and no mistake.

He's come back. He found me out in the field yonder, Thursday morning early, a'most afore I'd waked up."

A shadow fell across the sun of Stella's contentment. "Had you been sleeping out of doors all night?"

Aye, miss, and Taters and me slept out o' doors these other two nights, as well. And we don't mind, do we Taters, not as long as the snow won't come; when it does we must find a cellar, or archway, or something of that, I reckon."

"Poor little boy!" sighed the listener, as she had several times done before. However, this time the pity was not required, and was felt to be undeserved.

"Not poor now, please miss, I ha' got Taters, and Taters have got me."

Stella smiled. There certainly seemed to be no disputing that statement, and if it signified riches then the pair before her were certainly quite wealthy.

"But you won't object to having a nice hot dinner, will you, instead of those dry crusts of bread?" she asked, pointing to a paper of rather unappetising breadleaving.

Raggadocio, or more properly Teddy Brown, sprang to his feet.

"And bones for Taters?"

"Oh, of course, bones for Taters, and," with a little laugh "taters too, if he is cannibal enough to be willing to eat them. But come along, cook is very kind, but rather cross if people are late for dinner."

Stella could scarcely eat her own dinner for delighted remembrance of the sight she had seen the minute before she sat down to it. Neddy on a wooden stool just by the kitchen back door, with a great plateful of hot beefsteak pie, and Taters beside him crunching away, with small smothered growls of rejoicing, at a medley of bones and bits, various but toothsome to a hungry little dog.

Mrs. Newcome was out at the time, but Stella was all eagerness to give this second chapter in her protégé's history, as soon as her mother returned in the evening. Unfortunately her enthusiasm was destined to be somewhat damped.

Even before the whole story was told, Stella began to fear all was not sunshine even now, from her mother's grave face.

"My dear," said Mrs. Newcome, "from what you say I am afraid this little fellow will have got himself into trouble. Those were rich people, an English merchant with a French wife, in that house, and they won the reputation of being hard people besides, while they were here. Not, however, that I ought to mention that, for the most tender-hearted would be angry at having a valuable pet dog stolen from-”

"Mother!" exclaimed Stella, and her mother left her last words unsaid, quite startled by her daughter's vehemence. But before she could remonstrate, or indeed either of them could say another word, the door opened, and Sir Lucas Newcome, one of the magistrates for the place, entered the door.

CHAPTER III.-NEWS FOR STELLA.

STELLA's father had been one of the magistrates for his native town some two or three years now, and had earned a reputation for himself in that capacity. He was said

not only to lean to the side of mercy, but to err on that side, and while the more or less guilty were only too thankful to see him on the bench, those who had cause to bring complaints were not altogether quite so partial to him, and his habit of trying to influence them to be content with less than their one pound of flesh, on the plea that they might be thankful for the same mercy themselves, some day, if not during active life, at any rate on the bed of death.

But, however all this might be, thus much is certain, that the J.P. himself often had a sore heart over his duties, however leniently they might be fulfilled. That he had come home with one of these cases of sore heart to-day, his wife knew instantly from the way in which he let himself drop into his armchair, before she had even caught a glimpse of the weary face. She looked at him with affectionate solicitude.

66

Something is troubling you, Lucas ?"

"Yes, wifee mine," with a long, tired breath. "I hate to have children sent to prison, especially those who have a dread, a wholesome dread of it, themselves. I have just seen a poor little scared, white-faced wretch taken off to be locked up, at any rate till Monday, on the charge of --"

Stella had risen to her feet, and stood now with wide, great anxious eyes fastened upon her father in a way that quite embarrassed him, and he half stammered over his last two sentences

"Of-of-stealing a dog, which he declares most positively he didn't steal, poor miserable little chap. Says it gave itself to him."

Stella burst into tears. "Oh! father, is the boy a very ragged little fellow, with a nice face, about nine years old, and is the dog a Yorkshire terrier ?"

Her father lifted his eyes to his young daughter's face with some astonishment.

"If I say Yes to all your questions, little woman, what then? Whatever can you know about the affair? Have you been helping in the theft?"

Stella was feeling too doleful to smile at the question, but she came up to her father, and with his arm about her, the whole pathetic little history was told. Her father was taken with a thickness in the throat,-or something-as he listened.

"And I suppose he has not even got the little dog to help him bear his fresh misery now!" sobbed the girl as she finished her tale.

