Sweeting, but thy father'll show 'e 'tis worth living."

The girl stood listening with parted lips and quick-coming breath. She leaned back slightly against an old seaman's chest, and with one hand steadied herself by it, for it seemed that she trembled a little. The dark wood made a wonderful background for her slight figure. Her eyes dilated as she listened, and then came by slow degrees an expression on the red curved mouth that the man knew well, and somewhat feared.

"I give thee thanks," she said coldly, "but I will na go. I will na go. I am na one who delights in seeing a poor beast tortured. I will bide here

in peace.

Davenport swore softly under his breath. Twice before in her life had she answered him with the same cool determined spirit, and he knew her well-he knew her well.

She would not alter or be easily broken. To use force was to ruin the thing he valued; coaxing would not avail, and she was not to be affrighted nor intimidated.

Davenport turned on his heel muttering a curse, and his face as he went out was white and very evil.

He crossed to a shadowy corner of the tower, where he could watch the gate.

His thoughts were in a tangle, and he raged at such opposition. To be baffled by her a bit of a lass, scarce eighteen. "Bah!" he said half aloud. It made him ill. Gnawing away at his long moustache with strong, white teeth, he planned afresh, and, to help these angry meditations, drew from a beaded pouch by his side a heavy pipe and some of that new weed that was worth its weight in silver. Then he smoked in silence. This, like all Davenport's habits, was expensive and grew apace. Gold was what he wanted, and must have, thought the man. As for collecting these wretched tolls, he loathed the task. And for the girl, if she would not fall in with his wishes, then she should marry Ted Gillian, who had wanted to wed her these

many months. "Ted Gillian!" The man gave a short laugh. There was a chuckle-head, with a slow wit and a long purse-keeper and owner of the fashionable bear gardens! 'Twould answer. And she be obstinate? But he'd wait, he'd wait. So he pulled at his pipe savagely.

Presently came Silas to go on duty. "There be rare doin's at t'other end o' bridge, maister," he called. "Rare doin's! There be a crowd gathered as I came by!"

"What's to-do?" asked Davenport sullenly.

"There be a juggler all dressed in brown leather, flecked with little gold tassels where 'tis laced. Zooks! but he tosseth knives till it maketh t'blood stiffen in one! And there be gay red hoops and balls he throws as well; and he doeth magic with a silken ribbon, maister!

"Tis a tame show, and one fit for women," said the other roughly.

"Tame show or no," returned my sailor, "it chilled the marrow o' the bones to see him toss the long knives, and catch them when eight were falling tines down!

"But there be more to it," he half whispered, leaning towards Davenport. "He weareth a brown mask, and they do say 'tis some noble in disguise. Beshrew me, but he looketh like one, for he standeth full a head over any man around. The show be'th on till darkso thou canst see for thyself."

"Ah, so!" said Davenport, "'tis a strange tale; and yet I doubt me but what the fellow is some banished court jester. Any tattling goeth down with Hark'e ! Thou talkest over

thee. much. Attend to thy business and there'll be short time for thee to be gazing open-jawed at some juggling fool or another. Be not late again, or I'll settle with thee."

Thus saying he went indoors and sat heavily down.

"Perhaps," thought the man, “an' I take the lass to see this fellow, it might bring her to easier mood. That far, and who knows, peradventure a bit of coaxing might lead her on to the

Gardens. 'Tis worth trying, but it goeth against the grain." Rising, he settled his doublet and made up his mind.

His little daughter was in her room looking down into the river and watching a soft, yellow mist that, smokelike, rolled in from the sea.

"Ah, Joyce!" she heard him call, "I was over-harsh with thee; come, I will take thee for a stroll. At bridgeend is a fine show, they tell me a sight that maidens may see, for 'tis just harmless juggling, no more nor less. Put on thy best gown, lass, to out walk with thy father, an' in token that thy temper is sweet again."

Joyce answered back gaily, and soon ran down from her room arrayed in a white cloth gown, and with a long cloak of hunter's green velvet tied about her throat. She pulled up the small hood, and dropped her father a little courtesy.

"Tis all the bravery I own," she said, "but 'twill serve.

"Aye!" he answered. "Thou look est like a lily coming out of green leaves."

Laughing and chatting they walked down the bridge past the quaint bridgehouses, their tiny roof-gardens bright with flowers, and so in and out amongst the people.

The odd signs above the old shops swung back and forth with low creaking, while the air was full of sounds of life, and fresh with a salt smell from the sea. Under those arches the river surged and beat. Vessels from all ports passed up and down the dusky water that at this hour was touched with gold and red from the western sun.

Great trading ships were going out, some to the old, old East, and others to that new land of the West. Little wherries and punts went bustlingly back and forth, making a great to-do for things so small. A thousand sails, black, brown and tawny, were raised in the freshening evening breeze.

Here and there the swans drifted homeward, like patches of floating snow, down to the lower marshes they went, where was quiet and deep

peace. Out on the docks a day's work was drawing in, and weary longshoremen wheeled the last casks from some fast-emptying vessel, or piled great chests of tea, curiously marked bales of foreign silks and rugs, or boxes of spice into shelter for the night.

All this Joyce saw as she had seen it a thousand times before. The wind blew in many a fragrant odour from the vessels being unloaded, a perfume of wine and leather, sandalwood, coffee and tobacco, all blended with the scent of the sea.

