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BRAVE Music
By ERNEST WELLS
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BRAVE MUSIC

By ERNEST WELLS

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SOLDLY and languidly, a

quiet mist crept about
spiralling darkly into alley-
ways and, lanes, and
circling with sinuous volu-
tions under bolted doors. It
was a wet and gloomy night
in Wapping, whose sordid
streets seemed given over
to the rain and dark. Mid-
night was past. But in the

tap-room oí the Blow Bugler public house
there was another kind oí gloom.

The bleeding from the dead man lying
on the floor had ceased. So much the
other three could see for themselves.
Audibly, and with a measured slowness
the frothy driblets of an over-turned beer
pot fell from the table to the floor. The
three men stared. One sighed. His breath
rushed softly, with the smooth sibilance of
a distant saw. The baldheaded man who
knelt and listened for the beating of the
still one's heart, raised his pale face and
spoke.

"Crowe," said he, "won't go to sea again.
Ko-not ever. He-he's finished."

Over his shoulder, and with an expres-
sion of unwilling accusation he looked at
those who stood behind him. More parti-
cularly, he looked at the very tall man with
the dark-stubbled jaw, and the hard grey
eyes which, but a few moments past, had
gleamed with such ferocity. But the dead
thing, lying so silently upon the floor drew
his gaze back and held it hypnotised. The
three men heard the mournful whispering

of rain.

Sim Lovett, the licensee of the Blow
Bugler, rose to his feet, and wiped his face
with a grubby apron which smelt of sour

beer.

"Do what remains to do," he said with
decision in his voice. "Put that in the
river; and get Luke off and away." In his
concern for his friend's safety his own
voice assumed a bullying note. "Some
killings are not murder, and it doesn't always
take a book-learned lawyer to know it. But
we've got something better to do, Sim, than
rub a cloth over our faces and wring our
hands. Crowe goes in the river; and
sharp's the word for it."

His voice was hoarse, but incisive. Lovett,
his heart sickened by the catastrophe,
looked down again at Crowe. Then, out
of the corner of his eye he looked at the
man who had done the thing.

"You hear what Lovett says, Luke?"
Lovett pleated the bottom of his apron and
ran it through his hand. Behind the bar
counter and ori a shelf flanked by an indis-
criminate stock of gin, rum and whisky,
a small clock struck one tinkling note.
Adam, the bearded man, broke In:

"Why shouldn't he hear? Come, come,
Luke; staring at Crowe won't help us now,
you know. Another thing-we must think
Of ourselves, as well. Sim, here. And
me. We don't want to be landed with
the business. Stir up, man."

Luke, whose other name was Strahan,

turned. Beneath his brows, his grey eyes
were as cold and hard as polished stones.
His mouth was curved down, and so tightly
was his under jaw clamped that it seemed
as though the muscles would start through
the flesh. He spoke harshly:

"I have done justice to that, there. Aye.
Why then, should I hang for him? That
would make him laugh . . . Crowe-If your
hearing hasn't left your ears for ever
attend to me!" The two men who listened,
shuddered, hearing a terrible Indictment

read to Death.

"You were my friend. For I befriended
you. But, when I went away upon my
work-my work ls on the sea, Crowe, just
as yours was-the devil came into you
Looking back now, Crowe, I see that you
were always a poor thing-a supple, abject
man, of smooth words and smiles. Whilst
I was at my work, I say, and on the seas
-and that, Crowe, ls a man's work-you
fawned, and smirked and squared your
conscience, till you had the thing you
waited for. My wife . . ." His passionless
voice softened as he pronounced her name:

"Addie"

Outside, the rain had ceased. Lovett
placed his hands upon Struhan's ann, but
the gesture was unheeded.

"That, Crowe, was bad. Mind you, of all
of lt I knew nothing, for I was away two
years. Two years is a long time. I was
the second mate of the Dekkan. One

works hard to get that, Crowe . . . You took
her. And you tried to hide her. Don't
lie, Crowe, I know it all . . . And then
you left her, with nine shillings in her
purse, and three in the tea caddy."

"Luke-Struhan." Adam might just as
well not have spoken.

"Wait!" Struhan's deep voice rasped bit-
terly. Do you know where she is to-day?
You don't? You shall, though. I laid
her In a grave a week ago. They said,
'Consumption.' As good a name for a
broken heart as anything else, Crowe.
Hearing it all from her (for she told me
everything, you know), I said: 'I shall kill
that man!' I killed you, Crowe. . . .'

When he had done, there was a silence.
"Sim-you're staunch?" Adam looked
the publican directly In the eye.

"For this man, yes," Lovett replied. "I
'ave known him long, and am as much 'is
friend as you. As to Crowe-no one knows
'im. 'E's an Australian. 'E 'ad signed on
with the Wainfleet but she sailed without
'im." The publican took off his apron.

"D' ye know that?" Adam asked.

"It's right enough-yes," he was answered.
They heard a hand-cart trundle noisily along

the street.

"Then, now's the time. Through the back.
Sim, look to the door. The legs, Luke
by the legs."

That night, Luke Struhan walked. And as
he went, his bending shadow walked with
him-as though it feared to be outstripped.
From time to time, he turned his head to
look about-listening-breathing heavily.

Faint clock chimes warned him of the pas-
sage of the night, which lay so heavily
upon the streets.

Crossing London Bridge, he paused and,
leaning over an embrasure, peered at the
darkened river's turgid face. "Where Crow«
is, now," a fine voice, whispering, spoke In
bis ear. He started back, appalled; but
stooped, and with an indescribable Intent-
ness, looked again. It seemed that he wac
searching for the dreadful thing which .vern
then was chafed and marked with blood-
less bruises by the river's piles.

As he strode heavily from street to street,
and back across the bridge, counting the
policemen by the lamps which glowed like
yellow eyes upon their belts, the Image of
his wife walked with him, too. Her foot-
steps sounded ceaselessly with those of
Crowe's pale ghost.

He walked throughout the night. The
two ghosts pattered by his side.

, my dear fellow,
you're applying for the post, and not L But,
let me tell you this: the last one we had at
Spandril found it-ah - confoundedly
lonely." The chief clerk to the Marine
Board at Melbourne tapped his forehead
significantly, settled his skimpy satin bow
into place, and sat forward in his chair.

"Now, tell me, Struhan. Can you furnish

me with any personal credentials? Sureties
and so forth?" The bearded man with the
hard eyes curtly shook his head.

"Not in this country. All my papers and
discharges went in with my application."

"So they did. So they did. Now, let me
see-" The chief clerk assumed the
demeanor of a Baron of the Exchequer as
he scrutinised the annexures pinned to the
carefully-written application. He was a
little gentleman, prone to the affectation of
what he conceived to be the Napoleonic
manner; and, as he read, he murmured In
a fatuous pomposity. "Quite so. Quite so.
. . . Second mate of the Belshazzar. . . .
Exemplary, eh? . . . Second mate of the
Dekkan. . . . The Dekkan? . . My father
came out on the Dekkan, you know."

The chief clerk leaned back In his cranky
chair, twirled the corner of a colored hand-
kerchief in his nostril, and smiled as though
he were an ordinary man.

"These," said he, "seem quite satisfactory
-quite satisfactory. Now, you're a sailor.
But I suppose you realise that there are
differences between a ship and a light-
house?"

"Differences, slr? Yes. But, essentially
I take their management to be the same,"
Struhan answered him.

"In what regard?" inquired the chief
clerk.

"In attention to detail and discipline," re-
joined the applicant. "I am familiar with
the mechanism of a lamp. I know how to
obey an order. Therefore, how to give one.
I can control a subordinate. I am thorough.
More, no man will ask."

His deep voice, and the unwavering cold
eyes beneath the rampart of his massive
brow quite over-awed the chief Clerk, who
wondered why he felt so strangely Insig-
nificant. The big man breathed quietly
through the nostrils of his curved nose. His
bearded mouth was bent In an Inflexible
bow. This, thought the plump little chief
clerk, could be the very devil of a man. As
hard as Ice. One found lt difficult to ques-
tion him. And yet, one had a curiosity.

"To be perfectly frank with you, Struhan,
I may say that the Marine Board has found
lt almost impossible to-to-well-to induce
our men to stay at Spandril for long. I
presume you understand-"

"I understand this much, slr," Struhan
Interrupted him, "that the island ls lonely.
Good. That lt is Inaccessible. Good again.
That one ls spared the spectacle of human
faces there. Better still. And that it is a
place of-storm. That, best of all."

His words, laconic as they were, evoked
a picture of the ghostly wash of rushing seas
tormented by Iron barricades of cliffs. Of
cold spume blowing from the south. Of woe
and watery turmoil indescribable. Thought
the chief clerk, with an insubstantial sensa-
tion in his inside, it might be Satan himself
who spoke. He laughed on a false note:

"Ha! Ha! You're a misanthrope, I'm
afraid." The chief clerk often used this
word; and there were times when it pleased
him to reflect that he was one himself. But
this man, with the jaw of rock, seemed an-
other type altogether.

"I beg your pardon-?"

"I said, you are a misanthrope. He! He!"
The chief clerk tittered. But Struhan's face
did not relax. And then he made a strange

"As to that, I do not know. But I am a
Just man. And Justice is all I ask of any-

one."

The chief clerk promised him that he
should have some word In the course of a
week or two. So Struhan grasped his hat
and heavy stick and, shaking hands with
the official, walked out and took his way to
Exhibition Street, where he was lodged In
a cheap boarding-house. A week went past.
On the tenth day, he received the letter
appointing him keeper of the light at
Span dril Island.

There are dark places on the earth-grey
wastes of water-and of wind. There are
tempestuous strongholds wrought of stone
and sea, perpetually given over to the striv-
ings of great storms.

Now, Just such a place is Spandril Island
-a citadel of stone which stands like a
great fragment left unswallowed by the sea.
For at some time, In ages inconceivably re-
mote, a swift subsidence of the mainland's
crust has left Cape Otway standing to the
north, and, perhaps five miles to the south,
the shapeless menace of the island, rock on
piled on rock.

Long years before the toll of wreck and
drowned men had induced the stiff-shirted
ones In Melbourne to erect a light upon Its
crest, the charts had picked it out, and given
lt the name by which it had been known to
whalers, sealers, and their roving ilk: Span-
dril Island.

The Island's acreage ls small. At its widest
point it would not run for half a mile

across.

A mort of sailors' troubles there has been
off Spandril Island. There are hard tales,
that in the old days sealers sheltered there,
and with the clumsiest of engines rigged
false lights, seducing honest ships to haul
inshore, and, splitting on the reef, go down
-shattered and unknown. In course of

time the underwriters took a hand. Then
Spandrll Island had Its light.

The lighthouse 1« a minatory shaft of
masonry which stands upon the highest
cliff, rising steeply from its very lip. Some-
times, in an offshort wind, one might smell
smoke from grass or bush-fires on the main-
land, behind Cape Otway's heavy bulk. But
only rarely. For winds on Spandrll Island
almost invariably blow onshore. Inquire of
Messieurs, the drowned men, who sleep be-
neath the reef.

This was the place to which Luke Struhan
came. Here he lived many, many years.

The harshest creditor ls he who has un-
easy sleep until a debt ls paid. Sooner or
later, that man will have his pound of flesh
When Crowe had paid him to the uttermost,
Luke Struhan feared neither his conscience
nor that lesser force-the law. Indeed, he
cherished in his mind a strange and terrify-
ing self-glory in the thing which he had
done. He called it justice.

His under man was a one-legged sailor
come ashore. His name was Duck. The
island stores were brought down by a tender,
three times a year. But in four years,
Struhan did not leave the Light. He kept
the glittering, prismed lantern and its gear
in a perfect efficiency, and saw to it that
Duck was never niggardly with oil or care.
Night saw the lamp's great silver eye flash
out, illuminating a chafing restlessness of
water waste. And ships sailed past-wind-
jammers crammed with grain or wool, sleek
liners, and black tramps. The lighthouse
keeper's beard and hair greyed in those
years. One might have thought their silver
was spun spray.

A SMALL girl

crouched in the dark shadow of a log. Her
rapid breathing was suggestive of great fear
or haste. A shapeless paper parcel lay close
to her hand, and, as she raised her head
and timorously looked about, charcoal from
last week's burning-off crunched softly
underneath her stockinged knees. Pine,
intermittent points of red fire on the bald
hill past the creek betokened logs still
smouldering, and farther round, lamplight
lit up the windows of a small farmhouse.
Impatiently, she shook her brown hair from
her face-an elfin little face, which glim-
mered whitely in the moonlight. The tinkle
of a cow-bell travelled from the creek, and
a quiet mopoke called its doleful cry.

At that she stood upright, and rubbed her
knees which had grown stiff from crouching
by the log. All the familiar noises of the
bush were reassuring, and as she buttoned
her boots and brushed the dry twigs from
her frock, she chattered to herself. Then,
with her parcel beneath her arm, she stole
from her shelter, glancing behind her several
times. Once she looked back towards the
house. But, stamping down such indecision,
she turned again, and, like a small ghost,
hurried through the dim gloom of the trees.

How she ran! As she went down that
road, plunging through shadows and
scampering in light, her untied hair flew
back, and perpetually she gasped an almost
inaudible little chant: "Oh. Oh, gosh-I've

run away-run away."

She pounded up the slow rise of a hill
tripped and fell down-rolled over-ex-
claimed, "Dash it!"-and set off again.
Soon she was out of sight.

At Campbell's Creek, a small township not
so very far from Bendigo, a young man
decided to open a butcher's shop. That

would be some years before the occurrence
of those last small events. Hard-working,
cheerful and cleanly, he was determined,
above all things, to make a success of his
trade; and, after the passage of a year
or so found that the business of hoggets,
beef and prime sausages enabled him to
take a wife. He married accordingly, and
when a baby girl was born, settled down
to work harder than ever. With his wife
he slaved in that little shop of his from
dawn till dark. He whistled when he took
the shutters down in the morning and as
he strewed the yellow sawdust on the floor.

It is safe to say that in the whole colony
there was not a happier soul than Joe
Pointer, the butcher. Each night when
he had closed the shop, cleared out his
little wooden till and written up his earn-
ings for the day, he and his wife were
satisfied that happiness dwelt in their
home. How could they know that human
beings cannot imprison joy?

Campbell's Creek had commenced its
life during the gold rush; and for years
afterwards, worn mounds of earth, ant
eaten Joists and uprights, and discolored
iron spoke a mute message of the roaring
days. The town stood in a declivity ringed
about by hills. The early morning sun
distilled the scent of eucalyptus on the air.
The ranges were the haven of the magpie
and the butcher-bird. The early spring-
time brought the wattle gold. But down
in the town the drainage water stank and
festered in an evil slime. It dribbled under
houses, and, simmering in back-yards and
neglected pits became a pestilential breath.
Biding its time, a fierce and sudden epi-
demic of diphtheria swept in. Poor
Pointer's little shop was closed. Fat blow

flies lumbered up and down the dirty win-
dow-panes; and the unlucky butcher's or-
phan child went out to Lumley's farm. No
human being can make a prisoner of joy.

The Lumleys were a strangely-coupled
pair. The wife was broad and fat, and her
fecundity .was measured by her brood of
seven, all exactly graduated in their ages
to that reasonable minimum which, by an
ordinance of nature, must elapse between
two births. The woman's good nature and
spontaneous generosity were excelled only
by her appalling domestic sloth. Dirty
habits, dirty kitchen, dirty children, dirty
dalry. Her spouse was cast in another
mould. Tall. Lean and bald. Malignant.
Sly.

It was not Lumley who had suggested that
the Pointers' girl, owning no kith or kin,
should come out to the farm. The Lum-
leys of this world do not do that. But his
good wife had set her mind upon the
charity, and, having extorted her husband's
acquiescence the matter was decided. The
child, Drissie, would then be about six
years of age.

She learned to milk cows; and what chil-
blains felt like when the frost split them
in the raw winter mornings. By the time
she was eight she was as good as any of the
Lumley brats at saddling a horse, ringing
a tree, skimming the milk, or churning
butter till her skinny little arms grew tired
and stiff.

Children are very rarely understood. But
it is not to be questioned that they possess
a peculiar faculty for the accurate assess-
ment of their own relative importance in
a home. Although, judged by years, the
child was little more than a baby, as she
grew older, she became self-conscious and
resentful of her own detached position in
the Lumleys' house. She was a drudge,
What was more, she knew it.

One day Lumley flogged her, yelping, and
biting at the hand which held her; the
Lumley youngsters, with wide open, brown
eyes, and dirty noses, crowded at the door,
»nd watched her humiliation.

The flies grew bloated in the neglected
treacle-tin, and not until the kindly Mrs.
Lumley seized his arm and cried: '"Ere,
Tom, leave her go, you'll kill the little
wretch," did the enraged farmer give the
small rebel a final slash around the legs.
It was the end. That night, when the
four Lumley girls were asleep in the big
creaking bed, she crept from beneath the

clothes.

For a few moments, she listened to the
quiet gnawing of a rat inside the skirting
board, then, satisfied that everybody in the
house was sound asleep, set to work col-
lecting a few clothes. As an after-thought,
she took the money-box which Mrs. Lum-
ley had surreptitiously given her the pre-
vious Christmas. It was a quaint wooden
thing in the form of a tea-pot, and bound
with narrow tin hoops. For this unpre-
tentious little possession the child had an
inordinate affection. One dropped one's
offerings through the slotted lid, and, hold-
ing it against the light and squinting down
the spout, Drissie could see a small but
comforting conglomerate of the pennies
and "tray-bits" which from time to time
kindly Mrs. Lumley had inserted.

From the kitchen she took some corned
beef and a hunch of bread.

Fearing pursuit, she hid for a long time
In the paddock below the house. But, later,
having crossed the creek and come upon
the road, she ran-and ran-and ran
"Gosh-I've-I've run away-run away
away."

FOR the past twelve

months, Struhan had experienced a strange
and troubled restlessness of mind-a rest-
lessness which, intensifying with succeed

lng weeks, urged him to seek once more the
company of other men. Perhaps it was a
curiosity. For even Struhan's cold heart at
times cried out for some measure of the
companionship which one man craves from
his fellows. It is possible, too, that the one
legged little underkeeper had prevailed on
him to go upon a holiday.

"Ah, Struhan, it does a man no good to
see as little of the 'uman race as we do
on this God-forsaken Island. Now. take
this year. So far we've only seen Cubltt
and young Dykes; and that was but for a
few hours."

Duck's reference was to the skipper and
one of the deck-hands of the government
tender which carried down the lighthouse
stores. To that, the lightkeeper had re-
plied that the less one thought about or
saw of the human race the better for one-
self. Duck was shocked by such misan-
thropy.

"No, Struhan, 'twould be a Godless, dis-
mal creed that. You know, the talk of men
ls more wonderful than music after the
noise of wind and sea in a man's ears, day
In and day out."

In an abstraction, profound and gloomy,
Struhan stared beyond the wastes of water
surging and bubbling beneath their feet.
Duck spoke again.

"No, no, Struhan. No man can live who
does not love his fellow men; that is a
certain thing." Struhan answered him:

"I love no man."

He was mistaken. In walling up the
secret chambers of his heart this man had
left one unsuspected crack, and, unknown
.ven to himself, there struggled still some

broken fragment of a friendly light, cast-
ing a pallid gleam upon his soul.

His relief came down for him two
months afterwards, and as the tender-boat
got under way, Duck stood on the light-
house gallery and vigorously waved a shirt
in farewell. Struhan raised his hand, then
turned his back upon the Light.

Six days had come and gone. For Stru-
han, an austere and isolated fragment in
the city's tide of faces and of tongues, they
were depressing and Insufferably wearisome.
Each morning, with his thick stick gripped
firmly in his hand, he left his lodging
house and mingled with the people in the
streets. Standing on the post office steps,
he watched the populace go by. SUk
hatted men passed in and out of banking
chambers, hotels, and offices, whilst women,
decked in deft but absurd bonnets, and
wearing that suggestive monstrosity, the
bustle, minced down the pavements. The
strident newsboys squalled their calls: "The
Age! The Argus!" Well-fed horses
hacks, high-stepping bays, and hawkers'
mokes clattered past the white-trousered
policemen at the street intersections, In a
continuous and noisy stream. It was a busy
sight. But in Luke Struhan's eyes there
lurked the cold light of an unutterable con-
tempt.

There were times when he turned into
the Bull and Mouth Hotel to drink his
rum, seemingly unmindful of the fact that,
on his entry, more cheerful men moved
back and away from him, letting their
voices drop. Anon he sat beneath a shady
tree in the Fitzroy Gardens, his two hands
clasped upon the dark knob of his stick.
The children playing at ball near by, looked
at him covertly and kept away. Perhaps
they feared the eyes beneath the shadow
of the man's dark hat.

In something very like despair, on the
afternoon of the seventh day, he walked

down to the office of the Melbourne Marine
Board, persuading himself that in calling
upon the chief clerk he would discharge
an etiquette. But that gentleman was
holidaying too. 80 Struhan took his way
to Swanston Street and in the seclusion
of the Public Library's quiet atmosphere
became immersed in old works on whaling,
wrecks and little-known disasters of the
sea. He read until the gaslight chandeliers
were lit, warning him that the day was

done.

With heavy steps, he passed outside the
reading-room, and it was then that he
collided with a young fellow at the door.
Struhan frowned, and his eyes gleamed
resentfully. The other, with no word Of
apology, stooped and gathered up a sheaf
of papers which had fallen from beneath
his arm, and was about to pass on. The
other man touched him on the arm with his
stick.

"Have you no eyes to see?" he asked.

Under that downright rebuke, the boy
flushed and murmured that he was think-
ing of something else. His questioner
nodded, and, struck, by some vital quality
in the other's eyes, Struhan intently re-
garded him.

He was small and sparely built, with an
intelligent face, fined down a little sharply
to the chin. His bony nose was large, and
his hair, which was not well brushed,
straggled in two or three untidy whisps
on to a high, slightly furrowed forehead.
His eyes were very keen. Restless-Astute.
Deep down there burned In them the smoul-
dering light of a dynamic energy. Hit teeth

were large and white. His coat was snaDDy;
and not all the Day and Martin blacking
sold in Melbourne's shops could hide the
stitching where his boot had split.

"Will you tell me your name?" he asked
suddenly. "Mine ls George Brace."

Struhan regarded him through sombre
brooding eyes.

"I shall not forget lt," said he, with an
impressive emphasis of words. "My name ls
Prophecy. It is not likely that we two
shall ever meet again. And yet, you will

remember me."

So saying, the man laughed harshly, and
strode out into the night. As he passed
down the steps he walked between the
brazen lions which flanked the descent to

the street.

But in the library's great reading-room
the young fellow whose name was Brace
soon applied himself to his evening's work.
For two hours or more he studied inten-
sively, from time to time underlining a
passage or a phrase with a short stub of
yellow pencil. He read until the library was
emptying prior to closing for the night.

On his way home to Carlton he
turned into a dark lane. There, In the
underiding shadows, his antics and gesticu-
lations were remarkable. He drew his
brows down, and his lips were twisted In
a diabolical cynicism. His fingers clutched
at air. He stamped his foot, and since he
could not safely raise his voice, he harshly
whispered a most astonishing harangue to a
dumb audience of garbage tins, fish heads,
and rotten cabbage hearts.

"... But my friends-the day of libera-
tion is at hand! The tyrant's clutch ls slip-
ping from our feet-no, no-I mean our

throats! ..."

It was a very rousing speech, although
somewhat impaired in effect by the police-
man who hauled him out of the lane by his
jacket collar, and told him that if he
caught him at any more of those caners

he would run him in for a breach of the
decency by-laws. Rather subdued, young
Brace went home to his frowsy little room
In a third-class boarding-house. He went to
bed and dreamed of oratory, and power in
the land. You think him cracked, perhaps?
Do not be too sure of that. There is a
great deal more of him to read.

WHEN the post office

clock was striking ten S truhán found him-
self on Prince's Bridge. Beneath its single
span the river turned and rolled in turgid
eddyings.

As he was about to move on, he perceived
the figure of a child who leaned across the
bridge parapet. He could not see her face,
nor in fact very much of her at all, except
a pair of spindle legs clad in striped stock-
ings and dusty boots. Above her knees, and.
since her frock was drawn up, she revealed
the white frills of a pair of cotton drawers.

Involuntarily, he paused and looked. She
seemed intent upon some happening be-
low the bridge. Approaching her cautiously.
Struhan leaned over and looked down,
and then the reason for her concen-
tration became manifest. First she vigor-
ously rinsed saliva round her mouth; then
with a laughable assiduity would spit Into
the river. The resultant faint smack which
resounded from the water seemed to afford
her an inordinate glee and satisfaction.
So absorbed was she in her occupation that,
when Struhan addressed her, she failed to
hear him.

He raised his stick and lightly tapped her

on the leg. With that, she whipped about
with a frightened look upon her face, and
made a defensive gesture with her arms.
Her bright eyes opened very widely. And
as »he clutched her meagre chest, a chink
of money could be heard.

"I said-what are you doing there?"

"I-I-what business is lt of yours?" she
tartly answered him.

Impatiently he rapped the pavement with
the ferrule of his stick, but checked the
harsh answer which was on his lips. Her
rabblt-like affectation of courage touched
him Inexplicably.

"Come," said he, "you are almost rude
to me. It ls late-too late for small girls
to be out. Where do you live?" Again he
lifted his stick, prodding the parcel at her
feet. Swiftly she stooped and picked it
up.

"Oh, that ii mine," she said, thrusting
lt under her arm. "I live by-by myself."
Then all her show of bravado ebbed away.
She took a step closer to him, still eyeing
him very carefully. "I-please-I don't know
where to go. I-I've run away, you see."

Her parcel flopped down to the road, and,
with her frock pressed closely to her face,
she gave vent to a loud "Boo-Hoo."

"See here, girl," said Struhan, "tears are
foolish things. Listen to me. Whence have
you run?"

"Prom Lumley's," she told him, drawing
the back of her hand across her nose.

"Lumleys?" he repeated after her. "Now.
where is Lumley's?" He touched her on the
shoulder, causing her to turn, so that a
nearby light might shine upon her face.

"Gosh-don't you know Lumley's? Oh
lt's an awful place and all of a long way
from here." As the big man stared down
on her from his Immense height she giggled,
and added-"I was just thinking about what
Ada would say when she found out that
I'd taken her clothes." Her expressive hazel
eyes shone at the reminiscence of the lar

"Small girls do not run away; nor steal
things-from other people. I think I shall
call a policeman."

"A policeman? A policeman? Oh-No
You wouldn't do that? Why-I--I will do
anything-Oh, yes-anything; but don't
call a policeman. He'd take me back to
Lumley's!" Her pleading voice was lowered
to a whispering, wheedling note. "Lum
ley'd cut me to pieces. Oh-yes-he would.
No, please mister-not a policeman. You
have pretty eyes."

"Be silent. Where are your parents, little
hoyden?"

He had the whole pathetic story from
her then. When she had done, he looked
down Into her eyes, in which a small hope
struggled desperately.

"This-these things you tell me; They are
the truth?"

"The truth? Oh yes! The truth." With
his head sunk upon his breast he stood and
thought. Long minutes passed. Quite
timidly, she plucked his coat, and spoke.
One might have seen him slowly nod his
head, whereat the small girl clapped her
hands. Then they set off, their shadows
shortening and lengthening as they passed
under lights. Her frock was still caught up
at the back, revealing the ludicrous frills of
her small pants. Those, and her striped
stockings brought smiles to the faces of a
number of people as, with her hand In
Btruhan's, the two of them passed Into the
city.

60 lt came about. In answer to his In-

quiries, Struhan was informed by th« police

that they had not received any report of
the small runaway. And later In the week,
he experienced a surprising pleasure to
learn that Lumley did not want the child
back. On that day he took her Into a great
emporium In Bourke Street and bought
clothes for her; although to be sure, lt was
a most exasperating task to cajole her away
from the mystery of the quietly-clanking
hydraulic lift.

All In due course, she went aboard the
tender-boat at Williamstown. On the way
down to Spandrll she was at first be-
wildered and entranced. But long before
Struhan carried her from the small boat on
to the little beach, and up the rugged path
which climbed to the Light, sea-sickness
had put her In a woeful plight. Her viva-
cious face was tinged with an astonishing
green pallor. Sitting with her knees drawn
up beneath her chin she felt forlorn and
frightened, and every now and then she
would commune with the small basin by her

side.

But all that passed; and a few day
sufficed to wear away the first strangeness
of the new life to which she had been
brought.

Drlssle's first Christmas Day upon the
Light went by. And three more after that

Now, as a short

winter's day drew to Its close, a portly,
busy, little man was engaged in putting up
his shop shutters for the night. In this
task he was assisted by a young fellow with
whose thin face we are already familiar.

Painted in white upon the board's brown
blistered face one read the letters, M. TW.
The young fellow set the next one in Its
place-ENTY. Then, with a puffing eager-
ness and a cheerful "oops-ah!" the man
set up the last shutter, with much the
same effect of uniformity as when a false
tooth fills a gap. Since the letters ended
here with MEN, the name was clear-M.

TWENTYMEN.

Below the window and on a narrow
board, "Second Hand Books" was inscribed.
The bookseller's full name was done In
black letters on the fanlight above the
door-Mathew Twentymen-and under-
neath that, "Old Wares."

With the shutters latched and bolted
for the night. Mat and his young assistant
went inside. The front door closed; and
Twentymen's was shut.

Before long the lamp with the forked
yellow flame was set upon the table, and
when Mrs. Twentymen had mashed the
potatoes, her son Mat and his wife, and
young George Brace sat down to their tea.
From her place on the wall the Good Queen
In all the Impassive suavity of he oleo-
graph likeness, looked down on the cleanly
kitchen. On her head she wore the familiar
little widow's cap. Her queenly mouth was
firm-as though of itself it had rapped
shut. But for all that it was womanly and

kind.

"Clara not coming home for tea?" in-
quired Mat, supping bread in his gravy.
Clara was their only child and went to
business, or to be more Informative, she
was in the Mantles, at Wheevil and Sons'
establishment in Park Street.

"No," his wife answered him. "She's
working back. They're taking stock at the
shop." Young Brace looked at the kitchen
clock chattering on the dresser. Twenty

to nine.

"Well, Mrs. Twentymen," said he, speak-
ing In his usual hurried diction, and hitch-
ing hie «hair back-"ail I can say ia that

it's time Wheevil's put on a few more
girls." His lean face became keen with
animation and impatiently he blt a finger-
nail. "This stock-taking business has gone
on for five weeks now! Five weeks! And
do you find young Maurie Wheevll at the
shop night after night? I say, Mat, do

you?"

Kc did not pause for a reply from the
ruddy-faced bookseller, who, leaning back,
-egarded him with a quizzical tolerance.

"No-by Jove, Mrs. Twentymen. Last
Tuesday he was in a brawl at Gullivers,
in Swanston Street, and ended up a fine
night by driving a hansom home to St.
Kilda, with the cabby Inside. And the
lands in his old man's shop sweat to find
the money to do it." With a peculiar ner-
vous gesture he twitched and plucked at
the lapels of his coat, then drained down a
third cup of tea.

"Oh, come-come, my boy," rejoined
Twentymen, "things aren't as bad as all
that, you know. After all, the girl's got a
Job; and If it weren't for the Wheevlls
and the rest of them, a lot of people would
be hard put to lt to find food."

But that easy philosophy of Mat's was
not at all to the younger man's liking. He
put his cup down noisily, and argued this
way and that, emphasising upon his fin-
gers the points which he made. Mat and
he wrangled splendidly for an hour or
more. Mrs. Twentymen washed up, then
putting on her spectacles, and sitting in a
rocking chair, turned to that morning's
"Argus." To Mrs. Twentymen, social and
political questions were vague and unde-
sirable things. But young Brace fed upon
them avidly-pursuing them by day, and
dreaming of them in the night. Those
dreams of power in the land. . . .

And vivid golden dreams they were. At
this time he was no more than twenty
.wo. and quite undismayed by the fact that
his humble Job was that of an assistant in
a suburban, second-hand book shop.

He was English; and orphaned at four-
teen. For a time he earned a pittance
and his keep In a cooper's estab-
lishment in Limehouse. Twelve months was
sufficient to sicken him of that and a sum-
mer's evening saw a small, thin-faced boy,
nosing and prying about the wharves at
Tilbury. He made friends with the lab-
orers and stevedores, sharing their scalding
tea and picking up such odd coppers as
they gave him.

When the first outgoing ship sailed, he
went with her, as a pantry-boy. Saving
a scalded hand, he came ashore at Sydney,
safe and sound. His first Job there was In
a seamen's eating-house in George Street
North.

Potato peeling satisfied him for a while.
But then an itching restlessness affected
him, and it was not long before the brown
eyed boy with the untidy hair was oil
again. He became assistant to a shearer's
cook. At night he Joined the men who
sang their roaring songs while the camp
fires tossed up their ruddy flames, and the
she-oaks by the Lachlan's cool lip stirred
and sighed. He was a fettler In a railway

cutting, where Ihe west wind swept its

fire breath on the burning earth.

He tired of roving in the out back and
went to sea again. Then he came down
to Melbourne, and took a job in Crackbutt'i
boot factory in Carlton. He struggled ter-
ribly to teach himself. Out of his poor
wages he paid a little every week, learning
to spell and do his sums. Almost every
night saw him in the Public Library. Thero
he read voraciously-subconsciously reject«
lng from his mind what bis own «""«"it

decided he would never want;-as though
lt were a kind of mental excrement. Hè
became a member of the Australian Na-
tives Association, and in that cradle place
of public men learned to debate skilfully,
and with a swift and bitter acrimony of
tongue.

With a peculiar certitude of ultimate suc-
cess he waited, hearing the rumblings of a
great tide. George Brace had that without
which mere ambition is a bubble-tenacity.
He could read men with a disturbing and
penetrating exactness. Very well then,
patience: that patience which is terrible,
because of its infinity.

