CHAP. XI.

"One that had never done me wrong, A feeble man and old: 'Now here,' said I, 'this man shall die, And I will have his gold!'"' HOOD.

In these past years Andrew Lindsay had, with perfect safety, made several journeys to England. When he first began to be a drover, | his master, mounted on horseback, went on before to take grass parks for his cattle, as well as to receive payment for them when sold; but of late Andrew, being perfectly trusted, had taken the sole care and responsibility on himself.

Once more the drover was returning home after a very successful sale of his cattle, and having, concealed on his person, a considerable amount of money. Hewas anxious, watchful, and cautious, for several suspicious circumstances happening in succession had led him to suspect that he was pursued with intent to rob; he accordingly deviated a little from his usual route, to seek shelter as night drew nigh, in the quiet solitary mansion of Henley Hall in which his old friend Peggy Grier resided as sole guardian. Peggy was greatly delighted to see Andrew Lindsay, whose tales of old homefriends and country revived her interest in her early home; nor was she afterwards content till she had revisited the scenes of her youth again. The evening passed on as they talked of past events, uninterrupted except by an occasional short and angry bark by Andrew's dog. Andrew scolded Rover for this exhibition of temper in the usually quiet animal; but Peggy apologized or him, saying:

f" It maun be the strange bit; for ye ken," she added, "if ocht was wrang, our big dog Blucher would bark like mad, and the house itself would stand a siege, it's so weel secured with bolts and bars."

Andrew felt quite satisfied with this assurance, although the dog continued growling, and seemed every moment to become more restless and unhappy. Peggy reiterated her assurances that the shutters had all been barred, and the doors locked at sundown, so they talked on. believing that all was safe within the house, As bedtime drew near, Peggy went to prepare, a bed-room for Andrew, but speedily returned looking very pale, and saying, with a tremulous voice:

"I canna imagine how I never saw or heard rats in the house before. There was ane o' them or some ither beast that has got into the house, flew past me just like a whitrock ee-now." "I thocht I heard something fizzing against the door," answered Andrew. "It maun hae been a bat, but it's early for them."

"What's that Rover's crunching at?" cried Peggy. "A bone-I do declare! It will be some ye have thrown to him when ye were at your tea."

Andrew was about to deny it, when a distant noise, like the opening of a window, caused them both to grow pale.

"Hoot! what am I thinking of?" cried Peggy. "It will be the gardener shutting the gate. Andrew, it will set our nerves all right if ye read a chapter o' the gude Book, and gie a prayer before ye gang to yer bed."

Andrew gladly obeyed, and then, with a feeling of greater security, he bade Peggy "gude night," and retired to the little room which she had prepared for him, carefully barring the door behind. Andrew, as I have said before, had seen cause to dread being robbed and perhaps murdered (not an unfrequent occurrence among drovers), but he had taken every precaution against such a conclusion that his shrewdness could suggest; so committing himself to God, in whose power and will to protect he had simple faith, he lay down partly dressed to take the rest he so much needed, repeating as he lay :

"I will both lay me down in peace
And quiet sleep will take,
Because Thou only me to dwell

In safety, Lord, dost make."

Having thus committed himself to the "Watcher of Israel, who slumbereth not nor sleepeth," he soon fell into a sound and peaceful repose. He had not slept long when a slit was cautiously made in the panel of the door, by which it was softly unbarred, and two men, ragged, miserable, and villanous-looking, entered the room, one of them bearing a dark lantern, while the other held in his hand a sharp weapon. Cautiously shading the light, one of the men approached the sleeper, who half-smiled in his dreams of home.

