“The winds and the waves of ocean,
Had they a merry time?
Didst thou hear from those lofty chambers
The harp and the minstrel’s rhyme?

“The winds and the waves of ocean,
They rested quietly;
But I heard on the gale a sound of wail,
And tears came to mine eye.”

Longfellow.

Scene: A prettily-furnished room in a building that forms part and parcel of a lighthouse, on a small lonely island on the coast. The island is little else save a sea-girt rock, though on one green side of it some sheep are grazing. Effie and Leonard standing by the window, gazing silently and somewhat sadly over the sea.

Effie (speaks). “It is nearly a month, Leonard, since Captain Bland sailed away and left us here. I wonder if he will ever, ever come back.”

Leonard. “Oh! I am quite sure he will, unless – ”

Effie. “Yes, unless his ship is wrecked, and he is drowned, and poor papa never, never knows where we are.”

Leonard (laughing). “Why, Eff, what a long face you pull! It is always ‘ever ever’ or ‘never never’ with you. Now I dreamt last night he would return in a week, and I’m sure he’ll come. No use looking out of the window any longer to-night, Eff. The sun is just going down, and the sea-birds are all going to roost in the cliffs beneath the window. And it is time for the great lamps to be lit. Come on, Eff; let us go up with old Grindlay.”

Effie checked a sigh, cut it in two, as it were, and turned it into a laugh, and next minute both were out on the grass among the sheep, and gazing up at the whitewashed tower, which seemed so very tall to them.

“Ahoy-oy-oy!” sang Leonard, with one hand to his mouth in true sailor fashion. “Are you up there, old shipmate?”

“Ay, lad, ay,” a cheery voice returned. “Come up and bring missie.”

They were pattering up the stone stairs next minute, and soon arrived panting and breathless at the lamp room.

Old Grindlay was there, and had already lit up, and by-and-bye, when darkness fell, the gleam from the great lamps would shine far over the sea, and be seen perhaps by many a ship homeward bound from distant lands. It was very still and quiet up here, only the wind sighing round the roof, the occasional shriek and mournful scream of some sea-bird, and the boom of the dark waters breaking lazily on the rocks beneath. Old Grindlay sat on a little stool waiting for his son to come and keep watch, the two men, with old Grindlay’s “old woman,” as he called his wife, being all that dwelt on the island, and no boats ever visited it except about once a month.

Old Grindlay was kindly-hearted, but terribly ugly. As he sat there winking and blinking at the light, he looked more like a gnome than a human being. His son’s step was heard on the stone stairs at last, and, preceded by a cloud of tobacco smoke, he presently appeared. He was a far more cheerful-looking being than his father, but Leonard and Effie liked the latter better.

“Come, my dears,” said the little gnome, “let us toddle.”

“Keep the lights bright, Harry lad; I think it’s going to blow.”

Down the long stairs they went, and away into the house. The supper was laid in the old-fashioned kitchen, and cheerful it looked; for though it was July a bit of fire was burning on the hearth. It was wreckage they used for fuel here, and every bit of wood could have told a sorrowful, perhaps even tragic story, had it been able to speak.

“Something tells me, children,” said old Mrs Grindlay, as she cleared away the remains of the supper, “that you will not be long here. Hark to the sound of the rising wind! God save all at sea to-night!”

“Amen,” said the gnome.

“Amen,” said Leonard and Effie in one breath.

“Gather close round the fire now, children, and let us feel thankful to the Great Father that we are well and safe.”

The old woman began knitting as she spoke, the gnome replenished the fire with a few more pieces of wreck to drive the cold sea air out of the chimney. Then he lit his pipe, and sat down in his favourite corner.

After a pause, during which nothing was heard but the roar of the rising wind and the solemn boom of the waves, and the steady tick of an old clock that wagged the time away in a corner, —

“Why,” said Effie, “do you think we’ll soon go?”

“I cannot tell you,” replied the old lady, and her stocking wires clicked faster and faster. “We folks who live for years and years in the midst of the sea, have warnings of coming events that shore folks could never understand. But the house won’t seem the same, Effie, when you and Leonard are gone away – heigho!”

“Well,” said Effie, “I’ll be so sorry to go, and yet so glad.”

“Tell us a story,” said Leonard, “and change the subject. Hush! what was that?”

A wild and mournful scream it was, and sounded close under the window.

