Two Brave Boys, and, The Wrong Twin, by Mary E. Ropes │ Project Gutenberg

IT was the month of January, and the keen Russian winter had wrapped the woods and marshes in a snowy garment, and put the rivers in prison behind thick panes of ice glass, and dressed up the tall pines and firs till they looked like sheeted ghosts under the cold starlight.

But in Mr. John Oliver's roomy wooden house, standing on ground somewhat raised, and overlooked by the huge chimneys of a big mineral oil factory, was perfect warmth and comfort, for the great stoves built into the walls of the room, and faced with white glazed tiles, kept the whole place of an equal temperature.

It was about eleven o'clock, and two little boys were in bed in their nursery. Their narrow iron bedsteads were drawn close together, and in one of them a little fair-haired lad of about ten or eleven was fast asleep. Not so, however, his brother, who had raised himself to a sitting posture, and now, with his dark head and eager face bent over the sleeper, said in a whisper—

"Oh, it's you, Alf!" he said drowsily. "I was in the middle of a dream. What's the matter?"

"Hush! Don't talk above a whisper. I don't want Niania (nurse) to come in before I've had time to tell you. Matter? Well, nothing yet, but there's going to be heaps the matter if what I've heard comes true."

"I'll tell you," said Alf. "After you'd gone to bed, and I'd finished my lessons for to-morrow, I remembered that I hadn't mended my skate that was broken, and so I went over to our own little workshop, for I hadn't any tools in the house. But as soon as I was inside I forgot all about what I'd come for."

"Well, you know how thin the partition is between our workshop and the men's tool-room?"

"But happily they're too small to see through, or I might have been caught listening," responded Alf.

"I'm coming to that! There was talk going on between a man, whose voice I did not know, and the foreman of the cooper's shop, Anton Griboff."

"Oh, I know! The chap with the suet-pudding face, the currants for eyes, the plastered hair, and the squint!"

"Yes, that's the chap! Well, the two must have been talking lots before I came to the workshop, for I found I'd jumped into the middle of a plot. And this was to get up a sort of strike; not a real strike though, but just an excuse to mutiny. They have arranged among themselves to demand things that they know very well no manager could give, such as nearly double wages and a six-hours day, and I don't remember what beside. But, of course, dad won't think of it."

"Then they don't know dad!" And Alf gave a soft little chuckle of pride in the possession of such a dad.

"Well," he continued, "I stood there as still as a mouse till all was quiet and the men had gone home, and then I crept back to the house and went straight to dad and mother."

"Dad said he'd seen this mutinous spirit among the men for some time, and that it was all brought about by a few who were trying to make trouble for the sake of what they could get out of it."

"No; dad turned to mother and said: 'My dear, I must send you and the boys away to England. If there's going to be trouble here, it would not be safe for you to remain.'"

"Mother? Why, she just looked up with her pretty smile and the star-look in her eyes, and she said: 'Herbert, I fear I must disobey you in this matter. If there is going to be danger, my place is here by your side, and the boys cannot go away alone. No, we will all stay together, and trust to God to bring us safely through.'"

"Nothing more—not a word. But I saw the tears in his dear old eyes, and so I thought I'd leave him and mother to themselves and come to bed; but I couldn't sleep till I'd told you."

Here a voice from the next room said in Russian: "Why are you talking at this time of night, children? Go to sleep—both of you—like good little pigeons."

"Oh, Niania, I wish you'd come here a minute," said Alf. "I want to ask you something."

Nurse gave a little grunt, but not a cross one, for she was never angry with her children, as she called them.

"Nurse," said Alf very solemnly in Russian, "if there's going to be a rising among the men in the zavot (factory), on whose side will you be—on ours or on theirs?"

Old Niania threw a loving arm round each of the little lads and drew them close.

"My darlings," she cried, "my doves, my gold and silver and diamond children, do I not belong to you, heart and soul? Whatever happens, I am on your side, now and ever; so help me God!"

CHAPTER II.

THE plot, part of which Alf Oliver had overheard, ripened so quickly that events followed each other closely. First, the English governess took fright and left in a hurry for St. Petersburg, where she had friends.

In the factory there was a spirit of rebellion and defiance, and the men, instead of doing their work, were constantly gathering in little groups, muttering and scowling when the manager passed them.

At last things came to such a point that next to no work was done. The oil barrels remained unfilled, the cart-horses stood idle in the stables, and the great sledge-carts, which should have been carrying casks of oil to the railway station in the town fifteen miles off, were hauled up close together, lumbering the loading yard.

At length, Mr. Oliver resolved to take a bold step and meet the so-called strike half-way. He gave orders that the men should come together into one of the buildings, and he met them there.

But he had no idea that Alf and Bert, who were like their father's shadows, had followed him in and now stood behind him on a platform made of a few planks laid upon barrels.

"My men," said Mr. Oliver in a loud, clear voice, "something is wrong with you; anyone can see it! You won't work, and I am running the factory at a loss. Well, now! Let us say you are tired, and this being so, I am going to give you all a holiday. To-morrow this factory will be closed, your wages paid, and you will all be discharged.

"Those of you who wish to return to your duty, and do it properly, may come back in a week's time, when the works will open again. But any men who return later than that will find their places filled by new hands.

"Now, foremen of the various departments, see that my orders are carried out. Put out the fires, pile up the empty barrels tidily, put away the tools, lock up everything, and bring the keys to me. I have no more to say—the matter now lies with you. Good-night, my men."

Only one or two loyal voices made response; the rest of the workmen kept silence. Two and two they filed past the manager, some looking nervous and frightened, others sullen, evil and threatening.

"Look at that squinting pudding of an Anton," said he. "Doesn't he look as if he meant mischief?"

"What can he do?" replied Bert. "Isn't the place to be closed for a week? And perhaps he's one of those who won't come back."

"I don't know; I fancy he's one of the worst of them, and now dad's nipped their little plot in the bud, that villain will think of something else to do. I'm sure of it."

"Well, we must be dad's detectives and keep a sharp look-out, Alf," said little Bert with pride, and his brother assented.

The next day or two passed quietly enough, but on the third night something happened.

The two boys were awakened about eleven o'clock by the sound of men's voices, loud and angry. Their bedroom was over the office, and it was from the office that the sounds came.

Always now on the alert, Alf and Bert quickly got into their dressing-gowns and soft slippers and stole down the wide staircase of the big, two-storeyed house. The office door stood open, the lights were burning, and peering in unperceived from the dark hall, the boys saw Anton Griboff, his friend Stepan the fitter, and a third man, a fierce, rough-looking fellow, with a broken nose and a large red scar that cut across both cheeks on a line with the mouth, giving the appearance of a hideous grin from ear to ear.

The three ruffians were standing before the manager, and the boys heard Anton say: "We have come for the key of that safe, and we mean to have it. Give it up."

"The money in the safe is not mine, and I hold the key in trust," replied Mr. Oliver firmly. "You shall not have it."

Anton made a sign, and the other men suddenly sprang upon Mr. Oliver and held him, while Griboff searched the pockets for the key. In a moment, with a cry of triumph, he held it up.

But the next instant, he suddenly fell violently forward, struck his head sharply against the big open desk, and lay still, the cause of this being that Alf and Bert, creeping in on their hands and knees behind Griboff, just as he found the key, each seized a leg and pulled back with all their might. As the man's burly form came crashing down, the key of the safe dropped from his hand, and Alf pounced upon it and passed it on to Bert.

The struggles of the manager were vain. The two rascals, taking no heed of their fallen comrade, proceeded to tie Mr. Oliver's arms to his side, and his ankles together. Alf, behind them in the dark doorway, and unseen by the ruffians, dared not speak, but his father saw him, and gave him a look which the boy rightly understood to mean that he was to go and get help.

Two of the men belonging to the factory—Oscar Kleinweh, a German, and Samuel Levi, a little Jewish engineer—were true men and loyal to his father, but they had gone away when the factory was closed.

Alf's thoughts turned to his mother, who had gone to bed with a bad headache. Her room was in the next wing, and she would probably have heard nothing; he would not go to her.

There was no one of whom he could ask advice. Well, then, he must judge for himself.

"There's no help to be had nearer than the town," said he to himself, "and that's fifteen miles away."

"Quick, Niania, my clothes!" he said. "I'm the only one to go and get help, and I must start at once."

The nurse did not try to prevent him. She saw that the situation was desperate. The man-servant and coachman had joined the strikers, and would not have helped had they been on the spot. Everything now depended upon this boy, who was hardly more than a child.

"It is here," said nurse, "on a string round my neck, under my dress. It shall be quite safe; have no fear for that! Nor for your father. I am going to lock Bert into this room to keep him safer, while I go down and see if I cannot be of use to the master. But the villains will not dare to harm him. It is the money they want. But now how wilt thou go on thy quest, my pigeon? If thou take the sledge and horse, the men will be sure to see thee."

"Yes," replied Alf, "I must ride the pony, for I can saddle him myself in the stable, and watch my time for getting out. I've got the duplicate key of the stable door. Now, nurse, my short fur coat, my fur cap, and big felt boots! So! Now I'm ready!"

And giving the old woman and Bert each a kiss, Alf left the nursery and slipped noiselessly down the back stairs, meeting no one.

The women servants were asleep in the further wing of the big house, and none of the ordinary working household were about at this time of night.

Alf did not dare to return even for a moment to the front of the building, for fear of being caught. Softly he crept out the back way, and in a moment was inside the stable, and had bolted himself in and lighted a lantern.

Sharik (ball), the pony, was a plump, round, sturdy little creature, a great pet with the boys; and now he rubbed his rough head fondly against Alf's shoulder, as the saddle and bridle were being adjusted.

Then, softly undoing the door, Alf peeped out. There was no one in sight; all was clear. He led Sharik out, locked the door, and was soon in the saddle.

The direct road to the town passed the front of the house, and took a straight line for some distance, but Alf dared not risk going to the front. He made for the frozen river at the back, and only joined the road when he felt it safe to do so. Then, however, he put the pony to its full speed. For such a sturdy little beast, Sharik was very swift, and he was also docile, strong and sure-footed.

The night was fine, and but for the burden of care on his young heart, Alf would quite have enjoyed his ride. In little more than an hour the lad reached the town, and at full gallop arrived at the police-station. The head constable was well-known to the Olivers, and he at once promised to send help.

A sotnia (hundred) of Cossacks, too, were in the town for a day or two, and the sergeant thought that their lieutenant would allow some of his men to accompany the police to the factory.

