older brother. Remember, I forbid you to recall aught of this night. Say that you went to bed at half after eight as usual."

"And so I did," said Gregory, plainly heartened; "only I got up again." Tanis stamped her foot. "I 've

"You 're beautiful," Sally faltered. "No, I 'm just grown up." Tanis laughed at the other's frankness. "I 've been taught to make the best of myself, though I 'm sure I must look a fright after what I've been through to-night."

commanded you to forget that!" she exclaimed. "And now, good-by." She jumped up and ran to the door, where she held out her hand to Mick. "Good-by, Mick. I don't offer to pay you for what I know was done out of fondness for the maid you 've ridden behind many a day, so thank you, good friend."

She put her hand on old Gregory's shoulder and gently pushed him through the door. As he stood looking at her doubtfully, at a loss for words at the moment of parting, she dropped a kiss on his ruddy, wrinkled cheek; then she closed the door in his face, down which tears were running, and stood with her back to it and her arms spread out as if she expected an attempt on his part to reënter.

Outside all was quiet, and it soon became evident that Mick had gently led the old man away.

The two girls looked at each other, and Sally at once felt herself very shy to be left alone with this fashionable miss.

"You 're a pretty little thing," said Tanis, suddenly, in an effort to break the ice she felt was congealing them.

"Have you come far?" asked Sally, politely.

"Not so very," Tanis acknowledged. "At least, not far for a person who has traveled to Virginia and New York."

"Have you been to New York?" Sally asked eagerly. She was not sure how far distant Virginia might be, but she knew that it was a most impressive journey to New York. Her Aunt Charity had been there once and was never done telling what wonderful sights she had seen.

"Aye, 't was there this night's trouble began," Tanis said gravely. A wistful look came into her eyes as she peered across the half-lighted room, and Sally thought again that she had never seen so lovely a face. "As you have taken me in, you have a right to know who I am, and-"

"Don't tell if you don't want to," Sally interrupted.

and, oh, my dear, I do so long to talk to a female. Uncle Rick does n't understand."

"Uncle Rick?" echoed Sally.

"Yes, the Honorable Richard Arms, of Bristol. I'm his niece." Tanis would have gone on, but again Sally broke in.

"Oh, he 's the owner of Arms Crossing. Everybody in the Jerseys has heard of him."

"Aye," agreed Tanis, "and in New York too, for that matter. He is a great patriot, and all call him very clever; but I think he is the most unreasonable, pernickity, hard-hearted old man."

"What hath he done?" asked Sally, wide-eyed with surprise at the vehemence of the other's speech.

"He's acting exactly like King George," Tanis burst out. "And so I've revolted, just like the American colonies he 's in sympathy with. You would have, too."

"I don't know whether I would or not," said the practical Sally, with a smile.

"To be sure you would!" insisted Tanis. "Any girl with spirit has a right to her own opinion in such a matter. It's every whit as bad as taxation without representation to forbid it."

Sally laughed outright. "I don't know what you 're talking about," she explained.

"Of course you don't." Tanis joined in the other's merriment for an instant, then sobered with a doleful shake of her head. "There's no cause for giggling, Sally," she continued, "but I must tell you from the beginning. You see, it happened in New York."

"What happened?" demanded Sally.

"What always happens to a girl sooner or later," Tanis answered. "I went and fell in love!"

"Oh!" it was a long-drawn-out exclamation of surprise and Sally leaned closer to her interesting guest. "With a Tory?" she asked in an awe-struck tone.

"Worse," murmured Tanis; "with an Englishman!"

"That is much worse," agreed Sally. "It 's awful! and you a patriot."

"I just could n't help it," Tanis defended herself. "I was staying with my cousins and he came to see them, and-and-" she broke off suddenly, while Sally nodded her head, guessing

I'm

"Nay, not 'miss' to me, Sally. just Tanis," said the girl, warmly. "I'm sure we 're going to be friends,

"What 's his name?" she asked after a moment.

"Mr. Philip Cheyne," Tanis replied; "and truly, Sally, he thinks the colonies are right in this war. Lots of

Englishmen do. However, before the British took New York, I was hurried through the lines into the Jerseys and back home to Arms Crossing."

"Did you tell your uncle about about-"

"Certainly not," replied Tanis. "Philip is a very honorable gentleman, and as soon as he could, he followed on to Bristol. 'T was then that Uncle Rick turned unreasonable. He would n't hear of my marriage to an Englishman. He insisted that Philip was a coward because he was n't fighting on one side or the other, and that he was a fortune-hunter as well."

the girl's eyes and ran down her cheeks. Sally went to her quickly, putting an arm across the bowed shoulders and comforting this stranger as she might have one of her little sisters.