M ATHEW TWENTY

MEN plied his business in a busy thorough-
fare of South Melbourne. In fact, Claren-
don Street was the busiest street of that
very prosperous community-as it is to-day.
Next door to Twentymen's was Hipper's,
the chemist's, whose shop window shouted
discreetly of throat pastilles, magnesia, and
eminently genteel aperients. Hipper's
window, moreover, was ornamented by an
Immense glass vessel like a gargantuan scent
bottle, full of scarlet-tinted water.

Adjoining Hipper's-that is, going down
Clarendon Street-was Thos. Tempett's
hatter's and mercer's shop. Tempett was a
very earnest man, rapid In his speech and
movements, and with reddish hair.

The bank came next. And after that,
and on the corner, was the Londonderry
Arms Hotel, distinctive by repulsive stone
faldals, a dark slate roof, three balconies,
and a very bad smell at the back.

Standing next door to Twentymen's, and
going up-that is, towards town-was Hole's
the undertaker's. His window was illumin-
ated in a ghostly glow of blue, and a waxen
wreath of fly-blown forget-me-nots lay on
a quilted bed of faded plush.

Well, that was a block of Clarendon Street
as it was once. It was a broad and busy
thoroughfare, linking the southern suburbs
with the city. And. with its banks and

property agents-its drapers, plumbers, and
pawnbrokers - its hotels and hot coSee
shops, a deal of money must have travelled
up and down its length, in the course of a
day.

And yet, notwithstanding Its mercantile
activities, there was an ordered and un-
hurried placidness about the street-a
placidness which could be very noisy, and
yet elude a definition.

It would be wrong to form an impression
that our fathers in Clarendon Street did
not make the best of life. They traded with
gusto. Their families had good food and
plenty of it. Kites for the boys, and dollies
for the girls were cheap. On Saturday
afternoon there was the football match
or for the more adventurous of South Mel-
bourne's youth, the Albert Park lagoon in
which they might hunt yabbies with string
and a gobbet of meat.

But of all wicked fascinations, the old
Joss House round in Raglan street was pre-

eminent.

It was a more unique little colony, how-
ever, which dwelt down on the Spandril
Light. Certainly few of those who travelled
by on passing ships could guess that, shel-
tered by the lighthouse on the island's
Cliffs, types so diverse could live in happi-

ness and content.

As for the child. she found In her light-
house home a wonderment quite impossible
to tell. At first, the menace of the plunging

waves, the Isolation of the Island In the sea,
and the loud wind which bellowed in the
dark had frightened her. But, as each night
was followed by the morrow's dawn, and
Spandril stood immovable despite its cease-
less battering by the wind and tides, she
soon acquired that sense of security which
comes so easily to children. A happy thing
that lt is so.

Using spare timber from the store-shed,
Struhan and Duck had built for her a bed-
room, so prettily diminutive that it might
have been created by the dwarfs for their
Rose Red. To do lt, they partitioned off
what ls called, on lighthouses, the service

room.

"Oh, no I Not for me! It couldn't be for
met?" she had ejaculated when it was done,
her large eyes shining in her incredulous
delight. "For me? Myself? And a little
cupboard! Oh, gosh. And look-I say-it's
a real bed!" So lt was. Duck had built it
for her out of four by three, and laced a
canvas mattress on the frame. Beneath
his ragged, sandy moustache his long mouth
stretched in a grin of satisfaction. But
when he pulled aside the cretonne curtain
which masked a tiny locker, she peeped
inside and her squeal of joy was a sound
to hear.

Struhan watched her pleasure with an
unwonted stirring of his heart. "You like
them Drissie-?"

"Oh-Struhan-I love them!" She jumped
upon the bed and clapped her hands to hear
it creak. In this small room immediately
above the lighthouse kitchen she slept, and
had her thoughts and dreams for a long
time to come.

She was a strange, perplexing child. Per-
plexing certainly, to Struhan and to Duck,
whose knowledge of small girls was meagre.
Her whimsicalities and mischiefs, her vary-
ing moods and quaint little rebellions-no
less than the joys and transitory griefs
which marked each day, as sunlight does a
wall-bewildered them beyond all words.
Struhan laid down the laws which circum

scriDea ner me; ana nim sne regaraea witn

profound respect, albeit this was tinctured
with a familiarity which sometimes
bordered upon impudence.

But Harry Duck was her own adored. In
the first few weeks of her life on Spandrll
she had followed the wooden-legged linder-
man about, as a puppy does a dog. Prom
him, during the passing years, she heard
extraordinary stories of the sea, for Duck
knew how to spin a yarn.

Under Struhan's painstaking tuition she
learned sums, and how to read and write.

In the daytime she went adventuring
along the rocks. When the swift, treacher-
ous tides trailed out, she clambered down
the narrow shelves of weed-greased stone,
spearing small crab, and prising mussels
from their hold. The birds accepted her as
one of themselves.

There she would stay long hours, im-
mersed in all those small preoccupations
which loom so largely in a child's unfolding

mind.

Some more years passed, stealing her
childhood from her as she played anu slept.

Hollyhocks bent and rippled to the caress
of the wind. Beyond the squareshorn
hedges of the garden rose the outline of
the pine-clad mountains, capped with their
morions of rose-hued snow. Their silence
spoke of icy streams, cool stones, and mossy
trunks. The sun which drew a golden
cord across their distant peaks burnished
the Schloss' many window-panes with

warming flame. Within the room, a polished
grate held a small fire whose light danced
on the heavy furniture.

"So," said the plump man in the undress
military uniform, as he turned from the
window, "Karl, as you say, is twenty. I
had almost forgotten it. Twenty. His Im-
perial Majesty-and the Empire-will have
good use for men-"

"Ah, yes, Otto. Good use for men. But
not-oh surely not-for boys. And he is
a boy for all his six feet. Now, Isn't he?"

Madame Strindberg, the famous singer,
smiled tremulously. Sitting there, with a
cigarette slowly burning its life out between
her gloved fingers, she raised her eyes in
a charming wistfulness.

He moved across the room with a pon-
derous stride, and the small spurs clipped
on his polished heels chimed faintly as he
walked. Seated upon the corner of a rose-
wood table, he continued:

"My dear Mathilde, you women are weakly
in such things. The boy has had four years
at Heidelberg. He speaks three languages
with a reasonable fluency, and lt was settled
long since that he enter the Service. You
forget, my very dear Mathilde, that oppor-
tunities such as Karl will have-may I say
has had?-do not ordinarily fall to the lot
of young gentlemen with-ah-the distaff
on their quartering." The plump man
yawned, and negligently tapped his open
mouth with three fingers. Otto ls fatter,
she thought. Nor can his health be good.
His eyes are pouched.

Colonel Count Otto von Schwerin gently
tapped a cigarette upon a glossy thumb-

nail.

"You will smoke? No? Thank you, my
dear." The blue smoke swept from his nos-
trils, and the spent match clinked faintly In
the grate. "Karl should be here at any
moment now. We leave for Cuxhaven to-
night. As you know, he salis on the third.
Certainly, if he is the boy I understand him
to be-I, his father, Mathilde-he will gain
much from the experience. If Imperial
Germany is to assert herself as a great
force, and above all, as a nation of great
colonists, then those whom we train to do

the Empire's work, must have, not only
a knowledge drawn from books, but an ac-
curate acquaintance with the world, and its

manners of life."

Tlie plump limb in Its tightly strapped
trouser leg swung In a rhythm with his
verbose turns of speech. He flicked ash upon
the carpet, and his dangling eyeglass glit-
tered in the firelight.

"Karl will observe. Karl will record his
own impressions and ideas. Karl will learn
men. If, my dear, there is a better method
whereby any young man might learn these
things than as a cadet on a training ship,
I shall, my very dear Mathilde, be most
happy to hear of it. But I'll not banter. A

sherry?"

"M-m-m? Oh-No, thank you." With
her hands locked round her knee the woman
gazed into the red heart of the fire. Her
black furs lay in a rich disorder on the
high back of the chair.

O TTO KARL GRAF

VON SCHWERIN was fifty-four. Above his
uniform collar his shaven neck was thick
and pink. His pale blue eyes were weak.
More-he was troubled by a constant mitral
murmur from his heart. But twenty years
ago he had been another man. As a young
lieutenant in the 124th Regiment of
Bavarian Infantry he had borne his part
in the carnage of Gravelotte.

Lieutenant von Schwerin nursed a shat-
tered collarbone at Oberstdorf, tended by

his sisters Sophie and Hermolne. There he
met Mathilde Strindberg, fresh from the
conservatoire and the studio of her singing
master. As was perfectly natural, Otto
Imagined himself In love with her. In
matters of the heart men like our Otto
can delude themselves with ease Inciden-
tally, of course, he deceived the girl; but if
it be any extenuation, he did it without
gulle. Until the day he died, lt never oc-
curred to Otto to doubt that he loved
Mathilde.

Later, with the new measures for Army
Reform effected, his father angled him a
post in the Prussian War Ministry. Re-
gard now. Captain von Schwerin. The over
towering, great man had an occasional few
words for him, and Otto worked with pains
and considerable capacity on the matter
of the purchase of the Prussian State Rail-
ways System. For this they gave him a
bauble to dangle round his neck. Also
His Excellency Prince Bismarck squeezed
his hand In a ferocious grip, and caused to
be despatched to his apartments a hamper
of ham and spiced boar.

Otto grew stouter. In the ministry-at
the Rennklub-In the vestibule of the
Opernhaus-his colleagues and companions
whispered of the pretty Madame Strind-
berg. Very well. Let them, thought our
man. What was more-the eminence to
which his Mathilde had attained in the
operatic world, enhanced his own prestige
among his fellows, and gratified his vanity
deliciously. Vienna-Paris-Petersburg
and London accorded her that claim to
fame which she had earned.

It was not for a voice of mediocre quality
that Slr Augustus Harris had named her
the "Divine Strindberg": although a time
would come when the bright blaze of Ma-
thilde's star would be Impaired in bril-
liance by a brighter one. Madame Mar
chesl's protege-her little singing bird from
the Goldenland. Nellie Melba-had already
tasted her first triumphs. Speaking of her
Mathilde had been heard to say-"The
world ls very large, surely? It ls interest-
ing that one's rival should come from such
a new country." There was little room for
envy In Mathilde Strindberg's heart.

Her Joy was Joy indeed when, with Otto,
she could have a week or a fortnight's holi-

day at La Corniche or Interlaken. At

"»1_- " ? tv,«,, CMnt .hnrf h ol i rio V« ot

UUlCr tliilCS .. .. , .ivnii»;d

his chalet at Berchtesgaden, in the quiet
fastnesses of the Bavarian Alps. Dressed
in a rough tweed skirt, laced boots, and
with her pink skin tinctured by the crystal
air, she knew again all the exuberant and
light romanticisms of a girl. For Mathilde
loved this man whose flesh was slowly
growing into bulk.

Then came her baby. There was a day
when Otto's clerkly-looking orderly brought
him the telegram: "He will be here at any
time. Come quickly to me now. Mathilde."

Otto's father died perhaps six months
afterwards. Poor Mathilde. Otto began to
talk with glibness of home ties. Respon-
sibilities. Under an insistent pressure from
his sisters he found himself toying with
thoughts of marriage. Encumbrances, you
know. Head of the family. The elimina-
tion of one's personal feelings and inclina-
tions In those matters. Which of us men
but does not know the same moth-eaten
old hes off by heart? She would be sen-
sible? Of course. Of course . . . And little
Karl? . . . When the time came his father's
Influence would not be wanting. Otto mar-
ried, surely enough.

From time to time he lunched with Ma-
thilde, and Joined her in a regular and

pleasing correspondence. 80 there. No
more eldelwelss. No more fairy tales In the
dark, log-walled room whose firelight at
Interlaken danced and glimmered on her
pretty face, and outhrust slippered feet.
No more of all that

AHL; mountains, cold and
dusky In the rising dark, cast their slow
marching shadows on the valley's face. The
mastiffs In t^elr kennels at the back barked
at the smell >f food; and twinkling like
yellow starr f' Int lights shone from the
village '.ottages. Karl had not arrived.

"He «nould not L¿ long now, do you
think?" and not waiting for his answer
she continued-"Tell me, ls Freda well?'
He stirred at that.

"My wife ls In good health. Not. of course,

that she will believe lt herself." Hts full
and rather malicious lips curved pettishly
His gaze turned to the portrait standing
upon a music cabinet. "Freda, you must
know, would be an admirable wife In every
respect-in every respect, I say-but for
her everlasting f<tlk of lumbago and goitre
Heaven save u-> fro:n lt all." In a vicious
little gust of petulance, he crimped his
cigarette out between his thumb and fin-
ger, and flung it In the fire.

"Now. now, my dear, Freda has been a
very good wife." In mock gravity, she ad-
monished him with an uplifted finger. "Far
better," nonchalantly lighting a cigarette
"than I would ever have made you. Oh
let us not be in any doubt of that-"

With a ponderous and rather creaking
gallantry he took her up.

"My dear Mathilde, do not say it. but
there lt ls. You will be in London for the
autumn season?"

"Yes. I yielded to Bakendorf's impor-
tunities at last, and will sing Isolde. My
dear-such a man! Did I not tell him that
I would never sing Wagner to a Covent
Garden house? Oh-but I did. 'But
Madame-of course . . Unthinkable . . .
And Madame Savary will understudy Mad-
ame? So, it is settled? No?' Tiens! A
dragon of a man." With a most delightful
roguery she mocked the famous little Jew.
Then resumed:

"Not that I do not like the English. I

do. They are children, really; and. Otto,
so seriously well-behaved."

The aromatic breath of distant pines
swept softly through the room. The fire-
light's red reflections were the only light.

In an unwonted restlessness, for he was
naturally indolent and sluggish, Otto moved
and paced about, watching the creeping clock
hands, and nervously eating macaroons.
Mathilde was very quiet. And then there
sounded on the evening air the distant
drumming of a horse's hooves, and the
quick barking of a dog. They heard firm
footsteps muffled by the carpet on the
stairs; then, as she turned, dabbing a lace
bound handkerchief upon her lips, the door
swung open and he stood before them.

"Mother-"

"Karl-my dear. You-you have grown
-" He kissed her upon her fragrant
mouth, and with his firm hand patted her
cheek. "Oh-my Karl. What a man he
has grown." She murmured pathetic in
coherencies-absurd fragments of dis-
jointed speech-feeling within her breast
a tugging pain. "And that ls the wound
mark of your duel? Tell me dear: Did
it hurt much? Did it bleed?"

"Mother-" Her eyes filled as she heard
him say it so. She stood off from him,

regarding ali his fine virility: his eyes, so
blue-so very blue. His golden hair: It
shone, she thought, like the dwarfs' gold
beneath the Rhine's cold heart. With a
courtly solicitude and grace he led his
mother to a chair, and sat beside her on

Its arm.

Otto, as he looked at them, twirled his
monocle upon its cord, knowing a puzzled
sense of loneliness. That is the mood when
men begin to taste the sour flavor of re-
grets. Mathilde was beautiful. As beau-
tiful, indeed as she had ever been. Her
voice was matchless, and an Impeccable
culture was Irradiated from her mind. Let
Marchesi boast about her twittering canary
from the world's end-Melbourne, in Aus-
tralia, wasn't lt?-as much as she liked.
His Mathilde would retain her empire for
a long time to come.

"Karl-"

"Father, a thousand pardons, slr. I had
not seen you there." The young fellow
sprang to his feet, stood erect and pressed
nls father's outstretched hand. "They had
told me you were out."

"Out?" the elder man rejoined. "I rode
this morning with Boehmer. Boehmer, my
boy, may be an authority on colonial sta-
tistics-they tell me, you know, that he
ls. But I am hanged if he knows a horse's
face from Its rear. Your pardon, my

dear-"

She smiled happily, and in a charming
forgiveness. Yet, as the two men talked
of the nation's budgets, of colonies and
naval armaments, she knew a momentary
Jealousy; one, however, which called up In
her heart no measure of resentment. The
golden sherry in the glasses glowed.

T

JL. HE htAff man to

the cavalry cap ana the dragoon's boot«
-he whose rare appetite for food and
drink was gluttonous-whose smouldering
eyes flashed lightning shafts, and whose
grim face had all the impassivity of cold
unyielding bronze, could well afford
to take his rest. With his huge
hands. and blunt. gripping fingers,
he had seized that sodden clay from
wlîich great nations may be wrought.

Squeezing and pounding and kneading it
in his giant's grasp, Prince Bismarck placed
before the world his splendid artifact. New
Germany. August. Imperial.

Could his Excellency have guessed that
in a generation's time, a gentleman with
the instincts of a mountebank, would tin-
ker with his legacy until lt fell and spilt
in fragments at his feet, his heart would
surely have broken. He may have had a
premonition, for all that. But the Kaiser
reigned In Potsdam. Before a cheval
glass he aped Mephistopheles, and with
stiff pomade bent up the ends of his mous-
tache, in the accepted satanic vogue.

Bismarck no longer drove the State's
unruly stallions. William. In a fatuous and
boyish glae, peered from the gilded charlot,
as though they two had gone to school
.ogether. But. drive those stamping horse«
with one hand? Impossible! No wonder
that they bolted when he commenced to
fiddle with the whip.

Otto accompanied Karl to Cuxhaven and
saw him sall. Then with freshly stirred
paternal Instincts twitching at his heart h«
returned to his desk, his beer, and his
cigars. Mathilde went on to London,

HQ

(OO there. Oh, no!
It's not a bit of use trying to fly." Swiftly,
her Arm, brown arm swept out, and with a
sharp protesting "quark" the gull was
prisoned in her hands. When it pecked at
her Drissie gently cuffed it on the head.

"Now, now, now. You're like all wild
things, you know. A little stupid-always
frightened-and quite ungrateful. Yes. I
find you with a broken wing, and one eye
almost out. I bring you home, tie you up,
and make you all ship-shape. And the
useless thing that you are, you snip at me.

Bruh-"

The gull, perplexed without a doubt, and,
In all probability, very much frightened
too, quarked once again. With a quivering
throat it struggled in the girl's gentle hold,

and then fell still.

"So now you've learnt reason, have you?
My, but you're a graceless bird." With the
most gentle efficiency she finished strap-
ping up the wing; then stooped and set
the bird down on the stone-flagged floor. It
fluttered its other wing furiously; and with
a rolling gait waddled beneath the sanc-
tuary of the kitchen dresser.

As Drissie dredged flour into a cracked
mixing basin she sang, which sent Paul,
the cat, back to sleep. The cheap clock
on the mantelpiece above the stove ticked
quietly. The gull thrust out her head
perkily, and looked about; then sharply
rapped his yellow beak upon the floor. It
jarred his head, and he looked surprised
to find that stone was so hard Drissie
still sang, and mixed her cake.

In fact, so intent was she upon her
chanty, that the sound of Duck's wooden
leg upon the pavement outside was quite

mauaiDie. ÜUE wnen ne nitea up ms

Wheezy voice and joined in too, his seamed
face instinct with love of her, how cheerily
the lighthouse kitchen echoed to their
stave! Her eyes beamed, and with a
floury finger upraised she kept the time,
while he braced himself upon his out
thrust wooden peg, and clapped his battered
hands.

". . . . Blow the man down, bullies

Blow the man down!

Oh gimme some time to blo-ow

the man down!"

D RISSIE knew her

chanties very well, for Mister Duck had
taught her all of them.

She laughed in an intoxicating glee, her
lithe body leant forward and convulsed.
Duck mopped his face, rolled his soiled
handkerchief within his hands and sat
down, breathing a little faster.

"Phew-ah. We'll get ourselves into
trouble, all right, all right," said he, hitch-
ing himself into a more comfortable posi-
tion. In doing so, his wooden limb, as
though it were a compass leg, described a
stiff arc.

"Trouble?" she echoed, as she reamed
out the last viscid fragments of the mix-
ture in the dish. With a deft movement of
her hand she drew back her hair, pressing
the little knot at the back of her . head.
"Trouble? My goodness, Mister Duck,
shouldn't I just think so." She slapped
a wet dollop of cake mixture from the spoon.
"Luke's only been asleep for half an hour,
and if he wakes up, we'll see him on those
?talrs there, staring at us like-like-"

"Like the devil, Drissie," Duck volun-
teered.

"Yes. Like the devil," she concurred. The
oven door clanged to. She wiped her floury

hands on her holland apron, then set them
on her hips.

"In twenty minutes, Mister Duck, that
-" jerking her head In a most unladylike
fashion towards the stove, "will be a cake."
His leg creaked softly, as though it said
"A cake? Splendid." And he replied "A
cake? Well, Drissie, that's a fair piece of
all right. Surely, if there's one thing I like,
it's a cake. My sister, over in South Mel-
bourne, you know, could make a cake. Mind
you"-the underman made this very clear
"I'm not saying, Drissie, but that you can't
show her a point or two when it comes to
the flavoring end of the business; but, if
it's just a matter of plain, wholesome, moist
cake-what the grocers call a fruity cake
my sister Harriet is as good as any in

Clarendon Street."

Duck fumbled in his trousers pocket for
his pipe. But Drissie had a few words to
say, touching that same engine of con-

tentment.

"That pipe again? My gracious, Mister
Duck. Now tell me; did you clean it after
I told you to?"

"Well," replied the indicted one, "when
you speaks of cleaning it-then so I did,
after a manner of speaking. With a

feather."

"With a feather." Deep scorn underlay
Drissie's voice. "I think-yes, I do-it
should be burned."

"Burned? Burned, damme, did you say,
miss?" ejaculated poor Duck, dismayed and
fearful for his pipe. He almost whined
in his advocacy.

"I do think," said Duck at length, "that
the boss grows, well, queerer, every day."
He started work upon a callous in his hand
palm. Drissie looked through the partly
open door, out to the stone-paved little

yard where on a line the washing danced,
bellied and joyous in the scampering wind.

"Queerer? How, queerer?"

"Well, this way, Drissie. He talks, now,
hardly ever. Not for that matter that he
ever was one for chattering." To lend
weight to what he said, Duck stabbed his
knife point into the scrubbed table-top,
until Drissie took it from him. "But I've
seen a change in him. Quite slow, p'raps.
But it's there. Now, he goes days-whole
days-and not a blooming word. Just
that tight mouth of his, and them two eyes

that never seem to blink."

Drissie leaned farther forward as she
sat, and her own eyes did not leave Duck's
brown face. As though he had no thought
of what he did, he brought out his evil
pipe again and put it in his mouth. Then

he resumed.

"Wait a minute, Drissie . . . Another thing
I don't like-no, by gosh, is the way he's
been poring over that there Bible, night
after night, for the past two years or more.
The Bible's quite a fair book in its way,
Drissie. I've got no quarrel with the
Bible. But it ain't natural for any
human always to be a-reading of those
there tales of Moses and knocking of burn-
ing bushes till water comes out of snakes.
I ask you-"

"I don't believe it," said Drissie, with
unambiguous finality.

"Eh? Don't believe what?"
"Those Moses tales."

"Oh, I dunno. Some queer things happen
in them parts. But you really ought to
try and stir the old man up. Sometimes"
-Duck stopped, looked round, then, with
his voice dropped to a whisper tone, went
on: "Sometimes I've wondered if he's not
a point balmy. You know. Drissie-"
He tapped his head, and with his finger

made the slow motion of a tinning wheel.
Going in the works, as you might say."

Drissie traced foolish patterns in a small
heap of flour. Two wrinkles appeared

above her nose.

"You mean," said she, "cracked?"

"Ah," Duck answered her. Again his
leg squeaked gently as he moved. His
words disturbed her more than she cared
to let him see. And yet, it was no less
than she had often wondered, too.

In the old days, Struhan had filled her
small mind with respect and a veneration
for what he represented in her life. For
one thing, he was tall and large, qualities
in an adult frame which insensibly impress
a child. This feeling in the course of time
had yielded place to awe. The lighthouse
keeper's taciturnity, his cold undeviating
eyes, and the mechanical precision by which
he regulated the lives of those who dwelt
upon the island invested him.

Austerity and Joylessness breed fear.
Now, there were times when Drissie and the
underman knew a slow growing terror of
they knew not what. Impalpably, the man
whose hand seemed always stretched above
their heads was but another of those elemen-
tal things engirdling their world. With
winds and waves, the sunlight and the
moon's thin glare, grey-bearded Struhan
was an inseparable part. Drissie was not
to know by those alchemistic changes which
had fused his soul, the keeper of the Light
was dead. With less of Ufe indeed than all
the men whose blinded eyeballs stared from
their bony sockets to the sky above the
reef. Yes, dead. A man may still eat
Irish stew and breathe, and yet be dead.

T

swept about the Light in breathless gusts.
The two who sat in the uncornered living
room could hear its hlgh-vowelled wailing
through the lantern chamber louvres. At
intervals they felt the quivering of rock.

Seated on a settle by the wall, Drissie
appeared absorbed in what she read, but,
when she felt sure that she was unob-
served, her book was lowered, and she
looked at him who also read.

He seemed oblivious to every sound, and
sat there motionless, his head downbent,
his bearded jaw upon his hand. Some-
times, he wet his thumb upon his lip, and
with a gentle rasping sound turned to an-
other page. And then at other times,
watching him covertly, she saw his lips
move soundlessly. The lamp's smooth light
shone on the table in a cone of luminance,
and gleamed upon the man's grey, unkempt
hair. It streamed along the lower reaches
of the walls and floor. But in a bold ad-
monitory bulk, as though a hand had
brushed it on in sombre tones of sepia, the
man's bunched shadow lay behind him on
the upper surface of the wall, and on the
ceiling's face.

Marking a page in her book, Drissie rose
and set it back on the deal shelves which
stood against the wall. Her eyes were
tired and pricking. It was half-past ten.

"Shall I make cocoa, Struhan?" she asked
him, standing upon one foot, and straight-
ening the heel of her slipper. He did not
appear to hear her, and she came closer to
repeat the question. He raised his head
at that, and, for a moment, seemed perplexed
as though his mind had travelled Into dim
and hidden recesses of time. He drew his
hand across his face, and combed his fingers
through his beard.

"Ah-Drissie-listen-" As he swung
round with his gnarled hand upraised, a

thunder peal, borne on the swiftly-striding
storm, sounded with muffled arrogance,
then died away. She felt her soft flesh
roughen at the sound and whispered,
"There will be a storm to-night, Struhan."
As she murmured the words, that opaque
square which was the window-pane was lit
with stabbing, purple fire. And then faint
-hunder spoke again.

"Storm? Ay-storm," he rejoined stand-
ing erect. His right hand was still raised.
The other rested upon the open page of the
great Book. With uplifted face, and his
deep sunken eyes half-closed, he spoke as
though no other person stood within the

room.

"Always this threat of storm. Yet noth-
ing . . . Nothing but waves and roaring
wind. Mere emptiness . . . Mere bubblings
of water . . . Froth and spray . . . and in
the morning's light, gulls whose thin necks
were broken In the dark . . . See . . ." He
stretched his hand out with the fingers bent
as though he held a coin within his palm.
See. . . Is there nothing I can offer thee
for chaos indescribable and terrible?"

His great head drooped, and his hand

fell to his side.

"Drissie-to bed!" he bade her. Slowly
he closed the Book. In apprehensive
puzzlement, her forehead puckered, and with
eyes open very wide, she turned to go. To
a reverberation such as iron will strike from
Iron, the thunder shouted, and, with its
voice, a blue Whip lashed the window-pane

again.

"Yes, Struhan," she said. "Is there
nothing I can get for you?"

"Nothing," he answered her. "I shall take
the night watch till morning."

"Good-night, Struhan." At the door she

to blow lt out. He answered her.

"Good-night, Drissie. Remember your
prayers."

In her small bed in the chamber upstairs,
she listened with a frightened heart to the
deep overture of such a storm as she would
never live to hear again. In his small quar-
ters off the store-shed, across the spray
dashed yard. Harry Duck grumbled in his
sleep, dreaming of his sister in Clarendon
Street. But Strahan, pacing around the
wind-flailed gallery, felt an appalling joy
to know that storm was on its way.

T

A HE swaying ham-
mocks swung like dummy things. The dim
light, hanging from the deck above, trans-
formed them Into sausage shapes which
rolled in rhythm with the pitching ship.
Each hammock held a drowsy occupant.

Under furled topsails, mains and royals,
the ship Prinz Bismarck held upon her
course. White fountain jets burst from her
plunging bow, and a great wind which
pressed upon her beam caused her to heel
and labor heavily. The watch, clad in their
crackling oilskins now and again cried
warnings to each other as the black seas
swept in and scoured along the decks, to
stream in cascades from the vessel's sides.
The steersmen, standing on the sodden
blocks, straightened their cramped fingers,
and then took hold again. One, whose red
beard was glistening with water drops,
stared out into the black bowl of the ris-
ing gale. His fellow spread his booted legs
apart, and staggered as the ship drove

down.

She rose until her spindle sprit and mar-
tingale were pointed upwards like a warn-
ing sign. Then down again. No star light
glimmered from the sky; and angry gulls
shrilled wildly from the dark.

Within five hours this ship was wrecked
upon the Spandril Reef.

Schwartz, the captain, fell, then steady-
ing himself against his berth, drove his
great feet into his sea-boots and stamped
them on. Struggling into a duffle coat he
staggered to the door, and reached the
deck. He raised his voice in a great shout,
but no sound could prevail against the
roaring fury of that hurricane, and in a
passionate ferocity, great waves which
made the dark night darker as they rose
and leaped, struggled In demoniac on-
slaughts to engulf the ship.

She struck at six bells In the middle
watch. The reef teeth gutted her. The
mainmast fell In a catastrophe of torn pine,
shattered yards and standing gear. The
wreck of it fell down upon a group which
labored at a boat. It broke the legs of two
of them, who screamed despairingly. And
Karl's stout comrade Polycarp-he of the
freckled face who loved Beethoven's sonatas
and was an adept at conjuring tricks-took
a great buffet on his head. Karl, in a mes-
merised suspension of all thought, saw his
friend's skull break open like a fractured
egg. Four waves drove the ship farther on
the rocks, lifting and dropping her in
hideous delight, and the mad thing which
had ruined her howled splendidly to hear
her breaking up. As several of the crew
struggled to free the tackle of the long
boat, the falls, still hooked on, fouled the
mainmast's wreck. The fifth wave dashed
those men insensible and drowned them out
of hand. The boat fell clear, dangled upon
the bos'n's foot, round which the falls
had caught, and, having torn it off, plunged
down to sink in water tinctured with his
spouting blood. "It's off! It's off! It's off!"
the man cried unavailingly, until his false

teeth fell back in his throat and choked
him; when the sixth wave washed him
clear and overboard.

And more of them went overboard with
that. Fer the Prinz Bismarck's back cracked
with a detonation like a cannon shot. The
afterpart took down with it the twelve or
fourteen men who slid upon her canting
planks. The helpless Light, eight hundred
yards away, rolled its one eye in clownish
impotence.

"Oh-oh-oh-, Strahan," Drissie moaned.
"Nothing-not a thing to do but watch?"
Her dripping ulster slapped and tugged.
Her eyes were frantic in her helplessness,
and shuddering, she pressed her hands
upon her streaming face. But neither
Duck nor Struhan heard her voice. That
last heartrending call of drowning men
had ceased, and all its frightful echoings
had travelled northward to the land. Stru-
han said not a word, but Duck was palsied
by the horror of the night.

"Struhan, if we'd but had a rocket gun
we might have saved them all. Poor deso-
late creachers, everyone." The wind's lash
struck him fiercely on the face. He turned
to go below. His wooden peg clacked dole-
fully. Drissie followed him. But at the
iron door, which opened on the gallery, as
though with one accord they both looked

back.

Struhan was standing at the rail, and as
they watched, amazed, and almost hypno-
tised, they saw him raise his clasped hands
to the tumultuous sky. The white glare of
the rolling lamp seemed to envelop him in
an unearthly fire, while he held converse
with a thing invisible to them. They left
him to the night, and went below. Down-
stairs, with the wild gale shut out, the girl
stripped off her rustling mackintosh which
trained upon the floor. Seated upon the
settle by the wall she pressed her hair
back from her face and shook her head.

Dunk sighed. Without a word he sat upon
a chair. Then they heard Struhan's heavy
footfalls coming down.

"A dreadful night this. Strahan." It was
the underman who spoke. His voice wa«
very low. "If only, now, we'd had a rocket
They could've-"

"Not one would we have saved. No man
could make that Journey on a line."

"Oh, Strahan," Drlssie broke in, her
pallid lips still quivering. "To think of
all those men. I can still hear their dread-
ful screams. Shall I ever forget them?"
The lighthouse trembled to the wave's
fierce fist. She blanched to hear the reson-
ance of that great blow. Then, with her
head between her hands, she burst into
tears. "Oh-all those men. Drowned.
Dead. And the good ship-" Duck limped
across the room and tried to comfort her.
But Strahan stood abstracted and aloof.

At length he spoke. Slowly. Musingly:
"It was her destiny . . . My light was clear.
Wreck is the lot of many ships; and death
the portion of all men. . . ." He gazed
with moody eyes upon the man and girl.

As a late leaden dawn approached the
eastern sky, Drissie fell fast asleep. Duck
had placed over her an old plaid rug.
Sleeping, she dreamed of ghostly seas.

Struhan's head rested on his fallen arm,
and, on the wall, that other part of him
maintained its watch. Until the wick's
flame guttered-fell-rose up and died. It
was the day.

A FEW drowned men

marched in upon that morning's tide.

And other things besides dead men came
in. The fragments of a boat which cost a
man his foot. He mieht have been allowpd

to drown with two. . . . Some hen-coops
with their bedraggled cargoes, dead. . . .
Hatch combings. . . . Gratings. . . . The
captain's cabin door, bearing its small brass
plate, "Kapitän." . . . Old potatoes bob-
bing like ten thousand corks. . . .

With the white spindrift fluttering about
their feet, Drissie and Duck watched them
all travel in. Duck waded out in water
shin-deep and lifted a wooden object. It
was the backboard of the long boat. Burned
into it, deep letters spelled the wrecked
ship's name. He brought it to the beach
and dropped it on the shingle, near her feet.