"It's him," he said. "He's little changed since he was a boy." And in the man's mind, darkened as it was by many a crime, there rose visions of green-daisied fields, bright woods, and sparkling screams. It was only momentary, however; for the other just then held up a bag, bulky with papers and heavy with money. Looking once more on the unconscious drover, they quitted the room with as much caution as they had entered it, then went to the kitchen, where they coolly proceeded to make themselves comfortable. Having discovered the remains of Andrew's supper, they sat down to eat with the ravenous appetite of famished men; after which one of them produced a flask, saying: "Now for a taste of brandy to wash it down, and then for a fair division of the rhino." Thus he spoke, and was in the act of bringing forth his illgotten spoil, when suddenly he paused, for in the lobby, distinctly approaching them, was heard the sound of footsteps. One of them instinctively blew out the light, then both rushed away to seek concealment. A moment afterwards and Peggy opened the door. She had felt very unwell, and thought to try the remedy of a little hot coffee. The large coal smouldering in the grate had been left undisturbed, so, stirring it up and setting on the kettle, she went

into the back-kitchen in search of the coffee-pot. The light of the fire was not yet strong enough for her to notice the altered position of things in the kitchen, and she was suffering too much to be acute in her perceptions. Proceeding fearlessly then towards the back-kitchen, she was arrested for a moment by a sudden jingling among the sauce-pans. "It maun be the cat," she said aloud; and then moved on, stumbling over a pair of men's shoes. "Toots! what's made him leave his shoon there?" she said, as she kicked them aside. She had reached the high shelf and was in the act of lifting down the coffee-pot when suddenly a warm breath smelling of brandy passed over her face, and drove the blood back to her heart. Never before had she experienced such a chill of horror, yet her presence of mind did not forsake her, and she walked quietly back with the coffee-pot to the fireside. The reviving blaze now exposed to her view the rough supper-table, amid the debris of which lay one object which riveted her gaze. It was the half-open bag of money, which she had seen in Andrew's hand, and now again recognized. Hastily snatching it up, she fled, with quick and stealthy steps, towards the lobby-door, which she meant to close softly, but her nervous tremor had become so great that it closed with a bang, and ere she reached the end of the passage, muttered oaths and pursuing steps were heard behind her. Wild with terror she instinctively threw the bag of money from her, which crashed sharply through a glassdoor, then hurrying up a stair in an opposite direction, she shut and bolted herself into a distant room, whilst the ruffians, misled by the crash of broken glass, pursued in a different direction.

Peggy had screamed out "Murder" as she rushed along the lobby, and her shrill cry aroused Andrew from his deep slumber. The

sound of echoing footsteps in the large empty house, together with that ominous shriek, for a moment startled and confused him; but with one glance upwards his nerves became like iron, and his composure returned. Snatching up his heavy oaken stick, he walked hastily out of the room, with only one fear in his heart-and that was for Peggy's safety. The crashing glass and quick footsteps directed him to the great hall, and there, in the dim light of dawn, he saw two men stooping down: one with a gleaming knife in his hand. His rapid imaginings pictured the body of the murdered Peggy lying beneath their ruffian clutches, and-shouting "Murderers !" "Wretches!"-with one sweep of his trusty stick, he broke the arm that held the knife, and felled the robber to the ground. The other, being weaponless, became in his turn the pursued; but managed to escape through the open window by which he had gained access.

"Peggy! Peggy!" cried Andrew, "are ye living?"

Peggy heard the friendly voice, and called to him that all was well. Returning to the place where he had left the wounded man, he found that he had already escaped by a window, where, with fearful oaths and revengeful expressions, he stood vowing vengeance against him for his broken arm and baulked prey.

On the following morning it was discovered that Blucher and Rover had both been poisoned, and it was to replace the latter that Peggy had made the present of money mentioned in the first part of the story.

Andrew again set out on his journey homeward; but, after having advanced considerably on his way, he was recalled to identify two men who had been apprehended on suspicion. This, however, Andrew was unable to do.

I loathe with too malignant spite
To jest on) I, who early sup,
Who slumber soon, and soon give up,
Went out, you know I always do,
To feel the freshness of the dew;
Meaning to take some country road
And walk, as is my daily mode,
Five miles or more, be back by eight
To breakfast, eat some half-pound weight
Of beef and bread, and through the day
Employ me in some useful way.
So, hurrying on to reach the lanes
I saw the dew upon shop panes,

And thought how every hedge would look
Hung with drop-laden webs wind-shook,
Each separate thread a necklace pearly-
You see these sights by rising early-
But passing where the Town Halls are
I saw the Old one's door ajar,

And by an impulse stepped within it,
Just meaning to delay a minute;
Being of a philosophic turn

I look wherever I can learn,

And here, I said, may perhaps be caught
Some sage reflection or new thought;
For, as becomes a moralist,

I can scent out where these subsist;

Sad meats they love, and, what most odd is,
Their favourite dishes are dead bodies;
Yet, though they much prefer a tomb,
There's something in an empty room
Whose feast is done, whose guests departed;
It can't quite leave you broken-hearted,
Or stir np feelings so sublime

As sudden death or blood-stalned crime,
But faded flowers or bits of muslin
Suffice to set your wits a puzzling
To wrap up in some novel way,
As we see done from day to day,
The truth of Solomon's repeating
"All's vanity, and pleasure's fleeting."

