calls. I didn't like having my chin tickled, David the Smith, but I bided like, as one might say. And then he says-'tis queer and strange how little a grown man can be, yet can strut like a turkey-cock-"Ye seem to know what's the meaning of flick-amoroo," says he, "though it's more than I do." "Ay, I know the meaning of flick-a-moroo," I says.'

'Well, lad?' asked David, waiting till he had finished a laugh that came before the end of the story.

'Ye see, David the Smith '-a happy, cunning look was in the natural's face-'ye see, we were near t' other side o' the road yonder, and I minded there was a snug, far drop over th' wallyoung nettles growing soft as a feather-bed, David. So I says again, "Oh, ay," says I, "I know the meaning o' flick-a-moroo," says I; and I catches him, heels and head-'twould have made ye crack wi' laughter, David the Smith, to see it-and I holds him over the wall awhile, and drops him soft as a babby into th' nettles.'

Again David laughed. He could not help it. And then, Fool Billy?' he asked.

Why, I went and looked at him, and I says, "Oh, ay, I know what's the meaning o' flick-a-moroo," says I--" and so do ye, I'm thinking."

David felt a joy in this daft enterprise as keen as Billy's. Was it not the expression of feelings which he had himself only checked with an effort up yonder in the mistal-yard ?

''Twas outrageous, and not like ye, Billy,' the smith observed, his whole face twinkling. Should'st be more civil when strangers come to Garth.'

Billy the Fool looked apprehensive for a moment; of all things, after work, he hated the reproof of those whom, in his innocence, he fancied to be wiser than himself. A glance at David's face, however, reassured him.

'Civil when strangers are civil, David the Smith,' he chuckled. For Billy, vague as his outlook upon morals was, showed himself persistently on the side of the Old Testament. 'I'd bested him, ye see! Owned he didn't know what flick-a-moroo meant. Billy the Fool did.'

'We'll have a change of play, Billy,' said the smith. Just make the bonnie sparks go scummering up again, and I'll to my work o' making horseshoes.'

David stole many a look at the other's face as they went forward with their labour. He was realising that there were possi

bilities of tragedy about this lad with the big frame and the dangerous strength. It was a jest to drop a man gently into a bed of nettles-but what if Billy's passion were roused in earnest ? What if some one pierced through that slothful outer crust of his, and touched some deeper instinct in him?

Fond as he was of cattle, and friendly with their speech and ways, David had learned from them to keep a watchful eye on all the elemental creatures. The kine, to his mind, made for the softer and more gracious side of life; but he had seen cows run wild when they were robbed of their calves, had seen them run wild at sight of the gore of a wounded sister. And the blacksmith, remembering these matters, kept a thoughtful eye on Billy the Fool, who was working the bellows cheerfully.

6

'Might be a sort of earthquake hidden in poor Billy,' he muttered. "Tis hard to guess what he's thinking of, right at the beating heart of the chap.'

The smith would have been astonished, had he been able to sound these heart-beats of Billy the Fool. It was Priscilla he was thinking of-Priscilla of the Good Intent-Priscilla, who brought the sunshine into Garth for one poor fool whenever she crossed his path.

'She'll be fettling up the house-place now, I reckon,' said Billy suddenly.

Who, lad?'

"Why, Miss Priscilla. 'Tis her time of day for doing on't. Te-he, David! I hoicked yond chap fair grandly over th' wallSunday clothes, and pritty-prat speech, and all. Nettles don't sting i' March, they say-but I've known 'em do that same.'

(To be continued.)

THE

CORNHILL MAGAZINE.

AUGUST 1908,

CATHERINE'S CHILD.

BY MRS. HENRY DE LA PASTURE.

CHAPTER XVI.

'I MUST write to Catherine at once,' said Mrs. Chilcott, who was ever ready to condole with her relatives on their misfortunes, though she was invariably dumb concerning their successes.

She mistook the eagerness with which she proceeded to indite a letter to Catherine for the haste of charity; and though it was impossible not to be shocked at the double disaster which had befallen the house of Adelstane, yet Mrs. Chilcott-who had always been jealous of the promotion by marriage into that house of her humble niece Catherine-was not destitute of that secret sense of triumph in another's trouble which is perhaps among the most evil of all sensations to which poor human nature is prone.

She was, besides, just sufficiently pious to feel convinced that other people's trials were always sent for the best by a discerning Providence.

'What could Catherine expect, letting a country hoyden go alone to that fast worldly woman's house, with no one to look after her?' she said to her daughter.