"I was not alone, Yakov Ivanitch," replied Alf, his fearless dark eyes meeting the man's frankly.

"God was with me," said the boy. "I felt Him there every step of the way." And with a wave of his small hand, he galloped away.

Sharik needed no urging on the homeward journey, and even Alf's impatience could find no fault with his good little steed.

When within a quarter of a mile of the house, he left the high road and again took the way by the river, coming up at the back of the house.

He could see no lights in any of the windows as he dismounted and led his pony into the stable. The kitchen door was unlocked, as he had left it, and when once inside, he soon had the gas alight. But what was his surprise to see the long pinewood table loaded up with dirty plates and dishes with remnants of food; glasses, cups and empty bottles added to the disorder. The place looked like some low tap-room.

Full of forebodings, the boy took a candle from the shelf, and went down the long corridor that ran from the back to the front of the house.

CHAPTER III.

AT the open door of the office Alf paused; the room was empty and dark, but in the corner stood the safe, still apparently fast locked; so at least the key had not been found.

All the other lower rooms had been overhauled and looted, everything valuable having been carried away, unless indeed it had proved too big to be handled.

Alf then went upstairs, but there seemed to be no one anywhere. Even the servants' rooms were empty, their cupboards and drawers open, and garments scattered about, as though they had dressed in great fear and haste.

Last of all, he went to the nursery. By this time the horrible silence of the house was getting upon the boy's nerves, and for the first time he felt his courage giving way, as he stood in the dear familiar room, now so lonely and deserted.

He turned and was about to descend the stairs again, when he fancied he heard a little sound somewhere close by.

Then the door of a big wall-cupboard opened softly, and Bert's fair head and white face appeared.

In an instant the boys were locked in a close embrace, and for a minute or two neither could say a word. But at last Alf mastered his feelings and began to question Bert, learning from him that the workmen had come to the house in force, and had gone all over it, making a great noise and alarming him greatly.

He said that soon after Alf had left for the town, the nurse went to see if she could do anything for Mr. or Mrs. Oliver, promising to return to Bert very soon.

But she had not come back, and meanwhile the child had heard the talk of the ruffians on the stairs, and their threats to bring a bomb or dynamite and blow up the safe, since they could not open it otherwise.

Then, for fear of their coming in and finding him, Bert hid in the cupboard, and only found courage to come out when he heard his brother's voice.

"Well, happily Yakov Ivanitch will be here presently with his own men and some Cossacks, and perhaps they'll find out what has become of all our people."

"Ach, so? Will they, indeed?" said a harsh voice behind them. "Well, it is well to know what is likely to happen, then one is prepared."

The boys, turning quickly, saw that the speaker standing in the doorway was the man with the great red scar, the brutal face, and heavy, powerful form.

"So it's you we have to thank, young gentlemen, if the whole nest of police hornets comes buzzing about our ears?"

"Not both of us," retorted Alf stoutly; "my brother had nothing at all to do with it."

"Oh, indeed! So it was you alone? Well, whoever it was, I think we won't wait here for your friends to arrive. Lucky I happened to think of taking one more look round! Come along, both of you!"

And grasping in his huge hands the collar of each boy, he dragged them, in spite of their struggles and hearty kicks at his shins, down the stairs and into the back yard, where a sledge was waiting, with a horse harnessed, and Alf recognised both as his father's.

"That's not your business," replied Red-scar. "I am not here to be questioned; get into the sledge."

"I cannot leave my pony behind," said Alf stoutly. "He is in the stable, and I must go and fetch him."

"What! And lock yourselves into the stable and wait for the police?" snarled Red-scar. "No, thank you But the pony is worth money, so you may fetch him, and I shall hold your brother as hostage for your return."

Once in the stable, Alf deliberately fed his pony, for Sharik had made a double journey, at high speed for him, and might have to run far again directly. His saddle and bridle were still on him, so his young master took all the time at his disposal in giving him a good feed of oats, unheeding, until the good little animal had partly satisfied its hunger, the calls and curses of the man.

But at last, fearing on Bert's account to anger Red-scar further, he led Sharik out, knotted a leading strap round his arm, and without replying to the horrible language of the ruffian, got into the sledge beside Bert, while Red-scar scrambled on to the driver's seat.

Alf looked eagerly in the direction of the town as they emerged into the high road. He was hoping, almost against hope, that the rescuers might appear, even now, at the eleventh hour. But no one was in sight along the white snow road. Their driver turned the horse's head in the opposite direction, and with a sharp cut of the whip set the pace at a gallop.

"Be assured of one thing, thou hideous ruffian," said the boy indignantly, "that ere long thou and thy fellows shall smart for this. My father hath ever been a just and kind master to his workmen; and for this ill return they shall, without doubt, pay the price."

"Crow not so loud, my chicken!" sneered the man, his cruel red smile scorning to stretch all round his head. "Troublesome cockerels now and again get their necks twisted."

"The wicked old cocks always do," retorted the lad, nothing daunted; "and so, please God, shalt thou, too, one fine day; and the sooner the better for the rest of us!"

"Wait a bit, my fine young gentleman!" snarled the fellow over his shoulder. "Your turn will come presently. Hideous ruffian, am I? That makes one more thing to thank you for, you stuck-up young monkey!"

It was after three o'clock in the morning by Alf's watch when, in the middle of a pine forest, Red-scar pulled up the panting horse before the door of a rude shanty, a woodman's log hut, built of whole pines roughly trimmed with an axe, and with the crevices stuffed with moss and lichen.

Out of a chimney smoke curled upwards in fantastic shapes, and dispersed in the wintry sky.

"Get down," said Red-scar. He had scrambled out of the driver's narrow seat, and now threw back the furred apron that had protected his young passengers.

"What is this place?" asked Bert, shivering as he stood in the snow of the little clearing round the hut.

But the man did not condescend to reply. He strode to the door of the hut and thumped on it with the handle of his whip.

It opened, showing the light inside, and holding the door open—Stepan the fitter. "Come in, come in!" he said, with some show of heartiness, as the lads, stiff with cold, stood shivering on the threshold. "There is a good fire in the stove here, and I will make some tea to warm you. What about the horses, Gavril?" he added, turning to Red-scar, whose real name the boys now heard for the first time.

"That means Gabriel in English, Bert," said Alf, with an attempt at a smile. "Nice specimen of an archangel, isn't he?"

"The horses?" repeated Red-scar, from the door; "the shed will be all right for them. There is plenty of straw, and I have stopped up all the cracks and mended the door, so that it shuts quite tight. Also I brought hay and oats," and he stepped to the sledge and dragged two sacks out of the front of it. "They made a good footstool for me," he added, "and kept my feet warm."

Stepan, while his companion was occupied with the horses, busied himself in making the tea.

CHAPTER IV.

STEPAN took from off a rude shelf along the wall a great round black loaf, a plate of yellow salt butter, and some tin mugs big enough to hold a pint each. He out several slices of bread and butter, laying them down on a wooden platter. Then he poured out the tea and pulled a bench up to the rude table in the middle of the room.

The boys gladly took their seats, for they were chilled and hungry; and Bert was about to sip his tea when Alf touched his hand.

"Don't let's forget our grace," said he, and bending his head and closing his eyes he said in a soft whisper: "We thank Thee, Lord, for this food; take care of us, and of those we love, for Jesus' sake. Amen."

The boys were seated together at one end of the table, while Red-scar (who had now returned) and Stepan sat facing them; and Alf, glancing up, now and again, from the food before him, could not but note the contrast between these two men, whom he now rightly regarded as his jailers. And he turned with a certain sense of relief from the brutal aspect of Gavril to the brown-eyed, clear-skinned, black-bearded Stepan.

This man had been—as Alf knew from his father—a superior workman in the fitters' department, receiving high wages and occupying a good position. And Alf wondered to see him throw in his lot with a brute like Gavril, and against such a master as Mr. Oliver had always been.

Just before the meal was ended Red-scar left the hut to get snow for water, and Alf found courage to speak to Stepan of what lay like a burden upon his heart.

"Look here, Stepan," he said, "I can speak to thee, for thou art not as the other. Tell us what has become of our parents and old Niania? Knowest thou?"

"On my honour, young sir, I know not," replied Stepan. "When Gavril and I bore Anton away unconscious to his own house, we left the master bound securely, but unhurt, lying on the sofa in the office. When we returned in half an hour's time, he was gone. As for the key of the safe, Anton found it, held it up for us to see, then suddenly fell, and from that moment the key vanished. The lady and the nurse had also disappeared before we went upstairs, though how or where I know no more than you. I only am sure that it was before the rougher among the workmen came swarming, as drunk as they could be, and turned everything upside down."

"And what had my poor father done—tell me that, Stepan," said Alf, "that you men should rise against him thus? What, for example, had he done against thee?"

"Ah, young sir, you are scarce more than a child; how can you understand? My grievance was nothing that the other men knew of or shared in. But because they mutinied, I went with them—but for reasons of my own."

"Tell us, Stepan, what was thy grievance?" asked Alf, and Bert echoed his brother's words.

"He was," replied Stepan, "but he got into bad company, and was found one night by the master dead drunk on the floor of the Refinery Room, with a half-smoked pipe beside him."

"I suppose," said Alf, "that his duty was to keep watch there, and above all to see that no risk was run of fire, which was the great danger always. Also I have heard my father say that smoking is strictly forbidden all over the factory."

"It is so," rejoined Stepan, "and Pamphil was much to blame; nevertheless, he was very young, and had been led away by others more vicious, though wiser, than he; but the master dismissed him at once. I pleaded for him and he listened, but it was all in vain. Pamphil was discharged. And then, in despair, he went from bad to worse, and now he lies in prison for murderous assault and perhaps he may lose his life. And knowing this, how can I forget that all this misery might have been prevented had the master kept the poor lad in his employ, or at least given him another chance!"

"But suppose," suggested Alf, "that some terrible accident had happened through Pamphil being drunk or heedless; and suppose life and property were lost on his account! Would not my father be blamed—and justly—for keeping a man in his employ who was not to be trusted? Oh, Stepan, this grudge of thine is an unjust and unworthy one."

"Our father was good to thee when thou wert ill of the fever," put in Bert. "He went to see thee every day, and mother sent food from our own table to strengthen thee. Hast thou forgotten?"

Stepan did not reply; it was all too true, though he did not like to confess it.

But just then, Gavril came back with two great buckets of snow, which he emptied into a huge kettle and set on the stove to boil, after which he went out again for firewood.