So in a dense didactic mood

I paced the ball-room's solitude,
Saw in a ribbon or a glove
An inspiration from above,
Or gathered from a broken glass
Conviction that all flesh is grass.
Like any misanthropic scorner
Musing, I turned a doorway corner-
Verse! fix the vision ere it vague grow-
Lo! there the very nymph L'Allegro.
(Great Milton long since paid her court,
I'll sing her in a lesser sort)
The Spirit, as you know, of Joy,
A lovely virgin, not too coy,
All glorious in a cloud of tulle;

Her skirt was cut correctly full,

Her head don't take the style en guignon,
Wore both a halo and a chignon ;
"Twas clear that in the fields Elysian,
The milliners were quite Parisian.

She floated round, and hummed "the Hilda,"
Her face revealed the joy which thrilled her,
As though it leant upon some shoulder,
As though an arm did close enfold her.
I stood and stared, while on advances
The girl-like ghost of all the dances,

We rejoice in two town-halls, built side by side, and known as the Old and the New.

I did not fear or tremble at her,
For spirits are indeed no matter
To poets, who would just as soon
See seraphs as survey the moon;

In desperate search for bricks and mortar,
To either world they give small quarter.
Close by me her deux temps etherial
She ceased, and with an air imperial
Addressed me, and with accents quite
As sweet as any of the night,

In a light railing vein, as is
The manner of a mortal Miss,

Saying, "Who art thou that cares to wander
In ball-rooms when the sun climbs yonder,
When all the thousand feet have beaten
The ways of waltz, when supper's eaten.
When all the wondrous wines and ices,
Procured at infinite pains aud prices,
Have gone, when every garland's faded,
And men and women gone home jaded ?"

Then I, somewhat indignantly,
"Thou seest no reveller in me,

I have no care to choose choice meat,
No thought of things to drink or eat;
No riot brings me to this room,
I'd hang a verse on Folly's tomb,
But ne'er I dreamt its grave could boast
Or harbour such a lovely ghost-"
"Hush! speak no blasphemy of dancers,"
She said, "of Galope, Waltz, or Lancers,
But, if you must be spiteful still,
Pray vent your spleen upon Quadrille."
I faltered, and being somewhat smitten,
Responded in the way of Lytton,
"The Human Heart, my Heart is full
Of reverence for the Beantiful,
And ever worships at the shrine
Of the Immortal, the Divine,
And if it suits a pretty girl

To prance about, to twist and twirl,
Why then I'll say (I thought this witty)
For all her capers she's as pretty-"
At this, it makes me giddy yet,
She turned a wondrous pirouette
And said, "You sacrilegious scoffer
May woman ne'er accept your offer,
Pray has your stupid soul no feeling,
No love for such ecstatic reeling,
No care for music, or the sliding
Of feet, the mutual grasp and guiding;
Know, these it was invoked me hither,
The've ceascd and gone I know not whither;

I am their shadow, when in shade

My sun withdraws, I too must fade.
The ball, alas! is danced and gone,
And I, who am its eidolon,

From dead delight a risen glamour,

Ere workmen come with hands and hammer
To unfasten flags, to take down flowers,
And wreck the vestige of sweet hours,
Must far ascend the morning streams
Of light, must climb the steep sunbeams,
And in broad day dissolve my being,
Even now I feel its life is fleeing-
(For as she spoke her bloom wore pale
She dwindled like some cloudy veil),
I feel annihilation's presage,
But stay, I have a dying message→→
Behold this card and flower, a belle
And beau, the loss that each befel

Now mourn: Miss Cypher meant to hoard
Safe in her desk this scrawled pasteboard,
For note, six danees bear the scribble
Of Mr. Blank, it needs no sybil
To say that rudely-written name
Will serve as fuel for the flame

Each dance with the dear youth did kindle,
So take it back before it dwindle.