“That is a cry we often hear,” said the old lighthouse keeper, “always before a storm, sometimes before a wreck. It’s a bird, I suppose, or maybe a mermaid. Do I believe in them? I do. I’ll tell you a strange dream I had once upon a time, though I don’t think it could have been a dream.”

Old Grindlay’s Dream

“It was far away in the Greenland seas I was, sailing northwards towards Spitzbergen. I was second mate of the bonnie barque Scotia’s Queen. Well, one dark night we were ploughing away on a bit of a beam wind, doing maybe about an eight knots, maybe not so much. There was very little ice about, and as I had eight hours in that night, I went early to my bunk, and was soon fast asleep. It must have been well on to two bells in the middle watch – the spectioneer’s – when I awoke all of a sudden like. I don’t know, no more than Adam, what I could have been thinking about, but I crept out of my bunk in the state-room, where also the doctor and steward slept, and up on deck I went. I wondered to myself more than once if I really was in a dream. But there were sails and rigging, and the stars all shining, and the ship bobbing and curtseying to the dark waters, that went swishing and lapping alongside of her, and all awfully real for a dream. I could hear the men talking round the fo’c’s’le, and smell their tobacco, too.

“Well, Leonard, I went to the weatherside, and leant over to calculate, sailor fashion, our rate of speed, when I noticed something like a square dark shadow on the water at the gangway. There was nothing above to cause so strange a shadow, but while I was yet wondering a face appeared in the middle of it, the face of a lovely woman. I saw it as plain as I see dear wee Effie’s at this present moment. The long yellow hair was floating on the top of the water, and a fair hand beckoned me, and a sweet voice said, ‘Come.’ I thought of nothing but how to save the life of what I took to be a drowning woman. I sprang over at once, though I never could swim a stroke, and down I sank like lead. There was a surging roar of water in my ears, and I remembered nothing more till I found myself at the bottom of the sea, with a strange green light from a window in a rock a kind of dazzling my eyes. The woman’s face and long yellow hair were close beside me, and the fair arms were round me.

“I tried to pray, but I was speechless. Then the rock in front seemed to open of its own accord, and next minute I was inside. But oh! what a gorgeous hall – what a home of delight! There were other mermaids there – ay, scores of them. There was light and warmth all around us, that appeared to come from the precious stones of which the walls were built, and the glittering pillars that supported the roof.

“Such flowers, too, as grew in snow-white vases I had never seen before!

“Then music began to float through the hall, slow and solemn at first, then quicker and quicker, and all at once the marble floor was filled with fairies – the loveliest elves imagination could paint – all mingling and mixing in a mazy dance with waving arms and floating hair, and all keeping time to the music. The mermaids, too, left the couches of pearl on which they had been reclining, and were carried through and through the air, the ends of their bodies covered with long floating drapery of green and crimson. Then some of these strange creatures brought me fruit and wine, and bade me eat and drink. I fain would have spoken, but all my attempts were in vain.

“Suddenly our ship’s bell rang out clear enough, ting-ting, ting-ting, ting-ting, ting. It was seven bells, and all the mermaids and fairies melted away before me, the music died away as if drowned, the surging of water returned to my ears, and next moment my head was above the sea, and I could see the stars shining down, and looking so large and near and clear, as they always do in those northern seas. In a minute I had caught the chains, and swung myself on board. I went to bed. In the morning I awoke, and laughed to myself as I thought of my dream, but my laughing was changed to wonder when I found every stitch of my clothing wringing with salt water, and when the spectioneer told me that he had seen me with his own eyes come on deck at two bells and go below at seven. Then I told him and the rest the story, and we all agreed that it was something far more than a dream.”

Effie sat looking into the fire for some time in silence; then she said, —

“Were there no mermen in that lovely hall, and were they very noble-looking and gallant, like my dear papa in uniform?”

“No,” said old Grindlay, “I don’t think mermen would have been admitted into such a place any more than the great sea-serpent would.”

“Why not?”

“Because, missie, they are such ugly old customers. I’ve never seen one, that I know of, but a mate that sailed with me said he had, and that it was uglier than the faces we sometimes see on door-knockers, and uglier than any baboon that ever grinned and gibbered in an African forest.”

“How terrible!” said Effie.