"No, but he shall have," said Sir Lucas withdrawing his arm, and getting up from his chair again. "He shall have it till Monday, at any rate, and if they like to lock me up for allowing it, well, let them. What o'clock is it, Stella?"

and Allan, and their mother. "His Honour," Sir Lucas Newcome, was the presiding magistrate. As it so happened the principal prisoner was Teddy Brown, against whom was the terrible indictment " Dog-stealer." The other culprits were a couple of drunken men, and a couple of spitfire women, against all of whom the magistrate put forth the utmost rigour the law allows, in spite of his character for mercy, and added a few strong words of indignation of his own into the bargain. These contemptible folks settled with for a time, Teddy Brown's case canie on, and Teddy Brown himself appeared on the scene, a trembling, wan-faced, pitiful little object, to whom Stella tried to give some encouragement. But the smile was such a very watery one that it may be doubted if it could have comforted him much, even had he seen it. As it was, all the power of seeing that his terrified, tear-dimmed eyes still possessed, was concentrated in one long awe-struck gaze at his accusers, Mr. and Madame Dashwood.

"We have come from our new home, one hundred miles," said the lady, "because of what we heard from those we asked to find our dog. We had left here a week last Saturday, and the dog with us. And on Sunday the dog was gone, and on Friday morning we hear he has been seen here, and with that boy."

"Clever little dog!" ejaculated Sir Lucas, "found its way a hundred miles, and alone."

"Bring in the little animal, Thomson." The officer gone on his errand the magistrate turned back to the lady.

"I think you will believe now with me, Madame, that the boy's statement is correct, and that your pet was only found with the boy, because the little creature had of its own accord made its way to him?"

The lady shrugged her shoulders. She was tired, and out of temper, and was beginning to feel that no dog on the face of the earth, however valuable, was worth all this worry and trouble. Let her get the creature back, and begone? as for that gamin, what became of him, whether thief or no thief, she did not care a straw.

Sir Lucas was still waiting for her reply when the man appeared with the little animal in his arms.

"Tar-tar, Tar-tar," called the lady instantly, with a somewhat mincing French accent mingled with the tone of command.

Thomson put Tartar down, and slowly, and with depressed tail and ears, the small creature obeyed the summons. Not the most partial witness could say that pleasure united with obedience.

Sir Lucas took keen note of all.

"Now, Madame, of your kindness, allow the experiment to be made," he said, "of whether the dog really has this friendship for the lad, of which our small prisoner has made his boast."

The lady elevated her eyebrows in somewhat supercilious surprise, at the request, but her husband and Sir Lucas had been more or less friends in the hunting-field, and he quietly took Tartar from his wife's lap, and replaced it on the ground.

The magistrate turned to the piteous little culprit. "Call the dog," he said.

"Ca-call the dog!" gasped Teddy, who had been in a semi-state of stupor from fear and misery for some minutes past, till these words were addressed directly to himself. "Call the dog?"

Oh! such a little fuss of scuffle, and rush, and gasping yelp, and bound, and Tar-tar, or "Taters," had crossed the intervening space, and flown into the boy's arms before the child had well had time to have his arms ready to receive him.

Taters with him, once more Teddy's courage revived. "See now, sir, see now," he exclaimed excitedly. "Didn't I tell you true as Taters had give himself to me?"

And dog and boy kissed each other, and cried over each other, or, at any rate, unheeded tears were raining down Teddy's cheeks, as the magistrate replied, with a very suspicious huskiness

66

“Aye, aye, my lad, I expect the dog has made out a pretty clear case for you, as you say.” Sir Lucas turned to the lady.

"What is your opinion, Madame ?"

Madame, who had a minute be-laced, be-scented handkerchief up to her eyes, but hardly in sympathy with the sentiments of the rest of the assembly, burst out fretfully

"My opinion then is that Tar-tar is a horrid leetle beast, un ingrat. I will not to have him back any more from those rags. The rags may keep him." "Oh!" There came three small screams from three young throats, quickly suppressed.

"The rags may keep him, and when they both come to starve together, Tar-tar may-may feel-what it is to be un ingrat!"

"And the boy, Madame," said Sir Lucas with a momentary twinkle in his eyes, Allan afterwards declared. "You will give the boy something for all this pain and fear and discomfort he has had through sheltering your runaway dog from harm, and-"

A momentary pause, and keen look at the lady"And for ridding you of such an ungrateful, horrid little beast?"

The lady in her turn paused. "Is that necessaire ?"

Sir Lucas wisely said nothing, but her husband, after casting a glance around, muttered hastily, "Yes, yes. It wasn't the little chap's fault that the brute ran away to him, and-and the folks around evidently will hoot us if we don't make some amends, or whatever they choose to call it."