As for the flower, he plucked it from
Her bouquet, meant to take it home
To put it in his blotting-pad,
And keep his love sublime and sad;
But from his button-hole the token

Fell out when once its stalk was broken;
So bear them back, and when you call,
Just say the Spirit of the Ball
These treasures, found upon the floor,
Sends with her compliments.-'Tis o'er."
With this she vanished, and there left me
Doubting if my wits bereft me,

To wonder why a radiant myth
Concerned herself such trifles with,

To mourn snch charms could end in smoke-
I turned and rubbed my eyes-and woke.
My dreams came clad in austere plight
And made me out a cynic quite :
'Twas one p.m., and after all
Last night I had been at the ball,
My hand beneath the bolster thrust-
Brings forth the flower, and thus I trust
Miss Cypher wakes and finds her card.
My early walk, alas! is marred;
The day-break stroll to taste the dews
Figment of some Morphean Muse,
I find myself tucked safe in bed
With something of an aching head,
My feet feel also very pour,

Hurrah for the cold water cure!

Canterbury, New Zealand, Nov. 8, 1867.

66

LITTLE IDA'S FLOWERS.

A Fairy Story.

BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

My poor flowers are quite dead!" said little Ida. They were so pretty yesterday, and now all the leaves hang withered. Why do they do that?" she asked the Student, who sat on the sofa ; for she liked him very much. He knew the prettiest stories, and could cut out the most amusing pictures -- hearts, with little ladies in them who danced'; flowers, and great castles in which one could open the doors; he was a merry student. "Why do the flowers look so faded to-day?" she asked again, and showed him a nosegay which was quite withered: "do you know what's the matter with them?"

Said the Student, "The flowers were at a ball last night, and that's why they hang their heads."

"Oh, yes,"

"But flowers cannot dance!" cried little Ida. said the Student, "when it grows dark, and we are asleep, they jump about merrily. Almost every night they have a ball."

"Can children go to this ball?" "Yes," said the Student, "quite little daisies, and lilies-of-the-valley."

"Where do the beautiful flowers dance?" asked Ida.

"Have you not often been outside the town gate, by the great castle, where the king lives in summer, and where the beautiful garden is, with all the flowers? You have seen the swans which swim up to you when you want to give them bread-crumbs ? There are capital balls there, believe me."

"I was out there in the garden yesterday, with my mother," said Ida; " but all the leaves

were off the trees, and there was not one flower left. Where are they? In the summer I saw so many."

They are within, in the castle," replied the Student. "You must know, as soon as the king and all the court go to town, the flowers run out of the garden into the castle, and are merry. You should see that! The two most beautiful roses seat themselves on the throne, and then they are king and queen; all the red cock's-combs'range themselves on either side, and stand and bow: they are the chamberlains. Then all the pretty flowers come, and there is a great ball. The blue violets represent little naval cadets: they dance with hyacinths and crocuses, which they call young ladies; the tulips and the great tiger-lilies are old ladies, who keep watch that the dancing is well done, and that everything goes on with propriety."

"But," asked little Ida, "is nobody there who hurts the flowers for dancing in the king's castle?"

"There is nobody who really knows about it," answered the Student. "Sometimes, certainly, the old steward of the castle comes at night, and he has to watch there. He has a great bunch of keys with him; but as soon as the flowers hear the keys rattle, they are quite quiet, hide behind the long curtains, and only poke their heads out. Then the old steward says, 'I smell that there are flowers here,' but he cannot see them."

"This is famous !" cried little Ida, clapping her hands. "But should not I be able to see the flowers?"

66

Yes," said the Student: "only remember, when you go out again, to peep through the window; then you will see them. That is what I did to-day. There was a long yellow lily lying on the sofa and stretching herself. She was a court lady."