“Oh, I should like to meet one of those!” said Leonard. “And I’ve been told that the mermaids wouldn’t live anywhere near where these mermen are, and that instead of dwelling down in coral caves and marble halls at the bottom of the green sea, where the sunbeams flash by day, and the moon shines all the way down at night, these mermen live at the bottom of the darkest, deepest pits of the ocean, where there is nothing but mud and slime, and where the young sea-serpents and the devil-fish grow. No, the beautiful mermaids I don’t think ever do any harm, but the mermen are bad – bad!”

“Granny,” said Effie to Mrs Grindlay, after a pause, “tell us a pretty story to dream upon.”

“Did I ever tell you the story of But – but – but?”

“No, never. Do tell us about ‘But – But – But,’ and begin, ‘Once upon a time.’”

“Well, then, once upon a time there lived, far away up on the top of a mountain, a little old, old woman, and this little old woman had a very lovely young daughter, who lived with her in a cave on the mountain top. And one day her mother said, —

“‘Dear love, all the provisions are done. I must go away down to the plains and buy some. I have no money, but shall take a small bagful of precious stones.’

“So away she went, leaning on her stick and carrying a basket. She looked very feeble, her old cloak was ragged and worn, and, as she crept along, she kept saying to herself, ‘but – but – but.’

“Well, at last she got down to the village, and entered a grocer’s shop.

“‘What can I get for you, ma’am?’ said the grocer.

“‘I want some nice ham, and some nice eggs, and some fresh butter. I have no money – but – but – but – ’

“‘Oh! get out of here with your “buts,”’ cried the man. ‘Who would trust the like of you, with your old age and your rags?’

“So he chased her away.

“Then the old woman crept away to the fishmonger’s.

“‘I want,’ she said, ‘some nice fresh salmon, and some nice prawns, and a delicious lobster. I’ve no money – but – but – but – ’

“‘Oh, get out of here!’ cried the fishmonger, ‘with your “buts.” Who would trust you with your old age and your rags?’

“And he chased her down the street.

“Then she entered the butcher’s.

“‘Give me a tender joint of mutton,’ she said. ‘I’ve no money – but – but – but – ’

“‘Oh!’ cried the butcher, ‘get out of here, with your “buts.” Who would trust you with your old age and your rags?’

“And he called his dogs, and they chased away the poor old woman, and tore her cloak worse than before.

“Then she went into the baker’s.

“‘I want a loaf or two of bread,’ she said. ‘I’ve no money, but – but – but – ’

“‘Don’t say another word,’ said the baker. ‘Here are two nice new ones, and some new-laid eggs. Don’t thank me. I respect old age, and I pity rags.’

“So the old, old woman crept back to the mountain top, and she and her beautiful daughter had a nice supper.

“And now the strangest part of the story begins, for although the baker’s trade increased every day, his store of flour appeared never to diminish. He got richer and richer every month, and was soon in a position to buy a pretty little cottage and furnish it in the prettiest style imaginable; and when he had done so he went and laid his fortune at the feet of Mary the Maid of the Mill. In other words, he went wooing the miller’s daughter.

“After a modest pause for thought and consideration she consented, saying as she did so, —

“‘I don’t marry you for sake of your money, John, because I have quite a deal of gold and silver.’

“‘What! you?’ said John.

“‘Yes, me,’ said Mary.

“‘But – but – but – ’ said John.

“‘But, how did I get it? Well, I’ll tell you. A poor old woman, crawling on a stick and all in rags, called the other night, when the wind blew high and the snow was falling fast, and because I took her in, and sheltered her – just only what anybody would do, John – she left me a bagful of pretty stones. She said she didn’t want them, as she knew a hill where they grew, and I took them to the jeweller’s, and they paid me so much for them that I am quite wealthy, and I’m going to marry for love.’

“So John was indeed a happy man.

“But that same evening, first the butcher called, and then the fishmonger, and then the grocer, all dressed up in their Sunday clothes.

“So John hid behind a curtain, and as soon as they came into the room, all three proposed to marry Mary the Maid of the Mill.

“Then Mary looked down at them, and laughed and said, —

“‘Really, gentlemen, you do me too much honour, but – but – but – ’

“‘But I’m the happy man,’ cried John suddenly, popping out from behind the curtain.

“‘You!’ they all shouted in disdain.

“‘Yes, I. I’m very sorry for you, but – but – but – ’

“‘But what?’ they all cried.

“‘But I’m going to kick you all out,’ said John; ‘that’s the “but.”’

“Then Mary ran and opened the door, and as they ran out John kicked the grocer, then the fishmonger, and last of all the butcher, and they all fell in a heap on the pavement.

