im sick."

Betsy hurriedly departed to the dressing-room she shared with Miss Jecks to array herself in a kind of Swiss costume in which she always appeared of late when performing with Jocko, and which was singu­larly becoming to her. Paul remained longer than he intended, in order to see the clever creature she had trained so well walking on a rope strained across the ring, with all the gravity of a trained acrobat, holding a long slender cane as a balancing pole in his hands and using it correctly. Betsy kept pace with him beneath the rope, watching his trembling steps, and ready to catch him if he fell, whilst she encouraged him with a curious chirruping noise. Her upturned face beamed with delight as she heard the loud applause of the audience, who were mostly mechanics, and took immense interest in all the strange animal's performances. When Jocko reached the end of his journey on the tight rope he flung away his pole and sprang into Betsy's arms, resting his head on her shoulder like a weary child. Betsy bowed her ac­knowledgments in the most approved circus manner, and retired backwards, carrying him out in her arms. Tom Jones flung a cloak round them both at the door­way and said: "Mr Pledge couldn't do it better, Betsy, Mr Dixon has took 'im away to 'ave a brandy-and-soda, so as he wouldn't see it and get out o' temper."

"Jocko isn't well," said Betsy with anxiety; "his little heart is going 'thump-thump.' Get 'im some water, Tummas, and then call a cab. I'll tak 'im 'ome at once 'ithout waiting to change my dress. Tell Mr Dixon why I've gone so early. He is wantin' too much performin' from Jocko while Miss Rorke is away -- and the dear old chap has just 'ad a tooth out, and was frightened at the shoutin.' Oh! Dr Ferrier," she exclaimed, addressing Paul, who came round just then from the other entrance to the ring, where he had stood to witness Jocko's performance, "there's summat the matter wi' poor Jocko; he's tremblin' all over and won't open his eyes. Do you think that wicked woman could 'ave gived 'im poison or got someone to give it 'im?"

Paul took a glass of water from the hands of Tom Jones and induced the quivering animal to drink a little, and then held one of his small wrists for a while, feeling his rapid pulse. "It's only excitement, Betsy," he said. "Jocko wants rest; he is being over­worked and kept up too late under flaring gaslights. He must have a holiday, like Miss Rorke, or you will lose him. Tell Mr Dixon I said so."

"If you'd be so kind as to tell him yourself he'd mind you more'n he does me," said Betsy. "I've told him already that Jocko doesn't sleep as he oughter, and that he has these fits. Couldn't you give 'im summat, like the doctor sends Miss Rorke, to mak 'im strong? If he was to die I wouldn't ever care to come 'ere no more."

"I'll see Mr Dixon, Betsy, and tell him Jocko is ill. Now wrap him up in your cloak and take him home, and I'll send you something to give him; but he must have rest or it will do him no good. Let him stay in the big tree all day to-morrow and amuse himself quietly, and don't teach him any more tricks at present. You must treat him like a sick child that's had too many lessons to learn."

"And p'r'aps you'd spare time to call and see 'im tomorrow," pleaded Betsy, with tears in her eyes. "I'll be at 'ome till twelve, then I'll leave 'im wi' Miss Rorke or Mrs Dixon in the garding, as I must come 'ere to perform wi' my lions at one o'clock."

Paul promised to call round if he could, and having seen Sam Dixon and told him of the absolute necessity of rest for Jocko, he went back to the hospital and prepared some tonic medicine for the animal, so that it could be delivered early in the morning. To him the intelligent creature and his guardian angel Betsy were like personal friends in whose welfare he took a deep interest, apart from the scientific interest which he felt in the study of this curious link in the chain of evidence he and others were combining to illustrate the theory of evolution. To watch the development of Betsy's singular character was also deeply interesting to Paul. He saw, with admiration, her strong and enduring affection for those who had been kind to her, and her willingness to serve them; her faithful discharge of her duties at the circus, her intense devotion to her dumb friend, her earnestness of purpose in everything; her high courage and her deep sympathy with suffering, either in the case of human beings or animals, her unselfishness and patient industry. Betsy appeared to be one of those rare instances of steady development in an upward direction, like a healthy plant turning ever to the light. Without the advantage of early training or education, and with all the disadvantages of her youthful associations and poverty, she seemed to have risen by the innate force of some strong fibre in her own nature.

Paul always associated Betsy's success in life with the influence Ruth had exercised over her. The secret of this influence, he knew, lay in the intelligent earnestness and devotion with which Ruth had un­dertaken the difficult task of training the rough girl and her essentially sympathetic nature. The secret of Betsy's success with Jocko was of the same kind. She was intensely earnest in her desire for his welfare, and never thought of him as an inferior animal but as a loving creature, who could think and reason. She saw his willingness to learn anything she desired to teach him, when once he began to recognise that his doing so gave her pleasure; she shrewdly studied the nature of the difficulties that must present themselves to Jocko's retarded faculties, and exercised her in­genuity in devising means to overcome them, just as Ruth used to do in her own case. Betsy had acquired much useful knowledge because she almost adored her teacher, and in the same way Jocko learned things which were more than mere mechanical tricks because of his intense affection for Betsy.

Paul received a reply to his telegram from Prague next morning, requesting him to wait the arrival of a letter from Mrs Weston, and so, after paying an early visit to Sam Dixon's house and satisfying Betsy that Jocko only required rest and care, he proceeded to Madeley to visit the " gentlemen-companions," and found the chief members of the bachelor society en­gaged in a warm discussion on some petty detail of housekeeping about which they had disagreed.

Paul suggested that they should elect one of their number as president in his father's absence, and abide by his decisions, but he saw that there was chronic discontent in the community, foreboding its speedy dissolution. They complained of their isolation from intercourse with the leading lights of science and literature, who resided in large cities such as London and Edinburgh, and of the waste of time involved in the petty occupations of the household. By this time each one had become fully informed as to the particular crotchets of his fellows, and deemed them frivolous in comparison with his own. They seldom spoke to each other, and were generally moody and discontented. They played no outdoor games, and were consumed with ennui. They desired to inspect the clauses of the bequest under which Mr Ferrier acted, and told Paul that of late the old gentleman had been more than usually irritable and arbitrary in his decisions, and had frequently spoken of terminat­ing his connection with the Institution. Paul supplied them with a copy of the document they required, and advised them to prepare suggestions for the consideration of his father in case they and he arrived at the conclusion that the statutes of the Institution required modification, and that its location should be trans­ferred elsewhere. He knew well that now he had given them something to think about which would seriously occupy them until his father returned, and render them more contented for the time being.

Having done his best to get things straight at Madeley Hall, Paul bethought him of Madeley Court and Tobias Miles, and decided he would call on the unhappy man and inform him he had no longer any­thing to fear from his father's opposition, and might go on boring to the centre of the earth if it pleased him.

As Paul approached the house he was surprised to see a stream of water running across the road and falling in a cascade into the little valley of the Dingle. On crossing this shallow current, by means of some rude stepping-stones which had been recently placed in its course, he saw that the moat was full of water, which overflowed across the road. The water evi­dently came from the external doorway which led from the moat into the crypt, out of which it flowed noisily like a small mill-stream. In all other respects silence reigned everywhere. The steam engine was not at work, and no smoke came from the iron funnel, which still projected through the roof of the chapel. Paul crossed the earthen mound which led to the gateway of the courtyard. He rang the bell and presently one of the maid-servants came, and in reply to his inquiry said he would probably find Tobias Miles somewhere about the place, but she could not exactly say where. He was usually in the va