"Drissie, what's this?" he asked. "Hess
Hem-Hess-Prinz-" She bent and peered.

"S.M.S. Prinz Bismarck. That isn't Eng-
lish, Mister Duck. Your pants are wet."
Perplexed, she raised her face to which
the wind had whipped a rosy coloring. "She
must have been French, I think. Perhaps

American?"

Duck grunted. But enlightenment leapt
to his eyes.

"Eh? Bismarck, did you say, Drissie?
Bismarck? Why, of course-that's it! Prinz
Bismarck. Yes. yes." This was a minor
triumph and he made the most of it. "What
a dunce you are, Drissie. I really am sur-
prised. American? Pshaw! A French-
man? Yes-I don't think. That craft out
there," nodding as though she still were
intact on the reef, "she were a German."

With her skirt rolled about her waist,
Drissie waded in and brought some of the
wrecked ship's stores to the shore. Duck
went for more; and they piled them near
an ordered heap which they had gathered
in the past half-hour. But when she
turned and looked to sea again, her keen
eyes noticed something else.

"What's that? Gosh, it's a man, I do
believe."

"What? Where?" he inquired, shad!""

his eyes and looking In the direction of

her gaze.

"Over there. Look; he waved. Yes, it is
-it's a man-and not a dead one neither."
In her anxiety, she took no notice when
the water streamed about her legs, drench-
ing her clothes with spattering and spray
For moments, then, a wave's dark ridge
concealed the floating object from their
sight. But while they watched, it came
in view again, slowly revolving in a cur-
rent's swirl.

"It's a man, I believe. Stay-watch for
- There!" she exclaimed excitedly, "he
waved again."

"Waved? That Isn't likely, Drlssie. Tt
must be the water working of his arm. Eh?

Let's see-"

W^VED? Unmistak-

ably. She grasped his arm. "It is a
man! A living man! Thine for the saving,
if thou canst!" She turned, and, quite
unconscious of the shingle biting on her
naked feet, raced up the pathway tb the
store-shed at the top, seized a large coil of
rope and so, with frantic haste, returned
to Duck.

"See-oh-Mister Duck, we can't reach
him." A horrifying knowledge came to
both of them at once."

"Why-why-he'll go under the Slide
"Aye, Drlssie dear. If he's not drowned al-
ready then he soon will be, for under the
Slide he'll go, and that's certain sure."

"Then we'll go round and try to catch
him there. Quickly-oh-quicker. No-I'll
hurry on. You follow me."

She started off, the rope colled about her
shoulders and her brown hair blowing be-
hind her as she ran. Duck cursed his lame-
ness, and all half-drowned men, as he
creaked, laboring, after her.

Now, at the farther corner of the little
cove's promontory, great rocks are piled high

and confusedly. Long ages of the water
battery upon this place have undermined
the cliff. Sapped and unwieldy, it has
tumbled down; and in the midst of a be-
wilderment of cracked and fractured stone,
a polished granite table, running downward
to the sea, slopes at an angle almost impos-
sible to climb. The whole might measure
fifty feet across; and from its lower edge
up to the top, perhaps the same. That face
of granite is the Slide. Above, the black
escarpment of the cliffs conveys a sombre

menace to the eye.

But there ls evil underneath. A wicked
place. A fatal place. A place avoided by the
birds, who, above all things, love the sun-
light and its pale gleam on waves.

Towards this place Drissie was scrambling
Great wind and rushing water almost deaf-
ened her. Once there she turned and,
panting, beckoned urgently to Duck. Her
eyes were shining. Upon her foot there
was a watery smear of blood, where a sharp
mussel-shell had lanced her heel. Swiftly
she uncoiled the rope, then looked out
towards the man who floated In. He lay
athwart a baulk of wood, and as she looked
he raised his face. At that distance it ap-
peared a pallid mask, pierced by three holes.
She heard her own voice say, "He's alive
I saw him calling out." But at the bottom
of the Slide the water cauldron churned
and boiled, dragging and tugging at the
rock's black beard of weed. The current
bore the man still closer in.

Limping and red-faced, Duck reached her
ride at last. He, too, looked down. Then

out.

Stepping up closer. Duck shouted:

"No go, Drlssie! s'good as done for!"
"I'll get him! I'll get him!"

"What's that? Hey-you can't;-"

"Let go! I'll fish him out! But the Slide's
the only place to bring him upi"

Duck wondered if her senses had left her
When they looked again the floating man
had come in closer. Now, as they called to
him, the plank on which he lay turned
round slowly, feeling the first firm pressure
of the whirlpool underneath the Slide. She
called out loudly. Once more. Then Duck's
hoarse voice took up the hail: "Ahoy!" The
man's eyes turned towards them in a stare
of pitiable agony. And then he shook his

head.

"Ahoy!" she shrieked at him against the
choking wind. "Great fool-catch hold!'

and flung the hissing line. It struck the
water near his face, but still he stared
mutely and shook his head. Calling up
some last fragment of his strength, he
clutched once at the trailing rope, missed,
and let his face fall forward on his arms
again. A slow wave lifted him. urging him
nearer in. Duck groaned, and shook his
fist.

With that the girl appeared to be pos-
sessed. Hand over hand she hauled in the
wet line. Duck, to restrain her, closed his
broad fist about her arm. Angrily she flung
it off, hurriedly unhooked her skirt, letting
it fall about her feet. Off came her jersey,
too; and there she stood, in a darned, flut-
tering chemise.

"Here-take the line!" she called to him,
knotting one end about her waist. Duck
realised the futility of any argument. He
lashed the other end around his middle, sat
down, and braced his wooden limb against
a small protuberance of rock. Shaking her
blown hair from her flashing eyes, she let
him take a strain upon the rope, then,
crouched, made that astounding descent
of the Slide. When she had reached its
edge she stood erect, and with her small
toes gripping for a hold, sprang down and
out. As the line leapt and travelled through

his hands. Duck exclaimed, "Heavens!" and
ground his leg more firmly against the

rock.

With short, fast strokes, she swam out to
the man upon the plank, and clutched his
shirt. He turned his clouded eyes upon
ner face, and tried to speak.

"Wake up! Hey, you! Drowned man
wake up! Stir up, big fool!" But he was
past all understanding of her words. The
fear of that which lay beneath the Slide
lent her an unsuspected strength and
energy, and, treading water as she worked,
she unloosened the line about her waist
and put a bight about the man's limp back
and thighs. The Slide's huge upper jaw
was almost overhead. And, as she worked,
she talked In a loud voice to sustain her own
courage. "My goodness; such a useless hulk
it ls. . . . Oooops! Come, come-now-ah!
-that's lt. . . . Wake up! . Wake up!
And kick! Oh-gosh-what a booby! . . ."

She cast a fearful look behind to see what
waves were creeping up by stealth. Two
travelled under them, although her legs
could feel the spinning of the outer swirl
Then, with a tug upon the line for Duck,
she saw the senseless one drawn up a foot
or two, and, swimming in a broad circle to
avoid the suck, made for a landing twenty
yards farther down, where a fierce surf
seethed furiously over great boulders which
had fallen from the cliff.

Twice she was dashed against the rocks,
armed with their vicious oyster blades and
periwinkle studs, and moaned to feel the
agony of an injured knee. But as the blood
welled out and trickled from the gashes in

her arms and legs, she clambered up to
Duck, and reeling In a dreadful vertigo,
and laughing, too, grasped the taut line in
her flayed hands. The two of them hauled

in.

Strahan had just stepped out upon the
gallery, and saw the two of them gesticu-
lating from the rocks above the Slide. He
clambered round to them and looked at
Drissie. His face paled. But he was re-
assured to see her stand and smile at him,
whereupon, taking the unconscious man
upon his back, and helped by Duck, he
bore him to the Light.

There the hapless fellow was stripped and

rubbed, and the two men made splints and

set his broken thigh. Drissie limped home
alone, and, wrapped In Harry Duck's great-
coat, sat by the kitchen fire with her feet in
the oven. But in her bed, upstairs, Karl
was deliriously babbling in German of
crocuses and of someone by the name of
Polycarp.

That afternon a holst of flags flew from
the jackstaff of the Spandril. Light The
substance of the signal was reported in Mel-
bourne two days later. The few drowned
men who were washed in were buried In a
common grave. Luke read the service over
them. Duck filled In their shallow tomb.

N OW - speaking of

storms. About this time one of another kind
was brewing in the land. The bowler
hatted merchants round In Flinders Lane
heard its first mutterings, and talking of
it in their snug, club smoking-rooms In
Collins Street looked pretty blue. So did
the directors of the shipping offices. For at
first lt concerned their ships. There was
felt in the air a troubled discontent.

Grievances, real and fancied, first pro-
voked the great Maritime Strike. A deal
of whispering and protests-charges, re-
criminations and denials, gave lt an im-

petus.

There came a day in Melbourne when the
trains drew into Spencer Street and
Flinders Street, but did not leave again.
Their crews walked off, leaving the en-
gines with the grey ash cooling in their
bowels. The tinkling cable trams stood
in their murky depots. The humming dyna-
mos in the power stations sighed and fell
alseep. The gasworks' furnaces died down.
It was the strike.

Most of the men went to the meetings
or the demonstrations in the streets, while
some moped about the wharves and the
piers.

With the great strike of 1890, there came
the opportunity for which George Brace, the
planning, patient little man, had watched.
It was the tide which bore him to his des-
tiny. Later, the people sent him into Par-

liament.

JL HERE you have lt

In a nutshell, gentlemen. This business
might drag on for three months-perhaps
longer-although, personally, I doubt it. As
Sir Robert has reminded us, the company
will see a lot of money lost. But, gentle-
men, from first to last, the strike gives every
evidence of being mishandled. I have be-
fore me a letter from our manager in
Sydney-" The chairman of directors
of Craddock, Dalkeith Ltd. ruffled the pile
of correspondence lying by his hand. "Allow
me, sir. Here, I think." The secretary
leaned over, and handed the letter to the
chairman, John Craddock. "Ah, yes." Be-
fore reading, he glanced through its con

tenta agata, then, lifting his eyes, looked
for a moment at the faces of the com-
pany's shareholders, ranged in a horseshoe
bend before the great board-room table.
On every one was a trace of nervous ap-
prehension. Then, straightening up, he
raised his voice and read:

"... Over here the general Impression
ls that the strike must wear itself out in
a very little time. Nor does there seem
any likelihood of it extending to the ships

engaged in overseas trade . . . The unions
totally lack any organised strength . ."

The chairman continued reading, here
and there pausing to explain an allusion
or a reference.

". . .So there, gentlemen; and I think
you will agree with me that Craddock, Dal-
keith Ltd. is in a better position to stand a
siege than our friends down at the port."

Craddock sat down. The shareholders
moved in their chahs and shuffled thelr
feet. Some of them blew their noses as If

they were relieved. One rose, glanced
at some notes he held in his hand, and,

coughing In a self-deprecatory manner,
asked his question. He looked a mean,
small man. But, no. Mr. Chairman would
not care to express an opinion on the de-
gree to which next year's dividends might
be affected. Certainly, the duration and
the gravity of the strike would find some
reflection in the next balance-sheet.

Invited to express its confidence In the
chairman and the directors, the meeting
clapped manfully, and broke up. The
shareholders, with their pamphlets and um-
brellas, drifted out, although it required
two journeys by the slow lift to take them
all down. But once in William Street they
soon dispersed. Craddock came down-
stairs too, and. seated at his desk, signed
the afternoon's letters.

Outside, in William "street, voices and
footsteps, hooves and wheels, blent in the
cheerful roaring roundelay of the city's
life. More distantly. Craddock could hear
impatient bells from trams which rumbled
up and down Bourke Street. But to-day he
missed the blowing of sirens from the ships
lying moored along the river wharves.
From that, and with some disgust, his
thoughts turned to the company's four
coastal steamers, and the splendid Wain
fleet tied up and idle in the bay. He shut
his inkwell lid and rose to leave. But as
he swung his safe's great door, which closed
with a quick fuff of air expelled from Its
interior, the junior clerk knocked and en-

tered.

"Yes? What ls lt. Meeks?"

"Captain Wetherdick, slr. He wants to
know if he can see you for a moment."

"Wetherdick? I should like to see him.
Show him in, Meeks, will you?" Craddock
locked the safe doors and, turning, faced the

sailor-man.

"Hello, Wetherdick; hello! sit down."

"Good day, sir. Good day to you. Thanks,

I will."

"Well, lt looks as though you'll have a
holiday, captain," Craddock smilingly re-

marked.

"A holiday. Mr. Craddock? Just that, sir,
I'm thinking A rotten piece of business
lt ls, too, if you'll allow me my opinion."
The little captain sat bolt upright in his
chair and gently struck the table edge with
his hand. "Another thing, sir. My own
belief is that the whole business is worked
up-cooked, as it were, by those Rooski
Ni'lists. You understand me, Mr. Crad-

dock?"

At that, burly John Craddock smiled
again, "Oh well, that may be, captain. Al-
though, mind you, the strike's been coming
for a very long time past, and these things
must run their course, you know." He put
his cigar down on a bronze ash-tray which
bore in bas-relief the figure of a full-rigged
ship. "Tell me, how are your people on
the Walnfleet?" Now there was quite a dif-
ferent note In Craddock's voice. Wether-
dick was quick to notice lt and to react ac-
cordingly.

"The crew, Mr. Craddock, are all right,
barring the four I wrote of In my report.
They were only wanting a chance to clear
off, and a good riddance to them, say L
My new number one-Bult, you remember
-signed on another cook t'other day. A
Chink." When Davie Wetherdick smiled, all
his fine wrinkles deepened, marking his face
in strange and unexpected patternings.

They talked for more than hall an hour,
and Craddock for one thought the time
very well spent. For Wetherdick, the cap-
tain of the great iron Wainfleet, one of the
famous breed of grain clippers, was an old
and trusted servant of the company.

When he was ashore, he lived in Bayview
Crescent, in the suburb of Brunswick.
Bleached plane-trees lined that thorough-
fare, and carpeted the asphalt with their
crackling leaves. So much for Wetherdick.
Because his ship coulrfnot be loaded with
her quota of wheat, he was on holidays. So
was the Wainfleet's number one-the mate
-who lived in Raglan Street with his wife,
Clara, and their son. Master Bult was as
yet trousered in napkins, garnished as to
the front with the indispensable large safety
pin. On Sunday afternoons, when he went
across to the Albert Park Lagoon with his
parents, and where, incidentally, he ap-
peared to derive no inconsiderable joy from
poking dog's eyes with his thumbs, he wore

a pelisse made by Grandma Twentymen.

TH E polished

brougham rolled silently upon its rubber
tyred wheels. As it turned out of King
Street and into Bourke Street's noisy tho-
roughfare, it shuddered lightly on its
springs.

Craddock was tired. His firmly moulded
face was drawn. Now, with a wearying day's
work done he felt depressed. Besides, some
gastric rebellion, fomented by a careless
luncheon at the club, had brought him
stomach-ache. Confound that Perrier. The
noisy flow of vehicles, hansoms and lan-
daus, broughams and Victorias, with trams
and slower-moving cabs and carts provoked
a petulance by no means habituai with him.
His collar galled his throat. A bad day,

John.

"Daddy, you're grumpy." His daughter
touched him on the arm and beat a friendly
little tattoo on his coat sleeve. He started
from his abstraction.

"Umph. Yes, Beth, Tm an ogre. Fe fl
fo furn." He smiled at her. Beth's blue
eyes sparkled and her teeth showed daintily
between her lips.

"Well, I think it's just horrid of you.
Here's the first day of my holidays. I
come all the way in to town on a dreadfully
hot day just to bring you home, and you
roll your eyes, or as much as, and growl
fee fi fo furn, as though Tm four. Do you
know Fl] be eighteen on Wednesday?"

She pouted, then scolded him again. John,
to whom his girl was as the apple of his
eye, turned round to look at her, although
the shadow of her hat concealed the creamy

texture of her pretty face. He felt a pleas-
ing restfulness at her propinquity.

"You're quite right, Beth dear. I am »
boor. Your old father's a curmudgeon."

"Yes, and what's more, now that you're
In a repentant mood, you shall take me
into Craig's for a new hat."

"So I shall, dearest. It's a bargain. Crisp"
-through the small shutter to the coach-
man-"pull up at Craig's, will you?"

With a stamp and a jingle they drew up.
John Craddock and his girl, saluted by a
uniformed commissionaire, went through the
swing doors of the emporium. Melbourne
was emptying of its shopping crowds, for
it was half past four. The nervous bay
stamped once or twice and liked to hear the
bit grate in his mouth. Soon they were
off again, and turned into Swanston Street,
where, for a few moments, they were de-
layed by that roaring tide which flowed
down Flinders Street. A newsboy at the
intersection yelled lustily: "Herald! Pibey!
Latest about the strike! All trams to stop
at midnight. Pibey!"

The merchant and his daughter talked,
and soon he was laughing quite as heartily
as she. Across the bridge, the raucous city
noises were diminished to a lower note.
Now they were on that famous boulevard,
St. Kilda Road. More hansoms, carts, and
carriages, and trams. Despite the long
perspective of its trees, the road was hot.
Hearing the clapping hoof-beats of his
horse, and the quiet rumbling of the wheels,
Craddock bethought him of his jjwn cool
lawns at home damped by the fine rain
from their garden sprays. The brougham
went forward with a brisk jump, as Crisp
touched the bay with the whip's silk barb.

Bouncing and clattering, a high cart
passed, the driver, with a small feather in
the ribbon of his hat, slouching in his seat.

As it went by, John Craddock subcon-
sciously read the lettering on the back of
the vehicle: "Wheevil's, Park Street. South
Melbourne. Fair charges." . . . Wheevil's
horse soiled the new tarred paving of the
road and innocently clattered on. But be-
yond the grammar school, and at the cor-
ner of Toorak Road, it seemed that there
was a halt in the traffic. Backing and
dancing lightly on his oiled hooves, the
bay pulled up. The trams had stopped as
well. Craddock let down the window, and
leaned out to see what was amiss.

A rowdy, straggling procession was mov-
ing towards the city, singing and shouting
in that unpleasant ribaldry peculiar to un-
managed crowds of men whose numbers
lend them truculence. A shoddy banner set
on two unpainted poles was borne in front,
and a long ragged line of people stood by
the kerb, watching the little army pass. The
legend on the banner was a cryptic one:
"Punch Money-bags!" and under that "NO
Surrender!" From time to time, a few
of the men behind the banner opened their
tiring throats to sing; but when their stave
fell out of time it dragged and faltered, and
then died away. The marchers' dusty boots
shuffled in an unordered tread, and a tall
fellow in the leading file turned round and
bawled a question to his fellows:

"What have we got?" At once, two hun-
dred voices took him up in a great shout:

"Unerty!"

The gripman and conductors on the wait-
ing trams grinned.

"Come on, mates," one tempter called
from the strikers' ranks, '"Op orf an' join
us!"

As they debouched across the road, Crisp
took a firmer grip upon his reins; but even
then he had no thought of trouble, until a

Toice cried: "Cripes, it's old Craddock!"
The name travelled down the ranks from
mouth to mouth. "Ar, there, John! Well,
if it ain't old Craddock going home in his
go-cart!" ..'"Ow's the missus, John? Still
gettin' fat on the crews' rations?" John pre-
served his attitude of dignity and kindly
tolerance. But it was this well-bred, If
rather imprudent aloofness of his which
seemed to anger the marching strikers. From
bantering, the straggling column turned to
insolence. Poor Beth felt her heart pound-
ing in her breast. Her father's quiet voice
reassured her. "Don't be nervous, dear.
They have a crude idea of humor, but they

mean no harm."

Speaking to her, he failed to hear the
delighted roar of approbation which greeted
the suggestion, "Take old Tightwad's neddy
out and wheel him back to town!" In a
swift surge a score of laughing men were
at the plunging horse's head. Crisp, be-
side himself with nervousness, saw the bay
snort and rear with fright.

"Hey! Stand Sway! Stand away there!"
he shouted to those who dragged on the
bridle. To the accompaniment of a wild
clattering of hooves, and shouts, and cat-
calls from the men who now had broken
any form of order, and were a mob, the
coachman stood up on his box and threat-
ened with his whip. The crowd of on-
lookers had swelled to a great number, and
many other horses on the road showed a
restless panic as the thoughtless fools
pressed in. Much of their joking now was
pointed afro obscene, and terrified the girl

Shattered glass tinkled as a stone broke
the window of the door, and other flying
missiles chipped the bright varnish from
the bodywork.

So M E W H E RE

beyond the crowd a whistle wailed. Beth
screamed out to see distorted, angry faces

peering uuvuyii mc wmuuw H...... m,»,

white with fury, Craddock leapt out. He
saw his coachman's livid face as he was
tripped, and heard him cry out when a
man's boot drove in his teeth. Somebody
shouted on a note of agony when the de-
mented horse, held by a dozen grimy hands,
lashed out and broke his knee. The peal-
ing whistle shrilled again.

But in the crowd of frightened onlookers,
and outside the confused ruck of men who
shouted and flung stones in an apelike rage,
was one who stood aloof. With a curious
detachment he had seen the riot mount.
In his searching eyes there was a derisive
light. His close-lipped mouth was set in a
sardonic twist. The fury of the mob In-
trigued him beyond words, and a puckered
frown on his forehead spoke of his specula-
tive interest In the scene. It was George

Brace.

A louder roar rolled from the mass of Jost-
ling men. That was when Craddock's face
was opened by a stone. Brace saw the
blood on the man's temple as he grappled
with his assailant, and the sight of it ap-
peared to spur him into a fierce activity.
With elbows, shoulders and hands, he pushed
a passage through the mob, and in a few
moments had reached the battered
brougham in which the girl sat, seemingly
paralysed with fear. The small man's eyes
blazed in his white face, and, wheeling
about, he shouted thrillingly: "Stand back!
Stand back, you imbeciles." In the turmoil
he could barely hear his own words, and
a great swell of howling voices tried to
shout him down. Then, with a surprising
agility, he stepped across the coachman's
senseless body lying by the wheel and clam

bered on the box. There he spoke to some

purpose.

Abashed by his furious eloquence, and
muttering guiltily, the sullen-vlsaged crowd
drew back. The little man's face was ut-
terly Intense and passionate. His eyes
gleamed angrily. His tongue was diabolic
in the spell it cast.

". . . . What? Are you all drunk; or only
mad? . . . Does crime mean nothing to you?

. . Is the work of years to be undone by a
few scum who'll set honest men by the ears,
and fool them into murder? . . . Yes, mur-
der ls the word! . . . Aha-the game seems
different when we call lt that, does it? . . .
What senseless apes! . . . Now . . ." He
leapt from the wheel to the ground. "Back!
And if you don't want batons on your heads
-yes-and bullets in your lungs-break up!
You-hold the horse!"

Flushed with the vehemence of his
shouted speech, Brace took John Craddock
by the arm and opened the brougham door.
Blood slowly trickled from a deep gash In
the man's temple, but, reeling as he stood,
he still clutched the stick with which he
had felled two men.

"Now, Mr. Craddock-ah-Miss Crad-
dock, I believe? I don't think you have
anything more to fear. If you could help
me with your father-"

"No, no, sir,'' John stoutly answered him.
"I can manage. I can manage quite well,
now-"

The crowd closed round again. But this
time lt was fear which drove them forward,
in a great bunch. More whistles, and the
swift clattering of iron-shod hooves were
heard above their startled shouts. Then
loud orders.

"Run, for Heaven's sake; lt's the troop-
ers! Run!" . . . No!-stand and give the
coppers a go! Stand! . . ."

Too late. The stamping horses were al

ready in meir midst. i-iiKe enan which
whirls and flies from a great rushing
draught the strikers broke and ran. Panic
and confusion armed their feet with wings
and, mingled indiscriminately, the march-
ers and the onlookers were swiftly rounded
into groups and then dispersed.

The small man answered the sergeant's
questions . . . "Brace, sergeant. George
Moffitt Brace . . . Shop assistant will do
for a description. . . . No. I saw that there
would be loss of life unless something was
done-so I-I spoke to them. There was
nothing to lt. . . ." Craddock Interjected

there.

"Mr. Brace depreciates an Immense ser-
vice, sergeant. If a man ever did the seem-
ingly impossible, he has done it."

Troopers still skirmished quietly about
the road, sending the merely curious upon
their way. A group of them who had dis-
mounted held five or six arrested men.

Poor Crisp, whose frightened whip-cut
had first fired the train, went back to town
in an ambulance bearing the familiar Malt-
ese cross; and from the livery stables In
City Road a man was sent to drive Crad-
dock and his daughter home. The dusk
was coming down, and the first street lamps
were lit. Brace raised his hat to Beth.

"Indeed, Miss Craddock, I'm sorry that
you've had such a very trying experience.
I am, indeed." She watched him very
closely, and with all a girl's keen discern-

ment.

"Well, sir," John spoke, holding a large
white handkerchief to his gashed head, "I
hope that I shall have the opportunity of

being of equal service to you, In the

future."

"Thank you, slr."

He stepped back, and as the brougham
moved, turned and walked off.

AHE detachment -
ground arms!" The steel-shod rifle-butts
rang on the pavement of the barrack
square. Quietly-lingeringly-the white
sun tossed its dancing fire along the hedges
of the brazen helmet-spikes. "Stand at
ease! . . . Stand-easy!" The sergeant's
great voice echoed in a splendid roll. To
the heavy-Jowled colonel, the adjutant re-
ported, "All correct, slr." The gloved hand
described a perfect arc In its salute. His
superior returned the gesture with that
patronising nonchalance which years of use

had bred.

The sun was very hot. Light fluffs of
wind danced round the barrack yard, twist-
ing thin clouds of pale dust into spinning
whirls. Then, with his booted feet wide
spread, the colonel addressed the ranks.
He was a bullock of a man, popular with the
troops, and what one would call a tho-
roughly good fellow.

"Now, men-you know the Job and you
know me! This Isn't a time for mincing or
fiddling." A dog barked from the direc-
tion of the canteen. "Yesterday, before
Divine Service, and with your mates of the
Victorian Rangers, you stood here and
heard what Colonel Price had to say of
the present emergency! I won't go Into
all that again. You are aware-if you have
any brains in your bone heads-that the
volunteer labor taken to the wharves is
likely to cause riots by the strikers! . . .
At Flinders Park, yesterday, common sense
prevailed and the mounted troops were not
required. To-day, unfortunately, your in-
tervention may be necessary at the
wharves! . . . Once there you will take up

your dispositions. . . . You will not, under
any provocation-any provocation, d'ye
hear that?-fire or use your side arms
without explicit command! But if sharp
action is necessary, and when you get the
word, you will remember your orders to hold
your breaths, fire low, and lay the beggars
out! Carry on. . ."

The column wound a scarlet thread along
St. Kilda Road, the white light from the
fixed bayonets flashing and flickering. The
colonel's charger paced like a phantom
horse which augured death. His officers,
their right hands on their thighs, rode in
their stations at the side. And the watch-
ing crowd quailed at the menace of the
rifles and the steel.

Across the bridge, destined to know for
untold years to come, the city's triumphs,
pageantries and griefs, the column marched,
the right hands swaying and the boots
chiming dully as they trod.

T

X. HE strike, whose

nerve centre was now in Sydney, had as-
sumed alarming proportions. Commenc-
ing as an industrial disturbance, it had
moved progressively through all the inter-
mediate stages until, a fortnight after that
fracas on St. Kilda Road in which Crad-
dock and his daughter had been so unwil-
lingly involved, it had developed Into a na-

tional crisis.

The troopers cantering from their bar-
racks were stoned, and their great horses
wheeled and shied. Loud howls. More
stones. The sergeant's helmet knocked fly»

lng. More broken heads and casualties;
and hat-pins wielded by the strikers' reck-
less womenfolk, soding their cock birds on
to fight the "Johns.'' And all the time the
mournful-looking ships drew at their mana-
cles out in the stream, Idle, untended and

forlorn.

A mass rally of the strikers In Flinders
Park had been organised for the last day of
August-a Sunday. One thousand men
stood under arms at the Victoria Barracks,
and before the commencement of Divine
Service were formed in hollow square and
addressed by Colonel Price, the officer
commanding the Mounted Rifles. It was
upon this occasion that the gallant colonel's
tongue wagged somewhat dangerously.

The great meeting, however, passed off
without the necessity for any Intervention
by the troops. But the turmoil In the
streets Increased hourly. By the Monday
morning not one but doubted the Inevit-
ability of a clash between the more hot-
headed element of the strikers and the
police.

JLllK march 1 n g

column wheeled Into Flinders Street, as the
General Post Office clock banged out
eleven ringing blows. There were a few
cheers and hand-claps from those who
leaned from the windows of Young and
Jackson's Hotel on the corner. (Marching
troops, particularly if they stride to the
barbaric rattling of a stick on a drum are
a certain stimulus to emotion In many
people).

With the appearance of the soldiery upon
the road which flanked the wharves, the
crowds had given way. bending In a shal-
low curve. Now they were pressed Into a
compact density upon the other side. Their
hoots and hisses made no impression on
the troops, and a shower of stones which
rattled on the wharf-Rhed roofs and fell
among the soldiers ceased when a dozen
troopers spurred In.

The road seemed wedged with faces-each
one constricted in an emotional ferocity.
Back! Back! Back! The trampling horses

pressed anu niumptu. aiiu WJLU uiai aim.-»

linked, a chain of foot police struggled
to bear the encroaching people farther
back Still back! It was at that moment
that some luckless progeny of a triple-con-
ceived fool allowed the doors opening on
to the maritime and general wharf to be
opened. In a tornado of sound which could
be heard three miles away the crowd surged

forward.

For a few moments lt halted before the
line of soldiery, and had the police charged
them, the strong probability ls that the
street would have been cleared In ten min-
utes. But the Inspector's nerve was gone.
He galloped down to the colonel, his white
face betraying that he had completely lost
control of a bad situation. His horse's eye
was bleeding from a stone cut.

"Damme, colonel! This is your picnic
now. They'll have the place on fire next,
and Heaven knows what else!" He Jerked
his head, first at the enraged crowd, then
-fatal stupidity-at the soldiers.

"Come on! They won't shoot! In to the
wharves and smash 'em up-!"

"Back!" the colonel shouted. 'Halt-or
we fire! Ready! . . Present! . ." Those
In the forefront hung back, seeing the
muzzles rise. But the pressure behind
allowed them no respite. The colonel,
seated upon his plunging horse, drawn
sword in his hand, looked once at the In-
furiated mob, and bent his lips to shout the
last order, when, m a tremendous voice

which clanged out like a brazen gong and
rose above the deafening clamor In the
street, he and the soldiers heard the words,
Over their heads!-Fire!"

The concussion of the volley throbbed
under the eaves of the wharf-shed and re-
echoed up and down the road. The shout-
ing and the noise redoubled; and then died
to a deep murmuring. The pale smoke,
stinking, swept away, and the cartridge
cases tinkled as they tumbled to the
ground. The crowd, broken Into ragged
groups, shrank back. At that moment the
police charged, and, utterly bewildered, like
a flock of sheep, the mob turned and ran
in an unreasoning hysteria. It was all over.

But the sweating colonel's face was moist

and mottled.

His voice broke under the strain of those
untoward happenings. "Who gave that or-
der? , . . What the blazes possessed you
-?" vThe astonished adjutant swallowed
and paled.

"Eh? Why-sir-didn't you? You gave
the order. 'Over their heads,' and 'Fire.' I
heard you; they all heard you. ..." The
colonel wondered for a moment, was he
mad? Then blared out:

"Am I a lunatic! I gave no order! You
ought to be court-martlalled, confound
you!" A new train of thought presented
Itself to his mind. "By Jove-all the same,
whoever did it knew what he was about.
... We've been spared bloodshed in the
streets; and that business is all over, any-
way. But Price'll never believe that I
didn't give the word. . . . None the less,
I'd like to know the man who did it. Be-
gad I would. . . ." But the adjutant was
resentful under his superior's unfounded
imputation.

"It's only my opinion, slr, of course; but,
personally, I think lt was the devil I " He
saluted, and cantered up the line.

Had the two officers but known, the man
who did it was George Brace, at that mo-
ment walking briskly across Queen's Bridge,
nursing a new and all-devouring determi-

nation in his heart.

"A

i VHA - that's brum
mie," said Twentymen, one of the church
deacons, as he picked up a sixpence from
the vestry table, and rang it on the floor
A wretched sound lt made, In all con-
science. On the faded red table-cloth lay
two heaps of Indiscriminately mixed sliver

coins.

"Tch-tch. Not bad?" inquired the min-
ister, turning round In the process of lock-
ing the press. The Reverend Oswald Oliver
was a loosely-built, tall gentleman, with a
black beard, and a voice carefully schooled
to a deep register.

"Yes, quite bad," answered Mat, whose
neat arrangements of coln looked like rou-
leaux of poker chips.

"It really ls most exasperating," the
clergyman rejoined, brushing his frock coat
with a whisk broom. "One might be per-
mitted the speculation-ah-hum-whether
the so-called barbarities of the old laws
relating to offences against the coinage,
were not designed in wisdom, after all." He
curled his beard with his finger, then, stoop-
ing a little before the small mirror on the
wall, patted his waving hair Into place, he
addressed one of his deacons. "A very lair
congregation, Mr. Hole? I feel that I spoke
-ah-hum-convincingly?" A pause.

"Yes, Indeed, slr. A fine congregation,
and a good rousing sermon. . . . Well, that's

right. Six pounds four and three. HoWi
yours, Mr. Twentymen?" Mat finished his
pencilled computation on the back of a Sun-
day school hymn-sheet. "Five pounds two
shillings-no, five pounds one and six," ha
answered. Mr. Oliver winced perceptibly.

Mat made the entries In the old ledger,
and for some minutes the minister and hia
two deacons talked of current affairs. Of
the Church. Ol business. Of the great
strike which now was almost at an end.
And since the word lay on almost every-
body's tongue-of land. A magic word it
was in 1891, and, so lt seemed, the Open
Sesame to wealth-a finer thing than gold.
Moreover, it was infinitely easier to obtain.