The sun touched the gray old tower, where it stood afar off, raising its grim head to heaven, and holding the secrets of the years. It gilded the ancient priories of St. Mary Overies, and the convent of Bermondsey, and there was but an afterglow lighting up the world as the two came upon a knot of sight-seers circling about the man Dick Davenport sought.

Yes! there he was, the mysterious juggler still playing for the amusement of the passing throng, and, doubtless, the better filling of his own wallet.

He stood on a small cedar table, where lay an open case of long, double-edged knives, and he was-as Davenport noticed-a good head taller than any man around.

As for his dress, it was sober brown, cut withal in the extreme fashion of the hour, and it followed the lines of his firmly-knit form, as though moulded upon it. His boots of soft tan colour rose to the mid-thigh, and were square and flaring at the top. His jerkin of leather also shone here and there where it was laced with little gilt tassels, as the old sailor had said. He was belted with a girdle of dull gold, from which dangled a small toylike Venetian dagger. The hilt of this pretty thing glinted blue as though set thick with turquois. The linen at the man's throat and wrist was smooth and fair, testifying to the ease with which he wrought his work. Upon his short dark hair rested a jaunty peaked cap, holding one long pheasant's feather.

The pose of the player as he kept some ivory balls in mid air, was grace itself; still it was his face the people watched, for there lay the mystery of him. His lower jaws, strong and beautifully turned, were shaven clean; the mouth firm and close showed yet the faint indication of a smile, but across his eyes lay a mask, and none might say truly who looked from behind it.

An ancient serving man waited near the table holding a heavy cloak. The expression on the worn face was one of patience under great distress. He it was who collected the silver sixpences, groats and threepenny-bits after each performanceoften from a fast-thinning crowd-and in truth his looks bespoke it an unwelcome task.

Davenport pushed through the mass of people to its innermost circle, holding Joyce fast by the cloak. They drew up just as the juggler stooped to take his knives from their case.

Next the girl stood a sailor all agape; barefoot and swarthy he was, his hair burned almost yellow from the tropic sun. On one arm he held a wooden cage wherein were two homesick paraquets that now and then uttered harsh, unhappy cries. Next again was a man of most noble deportment, whose keen eyes missed nothing of interest that passed around him. His close pointed beard was trimmed to a nicety and the half hidden mouth changed as he gazed about at the motley crowd with a smile now grave, now whimsical.

All this Joyce saw as in a dream for she was only conscious of one tall and beautiful figure clad from top to toe in sombre hue, flinging from him straight and high into the air a dozen glittering, dangerous knives.

She watched him breathlessly with eyes darkening, the pink coming and going in her cheeks, her hands clinging together till the rosy nails grew white.

One little slip-one breath too much -Ah! The juggler glanced down and his eyes caught the girl's uplifted face

There was a quiver of his arm--and then a shower of knives rattled on the wooden table or fell to the bridge.

Three he caught, and one grazed his cheek, or even more, for the blood 'streamed down upon his collar.

Joyce gave a low, half-checked scream and pulling her kerchief out of its swinging pocket held it up.

"Quick! Thy face!" she cried; "Bind it up, O! bind it up. Thou art welcome to the kerchief; I need it not."

Then turning to her father, suddenly caught his hand. "Take me home," she said again with soft intensity.

The juggler had leaned down and taken the tiny lace-edged square, which he pressed to his face. Then he leaped lightly from the table and stood beside Joyce.

"I give thee thanks-but trouble not thy pretty head about me, little maid," he said. "Had I put out my life 'twere a ne'er-do-well gone, and not a better man."

Some voice in the crowd called out, "Go on with thy show, sir juggler; 'tis not thy death wound this time," and there was much chattering and laugh

ter.

"I trow 'twill make but a paltry scar," shouted a rough voice. "Finish thy show. Art turned chicken-hearted?"

Then the man who stood next the sailor looked quietly around, and the hum of voices ceased.

"Pray thee, go to thy homes, good citizens," he said in a rich commanding voice. "There will be no more knifethrowing to-night; the light has failed. Hast never heard this, 'He jests at scars who never felt a wound."" So, laughing, he made his way through the people.

Tis Will Shakespeare," said one looking after the man. "A young player from the Globe Theatre.". Tis Will Shakespeare-none else." Thus they scattered noisily and went away as the dusk fell.

66

Davenport and his daughter had long disappeared, as had the juggler, while the old serving man folded the table by some contrivance and carried it towards Bridge House.

THE

HE clang of the ambulance gong is perhaps the only indication to the average city man of the great organizations that are busily employed day and night, Sabbath and week-day, year in, year out, in ministering to the wants and needs of the sick. The unhappy victim of some street accident is lifted into the pneumatic-tired, noiseless vehicle, and the bystander draws a sigh of relief, in the knowledge that he is now in the hands of those whose business and profession it is to render him the assistance and care he needs; and straightway dismisses the subject from his mind. But it is well worth observation to follow the patient through the subsequent chapters of the book.

A huge pile of buildings, generally

not notable for architecture, and possibly not of the most inviting aspect, with gateways for ambulances and patients, numerous doorways and signs for public guidance, constitutes this great mill that labours so unremittingly; here is no busy hum of machinery, but the constant movement of human handiwork, that never dare stop for repairs, and that, alas, is never idle for lack of work.

These great establishments are very cities in miniature, and collect for their needs artificers of all kinds. A staff of physicians and surgeons, a host of nurses, and a small army of employes of various kinds, are at work. mere existence of the several hundreds of patients requires as much labour as a hotel of corresponding proportions;

The