“Well, Mary and John got married, and a merrier wedding never was in the village, and when it was all over a gilded coach drove up to the door and took them away to spend the honeymoon in a beautiful seaside village.

“And the old lady was in the carriage and her pretty daughter, but the ragged old cloak was gone, and in its place a robe of ermine and scarlet.

“And Mary and John lived happy together ever after.”

“Of course,” said Effie, “the old lady was a good fairy.”

“Oh yes!” said Mrs Grindlay, “but – but – but – ”

“But what, Mrs Grindlay?”

“But it’s time for bed.”

What a terrible night it was. The wind blew and roared around the building till the whole island seemed to shake, the waves beat and dashed against the rocks, and the spray flew far over the lighthouse itself, and every now and then, high over the howling of the storm and the boom of the seas, rose that strange, eerie scream, like the cry of the sea-bird, but it sounded far more plaintive and pitiful, like —

“The drowning cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.”

And one sentence was mingled with the prayers of Leonard and Effie before they sought their couch —

“God save all at sea to-night.”

Book One – Chapter Eight
“The Wreck! The Wreck!”

“The breakers were right beneath her bows,
    She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
    Like icicles from her deck.

“She struck where the white and fleecy waves
    Looked soft as carded wool;
But the cruel rocks, they gored her sides
    Like the horns of an angry bull.”

Longfellow.

Scene: The lighthouse island on the morning after the storm. The sea all around it, still covered with foam-capped waves. The wind dying away, but rising every now and then in uncertain gusts. No vessels in sight, but a long, low, rakish craft wedged in the rocks beneath the lighthouse, and fast breaking up. The whole scene bleak and desolate in the extreme.

“It is the lugger, sure enough,” said old Grindlay. “Heigho! what an awful affair, to be sure! And there can’t be a living soul on board. Captain Bland and all must have gone to their account.”

“And she is breaking up,” said his wife. “Goodness grant she may disappear entirely before the young ones see her.”

“Oh!” cried Leonard, rushing into the kitchen; “the wreck! the wreck! It is the lugger. Oh the poor robber chief!”

“He is dead, my dear,” said Mrs Grindlay solemnly. “No, no; I can see him from our window, where Effie is crying. He is under the wreck of the masts amidships and alive, for he waved his hand to us. Oh, save him, Mr Grindlay, if you can!”

“Ah, lad, I fear nothing can be done!”

“I’ll go, I’ll go! Effie is not afraid; she says I may go. I’ve gone over worse rocks than that with a rope. He is alive, and I will save him. Quick, bring the rope, and an axe and saw.”

“The boy is a hero,” exclaimed Mrs Grindlay. “Do as he bids you, old man; the lad is in God’s own hands.”

“I am no hero. I only want to save the captain. He could not help kidnapping us, and he was so kind to Effie.”

The forepart of the lugger was wedged into a cave, close under a black beetling cliff, fully fifty feet in height. It was over here Leonard was going. There was no denying him. He had already thrown down the axe and saw to the wreck, and now, both Mr and Mrs Grindlay assisting, the rope was wound twice round an iron stanchion at the cliff top, which might have been used before for a similar purpose, or by men in search of eggs. Leonard’s legs were through the bight, and next minute he had disappeared over the cliff, and was gradually lowered down, and though half drowned with the driving spray speedily reached the deck.

Effie stood in tears at her window, praying. It was all the child could do.

Leonard staggered aft and knelt by the side of Captain Bland, and poured some brandy from a flask into his mouth.

“Heaven bless you, boy!” he muttered, “and if the prayer of such as I am can avail, Heaven will.”

Leonard hardly heard him, but he knew his meaning, and now set to work with axe and saw. It was a long and tedious job, but it was finished at last, and the smuggler chief was clear, and sprang to his feet, but staggered and almost fell again.

After a while, however, his numbed legs gathered fresh strength, and, helped by the boy, he settled himself in the bight of the rope, and was drawn to bank safe and sound.

The rope was again lowered, and Leonard mounted next, and not a minute too soon.

“Look, look, look!” cried Bland, pointing away to windward. “Run for our lives!”

A strange sight it was, that awful coming squall. Right away in the wind’s eye was a long dark cloud, fringed beneath with a line of white. Forked lightning played incessantly across it, or fell through it like streams of blood or fire. It grew higher and higher as it came nearer and nearer; then with a rush and a roar it swept upon the island, and the very lighthouse seemed to rock in the awful embrace.