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Humph," snapped Madame.

"Canaille!" But all the same she drew forth her embroidered purse, and took out two sovereigns.

"One for his trouble, and one for the dog," she said. "And now I go. I will see that my next dog stays by me."

"Ted Brown won't want that one," remarked Allan quietly, for his mother and sister, or only the bench he sat on, to hear, as the case might be.

No, Ted Brown had all he wanted, at any rate he

thought so, as he held that faithful, rough little warm bundle close against him under his old rag of a jacket. Happily he had that day become known to two people who were as faithful friends, and had as warm hearts as Taters himself, and to tel! the candid truth Taters did

not object to the enjoyments of a good home when his beloved friend Teddy, Sir Lucas's "boy in buttons" was able to have the comfort of them in his company. In the near future, however, Taters asserted himself to be not only Teddy Brown's dog but Stella's as well.

G. STEBBING.

"Go

OOD-BYE, Lizzie, take care of yourself and the little maid. Keep a good heart and I'll be back with you in a couple of weeks. The Mary Alice is a stout little craft, and please God we'll have a good haul. I won't kiss the child for fear I wake her. Tell her dad 'll be looking out for his darling when he comes back."

Robert Steer kissed his pretty little wife, buttoned up his tarpaulin-coat, took his huge sou'-wester from her hand, pushed open the cottage-door and strode down the shingly path to the sea.

Lizzie Steer stood looking after him into the dark night for a moment. She listened to the pebbles crunching under her husband's heavy tread, and far away the sound of the sea; but the chill November night was not

inviting. She turned in again to her own cheery fireside and bolted the house door. She had nothing now to do but to watch and wait and pray till her dear one came home, that is all sailors' wives can do.

It was a bright little room, small, but neat and clean, and bore many signs of Robert Steer's calling. On the mantelshelf were a row of bright shells and queer beads and seeds, relics of the time when Steer had gone into foreign parts.

In one corner stood some lobster traps, and part of an old fishing-net which Robert was mending in the evenings. On the dark mahogany sideboard under a glass shade was the greatest treasure of all-a small model of the Stormy Petrel, the ship on which Robert had served before his marriage. It was cleverly made out of cork and wood, and was the work of a crippled brother of Lizzie's.

Mrs. Steer sat down to her work; it was evident from the little garments she was patching that though she was poor she was careful. She could not bear to see her darling little girl untidy and ill-kept; and so night after night Lizzie was to be found making and mending.

The Steers' had been married ten years now, but Lizzie, for all her cares and worries, was still a. young looking woman. Years before she had been the prettiest girl in the village, when Robert Steer, then a fine young sailor, had won her for his wife. She was dark-haired, and dark-eyed, with a deep red colour on her cheeks and a healthy brown skin which showed she spent a good deal of her time in the open air.

Mrs. Steer was a happy wife and mother. She had a good, steady husband and darling little child. Robert had given up going on long voyages since that first year of his married life, when he had gone away leaving one dear one at home and returned to find two. The baby daughter was the sweetest thing on earth to Robert Steer, except her mother, and so for their sakes he settled down at home and took up fishing as a means of earning his bread. It was a hard life, especially in winter, cold, lonely and dangerous. At first he had not money enough to set up a boat and nets of his own, so he went shares with another man. After two years his partner died and Robert could then afford to buy all the boat, and he re-christened her the Mary Alice after the little darkeyed child at home.

He had gone now with the other boats belonging to the village to follow a shoal of herrings which had been

seen some miles up the coast. The boats would probably be gone for a fortnight, for if they were lucky in their catch the men would go on to Leemouth, a large shipping port, and there clean and salt all those which would not be packed off fresh to the big town markets.

Lizzie Steer was used to Robert's absences. But she was sorry that the work in the winter was so cold and dangerous. It seemed hard to her that good men should risk their lives because rich folk could not eat their dinners without fish. Robert laughed at her fears. “You should see the storms right out on mid-ocean," he said "you wouldn't think it was rough here then."

Robert Steer might laugh away his fears, but many a brave ship was lost on that cruel rocky shore of Motcombe, on one of the loveliest but wildest parts of the Cornish coast.

Motcombe was a lonely village; high dark cliffs frowned round the coast and seemed to forbid the blue sea to come near. A good many visitors came down in the summer from the big towns, and often an artist with his easel and paints would sketch the pretty bays, the quaint old village streets and the rough sailors. The villagers always wondered what "the painters wanted drawin' the things for." They were so used to the beauty of the place that they never thought about it. Motcombe was perched on the top of one of the high cliffs, and a fine view over the sea for many a mile could be had from most of the houses. Lizzie could watch from her window, as she moved about the house at her work, her husband's boat coming home in the morning after he had been out for a night's fishing.