"It was all a most unhappy business," said
Mat, speaking of the s%lke, "and I thank
God that lt's past and done with. Now the
country can settle down to prosperity again,
for there are golden times ahead." He
rubbed his sleeve around his glossy hat.
Through the amber-tinted diamond panes
of the vestry windows small gouts of yellow
sun splashed In upon the floor and walls.

"It approached, slr, very close to rebel-
lion," said the gentleman who hoped that
in himself the world recognised another St.
Paul. "Very close to rebellion. Force, Mr.
Twentymen, must be met with force. The
strikers could not thank themselves that
they were not-ah-hum-mown down In
their lawlessness. Mow.'1, down." Mr. Oli-
ver squinted hideously.

"I think lt was a pity lt started ; and that
the sooner we forget lt, the better. Mr.
Oliver." Hole put the ledger and the two
small bags of money Into the safe and closed

the door.

The Reverend Oliver composed his fea-
tures into their lines of habitual benevolence,
and led the way out. As they came from
the vestry the organ's great voice swelled
sonorously. The lilies and azaleas on the
communion table beneath the pulpit, with
tts tasselled cushion, spoke ol broad gar-
dens and cool winds. Following, the clergy-
man, the two deacons strode slowly up the
inclined aisle. On either side the empty
pews were ranged in geometric regularity.
The three men's creaking footsteps sounded
a padded rhythm as they walked

In the porch Hole poured himself a glass
of water from an earthenware carafe, and
drank it with a grateful indelicacy of sound.
Having finished it, he smacked his jocular
lips and rejoined Mat and Mr. Oliver who
were in conversation with a group of people
on the church steps.

A S Mat had said,

golden times lay in front of them. Pine
rain fell plenteously, and the warm sun
was kindly to the ripening grain. The
golden fleece was at a premium and the
rich treasures of the mines were poured
out In a glittering cascade. In a short
word the colony was rich-richer than lt
had ever been Melbourne, set four square)
on its gentle eminences, was proud. So
were its citizens; and with very good cause.
The city's domes, fine spires and scaffold-
ings lifted their heads into a blue sky
stained with foundry-smoke; and its great
heart pulsed with re-energised vitality.

The august edifice on Bourke Street's
hill preserved a quiet and dignified sere-
nity. Its colonnaded portico and fluted
shafts Imparted to it the majestic gran-
deur of the Roman Capitol-a Capitol
translated to a newer world, and emblem-
atic of its heritage. For Melbourne was
another city built on hills.

And as for wealth, well, the colony had
found the touchstone for that-In land.
Land. After the ferocious strugglings for

gold, broad acres seemed a purer medium
through which to speculate. They had the
attributes of stark simplicity. Unchange-

able. Primordial.

When all was said and done, the soil was
there for anyone who cared to take a
chance. Very well then. Every man to
his share. Accommodation by the bank?
With pleasure, my very dear sir . . . Your
note discounted? Quite naturally. Yes.
Is it not backed by land? ... A loan on
your four acres at Brighton? Quite the
simplest thing, my dear fellow; hold out
your hands . . . Yes, just your usual signa-

ture . . .

The iridescent thing, refracting all Its
pretty and seductive lights, grew greater,
week by week. The big man-the really
big fellow-talked of his acres in tens of
thousands. The little milliner, whose
thumb was roughened by her needle's end,
chattered of perches with the same am-
bition in her heart; and an outspreading
fungoid growth of property agencies
cropped up in almost every business street.
Yet there was always room for more. The
land boom swelled and fattened like a
monstrous ball.

Everyone talked and dreamed of land.
And almost everybody took a chance In this
new game which always gave a prize, even
li one lost. Although, to be sure, losing
was almost Impossible. They signed their
contracts and their promissory notes at the
same time, with a delightful certitude of
affluence about to break upon their heads.
Like so much golden confetti. Prosperity,
Mat? Tut-tut. Wealth, my boy! Wealth!

But there was nothing of that bubbling
fever at the Spandril Light. While Duck
and Strahan went about their work,
Drissie and Karl saw the pale sunlight
filter through surging waves, and watched
the nightly courses of the stars. When
the high winds blew in a whistling boister-
ousness, they wondered at the joy which
came with every dawn; and at the heart's
ease which the evening brought with it.

T

J. HE plump man

with the pink hands looked at a half

ouriiea cigar iii very eviuem, uisLasie, aim,

with an irritable gesture, flung it in the
cuspidor. Moodily, he sighed, and looked
through the window, past whose flat pane
the rushing landscape sped. His smooth
face was strained and grey. Emotion makes
fat faces look ridiculous.

Count Otto grimaced when he smelt the
steaming moistness of his clothes. He was
distressed. A saddening disquietude, blent
with a pointless exasperation oppressed him
wretchedly. This mental state he inter-
preted as grief. It may have been. But
that which made him utterly aprehensive
was the intolerable riddle:

"Did Mathilde know? Could she, con-
ceivably, have heard? . . ." He groaned,
quietly.

His orderly saluted, and placed a cable
on his desk. As though an imp's voice
had whispered it, he knew that it con-
tained black news, and, as he slit the en-
velope, his hand, with its dimpled knuckles,
trembled. He struck his bell and waited

With his monocle serving as a
reading glass, and held some inches
from his eye, Otto affected to read the
cable message with impassivity. But his
hand shook, and he had to put it down.
"Tell me: This-" said he, flipping the
flimsy messenger of wretchedness-"this
came-when?"

"But a few moments ago, Herr Colonel.

It was brought in forthwith." The
orderly stood rigidly to attention, and the
plump man nodded slowly. Thought the
orderly to himself, bad news in that; and
sick and miserable, too, did the Herr
Colonel look. A sweat as fine as that
of death shone on Otto's bald temples, and
in the pinched depressions where his nos-
trils joined his cheeks.

"Ah; then have me connected to the
Ministry of Marine. And at once."

"Yes, Herr Colonel."

Such information as was In the posses-
sion of the Ministry of Marine was at his
service. But it was very meagre. Their
advice had been received from the consul
in Melbourne, and was to the effect that
on the early morning of the twelfth of the
month, the Prinz Bismarck, in a gale off
Cape Otway had foundered with all hands.
No. No survivors ... It was hoped by the
patient voice which droned distantly in
Otto's ears, that the Herr Colonel had
sustained no bereavement by the unfortu-
nate disaster . . .? No? No . . . And very
many thanks.

Driving down the Brandenburg to the
station the newsboys cried the wreck to
the evening crowds. Flags were half
masted at the Government and shipping
offices, and at the dinner given that night
by the officers of the 12th Hussars, His
Imperial Majesty, as titular colonel of the
regiment, spoke feelingly, yet not with-
out a certain fustian, of the nation's loss.

A STRIPED awning

sheltered the pavement outside Covent
Garden's unpretentious doors and from
its scalloped edge the rain drained
down upon the street. A crimson carpet
ran from the steps to the kerb, and on this
stepped the occupants of imposing carriages
and polished private hansoms. In the
bright lights which lit the street and
theatre vestibule, the women's jewels flashed
frostily, and with a brittle, scintillating

fire.

A crowd of onlookers, divided by the car-
peted approach, stood upon either side, re

strained from encroaching by the persuasive
touch of four or five policemen. Horse
hooves rang loudly. Plated harness gleamed.
When the steps were let down, and in a
gentle gust of perfume blent with the
smooth aroma of cigar-smoke, a woman
and her escort passed inside, the people
murmured appreciatively.

Then, from the policemen: "Don't crowd,
please . . . Don't crowd."

Inside the theatre, high lights shone on
ormolu and plaster gilt. Like wind-blown
wheat a myriad of fans swayed softly, left
and fight. More than two thousand people
quietly talked and laughed.

In twos and threes the orchestra came in,
then, last of all, the nervous little magician
with his ebony wand. A storm of clapping
greeted his appearance, and with a puppet-
like stiffness he bowed repeatedly from the
hips, one end of his baton pressed into the
palm of each thin hand as though, thought
Otto, lt were a measuring stick. Abruptly
the conductor turned, and rapidly arranged

the sheets of his score.

Then to a crescendo of drums and brass
the Most Exalted Personage entered the
box to which the conductor's glance had
been directed, and with his suite behind
him stood while the National Anthem was
played. So Stood Count Otto and the

theatre's great audience, which looked to-
ward the short, stout man with the clipped

beard.

The lights died, and the great curtain's
golden fringe flamed In a blaze of lumi-
nance. The conductor, dwarfed and
shadowed by the great height of the pros-
cenium, lifted his arm, and in low cadences
as gentle as a breath, the violins spoke.
Throughout the prelude, Otto knew strange
and terrifying thoughts.

But when he saw Mathilde, and heard her
golden voice again his stiffened lips framed
unuttered words-"She does not know
yet." Now, faced with the certain task of
telling her, he felt appalled. A fear can
be a very dreadful scourge. The ghostly
scenery of the Cornish coast-the melan-
choly and unearthly singing of an invisible
sailor high up on a mast, distilled In Otto's
heart an exquisite and unrelenting misery.

The tragedy of Tristan and Isolde was
played out twice that night; and every pas-
sionate note which Mathilde sang was but
another thorn in an appalling girdle which
pricked and rent the man's dejected heart.

... He heard her sing the Liegestod, that
aria so fraught with sorrow unalloyed and
inescapable, and at the wailing sadness of
the oboe he was almost distraught In his

misery.

What? Are the Count Ottos susceptible
to music? To the music of humanity-some-

times.

V-/TTO, dear-Why-"
They were in Mathilde's apartment,
she seized his hands, her face made radiant
with surprise and joy; and obeying he
knew not what behest, he took her in his
arms and kissed her lips. She whispered
to him in a momentary contentedness. She
did not know. "Whatever happy chance
has brought you over? And you look so

tired, dear."

Gently she pressed him down into a deep
chair before the Are, then talking with all
the light inconsequence of a girl flung off
her cloak and opened a liqueur cabinet,
Otto's weak eyes rested upon the pastel
beauty of a Greuze hanging upon the softly
shaded wall, and as t.houtrh he were en

tranced, he listened to the gentle rushing
from the syphon's spout.

"Now, my dear, since you are In England,
you shall drink the drinks the English
drink; and here is one of their whiskies
and potash. Drink it up-" She gave
it to him, then sat upon his chair-arm with
her hand at rest upon his shoulder. He
drank. But the words which struggled in
his throat died unsaid.

"Were you there to hear me to-night?"
He nodded, with the glass at his lips.

"Then why did you not send, round word,
or even come behind? Had I known that
my Marquis of Carabas had deigned to
hear his poor goose girl sing I should have
come home immediately. But there-I did
not know, and had supper at Berkeley
Square. Du Maurier and little Ormonsbey
of the Foreign Office were there. And Smir-
noff, of the Russian Embassy. You have met
Smirnoff?" She laughed at an amusing
recollection. "He spread his caviare on a
butter brod and said that it tasted like a
mermaid's kiss. Mad. Oh, quite mad . . ."

Sitting in his chair, and with his face
averted, Otto wondered would her chatter
never stop.

She stopped to draw on her left shoe, and,
stretching her white arms above her head,
yawned as she smiled at him. Then she
spoke again, but with a more serious in-
tonation.

"And Karl-? Have you had any letters

from my good Christopher Columbus of a

son?"

Otto placed his glass on the table by
his left arm, knocked lt over, and set lt
up again with a hand which trembled like
a leaf. With one movement he stood up
and looked her in the face. His dangling
eyeglass twirled ridiculously. Then Mathilde

knew.

"Otto-what have you-why are you In

London?"

"It is-of Karl," he answered her.

"Of-of Karl? How-of Karl? Oh-Otto
-don't keep me waiting-wondering-tell

me-ls he-?"

"Mathilde-ach-my poor Mathilde.
Words-words do not come ... I have
had word-to-day-yesterday-come. Sit

here, Mathilde."

So, sitting by her side, he said that which
he had come to say. Only two words she
whispered . . "Otto" . . "Karl." . . . That
deep pain tugged within her breast again
Terribly. But no tears came. No sighs
And no more words. There is a terrifying
muteness in some griefs. But to her nostrils
crept the fancied scent of eldelweiss and

pines.

Holding her small, cold hands, he wished
-ah-how he wished that she would only

weep.

TLHESE things of

which I have last written took place In the
early period of a decade later distinguished
by its sobriquet of the Gay Nineties. Other
folk called them Roaring. And again,
Naughty.

Marchesl's Melba had set her foot upon
the dals of an almost regal throne; and the
vivid genius of Giuseppe Verdi was breath-
ing new life into the Jovial and lewd Jack
Falstaff-Pancione. At about this time, too
Peter Ilich Tchaikovski, pale and depressed
was sea-sick on his Journey to America, but
was already working on the notation of
the "Pathetic Symphony." Humperdinck
had written finis to the first draft of his
delicious "Hansel and Gretel."

The Very August Little Lady In the
widow's cap had celebrated her Jubilee. Mr.
Gladstone was alive, and the famous des

patch box which stood upon the table of
the House still bore the Indentations of
his signet ring and thumping fist.

Down in the south-in Goldenland-there
was a deal of talk of the federation of the
Australian colonies, and conventions had
been summoned to perfect the nation's
structure. The old gentleman with the
Socratian head and features worked with
a tireless zeal to see the great work done.

The stage was vigorous. Bernhardt's
"Fedora" and "Camille" were performances
to be remembered Bland Holt was the
master-hand of melodrama and stage
mechanics. The art of cookery was honored
and the charge for corkage was reasonable.

Taken all round, there was a noble spa-
ciousness about those days. Well might
the Nineties have the names of Naughty
Roaring-Gay.

SOMETIMES, love,

like a rare and fragile plant, requires a
careful nurturing before it blooms. But
there are other times when it will leap to
life with all the radiance and swiftness of
a tropic day So love came to Karl and
Drissie: as the earth liberates pent waters
from Its heart. After the boy's rescue from
the trough which boiled beneath the Slide,
and when Struhan and Duck had set his
fractured leg, the lighthouse-keeper gazed
down through narrowed eyelids. To men
whose lives are cast with Nature and her
elements there is, at times, given a pre

vision of events to come. So, looking down,
with his hand twitching at the thick brush
of his beard, Luke murmured to himself:

"'Counsel ls mine, and sound wisdom: I
am understanding; I have strength.' Pro-
verbs, eight, fourteen." A swordlike blade
of sunlight struck through the window, and
upon his whitening hair. Then he turned
and gave an order to the underman: "Duck,
fly this signal; and watch for a reply from
any passing ship. Let it fly until it is
answered." Duck repeated the message after
him. "... one survivor. Aye, aye, Stru
han," he replied, and swinging about upon
his creaking peg, left the room.

For two or three minutes Luke and the
girl watched the restless figure on the nar-
row bed; then, tapping her upon the
shoulder as a direction that she follow
him, Struhan went out. She watched him
climb the winding staircase, draughty with
blowing air, and satisfied that he had gone
to his own quarters to sleep, she hurried
down-her lips compressed into a deter-
mined line, and a hard gleam of resolu-
tion shining from her eyes.

In the store-shed she found Duck, a
clutter of vari-colored bunting at his foot
and in his hand the large code book. With
a clumsy thumb he fumbled at the corners
of its pages, then turned to the locker and
from its pigeon-hole drew out the flag which
he required.

"What's Struhan want to say, Mister
Duck?" she asked him. He looked up, and
was at once struck by the expression of
her face-"shrewd and wary-like" would
have been his description of it. He closed
the code book upon his finger and answered

her.

"Eh, Drissie? What's he want to say?
Wait a bit. Ah, yes: 'Ship Prinz Bis-
marck foundered twelfth. One survivor.'
lt's a pesky job chasing anything out of
this 'ere book, partic'ly as I'm not seeing
too well to-day. neither." Irascibly stirring
the small heap of flags with the stub of
his wooden leg he added: "Struhan must
think I'm a blooming yeoman of signals."

"Oh, I can get that hoist out," the girl
replied. "How far have you gone?"

"I've Just got the Prinz Bismarck's code
signal. You take the book. Drissie." Duck's
voice Indicated a pleased relief. But in
her heart there grew and glowed a sudden
flame of jealous possessiveness. If Struhan's
signal should be flown-what then? He
whom she had rescued from the peril of
the Slide henceforth was hers-and hers
alone. No one must ever take him from
her now. No. Never. Never.

Why, lt was plain-as plain as Mister
Duck's wooden pin. She was grown up
But, "One survivor" on the signal hoist
would never do. No, no, no. Well, then

"I'll read and you can take them out,"
she said. "Are you ready? All right. Now
-foundered. Let me see. Here it ls
nox." The book pages flicked rapidly under
her Angers. "Twelfth-twelfth . . yew."
Duck was busy with his flags; and the
last portion of the signal seemed to give
her some trouble. She glanced up twice,
then resumed: "Yes, that's lt. Code flag
d. xgo. Have you all those, Mister Duck?"

He had. Outside, he bent on the hoist
and hauled it up. The small flags leaped
and fluttered in the wind as Drissie wound
the halyard ends around the cleat.

Several times in that afternoon, she went
out on the gallery and with a telescope
searched for smoke upon the horizon. At
other times she would tiptoe into the sick
man's room, drawing the bedclothes closer
underneath his chin, or replacing a wet

bandage about his hot head. The after-
noon wore slowly down. Strahan still
slept.

At half-past four she climbed up to th«
gallery again, and swept the telescope's ona
eye across the boundary of the sky and
sea. The sunlight breaking through a
vapor rack of scudding cloud, shone In a
brazen transience, touching the waves'
cream foam to yellow froth. The whistling
-wind blew on her; and the gulls with
stiff, unfluttering wings planed out and
down in squalling glee.

Not once in half an hour did she put
down the telescope, but when the ship was
close enough offshore for her to pick out
the quartermaster on the bridge her cold
arms trembled with anxiety, and she was
so engrossed that she quite failed to hear
Duck speak to her. When he repeated his
question in a louder tone she Jumped.

"Oh, my gracious. Gosh-you frightened
me to death, almost." Duck, his cleaning
gear in his hands, looked out at the dim-
inutive ship which pitched her way down

to the east.

"What's her name, Drissle? Can you
raise her plain enough to see?"

"Not yet; and I don't think shell bear In
any closer . . Oh, look-look, Mister Duck I
. . . She's seen it and hoisted a flag! Here,
take this and I'll get the book-" With
a weakening apprehension tingling at her
midriff, she pressed the glass into Duck's
burdened arms, and started off.

"Hey-walt a bit, Drissle." He dropped his
clouts and brush, set down his oil can and
focused the glass on the steamer. Drlssie
was at the door, her foot on the bulkhead,
and one hand pressed against her racing

heart.

"Ah-yes. that's it. They've seen th«
signal all right."

"What does she say, then?" the girl
asked.

J. HAT'S the answer-
ing pendant; red and white bars," Duck
rejoined, "and it means, 'Your signal seen.'
Well, that's all done." For a few moments
more he watched the passing vessel as she

hold nnnn hpr wav then closed the tele

scope.

"Eh, Drissie, why-what's the matter?
You look as though you've seen a ghost or
a mermaid or something."

She shook her head and laughed, with
a strange, thrilling little note In her voice.

"No, no. Oh, no. I'm all right. But
listen, Mister Duck-" She pressed his
hand, clasped in her own, upon her breast.
The sun was going to its water cave.

"Do you know what it ls like to be grown
up? I mean to know you're grown up?
Eh? Of course you don't, dear Mister
Duck. You don't know what I mean. But
I do-and, oh-the gladness-the gladness
of it!" She laughed again, and bending
forward kissed his faithful blue nose.

Duck was dumbfounded, and his mouth
gaped in his astonishment. Words for the
moment failed him, but then he gravely

shook his head.

"You're a tomboy, Drissie; and I think
you ought to go to bed right away, 'specially
after this morning's capers. Another thing

"Oh-you're too funny," she interrupted
him. "I know what you're going to say:
that a good dose of castor oil mightn't be
so bad. But-" mischievously shaking a
finger at him with an enormous emphasis
-"but castor oil won't make me into a
little girl again. No, no-Mister Duck; it
isn't for that, you know; so don't you try
to tell me that your darling sister in Claren-
don Street ever said it would."

She vanished through the door. But
standing on the grating of the gallery Duck
watched the dead sun sink beneath the sea.
Wonderingly he pressed his tarry hand upon
his nose, and his eyes blurred as he mur-
mured-"Ah-my little madcap thing has
grown up . , ."

ON the bridge of the

Himalaya, the officer of the watch talked
with the commander. "The Prinz Bismarck,
eh? Never heard of her; but they'll know
In Melbourne, I suppose. Must have been
a bad job. There's no doubt about the sig-
nal, ls there?" The commander went to the
port side of the bridge, but gathering dusk

had made it difficult to see.

"No doubt of it, slr. I took it down on
the pad myself." The officer referred to
the text of the signal he had written. ". . .

No survivors."

"Too bad. Too bad."

On Spandrll, Drlssie was hauling down
the signal hoist, which she had made tell
a He to all the world. As the limp flags
came down and sank about her feet, she
felt that strange serenity which triumph

brings.

So, at the lighthouse, Struhan's small
garrison was increased to four. The tender
boat had brought their stores down only a
week before the wreck, and in ordinary
circumstances would not return within four
months. For a time Luke entertained some
hope that the authorities in Melbourne
might despatch a boat to take Karl off. But
that hope dwindled as the first few weeks
went by. It seemed as if nothing would be
done . . . Only watchfulness . . .and craft
... He turned back to his light- to his
Book-and to those abstruse computations
which were beginning to engage his mind.

Karl's own mind mended rapidly-but
not his broken thigh, which, when the bones
commenced to knit, ached and prickled In
a maddening torment. Making his torture

more acute was a heavy weight rove through
a pulley at his bed's end, and to which his
foot was bound-an ingenious machine de-
vised by two men to ensure that the broken
limb would not grow appreciably shorter
than Its fellow. Drissle was nurse-a nurse
whose tenderness was balanced by her
business-like efficiency and tact. For there
was more to be done than crooning plati-
tudes into the sick man's ear, or gently dab-
bling his forehead with a cold compress.
Until he learned patience under Drissie's
tutelage, Karl was alternately morose and
petulant.

"Oho, so you've come down to earth at
last, have you?" she exclaimed one morning,
some ten days after his ^scue, and the
juggling episode of the signa'. l.Ast. "And
a nice time I've had with you, let me tell
you that. Well, how do you feel?"

Smiling very wanly, he first answered her
In German, but the expression of perplex-
ity upon her face clearly indicated that his
mother tongue would not help him here.
Carefully, and in a halting voice, he used
his English.

"Who-who are you-?" His hand lying
on the bedclothes moved gently in another
inquiry. Plainly it asked: "What place is
this?"

"Come, that's better," said the girl, set-
ting down a small basin and drawing the
curtain from the window face. "I'm-why,
that's a silly thing to ask, who am I-be-
cause you see, if I told you, I,don't suppose
you'd know any more than you do now.
But, if you'll promise to be good, and not
roll about like a spar without a lazy guy.

Ill tell you. First-didn't I tell you to lie
still?-my name is Drissie. Miss Drissie
Strahan." She held one finger up. "Then,
you're on a lighthouse. Spandrll Island
lighthouse."

She spoke particularly and with a care-
ful choice of words, as though her patient
were a child. His expression was one of be-
wildered puzzlement; but when she had
finished speaking he nodded. His blue
eyes, large and round-for he was grown
"miserably thin-regarded her with a child-

like solemnity. Childlike, too, was that
quality imparted to his face by a lock of
fair hair which hung down on his fore-
head. Goodness-but he does want a hair-

cut.

Time, passing, found Karl limping about
on a pair of efficierft, if cdumsy-looking
crutches, which Harry Duck had made
under Drissie's supervision.

THE loss of the Prinz

Bismarck, occurring as it did at a time
when Melbourne had had a surfeit of dis-
tracting incidents, did not cause that sen-
sation which might have been expected
from a disaster of such magnitude. It was
not that the wreck, with its overwhelm-
ing loss of life, did not shock the com-
munity, nor make a profound Impression
on the public mind. It did. And the news-
papers of the day detailed the process of
the ship's destruction vith a profusion of
circumstantial and imaginative detail. One
journal published a spirited but unveraci
ous picture of the wrecked ship cast upon
the Spandril Reef.

A fund was opened In the city for the
dependants of the drowned men; and for
this the German Consul tendered his sur-
prised thanks. It is not Improbable that
his precise mind remarked a strange para-
dox: that charitable assistance may so
easily be obtained for the wife of a
drowned sailer, who, living, would have
found it extremely difficult to find some

one willing to lend mm nan a sovereign
against his next month's wages.

But since the vessel had not been under
Australian articles, and as her wreck in-
volved no unpleasant surprise for any of
the city insurance offices, the matter
quickly faded from the public mind. The
ship was dead.

It was a circumstance to be deplored, and
In due course, and through the proper
channels the colony's profound regret would
be communicated to the consul's govern-
ment. And so forth, and so forth. The

consul sighed, despatched one cable in his
official capacity, and another to Colonel
Otto von Schwerin at the General Staff
Building, Berlin.

With the succeeding months another
Christmas time approached.

Tc look at the light-

house doesn't make me happy, any more!"
Drissie said to Karl, against whose knee
she. leaned. Despite her jersey, she
shivered. "Once, and. really, until you
came, when I looked around, or up. and
saw it there, I had a strange-a beautiful
feeling of-no, not gladness, altogether
but of safety. Now, looking back, I can
understand it. You see, many years ago, a
ship had come in on the far side of the
reef, and all that was left of her the next
day was her bowsprit and figure-head,
wedged in that great pile of rocks I told
you of."

Karl, gazing out to sea, nodded, then
turned and looked again at the austerity
of the lighthouse, limned in a stark relief

against the afternoon sky. Both of them
sniffed the smell of water and the sinuous,
black vegetation of the sea.

This afternoon, a bending rainbow made
light glorious. Small ponds of water in
the crannies of the rocks gleamed limpidly,
and by a deception of the eye, their shal-
low pools appeared to be unfathomable,
narrow depths. White woollen clouds sped
In a constant cycle down the sky.

". . .So Gerda kissed his cheeks-Lo
they were blooming. His eyes-now they
were shining with more brightness than
her own . . . -His hands and feet she
kissed, and he became well and merry
. . . His letter of release stood written In
shining characters of Ice ..."

Drissie stirred, rubbing her cheek against
Karl's shoulder, and pointing her toes as
she dipped them in a pool below her feet.
When she withdrew them rounded water
drops dripped down, glowing and shim-
mering like fiery pearls. Karl paused
from his reading.

"Those words are very beautiful. You
think so, Drissie?" She sighed. Her closed
eyes opened from their spell.

"Beautiful. Yes. Beautiful," she
answered him. "Words are strange things.
Sometimes a word can be frightening. And
there are others which can make me sleep
or laugh or cry . . . When you read words,
dear Karl I-it ls hard to tell you what I
feel-I wish to cry and laugh all at once.
I feel it here," she touched her throat,
"and there," placing a hand against her
heart; then murmuring in an inexhaustible
content she nestled close again.

"Now read, please. Lots more."

So Karl read on;, and as his quiet voice
rose and fell, the music of the fairy tale
became a vivid picturegraph of present life.
The wind paused once or twice, listening,
and touched her hair In an affectionate

caress.

"... and Kay and Gerda looked Into
each other's eyes and all at once they
understood the old song . . . There they

sat, grown up, ana yet cnnaren-cnuaren at
heart-and it was summer; warm, delight-
ful summer."

She raised her face. Her eyes were soft
and wet.

"I'm sorry that it's ended," she said.
"Now I feel sad, gladly sad. And yet
I cannot tell you why-"

But Karl let the book fall and seized
her hands. "Sad? Why should either of us
be sad? Sadness, dearest, was never meant
for us. No. Not if we're brave enough to
take our happiness in both our hands. Now,
it is clear to me. If we are not courageous
we will be cheated out of all our joy . . .
it will be night for us, all our lives. Can
you not understand what Kay beheld in
Gerda's eyes? We will be wrong to talk of
waiting, or till I come again to bring you
back with me_ Dear Drissie, you shall
come off the Light with me when I go.
There is a fear that sometimes touches my
heart, too-" She started.

"Fear? You?"

"Yes. Fear. That secret fear that you
will pass beyond me. Utterly away from
me ... A dreadful thought. To lose you
now-to walk my life without you-that
oh-yes-that would be just another name
for death. So-you will come-?"

As she looked up at him, sunlight glim-
mered in her tears.

"Come? Oh, yes, yes; please."

"And we shall get married-"

"Yes; yes; yes; married-" she mur-
mured in a breaking voice.

"A cottage-"

"A cottage-a little cottage-yes-with

cinnamon doors."

Another thought occurred to her. She
whispered it.

"I was so frightened at the thought of
your going without me. that I had made
up my mind to stowaway on the tender
. . . And just say . . . Tve come too'
because-because, to see you go alone would
have broken my heart . . . Hearts can
break, you know, dear Karl."

A splendid wave cast his fine rain
upon their heads, and shouted jubilantly
in their heedless ears. The dusking after-
glow of day paled to the slow invasion of
the night.

That evening, while Duck worked his
shift in the light chamber, Drissie, Karl,
and Struhan sat in the living-room below.
Struhan's great shadows, dark and immo-
bile, kept their unremitting surveillance upon
him as he read the Book. Drissie and Karl
were reading too, although sometimes they
raised their eyes, and when they met each
other's glance would smile. Outside, a
quiet wind blew. The sea was restless; and
through the interspersions of torn clouds,
the stars shone like small gems glimmering
against a velvet foil.

Drissie found it difficult to keep her
mind on what she read, for a hurried con-
fusion of joyous recollections and all their
wandering Irrelevancies distracted her at-
tention from her book. Karl's hair. Karl's
voice. Karl's face. His kisses on her
throat and lips, her eyes and hair.

It was at that stage of her thoughts that
she heard Duck's step upon the stairs. At
the sound, Struhan moved in his chair,
and Karl looked up. The older man leaned
back, and with his hands resting upon the
open book before him. gazed at the other
with morose intentness. Then his gaze
lingered on the girl. The door opened, and
Duck stumped in.

"A quiet night, Struhan." said he. cut-
ting tobacco from his plug and rolling it
with deliberation in his hard palms Stru-

han stood up, and as he_ moved towards

the door, looked back at Karl.

"Boy, I should like you to come up with
me. There is a thing to talk about."

Startled, Drissie looked at him, but there
was a strange expression on Duck's face
which cautioned her to silence.

"I, Struhan? Yes, of course," Karl an-
swered him. The two men left the room,
Struhan preceding Karl, while in a com-
mon uneasiness Drissie and Duck watched
them go. As the door closed, the underman
beckoned her closer to him. They both sat

down.

"Drissie," he said, "we've got to talk. I've
got a thing to say, too. One moment." He
creaked to the door, opened it, and listened
carefully, then came back to his chair. With
a cold foreboding about her, like a chilling
rain, she leaned her chin upon her two
closed hands and spoke.

"What^what is it. Mister Duck? Why
does Struhan want Karl-up there?" In-
voluntarily, she turned her head and looked
above. Duck rasped his hand across his un-
kempt moustache, and as he clasped and
unclasped his stained fingers answered her.

"It's this a-ways, Drissie. Struhan
well, you know what we've both thought for
a good time past. 'Xactly. Yes. Now. he's
been watching of you-you and your Karl
fellow. Ah-hold hard, Drissie dear. . . .
The deeps of a man's mind are hard to
plumb, and I fear squalls ahead. For a
long time now I've served him faithfully.
Not an order but what I've said, 'Aye, eye.

Strahan,' and done it to the point." Duck
sighed and wiped his honest face with a
soiled handkerchief. "But now, Drissie, he
-well-yes, he frightens me. He's grown
babyish, if you see what I mean. But mis-
chievous and wicked like. There's a sort
of monkey shrewdness-"

In a petulance which In other circum-
stances the girl would have found laugh-
able, he broke off: "Con-found lt, Missie
can't you bend your head in a bit closer and
not look so savage? That's better. Listen."

Now there were two other shadows sil-
houetted on the wall: Two shadows with
their head-shapes close together. Whisper-
ing. Whispering. The yellow lamp flame
trembled and bent. Outside, the quiet wind
blew. The stars, seen through their cloudy
draperies, shone in a pale, metallic glim-
mering.

IMPING, Karl fol-
lowed Struhan up the draughty stairs, and
as they climbed, the lantern which Struhan
carried scribbled creations of fantastic
shape upon the whitewashed walls. The
two men passed four landings, and so into
the chamber of the flashing light, painfully
vivid in its unrelenting glare. The room
was hot-mephitic with the clinging reek of
kerosene. To a smooth grumbling of the
steel bearings in its great cast bed, the
lamp, as though it were a blazing eye 'whose
pupil were an incandescent flame, rolled
round without the variation of a second's
fraction in its revolutions. Burnished and
spotless in its glass-walled case, the clock-
work motor ticked with precise monotony.
The burner with its six-tongued wick
flared with a steady sibilance. The noises
of the wind and sea were subdued, and In
the light chamber it was almost quiet.

With a large-handled key, Struhan re-
wound the motor, and, with nis head
averted, listened attentively to the slow roll-
ing of the lamp. From that he turned to
the barometer, which hung next to a chart
marked in concentric colored bands, indi-
cating the radii of visibility from the light.

Karl watched him interestedly. But that
interest was tinctured with an unwonted
sense of caution, which tapped at his inner
consciousness.

"You have been here a long time. Stru-
han?" he asked at length, as the light
keeper scrutinised the gauge upon the fuel
cylinder. Struhan looked up. Reflections
from the great light glimmered forbiddingly
from his deep-sunken eyes.

"A long time. A long, long time. Yes."
No smile upon his face.

"You like the work?" the young fellow
persisted, but conscious that he had been
brought up to speak of other things than

this.