"Indeed," the younger girl insisted after a moment, "there are a mort of things that might have happened to keep your Philip away. You cannot be sure the letter ever reached him in these troublous times. And mayhap the British refused to pass him through their lines."

"Of course not!" cried Tanis, indignantly. "He did n't have any landed estate, to be sure; for which I was very glad, because I did n't want to leave Uncle Rick, whom I loved dearly before he grew so pettish; but Philip has a fortune, which he vows he will show my uncle and prove he need care naught if I were penniless."

"Then he meant to come back?" said Sally.

"To be sure! As quickly as he could," Tanis explained; "but he had to send to England, and that takes a long time. When he left Arms Crossing he said he would always love me and would stay in New York so that if I ever needed him, he could come at once to any place I appointed. Then he went away, and it almost broke my heart."

"It was hard." Sally's voice was full of sympathy.

"But that was n't the worst of it." Tanis spoke almost bitterly. "I would have waited years for Phil; but last month Uncle Rick commanded me to marry a stupid lout named Hal Carey, because, forsooth, he was a patriot. Oh, Sally, I just could n't stand it!"

"And that's why you ran away?" "Exactly!" cried Tanis. "Everywhere I turned, Hal Carey was under my feet. Faith, home was home no longer. Uncle Rick was bound I should wed the nizzy, and it was not what pleased me, but pleased Hal, that was the law of the place; and he simpering and ogling till I was fair distracted. At last I wrote to Phil to meet me to-night at Bingham's Dock on the edge of the town here."

"I know where it is," Sally broke in. "Well," Tanis continued, "I gave Phil a full fortnight to reach here after the time I reckoned he would receive the letter. All those days I was counting the hours till I should see him again, and then-he was n't there! And I was so wrought up that I fainted." Great tears welled up in

You see, Tanis, this is a small house and we are a very large family." Sally's hospitality was great, but her resources were decidedly limited.

"Let me sleep with you. You promised to take care of me, you know."

"Well, then, you shall," said Sally, greatly pleased. "Haply I can move Fern without waking her. She'll be so cross an she 's waked." She led the way into her mother's room where by the night-light, Tanis made out the trundle-bed with the sleeping twins.

"What are these?" she asked.

"Our twins, Henry and Henrietta, in looks so much alike that you can't tell t' other from which," Sally whispered. "That 's Fern, our youngest,

THIEVES' HONOR NAT and his German companion had waited, scarce breathing, listening to the approaching footfalls on the planking over their heads. These drew nearer, then stopped, and for a space the boy could hear no sound of them. Presently, as if he and the man beside him obeyed a given signal, the two looked up, and there, staring down at them, was the swarthy face of such a man as Nat had never seen. "Is it thou, Jacco?" muttered the German, as though he could not believe his eyes. "I thought thou wert

on the other side."

A smile came into the face looking down from the wharf.

"I was detained," the man said in a soft voice, "I will go now with you." And straightway this dark stranger clambered into the boat and sat down beside the German. It was plain at once that he, too, was unused to small boats, though from the rings in his ears he might have been taken for a sailor.

To Nat's thinking, this late comer was a curious creature. Black-haired, black-eyed and dark-skinned, he had an outlandish appearance which was quite outside the boy's experience. Clearly he brought no help to Nat, who did not need to be told that instead of being rescued from one villain he had now added to the burden he must row across the river by another of much the same sort.

"Now row!" commanded the German, and perforce Nat was compelled to cast off and take up the oars, to begin anew his struggle against the current and the wind.

Luckily, the rain had ceased and soon the sun began to shine again. Its warm rays were comforting to the rain-soaked boy and he was glad to feel his jacket growing drier. His work at the oars helped to warm him, and had it not been for his anxiety about Sally, he might almost have become reconciled to his position. As it was, he was both tired and dispirited. It was a long row across the river and a long way back, even though the boat would be lightened of its two unwelcome passengers. Still, he felt that he could bear these troubles if he only knew that Sally had got safely ashore.

"We go down the river!" the German commanded, when they were a hundred yards or so off shore.

said the German. "It is not so hard."

"But I have to get back, have n't I?" protested Nat, his mind always on the fate of his sister.

"You can a long rest take on the other shore," the German answered. "Now row!" He flourished the pistol and Nat headed the boat downstream.