"And now, young gentlemen," said Stepan, "if you will take my advice, you will lie down on the bed in that warm corner, and get a few hours' sleep. You must need it."

"Look here, Stepan," said Alf; "a straight word with thee! We dare not sleep—my brother and I—if we be left alone with Red-scar, for he hates us and might do us an injury. Promise that if we sleep, thou wilt not leave us."

The man's brown eyes softened as he looked at the little lads, who, in spite of all he had done, trusted him still.

"You may sleep in peace, my children; no harm shall come to you," he said gently.

And as they went and lay down, he took from a nail in the wall his big sheepskin coat, and carefully covered them. In a few minutes, he could tell by their regular breathing that they were asleep.

"Ah!" said Gavril, who now returned with the firewood. "So thou hast put the brats to bed. I would dearly love to choke the impudence out of that older boy!"

And the cruel grin widened like a beast's at sight of prey, and the cat-like eyes narrowed till they were only two gleaming slits. He stepped across to the low bed and, stooping, pulled the collar of the sheepskin shoob away from Alf's face and throat. Stepan was watching him closely, distrust and dislike written large in his frowning brow and set lips.

"Hands off, Gavril!" he said sternly. "I promised the children that they should sleep secure, and they shall! Come away from them!"

"Thou soft-hearted old coddle!" sneered Red-scar, replacing the fur, and taking his seat by the stove. "But now to business! How long are we to keep these imps in hiding?"

"How can I tell? Thy purpose was to hold them to ransom; but, pray, who is there to ransom them? The parents and nurse have disappeared; thou dost not know of any reward offered. Much more likely is it that the police will track us down, and give us a taste of Siberia for our pains. Poor little fellows! They have come to trouble before their time, and through no fault of their own."

"Nay, then, if thou art so soft-hearted," said Gavril mockingly, "it is a pity thou art not on the manager's side rather than ours."

"Well, yes," replied Stepan coolly; "if 'our side' means to be with thee, it would certainly be more to my credit if I went back to serve under my old master."

"I was a fool," said Stepan, "to let my own private grievance drive me to join the rest of you—such a black gang, too, and thou, Gavril, blackest of all!"

CHAPTER V.

"BAH!" said Stepan, moving not a muscle as Gavril brandished the great axe over his head. "It seems to me that, for a man no longer in his first youth, thou art passing foolish. Hast thou not sin enough yet upon thy soul but thou must add murder to thy wrongdoings? In truth, Red-scar, thou hast much to learn, and thou wilt one day learn thy last lesson too late, with a noose about thy neck."

"Now out upon thee for an old croaker!" cried Gavril, but his cheek had paled, and he had put the axe down.

Two days passed, and Alf and Bert had not much to complain of, save that they were not allowed to leave the hut. Gavril was away most of the time, and they were left with Stepan, who, though often moody, was never unkind.

But on the third day he announced his intention to go and make inquiry about his brother, who was in prison in a town about twenty versts away. As he spoke, the boys' cheeks blanched with terror.

"Oh, Stepan," said Alf, "if thou leave us here, we shall die of fright. Red-scar hates us, and if he find that he can gain nothing by us, he will get rid of us somehow. In this lonely place, what is to hinder his doing just as he likes?"

Stepan listened thoughtfully. At last he said, "Ah well! It must come to a breach sooner or later, and why not sooner? One thing I can do, my children. Gavril expects to be away all to-night, and he charged me, in case I had to leave before his return, to bolt you in securely so that you should not escape. Suppose we say that I bolt the doors as I promised, but if you are outside them instead of inside, I will not try to prevent. Truth to say, I am weary of the responsibility of having you here; before God, I wish you no ill, and I bitterly repent that ever I took sides with the Black Gang. I have but thrown myself out of good work; my family will be in distress, and what have I gained?"

"Dear old Stepan! Reproach not thyself any more," cried Alf, "and all shall yet be well."

"Yes, Stepan. Only help us, and thou shalt not regret it," pleaded Bert with tearful eyes.

"When our father comes to his own again," said Alf, "we will tell him how thou didst protect and befriend us, and he will gladly take thee back."

"But, my children, I know not what to do with you now, or whither to conduct you. I must see my brother, or at least hear something about him. My wife and children are with my old mother at St. Petersburg, so I have no care for them just now. But as for you, I cannot take you with me; what am I to do? To leave you here is to expose you to danger, for I trust not Gavril."

"Let me tell thee what I propose," said Alf. "I have a feeling that can we but get bank to our home, all will be well."

"Trying to get back is a great risk," replied Stepan, "but it is a choice of evils, and perhaps it is safer for you to be on the march homeward than alone with Gavril here."

"Of course I shall take Sharik," continued the boy. "He can easily carry us both, and perhaps he will find the way home, though I do not know it. He is such a clever little beast."

"There is plenty of food in the hut," said Stepan, "so you can fill your pockets, and you must also carry some oats for the pony."

So this course was decided upon, and the details were talked over and arranged before they went to bed.

But they had not had time to fall asleep when there came a loud knocking at the door, and the harsh voice of Gavril shouted, "Wake up there! Are you all dead? Open the door!"

Stepan, with a muttered exclamation, drew back the bolts. The boys were sitting up pale and trembling, despair in their hearts, for they had suddenly realised that their plan for flight was rendered utterly useless. Red-scar had returned earlier than he was expected, and now they would have to be left in his hands.

"Here I am," said he, "and you none of you look over and above pleased to see me. Well, I have no good news for thee, Stepan; quite the contrary. The factory and house are under guard, and Cossacks are patrolling round the whole place. Lots of our men are under arrest, but there is a report that the works are to start again in a week's time, and that new hands have been engaged."

"That means that dad's safe, Bert!" whispered Alf. "Oh, if we could but get there!"

"I hear that every hole and corner are being ransacked to find these brats," Gavril went on, "and a reward has been offered, but it is not enough. Another two days, and it will be doubled, and then I will think about taking these dear sweet children home."

Stepan did not reply, and Gavril said, "Well, now I have told my news, am I not to have any supper?"

For a moment Stepan appeared to take no notice; then, all at once, as though acting on a sudden impulse, he replied, "All right, I will make thee some coffee."

Gavril muttered a word or two of surly thanks, and went out to see to the horse, while Stepan set about making the coffee.

"Oh, Stepan," whispered Bert, "now Red-scar has come home there is no chance of our getting away."

"Be not down-hearted, my children," he said. "I think we will give Gavril the slip yet."

CHAPTER VI.

STEPAN would not suffer Alf and Bert to ask any questions; but they felt that he had a definite purpose and plan, and hope began to rise again in their poor little hearts. Quietly they lay in bed, watching him. They saw him put fresh wood on the fire, and water to boil. They saw him get the canister of coffee and measure out a liberal quantity.

And then they saw something else which set them wondering. Into a tiny saucepan containing only a little water, he emptied a small paper bag of faded-looking green things like round dried pods. He put a cover on the saucepan and set it to boil. Then when he had made the coffee, straining it through a bag, he poured through the bag also the decoction he had prepared in the small saucepan and mixed it with the coffee.

It was just ready, and the small saucepan rinsed out and put away, when Gavril came in.

"Make haste now and get thy supper," said Stepan. "Thou art keeping these children awake, and me too; thou hast forgotten that I must make an early start."

"This coffee of thine has a queer taste, Stepan," he said. "What hast thou done to it?"

"What should I do?" replied the other coolly. "Perhaps it was made in too much of a hurry. People who come in at midnight can hardly, in the backwoods, expect a hotel supper served."

"Yes, and there is condensed milk in it, so it is nourishing. Drink it up and lie down, and I will put out the light."

Gavril said no more. He ate his bread and cheese, and two salted cucumbers, and drank up the coffee to the last drop. Then, overcome with weariness, apparently, he rolled himself up in his sheepskin, lay down on the pile of straw in a corner, and was snoring loudly in a few minutes.

Stepan remained quite quiet for about a quarter of an hour, glancing at Gavril at intervals. At last, assured of his sound slumber, he went to and fro in the hut, collecting the things that would be required for the journey of the boys and himself. Bread, cheese, a small kettle and tin of tea, and a few lumps of sugar, an axe, and his own revolver. The food he divided into two portions, one for himself, one for the children, all but the parcel of tea and sugar, which he gave to them just as it was.

"You may get up now," he whispered to Alf and Bert, as his preparations neared completion; "get up and put on your furs; and you," he added to Alf, "see to the pony. No," he said, with a smile, as the lad's eyes turned with fear to the snoring Gavril; "you need have no misgiving. He will not wake for hours. I gave him a decoction of poppy-heads in his coffee, on purpose to quiet him, so that we could get away."

"Then why should we not take our own sledge and horse as well as the pony?" said Alf. "Gavril stole them from us; we shall but be taking back our own."

"Look here, dear Stepan," said Alf, clasping the man's rough brown hand in both of his. "Thou art so good to us, we cannot but love thee, and father will love thee too when we tell him all. Take thou the horse and sledge for thy journey, and then afterwards bring them back to the factory; and we, in our father's name, promise thee a welcome, and that all shall be forgotten save thy goodness to us. Sharik can easily carry my brother and me; and so we shall run away both with horse and pony, and Red-scar, if he chase us, must do it on his own splay feet. Say, Stepan, shall it not be so?"

More loud than ever was Gavril's snoring when the sledge glided noiselessly away over the snow through the wood, with Sharik trotting nimbly behind, making nothing of his double burden.

Until they reached the edge of the forest, their way lay in the same direction, but there the roads diverged.

"That is your route, my children," said Stepan, pointing across the snowy landscape, "and this is mine. Good-bye. God be with you."

With these words he was turning away, when both boys called out, "Wait one moment!"

And as he reined up, Alf guided the pony close to the sledge, and the lads threw their arms round the man's neck and kissed him.

"Nay, Stepan," said Alf, as the poor fellow gave a great sob, "thou must not weep. We shall (for God is so good) soon see thy face again. Look forward to a welcome from us who love thee."

But Stepan could make no answer. The tears were running down his cheeks as he drove away, looking back again and again, and waving his hand.

"And now, Sharik, I wonder if you have any sort of idea where our home lies?" said Alf. "Sit quite still, Bert, and we will see if he chooses any road for himself."

The boys sat motionless, having reined up the pony. Now Alf dropped the reins and waited.