The entrance to the harbour was narrow and dangerous, for on each side was a bank of rock only to be seen at low tide, and many a good boat had been lost in sight of home and friends.

“If the rich folk who come down would give us a lifeboat instead o' drawin' pictures," some of the wise old sailors would say, "there'd be some sense in 'em; but town folk never was noted for much sense, tho' they do think theirselves moighty clever."

Next morning Lizzie told little Mary as she danced into the kitchen, eager for her breakfast, that daddy had gone in the night.

"The tide was right, dearie," she said, "and he left you a kiss, and you was to be good till he came home."

Mary was nine years old, and wise for her age, a sober little maid used to sharing her mother's fears and worries. She looked very wise now, and answered, “Yes; dad says time and tide wait for no man." Her mother laughed. The child often came out with some oldfashioned remark. "You talk too grown-up to her," she would tell her husband. She is but a child; you'll make an old woman of her."

Certainly Robert Steer did make a great pet and companion of Mary. From the time she could toddle beside him he always had her with him. Mrs. Steer would have liked her to stay at home, and by-and-by learn to sew and do little things in the house; but Robert would not hear of it.

"Let her run wild," he said. "The things in nature all grow free as they will. I don't want my little Mary to be like parson's clipped yew-tree."

So Mary went everywhere with her father. She was never lonely, for she had countless playthings, and her father would tell her stories of the sea, and those strange

lands he had seen, while she sat by him on the beach and watched him mend his nets. Mary was very fond of the sea; it was always a new pleasure to watch the cold, clear water creeping gently nearer and nearer, first covering a narrow ledge of rock and then at last hiding it all away under its blue surface. She never wore shoes or stockings, and so could paddle in the sea or dance on the sands as much as she liked. She hunted for seashells and strung them into necklaces or played with them as other children would with dolls. The neighbours' little ones thought her stupid; she thought their games rough, and did not care to join them at their play. It was far nicer to be with her father, who, if he were not going out a long distance, would take her with him. She watched him pull in his net, and was as anxious as he to see if it was a good catch. Her favourite trip was to go with him to his lobster pots. These were put on the rocks near the shore, and she always thought it great fun to peep into the wicker cage and see the big black lobsters angrily waving their claws about and looking so fierce. When her father had had a good haul, she would go with him to the big houses near the village, and stand gravely by while he bargained with the servants about the price of his fish. She always took care of the money and brought it home at night and put it into her mother's lap with a childish sense of her own importance. When her father was away Mary was always quiet and thoughtful. If he were coming back in the day, she would kneel up on a high chair by the window and look out over the wide sea watching eagerly for hours for the first sign of her father's boat.

In the summer time she would go out on to the cliffs and lie there so that as the boat neared the harbour she could scamper down the rough path to the sea, singing with joy. If the fishing-boats were not coming back till nightfall Mary would trim a lantern, which had belonged to the Stormy Petrel, and which her father had given her as a plaything. As soon as it was dark she would light it, and clambering on her high chair would hang it up in the window. "Father," she said, "would see the light and know which was his home," and so steer his boat past those cruel hidden rocks safe to shore. She had got her lantern out now to see that it was trimmed and ready, though her mother had told her her father would certainly be gone for a fortnight.

Three days after Robert Steer had left Mrs. Steer was awakened from her sleep by the sobbing of her child. It had been rough and stormy all day, but towards night a high gale sprang up. The wind blew the waves high up over the rocks, and they fell back again with a dull noise like thunder. The storm swept over the broad cliffs and sounded far inland. The wind howled and sighed, and the sky was as black as ink; not a star was to be seen. Lizzie thought the child was grieving that her father should be out on the angry sea in such a storm. Her own heart was sad enough, but Robert had been away in worse gales before. She called to the child to come to her, and a little shivering figure crept in beside her.

"Nestle down by mammy, love," she said, "mother'll hold her and Mary'll go off to sleep like a good girl."

"How cold you are darling," she added, as she felt the icy feet and heard the little chattering teeth. "How did you get so frozen, child?"

"Mother," the little girl sobbed, "I dreamed of daddy."