So far, there had been no more talk between Nat's passengers; but after this order was obeyed the German turned to the man he had called Jacco.

"How came you here?" he asked. "I was lost down the country," was the soft answer. "I could not cross below. There was a danger and many soldiers who turned me back." "Where 's Gammon?" inquired the German.

"I know not, but I think we shall meet him as arranged," replied Jacco. "Mayhap," the German murmured half to himself, and for a time there was another silence. "Still, I do not understand how you this boat found," he said, shaking his head with perplexity and half believing the other had spied upon him.

"I was lost, as I told you," Jacco explained. "I was moving up from the river when I ran into a child-a girl child, hurrying, oh, so fast. She it was who showed me the way here, when I told her I wanted to go to Philadelphia."

"Say," cried Nat, who although he had been but half listening to the previous remarks had caught the last sentences clearly, "what kind of a girl was it you met?"

The man called Jacco shrugged his shoulders.

"How can I tell? She was but a girl child," he answered indifferently. "I want to know," Nat insisted. "I left my sister on a rock out in the river and went for a boat to bring her in. When I came back she was gone."

"What was she doing on the rock?" demanded the German, with an evil glance at Nat.

"Fishing," said Nat, laconically. "This girl child had fish on a string," Jacco remarked.

"And was she coming from up the river?" Nat questioned. He already felt that this "girl child" must be Sally. It was not likely that any other girl would be out in such a storm.

"Yes, from up the river," replied Jacco, and Nat, greatly relieved by this news, set to work at his oars with more courage to see a disagreeable task completed.

it was a good many more than he ever wanted to undertake again. There were moments when he quite lost touch with his surroundings, still tugging mechanically at the heavy oars as if his tired arms could do nothing else. Luckily, the warm sun and the hard work he was forced to do dried his clothing so that he was fairly comfortable, as far as that went. He had no idea where he was going and at last reached a point of physical numbness where he ceased to care what happened, being only interested in speeding the moment that would end his dreary efforts.

The German, however, knew precisely where he wanted to land on the Pennsylvania side of the river; for after they had gone downstream for some miles, he ordered Nat to turn inshore. This increased the boy's labors, as he now was obliged to quarter the current, and when at length they reached the beach Nat would have been glad to lie down on the bottom of the boat, so nearly exhausted was he.

But he was not yet permitted to rest. The German, muttering that they might need the skiff again, pulled it high up on the strand, Jacco helping, which done, he ordered Nat to proceed along an indistinct path through the woods bordering the stream. Following this for half a mile or more, they came upon a highway, and the German, still flourishing the pistol, ordered Nat to turn south in the direction of Philadelphia.

The boy, so exhausted that he could scarce drag one foot after the other, became less and less mindful of the menacing pistol; and when, at length, they saw a prosperous farm, with a large white house near the road, he stopped and leaned against the fence.

"I go no further," he said, facing the German determinedly. "You cannot kill me here and get safely away. The people in the house will hear the shot and have you hanged."

The German glanced this way and that, seeming to realize the truth of what Nat had said. Indeed, since striking the highway he had replaced his pistol in his belt, and having buttoned his coat over his array of weapons, looked innocent enough to a casual observer.

"You think to betray me, eh?" he questioned, fastening his sharp little eyes on the boy.

"I don't care what happens to you," Nat answered. "All I want is to go home."

The German seemed to consider this a moment before speaking. "Go then!" he said suddenly, "but (Continued on page 246)

BY

CHARLES J.FINGER

YOU remember the place in the story of King Lubu the Cat-faced, where the yellow river monster tried to seize the child, just before the gentle people found the invisible stairway. Well, when Pedro, who was telling the tale, came to that part he had to stop a little while, taking up the rest of it later, with more to listen to him. For just as he got to the exciting part, the boat with the captain came alongside, so there were things to do such as getting the boat hoisted aboard, putting the canvas cover over it, and making everything shipshape. For that schooner of ours was the trimmest and the neatest thing that sailed the seas. The decks were always scrubbed white, the lines were always in order, the copper lamps were always bright, and the brass everywhere was polished until you could see your face in it. When we had everything in order, the "old man," as we called the skipper, in affection, walked the full length of the deck and back again, his eyes on things generally, then went aft to smoke a pipe under the awning. So Pedro went on with his tale, but, as I have said, with more of an audience, because the men who had taken the skipper ashore were with us, as well as two from the fo'c'sl.