There was Roper,' said Clara, whose eyes were swollen with honest grief for the untimely death of Sir Cecil Adelstane, and for the unaccountable disappearance of her cousin Philippa.

'Roper, a half-witted drudge whom Catherine chose to pick 'Copyright, 1908, by Mrs. Henry de la Pasture, in the United States of America.

VOL. XXV.-NO. 146, N.S.

10

out of my own laundry for her daughter's nurse,' said Mrs. Chilcott, sarcastically.

'She is a very honest, good steady woman, mamma.'

'I am perfectly aware what Roper is like,' said Mrs. Chilcott sharply, and a more unsuitable, ignorant maid for Philippa could not have been found.'

'Where do you think poor Philippa can be?' said Clara in awe-struck tones.

'Who can tell? Either she has eloped with a footman or a chauffeur-going about in Lord Kentisbury's motor, indeed, at her age!—or else, roaming alone in the streets of London before breakfast, as it appears she was permitted to do, she has been robbed and murdered.'

'Oh, mamma!' screamed Clara, and she lost every vestige of colour. 'Do not say so-poor little Philippa, and oh, poor-poor Catherine!'

A tear rolled down Clara's large face; for though she was not a very intelligent person, she had a heart, and was sincere and even kind in her way.

'Don't be a fool, Clara. For my part I am not going to pretend to be fond of a girl who was deliberately kept away from her own relations, and taught to look down on them,' said Mrs. Chilcott angrily. I am quite as shocked and sorry as you can possibly be

; more so, for I am able to realise her fate a great deal better than you can, who know nothing whatever of the wickedness of the world; but I am not going to pretend to be surprised. I always knew that no good could possibly come of the absurd way Catherine was bringing her up. The pride that apes humility indeed! Living in a labourer's cottage when everyone knew she must inherit the Abbey. Though it would have been hard to find anyone more unsuited for such a position.'

'Mamma, if poor Philippa is never found, who will it all go to ?' said Clara solemnly.

'After a certain lapse of time, to a distant cousin,' said Mrs. Chilcott, who knew no more of the matter than her daughter, but who would have invented a dozen answers rather than admit ignorance on any conceivable subject. When one thinks how terribly poor Sir Cecil would have felt all this horrible publicity and scandal, and these dreadful newspaper advertisements, one almost feels his removal from it all like a special Providence.'

Clara, who had not hitherto regarded Sir Cecil's fatal accident in this light, mournfully accepted her mother's view in good faith.

'It is well, indeed, that he should be spared it all,' she said, wiping her eyes.

'There is one thing I insist on,' said Mrs. Chilcott, and that is, that you go at once and fetch Lily home. She was entrusted to Catherine, and Catherine has chosen to leave her. I won't have her left with Aunt Dulcinea, half crazy as she has always been, and totally unsuited to look after herself or anyone else. I should hope even George will acknowledge now that Catherine has proved herself sufficiently unfit to have charge of a child.'

Clara was nothing loth to undertake the task of fetching her niece home. She was sincerely attached to Lily, and very sore at her brother's ingratitude for her own praiseworthy efforts to undertake his daughter's education.

'Of course she is an unusually naughty child,' thought poor Clara; but I make every excuse for her when I recollect what a faulty disposition she must have inherited, as mamma truly says, from poor Delia. Sometimes she behaves like a demon, and George gives one no credit for putting up with it. But I try to remember he is a widower, and make allowance for his weakness.'

She told her mother of her fears that it would not be easy to bring Lily away from Shepherd's Rest against her will; since the child's innate wickedness made it probable that she would not wish to return to her lawful guardians.

'And it will hurt Aunt Dulcinea's feelings, I know, when I explain to her, as I must,' said the conscientious Clara, 'that I do not think her at all a fit person to have charge of Lily.'

'I never mind what I say to people for their good, and why should you?' said Mrs. Chilcott sternly. A little plain speaking will do Aunt Dulcinea no harm, and she only keeps away from me because she is afraid of getting it.'

On the afternoon following this conversation, Miss Clara ordered the victoria, and drove up to Shepherd's Rest.

The coachman would have grumbled indignantly at any other time, upon receiving the order to take his horses up the steep and narrow lane which led to the cottage; for it was the family custom to leave the carriage in the road below, and climb the hill on foot; but just now local curiosity and sympathy were stimulated to a degree which made every opportunity for obtaining news of the