After a full minute Shank turned his head with a look of inquiry, and Alf said very emphatically, "Home, Sharik! Find your way home, old boy! Maybe you know it; we don't."

The wise little animal threw up his head and sniffed the air. Then he snorted and struck off at a smart canter, along a road that led across a frozen marsh for miles and miles. And the moon looked down upon the little travellers, and the stars peeped at them. And the God and Father Whom they trusted was far above moon and stars, yet very near to them in His love and care.

"It can't be much more than twenty to twenty-five miles to the factory from here," said Alf, half turning in the saddle; for Bert was sitting behind him, both arms round his brother's waist, to keep himself on the pony's back.

"No, it can't be so very far," assented Bert, "for we came in little over two hours, when Red-scar drove us, and we did not run more than eleven miles an hour, for all his slashing."

"Still, it is a long way for Sharik, and with two of us on his back," rejoined All, "though I must say he doesn't seem to mind it a scrap, so far. But, of course, he may be tired after a while, and when he is, we must get off and give him a rest and a feed. But we must move on now as quickly as we can, for fear of pursuit."

"But," said Bert, "Red-scar has only his own legs on which to pursue us, and Sharik is going bravely; no man walking or running could possibly overtake him."

"No, and I felt pretty safe too, till just now," replied Alf. "But look at that deep snow we're coming to! The pony will have to go slowly, for he will sink in up to his knees."

"Well, yes, of course," rejoined Bert; "but then, if Red-scar came after us, would he not do the same?"

"No, he wouldn't; that's just it! I never thought of it till just this minute, but do you remember seeing two queer-looking things shaped like something between a sledge and a boat, and with thongs to them? They were hanging up in the corner of the log-house farthest away from the stove."

"Stepan told me they were snow-shoes, and when you have them on you can slip over the snow almost as though you were skating on ice. You don't sink in a scrap, and that's why the bear-hunters always use them. Because—if Mr. Bruin wakes up very cross out of his winter sleep, and a hunter happens to miss fire, and the bear chases him—he can get away easily on his snow-shoes, while old Bruin sinks up to his haunches in the drifts."

"But, Alf," said Bert, "you don't really believe that Red-scar could overtake Sharik, and get possession of us again, do you? It would be just too dreadful!"

"Yes, worse than anything I could think of," rejoined Alf. "But there, Bert dear, we won't look forward to such a thing and make ourselves miserable over it. After all, just think how We have been watched over and protected, in spite of dangers. And I have the same feeling now that I had when I rode to the town—that God is with us—close to us both; and that if we put our whole trust in Him, and just take the way that He opens up before us, all will be well."

CHAPTER VII.

"WHO could have thought," said Bert, "that Stepan would turn out our friend after all—and so good to us! That was God's doing, wasn't it?"

"But, oh, if only Stepan could have come with us, it would have been such a comfort," said Bert.

"Yes, but how could he, when he was so anxious about his brother? And he told me yesterday that some of the prisons in those small towns here in the interior of Russia are such dreadful holes that prisoners often die of cold and want and disease, and no one ever hears of them any more."

While the boys were talking, the pony was going steadily forward, picking his way carefully where the road was uneven and the snow frozen into rough ridges; but quickening his pace to a canter whenever the way was smooth enough.

But now—suddenly—he stopped short, his head turned to meet the wind, his nostrils evidently receiving a scent that startled and alarmed him.

The lads felt him stiffen and grow rigid under the saddle, and their hearts beat quick with fear.

Full of horror of what might be coming, they looked round, half-expecting to see Red-scar striding after them on his snow-shoes; but no human foe was in sight. They saw, however, against the white background, two or three black shadows skulking along at some little distance behind, and stopping when Sharik stopped. And in a moment the young riders understood what had thrilled their brave little steed with fear.

"Yes," replied Alf; "but not many of them yet; not enough to be dangerous. We may be able to get to some place where we can be safe before there are more of them. They haven't sounded their hunting-cry yet."

"Oh, Alf!" sighed poor Bert, "I never thought of such a thing as this! It's too dreadful."

"Go on, Sharik!" cried Alf, pressing his heels against the pony's fat sides. "You can gallop when you choose, and you, Bert, sit tight!"

In the distance, under the cold white moonlight, the lads could see before them the long dark line of a forest. Alf pointed to it.

And even as he spoke, the long-drawn howl, the rallying-call of the leader-wolf, rang out on the wind that came up behind them. It was the hunting-cry, and at the sound, Sharik galloped as he had never galloped before.

It is very unusual in these modern days, even in Russia, for wolves in any number to be found as near as this to a town. But the frost had come early, and the winter was very severe, so that the wild animals had approached the dwellings of man in search of food; and now this flying quarry of theirs seemed to them fair game.

Flying quarry, indeed! It appeared to the boys that they were not riding at all, but just hurtling through the air; such was their pony's speed, utterly unknown to them before, utterly unexpected now. But Sharik knew well enough that he was flying for his own life as well as for that of his young masters, and terror winged his small hoofs and carried them along at racing speed.

Now and then Alf or Bert looked back, and marked how the line of the pursuers lengthened, and, in spite of their pony's breakneck pace, the lads could not but realise that the hunters were gaining upon their quarry.

Also, after about twenty minutes of this tearing gallop, Sharik began to show signs of distress.

"He can't keep this up much longer," said Alf, "and we're some way still from the woods. We must pull up and let him get his breath."

"Let me think a moment!" muttered Alf. Then, after a silence, he turned his head and said: "Where's the kettle, Bert?"

"Can you manage with one hand to get it free? I'll turn and help to hold you on."

Bert dived his hand into a big back pocket of the fur coat, and pulled out a small ball of strong twine, which Alf always carried about with him.

CHAPTER VIII.

"I'M so buttoned up in this tight coat that I can't get at anything in my vest or trouser pockets. Have you a pocket-knife, Bert, or some copper coins, or metal things of any sort?" asked Alf, keeping the pony well in hand, and patting the shaggy neck, now bathed in sweat.

"Yes, I've my old knife, and some three and five copeck pieces; will that do?" questioned Bert.

"Never mind," rejoined the elder boy. "Now I'm going to pull Sharik up for a minute, and you must quickly tie this end of the string to the handle of the kettle, and mind and tie the right kind of knots."

There was a pause. The pony had stopped, panting heavily, his head drooping, his mouth all foam. The line of wolves—closer now—had stopped too, ears pricked inquiringly, tails out.

"Have you done it? Then give me the ball of string, and you hold on to my waist, for I'm going to start again. Don't bother about the kettle, let it drop behind, and I'll pay out a long line, and let the thing come bumping and clattering after us. It may puzzle the wolves, and make them afraid of catching us up, and so we shall perhaps gain time for Sharik to get his wind again."

Alf's good idea was at once acted upon, and as the bright tin kettle descended to the road, and came pounding and bumping along, clattering and ringing and jingling with the tumbling and shifting of its metal contents, the wolves began, with common consent, to lag behind.

For here, undoubtedly, they seemed to think, was a trap or snare of some weird and deadly nature, and they dared not pass it, but loped along some way behind, looking dejected and well-nigh despairing.

Seeing this, Alf suffered Sharik to go his own pace, and presently the good little steed got his wind again, and galloped on bravely.

Alf pulled up—no easy matter, for Sharik was going his best. Both boys shuddered, as a loud, hoarse cry of horror and fear came towards them on the following wind. It was the cry of some strong man in mortal peril and deadly terror, and as it rang out again and again on the frosty air, both the boys turned sick with sympathetic fear and a dreadful understanding of the truth.

For, strange to say, the long line of pursuing wolves had broken, and those that had been nearest to the young riders had turned, and were cantering back as though scenting another and an easier quarry.

As the lads waited, listening spellbound, two shots rang out sharply, followed by dismal howling and snarling. Then there was a pause and another shot, more yells, and one last despairing call for help that was not at hand.

The eyes of the two boys met, and the same thought flashed into the minds of each.

"Yes," said Alf, in a hushed, awe-struck voice, "it is, I truly believe, Gavril of the Red-scar. He had come after us on his snow-shoes, but God did not suffer him to overtake us. Oh, Bert, do you remember what dad was reading at prayers the other morning? The words of a bit of a verse have been haunting me ever since we started to-day. The enemy said, 'I will pursue,' but the enemy didn't overtake the Israelites, nor our enemy us. Now, Sharik, go on, and get us quickly to the wood."

The tardy light of the winter morning was just beginning to glimmer grey-white in the east as the young riders reached the wood which, for all the last part of their way, had been the goal of their hopes.

The road, such as it was, narrow and ill-defined, led through the heart of the forest; and—anxious to find some safe place where they could rest—the boys rode slowly along, eyeing with eager glances every little clearing for signs of a woodman's hut or peasant's cottage, or even a shed, so that it had walls and a roof.

For some time, however, nothing was to be seen but the thickly-growing, snow-clad pines and firs. But at last Bert's quick eyes spied out among a mass of saplings a small building, made apparently of split pine logs, the round side turned outwards.

Nothing could well have been poorer in the way of a house, nothing more uninviting. Yet never was the sight of a king's palace so welcome to anyone as this hovel to our tired young travellers, for at least it promised safety and a place where they could lie down and sleep off some of their great weariness.

The door was fast closed, but there were sounds within, and they could see a light through the little bottle-glass window. Leading the pony, the boys stopped at the door and knocked.

"Go not to the door, Sonia, open it not!" cried a man's voice within. "Who knows but it may be the police?"

"Nay," replied a woman's sweet tones, "the police will not come hither. Have no fears, my dear. I will see who knocks."

"Who are you, my children, and what do you alone in the heart of the forest at this early hour?" she said gently.

And her face was so kind and true, and her voice so sweet, that Alf at once resolved to tell her all and enlist her sympathies.

"Wilt thou, in thy goodness of heart," he said, "suffer us children to enter your cottage, and sleep for an hour or two in some corner? We are chilled to the bone and spent with weariness, for we have ridden for hours in the bitter cold, and been chased by wolves, so that it is only of God's mercy that we have come through at all. But we will tell thee our whole story if we may but come in."

CHAPTER IX.

"ENTER in God's name, my poor little doves," said the woman. "And thou, my husband, make room by the fire for our frozen visitors! Hearest thou, sleepy one? These children are ice-cold, and thou halt been roasting this hour or more and now art done to a turn." And she laughed softly.

Bert crossed the threshold and entered the hut, but Alf still stood outside, his arm through Sharik's rein.