"It ls my work. Work ls not to be liked or
disliked. It is to be done. Mine satisfies
me, if you care to put it that way." The
younger man's question would seem to
have touched some responsive chord In
Struhan's mind, for he continued, speaking
quietly, and with his eyes upon the re-
volving lantern pedestal.

"I have made it part of me. Too much,
perhaps, for now I could not live without
the Light. Of optics I know as much, I
think as any living man. As much? More.
When the world has slept I have studied
Galileo, Newton, Keplar and Herschel, un-
til now, were they here, they would be the
pupils-I. the master. Listen. . . I can
make a ray of light sing-and in har-
monics, too. More than that. My tables
of elliptic refractions are the only com-
plete ones in the world. Did you know
that light energy can be measured in terms

of linear Impulses? I have discovered
these things. Could my teachers? Could
any man? . . . And yet-it is strange . . .
I have tried-tried-oh, with what an In-
finity of heartbreaking patience-but I
cannot find that light which will Illumin-
ate my own soul...They, do not know...
No one knows lt . . . But it grows darker
every day . . . Why does fear always go
hand in hand with darkness? Disaster
comes more frequently by night than day.

Abruptly, and in the midst of his soliloquy,
he ceased speaking and looked at Karl.
"Bah. I am joking. Just an old man jok-
ing. Tell me. Soon you will be going
from us-?" How covertly, and with what
slyness,- he watched Karl's face-"and back
to-to Germany--?"

He paused as if half expecting a reply,
but there was none With almost a titter
he resumed. "You will come back and visit
us-the poor folk on the Spandril Light?
Eh? You will, eh?" With a startling and
shocking vehemence he seized the boy's
arm, shaking him in his eagerness.

"I-I-yes-but-"

"Ah-I knew." the other rejoined. "I
knew it. Well, well-" He seemed to sag
from his great height, and looked shrivelled
in that merciless white blaze which beat
on both of them. But Karl thought it was
time to speak.

"Struhan," said he, "for everything that
you have done for me, I think you know
that I am gratefuh Yes. more grateful
than I can tell." The bright light poured
upon his manly face and upon Struhan's

down-bent head.

"I-well, it must out, Struhan. Drissie
and I, we love each other; and I am ask-
ing for your permission so that I might
take her off the Light and marry her. For
me it means the sacrifice of a career. That
will be certain, for I know my father. But
I can work hard, and-why, who could
know it better than I?-she would break
her heart to see me go alone. Yes. break

her heart."

He drew a deen breath. And In a bleached

and unvibrating voice Struhan answered
him, with his eyes flickering left and right,
avoiding the other's direct look.

"Now, I can see that you're a fine young
man. A fine young man. But it might be
that we can make a bargain. Just the
most cordial and friendly little arrange-
ment, eh? But not-not in here. Out in
the fresh air."

Karl's flesh crept. But Struhan had un-
damped the door, and, as he followed him
out on to the gallery, it closed behind them
with a threatening clang.

STARS had grown

fewer in the sky. and when Karl heard
the water breaking at the lighthouse base,
he shuddered in premonitary fear. But
Struhan, with his hand upon the rail,
looked down, speaking in a quiet, musing

voice.

"Waves . . Waves ... No rest. No peace
. . . Their clamoring will have me mad . . .
'Wizards that peep, and that mutter . ,
Isaiah, eight, nineteen."

He roused himself at length, and moved
nearer to Karl. He took his arm gently.
Just as gently he spoke.

"You-you love her, boy! Ah, yes. I see
it. But, then, do I not love her, also? Love
her? Love her?-" His accents were un-
speakably agonised. "More; yes, more I do
believe, than I love my Light. See here: I
will be frank: One moment-ah-don't
move away like that, and if I hold
your arm a little closer, even li

lt hurts, you will forgive me? . . . You
asked for my permission ... It was your
word, my boy, not mine . . . Now-you are
a-a manly boy. 1 love you for it. Almost . .
So there . . . Let us walk round the gallery
-you on that side, for the wind gives me
an earache ... So many, many years of
wind. Winds which whisper. Winds which
sneer. Winds which yell, and bid me raise
my voice and drown their clamor, if I
can . . . No-no-no, my boy. Don't stop . .
Walk. Walk. Ah, now-where was I?
Yes-to be sure. Yes. . ."

Urged by the Insistent pressure on his
arm, Karl, perforce, walked with him, more
than a score of times around the gallery,
while Struhan's dark heart urged him into
speech. Sometimes his voice was hurried
and Incoherent. Then it would swell,
break off, and end upon a childish, wheed-
ling note.

". . . but, no, no. Have her? Impossible.
You see? And you will be the gentleman
you claim yourself; and go. You will not
see her again. You will forget her-as
young men always can . . ."

"Strahan, I will not lie to you," said Karl
to that. "Drissie (if she wants me, and I
believe she does), Drissie I will have with
your goodwill or, without it. It is best that
you understand me, in this. You do not
know, surely, what you say. Come, be just
to her-"

"Be just? You speak a mockery!" By
a visible and tremendous struggle the man
restrained the words which struggled to
pour from his lips.

"But there . . . this isn't the way for us
to get along, is it? I told you we should
bargain, and bargain we shall." His wet
tongue licked about his bearded lips, and
with his eyebrows raised he whispered.

wnai.' enea «.an, agnasi. sm i as

mad as you unquestionably are? Enough
of this! Let go-"

He bent his arm to free lt from the
other's grasp.

"No, no. Wait," Struhan implored him
"Wait . . . See, I will give the whole box-
ful. Imagine it, my dear young man; nearly
all my wages for, let me see-yes, eleven
long years. And more than that . . . Oho.
yes; I am a bargainer, I am.

"Now, come," said he. "Do you defy me?
Here? In this place?" Karl pressed away

"I do not defy. I have answered you
Take Drissie from this devil's rock, I sh
Stand off! Stand back, madman-!"

With terrifying suddenness Struhan had
borne him back against the rail, stooped,
and with one arm gathered round his loins,
and his left hand gripping at his throat
lifted him from his feet. By a convul-
sive movement Karl thrust his sound leg
through the open Ironwork underneath the
rail, making a lever of his foot, and lock-
ing his arms behind the back of the de-
mented man. There, bound in a stifling
grip, the two pressed each against the
other's weight.

Below, the waves rolled In and broke,
and the wind flurried indecisively about the
light. Back. And farther yet. Karl's
spine was straining painfully and the harsh
hair of Struhan's beard blew in his sweating
face. Its musky goatish odor sickened him.
and like a talon bound in bone and sinew,
the hand pressed tighter on his bruising
throat. Incalculable myriads of spark
motes spat across the sky, and the sad
crying of the sea was amplified until it
beat in an enormous resonance about the
world. Now, back. Yet a fraction more

With a loud, ringing blow the iron door
opened, and at the sound Struhan released
his hold and tottered until his shoulders

were against the wall. He worked his
fingers and breathed chokingly.

"Karl-Karl-oh-oh-" Drissle's pal-
lid face betrayed her terror; but her eyes
flashed with an accusatory fire. She caught
him in her arms as he reeled forward, his
head lolling clumsily upon his neck, and for
moments held him so, until his breath
sobbed back into his lungs. Duck, who
had labored up the stairway after her was
the first of them to speak. His face looked
pale and horrified.

"Struhan-Strahan-what evil foolishness
is this that you would be about?" Luke
looked at him, at Drissle, then at Karl-as
though he did not understand. His quiver-
ing fingers twined and knotted in his ragged
beard. An albatross, one solitary voyager
of the night, rushed past on an undeviating
course, and its hoarse call rang like a mock-
ing spirit's laugh. She turned about at
that.

"Why, I will tell you!" she cried, a veri-
table Megaera In that rage which ls the
aftermath of fear. "It means that he is
a treacherous coward. It means-now Stru-
han, your God will hear me say it loudly
it means that in his wicked fear he would
not only ruin people who have never done
him any harm, but would destroy himself!
It means that Satan has come into him
that he is mad-that he would be-a mur-
derer-"

BUT at the word

the anguished man flung up his hands,
and uttered such a doleful cry of wretched-
ness and woe that those who stood with
him upon the gallery were dumb.

Goodness, Drissle thought, he's grown an
old man. Her lips quivered as she spoke
again.

"Struhan, you will not understand. You
know how happy I've been all these years
with you and Mister Duck? But, you see,
the small birds which are born in the sand
nests up there stay on the island only for
a little time and then they leave. They
must; or they will die. Besides, I have had
a voice. Always it has said: 'Some day,
Drissie, you shall leave the Light.' Now I
must go. With Karl. I want you to let
me go, Struhan. Because I just have to go.
Please, Struhan-"

With his head downbent he made no
answer for a time, but when he looked at
them and spoke, his face was terrible with
grief.

"You will go?"
"Yes, Struhan."

"And you will take her, boy?"
"I will take her," Karl replied.

"Then lt ls all for naught, and leave the
Light I see you shall."

Towards the dawn a slow mist crept up
from the south. But when the new day
came, those on the Light could see the
tender-boat, rolling upon an oily swell
whose face was pitted by a noiseless rain.

Duck, Karl, and Drissie stood upon the
beach and saw the small boat travel In
At length, borne by a racing wave, her
keel grated stridently on the shingle, and
shipping their oars two men leapt out to
drag her up beyond the watermark. Fine
points of moisture glinted on their clothes,
and underneath their feet the wet sand
crunched soddenly.

"Ah, there, Webley," said Duck in greet

lng, "you're late to rights, you are. The
old man's been like a cat on hot bricks
for near three weeks."

"Too bad; but better late than never,
you know. Good-day to you, miss," the
boatman continued, as he turned to her.
Then he looked at Karl. Duck saw the
glance.

"A visitor, Webley," said he. "Perhaps,
I should say, rather, that he just popped
in on us, as it were. Mr. Swearing-Mr.
Webley." Webley nodded, and Karl smiled.
They shook hands. "Mr. Swearing," re-
sumed Duck, "was born with a caul. He
came ashore here the morning after the
wreck of the Prinz Bismarck."

Drissie looked unconcerned.

"Yes, Mr. Webley," said she, "the only

one."

"The Prinz Bismarck? Did he, begosh?
But wait on; were there any survivors? I
mean, the reports gave lt out that there
were none. I've forgotten who brought word
in, but they had a signal from Struhan,
didn't they?"

Turning round, Webley called to the other
man who was casting off the lashings of a
tarpaulin which covered the first boatload

of stores.

"They did that," said Drissie. "One sur-
vivor. I flew the hoist with Mister Duck."

"That's right enough," he corroborated
her. "I took 'em out of the locker meself."
The man named Webley whistled, then

laughed.

"Well, it's a mistake made the right way,
ain't lt? But there'll be a few things said
about it I'm thinking, when he gets round
to Melbourne. Some fool's misread the sig-
nal." He addressed Karl. "Then, we'll be
taking you back with us, I suppose, Mr.
- sorry, but I'm a dunce on names

"Schwerin," Drissle answered him. How
very neatly she had acquired the accent of

the name.

"Thanks, miss."

"The gentleman is German, naturally,"
she solemnly informed him.

"Ah, yes. Must have been a bad busi-
ness, the wreck."

"A very bad business," replied Karl. *T
lost my friend, Polycarp. If Drissle had
not brought me in, I would not myself
have come to shore. I was almost a dead
man then. A broken leg, you know; and
too much sea-water inside."

At that they all laughed. A good fellow
this, thougnt Webley. But when Duck
told how Drlssie swam out with the Une,
and how the two of them had hauled him
up the Slide, the man stopped in his
tracks.

"The devil she did? I know the place:
and you're a luckier man than I'd have
thought. Well, here we are; but where's
the old man? Mooning about In the lan-
tern, IU be sworn, or working out log

tables ..."

In the kitchen Drissle set more plates,
while Duck stirred the porridge and yarned
to his old crony Webley, and the deck-
hand.

During the morning the boat journeyed
back and forth several times, bringing in the
full tally of the stores. Karl and Harry
Duck helped the two men unload them,
stow them upon the sled and haul them
to the store room. But Drissie was pack-
ing her clothes, and in her breast there
was a frightening confusion of sadness
wrought with joy. As she move:: here and
there, she whispered small, puzzling In
coherencies, whilst at times her eyes were
burned by tears which struggled to be
free.

When she heard footsteps on the stairs
she raised her head, but lt was only Web-
ley coming down. Walting until he passed,
she then gathered up her ulster, the bas-
ket and her hat, and commenced to climb
to the lantern chamber. As she ap-
proached the top landing she saw Luke
standing there, for he had heard her steps.

"Oh, Struhan," she said, as she looked
up at him. "I-I think well be going
soon. Won't-will you come down?"

With an almost timorous gesture she raised
her hands as though she would have beck-
oned him, but he stood motionless. Inex-
plicably, his large frame seemed amplified,
and grotesquely foreshortened. Standing
there, silent and statuesque he gazed at
her. And she gazed back at him. At length
he spoke, moving his massive head from
side to side as though a mortal agony tor-

mented him.

"It ls all true, then. There ls no Joy but
ls not drowned by pain-no day but ls not
swallowed by the night. And-yes; it is
Immutable: the tide which travels in must
journey out again." With a movement most
exquisitely pathetic he lifted his arms;
then dropped them in the knowledge of
fatuity.

"I will not come down. Indeed, I cannot.
Now, go you out with him. It ls your des-
tiny, and mine, that all my life's Joy should
depart this hour. Go . . . Go . . ."

A sob broke from his lips. To the girl it
sounded as though a great door had closed

between the two of them.

""T

X HE day was older,
but the sad rain still fell upon the sea.
Struhan was watching from the gallery.
He saw the little group upon the beach
the boat which swung and lifted to the
ln-running tide. He saw . his underman
clasp Drissie in his arms, although he could
not hear him say:

"My little madcap-good-bye. Good-bye.
. . . Now. you've got the letter? And the
money? You know how to get there? Take
the tram down Clarendon Street and get
off at the bank. Anyone knows Mrs.
Trunks' shop."

Nor could he hear her answer:

"Yes. Yes. Oh. Mister Duck; good-
bye, dear Mister Duck. And thank you
for all your goo-goo-goodness to me. ,. ."
No. To the man who gazed down from the
gallery, their words were inaudible. But he
saw Karl lift Drissie into the boat, and fol-
low her. Webley went next. Then, with a
shove, the other man leapt in over the
stern, and took the oars. Still watching,
Struhan saw the tears which coursed down
poor Duck's face. He saw the shallow
water swirling round his foot and wooden
leg.

WITHOUT trouble

they found the smallgoods shop in Claren-
don Street. As they pushed the door open
a bell rang a vigorous warning, and with
a heavy step which shook the boarded
floor. Mrs. Trunks swept through a rust-
ling bamboo curtain and confronted them
across the counter. She had been stooping
over an oven and her large face was pink
and beaded. She rubbed her apron over it
as though she were polishing a giant's
door knob. Her hair had once been fair,
but years had banded it plentifully with
streaks of grey. Her arms, revealed by the
rolled sleeves of her blouse, were white,
Immense and smooth.

"Are you Mrs. Trunks?" Inquired Dris

sie, diffidently proffering Duck's letter. A
startling bass voice answered her.

"I am, ma'am. And what's this? What
if it isnt that boy Henry's hand of write,
then you can call me a fairy." She fast-
ened her winsey blouse where lt showed a
disposition to yield and gape, tore the enve-
lope with her large fingers, and with her
elbows on the counter, commenced to read
her brother's letter. Prom time to time she
punctuated his verbiage with an occas-
ional comment of her own.

" 'My dear sister,' " she read, " T do not
often write letters,'-true for you-'but

She shop door opened and the watchful
bell yelled out again, announcing the en-
trance of a small boy In quest of six penny-
worth of German sausage and four trot-

ters.

"Walt Just a Jiffy, my dears, until I've
fixed up this young skinamalinks. ... Six
pennyworth of German sausage, sonny, and
four trotters? Yes. And, my word-sich
German sausage and trotters, too."

"My dears," said she, as her customer
left, "you must excuse me; but lt's always
the way. Trade ls a wearing thing, and
UH have me down to skin and bone yet."

Karl and Drissie each thought that there
was little probability of that, for, at a con-
servative estimate Mrs. Trunks might have
tipped a beam at some two hundred and
forty pounds. She turned back to her
brother's letter again; but before she had
read many lines her face broadened into
smiles, until at the end she punched the

counter with her great ham fist and ejacu-
lated: "Lord, I am a little fairy!" Then
laughed a fat, hospitable laugh. With that
she hurried round, embraced Drissie, whose
worried heart warmed to such unaffected
cheer and kindliness, and clapped Karl a
mighty blow upon his broad back.

"If I could give you a room, that great
galoot of a brother asks me} If I could!
The little room you shall have, and heaven's
blessing with it!"

That night Drissie, yielding to a politic
insistence, slept with the black pudding
lady in her own bedroom, but the quiet
clopping of horse hooves, the tram bells,
and the many wheels which rolled up Clar-
endon Street and down again, kept her
awake until the moon had journeyed quite
a distance down the sky.

The next evening she was married to
Karl at the church in the Crescent. Just
the quietest little wedding, please, she had
begged Mrs. Trunks. So very quiet it was,
accordingly, that only Karl and Drissie
were there; with Mr. Oliver, of course. But
two witnesses there needs must be. So
Mrs. Trunks enlisted to serve with her
who of all people, but Mat Twentymen?

No confetti. No old shoes. No sherry.
But if honesty and simple sincerity meant
anything, then Karl and Drissie drank
from a golden cup. Mrs. Trunks presided at
the little celebration in her sitting-room.
What with giblet soup, stewed rabbit, crum-
pets, rice pudding, cheese and bottled beer,
it was quite the happiest feast imaginable.
The black pudding lady laughed with a
gargantuan joy. and told Mat he was an
old sinner. Ha-ha. Mat said no-no
never a chance of that. Karl and Drissie
pledged themselves in ale, feeling entangled
in a very web of joy.

The two-year-old wreck of the Prinz
Bismarck was no more than a memory
when a swift panic swept across the
colony. For that great shimmering
bubble of the land boom, bloated, un-
gainly, and ridiculous in its unsubstantial

girth, cracked and exploded with such ft
pop as was heard from one end of the
country to the other. And a fine rumpus

there was.

Mat Twentymen, for one, had put his
savings into land at Brighton, on the fore-
shores of the bay; and when the itch grew
worse, listened to sharpers, and gave notes
of hand for several more allotments. Poor,
trusting, honest Mat. All his strong hopes
went down a drain. The tea-tree and the
banksias which chafed and rustled In the
night, gossiped of fools, and poignant things,
like sequestration orders.

Hard-headed John Craddock lost money,
naturally. Characteristically he congratu-
lated himself that it had not been more.
But an ill-advised speculation was the least
part of his concern. His son was involved
through land gambling. He comforted his
wife, holding her hand and wishing that his
certain foreknowledge of the course that
the miserable business must take, might yet
be proved wrong. Red-eyed and shocked.
Beth heard her mother speak.

jB UT, John, dear-"

she clutched at reassurance from her hus-
band-"surely there is something you can
do? After all, it isn't just a common
crime, and it isn't right that my boy
might go-there. No-no-no-it's un-
thinkable. Monstrous-" John almost
groaned.

"Now, my dear, do be more calm. You're
upset. You must realise that what can be

this morning, and he's inclined to think
that it's not a case for an extreme-pen-
alty."

"Extreme penalty? Sentence, you wera
about to say, John. My son-you son-in
that place . . .? And. after all, he's been
made a scapegoat. I know it. I know it."
Harassed and worried. Craddock could only
look mutely at Beth, who put her arms about
her mother's neck and murmured, "Oh,
mother dear-hush-hush." But later, when
his wife had gone upstairs, he and his daugh-
ter looked into each other's eyes.

"Daddy, dear-Adrian will go to gaol,

won't he?"

John held her hand in both of his, and
with an expression very boylike in its glum-
ness, nodded.

TB afraid so, Beth. He'll have to take 1*
like a man."

"I think he will, daddy. But, oh, I am
so terribly sorry for you. For mother and
for him, of course; but so much more for
you." She rubbed his hand against her
blooming cheek in an incomparable ten-
derness.

"Well, dearest; that is all to be said about
lt, Tm afraid. I warned your brother time
and time again, but he seemed so crass and
cocksure, that I knew I might just as well
save my breath. And now-this."

"Ssh. It will be dreadful for poor Adrian,
and when a man's in trouble it must hurt
horribly, for anyone to say, T told you so'
..." She dabbed her eyes with a totally
inadequate flimsy of lace and cambric, and
in a heartsore companionship they talked

of John's son's trouble.

As it had many others, the boom seduced
young Craddock into a senseless mania for
land gambling; and unhappily for every-
body concerned, his exploratory thumb had
strayed into that forbidden pudding of a

trust account.

John Craddock paid. Twenty-four thous-
and pounds. On a day five weeks later ht

passed through the great doors of the law
courts, whose massive colonnaded dome
seems almost symbolic of the serene ubiquity
and eyeless admonition of the law. The
courtroom was funereal In dark wood pan-
elling; and standing In the iron-spiked dock
John's son essayed the Justice of his sove-
reign lady the Queen. His face was pale
He looked ill. The large courtroom was
crowded, and Judge and Jury, barristers
and attorneys, court ushers and grubby
messenger boys all played their parts to
send a guilty man to gaol. The Chief Jus-
tice of Victoria, Slr John Madden, presided

Craddock listened with a fascinated con-
centration to the prolix verbiage of the
Indictment. He heard the evidence. He
watched the jury and the Judge. He heard
his son's defence; and then the crown's
address. The Chief Justice summed up
unemotionally and smoothly, as he held the
trembling scales. In half an hour, when
the twelve men had flied back into their
seats, John Craddock heard the sentence
passed upon his son.

"... but in the circumstances, and hav-
ing a proper regard for all the facts which
bear upon this case, and of a studied and
Impudent process of theft (there are no
milder terms which may be used) I feel that
I can do no less than sentence you to be
kept in penal servitude, at hard labor, for
seven years ..."

Seven years. John Craddock's heart
turned over In his breast at that . . .

There goes Craddock . . . They've Just
given his son seven years, you know . . .
Very hard on the old man, eh? . . .

JVJRS. IVOR BUR-

STALL, who was organising the forthcomlnp
fete in aid of the Children's Hospital Appeal,
deftly impaled a piece of cake on a fork,
and looked about her drawing-room of char-
itable helpers. Mrs. Ivor Burstall, the charm-
ing chatelaine of "Cuffley Towers," her
residence at South Yarra-vide Smart Gos-
sip-had three chins and an imposing pre-

sence.

"What a pity," said Mrs. Burstall to no

particular person, "that dear Mrs Crad-
dock could not be here to help us. She
ls such a tower of strength." She paused,
and sipped her pekoe from the dearest little
cup, and waited.

"Yes, isn't it most unfortunate? But of
course, Mrs. Burstall, she couldn't-she sim-
ply couldn't have the heart to do anything
after last week's trouble." Mrs. Stryving
Wariley (one of the Mutta Mutta grazing
family) stirred gently on the seat of her
slender-legged chair.

"It must have been a fearful blow," re-
joined Mrs. Burstall, tossing the ball back.
"Seven years, my dear . . . and they say
that they never lose the brand of it . . .

Eat like beasts, and all that, you know."
Mrs. Ivor Burstall tore an eclair between
her artificial teeth, and smiled with that
delightful brutality which women under-
stand so well.

"Yes. But everybody could see it coming.
They tell me that Mrs. C. and the daughter
are sailing for Europe next week, for two
years." It was sly little Mrs. Smythe-Clit
orell who Joined in. Her husband practised
In Collins Street: D. Skipworthy Smythe
Clitorell; Ear, Nose and Throat. "But I do
think it an exceptionally bad example at
this time No wonder the lower classes
murmur. Still-I suppose one must do
something when one's son ls-In gaol."

Beth and her mother sailed. John stood
on the pier and watched the grey water
slowly spread between the ship and shore.
Braeburn, their home, was closed up for

the next two years, for with his wife and
daughter absent he preferred his club. The
folk in Clarendon Street went back to work
again. Hard solid work. But it was a long
time before prosperity returned. Mat, un-
der a deed of arrangement with his credit-
ors, rolled up his sleeves, and faced the

future with an undiminished courage.

Meanwhile, throughout the continent
there was a tireless hammering, as the old
Vulcan statesman beat a hot metal into
tempered form. Night and day the old
man, Sir Henry Parkes, with the great mane
of hair and beard, and the broad nostrils
winged by their chiselled wrinkles labored
indomitably to build a Federated Common-

wealth.

They said-the malevolent ones who
feared his Intellect and vision-that he was
upstart. In sly holes and corners it was
whispered by the whisperers that he was
afraid to leave the precincts of the House,
by reason of the duns and bailiffs who
slunk up and down the verandah outside.
In a malicious spleen the old gentleman's
traducers talked of his so-called tricks and
posturings, which, according to their story,
were aped by him after watching Mr.
Gladstone in the older parliament by the
Thames. They mimicked him, one limp
hand straying through the verdure of his
white beard and the other closed, behind
his back. "But, Sir,"-talking In a high
voice to an Imaginary Speaker-"what is
qualte difficult to hunderstand ls a sug-
gestion that I, the Prime Ministah of this
colony, should promote 'opes of fiscal re-
form-" and so on. He was a standing
mark for all their calumnies. For all that
the mean and the sly and the treacherous
could say to the contrary, Sir Henry Parkes
was a statesman and a gentleman.

He had left office In October, ninety-one,
with his great labor incomplete; although
men were not wanting who could finish
what he had begun. Edmund Barton, bril-
liant and indolent, with his distinguished
air of polished ennui, and a pettish lip
. . . O'Connor, too, eager and fiery . . .

Georee Reid-tho rnnnrt »nrt lroon-V,rf>)r,orf

man with a squeaking voice and an eyeglass
. . . Turner and Kingston . . . Big John
Forrest, with his Immense Falstavlan
paunch . . . Gentle Deakin, the magic of
whose sliver tongue held all the beauty of
a bell's rare chime. Braddon, and Dr
Quick, the man of law ... All of them
took their parts in the formation of the
leagues pledged to federation of the

colonies.

13 LAND sunlight

streaming through an open window warmed
an office in Goulburn Street. Sydney. In
a broad wash of yellow light it lay upon
the floor, and half-way up one wall. The
office furnishing was poor. . A table, four
chairs, a cupboard of varnished deal, and
a brass-knobbed copying press upon a
cranky stand comprised the principal
items of Its inventory.

With unevenly-timed steps two men
mounted the stairs, and their footfalls
augured a sharp dissimilarity in their
habits and characters. One step was firm
and brisk, and sounded with an unmistak-
able assertiveness. The other one was
slow and quiet, and came behind. Having
reached the landing the men walked
through a small waiting-room In which an

office-boy lolled, drowsed by the delicious
warming of the sun, thence into the union
secretary's office. George Brace was speak-
ing as they entered. ". . . At all events,
Preel, if the selection committee will give
me their backing, then I'll run on then
ticket. Otherwise-on my own."

He hung his hat behind the door, and
took his seat behind the table. Preel, a
tall, spongy man whose complexion was
the color, of old parchment, leaned back
against the window-frame. The sun was
comforting.

"Yes, of course," he answered In a
labored and whispering voice, "backing will
be necessary. Backing. But, is there any
doubt of that, my dear Brace? I repeat,
can there be any doubt of lt, when it's a
case of putting into Parliament the only
man who has the genius-you see, I will
speak my mind, and say again, the genius
and the character to lead? My dear slr,
you'll have all the backing-" His lis-
tener interrupted him incisively, although
it was noticeable that he nervously twirled
a penholder in his thin-knuckled fingers.

"It isn't enough, Preel, to repeat like a
parrot, 'You'll have the backing.' " Preel
smiled. That smile which ls of the Hps
alone, and never of the eyes. He was about
to speak again, but Brace held up his hand,
and, as he continued, moodily gouged frag-
ments of blotting-paper with the point of

the nib.

"I'm not such a fool as to think that
men are run for a seat In Parliament
merely for the natural love and affection
that their fellows hold for them. Obviously
not. Another thing: I very well realise
that politics is not a game for a pauper.
It tends to dirty a man's hands, you know.
So let us look the business straight in the
eye. I gave them their union-"

Preel walked to the table and sat down.
As the small man spoke his patient, cal-
culating eyes watched the other carefully,
a circumstance which disconcerted Mr.
Sydney Preel not a little. The Sydney
Preels do not like to be regarded over

closely.

"I spared nothing-neither energy nor
time, to give them an organisation
which should be not only a benefit to
the workers, but a credit to myself. It is
done. From a rabble I have made an
army. From fragments I have made the
whole! Now"-he pushed his chair back
and struck his palm on the table-"I in-
tend to have that seat; and I want nothing
left undone in the way of ground work
to ensure that I get it. What have you to
say to that?" A certain tincture of arro-
gance had crept into his voice.

Smiling noncommittally, and, he hoped,
reassuringly, Preel spoke. He had a tuber-
cular throat, an affliction which explained
his inability to speak otherwise than hi a
harsh, whispered articulation. And he had
other blemishes. For Preel was smooth.
Preel was sly. Preel was cunning, suave,
and obsequious by turns, and a trimmer
whose sails were squared to every wind.
The world has many Sydney Preels.

Withal, he was industrious and plastic.
Men found him sociable. He drank-a
little; and he smoked-a little. Without
doubt, in reasonable time, he would have
been Mr. Sydney Preel, M.L.A.. but for the
little joke which nature played on him
concerning his throat.

With his voice gone he saw his hopes
decay, and as a corpse is desiccated by the
wind and sun, slowly fall into dust. Men
as a general rule, however, do not sur-
render easily to Illness or disease. It

seems, that doing so, they yield ground to
death. Therefore, Preel trimmed his own
ambitions, and with no inconsiderable for-
titude resolved that he would be one of
those unobtrusive Influences which are to
politics what the sails are to the mill; what
the rudder cable ls to the ship.

Since self deception is perhaps the easiest
process of the mind, it was not long before
Mr. Preel believed that his energies were
directed to the enhancement of the cause
of Labor. This he believed with depth and
sincerity, although it ls true that, speak-
ing generically, the Sydney Preels have
little depth and less sincerity.

Mr. Preel elaborated his argument.

"Mind you. Brace, my dear fellow, a cer-
tain-shall we say persuasion?-will need
to be exerted before the first meeting;
but I think I can answer for that."

Brace, who had disclosed to the other as
much of his plans as he thought desirable,
found himself wishing that Preel was not
compelled to speak in that whisper. Enough
to make a man think he was about to listen
to the confession of a crime.

"Yes," he replied, "you could do that,
I suppose; but once let me have the selec-
tion in my pocket and I'll undertake to
win that seat. Although-don't be offended,
Preel-any talk of presents, outside or in-
side, won't have the slightest support from
me. No. Not a minute's consideration.
I'll go in on my merits, or not at all."

He knew his man. Preel was probably
quite well aware of lt. too. He was
about to make a rejoinder, when Brace,
standing up, and Irritably pulling at his

ear, went on:

"Oh, yes; I know the retort to that They
all say the same thing to begin with. It's
true; quite true. But I regard any form
of bribery as less of a crime than an ac-
knowledgment of the worthlessness of one's

own case. You might call it quixotic; but
it's my view, and not easily to be changed."

Preel could see that, plainly, just as he
could see that Brace would win his seat,
bribes or no bribes.

"Why, absolutely my own sentiments.
Clean hands, Brace, are the first essentials
in a politician. Butr-I know the ropes. It's
not only a matter of winning a seat. There's
the keeping of it to be considered; and
the nearest that Don Quixote ever got to
politics was when he told Sancho to clean
his finger-nails. Ha-ha. Robert Walpole
didn't scorn to bribe-no, nor Pitt; and,
in your ear, not a mile away, a story is
going round that Sir--"

They talked for two hours and more,
Brace testing and sounding every contin-
gency, while Preel assured him that the
selection would be his; positively, and with
no possibility of doubt. When, at length,
he was alone, the union secretary sat and
gave himself up to all the tingling sensa-
tions of an imminent achievement. There
is no more delicious joy that a man may
indulge. As though he looked downward
from a great and terrifying altitude, he saw
the kingdom of his own ambition unrolling
like a map.

Preel-a tool to use. A weakly humbug;
at heart, a knave. But the selection at all
costs must be assured. That done, the
game was in his hands. ... As for the Fed-
eral Conventions: let events demonstrate
what lay inside that egg before he wasted
time in chipping it. . . . Mr. George Brace,
MX..A. . . . The Hon. George Brace, M.L.A.
. . . Her Majesty's Attorney-General for
the Colony of New South Wales. . . . The
Right Hon. George Moffitt Brace, P.C.,

MP, Prime Minister of the Federated States
of Australia. . . .

Suggestion is an almost diabolic force.
Ambition is a scorching fire. Later, he left
his office for the day, and that evening
attended a lecture at the law school.

The whispering man did his work, bur-
rowing underground like a mole. In its
own good time the pre-selection committee
at the Trades Hall, sitting in unpreten-
tious conclave, endorsed the candidature
of Mr. George Brace for that constituency
in which his work and interests lay. In
due course he was elected.

TLHOS. TEMPETT,

pleased and fattish, surveyed his dining
room with an outswelling pride. From the
gas chandelier, paper streamers, in a may-
pole formation, radiated to the walls.

Upstairs, there was a constant hurried
pattering of footsteps passing to and fro,
and the occasional quiet blows of closing
doors. Hearing these noises, which pre-
saged an important day's events, Thos sat
in a black armchair (horsehair), and with
his short legs thrust straight out before
him, linked his small hands across his
stomach, and with benevolence towards all
the world filling his striving, merchant
heart, said, "Ah."

Well, well, well, thought Thos. So things
had come to a most satisfactory pass. Land
boom over and done with. Trade slow,
but, taken by and large, quite promising.
A new home; and, dooce take it, a dash
good one. And to-day-young Ernie's wed-
ding day. Ah. . . Thos. felt a twinge of
sweetened sadness at the thought of that
-quite inarticulate, yet sadness all the

same. . . .