"Yes, certainly,” replied the Student; "if they like they can fly. Have you not seen the beautiful butterflies, red, yellow, and white? They almost look like flowers; and that is what they have been. They have flown off their stalks high into the air, and have beaten it with their leaves, as if these leaves were little wings, and thus they flew. And because they behaved themselves well, they got leave to fly about in the day-time too, and were not obliged to sit still upon their stalks at home; and thus at last the leaves became real wings. That you have seen yourself. It may be, however, that the flowers in the Botanical Garden have never been in the king's castle, or that they don't know of the merry proceedings there at night. Therefore I will tell you something. He will be very much surprised-the botanical professor who lives close by here. You know him, do you not? When you come into his garden, you must tell one of the flowers that there is a great ball yonder in the castle. Then that flower will tell it to all the rest, and then they will fly away; when the professor comes out into the garden, there will not be a single flower left, and he won't be able to make out where they are gone."

"But how can one flower tell it to another? For, you know, flowers cannot speak."

Have

"That they cannot, certainly," replied the Student, "but when they make signs. you not noticed that when the wind blows a little, the flowers nod at one another, and move all their green leaves? They can understand that just as well as we when we speak together." "Can the professor understand these signs?" asked Ida.

"Yes, certainly. He came one morning into his garden, and saw a great stinging-nettle standing there, and making signs to a beautiful red-carnation with its leaves. It was saying, 'You are so pretty, and I love you with all my heart.' But the professor does not like that kind of thing, and he directly slapped the stinging nettle upon its leaves, for those are its fingers; but he stung himself, and since that time he has not dared to touch a stingingnettle."

"That is funny!" cried little Ida; and she laughed.

"How can any one put such notions into a child's head?" said the tiresome Privy Councillor, who had come to pay a visit, and was sitting on the sofa. He did not like the Student, and always grumbled when he saw him cutting out the merry funny pictures—sometimes a man hanging on a gibbet and holding a heart in his hand, to show that he stole hearts sometimes an old witch riding on a broom, and carrying her husband on her nose. The Councillor could not bear this, and then he said, just as he did now, "How can any one put such notions into a child's head? Those are stupid fancies!"

But to little Ida, what the Student told about her flowers seemed very droll; and she thought much about it. The flowers hung their heads, for they were tired because they had danced all night; they were certainly ill. Then she went with them to her other toys, which stood on a pretty little table, and the whole drawer was full of beautiful things. In the doll's bed lay her doll Sophy, asleep; but Ida said to her, "You must really get up, Sophy, and manage to lie in the drawer for to-night. The poor flowers are ill, and they must lie in your bed; perhaps they will then get well again."

And she at once took the doll out; but the doll looked cross and did not say a single word; for she was cross because she could not keep her own bed.

Then Ida laid the flowers in the doll's bed, pulled the little coverlet quite over them, and said they were to lie still and be good, and she would make them some tea, so that they might get well again, and be able to get up to-morrow. And she drew the curtains closely round the little bed, so that the sun should not shine in their eyes. The whole evening through she could not help thinking of what the Student had told her. And when she was going to bed herself, she was obliged first to look behind the curtains which hung before the windows where her mother's beautiful flowers stood-hyacinths as well as tulips; then she whispered, "I know you are going to the ball to-night!" But the flowers made as if they did not understand a word, and did not stir a leaf; but still little Ida knew what she knew.

When she was in bed, she lay for a long time thinking how pretty it must be to see the beautiful flowers dancing out in the king's castle. "I wonder if my flowers have really been there?" And then she fell asleep. In the night she woke up again. She had dreamed of the flowers, and of the Student with whom the Councillor found fault. It was quite quiet in the bed-room where Ida lay; the night-lamp burned on the table, and father and mother were asleep.

"I wonder if my flowers are still lying in Sophy's bed?" she thought to herself. "How I should like to know it!" She raised herself a little and looked at the door, which stood ajar; within lay the flowers and all the playthings. She listened, and then it seemed to her as if she heard some one playing on the piano in the next room, but quite softly and prettily, as she had never heard it before.

"Now all the flowers are certainly dancing in there!" thought she. "Oh, how glad I should be to see it!" But she dared not get up, for she would have disturbed her father and mother.

If they would only come in!" thought she. But the flowers did not come, and the music continued to play beautifully; then she could not bear it any longer, for it was too pretty; she crept out of her little bed, and went quietly to the door, and looked into the room.

Oh, how splendid it was, what she saw !