"Good dame," said he, "what shall I do with my pony? He has carried us both so bravely, and now is even more spent and weary than we are ourselves. We have food for him and also for us, so we need not to be chargeable to thee and thy husband. Only let us rest a while, and have some boiling water for our tea, and to make a mash for Sharik, and at noon we go forward again to the big oil zavot."

"Seest thou not, oh, my husband," said the woman, "that thou art keeping the young gentleman outside—him and his horse? Come in, young sir, and since we have no stable or other shelter than this, let the pony enter with you. He is not vicious, I suppose?"

"Lie down, Sharik!" said Alf, laying one hand on his mane and the other gently on his stout little knees, which were trembling now with fatigue and fear. The pony put his face up to Alf's, and rubbed his velvet nose against the boy's cheek; then, obediently, he bent his knees and lay down contentedly in a corner.

"There, kind soul, thou seest what sort of a pet he is! Our fitter and friend, Stepan, says that Sharik is like a human being for sense, and like an angel for temper."

"Your fitter and friend, Stepan, young gentlemen?" exclaimed the man, who had hitherto kept his face away from the light, and had stolen only a glance or two at the young visitors.

"Yes, knowest thou him?" cried Alf. "We thought him at first our enemy, like Anton and Gavril of the Red-scar; but afterwards, he proved himself our friend."

"Yes," put in Bert, "and he would fain have come homeward with us, but that he felt he must go and seek his brother in prison, and see how he fared."

At this the man sprang to his feet in uncontrollable agitation, and faced the children in the light of the lamp.

Both Alf and Bert uttered an exclamation of amazement, and then stood staring at him for a minute, unable to say a word.

At last Alf cried out joyfully: "By all that is wonderful—thou must be—thou art—that very brother of Stepan's whom he went to see! Yes—I remember thee well! Thou art Pamphil!"

"It was like this, young sir," said Sonia. "I had a cousin, a warder in the prison, and he had pity on my husband. We had only been married a week when he was put in gaol, and for something he did not do."

"No; another made the murderous assault, but being fleet of foot, he escaped. My husband had been drinking, and did not know what was going on, and so was arrested for the other man's fault, because he was the only one present. There was no proper trial; perhaps there never would have been. Well—my cousin Vassia was a warder, and he bribed Pamphil's warder with my gold cross (which had been in our family for eighty years) to let my husband escape. Pamphil came straight here to me.

"My father is a woodman, and this is his hut where he sleeps when he is wood-cutting. Here we are safe. And now and then, I go to our village for flour, and salt, and butter and tea, and Pamphil sometimes snares a hare or shoots a bird, and so we manage to live. And I am happy, because he has given up the drink, and says he will never take any again."

"That is true, Sonia, but with all this talk we are keeping our guests from their refreshment and from the sleep they so much need."

It was almost sunset of a brilliant winter's afternoon, and the boys and Sharik were still asleep. For though Alf had thought to start for home at noon, Sonia found him and Bert sleeping so soundly that she had not the heart to wake them.

And she had just gone to the door to look out for a moment, when a one-horse sledge, with a man in it, drew up before the hut. Sonia gave a cry of joy, and opened the door wide.

"Come here, Pamphil!" she said, hushing her voice to a whisper, remembering the children.

Pamphil reached the doorway just as the man had got out of the sledge, and they met on the threshold.

And then the two brothers fell on each other's necks, and kissed in true Russian fashion.

"I went to the prison," said Stepan. "And there I saw Sonia's cousin, who told me of thine escape. And of course I knew that thou must hide for a time, and yet wouldest wish to be with thy wife."

CHAPTER X.

"SO, then," continued Stepan, "having driven this way before on business for the factory, I remembered thy father's hut, Sonia, and thought I would call here, on the chance of finding thee, and also to ask if thou knowest anything of the two little gentlemen who started from a hut ten miles or more from here on the homeward journey. I am terribly anxious about them, for on the way here to-day I came upon the remains of a man who had been devoured by wolves. Fresh snow had fallen, so that very little remained uncovered, but it made me feel doubly uneasy. I did not know that wolves came here to these parts in any numbers; but it must be the early and severe winter that has brought them."

"Since thou art so anxious, brother, come and look here," said Sonia, and she pointed to the farthest corner of the room, where, on a bed of straw, lay Sharik the pony, and Alf and Bert with their heads pillowed on his back—all fast asleep.

"Now God be praised for all His mercies!" exclaimed Stepan, taking off his cap and crossing himself. "This is joy indeed!"

By this time, the sound of the eager voices had penetrated even into dreamland, and the boys sat up, rubbing their eyes.

Then both lads, crying and laughing at once, threw their arms round the man's neck, and tears of gladness and thankfulness ran down his cheeks as he held them in a close embrace.

Sonia now set to work to prepare tea for the travellers, and the horse, harnessed to the sledge, was warmly covered over, and made quite happy with a full nose-bag, while Sharik was fed and petted to his heart's content. Half an hour later, Stepan and the boys were on their way homeward in the sledge, the pony trotting merrily behind, and neighing for joy, every now and then, to his friend in the shafts.

It was quite dark when the sledge stopped inside the great yard at the house door. Work in the factory seemed to be in full swing, fires everywhere, and the electric light streaming forth.

"Drive round to the stable-yard, Stepan," said Alf, "while we go in and see if we can find anybody."

So saying, the boys passed through the big swing doors into the warm hall. The office doors on either side of the hall were locked, for it was Saturday, and the clerks had gone home.

Upstairs they went, and paused on the first landing by the open door of their parents' room. As they did so, they heard nurse's voice, and stayed to listen.

"Dear Barina," she said, "no wonder this suspense is making you ill, but, I beg you, do not despair. I seem to feel it here in my heart that our dear children are safe, and that our prayers will be answered."

"Thy master is away searching for them himself, Niania," said the sad, feeble voice of Mrs. Oliver, "but so far he—"

At that moment, the boys stepped from behind the screen that was round the door, and mother and children were re-united.

And now, what remains to tell can be told in a few words: Mr. Oliver came home late that night, only to find his sons safely there before him.

How Stepan's repentance, and his kindness to the children, led to his being restored to his place in the factory; how, after a while, Pamphil too returned, having become steady and reliable; how Anton Griboff, owing to the injury to his head, went mad and died in a lunatic asylum—all this needs no further telling. Enough that trials and dangers through which Alf and Bert Oliver had passed had deepened their characters and strengthened their faith in God.

And later on, even when they were sent to school in England, they never forgot their Russian adventures, or that they had once been, in deed and in truth, in peril in Tsarland.

CHAPTER I.

"CHILDREN, don't quarrel!" said Mr. Ellis, lifting his eyes from the old manuscript he was examining.

"Be a nice, kind daddy," pleaded Dina, "and tell us a story just for once, won't you? The rain is pouring down; we can't go out; Miss Goodlett hasn't come back yet from town, and if we stay in with no one to look after us, we shall quarrel again. Do, daddy!"

"Nonsense, children! Can't you see I'm busy? How selfish young folks are, and how tiresome!"

Mr. Ellis spoke crossly, as he too often did, and Dina replied drearily, "Are they? Then I wish we'd been born a hundred years old! You'd have been proud of us then, daddy, and would always have been inviting people to come and see your antique twins."

"Other children's daddies play with them and tell them stories on wet days," said Gerry, in an injured tone, as he drew his sister out of the room. "Oh, Dina, if only mamma were here!"

"Yes, wouldn't it be lovely! But her chest is not well enough for her to come home yet."

"Nurse was talking to cook yesterday," remarked Gerald, "and I overheard what was said. She told her that it was enough to make anyone's lungs bad to live in a damp house, with no end of old bones and parchments and specimens about; and that if mamma was sensible, she'd stay where she was rather than be 'turned into a mummy afore her time.'"

"Oh, she said that nothing would please her more than to pile up all dad's most precious treasures in the fireplace under the copper, set them alight, and boil the clothes with them. For then, she said, they'd have been of some use in the world, and 'be cleared away decent afterwards as ashes into the dustbin.'"

Both children laughed at this, then, running to the window, they discovered that the weather had improved.

"Look!" cried Gerald. "It's clearing up. Let's go and sail our boats in the round pond."

So the twins took their boats and were soon in the home field, which belonged to an old farmer near. Some cattle were grazing here, and Gerry said, "You're farther sighted than I am, Dina; look if you can see Farmer Donn's bull anywhere about. Somebody said he wasn't safe now."

"He's nowhere that I can see," replied the little girl; "I think it's all right."

And the children went on to the round pond which was in the centre of the meadow. Here they found that the bank near the water was very muddy and slippery, trodden into puddles too by the feet of the cattle, and Dina began to pull off her shoes and stockings.

"Well, as you're doing that I need not," said Gerald; "I hate making myself in a mess. You can go down the bank just as well by yourself, and launch both the boats, and give me the string of mine while I stay up on the grass."

Geraldine assented to this. She was too well accustomed to her brother's selfishness to take much notice unless he was unkind as well. So now she stepped, with little bare white feet, into the spongy mud, handed Gerald the string of his boat, and presently both children had forgotten everything but their small boats.

They both started and glanced round, and there was Farmer Donn's great black bull rushing towards them across the grass. He had torn up the paling of the smaller field in which he had been shut up, and thus gained an entrance into the home meadow.

Running at full speed after the bull, and brandishing a pitchfork, came Farmer Donn's cattle-man, and while he ran, he shouted, "Run, children! Run! Run for your lives!"

And, knowing that they were running for their lives, away went the twins, like leaves driven by a gale; away, as with winged feet, towards the gate, while thundering after them and gaining at every stride, galloped Nero, Farmer Donn's fierce black bull.

"It's no good!" gasped Gerald after a minute or two of hard running. "I can't keep this up. I'm just done."

Geraldine snatched at his hand. She was both stronger and fleeter than her brother, and her little bare feet trod lightly and swiftly over the wet grass.

"Hold up another minute, Gerry!" she panted. "We'll be at the gate by that time." But as she spoke, she glanced over her shoulder, and shuddered to see that the bull was close behind—almost upon them.

Then a sudden thought flashed into that active little brain. She would save her twin brother, her poor Gerry, and if she died in doing it—well, it did not so very much matter, save to her mother—and she was far away. To everyone else she was a plague, a bother, the wrong twin, while Gerald was the pet of all.

This, that takes a minute in the telling, flashed through the child's mind in a second, and she had made her plan.

Just in front of them was a clump of trees. Geraldine dragged her brother to the far side of this clump, and pushed him down so that he lay with one of the trunks of the trees between him and the bull.