While Maggie the maid hurt her thumbs
and finger-ends hooking Mrs. Tempett into

her violet satin frock, Thos fell to musing,
his own thumbs twirling slowly and con-
tentedly.

Only three months before, the Tempetts
had moved from Clarendon Street and
gone to live at Kerferd Road, in the ad-
jacent suburb of Albert Park.

The house possessed no other features
which might distinguish it from its neigh-
bors upon either side, unless one excepts
the name, painted in perished gilt, and
fastened to the balcony. "Exmouth."
.Dundas" stood upon the left; and "Ux-
bridge" on the right. "Bayview," natur-
ally, was within hailing distance.

But, Lord, how proud were Thos and
Mrs. Tempett of this, their home. It rep-
resented to the two of them, in an irre
fragible testimony of wood and brick and
iron, their own achievements and success
-trophies which mankind-the Tempetts,
and the Craddocks, the Ivor Burstalls, the
Braces, and the Stryving-Warileys-all
prize with a consuming jealousy. Whilst
it ls true that "Exmouth" faced a suburban
road, marked down its centre with a plan-
tation of slowly-starving trees and dusty
shrubs, yet to our earnest little hatter
friend, it had the magnitude and at-
mosphere of a manorial estate, and warmed
his heart deliciously.

IN a small cottage

in Anderson Street, South Melbourne, there
was a quiet, all-permeating joy. Tile Wain
fleet was in port. As Karl gazed down
at the fragrant, breathing entity in the
curve of Drissie's arm, her eyes shone and
caressingly she touched her husband's
cheek.

"You see, dear? I said that he would be

like you; and he is, don't you think!" lift-
ing a corner of the warm shawl from baby'»
face.

"So he is, I believe. We'll have to make
a sailor of him. . . ." Entreatingly she
clasped his hand. He was serious imme-
diately.

"No, oh, no, dear Karl. Don't say things
just to tease me. Not a sailor. I could
never be happy if I had always to wait,
wondering and wondering, as I do for you.
Besides, you promised me that as soon as
we have enough money, we shall buy a
shop-"

"So we shall, dearest. We shall, indeed.
A few trips more-and so far as we're con-
cerned, the Wainfleet can go to the bottom.
Baby will make a good junior partner for
us, eh?"

Stooping, he kissed her cheek. A strange
and satisfying quietude possessed her.

"You know," she said to him, breaking
such a small silence as can be more elo-
quent than any words, "I used to grieve,
once, for our first baby. But not now. I
don't think she really wanted to stay or she
wouldn't have left us so soon."

Karl placed his finger on her lips and
said that he had better go out to see if her
gruel was hot.

The time wheel rolled upon its course.
Four passing years found Karl still plying
his living on the sea. Money was so diffi-

cult to save.

T

A HE century was

dying. Its sands were whirling through a
clouded glass; for with its death a splendid
epoch must expire. The Very August little
Lady was grown old, and frail, and not a
little lame; but she was still as self-willed
as ever. Her Bertie, the Prince of Wales,
had the best of reasons for knowing it.

The last nantomime at. Drurv Lane had

been a breath-taking spectacle for the
school children who thronged that theatre
during the Christmas holidays. Eton and
Harrow played their classic match at
Lords, the young boys playing and the
old ones looking on, with maters, aunts and
sisters. Paderewski, with his extravagant
vitality, was a great lion in drawing-rooms,
and an incomparable artist on the concert
platform. George Robey had served hia
apprenticeship, and was acknowledged
Master of the Art of Unpretentious Fun.
Oscar Wilde had gone to Reading Gaol in
search of his soul, and the singer from the
Goldenland, Nellie Melba, had come into
her own. Mr. Gladstone was dead.

The drum-beats, carried on the wind,
throbbed louder still, until Mr. Chamber-
lain sighed, and it become a job for the War
Office. If the gentleman in Berlin would
insist on climbing into spangled tights, and
bounding into the ring to a roll of political
snare drums, then his grandma (of whom
he stood in an unholy awe) must deai with
him. Let him blare and trumpet his in-
sincere protests and - telegraph his tele-
grams. The Transvaal and the ^ree State
must be taught their lesson.

So. War it was, while the old century
lay dying.

The spotless napery of the dinner
table threw into sharp relief its glass and
silver furnishing. The windows which
opened on to small balconies above Bel-
grave Square, were masked by curtains of
an imperial crimson, and cunningly
branched lights enriched a massive
fireplace carved by a master hand . . .
Mathilde Strindberg was seated on the left
of the Marquis de Soveral, the Portuguese
Minister who, for his superlative polish and

eclat, enjoyed the sobriquet of Soveral
Uberall. His dark hair shone. The grand
Cross of Michael and George glittered on
his breast. Turning from the Princesse de
Polignac he spoke.

"Madame was at Longchamps In June?"
"Yes, marquis. I was there for five
days, on my way down to Interlaken with
Lady Trent. Although, I must be frank,
and confess that I am not a racing en-
thusiast. Of good form or bad, positively
I know nothing." A red-sleeved arm moved
past her shoulder, and the plashing wine
rose in its tall glass. The diplomat smiled
drolly.

The Pommery in the goblets gleamed like
amber blood, and costly Georgian plate
shone in a silvery magnificence. Servants
with silent footsteps came and went, bear-
ing rich foods which breathed a savory
Lucullian steam. Brilliantly superficial
conversation sparkled as brightly as the
bubbling Veuve Cllquot, and the quiet
flame of women's jewels burned with each
movement of their hands and necks.

D RIVING home

through a vast labyrinth of brightly lighted
streets, newsboys cried the latest bulletins
Issued from the War Office. Despite the
rain, Trafalgar Square was thronged, and
rising from its base, whose guardians were
Landseer's great Hons, the shaft of Nel-
son's Monument thrust itself upward to a
lightless sky. The smell of rain, and its
quiet gnome-like patterning upon her car-
riage windows reminded her of another
night eight years ago when she had driven
home from Covent Garden. Too often rain
ls but the prelude of a woman's tears.

Passing down Piccadilly, she saw a gar-
gantuan bottle pricked out in electric
lights, and flanked by a dazzling query,
"Who said Beggs?" A moment later and
the flashing answer was revealed, "We all
did!" The glare lit her pale face. The
diamonds In her coronet sparkled de-
risively.

So home. But not to sleep. Late as it
was, she found herself tormented by a rest-
lessness impossible to quell, and sitting at
her piano-a costly gift from the famous

house of Bechstein-she yielded to her mood
and played. Deaf and ghostly, the shade
of Beethoven leaned across her shoulder
as the vivid silver threads of the "Appas
slonata" were rewoven by her hands. But
from that and without conscious volition,
she turned to the "Pathetic Symphony"
as sobs will follow stormy tears.

Her head sank lower as she played.
When to herself she sang poor unhappy
Schumann's "Almond Tree," lt seemed as
though the blessing of a sweet wind blew
upon her face, for all that she remembered
how, in the gone years, she had sung it to
Otto ... A long time past, Mathilde. She
conjured back old days whose bones lay
In the graveyard of her memory. Perhaps,
she hoped, a few of them in his? . . .

There her reflections ceased. She rose,
and from the drawer of a small walnut desk
took a packet of letters. Sitting on the rug
before the fire she slowly opened one and
read. Its date was of the year 1896:

My Dearest Mother,-. . . Four letters
from you were waiting for me when we
made port again last Tuesday, and as you
can see, I make haste to reply . . . Read

lng them again and again as I have done
that tor which I shall always be mosl
grateful, ls your deep understanding . . .
That ls a very rare 'hing . . . My fathei
lacked it, if I may write so to you. His
only letter to me made it impossible to write
to him again."

Here and now, I think back over the pasi
five years, and more than ever, realise hov
life ls bettered by small sadnesses . . .
There was that time when both my deal
one and I felt that all light had vanished
That was when our baby girl died-althougi
it ls true that she had not been with us verj
long . . . And then, with the exception ol
my small and few jobs, we were poor . . .
Of that I told you afterwards . . . Bul
what of it all? God gave us friends and
courage; and I found work upon a ship
where I am risen to be second mate, al-
though In time, and when it ls possible, 1
shall come ashore to live.

As I see it now, one cannot Ignore those
circumstances which arise to defeat one's
own original desires or Intentions, and what
I have done-you dearest mother, know it
very well-was not done to Insult my father
(it was wrong of him to charge me with
that), but because I realised that my only
happiness, and Drissie's lay along that road

It is unthinkable that I should ever regret
my marriage and my decision not to return
to Germany. For one thing, only I can
know how inconceivable it is that my
Drissle could live either In Europe, or Eng-
land; as you have more than once sug-
gested. My father spoke of my career-of
my patriotism-of my duty to him . . .
Is not hard work a fine career? ... I am
a German, and always, I hope, shall be, in
the things which bind me to the Father-
land. My recent naturalisation as a British
citizen was intended as a protection to my
wife-although, I feel that one must give
a gratitude to the country of one's adoption.

Then again-as regards my name . . .
For clear reasons I wished not to use my
father's nor yours, and Smith is an honor-
able name, the world over-although here
some people spell it in the old form, Smythe,
and pronounce it as though to rhyme with
their "fife." Also, I am happier for not
allowing you to send the money that you
wished to . . . Now, as to all our news . . .

Yesterday, Drissie and I went to a theatre
and saw "The Sign of the Cross," played by
Julius Knight. But I do not think he can

be good for young wives, as Drissie says that
only an angel could have such a voice . . .

Happy? you have asked. Yes . . . Master
Prank is now eighteen months old, and has
many teeth and can say "guten tag" . . .
Drissie is well, and with the baby, sends her
love . . . Perhaps, soon, you will come
out, and see us? Who knows?

For your blessings, dear mother, more
thanks than I can give, and all my love . . .
Your-Karl.

P.S.-You told me that my written Eng-
lish was stilted. Is not this better?-K.

The closely-written sheets fell stiffly to
the floor, and Mathilde wept gently, for
sorrow, and for the little joy which tinc-
tured it. But in a little while she dried
her eyes, and, locking away her letters, drank
a comforting cup of tea.

Five days later Mathilde left London for
her villa at Cannes. As the train wound
its serpentine path toward the south, she
watched the azure of the sea darken to
purple by its contrast with the rich foliage
of trees; and yearned passionately for an
untroubled mind, removed from the hysteria
of England gone to war, the strain of over-
work and loneliness. And fear. Fear? Her
throat. Of what might the great Strind-
berg be afraid? Of defeat . . ,

Sunlight and gleeful wind wrought radi-
ance upon the Atlantic's vivid face. The
yellow cliffs were laved by languid lace-like
foam. Almost upon the horizon, a yacht's
sail caught the bright glare of the sun, and,
overhead, cohorts of swallows winged their
way southward from the northern cold.

Seated beneath a shaded porch, whose
tiled floor was stencilled by the cool shadows
of incalculable leaves, Mathilde, quite charm-
ing in a simple linen hat, ate a slice of orange.
Then she resumed her letter. Writing
rapidly, she smiled once or twice, and un-
derlined some phrase which required an
emphasis. The sea wind scampered lightly
through the leaves which spoke and leapt
above her downbent head. Once she felt
a small sorrow and paused, looking across
a blue convexity of heedless sea. But in a
measure of impatience with her own senti-
mentality, she thrust up her bending hat
brim, and finished the letter in a few lines.
Having sealed it, she inscribed its address
in large fluent characters. She felt at peace.

Refreshed.

Yet, by an Irony which is sometimes far
more appalling and of greater import to
human affairs than a mere coincidence of
events, Otto had no opportunity to read
what she had written him. For, while
Mathilde was sipping her coffee on that
morning of gentle wind and sun, he had
gone upon a journey with-monstrous ab-
surdity-a pen between his thumb and
fingers, and his monocle glinting fatuously
in his eye.

Seating himself ponderously In his chair,
he had rung for his day's papers, and having
received the files from his orderly, com-
menced their perusal. He dipped a pen,
and on a certain page wrote words, his
initials, and the date; then leaned back,
enjoying a singular benignity-seduced by
an irresistible laziness. His orderly watched
him doltishly. Then Otto's universe fell
away from him. First, fear. Rabid. Un-
reasoning. And then a frightful knowledge
of calamity as though a hot cord spun be-
tween his nerveless hands. His eyes rolled
up, then back, surprisedly. He saw incred-
ible confusions of opacities shot through with
brittle light. His thoughts were terribly
confounded, and bewildering frail harmonies
were sounded in his closing ears. The world
rolled giddily in swift ungoverned speed.
The breath trapped in his lungs slowly hissed
out, blowing a bubble at the corner of his
flaccid mouth. And then he speculated

momentarily on awful things. He heard a
child's voice-"Papa." Slow swimming per-
fume drowsed his brain.

By these things. Otto knew that he was
dead. Irrevocably dead. He feared to move.
He allowed his jaw to fall. The smooth
sweat of his spirit's liberation dried on his
chilling skin. One by one Iiis tremors ceased.
The sun still shone. Aghast, his orderly
shook him. bumping his head upon the back
of the chair. Dead! Quite, quite dead.
Otto had gone travelling with his pen in
his hand and his monocle screwed in his
short-sighted eye. Mathilde had written

to a dead man.

13 UT in the cottage In

Anderson Street there was no place nor
time for grief. Courage and patience had
their dwelling there, although in the nights
Drissle longed in silence for a time to come
when Karl would never have to go to sea
again. She trembled when she allowed her
mind to dwell on storms and all the perils
which beset tight ships.

For the past four years Drissie had been
the black pudding lady's assistant in the
shop. Watching the girl's loneliness at
home, Mrs. Trunks had conceived a plan.

"Why, bless me, lt's as plain as the nose
on your face, girl-and that child'U have
that dratted dummy down his neck in two
Jiffs or I'll be a titmouse-where was I?-cf
course-" Mrs. Trunks drew a great
breath, and taking off her shoe folded the
toe of her stocking to prevent the extension
of the hole In it-"as plain as the nose on
your face."

"But," Drissle had protested, "I think
yes, I'm sure, that you're only asking me
because you think I'm moping. And I
don't mope. Oh, dear me, no."

"Well," the bull-throated woman answered
her, "I'll make a clean breast of it. That's
Just exactly what I am doing it for. Mope?
You little booby, of course you'll mope
Think I don't know girls? Tell me you
don't lie In bed at night-snivel, snivel
wetting your pillow in the dark, watching
a star through a crack in the blind, and
wondering whether that big ox of a hus-
band of yours is on the water or in it. I
know." As she leaned forward her chair
gave an anguished groan. "I'm a woman.'
Unquestionably. Drissie knew of no reason
for disputing a fairly obvious fact.

"You can do with the money-although
ten and six a week isn't much it'll keep you
from fidgeting-and I can do with a hand."

So it was settled Thenceforth, when she
had done her work at home, Drissie wheeled
little Prank around the Crescent, and up
to Clarendon Street, where she helped the
black pudding lady with the cooking, and
served in the shop In those four years,
the baby had spent almost as much time
in Mrs. Trunks' shop as in the Smiths' cot-
tage in Anderson Street.

A HTS day the wind
was sharp, and Drissie trundled the peram-
bulator at a brisk pace. Very comfortable
In a corded velveteen coat with enormous
smoked pearl buttons, Master Frank dis-
gustedly watched the South Melbourne land-
scape roll past his carriage hood. His curls
were hidden by a caramel-colored tam-o'
shanter, encircled by a ribbon emblazoned
"H.MS. Powerful." Since he was not per-
mitted to walk, he decided to fling his ball
out. This necessitated his mother's stop-
ping to retrieve it, and her pretty exaspera-
tion delighted him immeasurably. He would
have liked to toss the thing over the Or-
phanage fence as they passed, but found
the effort more than he could exert.

In good time Drissie arrived at the
smallgoods shop, and as she lifted the per-
ambulator over the doorstep and wheeled
it In, she heard the black pudding lady's
boisterous laugh, and another voice-a voice
at whose sound her eyes sparkled and her
heart leapt happily. The two people In
the sitting-room had heard her movements
at the same moment.

"Oh-oh-it's you! Oh, Mister Duck
what a wonner you are for surprises!
Mister Duck-and, yes. wooden leg and all.
What a gladness-what a gladness-"

What a gladness, indeed! She wept, and.
If the truth be told, so did he. Her Joy
tears wet his seamed face, and for minutes
both of them were incoherent. Harry
Duck could only gasp spasmodically as she
hugged him:

"Dr-issie! Little Dr-issle! Why
you're more of a tomboy than ev-er!"

Talking in all the volubility of happiness

they passed through the bamboo curtain

Into the sitting-room. There Duck tossed

the gleeful Frank up to the ceiling, and
setting him on his feet again, feigned to
bore a hole in his chubby paunch with a
leathery finger.

The small boy giggled delightedly, and his
grey eyes lit with the light which Duck
had known so well in Drissie's own. Re-
leased, he walked with a rolling galt out to
the yard, while Mrs. Trunks, with a great
clashing of pots and baking dishes attended
to the day's cooking, Drissie and Duck

talked.

"Tell me, Mister Duck," said Drissie after
a while, "how is-he?"

DUCK took his pipe from his mouth, spat
In the fireplace, and looked at her entreat-
ingly before he replied. "Well, he's much
the same as he always were; and then,
again, he isn't, as you might say. He's
still quietish but there's more of a-a gentle-
ness about him. Sometimes, you must know,
he goes on like a real old man." Duck
allowed his hand to tremble violently In an
illustration of great infirmity "But he
still reads his Book, and mumbles away
fifteen to the dozen. Sometimes. I am
darned if you can 'ardly get into the liv-
ing-room for the sheets of writing-paper all
over the floor. Dozens an' dozens of 'em.
all covered with figures; addings up, takings
away, and goings into."

Drissie felt sad; but Duck, it appeared,

went on:

"He's made another great discovery, so
he says, an', but a few weeks ago, when
he wasn't by, I took a screw at 'em, and, so
help me, bob, Drissie, if he hadn't got the
most wonderful mess of al-jibra letters,
and pounds, shillings and pence that ever
you saw." Duck blew through his pipe
and hitched his lee round.

"Poor Struhan." she said. "Is he happy?"
"Happy?" Duck repeated after her
"Happy? Not him. He's never been
happy. But he's delooded. and that's about
the next best thing, ain't it? He keeps your
little room just the same-fresh seaweed"
in the wooden bracket every day; and such
a prodigious lot of shells as he 'as put in!

Drissie felt sad; but Duck, it appeared,
had a lot more to say.

"A while ago he were shook up hard and
proper. It seems that the head sherangs
up here in Melbourne got a notion to
change things round a bit; so when the
tender came down, a cove with a cough an'
a red nose wanted to know what about
a shift to the Queenscliff Light." Duck's
faded eyes twinkled mirthfully. "You never
did see such anxiousness as Struhan showed
He almost cried. Then he said he couldn't
never settle down to another Light, an'
when the red-nosed chap had gone he used
to hang around like a lost cat, whimpering
It were pathetic. But there was no com-
plaint to be made about his light-keeping,
so nothing was ever done."

Much more they had to speak about. His
rheumatics was spiteful. Real crool, at
times, in fact. And the war was a pretty
bad business, but f they'd use the navy a
bit more it'd be over in three weeks. Well
then, now. when was Karl coming back?

When was he coming? Ah-if only she
could answer him. In one stroke Duck's
words had torn the veil of her pretence
For npw her quiet bravado was an intoler-
able burden on her heart. Week aftei
week. Month after month. Just a ficti-
tious bravery with which to combat every
day and fight each dragging night.

"He'll be In-oh-lt can't be long now,
I think. He-it's a great worry-" Her
mouth worked and her nose was puckered
in the dull agony of rising tears. "Oh,
Mister Duck-I-I just don't know. No one
knows. Waiting. Waiting. Walting.
And not a word. I can't wait any more.

I think he never will come home again.
Then I must die. Oh, Karl-oh, me-?

Before Duck's starting eyes, she flung
herself upon her knees, with her wet cheek
pressed against the polished leather of hi»
wooden leg. Convulsively her hands
sought his. Appalled, he sat and stared at

her.

"What's this? What's this? Brother,
you are a clumsy clown, and if I haven't
the wish to break your fool's Jaw, then call
me a sponge." The great-voiced, black
pudding lady gathered up the girl in her
huge arms, and by the strange magic which
compassion works, spoke in a soothing
gentleness.

"Softly-softly . . . Now, little mother, not
one more tear . . . What is there to cry
for? ... Is this courage? . .Sssh-ssh . .
There-there. Well, then, if weep you must,
weep . . . Quiet. Aha-no sobbing now . . .
A mite of rest in the big bed upstairs."

8he bore her up. Distantly Harry Duck
heard the magpie performing in the yard.
"Name, please? Harriet Trunks. But no
tick. Ha-ha-ha!"

"What-what?-" her brother en-
deavored to inquire of Mrs. Trunks when
she came down again. The great woman
brushed her loose hair from her forehead
and rolled her sleeves down

"Brother," said she, "you asked the wrong
thing, but you were not to know. The
Wainfleet has been overdrawn for five
months and more. Read that-" She
rapped a recent issue of the "Argus" with
ferocity. His hand shaking. Duck took it

and read:

"Considerable concern is entertained in

snipping circles Dy reason ol the continued

absence of any word of the Wainfleet . .
Incoming ships report no sign of her and
grave fears for her safety have arisen The
Wainfleet is one of the best known ..."

"So there! She read it too. And, mark
me, brother, if I had the lout who put
that in the paper-I'd poach him like an
egg-hah-and eat him, too!"

F^ROM a balcony of

the Mansion House, the Lord Mayor of
London read the proclamation of the state
of war. The telegraphists and cable
operators bestirred themselves, and sent
their flicking little spark messages out to
the four' corners of the earth.

Within a few hours, the barracks and
recruitlr.á depots were thronged by men
who passed inside, doffed their civilian at-
tire and came out metamorphosed into

soldiers.

Crammed with their drowsy freights, the
troop trains rolled throughout the nights,
were shunted across the gleaming metals,
and then disgorged their loads. More often
than not the men tnnnped on to the
wharves ? through a cl tu, pe'Ung raia.
Drump-drump-drump - Hooey ! -To-om!
Don't forget the kids, and keep wool next
yer skin! . . . Drump-drump-Hoorayl
Hooray! . . . Drump-drump-drump.

Youngsters just out of Eton and Hailey-
bury pestered their relatives wh ? had in-
fluence at the Horse Guards for commis

''sions. Others merely joined up, swelling

the ranks of the absent-minded beggars
ordered south. A great adventure, for it
had been a long peace So-out to South
Africa! Hooray! And bring back old
Kruger's whiskers! . . . Hoorayl Hoorayl

Hoo

Stormberg . . . Magersfontein . . . Co-
lenso . . . What? Incredible. Rubbish, my
dear fellow. British soldiers defeated In

the field? Yes, gentlemen. Defeated. By
a rabble of farmers! Well, by the Boers,
shall We say? And besides-enteric! A

bad business.

And the bands played louder, and the
flags waved more vigorously, and the Very
August Little Lady crocheted scarves for
her brown-jacketed men, and wished that
Bertie could be more trustworthy in affairs

of State.

The first contingent from the Golden
land sailed on October 9, 1899. For Golden
land had gone to war as well.

D RISSIE'S heart, de-

spite her resolutions to be strong and
brave, was almost breaking with that worst
care of all-Uncertainty. For now the
Wainfleet had been posted missing; and
lt seemed that there was nothing for it
but to lift her head, choke back her tears,
and wait. Both for her own and baby's
sake. The slow months crept upon their
heartless course. Dawns flushed to days
which in a span of hours were slaughtered
by the pestilence of nights. Working, Dris
sie hoped.

She left the cottage in Anderson Street,
and went to live with Mrs. Trunks, who In
the godly charity of her great heart gave
her no peace until she had consented to
take the spare room above the shop. Her
days were filled. Despair can be anaes-
thetised by toil. But each night brought
her memories whose poignancy was more
cruel than the agony of tardy death.

One morning as her eyes were travelling
from one column of the paper to another,
they lighted upon a familiar name in the
space devoted to casualties in South Africa.
Her heart throbbed with the compassion
which suffering so often evokes... "Crad-
dock, Adrian, Pte. . . . Killed in action...
Oh-how sad his mother will be. Poor

Mr. CradOOCK. i am sorry...

The war dragged on, and men died and
stayed out there Others who came home
In the hospital ships which reeked so dis-
tressingly of iodoform and blankets, were
disembarked to a quiet lack of demonstra-
tion, the antithesis of that excited fervor
which had marked their setting out. In
Sydney, where similar scenes had been
enacted, Mr. George Brace, M.L.A., was still
engaged in the business of creating trade
unions, and with complacent pride his
supporters pointed to his handiwork. His
face had grown thinner and the hair at
his temples had whitened. His destiny still
beckoned him. Now there was a greater
prize almost within his grasp. The salaried
director of political campaigns of the New
South Wales branch of the Labor Party,
Mr. Sydney Preel, worked more silently
than ever, and with the pertinacity of an
otter nibbling at a wand of birch

O N a solitary fragment

of the earth's face, two men labored in a
stolid hopelessness. For tools they had a
broken axe and their hands, whose chil-
blains after long neglect were raw and
purulent. They dug a hole.

The sterile earth was Iron-bound by an
immemorial frost, and blackened skull-like
flints embedded in it made labor cruelly
tedious. The broken axe-blade rang In a
measured mocking chime. He who used it
paused after every dozen blows, and bend

lng down, scooped out the harsh soil with
his crudely mittened hands. As he worked,
his breath whistled painfully, and when
he raised his face to address his companion,
his eyeballs were engorged with blood.

For a time he continued to work, then
clambering out of the hole, which might
perhaps have been about two feet deep by
six long, he spoke.

"It's useless to try to go down any far-
ther. I'm on the rock." The taller man's
breath smoked as he said the words, and
a flight of small sleet spears glittered on
the fur of his clothing. The little man,
whose face wore the same shocking marks
of pain and despair, and whose eyes shone
with an unhealthy lustre, rose from the
boulder on which he had been sitting. He
shuffled over to the hole, looked in, and
nodded dejectedly.

As though actuated by a common thought,
the two men turned their backs upon the
hole, and for a moment gazed with hope-
less eyes across the desert of the ocean's
face. Grey tattered clouds raced eerily
above their heads. From the arid mountain's
gloomy crest, black smoke belched out in
sulphurous distortions which the wind
pressed and moulded till they seemed a
vast indented bruise upon the emaciated
bosom of the sky. Then, as the men looked
at the skin-coated bundle which they had
carried up a craggy track, a snow squall
whirled about their heads. Three birds
shrieked mournfully as they sped down-
wind. A gale was brewing in its devil's
pot.

"What's that you're saying?" the little
man called in a high voice. His warm
breath turned to steam and whipped away,
as thniieh it. must escane. The tall, eaunt

fellow repeated his remark, and for a few
moments they muttered with their heads
together.

When a swift gust caught the smaller
man his companion steadied him with his
arm. They appeared to be in some agree-
ment, for they nodded; then the tall one
stooped above the long bundle, worked on
its coverings, and one by one drew them
off. An inert object lay revealed-stark and
blue. It was a dead man. Laboriously,
they lifted him, and struggled with their
burden to the hole which was a grave.
The bigger one stepped in, took the stiff
body in his arms and placed lt gently on
its bed. Lying there, it appeared lamen-
tably small and worthless, and almost
nestled in the frozen soil-careless of cold
and wind and the stupendous desolation of
that place from which its' spirit had es-
caped. The living man climbed out.

Standing at the grave's head, with their
fur-shod feet braced widely apart to steady
them against the tugging wind, they turned
about and looked out to sea once more,
until the smaller one Jogged the other with

his elbow.

Without a word, using their hands and
the broken axe, they filled in. Having
rammed down the scanty soil, they piled
a mound with broken stone. The snow
cemented it. When that was done the tall
man wedged a crude wooden cross into the
rocks at the head of the grave. He had
made it the night before. It bore an In-
scription In characters burned with a red
hot nail. A painful task. Not a word was
said between the two, but when the cross
had been set up, they approached it, bend-

ing forward to read its lettering again; \

IN

MEMORIAM
WM. G. BULT

SHIP WAINFLEET

Died in the exon

of his duty
12 AUG 1900

Aged 42

I know that
my Redmr

liveth.

Job.

But it was too cold to idle there. In a
few moments they had gathered up the
dead man's clothes, and, leaning against
the pressure of the wind, passed down the
track. Soon the wild snow had quite ob-
literated every vestige of their handiwork
except the cross, which, with two others
standing close at hand, spoke Its mute tes-
timony to the livid sky. Of the Wainfleet's
entire company-captain, crew and boys
only these men remained.

The broken path, If, indeed, a path lt
could be called, wound round the shoulder
of a beetling cliff whose side fell dizzily
to the seething foam line of the tortured
sea. Now, traversing its stony declivity, the
two men stumbled many times, and the
wind dealt great blows upon their huddled
frames, making them sick and breathless.
Keen scudding snow drove in their faces
burning their cheeks, and, thickly mantling
upon their greasy clothes of skin, gave them
the appearance of unwieldy feathered bi-
peds. A steelly sullenness suffused the sky,
clouding the southern horizon in murky
tones whose colors have no name. The sea
chafed woefully In soughing, troubled grief.
And the wind blew. Constantly. Bitterly.

Evilly.

Struggling painfully, they reached a
broken space of boulders and indiscrimi-
nately littered rocks. Here stood a small
cabin built of unsquared stones whose
Irregular interstices were filled with kelp,

and a coarse friable mortar of pebbles mixed
with mud. Saving a low door of broken
and ill-matched timber, and a hole in the
angle of the roof and one wall, it had no
opening. Seen from that side on which the
men approached, one might have thought
the structure was a tomb-a tomb of very
hideous design. From the door another
path ran down an incline of the shattered
rock to a small sandless beach, up which
the sea sped in a frothing scour, grinding
the shingle with a savage malice before
the fierce ebb sucked it out again.

Bending beneath the lintel the men en-
tered, and closing the door, shored it with
a baulk of wood. Karl flung Bult's gar-
ments in a corner, and placed the axe next
to an oar which leaned against the wall.
Near by, there was a little pile of split and
broken planks. Drawing off his cap and
mittens, Captain Wetherdick knelt, and
blew on the pale embers glowing in a small
depression of the stony floor. Behind him,
and slung from the low inbending ceiling
of canvas and timber, there hung part
of the carcase of a seal, rancid and bloody.

While the wind wept and gibbered through
the crannies of their cabin walls, they
broiled their meat, and ate it In a wolfish
gluttony. Outside, the snow drove in a bliz-
zard, and from the mountain's fiery spout
there was a lurid glow, which flickered
fearful shadows on the dark curtain of
the streaming clouds. No stars. No moon.
No other light. Only the wind, and the in-
cessant litany of spume-topped waves
which sang of death and death's hand-
maidens: Solitude. Madness. And despair.

Before turning in they drew lots for Will
Bult's clothes. Karl took the trousers.
Wetherdlck the coat. Drawing them on over
their own, they banked the fire, rolled
themselves In a torn sail and lying close
together drifted down to sleep-a sleep made
troubled by the voice of the wind and sea
and of their cold companions on the hill.
To Karl was brought the vision of his wife
and child, and warm tears trickled through
his frost-rimed lids. But Davie Wetherdlck
could hear his ship's lamenting voice. Dream-
ing, he trod her heaving decks again.

The wind still blew. Constantly. Bitterly.

Evilly.

Auckland had dropped astern, and with
the falling sun to fuse her bubbling wake to
gold the Wainfleet, under a full press of
bellying sail, set a swift foot upon her
course. Her gear was stowed, all halyards
coiled, the hatches closely battened down.
Her standing rigging twanged musically to
the seductive plucking of the driving wind.
And Davie Wetherdlck, canting his spare
little body to the ship's slow rise and fall,
was very well content. He hummed a few
bars of a song, and for some moments
watched the spinning log leaping and trund-
ling in the gurgling furrow ploughed up by

the ship.

"Well, Mr. Bult, I'm tipping a non-stop
run in record time. In fact, 111 bet you
half a pound of good flake cut that we'll
nose into Falmouth inside twelve weeks.'
Bult grinned, and In his turn looked al
the hopping log.

"Well, sir," he answered, "a good sailoi
doesn't care to bet against his own ship;
but, for the sake of a wager, done. A hall
a pound of flake to a trouser button."

Wetherdick went below. In the quiet ol
his small cabin, whose ports were half
masked by the fresh chintz curtains whict
his wife had made for them, he wrote ut
the day's log, in that quaint abbreviatior
of words traditional to the sea. When the
green water galloped past the dripping
glass, he smiled and smacked his lips con-
tentedly. On deck, and underneath, anc
upon either hand, he could hear all the
unutterably satisfying noises of a ship, fron
the gentle grumblings of her timbers to th<
quiet ticking of a brass-jacketed chrono-

meter.

Succeeding weeks were no less kindly, a;
with an urging wind upon her quarter, thi
Wainfleet ran her easting down. And ever
when she came toward that furtive passage
of the churning Horn, Davie was more con

vincea man ever tnat ne would nave a
button from his number one's trousers. He
knew that road of waves and gales and
sickly skies too well to have a doubt. For
that matter, so did his mates, Bult and
Smith, and the greater number of his

crew.

When the sky darkened to that chill
austerity which lies about this lonely corner
of the earth, the ship still drove upon her
way. Reefed down, she travelled like a
racing bird. And when the green seas
pelted after her, and came inboard along
her decks, she paused and raised her head
again, seeming, to swim and better for her
buffeting. Life' lines were rigged. The crew

cursed their wet bunks and frost-chipped
hands, but only in the manner of men
who conform with an accepted convention.
The cook cursed, too, for his soused galley.
But the dim skies grew dimmer above winds
which now had swelled to hurricanes.