It was the last effort of one of the most terrible gales of wind that ever strewed our coast with wreckage, and with the bodies of unfortunate men. When it disappeared at length, and went howling away over the mountains, the sun shone out. It shone down upon the place where the lugger had lain, but not a timber of her was now to be seen.

How the Rescue was Effected

Just three weeks after their arrival in London, Captain and Mrs Lyle were back once more at Grayling House. They had only received one letter from Leonard, though he had written several, but mails in those days took long to reach their destination, and often arrived only after many strange adventures.

As the carriage drove up through the long avenue with its tall trees of drooping birch, wonder was expressed by the parents that Leonard and Effie did not come bounding to meet them, as was their wont.

“Surely, dear,” said Mrs Lyle, “something must be very much wrong. Hurry up, coachman.”

Old Peter did not hide his grief. He met his master and mistress wringing his hands, with the tears flowing fast over his wrinkled face, and word by word they had to worm out of him his pitiful story.

Captain Lyle did all he could to comfort his wife, and pretended to laugh at the whole affair. It was only a boy’s freak, he said, and only a brave boy like Leonard would have done or dared so much. He loved the lad all the better for it. No doubt the little caravan and the truants would return in a day or two.

But though he spoke thus his mind was ill at ease, and he determined at once to start a search party, and this was all ready in less than two hours. No less than a dozen horsemen were told off to scour the country, and get news at all hazards. But, lo! just as they were starting off, what should be seen coming along up the avenue but the caravan itself, driven by a bare-armed, wild-looking gipsy girl?

Captain Lyle hurried her along into his study, and there she told her story.

The search party was instantly disbanded; a different kind of action was needed now, and needed at once. He told his wife the whole truth. He thought this the better course, and she bore it bravely.

That same evening, as fast as horses could go, Captain Lyle was speeding along on his way to Berwick, where he had heard that a Government sloop-of-war was lying.

He posted on all night, and next morning Berwick was in sight, that romantic old town in which so many battles have been fought and won in the olden times, that its walls, now only mounds, are lined with human bones.

There was no sloop-of-war in sight in the beautiful bay. Fishing-boats there were in scores, some just sailing in, others still far out in the bay. But at the custom-house Lyle learned that the Firefly had just recently departed on a cruise in search of the very lugger which had sailed away from near St. Abb’s with Leonard and Effie on board, and if the captain of the sloop came across her he would no doubt give an excellent account of her.

Meanwhile the customs officials told him that everything that possibly could be done would be done, and as soon as anything happened, he, Captain Lyle, should be communicated with post haste.

So there was nothing for it but to return at once to Glen Lyle.

On the very night of his arrival another strange thing happened. A visitor called, who turned out to be an emissary of Captain Bland’s.

This man, who was pleasant and even gentlemanly in address, begged to assure Captain Lyle, first and foremost, that unless he gave his word of honour that no attempt would be made to detain him, he would not deliver the smuggler chief’s message.

Lyle gave his word of honour.

Secondly, that unless the sum of two thousand pounds was paid as ransom, the children would never more be seen at Grayling House; but if, on the other hand, the money was sent, they would be restored in less than a fortnight.

Captain Lyle consulted with his wife. They were on the horns of a dilemma, for of late years the estate of Glen Lyle had sunk in value, and although they were willing to pay the ransom, it was, sad to think, an utter impossibility.

The matter was put fairly and honestly before the smuggler’s emissary.

Could the half be raised?

Captain Lyle considered, and allowed it could.

Well, the emissary said he would communicate with Captain Bland, and return again and inform him of that worthy gentleman’s decision, but no attempt must be made to follow him, or all communication would cease between them.

And Captain Lyle was fain to assent.

Then the emissary mounted his fleet horse, stuck the spurs into his sides, and disappeared like a flash.

The man tore along the road, determined to put the greatest distance in the least possible time betwixt himself and Grayling House.

Little recked he of a coming event.

About a mile from the house the road crossed a stream by a steep old-fashioned Gothic bridge. He was just entering one end of this, when up at the other sprang, as if from the earth, a tiny half-clad gipsy girl. She waved a shawl and shrieked aloud. The horse swerved, but could not stop in time, and next moment the animal and its rider had gone headlong over the parapet, and lay dead – to all appearance – near the stream below.

The girl dashed down after them, wrenched open the man’s coat, tore out some papers, and waving them aloft, went shouting along the avenue back to Grayling House.