"Lie still, Gerry!" she cried. Then out of the tree clump she dashed, not twenty yards from the bull, and before he could turn in his tracks, began to race back towards Joe Gerson, Farmer Donn's cattle-man.

With a snort of rage, Nero paused for a moment, head erect, tail straight out. Once he glanced towards the clump of trees, then back towards the fluttering pink skirt and twinkling feet of the flying child. Then he made up his mind to follow her, and turning, resumed his mad gallop, never seeing, in his headlong, blind rage, that Joe was waiting for him. And the first thing that he knew was a very painful sensation caused by the prongs of the pitchfork—which brought him suddenly to a full stop and gave him something else to think of besides the little light form he had been chasing like the great cowardly bully that he was.

Joe was quickly joined by some stablemen and haymakers, and when a strong cord had been passed through the ring in the great brute's nose, and was held on either side by a man brandishing a hayfork, Nero felt that he had no further chance of making himself famous, and submitted sullenly to being led home and shut up in an outhouse.

CHAPTER II.

AS for Geraldine, when the bull met Joe, and she heard the bellow of pain that showed he had encountered his match, the child had dropped senseless upon the grass. There she lay, while Gerald meanwhile had picked himself up and, none the worse for his hard run, had found his way home. The little girl was still there when Joe came back to look after her, after securing his unruly charge.

"Was there ever such an unselfish, plucky, clever little lady!" said the kind old fellow to himself as he lifted the child tenderly, thankful to see in the small white face signs of returning consciousness.

Slowly the fluttering eyelids lifted, and a look of intelligence dawned in the great dark eyes. Then her lips moved.

"Thank you, Joe," she whispered. "Is Gerry safe?" And she gazed eagerly up in the man's face.

"Which if Gerry means the young gent as was with you, miss, he's safe as eggs," replied Joe. "He have gone home; I see him just in front of the paddock as I were comin' back to find you, which I think he might have come hisself to see where you was, more partic'lar as you'd just done the cleverest, neatest, bravest dodge, and took all the danger on yourself to save him. I could see what you was after, only I couldn't get up sooner to help you. But you was good and brave, little lady, and so I'd say if it was my last words."

"I don't think I deserve all that," said Dina, slipping from the man's arms to the ground, and walking by his side. "You see, Gerry's my twin brother, and I love him."

This came back to Dina's mind after she had gone to bed in the little room next to Gerald's, and, realising how true it was, she broke into bitter sobbing and crying. "I saved him, yet he never thought of me afterwards! No one loves me!" And faster came the tears, and deeper the sobs.

Suddenly she heard a whisper in the darkness, and a cool, smooth cheek touched her face.

"Don't, Twinnie darling—don't cry!" said Gerry's voice. "Somehow I never really understood till just now what you'd done for me, not till I was thinking it all over in bed; and I know I'm wicked sometimes, dear, but I do love you, Twinnie, I do!"

So Geraldine was comforted and fell asleep, and dreamed that she was once more in some deadly peril, and was rescued by One whom she somehow knew to be the Lord Jesus Christ. And yet she had never thanked Him, or remembered Him, or loved Him, though she had known that His life had been given for hers.

"I thought Gerry was very cruel when he seemed to have forgotten me," said the child to herself on waking from her vivid dream. "I wonder—oh, I wonder what Jesus thinks of me!"

Only for a day or two after the adventure with the bull were things in the house more peaceable. Then—all about nothing—came a great upset.

Mr. Ellis, when he heard of Geraldine's courage (which he did from Joe's master) called the children into his study, and was pleased to express himself as gratified, adding that he hoped his daughter was taking after his family and ancestors, who had always been remarkable for presence of mind.

"But what are you giggling at, children?" he asked, half offended, as the twins burst out into peals of laughter, after a glance and nudge at each other.

"Only a riddle, dad," replied Gerald, "and an old one, but not bad. Dina and I both thought of it when you said presence of mind."

"The question is, 'What is better than presence of mind in an accident?'" said Dina.

"How silly!" commented Mr. Ellis. "Nothing can be better," and his face maintained an unchanged gravity, though the children's eyes were dancing with merriment.

"All right, dad!" said Gerald. "The answer to 'What is better than presence of mind?' is simply 'Absence of body.'"

"Yes, dad," added Geraldine, "and we were thinking that if those family portraits of the ever-so-old Ellis folks were at all like the real people, it's rather a good thing that we haven't got their presence of mind and body here now."

Mr. Ellis suddenly looked up with real displeasure. He was absurdly proud of his family, and resented, even from his children, anything that seemed like a slight to his ancestors.

"This is quite unbearable," he said, rising from his seat. "I see I have been over-indulgent to you, and you take advantage. I am seriously displeased at your want of respect in speaking of those whose portraits you see in the dining-room. Go upstairs—both of you—and consider yourselves in disgrace for the rest of the day."

CHAPTER III.

THE twins eyed each other in consternation. Peevish fault-finding by their father was common enough, and they had grown quite used to it, but punishment was a thing well-nigh unheard of, and they had made the sudden discovery that any fault they might commit, any scrape into which they might fall, all counted for nothing. The only fault that was past forgiveness was a laughing word against this hobby of his, and what he deemed the honour of his house.

The children said not a word in protest. Out of the room they went instantly, Gerald glaring angrily over his shoulder at his father, Geraldine with her little dark head held very high, and her small nose tilted.

Up they went to their own bedrooms, but kept the door open between, so as to talk freely.

"Now then, what do you think of that, Dina?" exclaimed Gerald, standing in the doorway.

"Think of it? Why, of course it's unjust. We'd done and said nothing naughty a bit, and anyway it was only a joke, and couldn't hurt any old ancestors."

"Of course not," rejoined Gerald, "and I, for one, am not going to stand being punished when I don't deserve it."

Gerald went on. "Let's run away for the whole day, and don't come home till we've given him a jolly good fright."

There was a pause of a few seconds, then Geraldine's quaint little face lighted up.

Now the twins' box was an old money-box, given them when they were quite tiny children. Their nurse taught them to save their pennies and put them into the slot in the lid. And later on, when relatives or friends, or on rare occasions their father, gave them a Christmas or birthday tip, these coins, too, were duly put, from force of habit, into the faithful old box. So, year after year, the money was dropped in and was forgotten.

"I meant to put this half-crown in the other day when mother sent it for our birthday," said Gerald, "but I changed my clothes in a hurry, and left it in my jacket pocket."

"Rather!" replied Gerald with assurance. "But what have you got in your head, Dina?"

"Gerry," replied the child, "for ever so long I've had such a big want just here—" and she laid a small brown hand on her heart—"to see mother and ask and tell her all sorts of things. We've done without her too long, and things at home will be going wronger and wronger now we've fallen out with dad. She can't come to us; she isn't well enough, but, Gerry, why shouldn't—"

"Oh, I see, Twinnie!" cried Gerald. "I see! You want awfully to see mother, and so do I; and you think we had better run away."

The next morning found the twins with their plans made. Indeed they had been chattering half the night making their final arrangements. The money-box was opened, and, much to the children's delight, the contents proved to be about five pounds, in coins varying in value from a rare half-sovereign to a frequent halfpenny.

From an early tip-toe visit to Mr. Ellis's study, while the rest of the household was asleep, Gerald and Dina brought upstairs the big atlas where even small towns were easy to find, and the twins soon found on the map the place by the sea where their mother had for some time been staying. Then they put down on a slip of paper the names of all the towns in the direct line of travel between their home and the town for which they were bound.

"There," said Gerald, "that will be a guide to us. When we are able to walk, we will do so and save our money, and when we are tired, we can go by train or tramcar, if we can get one. I heard dad say the other day that it was only about a hundred and fifty miles, as the crow flies."

"At night," said Gerald, "we shall have to sleep at inns or farmhouses, and buy food next morning to go on with."

"Yes, that's the way the children in the story-books do," replied Dina, with a comfortable sense of following good example.

"There's still one thing we've got to do before we go," said Gerald. "We must write a letter to dad. They always do, you know."

"Oh, yes, always," assented Geraldine out of her large experience; "and in the letter let's tell him why we're going, and where."

"We will," rejoined Gerald. "I'll do the writing—shall I?—because my hand's better than yours. Here goes then!"

"'Dad, youve hert our feelings dreffuly by punnishing us for nuthing we did rong for the saik of our nasty mussty old ansestars, so we're not goeing to remane to be bulied, but we're off to Mother who isn't ungust and unkinde. Dont come after us for we will never be taken alive.

"(Signed) THE TWINS."

CHAPTER IV.

SO the twins' letter was folded and addressed to their father, and left on the hall table.

The night before, they had packed a few clothes in a black bag taken from the box-room, and, now quite ready for their journey, they went down to breakfast.

Their father did not breakfast with them, but had his meal brought to him upstairs, so they could freely discuss their plans. They were just rising from the table when there came a double knock at the front door, and the parlour-maid took in a telegram and carried it up to Mr. Ellis. The twins went on with their chatter, debating where to leave the letter they had written to their father.

Suddenly Mr. Ellis's bell rang loudly, once, twice, thrice; and before it could be answered, he came out in his dressing-gown on to the stairs.

"Is the boy waiting? Let him take this reply!" he called in a hoarse, strained voice. "And tell Jack to harness the mare at once. I want the dog-cart to take me to the station and catch the next train."

But before his sister could answer, their father's voice was heard calling them. Such a strange, broken voice, too—so different from his usual querulous, peevish, high-pitched tones.

They ran up, and he met them, and they saw his face was white and drawn and full of pain.

"Oh, dad!" cried Dina, clasping her little hands together. "Nothing wrong with mother?"

"Geraldine—Gerald—my poor little twins," said the father, for once shaken out of his selfishness, "you have no mother. Your mother died last night."

"O God! God!" moaned Dina, as she crept upstairs and throw herself down upon her bed. "I wanted so to go to mother, and You've taken her away. Please let me go to her where she is! Oh, please God, do take me too!"

The last sad rites had been over for about a month, and the dreary home had settled back into its usual dull routine.

Mr. Ellis had now gone back to his musty parchments, his ancient curiosities, his old coins and antique gems; and the twins saw no more of him than they had done before their mother's death.

Their governess had been out of health during her summer holidays, and had been unable to return to them; their father's half-hearted attempt to secure another had hitherto met with no result. So the children wandered aimlessly about the house, grounds and neighbourhood, Gerald very often vexed at his sister's listlessness and want of zeal in their games and other occupations.