The storm struck on the seventh dawn
in an insensate lust which spun the ship
in sickening gyrations, thrusting her down
until her masts stood out like rushes from
a wind-flayed swamp. Surprised, she rose
up painfully, as a wounded beast will stagger
to its knees. The water and the wind tore

at her throat again. To the terrifying
sounds of rent and cracking timbers her
masts came out, and with the rigging clut-
tering the canting deck went overboard.
They took the Jib boom in their wreck.
As though a giant heel struck upon her
planks, the Walnñeet opened like a pod.
and the ferocious seas came In and out,
and in again.

Twelve of the crew had gone by then, yell-
ing like men whom sorcery has trapped;
but with his blue eyes blazing to the chal-
lenge of calamity. Davie clung to the ragged
remnants of the mizzen stump, shouting
his orders in an unresoundlng voice. But it
was a cataclysm. Utter and complete. They
forced the long-boat from her chocks and
shouted to him to make haste. He shook
his head, whereat Karl struggled back and
seized his arm. Three of them thrust him
in, and, on the summit of a wave which
» whooped and hissed and lifted her, the

small boat rose and travelled down the
roaring wind.

Seven men. One with a fractured Jaw.
The hurricane rolled over them and all
about, yet they kept the long-boat running
stern on to the sea. During that night
and for two days and two more nights,
they baled in turns, rising to frightful
altitudes upon high waves, and sliding
with a nauseating speed Into the pit of
troughs which sucked and spat In horrify-
ing joy. He with the cracked face died.
And then another. From the cold.

On the third day, carrying a shred of sall
no higher than a man's shoulder, they
came Into the surf which beat upon the
smoking island's shore. The boat rode
madly on a breaker's crest, and with the
spent force of the wave which flung them
up, capsized and split in fragments on
the beach. They salved her gear. A bag
of sodden biscuit. Four oars. Sails; and
an axe. Wetherdick had sprained his
wrist. The other four gazed up and round
a solitude of rock and snow. They shud-

dered.

Those men, the survivors of the Wain
fleet's wreck, had landed upon that vol-
canic rock which whalers of the early days
charted as Cape Go Down. It is in fact an
island, although until recent times its
actual existence was disputed by carto-
graphers. It lies in 57 deg. 12/ S. Lat. 71
deg. 6/ W. Long.; that is to say, in a pocket
of the Southern Ocean, one hundred and
forty nautical miles west-sou'-west of Cape

Horn.

A very desolate and fearsome place it is.

T

A HE old gentleman

lay in his grave, at Faulconbridge, one with
the brooding mountains, and the clouds and
valley streams. Above his sleepy head tall
trees bent down and whispered of great
doings in the outer world. The watchful
magpies gossiped busily, informing him of
this and that, and how his work was far-
ing since he had laid his hammer by. For
now, the task which he had left to his lieu-
tenants to complete was done. The bright
sun poured in glory on his grave.

Monday night in Sydney had been one of
streaming rain and wind, drenching the
streets and blowing swaying hoardings
down. That was the last night of the old
century. But Tuesday's dawn swept
through the gateway of the Harbor Heads
with intermittent sunshine breaking from
reluctant clouds. Vast assemblages of
people had gathered in the Domain above
Farm Cove, along the streets in which the
troops were taking up their dispositions at
an early hour, and as far out as the Cen-
tennial Park where an impressive stage

had been prepared for the august cere-
mony oí the Commonwealth's Inaugura-

tion.

With the early hours oí the day, however,
the ragged clouds trailed off, and with them
went the rain. The sun shone warmly, and
a cool wind stirred thousands of flags, pen-
nants and festoons with which the streets
were dressed, setting them fluttering on
their staves and strings. The harbor waters
glittered like a great tray of coruscating
jewels, and the burdened ferries hurried
to Circular Quay, whence immense num-
bers of men and women and excited child-
ren added their numbers to those who were
already lined along the decorated streets.

It was the nation's birthday. And not
a few people, proud In their knowledge of
the day's significance, thought of the old
gentleman whose day it should have been
as well. There was a booming of loud
cannon, followed by the turbulence of
cheers, and a great spectacle was on its

way.

Like a brilliant snake which wound its
scintillating pathway through the crowds,
the procession passed out of the Domain
and into historic Macquarie Street, past
the unimpressive Houses of Parliament
'which look so much like a reformatory)
beneath the arches In Bridge Street, and
on its course of pageantry and flashing
pomp. The people seemed delirious with
joy as the incessant thunder of their own
cheering swelled.

The festooned balcony of the Legislative
Assembly was crowded with Parliamen-
tarians and their friends, applauding Just
as excitedly as their lesser known brother
citizens who held their thousands in the
street below. And not the least eager of
those spectators was a chubby boy, who
shouted with deliglrced glee in his child's
falsetto when the head of the procession
hove in sight. The squad of superbly
mounted troopers, followed by the lancers
with their flickering little banderols, thrilled
him tremendously. The great throat of the
people roared and in his eagerness the boy
leaned far over the balcony.

"Gently, dear-gently;" his mother ad-
monished him, "or you'll fall over on those
people's heads, and then there'll be a com-
motion. Were you as excitable at pro-
cessions when you were a boy?" She smiled
as she made the inquiry of her husband.
Mr. Brace, soon to take his seat as a mem-
ber of the first Federal Parliament In Mel

bourne, started slightly, and turned. The
noise was almost numbing to the ear.

"Every bit, dear. Not a jot less. See-"
Beth looked down again and saw the
symbols of her husband's patient work of
years. Behind a band whose ringing music
struggled to rise above a medley of louder
noise, the decorated car which represented
Industry rolled by, drawn by six horses,
one for every State.

That night, the cities of the continent
blazed with illuminations, and the warships'
searchlights made «vivid trellis works of
interlacing beams. In the old country the
Australian flag was hoisted at the Mansion
House, and the Bow Street bells rang like
the very devil. Doubtless, the winds which
played about his grave told the old gentle-
man about it all. Still one would have liked
to see him there, to watch his dauntless eyes
gleam with the consciousness of a great
undertaking thoroughly and nobly done.

Mr. Chamberlain was still Interested In
South Africa-and his orchid.

Early in the following week, with Beth
and their boy. Brace left Sydney for Mel-
bourne. Before the departure of their
train, he stood on the platform, attentively
listening and tailing to Mr. Sydney Preel,

«.ho occasionally scribbled short notes in a
small pocket-book. Carriage doors banged
with an irritating persistency. The porters'
barrows trundled noisily, and the fierce
sibilance of blowing steam made hearing
very difficult. Preel's infirmity of voice
rendered it almost an impossibility.

At length he closed his little book, snapped
«in elastic band about it as though he were
afraid of its gossiping unguardedly, and
shook hands with the Member of Parlia-
ment. Then, raising his hat to Mrs. Brace
he smiled, murmured, and walked off. As
he went on his way along Pitt Street, he
experienced that pleasant sense of gratifi-
cation which comes to men when they draw
up a balance sheet of their activities, and
find themselves on the right side of the
ledger.

He had played his cards well. He might
Bay, singularly well. Unhurriedly. Tor-
tuously. A quiet word here. A gentle win-
ning pressure there. No man, so Preel re-
flected, had a more comprehensive know-
ledge of the political machine than he. And
none knew better how invaluable he had
become to the Trades Hall council. He
felt exalted when he thought these things.
But Brace was very far from being a fool,
and If, in good time, he-Preel-was to have
an appointment to the Federal secretariat,
he would have to handle that clever man
With an extraordinary suppleness.

As the express ran through the outer
suburbs to the open country beyond Liver-
pool, Mrs. Brace, looking most attractive
with a blue gosslmer about her head, turned
to her husband, who. with his chin in his
hand, watched the dim hills and paddocks
travel past.

"Really, your Mr. Preel is an extraordin

arv man. But, you Know, aear, i never nave

the feeling that-I suppose there's no other
way to put it-that he's quite honest." The
train rared through a cutting, the rock fun-
nel setting up a windy roar. Brace waited
until the lighter rolling of the spinning
wheels was heard again.

"Preel? Yes, an unusual fellow and in
some respects, as you say, not over honest
Mind you, I don't mean that he'd forge a
cheque or commit a larceny. He'd consider
that it wouldn't pay-but his doctrine is
that of expediency. You know-the end
and the means." Brace found his voice
raised against the loud rumbling of the
train, and stopped speaking while he low-
ered the window. Then he resumed "He
has a positive itch for intrigue and secret
intelligence; it's a talent with him. And,
by Jove, Beth, he's ' the mainspring at
Goulburn Street."

The allusion was to the Labor Council
at the Trades Hall. Beth nodded Inter-
estedly.

^^OUNG Clem Brace

must surely have thought that the world
had been transformed ¿nto an interminable
carnival of flags and arches. Beth's mother,
Mrs. Craddock, met them at Spencer Street
station, and as they drove up Bourke Street,
the boy stood with his face at the open
window of the brougham door. He craned
his head to see the cable trams which rattled
up and down, and would have given worlds
to have changed places with a grlpman.
But when a high-seated Daimler motor
passed by, chuffing loudly and emitting a
blue cloud of petrol gas from its exhaust,
Beth's son smote his father on the knee
and leaned half-way out of the window In
hi. Joy.

"I say, I say," he cried, "look at the motor
buggy! Oho, the motor buggy!" His grand-
mother and parents laughed.

"So lt ls, darling," Mrs. Craddock an-
swered him, "and a horrible smelly thing
lt ls too. I hope that my Clem won't want
one when he grows up. They make your
father furious," she added, turning to Beth
Her daughter laughed.

"Daddy does get cross over little things;
but really, mother, lt's a wonderful sensa-
tion to ride in a motor car. Almost every-
body will have one in a few years' time, I
think... Daddy isn't sick, ls he? It Isn't like
him not to meet the train."

"No, oh no," her mother assured her
"But he has been so very worried of late
and the strain ls telling on him. I grow
quite concerned about him at times. And
you, George? You have been keeping well?
Do you like the thought of living In Mel-

bourne?"

Brace, who had a strong affection for
his wife's mother, told her, yes. Although,
once Parliament was open and In session,
there'd be very little time for holidays. Mrs
Craddock said-no; she supposed not: It
was nice, she thought, to see Beth so happy
And George. Such a dear fellow, if he
was so nervy and abstracted at times. Mind
you, she would have liked it better If he
had not been $. Labor man. But there:
One could not have everything. Perhaps
he might change? Still, that seemed hardly

likely.

But when Brace saw his father-in-law,
he started at the change which the passage
of two years had wrought In the man. His
shoulders stooped. His hair was white. Not
with that healthy silver which one sees in
a man with whom the world goes well, but
bleached, and with a limp dankness. His
face (a full, firm face it had been once)

was harshly lined. There were loose poucnes
beneath his eyes. And when he pressed the
trigger oí the syphon, Brace noticed that
the skin upon his hand shone with that
senile lustre of shrivelled flesh.

While Beth and her mother dressed for
dinner, John Craddock sat with his
daughter's husband in a small oak-wains
cotted morning-room. Its light was dim

"Well, Brace, my dear fellow, lt's a pleasure
to see you. And Beth and the boy look a
picture. Cigar? Don't smoke yet? Wish
I could say the same." The match spurted
as he lit his monopole, and settled back hi
his chair.

"Yes, they're both very well, sir. And
happy." Craddock looked at him quizzically,

and smiled.

"Eh? Well, if a husband can't say that,
who the deuce could? Still I'm sure they
are. All the same, if I'd ever have thought
that my Beth would have settled down to
the work that falls on a politician's wife
and a Labor politician at that-I'd have
doubted my own sanity." John laughed
until his cigar's twining smoke caught in
his throat. "Mind you. Brace, I was dubious
of it at first, you know," he added In-
geniously.

Brace compressed his lips, swirled his
whisky around in the glass and drank lt off.
Through the side of his eye, he saw a white
aproned housemaid mounting the broad

stairs.

"Yes. I have no doubt that the paradox
of Beth Craddocks marriage in Sydney to
a-shall we say a Labor firebrand?-must
have struck a good many people." The two
men laughed in a mutual and good-natured
understanding, and their conversation passed
on to the political Interests of the moment.

Beth's marriage had indeed startled a
number of people. After twelve months
abroad with her mother, she had landed
In Sydney from San Francisco. Within the

following fortnight, as a guest at a parlia-
mentary garden party she met the man for
whom a dazzling career was predicted. 8he
found him shy and gauche, but his dynamic
vitality and captivating earnestness attracted
her at once. Involuntarily she found her-
self intrigued by the fact that he belonged
to the left wing. A Labor member. A

radical. Even a socialist.

Later, from the ladles' gallery, she heard
him speak. His calm and Incomparable
logic, his supreme mastery of words, and a
flair for gibing Invective filled her with a
bewildered admiration. But if she were his
wife, she would make him take more pains
with the knotting of his tie . . . They were
married in the following November . . .

IN London, a silent

host of upturned faces waited for another
proclamation to be read; and at eight
o'clock, leaning upon a window sill, the Lord
Mayor delivered his tidings. Then St. Paul's
great muffled bell commenced to toll. The
minute guns fired by the cadres In Hyde
Park boomed out their hollow shots. For
the Very August Little Lady lay dead. While
her Lord Bishop of Winchester knelt and
as her family stood grouped at the far end
of her spacious bed chamber, her eyes closed;

and «he died.

Outside, a grey day's twilight dimmed the
Channel's grieving face. Her son, the King,
turned, and with his nephew from Potsdam
left the room. A still gloom touched the
nation's heart. The cables spoke their mes-
sages. Within a few hours there were few
places on the earth but had not learned that
a very puissant Queen had gone upon her
way. Flags crept to the half mast. The
streets were sombre with black drapes and

purple swathes.

At St. James' the pursuivants in bullion
crusted tabards proclaimed the King A
very great epoch had passed from the earth.
The Queen was dead. Long live thc King!

M RS. TWENTYMEN

called a little louder: "Math-ew, the break-
fast's getting cold, and the eggs will be
hard!" Mat had opened the shop, but he
had been an unusual time about lt. In
answer to his wife's call he came through
and down to the kitchen, holding the morn-
ing's paper In his hand. He looked startled,
and his ruddy face was pale.

"Why-what's the matter, Mathew?" his
wife inquired. "You look as though you've
seen a ghost." Mrs. Twenty men's tone be-
trayed concern.

"Mother," said Mat, as he sat down and
drew his chair into the table, "bad news,
that's what. Well, well, well. The old
Queen . . . Queen Victoria dead."

"Not dead? Not the Queen?" Mat's wife
sat down with her hands in her lap. Lifting
her eyes she looked at the shabby picture
on the wall. "Dearie dear . . . When did
she die, Mathew?" Mat looked again at the
"Argus," columned in heavy bars of black.

"It says on Tuesday evening. The day
before yesterday. It's true enough . . . And
yet, I can't believe it."

These people received the news as though
it were a stupefying blow. For Queen Vic-
toria and all that she represented, had been
a fixed and certain Institution of their exist-
ence. The concept of "the Queen" had been
implanted In them from their early child-
hood; and only the aged could recall a time
when she had not been on the throne. The
very words "God save the King" were start-
lingly unfamiliar to their ears. They seemed
to have an almost treasonable ring. Through-
out their lives, their eyes had been accus-
tomed to the all-familiar, and cryptic "VA"

Inscribed on the door lintels of police sta-
tions and government buildings-on post-
men's buttons and the scarlet pillar-boxes
standing in the streets.

T

AHE íir3t national Par-

liament waa opened at Melbourne by the
King's son in the following May. Be-
neath the majestic dome of the Exhibition
Building. In the Carlton Gardens, a great
concourse of distinguished public men and
people heard the sonorous verbiage of the
proclamation read by the Duke of York.

The golden-shafted sunlight struck through
the great windows of a vast, bannered hall,
glinting and glowing on the lace of uni-
forms, and upon orders, and heavily roped
aiguillettes. Soldiers and diplomats. Judges
and admirals, statesmen and legislators
stood below the dais, ranked In distinguished
groups, which, unified, composed a picture
whose totality in pomp and color was in-
comparably proud. Great numbers of the
women present wore mourning for the
Queen, but that quiet note could not Impair
the grandeur of the spectacle.

Mr. George Brace, a private member of
the House of Representatives, looked on with
his wife standing by his side. A slender
beam of light fell on his head. When he
looked up, its white glare blazed upon his
face. It seemed the omen of a time to come
When Parliament assembled for the trans-
action of business he took his seat as a tri-
bune of the people.

But the forlorn men. who strove so terribly
for life upon their frozen prison rock at
Cape Go Down, heard nothing of the mo-
mentous changes which had taken place
within two years. Those bitter winds which
brought with them the deadly malediction
of the Ice quite drowned the bells, the
cannon shots and cheering which the outer
world had heard. Their eyes, red and myopic
by debility and the perpetual contempla-
tion of the sea and snow, saw neither
pageantry nor flags. Their very dreams were
warped and horrible perversions of their
waking hours. Their souls were clouded by
a frightful fear-a fear whose anguish was
more exquisite than the atrocious agony
of a rat gnawing into living flesh. The fear
of being forgotten.

Yet. despite their puffed, excoriated

limbs and rotting teeth-the misery of nail
less fingers and of a pestilential breath
which soured their meat before it ever
touched their ulcered mouths, they clung
to hope, as though it were a draining teat.
Each morning saw one totter to the crag
whereon a pair of torn, salt-stiffened trou-
sers thrashed the Jeering wind. Each
nightfall saw them crouching by a spitting
fire holding their concert, wheezing music
from their chests, while the grey seas
laughed outright.

Unconquerable hearts-be patient. Hope.
There ts a God. His name is Equity.

Another year must pass.

"T

J. WISH with all my

heart. Madame Strindberg, that my opinion
were otherwise, but I feel that to equivo-
cate would be an impertinence."

The surgeon clasped his fingers as he
leaned forward, and concluded. His patient's
face was shadowed, for at the first words
which he spoke she had risen, and now sat
with her back to the window. For many
seconds, there was an overpowering silence
in the consulting room. Only the softened
(ironings from the street below were heard.
Very faintly. Very constantly. Like swarms
of small-winged insects in a still swamp.

"Is it an impertinence for me to ask. Sir
Howard, whether there ts any room for

doubt?" Mathilde's voice was evenly con-
trolled, but the sound of her own speech
seemed flat. Unnatural. Her eyes were
pitifully dry, as they entreated the man
who sat behind the large, ordered desk. He
spoke again, and looking directly at her.

"That ls a natural question. Unhappily,
I cannot feel that there ls any doubt. My
colleague and I, be assured, have arrived
at an opinion only after the most careful
deliberation."

"Yes," she gently interrupted him, "it
was a foolish thing to ask. What you tell
me I have known for a long time. But I
think I feared to hear it put Into words.
I am still stupid enough, though. Slr How-
ard, to wonder whether I shall ever sing
again ... ?"

Yet, her heart dragged upon a beat as
she waited for the specialist to answer.

"Madame Strindberg," said he, "it ls
sometimes necessary or desirable for a doc-
tor to modify the precise terms of a medical
diagnosis. That ls a course dictated, as a
rule, by an estimate of the patient's capacity
to sustain what may be, to put lt mildly, a
severe shock. But. In your case, such a course
Ls not to be thought of. Frankly"-the sur-
geon twirled the cap of his fountain pen
"I say that, at this stage an operation to
the throat offers a reasonable prospect of
cure. Postponement would assuredly be
imprudent. But-you will never sing
again. Not in public."

He laid down his pen and was thankful
that he could not see her eyes. The blood
rushed from her heart. A dreary darkness
seemed to fall upon the day. Sometimes
unnumbered thoughts can flll a second's
span . . . Never more to sing? Never.

A sob almost burst from her tortured
throat.

"I am quite certain that you have nothing
to fear from your operation, Madame Strind-
berg. And you will permit me to say-I
cannot but think it-that I am a better
man for knowing a very brave woman."
Her lip quivered, as he walked with her to

the door.

"Not brave, Sir Howard. I am really
a very frightened woman; but I cannot for-
get that women of my age have no right
to weep. They are only permitted to cry.

And that, dear Sir Howard, would be a
calamity. Now, I am to telephone you on
Mon-no, Tuesday . . ."

But in her bedroom Mathilde wept In-
deed, and in a shocking fear she held her
aching throat, as though she would pluck
out the creeping thing which was de-
vouring her life.

Ten days afterwards Mathilde underwent
her operation for cancer of the throat.
On a day of frost, two months later, sadly
aged by pain, and wrapped heavily to with-
stand the cold, she embarked at Dover on
her way home. She took her memories with
her to her native land.

Work is a drugging draught. But it has
never killed a grief Drissie had discovered
that. Let her work day in and day out, as
hard as she may, always close to her side
there was the spectral protoplasmic shape
called loneliness. It haunted her, awake. It
stood beside her bed by night. Yet with an
unshaken courage and perseverance she kept
to the occupation which the all-understand-
ing black pudding lady put to her hands.
And an absorbing Interest and pride she
took in the business of the smallgoods shop,
for Mrs. Trunks, although reluctant to
admit the fact, was no longer as spry as
she had been, and the greater part of the
work fell to Drissie.

Mrs. Trunks wiped grease from her great
hands and took the letter which Drissie
had brought out to her.

"What's this?" she Inquired In a sonorous
tone of surprise-"A letter? 80 it ls; and
from my brother Henry, too, as Tm a sin-
ner. Now, what's he troubled about this
time?-for I never knew that boy to write
to me unless he was In some sort of a quan-
dary."

Dri3sle struggled with a refractory oven
damper, while the black pudding lady
opened her letter and sat down to read lt.
But at the first dozen lines of Duck's evil
scrawl, she loudly ejaculated-"Wh-a-a-at!
Great Moses! Now, if he hasn't gone and
lost his Job! Oho-the limb! Well-well."

In her surprise Drissie let fall a stove
plate which clashed on the hearthstone with
a tremendous noise, frightening both of

them,

"Gracious-lost his Job? Mister Duck?
How-?" Drissie was dumbfounded.

'Now listen to the

noodle's note": Mrs. Trunks held the letter
out before her, canting it sideways for th«
light to fall upon it. " 'My dear sister Har-
riet' (I'd give the fool dear sister Harriet
if I had him here) 'You will be surprised
to get a letter from me but big things are
doing at the light.' (The little squirt)."

Drissie always found Mrs. Trunks'
parentheses puzzling. But, as the black
pudding lady read on, her brother's mean-
ing became very clear. " 'Well the new
government took the lighthouses over as
I do not doubt you have seen and the big
nobs have made a lot of new rules-turn
over-' " Mrs. Trunks wet her broad
thumb with her tongue and obeyed the
behest. Drissie sat on the corner of the
table, with a deep concern reflected In her

face.

"'. . . and to cut a long storie short
old Luke and me being over age' (Why the
clown can't spell I never could make out;
'must go' (what's this?-Alec-no-well I

do believe the ninny's moon-struck) '-must
go alas' Calas; 'it's a great blow' (oh the
Uar. He's that over-Joyed he hasn't put
one comma In the whole dratted letter.
Sich a young tartar it ls) . .

Mrs. Trunks could never think of him as
other than a wilful boy. The letter pro-

ceeded:

? 'As for poor old Luke he ls very quiet
about lt and says he looks forward to a
rest. He mumbles a lot about his master's
vineyard. That one's got me licked but
try "Exodus" or "Pilgrim's Progress" . . .
If then I can put up a day or two with you
Itll give me time to stir about and find some
quiet moorings away from the city's
feathers' <tio-fevers. City's fevers) "You
will be pleased to hear I get a pension
also a reference. This you will share In I
hope you are still your old self' (I am In-
deed, my boy, and you'll soon know lt)
'and my love goes to Drlssie and the Infant
boy who is by now up to peg tops I feel
sure. We leave the light on the 8 ultimate'
<the little crow means proximate; that's
a month from now) 'your fond brother
Henry Cecil Duck.' "

Drlssie was sad and sorry for Duck (who,
by the same token, and as his sister had
deduced, was not at all cast down by the
prospect of an Indefinite holiday with a,
pension to back lt). Also a little fear cam«

to her mind. Strahan. What would Stra-
han do? And where would Strahan live?
She hoped that he would go right away
anywhere rather than be near her. Mrs.
Trunks gave a contemptuous snort.

"Who? Him? No fears. But let him
show his shaggy face in my shop-and
mind you, Td know him, although I've
never seen him-and I promise you he
won't have time to squeak the number of
a psalm before his head goes off." The

knife in her hand swished horribly. "A

fine booby you'll be If you let any thoughts
of him worry you. So there it is."

Not a doubt of it. Mrs. Trunks had
strong and belligerent intentions in the
event of the shaggy-headed Strahan "pop-
ping up."

A HE twenty-ninth day's

sun was setting from a heaven aureoled
in blood. The wind fell slowly, till the
water's face shone with the sullen lustre
of a satin shroud.

Defined against the brazen panel of the
western sky the figure of a man, diminished
to a doll-like size, stood on the lighthouse
gallery and watched that twenty-ninth day
die. Luke Strahan was the man. His
thoughts were terrible.

With his arms folded on his chest, he
stood and through unwinking eyes gazed
at the flaming segment of the half-set
sun. His hair, bleached to a snowy sil-
verness, hung in long tangles to his shoul-
ders; but at times it stirred, ruffling
mournfully as though a ghostly breeze
played round his head. His wrists were
hidden by his beard. There was a time
when Struhan's frame had been a splen-
did one. That time was past, long since.
Por now, his body seemed a meagre thing.
Shrunken and withered. Ground and
worn away.

As the sun's topmost rim slipped down,
dark- lights raced, flickering, about its
sepulchre. The day was done. He sighed.
And with the gesture of a dreadful help

lessness and doubt, he raised his eyes to-
wards the zenith of the darkening sky and
wrung hts hands. "The sun is dead," he
said aloud, and, fumbling clumsily at the
door clamp, went inside. He lit the lamp,
and, setting his shoulder to the lantern's
frame, thrust lt upon its rolling for the
night.

Duck had the first watch. Throughout
that day he had experienced a growing
feeling of anxiety, watching the lighthouse
keeper as he went about his work. There
seemed a baffling and enigmatic quality
about the man. A new and inexplicable re-
silience beneath a blow which must have
struck him to the heart. No one knew
better than the underman. how Struhan's
universe was tottering and rocking on its
base. Wisely, Duck had said nothing. Now
the last night had come. To-morrow, both
of them would leave the Light.

And yet for all his seeming resignation,
Btruhan's disordered brain was bubbling
and feverish. The years behind him seemed
like a thread of gloomy gems, composed
of small chaotic incidents whose sharpness
were braised and bevelled to Infract con-
founding lights. They blinded him, and
made all future time a screen, black and
intangible, and more insensltlsed to bright-
ness than are blinded eyes.

The underkeeper came below at ten
O'clock, the tapping of his wooden, leg an-
nouncing his descent of the stairs.

"A fair night, but the wind's rising," said
he; then added: "For all I care it can blow

the top off the Light to-morrow." He
stooped and eased the strap of his leg.

"Ah-to-morrow. What winds will blow
to-morrow no man can say. Neither whence
they come. Nor where they go. Let the
wind blow-to-morrow." So saying, Stra-
han left the room, and, stopping only to take
up his bag, he slowly climbed until he
came Into the chamber of the light.

Once there, and as though he obeyed the
unreasoning dictation of his own habit, he
wound the motor and assured himself that
the lamp was burning freely and without
smoke. Then with the bag underneath his
arm he stepped out on the gallery and
clamped the door. The wind had risen
even as Duck had said; for now lt whipped
boisterously around the Light, and strongly
heaved against the man as he looked out.

He leaned far out, peering as though he
searched for something In the night. And
his Hps moved as though he questioned
someone whom he could not see. Expec-
tantly, he paused, with his head Inclined,
and his hand cupped around his ear; but
nothing answered him. He spoke again.
Impatiently. Only the solemn voices of the
night. The wind. The waves. "They will
not answer me," he said, "No matter. No
matter. There can be no treachery. Now
I am tired. Tired with great burdens; and
my secrets cannot wait."

With febrile eagerness he seized his tarry
bag, winding Its lashing tightly round his
wrist. In his anxious haste he gave a little
half skip, and clambering over the railing
of the gallery, he thought he heard the seas
speak in a deeper voice. The wind, In remon-
stration, blew violently upon his head, and
for a moment blinded him with the long
tangle of his beard and hair. The bag.
suspended from his arm, dangled and turned
and struck upon the salt-encrusted iron
work of the gallery. He looked below again,
and wondered at the light which glowed
and smouldered In the sea's black veins.
It came and went and reappeared again.
He closed his eyes and murmured words
a fragment from the Book.

xei a niue sieep, a niue siumuei, a

little folding of the hands to sleep,'-Pro-
verbs, six, ten." He drew a breath. Then
dropped-and with a plummet's sickening
velocity, twirling and spinning with his
bag of secrets, dragging at his wrist,
plunged hollowly. A high white fountain
spouted when he struck.

O N the following after-

noon. Duck watched the lighthouse and
the island slowly recede from sight. He
pictured to himself the tragedy which had
been enacted on the gallery the night be-
fore. An overwhelming grief assailed his
simple heart . . . "Poor ol' Luke . . . Mad
. . . and dead . . "

He shuddered, turned his back upon the
place for ever, and went below.

In due course, and carrying a misshapen
leather receptacle which once may have
borne some resemblance to a portmanteau,
he arrived at his sister's shop. As the
little bell rang, he called in a cheerful tone,
"It's only me, sister! Only me!" and pro-
ceeded towards the sitting-room. The loose
flooring-boards shook and danced beneath
the black pudding lady's immense weight,
and her awful voice was heard before she
came to view.

"Only you, brother? Only you? And
who the devil would it be, but you, at this
time o' the evening? Only you . . . Ah
there you are. More of a gawk than ever."
She held him firmly by his coat lapels, em

braced him with a bearish hug, and kissed
him with the sound of a large cork being
drawn from a small bottle.

She jogged him forward with a smart blow
in the ribs from her finger, and almost

into Drissie's arms.

What Joy! Oh-Mister Duck! And never
to go back to the light? Never?-Never!
Never! Ha-ha-ha! My stars-and what
a big fellow for a son-almost as big as his

mother! Ha-ha!

Duck plied his knife and fork with un
dlssembled gusto, banqueting, to Prank's
envious admiration, upon a whole black
pudding. Drissle hovered about talking nine-
teen to the dozen, while Mrs. Trunks sat
and watched her brother with an expres-
sion which she deludedly believed was grim,
but which In reality was doting in its affec-

tion.

"Now, you've got everything, and Til sit
down." Drissle suited the action to the
word. "Tm walting to hear all the news.
First of all where's-you know-Struhan?"

Duck set his cup down, and wiped his
hand across his straggling moustache. The
jollity faded from his eyes.

"Ah-him?" He motioned toward the
floor with his down-stretched thumb.
Drissie seemed puzzled, and the black pud-
ding lady interpolated:

"The fool means the man's gone to the
devil, but he hasn't the wits to say lt."

"I mean, sister and Drissie," said Duck
with wounded dignity, "that my late superior

is no more. Did himself in."

"In?" said Drissle, starting. "In what?"
"In the water," she was answered. "The
deceased committed the abominable crime
of suicide, between the hours of ten and
eleven phem. on the evening of Toosday
last. And I shall miss him." Duck blt a
large circle from a slice of bread and mas-
ticated in a wooden stolidity. But Drissie's
eyes dilated and she stood up.

"Struhan dead? Did you say-dead? Oh
.. .it shocks me... But no-I'll not tell any
lies. I'm glad-gladder than I can say."

While he slowly ate what he called a
"Christian, decent egg," Duck bold them all
he knew. "Although," he was at pains to
inform them both, "I was denied the actual
spectacle of the death." His leg creaked
comfortably. Frank, leaning with his el-
bows on the table, derived a fearful Joy

from the recital.

But as Mrs. Trunks' Henry ate his egg,
an agitated man walked past the
smallgoods shop, striding with an eager
step and looking neither to the right nor
left. In the thin light of shop windows and
street lamps, his face was pinched and grey,
and in his eyes there was that indefinable
expression which is induced by an extreme
of suffering. It seemed that he had a certain
destination in his mind, for, as he held upon
his way, his gait quickened until a walk-
ing man would have had difficulty In keep-
ing up with him.

He walked along the footpath until he
arrived at the gate of a small weatherboard
cottage.

There he stopped. With his hand pressed
against his heart he endeavored to still Its
breathless beating. A sound, half-sigh, half
groan, came from his lips, and audibly he
muttered: "I cannot go in-yet." The
house was In darkness. His momentary
weakness passed. He unlatched the gate,
walked four strides along a narrow path,
and, stumbling heavily as he stepped on to

a wooden verandah, knocked loudly at the
door. With the sound, a small dog at the
back of the house set up a shrill, rapid bark-
ing, and footsteps sounded In the passage.
The door opened, and he was confronted by
a stout woman who regarded him sus-
piciously, in the light of a kitchen lamp
which she held up the better to Illuminate
his face. He raised his cap.

"Mrs. Smith-? You will excuse me
I have been hurrying ... A little breath-
less ... Is Mrs. Smith-here?" Ht
trembled with a frightful eagerness. The
woman's face was utterly expressionless
She shook her head, and at the pressure of
her hand the door commenced to close.

"No. Not here. No one of that name."
"Please-one momenta--" he begged
'There was a Mrs. Smith lived here. Can
you-do you-?" The woman eyed him
with curiosity, and perhaps a tincture of
oompasslon for his obvious distress.

"The woman who was here-had a small
boy-?"

"Yes, yes."

"Well, she's In West Australia. Her hus-
band struck it rich at Kalgoorlie or some
such place; and she went over there about
three months ago."

The black sky yawned before his swim-
ming eyes. A loud cacophony of rushing
blood struck his ears deaf. He tottered
His twisted Ups yammered soundlessly. "Hus-
band? . . . West Australia?" His harsh
throat croaked. But the woman had formed
a doubt of his sobriety.

"Yes. Nothing funny in that, you know.
Now, I must close the door; it's blowing the
lamp and dirtying the chimney." The door

closed. He found himself out in the street
again. His lips were drinking of the onyx
chalice which contains the black draught
Of despair. His tortured eyeballs flamed
with the feverish reflections of derided hope.