“My dear child,” said Lyle, as soon as he had scanned the papers, “how ever can I reward you?”

“You were good to granny,” was all the girl said.

Lyle at once sent off to the relief of the wounded man, but made him prisoner, for the letter he held was the emissary’s instructions.

He was back again next day at Berwick. There he heard that the Firefly was in harbour, but had discovered no trace of the smuggling lugger, though she had been south as far as the Humber.

“No,” cried Lyle, exultingly showing the papers, “because the villain Bland has gone north, and my children are captive on an island on the west coast of Scotland.”

A council of war was held that evening, and it was determined that the sloop-of-war should sail in search of the smuggler on the very next day.

“She may not be there yet,” said the bold, outspoken commander of the Firefly. “We may overhaul her, or meet her on her way back. And it will be best, I think, for you to come with us.”

And so it was agreed.

The capture or destruction of the smuggler and Bland had for years defied both custom and cruisers in his fleet lugger, but if Captain Pim of His Majesty’s sloop-of-war was to be believed, the Sea-horse lugger’s days were numbered, and those of her captain as well.

Away went the Firefly, but long before she had ever left harbour the smuggler had left his prizes – viz, Leonard and Effie, on Lighthouse Island, and gone on a cruise on his own account, his object being to complete his cargo from among the western islands, where smuggling was rife in those days, and at once make sail for France, going round by Cape Wrath for safety’s sake, as was his wont.

As for the result of the visit of his emissary to Grayling House he had not the slightest fear.

The Firefly encountered fearful weather. Summer though it was, she took nearly a fortnight to reach Wick, and then had to lie in for repairs for days. After sailing she was overtaken by a gale of wind from the south, which blew her far into the North Sea.

Now it was the custom of Captain Bland, in making his voyages, to keep a long way off the coast, and out of the way of shipping. Had it not been for the gale of wind that blew the Firefly out of sight of land, this ruse would once again have served his purpose aright. As it was, early one morning his outlook descried the sloop-of-war on the weather bow. Well did Bland know her. He had been often chased by her in days gone by. It was evident enough to the smuggler now that his emissary had been captured or turned traitor; so his mind was made up at once.

“Ready about!” was the order.

The Sea-horse, in a few minutes, was cracking on all sail, on her way back to the island, Bland having determined to remove his little prisoners therefrom, and sail south with them to France, in spite of every risk and danger.

Both vessels were fleet and fast, but if anything, the lugger could sail closer to the wind.

Several times during the long chase, which lasted for days, the Firefly got near enough to try her guns, but not near enough for deadly aim. The shots fell short, or passed harmlessly over the smuggler.

The last day of the chase was drawing to a close. The island was already visible, when suddenly Bland altered his plans and tactics, seeing that the Firefly would be on him before he could cast anchor, and effect a shipment of the little hostages. He put about, and bore bravely down upon the cruiser, and despite her activity crossed her stern, and poured a broadside of six guns into her. Down went a mast, and the wheel was smashed to atoms.

Bland waited no longer. He had done enough to hang him, and night was coming on.

Night and storm!

Yonder was the gleam of the lighthouse, however, and he did not despair.

It grew darker and darker, and just as he was abreast of the lighthouse, and bearing down towards it, the storm came on in all its fury, and twenty minutes afterwards the Sea-horse was a wreck. His hands took to the boats, or were swept from the decks, leaving him to lie buried under the wreck just as Leonard found him.

On the arrival of the Firefly, the little wanderers were so overjoyed to see their father, and he to have them safe once more, that the wild escapade of which they had been guilty was entirely forgotten between them.

The old lighthouse-keeper and his wife detailed the circumstances of the wreck of the lugger, but singularly enough they forgot to mention the saving of the life of Bland himself. He was therefore supposed by Captain Pim to be drowned.

So ended the wonderful adventures of Leonard and Effie as amateur gipsies.

But about a week after they arrived at home, to the inexpressible joy of old Peter, to say nothing of the poodle dog, the cat, and all their pets at the Castle Beautiful, after binding papa down to keep a secret, Leonard told him all the rest about Captain Bland, who, Effie assured him with tears in her eyes, had been so, so kind to them both.

But long before this Bland was safe in France, and for a time he sailed no more on British coasts. The seas around them being, as he expressed it, too hot to hold him, he determined to let them cool down a bit, so he took his talents to far-off lands, where we may hear of him again.