One day he missed her, in the afternoon, and found her at last in one of the spare rooms which went by the name of Brother Bob's room.

On the wall of this room there hung a life-size oil-painting of a handsome youth some fourteen years of age, whom the twins knew as Brother Bob. There had always been something of a mystery about Brother Bob, and Gerald and Dina had never seen him, and only knew him by his picture. All they could learn about him from their old nurse (who had returned to them since the death of Mrs. Ellis) was that Bob was a son of Mr. Ellis by a former marriage, and was a mere infant when his mother died.

His father had sent him to be brought up by an elder sister of his own, who had spoilt the boy by over-indulgence, so that he had grown up disobedient, self-willed and headstrong.

Nurse had seen the lad several times years ago, and she still kept a soft spot in her heart for the poor, naughty scapegrace. Dina soon found this out and shared it, and often she betook herself to this room (which had been his when he stayed with his father during school holidays), and remained there studying the bright, frank young face, so full of spirit and promise—and wished she had a big grown-up brother.

Once, indeed, she had gathered up her courage and asked her father where Brother Bob was, and why he did not come to see them; but Mr. Ellis had turned upon her angrily and forbidden her ever again to mention Bob's name.

"Ah, well-a-day, Miss Dina, my darlin'! If his own father won't hear him spoke of, sure the master knows somethin' as we don't, and I fear me the poor lad has gone to the bad."

What the exact meaning of the phrase "gone to the bad" might mean, the twins, even after heated discussion, could not agree, but the cloud of mystery that overhung it seemed to make much worse any meaning it might have.

"Why are you mooning in front of that picture?" said Gerald. "I want you to come out with me. The nuts are ripe now in Hazel Copse, and if we don't pick them, the village children will. Come along."

And with a lingering look at the picture, Dina turned and went with her brother.

Together they explored the nut wood, filling their baskets and chatting the while. Thus the afternoon passed, and the autumn twilight began to close in.

CHAPTER V.

"IT'S getting damp and cold," said Gerald at last; "we must be going home." And hand-in-hand the twins wended homeward.

A short stretch of road came between the wood and the shrubbery that surrounded their house, and they had left the road and just entered the shrubbery gate, when they saw, a little way in front of them, the tall figure of a young man walking at a good pace towards the house.

Suddenly the young fellow, perhaps hearing voices or footsteps behind him, turned his head, saw the children following, and stayed waiting till they came up.

"What do you want? This is not the visitors' way," said Gerald, rather rudely, staring at the tall upright figure in the semi-darkness.

"I know," replied the young man; "I am not a visitor. I was going round to the servants' entrance. Perhaps you will kindly tell me," (and he turned to Dina, who had not yet spoken), "if the old nurse who used to live in Mr. Ellis's family is still there."

"I did—I do," replied the stranger, with a smile which set the child's heart beating fast; "I wanted to ask her a question."

"Thank you; I only wished to ask whether Robert Ellis's room had been allowed to remain as he left it, or if it had been turned out and altered."

"Oh!" cried Dina, "We know all about that. Dear mother would never—right from the first—have a thing touched. The room was kept clean and had a fire in it sometimes, but everything is the same as it used to be—even the dear beautiful Brother Bob picture on the wall."

A queer sound came from the stranger's lips. Then in a choked voice he said, "Some papers left in the room are wanted, and I thought perhaps nurse would get them for me—to—give to Robert Ellis."

But just here Dina, who had been gazing intently into the stranger's face, gave a joyful cry.

"Oh, Gerry! Don't you see? It's Brother Bob himself—I know it is! Oh, Brother Bob, you can't think how I've wanted you! Come home with us!" And Dina caught hold of his hand.

"Why?" asked Dina. "Is it because you went to the bad?" An odd sort of smile, half comical, half sad, curled the handsome lips as he nodded assent.

"Well," put in Gerald, "wherever you went, you're not there now, for you're here with us—your step-brother and sister—so come along. You shall see nurse and your old room, and maybe dad, but I won't answer for him, because no one can, you know."

The interview between Bob Ellis and nurse, and the young man's visit to his own room, were managed easily enough. The other servants were at tea downstairs, out of sight and hearing, and Mr. Ellis was, as usual, in his study, which was on the first floor and facing the opposite side of the house.

When Bob and nurse came down, they found the twins waiting for them at the foot of the stairs.

"Yes, I saw my picture too. And now," added Bob, "I must be off. It will hardly do for father to catch me here."

"I should think he'd be glad to see you again after this long time!" said Dina. "And if he asked you to come home to live, you would, wouldn't you?"

Bob looked down into the earnest little face uplifted towards him, and said gently, "Well, dear, perhaps, if he really wished it."

CHAPTER VI.

The watchers down below heard an exclamation of impatience, and then the peevish voice, "Those tiresome brats again!"

"Well, child, and what now?" said the father, putting down a magnifying glass with which he was examining an old silver amulet.

"Please, dad," said the boy, "Brother Bob's here, and he's quite come back from the bad—you know—where he went, and Dina and I and nurse want him to come home for good. He won't give you any trouble," went on Gerald, "and he won't meddle with any of your treasures, and I shouldn't wonder if he'd teach us twins, and save you the expense of a governess, so you'd have more money to spend on—" here Gerald looked round the room—"well, on the nasty things you like."

It was not a very happy finish to his sentence, but it struck him that, happy or not, Mr. Ellis did not hear it. At the mention of Bob's name, he had risen from his seat, his face full of anger.

"Bob here?" he exclaimed. "How dare he? Tell him—no—I'll see him myself! Go down, Gerald!"

And as the boy went, Mr. Ellis came to the top of the stairs, and called in a cold, hard voice, "Robert, come up here."

Bob said nothing; his face wore a strange mingling of expressions as he went upstairs.

"You did, sir, and I had no intention of intruding upon you. All I came for was some old letters of my mother's and grandmother's, and a few trifles which had been theirs. I meant to see nurse and ask for these, but I met the children, and they would not be content unless I waited to see you."

"I was, sir," rejoined the young man in a voice trembling with emotion. "And after all, am I not your son?"

"Since you refer to the prodigal, sir," said Bob "might I venture to remind you how the father in the parable received his repentant son?"

"I object to Scripture being dragged into every day life," said Mr. Ellis. "Still, as you are here, I'll hear what you have to say. No one shall call me unjust or unfair." And he drew himself up with a gesture and half-smile of self-righteousness that might well have been those of the proud Pharisee in the parable when, standing and praying with himself, he said, "Lord, I thank Thee that I am not as other men are."

"Thank you, sir," said Bob. "I've only to tell you that I'm sorry for the past; I know I've behaved badly; but I'd be glad to give up my companions and my shady means of living, if I might come home."

"I dare say you would," replied Mr. Ellis; "they all say that, and I can't trust you. No—as you made your bed, you must lie on it. It would be robbing myself and the rest if I took you back."

"One moment, father. Hear me out before you send me back to the old sins and sorrows again. I want to be different from what I've been. I want to earn an honest living. Give me a chance! Oh, father, for God's sake, for my poor soul's sake, give me just one chance. Let me come home?"

The passionate entreaty of the young voice touched, to some extent, even the hard heart of Mr. Ellis, but the momentary feeling was instantly swallowed up by the pride and selfishness which were making him the meanest of men.

"I owe it to myself," said he coldly, "not to turn my house into a reformatory, and I cannot, therefore, receive you here. I give you this five-pound note, which you will please to regard as a farewell present, and under no pretext are you to come here again."

"Then there's nothing for me but to go—to the bad!" cried the young man despairingly.

"Really," replied Mr. Ellis, "things being as they are, that's your affair, not mine."

"Don't stop me, children! It's all up with me!" he sobbed, as the twins clung to his arm. "I'm a poor outcast, whom no one loves. I'm going to the bad again."

Throwing off the little clinging hands, while great tears ran down his pale cheeks, he opened the hall door and sprang out.

He was already in the dark of the shrubbery path, when he felt a little, soft, warm hand steal into his own, and Dina's voice whispered, "You mustn't think nobody loves you, Brother Bob; I love you ever so much; and I'm going to pray to God for you every day, just as I used for dear mother. Won't you kiss me, please?"

Brother Bob stooped and kissed his little sister, and tried to speak, but could not—and so passed on alone into the night.

CHAPTER VII.

"DINA, she's come! She's come! I haven't seen her, but I saw the carriage and the luggage."

"So we've got a governess at last!" remarked Dina. "I'd forgotten she was coming to-day."

"Let's have our guessing game as to what she'll be like," said Gerald, "and see which of us gets nearest to the truth."

"All right!" rejoined Dina. "I guess that she is very tall, dark, rather bony, and wears a big comb in her back hair, and not much hair to put the comb in. Oh, yes, and blue goggles!"

"What a beauty!" he said. "Now I guess she's fair, red hair perhaps, and very much poodled—you know what I mean—curled and frizzed and fussed. She's a sort of pretty, make-believe, doll-de-doll-doll governess."

Dina laughed in her turn. "I don't like your guess any better than I do mine," she said.

Indeed so far away from the truth were the guesses of both that, when the new governess came down to tea, the twins could only stare.

And Mr. Ellis, who had joined them at tea in honour of the new arrival, said sharply, "Well, children, where are your manners? Have you no welcome for Miss Burnard?"

"It is natural they should feel a little shy of a stranger just at first," said she pleasantly, with a bright smile; "but I hope we may be very good friends soon. Do you know, my dears, I have always wished to have twins to teach; I think twins are so very interesting."

"No, thank you," laughed Miss Burnard, "I am not going to ask anyone. I mean to judge for myself. But I love children so dearly that to me they are always interesting."

After tea the twins went out again, while the governess unpacked her boxes, and settled comfortably into her own room.

"I say, Dina," said Gerald, "she's not a bit like your guess of the grenadier party with the comb."

"And yet she is," replied Dina with assurance. "Her smile is ever so sweet, and her big grey eyes are lovely; and then she has such a quantity of brown hair, with just little gleams of white as if they had been sprinkled in with a sugar-sifter. And she's tall and graceful, like darling mother." And the child's voice broke, and her eyes filled with tears.

"Dad's not often nice to anyone," said Gerald after a brief pause; "but he was to her. If he'd been half as good to Brother Bob, he'd have been here now."

"Poor dear Brother Bob!" sighed Dina. "There's nothing now to keep him from going to the bad," and the little girl turned away sad at heart, and wandered off alone, brooding over the sorrow which had already come into her young life.