He walked again. Rapidly. Aimlessly.
UD one street and down another. He tried

to correlate his tumultuous thoughts. They
were ungovernable, and terrified him by their
lack oí form or coherence. Broken hallu-
cinations swept across his brain as dim
smoke smears the outline of a pictured face.
Por hours he lived unspeakable eternities

of death.

A nearby clock chimed ten, as he turned
down a road which at its end contained two
or three shops. He peered Into the window
of one, and as his gaze ranged over Its wares
of food-brawp, saveloys, cold tongue and
cheese-his mind was clarified and focused
In a renascent sanity. As though a Jet
of Icy water played upon his face, reason
rushed back to him. He looked again and
warm sweat trickled in his eyes. Sobbing,
he turned and, with his temples drumming
in unnoticed agony, commenced to run.

He ran for a long time, until his bursting
chest forced him to a walk again! but he
still pressed on, muttering continually as
he went . . . "Trunks. Mrs. Trunks. I
should have gone there first. She'll know
everything . . ." He repeated it like a
dismal formula propounded by the hypnosis
of his misery. Now he was In Clarendon
Street and running again. The bell clashed
as the door flew open, and he stood inside
the shop. Mrs. Trunks, putting her stock
away for the night, turned round, grasping
. huge German sausage in her hand.

"Something I can-" Her large face
lost its coloring, and with protruding eyes
she leaned forward, staring at the man who
stood there. His throat worked In a con-
vulsive and aphastic impotence.

"Mrs. Trunks-" he tried to say. But
at the sound she straightened up, smote

the counter a fearful blow with the sausage,
which burst and flew about the shop, and
in stentorian tones cried out: "It is-lt ls
Karl Smith!"

By then she was outside the counter, hold-
ing the man In such a clutch as the great
.Sandow would not have blushed to own,
while her voice rang and bellowed:

"Brother! Come here! The fatted calf's
returned and bring that girl! Brace up,
fathead-she's here! Brace up, Karl Smith!
If it isn't Karl Smith himself then it's his
ghost and she'll have to be satisfied with
that! Henry, you loon, where's that girl?
Ah-"

There she stood, her face blenched and
her heart standing still. "Karl." He an-
swered her. "Drissie." No, not one tear.
But the most intense of all deep silences
wove itself round them; and the black pud-
ding shop and Mrs. Trunks and Harry Duck
stayed in an outer world. Unseen. Ignored.

"Karl" . . . "Drissie" . . . She clung
to him, crushing her whispering mouth
against his cheek, and all the time her heart
beat a delirious music magically crystallised
in words: "Karl. Karl. He's home. He's
home." Both of them murmured such non-
sensical and meaningless small follies that
Mrs. Trunks could only sit and cry in her
apron, while Duck's head protruded through
the tinkering bamboo curtain, his mouth and
eyes opened in a superlative astonishment.

Still murmuring, she stroked his face, and
patted lt, and slowly drew him into the
sitting-room. But once in there, with Drissie
and his son gathered in his arms, emotion
mastered him, and in a storm of dreadful
sobbing he sank down by her knees.

the passage of
time there occurred changes, not only in the
broader world outside, but in the black
pudding shop. In the first place, and there
was no doubt of it, Mrs. Trunks could no
longer ignore that Infirmity which had
been getting worse with the passing of time.

A day came accordingly when Woking
and Gash, the signwriters, received certain
instructions relative to the smallgoods shop,
for Karl had bought the business and good-
will. "K. Smith. Smallgoods. Choice
Ham." Naturally, the little notice as to
credit remained. Joseph went with Mrs.
Trunks round to Raglan Street, where she
had taken a cottage for herself and her
brother.

But he sat on the fence and moped, so
he was brought back to the shop. There
he resumed his placid, idle life, adjuring
the folk of Clarendon Street never under
any circumstances to ask for black pudding,
for reasons hereinbefore stated, and proffer-
ing sundry other gratuitous advice.

Por a long time afterwards-a very long
time, indeed-Karl was a sick man. The
rigours of his long sojourn with Davie
Wetherdlck upon Cape Go Down, had so
gravely undermined his health, that for
many weeks he found it impossible to speak
coherently of his experiences. Sometimes,
in retrospect, it seemed a frightful fig-
ment of an Insane brain. But when his
strength returned, while Drissie held his
hand, and Frank sat on the bedside drink-
ing in his father's quiet recital with an avid
fascination he told them of their rescue
by a Norwegian whaler. How, for many
hours, and with a frenzied hope leaping
and dying In their breasts, they watched
the ship beat up, only to bear away again.
How they toiled, building a fire of wood and
weed torn from their cabin roof. And
how they dashed waist high into the hiss-
ing surf to meet the boat which took them
to the beach.

On the whaler they travelled to Auck-
land where sufficient money Was provided

for their passage money home. A moving
tale. A dreadful tale. Hearing it, Drissie
rubbed his hand against her cheek, and
vowed that never, never would Karl go
on the sea again.

The little business prospered, and as
each year went on, bringing another in its
wake, South Melbourne, with its parent
city, grew and became enriched. New
shops and larger ones went up. Melbourne
was powerful and Impressive. Its worth
and influence among the cities of the world
was great. Huge buildings raised on plinths
of granite pierced the sky. The nation's
treasury held a vast ransom cast in golden
ingots and in bullion. If more were needed
then it lay In the mines and in the golden
fleece. But Goldenland's great wealth
was In the womanhood and manhood of
the continent. The country felt expanding
forces work through its thrilling veins.

The comet year saw some momentous
incidents. For while that fierce Jewel
flamed across the sky, the King, recently
returned from Biarritz, took bronchitis, and
in three days was dead. His son suc-
ceeded him. More tolling bells and black
and purple swathes and cannon-shots, and
grief, and Joy and cheers. Jack Johnson
had fought Burns two years earlier.

Then, in this year, Mr. Houdini piloted
the first aeroplane which Australia had seen
in flight. Although, lt ls very true, Har-
grave showed the Wright brothers how to

do it.

The time wheel still rolled on. The cine-
matograph, that latest civilising art, had
come to stay, bringing with lt ornate and
baroche theatre structures, to house a
generation which had learned to laugh at
magic lantern shows.

In September of the year 1914, His
Majesty's Attorney-General for the Com-
monwealth was the Hon. George Moffitt
Brace, M.P. Yes. Brace had played hts
destiny, although he was to rise much
higher yet. That opportunity for which hs
had waited and to which all his energies

were directed had presented itself ten
years earlier when he was offered the port-
folio of Internal Affairs. The coveted
black leather despatch-box and signet ring
those outward symbols of ministerial rank
were his at last.

Whatever the truth of lt may be. lt was
common gossip in the lobbies that the
Prime Minlstership could have been his In
1909, but that he preferred to walt. It lr

not probable that he was a brilliant lawyer.
But in debate his tongue was vitriolic, mer-
ciless, and often cruel. His oratory was
fluent, hot and irresistible. His brain was
trained to the precision of a fine steel hair
and to an astonishing faculty of memory.

Beth worked with him, sharing his emi-
nence, and taking pride in his advance-
ment. She laughed to see the liberties
which the cartoonists took with him, twist-
ing his face, and parodying his wrinkles and
his piercing eyes. When the nation's
business took him abroad, she travelled with
him, Jealously careful of his health and
watchful for the signs of overwork. Clem,
their son, entered the University in the
first term of 1914.

Karl and Drissie had grown older in those
passing years. It may be, since they were
ordinary human folk, that the ecstatic
rapture of their early married life had
dimmed, but there was no lessening of love.
A placid gentleness, a quiet, contenting Joy
had drawn about their lives, spreading a
warmth around their feet and In their
hearts. They held the secret formula for
human happiness. Companionship. Sim
pllclty. Trust. Charier.

When he was fifteen Prank obtained a
Job with the "Argus," and when his in-
dentures were signed, settled down to learn
the trade. It was not long before Iiis
fingers and the creases of his knuckles
showed the dark stains of lead from the
linotype metal. Three nights a week he
went to the continuation school studying
shorthand. But one ambition occupied his
mind. That was to write books.

A YOUNG fellow

with a pale face, and short-sighted eyes
masked by their glinting spectacles, fingered
something in his coat pocket, and drew a
short breath. The day was very hot. The
noise of so many excited voices made his
head ache. Besides, no one seemed certain
which route the cars would take, and a
second failure would be calamitous. He
raised his head, but there was not a cloud
In the sky, and its harsh cobalt blue was
painful to his eyes. Always this agony of
suspense. Always the need to wait. The
Intense anxiety, the fears he apprehended
and the hopes he entertained afflicted him
with a sudden nausea, and his throat
retched. The heat and noise, the smell of
sweat made him feel faint.

What now? Cheering. Loud shouts of
Zivio! and from small groups among the
crowd, provocative and treasonable cries
whose repercussions would outlast this day
and many more to come. As the first of
four open motor cars rounded the corner
of the Franz Joseph Strasse, and at a
slower speed came down the crowded street,
the driver of the second vehicle seemed
undecided whether to follow it or not. The
orderly sitting by his side straightened up.

"Bah-the fools. Not that way; the
route has been changed." From the car
behind, an officer-it was the Governor,
Potiorek-was shouting something to the
sume effect. In doubt and embarrassment
the chauffeur slowed down. "Shall I go
back?" he asked. The officer turned round
to receive the orders of the heavy man in

inf green ana wnice umiorm 01 a general
of a division, who, with his stout wife, sat

tn the tonneau

"It is too late," said he, with no visible
change of expression on his fleshy face.
"Drive on." He leaned back, and the vivid
6unllght flickered on his epaulets. The car
commenced to crawl forward, following the
other, and the cheering broke out afresh.
But whether he in the general's uniform,
and his somewhat dowdy, homely-looking
wife heard th 3 other cries one cannot say;
for the man's full moustache concealed his
mouth. His eyes seemed spiritless and
unimaginative.

At a point where the press of people was
greatest, and standing on the right hand
side of the pavement, the young man in
the spectacles acted. Very deliberately he
drew a pistol from his pocket, sighted, and
fired. Once. Twice. Immediately a panic
seized the crowd. In a trice, police and
soldiery were all about, thrusting and Jost-
ling towards the spectacled man, who had
just emptied a paper of cyanide down his
throat. The cars had stopped. No one
could see what had happened there. But
the noises in the street were deafening.
They seized him as he writhed upon the
ground, vomiting up his poison. A police-
man struck him In the face, knocking his
glasses off. Still disgorging cyanide, they
dragged him to the prefecture. There was
another death for him.

The big man in the general's uniform,
and his wife, were carried to the govern-
ment buildings. There they bled to death.
The student in the spectacles had slain the
Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria

Este, heir apparent to the Hapsburg mon-
archy, and his stout wife, Sophie Countess
Chotek, Duchess of Hohenberg. He had
been shot in the throat-she in the abdo-
men. The young man was a Serb. His
name was Gabriel Princlp: "He who brings
tidings." He did his work on the anniver-
sary of the battle of the Field of Black-
birds.

All history is ominous.

FEARFUL, and yet a

little incredulous, the world waited while
the telegraphs chattered, and the parch-
ment treaties were hurriedly extracted from
the safes In the chancellories. Quick, quick,
whispered the diplomats-the Berchtolds
and Forgachs; the Tiszas and Isvolskys;
the Greys and Sazonoys; let us peruse them,
and see precisely where we stand. And
the nervous banks commenced-oh. ever
so quietly-to rearrange their credits.

But the telegraphs still clicked; and on
an angrier note. The cables, too. And the
ether waves, which the Márchese Marconi
had harnessed as the conservators of human
lives. From Petersburg, where the Cossack
police had been getting their hands in, as
it were, shooting down importunate strikers,
the French President boarded his cruiser.
With her funnels belching smoke, he raced
for his capital, whilst the great review
ground at Krasnoe Selo trembled and re-
echoed to the tread of marching feet. True,
they were only playing at being at war. But
none the less, it was a dangerous game.

The strutting gentleman who lived at
Potsdam heard the news at Kiel. There,
in an admiral's uniform, and with binocu-
lars dangling about his neck, he was um-
piring from the Imperial yacht Hohenzol-
lern. When a launch drew alongside and a
naval officer asked for a moment's speech
with him, he was informed that then was
not the time. But the umpire piped a dif-
ferent tune when a hurriedly scribbled note
enclosed in a cigarette-case was tossed on

the deck. .. . Regicides! ... A few moments'
thought. . . . Now, a pencil. . . . Paper. . . .
Telegram_Quick_ Postppne the races
_Put back.... Home.... More steam_
The great blast furnaces of Krupps and
Creuzots stoked up until their furious red
hearts flamed in reflections on the dismal
sky. And the diplomats kept at their work,
fingering dossiers, and inditing their des-
patches with the oleaginous, bland cant of
true diplomacy. In London, backed by
Count Lichnowsky, Sir Edward Grey did
his utmost, but caught in the net which
Inextricably was drawn about his feet his
quiet voice was Ignored. Henceforth, it was
the force of circumstances which would
make his moves for him. He found himself
in the position of a man who tries to pacify
an angry tap-room crowd. "Gentlemen, a
mistake_Gentlemen: Please, gentlemen.
..." All to no purpose. To be upon the
safe side, His Britannic Majesty's Ambas-
sador accredited to Washington approached
Mr. Rothschild, and had a conversation
with him at which certain understandings
were reached. Mr. Churchill sat by his desk
at the Admiralty with his finger on a but-

ton.

At only one stage did lt appear that the
cataclysm might be averted. That was
the treachery of silence which portended
storm. It passed. The deluge broke. Europe
went down into the butcher's pit of war, and
as the earth's green face was ravaged and
contorted in a shameful agony, the nations
lifted up a sluice, and poured out the rivers
of their manhood and their treasure.

The nation put its shoulder to the grind

lng wheel, and, In a sobbing desperation
drove the War Juggernaut along. Enlist!
Enlist! The colored posters yelled lt in the
streets-on every hoarding, and on almost
every picket fence and wall. Farmers and
parsons, undergraduates and rabblt-o6,
poets and spielers, old men, and unfledged
adolescent boys, donned their brown coats,
crowding the vast encampments where the
recruits were trained. The smallest hamlet
and the quietest village paid Its tithe of men,
and having sent them forth with music
and with fervid cheers, poured money after
them. For wars are fought with more than

men.

Enlist!... Enlist!... Laughter and
cheers, and sobs and shouts in passionate,
hysterical antiphonies, and recrudescent
waves of sound_Drum-beats and march-
ing boots-drump-drump-which trod the
streets before the dawn was warm.... The
garish-colored troopships, creeping down-
stream in that livid twilight which emanci-
pates the day.... The brown-clothed men
clinging to the rigging, waving, and call-
ing to the hazy shore.

^^JlNE men sat at an

oval table in a certain room of the Houses
of Parliament in Melbourne. The doors
were closed; the heavy curtains at the win-
dows partly drawn. At the head of the
table, and with two red-taped files of
papers before him was the Prime Minister,
the Right Hon. George Moffitt Brace, P.C.,
M P. His face was drawn and bore the deep
imprints of weariness, but as he spoke, ad-
dressing first one minister and then an-
other, his eyes flashed with an unquench-
able vitality. His diction was rapid, and
at times unintelligible.

The Cabinet heard him without Interrup-
tion. For a time there was silence.

"Are you prepared, sir," Inquired the big
man at the left end of the table, "to In-
dicate what form of conscription ls In

A quiet murmur indicated his listeners'
agreement with the pertinence of the ques-
tion. The Prime Minister Irascibly rapped
his hand on hl3 chair arm.

"Yes, I am." For several minutes he de-
tailed his proposals, lucidly, and with his
habitual economy of words. Faintly, like
the humming of quiet bees about a hive,
the city's voice was heard; and rising above
lt, a marching band's thin muslo, whose
staves were measured by a beating drum
. . . Thud . . .thud . . .

As the Prime Minister elaborated his
case for the conscription of the country's
men, those who sat with him In the Cabi-
net could recognise a tune. ". . . So if you
love me, stay- Don't make me say-So Long
Letty, so long Letty, so long Letty dear."
. . . Then a shrill whistle and the sharp
clattering of kettle drums, blent with the
cheering of a distant crowd. The ministers
turned back to the nation's business. The
meeting was protracted for another two
hours. A great bronze chandelier above
the table glowed with golden light. The
man who had Just concluded a statement
of his own views on the matter blew his
nose and leaned back expectantly. Mr.
Brace stirred In his heavy chair. The sig-
net on his left hand flickered and gleamed,
as he twitched Irritably at his ear.

"Nothing more, gentleman? Very well.
I see that you prefer to place the respon-
sibility on me. I am thoroughly aware that
such a proposal will offend the sentiments
of a great proportion of the people. More.
I tell you frankly, that if lt be submitted
to referendum, as lt must, lt is likely to

be rejected. Much of my object will, none
the less, be gained. Figures are Incontes-
table. We are below fighting strength.
While the voluntary response has been enor-
mous, and far beyond early expectations,
more must be done, If we look for an end
of the business by the close of next year.
That being so, I will sound the law officers
and draughtsmen to-morrow."

He spoke with decision and finality.

As his large car rolled past a street in-
tersection, a drowsy policeman stiffened and
saluted. But the Prime Minister was too
engrossed to notice him, and for the re-
mainder of the short journey, sat with his
eyes closed, and his head sunk on his
breast

When he was home, Beth left her bed
to see to the preparation of his coffee and
sandwiches. She found him in that softly
lit and intimately-furnished room where he
liked to rest after an exacting night. As
he drank a brandy and soda he felt the
tension of his mind relax. Her voice was
quietening.

Then, as the night wore on, and the tall
clock In the dining-room ticked out the
passing of its hours, they talked of Clem.
No letter now for seven weeks; although
she knew how impossible it was to expect
them with any regularity. Still, she hoped
that he had received her last parcel, with
the socks and cholera belt. The army
stuff was so poor and shoddy. Her husband
smiled at that.

Clem had enlisted early in the year, after
a quiet interview with his father, who, when
the boy bluntly asked him for his signature
of consent had experienced a sensation of
firm ground crumbling beneath his feet.

"You are young. Clem. I won't weary you
with the usual balderdash of your profes-
sion and career. But-just this much: Have
you thought well over it?" He took the
paper which the lad held out to him.

"Yes, dad; for a long time. We under-
stand each other, you and I." His father
smiled a little wryly at that. He wondered.
"I'll be downright honest with you. How it
strikes other men, I don't know; but with
mp it. seems a matter of decency. Lots

of our year in the law school have gone.
Five of us want to join up to-morrow. One
must-well-set the example. Besides, it's
a young man's war, and every extra two
hands must tell in the long run."

His father nodded and signed. "But what
your mother will have to say... .There, boy.
Wait. I can place you In the artillery; or
even at Horseferry Road-"

"Eh? Not me, sir, thanks. Tm going in
the Infantry'. Ii it's good enough for the
Smiths and the Browns, then, dash it, it's
good enough for Clem Brace. Thanks all
the same, father."

He went through his period of training
at the great camp at Broadmeadows, spend-
ing his leave with his mother. Of his
father, necessarily, he could see little. But
his last night at home was agony to Beth,
whose pallid lips and red eyes mocked her
brave pretence of matter-of-fact solicitude.

"Now, darling," she said, buckling his
belt, and, unnoticed by the two men, lightly
stroking the coarse serge of his tunic shoul-
der, "you'll promise to look after yoursejf
always? And wear the cholera belt next
your skin, and write regularly?

Her mouth bent and quivered wretchedly,
and her throat ached.

Ensued a little silence which seemed
terrifyingly endless. His father looked at

his watch.

"Well," said he, "time's up, my boy. ni
drive with you to the station; although I
should like to find time to see you sail In
the morning."

Beth spoke again.

". . . and, Clem, do try and use a peri-
scope sight . . . You will promise? . . ."
Trying to smile, she kissed him. Then he
went.

Several hours afterwards, the transport
pulled out in a heavy fog. The Prime Min-
ister, with his deep coat-collar muffling
his face up to the ears, stood in the crowd,
unrecognised. The hoarse call of the siren
travelled from the concealment of the mist.
Quiet rain came afterwards, smearing the
street lights on the texture of the dawn.

The myriad of boots throughout the world
still tramped. The carnival of death still
danced; jog-jog. And every week from
Goldenland, the burdened troopships
thrashed their way out upon a journey that
would take them half round the world.

TU miss you so long, so long Letty
If you go on your way so far;

I'll kiss you so long, so long Letty,

And you know what my kisses are . . .
Quell grief! Fight on!

Frank Smith went in November.

Ii ARL saw him sall, then

came home with a heavy and foreboding
heart. Drissie was up, and in a very business-
like fashion made tea and toast for him.
Sitting in the kitchen, under the gaslight's
flickering fish-tail, and with the oven fire
talking volubly, they comforted each other.
But sadness lay upon the little smallgoods
establishment, for all their simple forti-
tude. Drissie dried her eyes, her face con-
torted in the quaint ugliness of grief.

"It's all so hard to understand, dear.
Perhaps it's because I'm a dunce, but it seems
so wicked and unnecessary. Poor dear
Karl, it is you that must be hurt the most,
though." She stirred her tea, and, putting
down her spoon, stroked his hand with a
gesture of ineffable affection. He smiled at
her, and squeezed her thumb.

"Not a doubt, dear Drissie, of its wick-
edness. And yet, perhaps a great lesson will
be brought into the world. It was not hate
that made this war. No. It was fear. But
I will not have a secret from my dear one

it does hurt me. Ah, yes, more than I can
ever say." Karl's eyes clouded and he put his
head upon his hand. She kissed him on the
cheek and whispered courage.

"No, there is no escaping it; and it's a
task that must be finished." He spoke man-
fully and his blue eyes softened as he
looked at her. His own thoughts found
expression in her words.

"Yes. Although, surely it cannot take
long now. And when it's all over, and
Frank's back and settled down, then we'll
take a third-class ticket to-Hamburg is
the place you get off, isn't it?-and go and
see your mother."

"Ah, yes," he answered. "I should like
to see my mother. She cannot live long.
Her heart must break when she thinks of
everything that was in her world, and what
it is now. It grieves me that she might still
be ill; perhaps even dead."

To Karl and Drissie the war had come
as a bewilderment not to be described. It
seemed to them the one unthinkable calam-
ity. But when the man's first incredulity
had passed he braced himself, determined to
honor to the letter the contract of his
naturalisation. When, in the very early
days of that catastrophic August, a few
hooligans flung stones in the night and
broke his shop-window, he was not so much
angry as surprised. The city saw many
similar occurrences in those first hysterical

weeks.

"Oh, the sin of lt. Dearest, I'm ashamed
..." Drissie was trembling with rage and
sympathy. Karl bit lus Up and shrugged.

"It is the way of things, at such times
as these. At home-in Germany-in France
-everywhere, the same acts are being done.
It is part of the fear which they are all
determined to change Into hate. But they
cannot hurt us, can they?"

From his mother they had heard infre-
quently, but she had written from Karlsbad
a fortnight before the mobilisation com-
menced.

"My dearest children," Mathilde's letter
ran. Her handwriting was thinner and
more angular. As they read, Drissie and
Karl both noticed lt.

"If the disaster which threatens comes
upon the world, my thoughts will always be
of you. This war will harm the young and
not the aged. Children not yet conceived
will pay for it, and learn to hate the
generation which has made it possible . . .
When one is old, the self feeling tends to
disappear; for one has learned the philo-
sophy of accepting whatever comes. That,
my children, is the true meaning of old
age. And I am old. Believe me, I am glad
of it-although, lt ls true, a little lonely
at times . . ."

Sitting by her husband's side Drissie read
with him.

"If I take a profound joy in one thing it
is to know, not so much dear son by what
you write, as how you write, the deep happi-
ness life holds for both of you, in your
companionship and love, and in the pos-
session of my grandson, Frank. He is like
you, Karl; but by the photograph I have, his
eyes and chin must be his dear
mother's ..."

Both of them laughed at madame's lov-
able diplomacy.

"Here, the feeling is that war must come.
I fear that we have burned our fingers,
pulling our Austrian cousins' chestnuts from
the fire. If it be so-but surely the wisdom
of the great God will not permit the
enormity of such a crime-then I shall
pray for both of you. More, my beloved
children, I cannot do; for it will be hard
to write ... In this rest home I am most

/.nntontoH . onH rr,T Hnctn^ ic officiant ÛM/Î

cuut.eni.eu, aiiu my uuciui IÙ emcieiil, ttiiu

really understands my case ... I am hav-
ing the radium treatment and am sanguine
that all will be quite well and before
long . . .

. . . My old friends in London send me
such cheerful letters. Last week Lady
Trent brought me most beautiful orchids,
and we had a good laugh over old
times ..."

"She ls very brave," said Karl. "And she
is not telling the truth."

". . .So now, my dearest Karl and
Drlssie-I send you all my love. God's
blessing rest upon you both.-Your affec-
tionate Mother."

Karl was quite right. Mathilde was very
brave. Also. Mathilde was not telling them
the truth. For. as she wrote, there was a
slow, contenting twilight closing round her
head. When the pain grew ferocious and
unbearable, she held a leather cigar-case
in her gripping hand. Otto's cigar-case.

Two more dread Christmastides arrived
and passed-In blood.

T

AHE House had rarely

seen the Prime Minister so deeply moved.
As a great speech approached its end, lt
was apparent that an unwonted emotion
intensified the throbbing of his voice, which
rang and echoed through the Chamber of
the Representatives with the vibrant
clangor of a brazen horn. No member but

leaned forward and felt his blood coursj)

more swiftly, as that Impassioned oratory
charged the air.

"... The honorable member opposite has
thought it politic to describe me as the
son-in-law of a war profiteer. That is
Illuminating. It is, sir, I submit, as much
a matter for his own discretion as it is
one to afford all honorable members of
this House the right to impeach his per-
sonal conception of decency. But to deal
with the point, in passing, I would remind
the House that the thanks of the Govern-
ment were rightly due, and properly have
been tendered, to Sir John Craddock, an
old and infirm man, for his gift and main-
tenance of the Braeburn Convalescent Hos-
pital for shell-shocked soldiers!"

A murmur travelled about the chamber,
and many voices cried "Hear-hear!" Over-
head the great lights winked and glittered.
The clerks of the House, bewigged and
gowned, wrote busily. The Sergeant-at
Arms toyed with the lace of his cuff.

"The honorable member," continued the
frail little man with the glittering eyes,
"was, I will suggest, sir, very well aware
of those circumstances; and here I take
the opportunity of putting it to the House
that to traduce as a profiteer one whose
gifts to charitable and patriotic funds total
some ninety thousand pounds, would be but
a scurvy acknowledgment of great and spon-
taneous public services!"

A louder murmuring filled the chamber,
and in an impassive voice Mr. Speaker called
the House to order.

"That, sir, is not all. The Government
which I lead is, I imagine, strong enough
to rebut such loose and vicious aspersions
on its good faith or capacity. But-"
the Prime Minister struck his fist re-
soundingly into the palm of his left hand
-"the employment of the weapon of a
sneer or gibe at unutterable sacrifices by
the nation is not lightly to be tolerated.
I have almost done."

He lowered his voice, but his articula-
tion was intense. It fell with startling

Impressiveness.

"The honorable member has informed
the House that the sole efforts of this
country have been to fertilise the soil of
Europe and a few acres in Turkey. To that
I will say only this-" It seemed that
not a breath was drawn by all his lis-
teners. The crowded galleries were silent
in expectancy.

"Since I have reached manhood, all my
labors have been directed to the ellevia
tion of those oppressions which bear upon
my fellow men ... If I have made mis-
takes, then my defence is that I made them
honestly. In this war, sir, my country has
already buried fifty thousand dead. My
son is one of them . . . What?" His ac-
cents rang out with an electrifying passion
of delivery. "Is all the heaped-up measure
of the nation's sorrow, sacrifice and ab-
negation to go down in history as one of
the greatest frauds and swindles in the
chronicles of man? Sir, if I thought that
-If I dared let myself conceive it possible
that the peoples of the earth would not
be the better and the nobler for such a
chastening, then I should count my life,
my every aspiration and my every hope, a
monstrous mockery! No! No, sir! To think
so would defame the gospel of human
regeneration! The dead must never fear
that they have died in vain!"

As he sat down, hot tears welled into
his defiant eyes. For moments there was
not a sound. Then, as though by a pre-
concerted signal, the House, forgetful of
decorum and standing orders, sprang to
its feet, cheering and waving in an un

paralleled ebullition of feeling. Brace
looked upward to the ladles' gallery. Beth,
tn a plain black dress looked down at
him. She waved her crumpled little hand-
kerchief. Her saddened eyes were proud.
He felt calmer, and was pleased that all
his listeners had understood.

But in the black pudding shop, Karl had
his arms about his wife, and in one hand
he clutched the crumpled sheet of paper
which had made her weep so bitterly.

"Drissie, dear, don't weep. It could be
so much worse. Why, he could have been
killed." Karl shuddered as he said it. "Or
listen, mother-twisted and crippled. We
must be brave. As much for his sake as our
own." She raised her tear-stained face.

"Yes, Karl, it is true. But-blind? That
makes a-a joke of everything. Just-a
joke. Our son-blind ... No light ... No
gladness . . . Blind."

While the tram-bells jingled in Clarendon
Street, and all the lamps pricked out their
rows of lights, he held, her in his arms. From

an illuminated honor roll which hung in
the place once occupied by Mr. Trunks,
Frank's photograph stared out of sightless

eyes.

Now , on a morning five

months afterwards, Karl was upstairs in
Frank's bedroom, whistling as he worked.
His face was splotched. So were his old
clothes and the floor. The bed, a chest of
drawers, and a small table all covered with
newspaper stood in the centre of the room.
He set down the bucket. Then, drawing the
step-ladder farther round, he added more
water to his kalsomine, and, mounting the
steps, set to work again. From time to time
he would stop, and, with a painstaking
finger-nail, lift a brush hah from the wet
surface of the wall.

He had just started upon the troublesome
patch around the window woodwork when
he heard Drissie's excited voice calling him,
and as he commenced to climb down he

heard her rapid footsteps on the stairs.

"A letter-a letter!" she announced
breathlessly, as she came in. Her face
was flushed with pleasure and exertion.
A letter it was, bearing the familiar Eng-
lish stamp and postmark. Hurriedly, Karl
wiped his hands upon her apron, although
his wife was far too excited to notice that,
and after fumbling once or twice, she tore
open the envelope.

"Gracious, it's a long one. And in that
woman's handwriting again." She felt a
momentary prick of jealousy and com-
bativeness. But Karl reassured her.

"It's part of a nurse's job, you see." Of

course.

Sitting on the paper-draped bed with
their heads touching, they read their let-
ter; Drissie, from time to time, breathing
indescribable small sounds of joy. Having
read it to the end. Karl turned back the
pages, and they went through it again.
This time more slowly. Once he struck
his hand on his knee, and smiled broadly.

"Oh, heavens, if only it's true," she said.
"I'm too glad to read it myself. You read
it to me, dear."

She drew up her knees beneath her chin
and partly closed her eyes, just indeed,
as once upon a time she had listened to
Harry Duck's stories.

"Very well," said Karl. "So I will. lil
read slowly." Irrelevantly, he interpolated:
"Do you know, grey hairs make you pret-
tier? There are lots of them-"

"Oh, will you read the letter? What
have our grey hairs got w do with it?

Because you're lots greyer than I am.

Now-"

He read:

"Coventry,

"1st Oct., 1918.

"My Dearest Father and Mother,-As you
will see, my good Sister Reidy ls writing
this for me, so I hope you will have no
difficulty in reading it . . ."

"That's very rude of him," murmured
Drissie. But Karl continued as though he
had not heard her, and, as she listened to
the quiet inflections of his gentle voice, her
thoughts were very far away.

"Here the one subject on which we talk
is that of coming home, but just when we
sail is not certain. However, lt will defi-
nitely be not later than the 23rd of this
month. And that means Christmas dinner
together."

How her heart throbbed to hear lt read.
But there was more to come; and almost
all of it was joy.

"... One who is in constant darkness
learns, among other things, to think. Dur-
ing the months I have been here, I have
been brought to realise that eyes alone,
even the sunshine, and those visual impres-
sions which one has of life, can sometimes
leave one far more blind than I will ever
be. There is an inner light which springs
from suffering.

"If, then, you should find me greatly
changed-in appearance, thoughts, and all
the habits of my life, I know that both of
you will understand. One ls marked in-
evitably by one's experiences. With all of
those who have been through the war, I
bear my marks. Not only in my eyes ..."

Two splashing tears rolled -down his
mother's cheeks. Karl's voice trembled a
little.

"But, at least, there is one certain know-
ledge which I and my generation have
learned. This thing-this wickedness of
war must never be allowed to come upon
the world again. Surely, remembering the
agony of fifteen hundred days of butchery,

humanity will rise up in its strength, and
forbid the thing for ever? . . . Patriotism!
What is it? Assuredly not that brutish in-
stinct which makes two dogs snarl at each
other through a crack in a fence? . . .
No; my country has a greater destiny than
that of war. The destiny of peace-of
human tolerance, enlightenment, and pro-

gress . . .

"My eyes? I can see shadows: and yes-
terday, Lipton said thr.t partial sight, at
least, will be restored. So you see, dears,
I'll be able to finish the last chapters of
my book as soon as I'm back. If I am un-
able to write, I have no doubt that I shall
find some good friend who will transcribe
it for me. Do you like 'Brave Music' for a
name? I shall call it that. There is a
meaning to it, deeper even than its record
of my parents' self denial, adversities, and
happinesses, and those of other ordinary
people, like ourselves."

"I love it." said Drissie, contentedly rock-
ing backward and forward. Karl read to
the end:

"Now, I see a good long life ahead of all
of us: Hard work, a new world building, and
as much joy as we can hold in our two
hands . . . Sister Reidy, who complains of
having writer's cramp, asks me to remember

hpr tn von. And with this T spnn mv

dearest love.

PRANK."

THE END

(All characters In this novel are fictitious, and

have no reference to any living person.)

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