He was calling to me, mother. 'Mary, where's the light, little girl; how can father get home?'" "It was a dream, dear heart," the mother said. "But I saw him, mammy," the child went on, "and heard him, so I got up, mother dear, and I lit my lantern and hung it up. Father sha'n't think his little girl has forgotten him. You know how often he says he'd have had hard work to get in home if it had not been for my light." The storm was raging now, the wind was howling in fierce gusts, driving the heavy rain against the window-panes. Mary had been able to get up and go downstairs without disturbing her mother, and it was only the sound of the child's tears which had aroused her.

The mother put her arms tightly round the cold little form.

"There, don't you fret, dear heart," she said. " Daddy's not near home, and, anyhow, you've hung the lantern up." Don't you worry; we can do no more except pray. The child soon went off to sleep again, soothed and comforted by the warmth and her mother's love. Mrs. Steer stayed awake for some time, listening to the wind and sea, and then at last she too fell asleep, tired out with work and sorrow. She woke again suddenly in the early morning. The storm had lulled a little. The day was breaking cold and grey in the distance, and Robert Steer was standing beside her bed. His clothes were drenched with the salt spray and rain, but he was alive and well, and in his hand he held Mary's lantern.

Lizzie started up with a cry which awoke Alice. "Daddy!" the child cried, and, careless of his wet clothes, she flung herself into his arms. Daddy, darling, I did put the lantern for you."

"Yes, yes, dear, God bless you for it," the fisherman answered. "Here it is, dearie, it helped me to get safe

in this night." He put the child back gently into bed, and began to take off his wet oilskins.

"How are you back so soon, Robert ?" his wife asked. "I'll tell you," he answered, "in good time.

"Let me get a bite and a sup, and I'll tell you how it came about." Lizzie got up quickly, and soon they were all three sitting round the table, watching Steer have his early breakfast.

"I done a silly thing, wife," he said, "and one I blamed myself for heavy when I found it out; but you see how it was for the best. I forgot the most part o' my tackle. Thought I'd stowed it away in my boat, and never found till I was nigh two days out that I'd left it at home here. I put back again, for o' course none o' the others could lend me theirn, and I thought I'd have been here before nightfall only the storm came up so sharp, and I was beatin' about after dark hour upon hour. Then sudden I seen the lantern. I rubbed my eyes. Surely I was dreamin'? No; right enough, it was the light, and it put fresh heart into me. I'll get home, please God, I cried; and in two hours I were standin' here by you fast asleep, and the little maid along with you.

"I'm most afeard tho' there be'll sad hearts in the village. It would go hard with the boats unless they were in time to put in at Leemouth and bide a bit. But how com'd the light there, you have no told me that?" "Father," the child said, clambering on his knee, "I got up and lit it. I dreamed you called me, daddy, and said you missed the light."

Robert Steer looked at his wife. "Eh," he said, "the good Lord said He hid things from the wise and told them to the babes."

Robert Steer did not make many more journeyings after that night. The child was so anxious and restless if he were away. She fretted and grew pale, and though Robert had no fear, yet for Mary's sake he gave up the fishing just as years before he had given up his long sea voyages on her account. He sold his boat and nets, and owing to the vicar's kindness he got a place as coastguardsman.

The Steers left the little cottage and went to live at the coast-guard station some distance from the village. It was a nice little house, and Lizzie made it look homely and cheery. The place of honour was given to Mary's lantern, and Robert Steer was always willing to tell any chance visitor who strolled in the story of the child's dream.

ON THE WRONG SIDE.

A PARABLE FOR THE LITTLE PEOPLE.

NPRING had come to the land for

"Have not rains greened over April's lap?"

Every baby-blade of grass was shooting up

its inquisitive head to see what this fair world was really like. The tiny stream, the meadow's boundary, was rippling with a noisy gladness, already forgetting its ice-bound misery when Robbie, the farm-boy, was sliding and holloa-ing over it. The sun was playing bo-peep in and out of the fleecy, white clouds. Everything in nature was spick-and-span new, the newest of all being two lambs staggering feebly in the cool, sweet meadow-grass with their long legs that looked as if they belonged to somebody else, certainly not to themselves. Of course each had a mother close by, but the two new-comers had a good deal to say to one another as they rubbed their soft heads together.

"It is all very nice, and such a surprise!" said Snowy, the white lamb to Darky, the black one, and Darky cordially agreed-as who would not that fine Spring morning-while the contented sheep-mothers looked on, each thinking her own lamb quite the finest on the downs.

The sunshiny hours sped by, and Snowy, growing stronger on his legs each moment, began to look farther afield, beyond his mother's warm, woolly form.

"I wonder what it is like over there, don't you?" he said to the other baby-lamb.