The next day the children had lessons all the morning, at which Miss Burnard showed herself an interesting teacher. In the afternoon the twins took her all over the queer old house.

"For you must see for yourself what a musty old curiosity shop it is, Miss Burnard," said Gerald.

"Yes," added Dina, "dad cares for nothing much younger than Noah's ark, and that's why he never cared much about his children, though he's only had three—Brother Bob and us twins."

"Come along, Miss Burnard," said Gerald, "come and see the only beautiful things in all dad's collection." And he led the way to the gem cabinet in the drawing-room.

"You are right, my dear boy," said the governess, when the twins had done the honours of the cabinet; "these things are indeed beautiful, and they must be valuable too."

"I shouldn't wonder," replied Gerald discontentedly. "I wish dad would sell the lot and buy us ponies to ride, but he's the sort of dad who only thinks of himself."

"I hope—oh, I do hope you are not the sort of boy who often speaks of his father like that," was the gentle rejoinder, and Gerald could not resent it, for her smile was so sweet, and the pressure of her hand on his arm had in it an attractive force that drew the boy to her in spite of himself.

Dina was wakeful that night, long after the rest of the household was asleep; and it might have been between twelve and one o'clock when she heard a curious rasping noise, which seemed to come from the ground floor, on the same side as her own room. With a heart beating fast, and eyes staring into the darkness, the child sat up to listen.

Yes—it was not fancy; the subdued sound kept on, and Dina at once jumped to conclusions.

"We're going to be burgled," said she to herself. "Somebody's trying to get in at the drawing-room window after the gems. What had I better do?"

"Gerry, wake up! It's burglars. Oh, do stop snoring and wake up! Burglars! Burglars!"

The frightened whisper at last reached the boy's drowsy brain. He started up and jumped out of bed.

"Let's go and see what's up!" he said; and shoving his feet into slippers, he flung his dressing-gown about him, and opening his door came out on the landing, Dina, behind him. Here the rasping noise came less softly to their ears, and Gerald said, "They're filing the catch of the drawing-room window. It's the gems they're after."

Suddenly—and before the twins had made up their mind how to act—the noise ceased and a window was gently opened.

"Yes, of course he must know," replied Dina; "I'll go with you as far as his landing."

Mr. Ellis was a little deaf, and took some waking; and Dina, leaving her brother to this, and possessed by a strange mingling of curiosity and dread, crept noiselessly downstairs in the dark, till she stood by the drawing-room door, which was ajar.

Holding her breath, she leaned forward and peeped in, and saw, by the light of a lantern which shone full into the gem cabinet, the dark outline of a man's form in a crouching position. His hands alone were in the clear light of the lantern as they quickly and deftly collected the treasures from the shelves, and slipped them into a bag that lay on the floor. The face of the man was in deep shadow, and not a feature was visible.

But Dina had seen something which appalled her more than a dozen savage ruffians could have done. By that light she recognised those handsome hands, with their long deft fingers, and the plain broad wedding-ring on the little finger, kept as a precious possession through years of hardship and want, for the dead mother's sake. For one moment the child stood in the doorway, rigid with horror; then she darted into the room, and as the burglar looked up, startled, Dina fell forward into his arms.

"How could you? Oh, how could you?" she sobbed. "You that we love so!" and the childish voice was thrilling in its agony of sorrow and reproach. The man's bosom heaved convulsively, and the bag of gems lay unheeded on the floor as he clasped the poor little wrong twin to his heart.

"I was starving, Dina, starving. Do you know what hunger means? And hadn't I a right to something in this house? And if my right was denied, I must help myself."

"Hark!" whispered Dina. "There's dad coming! Run away quick! I'll come to you in the shrubbery, if you'll hide in the jungle walk."

As the child spoke she was pulling him towards the window—one of those big French windows opening down the middle like a double door, and level with the garden path outside.

As Mr. Ellis entered, he just caught a glimpse of the burglar's tall form and caught him by the arm ere he passed out, though not firmly enough to secure him. There was the quick crack of a revolver shot, and a smothered cry from the thief as he stumbled through the window into the darkness beyond.

CHAPTER VIII.

BUT in wrenching himself free in his effort to escape, the man threw Mr. Ellis down, and the latter, in falling, struck his head violently against the sharp corner of a carved chiffonier, and lay where he fell, without sound or motion.

By this time the whole household was roused, and Miss Burnard at once took the direction of affairs. The master of the house was carried to his bed, and a messenger was despatched for the surgeon. In the confusion no one noticed that Dina had vanished, so that wholly unobserved she crept into the jungle walk, and in a moment came upon the tall burglar leaning up against a tree and panting heavily.

The child came to his side. "No one knows, Brother Bob; no one shall know: that's our secret. But you've hurt him—dad, I mean—in knocking him down."

"And he has hurt me—shot me in the side—and I shall bleed to death, if I don't have help soon," replied the young man in a failing voice.

In less than ten minutes Bob heard hushed footsteps approaching, and nurse's soothing tender voice was in his ears. Leaning on the strong old arm that had carried him as a baby, and supported by Dina on the other side, he staggered back towards the house.

"I was rather long in comin', my darlin'," said nurse, "but I stayed to get my room on the ground floor ready for you. Come right in there. The servants has gone back to their beds; only the upper housemaid and the governess are up, and they're with master."

"Can't tell yet, my dear; it were a hard knock; he hasn't come to himself yet, I understand."

The burglar and his two protectors met no one as they entered the side door, and safely gained nurse's room, where the bed was in readiness for the patient.

"Now, Miss Dina," said nurse, "leave me to look after Master Bob, and you must be on the look-out for the doctor when he comes down from master's room, and send him in here to see his other patient. And not a word about this business to anyone to-night."

Things straightened out to some extent and fell into working order during the next few days, without anyone but the twins and nurse knowing who had been the burglar. Dina had felt she could not keep the secret from Gerald, but she knew that he was to be trusted.

That Master Bob should have come home to be nursed when he was ill seemed a natural thing to the servants, and the surgeon (an old friend of the family) was the only outsider who knew to what the illness was due. By his express orders, Mr. Ellis had not yet been told of his son's presence in the house. As the doctor very sensibly said, the excitement of this unexpected news might retard the older patient's recovery; while, as for the burglar, he was supposed to have got clean away, taking nothing with him, and leaving behind not a clue to his whereabouts.

But then came a time when Mr. Ellis was getting better, and it was felt by all the household that the secret of Bob's presence in the house could no longer be kept. Mr. Ellis had really been at his best during his illness. Miss Burnard, who had quietly assumed the necessary authority on the first night, had been head nurse, and her firm gentleness and skill had exerted a good influence, keeping in check the man's selfishness and peevish discontent. So that, when the doctor told nurse that her master must now be informed that his son was at home, it seemed as though it would be easier to tell him than it would have been a fortnight before.

"Suppose you go to dad, Gerry," said Dina, "and tell him that Brother Bob is here ill. Dad would take it best from you."

"No, Gerry," replied Dina. "Nurse might let slip some word about that dreadful night; and Miss Burnard—though she's a dear—isn't one of the family."

"I'm afraid I'll be the wrong twin again," said the child sadly; "but someone must tell dad, and if no one else can, I suppose I'll have to. Dad can't like me much less than he does now. That's one comfort!"

The next morning an unlooked-for chance occurred for the carrying out of the little girl's purpose. Miss Burnard had a bad headache, and asked Dina to read a chapter out of the Bible to Mr. Ellis, as she (Miss Burnard) had done ever since the beginning of his illness. And the child chose to read the Parable of the Prodigal Son.

CHAPTER IX.

THE story of the Prodigal Son had always touched her, and the childish voice trembled as she read of the young man's repentance and resolve to return and confess his sin to his father. A picture arose before her of a weary wayfarer, toiling homeward, grief, pain, suffering in every line of his face; but that face was the face of Brother Bob.

"When he was yet a great way off," the child read, "his father saw him and had compassion."

Ah! What a father that was! But would dad act like this? And a passionate prayer went up from the little burdened heart:

Dina's own heart was so full, and her eyes so brimming over, that she could neither read further nor see. Covering her face with her hands, she shook with sobs.

"Why, child, what is it?" inquired Mr. Ellis in unusually tender tones. "Tell me, Geraldine?"

"Dad," she said, in a little broken, pathetic voice, "when that poor naughty son who had been to the bad—came home and found his father so kind, and tender, and forgiving, that would help to keep him, wouldn't it, from going wrong again?"

"I should think it might," replied Mr. Ellis, surprised at the question, and still more at the earnest way in which it was put.

But he was fairly startled when Dina threw herself on her knees by the bedside, and clasping her father's hand between both hers, said, "Oh, dad, the prodigal that went to the bad, and came to grief, and was tired, and starved, and sick, and so very, very sorry for being naughty, has come home. Oh, dad, dear dad, will the father forgive him and give him a welcome, and help him to be good? Dad, tell me quick, for my heart's breaking. Will he say, 'This my son was dead and is alive again, and was lost and is found'?"

The child ceased speaking, but her heart was one fervent prayer during the silence that followed, broken at last by a husky voice, very unlike Mr. Ellis's usual sharp tones:

"So be it, then. Since the father in the parable could forgive his prodigal, I can—I will forgive mine."

And so it came about that Bob Ellis returned home, to begin a new life and be a comfort when he had hitherto been only a sorrow. The whole household rejoiced over his return, and Miss Burnard was especially interested in the young man, for in him she recognised a patient whom she had visited in a hospital a year or two before, and in whom—she had felt sure—were great possibilities for good.

"It's time we stopped calling Dina, the wrong twin," said Gerald, the first time that the invalids came downstairs to an early dinner. "She's always doing things that no one else likes to do, and she's the pluckiest little beggar that ever was, and the tender-heartedest."

"Oh, don't, Gerry dear!" pleaded Dina. "I'm so often wrong; I'm always getting into trouble, and—"

"Well," said Miss Burnard, "if to be the wrong twin means to be always striving—in spite of difficulties and temptations—to do right; if it means to confess oneself in the wrong and to try to make amends—then, Dina darling, there is not one of us who would not be glad to change with you and be a wrong twin too."

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Two brave boys, and, The wrong twin

Two Brave Boys

and

The Wrong Twin

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Two brave boys, and, The wrong twin

Two Brave Boys and The Wrong Twin

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

Two Brave Boys

and

The Wrong Twin