One of those listeners was a negro from the Gold Coast country-Happy Jim, we called him. He was the musician of the ship. He could play the accordian, the banjo, the flute, the tin whistle, the Dutch cornet (which was a comb with a piece of paper over it), and also a kind of xylophone made out of coconut shells. He could sing too-songs of his own country, or sailor chanties, or cowboy ballads, or lumberjack songs, as well as some which he had made up himself, and never did he tell a story without getting into it a song or two, music as well, which he said was part of the tale, though whether it was or not there was no way of finding out. And he had something of the trick of Carl Sandburg, the poet. That is, he would strum softly on his banjo now and then, making a sort of whispering accompaniment which was

very pleasant to listen to. Also he was a good listener, which is something not so very common.

As soon as Pedro's tale was ended, Jim asked us to wait a little while, then went forward to the fo'c'sl and returned with his banjo.

"I want to tell you something," he said and strummed on the strings while he said it.

"He has some song of his own making up to sing," said Pedro to me, highly delighted.

"No," said Jim, "this is no song," and he struck a chord, so very lightly that a melodious chime swept upward, one so soft that it could hardly be heard against the silvery ripple of the water against the ship's side. "It is a story about how the birds got their dress, but not at all like yours. That's what puzzles me. Maybe birds came in different ways in different places; one way in Pedro's country, another way in mine."

Then he told his tale, and you must imagine him touching the strings so as to make soft music now and then.

ONCE [he said] all the flowers and all the birds in the world were white

WOOD CUTS BY
PAUL HONORE

at least, if not in the whole world, then in Africa. In those days there lived a good wizard whose name was MuluNugu, who took much pleasure in the color of things. He loved to watch the sunset glow, the flashing rainbow in a dewdrop, the yellow sanded seashore, the green roof of the forest with the sunlight lancing through. He would sit and look long and long at the fireglow, or at the silver moonlight on endless fields of grass, or the rose and gold of the dawn. In his house were baskets and baskets of colored stones, of diamonds, of emeralds, of shells; and the children used to play with them, gathering them up in their hands and letting them trickle through their fingers to watch them flash in the sunbeams as they fell in a glittering shower. You understand that he loved the precious stones for their beauty, not for their value in money, and any man, if he took a fancy to it, might carry away a diamond just as he might a pebble. In the space before his house was golddust spread thick, because of the shine of it, and on it he used to make sand pictures, for there were many colored sands in the rivers thereabouts. And not only did people come from afar to watch him at his picture-making, but the birds and the animals, and mightily interested they all were; amused too, especially when Che Mlanda gave her advice as to how things should be.

This Che Mlanda was a bird, one always hopping about, telling how things should be done, advising and criticizing, looking at everything as if she knew all about it and could do so much better if she chose, her head on one side like a critic. No one knows now what kind of bird it was, but some say a sparrow, and some say it was what we call a Mother Carey's chicken. If you will notice, both are much of the same color and much of the same fussy way.

One day, the wizard Mulu-Nugu was sitting by the side of the little lake which he called the Pool of Dreams, because he used to think out his pictures there. He was looking

down into the cool, pearl gray of the water, watching the blue-green fish swimming in and out of the rock chambers far down. Now it was a time of great heat and little rain, and he remembered that as he was walking to that place he had seen, in a dry and sandy spot, a flower of many petals, which was sad and drooping because of its thirst. So he was sorry, and at first, wondering what he could do for it, had a mind to carry water to it in a shell; but then he remembered that in a few hours the flower would be as thirsty as ever. Then he rose up and went to the flowering bush, and, noting how it had drooped since the morning, shook his head in sorrow. So, turning his feeling into action, he dug it up, roots and all, after which he carried it to the pool, by the side of which he dug a hole in which to plant it, the earth being moist there. And while he was digging, down fluttered the bold and impudent Che Mlanda, swift as an arrow and so close that her wings brushed Mulu-Nugu's cheek.

"What are you doing?" she asked. "Tell me. I want to know."

At that the wizard was startled and thrust out his hand, and in so doing struck the flower, which fell into the water. And because of the weight of earth at its roots it sank down and down, until it rested on a flat stone near one of the cool chambers of rock, out of which came many little fish to look at the strange thing in wonderment. But it was too far down for Mulu-Nugu to reach it. He, grieved at the accident, though he did not scold, being too gentle hearted for that, would have dived into the water had it not been for Che Mlanda. For she said:

"Now that was very careless of you, Mulu-Nugu; very careless indeed. I never saw so silly a business. Tst! Tst! Tst! It was lucky that I came to help. Tell me what to do."

"If you can find a stick, one straight and strong, I may be able to fish the flower out," said the wizard.

"Mulu-Nugu, I know what to do," said Che Mlanda, in a kind of singsong. "Let me sing you a song about how I always know what to do," she added.

and catching sight of something having nothing at all to do with it, would forget her errand entirely. Later, remembering it, she would wonder what she had intended to do. In fact, she was somewhat like the Waykonyingos of whom you must hear some time, and, like them, was very quick indeed at learning, but at night always forgot what had been learned during the day. So Che Mlanda always knew a great deal more at noon than she had at sunrise, and more at sunset than at noon; but everything vanished from her mind during the night and she always awoke wondering at the world as a thing she had never seen before. Had it not been for that weakness, she would have been the wisest of birds.

She flew straight to the tree-top, where grew the stick, and, in furious haste plucked it and started to fly to Mulu-Nugu. But, as it happened, while she flew she caught sight of a misty cloud a short distance away and thought that she might as well see what was in it. So she fluttered about in it awhile. Leaving it, she saw another cloud, warm-gray and white, so she examined that for awhile. Then she saw a cowry-shell gleaming in the sun, so she laid the stick on the ground while she looked at the pearly hues. It interested her so much that she might have stayed there half the day had not Mulu-Nugu called. Hearing his voice she darted to him.

"But where is the stick?" he asked. "Tst! Tst! Tst! Now that comes of being interrupted," she said testily. "I put it by the cowry-shell and when you called forgot all about it. If only you had been more thoughtful!" She regarded him a moment reproachfully, then added: "But never was a more ready helping hand than Che Mlanda. I'll get it. I'll get it."

Back she went for the stick and was flying straight to Mulu-Nugu with it when she saw a waterfall, all blue and green and sparkling white, and the sun shining on it made a gay rainbow. "Now how pleased will Mulu-Nugu be when I tell him about this," she

"Never was a more ready helping hand than mine," chirped Che Mlanda, and flew to a near-by tree, on the top of which was growing a straight twig.

Now Che Mlanda had always been one of those hasty, careless, thoughtless creatures, dancing here and there, helter-skelter, at a whim or a notion. She would change her mind or her plan in a moment, or, doing one thing

spray she dashed, to play awhile, then into the rainbow. First she flew about in the path of red, happy to see the stick she carried become like a flame, for, being magic, it took the colors it touched. Then she crossed into the violet band and went sliding down that. In and out she wove, her bright eyes agleam with pleasure as she watched the stick change from one color to another. She played in the yellow light too. She danced in

the indigo. She fluttered into the orange path, and after that in the green, and, she thought, never had she enjoyed herself as she did that day. The truth is that she had done the same thing almost every day, but had forgotten. Indeed, her errand would have dropped out of her mind altogether had it not been that she heard the voice of Mulu-Nugu calling for the stick.

"I never saw any one in so great a hurry," she said, then darted away, but not for long in a straight line. Instead, she went a roundabout way into the forest and called to other birds to follow her because help might be needed. So great numbers went with her, all of them ivory white. At the Pool of Dreams they gathered and stood in a wide circle.

"I have been very thoughtful, Mulu-Nugu," she said. "Here is the stick and all the birds of the forest to help. Or if they cannot help, they can look on, and having others to look on always helps."

"Thank you," said Mulu-Nugu. "But you should have come at once and not played on the way. Always do the duty nearest to hand."

"Well, I did," said Che Mlanda. "But there were so many duties."

"You should have done the thing you started out to do," advised the wizard. "After this, always do first the thing you have in mind."

"Dear me! How you scold. I do do the first thing. But my mind changes so often that there are many first things, Mulu-Nugu."

"Try not to change your mind, Che Mlanda," said the wizard. "You would remember more easily."

"But don't you see, Mulu-Nugu, don't you see that if I remembered, things would not be new to me, and I like new things. Besides, how do you know that it is not better to change your mind than not to change it, if you never change your mind? If you never changed your clothes, now, do you think that would be good? Besides, you argue too much. Besides, as I go about, things say, 'Come and see, Che Mlanda,' and I have to look. It is polite to go when you are called. Besides, more things call me than call you, Mulu-Nugu. Besides, if you will not hear when things call, while I do, then it is you who are wrong. Now let us sit down and talk about it."

She ran on thus, having forgotten all about the white flower at the bottom of the Pool of Dreams and only remembered when she saw the wizard fishing for it. At once she was interested, giving advice and warnings, and when Mulu-Nugu had the flower hooked, and it slipped