(PRIZE TALE OF THIRD SECTION.) WHAT'S IN A NAME.

Otago Witness, 5 December 1900, Page 38

(PRIZE TALE OF THIRD SECTION.) WHAT'S IN A NAME.

By Phroso

JN a little shabby bedroom two girls were talkir.g. Long ago the post office clock had chimed mid-night, but Barbara Macdonald and Miriam Allan had paid no heed to it, so engrossed were they in their chat. Any woman can guess the tenor of its subject.

" He's so plain," said Barbara, with a toss of her pretty dark head, us she energetically wielded her hair brush. "I could put up with his red hair and his being half a foot shorter than other men \ but I cannot stand dumpiness. Of course, I didn't tell him that was the reason."

" What did you say to the poor creature? '" said the girl in the rocking chair, her head thrown back on the cushions, and one bare foot tucked under her.

" Oh, the usual thing, dear. Said I didn't care for him enough, and was awfully sorry to cause him pain, and all that. No, I didn't tell him I'd be a sister to him ' — in response to a laughing murmur from the rocking chair. " I was afraid that someone might say they saw a family likeness ; and, Miriam Allan, my worst enemy can't say I've red hair or am corpulent ! "

The slim figure pirouetted in front of the looking-glass, holding up her nightdress to show the prettiest of slender ankles.

" He's nice, yes;" Mirian remarked, lazily

" Oh, yes," with depreceation. ' Do you know, when he's away I get quite fond of him. You see, I forget what he's like. But I can't endure him when he's here. He's too ugly. Besides, he's in a shop ! ''

" Almost

" It's a very large shop," said her friend wholesale. And he's awfully well-off."

The younger girl turned quickly and shook the brush threateningly at her companion.

"Miriam Allan, what do you mean by such remarks ? Go and comfort Samuel — ugh, just imagine the agony of being called Mrs Samuel — if you have a mind to. Turn on him your convei'sational powers, and he'll be certain to succumb. Bless you, dear, I don't mind."

Miriam Allan uncurled herself and rose, stretching her arms above her head with a yawn.

" No ? " she said, with a gleam in her eye and a tiny smile. " Very well ; that's a bargain. I'm not at all sure that Mr Manders did propose to you at all, Barbara. You always imagine men are head over heels in love with you. But if h>did, and you said no, you're a little fool. He's twice the man that the Hon. Jack Powell is, and you'vs missed a good husband. So much the better for me. But, remomber, Bat, don't you interfere with my property."'

" Oh, shut up, you girls, can't you? " wailed a boy's voice from the next room. " How can a chap swot up Euclid wit i your everlasting cackling? "

Miriam, with a laughing good-night to Dick, slipped into bed. She was soon asleep, for she had had a hard day' i J work before the little Cinderella dance she and Bab had gone to that evening. She was staying with her friend for the om> night.

But Barbara lay awake watching the moonlight shimmer on a half-faded boutonniere in her tumbler. The scent of the dying stephanotis made the air heavy. At last she, too, fell asleep and dreamt of the man who had worn it in his coat the night before at the Government House ball. She had stayed at home darning shabby stockings and patching her brother's joat; but, in her dreams, she was swinging round the great yellow ballroom, her cheek close to the stephanotis on the Hon. Jack Powell's coat lapel. Just as a worn-out A.D.C was saying, " By Jove, who is that lovely girl in white satin and turquoises? Ton my soul, I must get Powell to introduce me, don't you know ! " she awoke to the drudgery of a new day.

Barbara was pretty — very pretty. She had been informed of that pleasing fact ever since she was a tiny girl, who much preferred men to women, and who even at six years old knew the potency of great blue eyes with thick up-curving lashes. Her mother kept a boardinghouse and boasted, plaintively — to any of her lodgers who would listen to her — of the days when she kept a carriage and went to Government House to dinner. The boarders were all men, so Bab had plenty of opportunity to exercise her fascinations, and she changed her lovers almost as often — nay, quite as often, poor Bab — as she renewed her frocks. Once an elderly spinster dwelt for a fortnight under Mrs Macdonald's roof ; but she disapproved of the levity of the household, and left abruptly, after falling over Miss Barbara and the Honourable Jack sitting side by side on the staircase, with the gas turned low and a black coat sleeve round the forward young woman's waist. Miss Rennie promptly gave up the self-imposed task of reforming that scion of a noble race, and shook the dust of Inverclury House off her number seven shoes.

Not that her disapproval influenced anybody at all. The Hon. Jack laughed and flirted more desperately than ever with his landlady's pretty daughter. He had little else to do, and a woman to him was as irresistible as a ball of wool to a

This is one of the most interesting monuments of a bygone age. It is cut out of the so id rock, and the proportions are noble and awe-inspiring. The sphinx has given a name in our language for all that is mysterious and unfathomable.

kitten. Sometimes, alas, the ball of wool is snarled and spoilt, but the kitten does not care. It has had its amusement.

Somehow, though he had had many chances, ana been in Wellington for more than a year, he had never met the •exact work he desired — probably because it did not exist. Satan, who finds employment for idle hands, kept him busy. At present he was breaking Barbara Macdonald's heart, and living on his remittances and loans from anyone who did not know him well enough to refuse; indeed, he even borrowed from Bab. She had gone without a new hat that winter to fill her Hon. Jack's purse. And the money went on ■cigarettes, buttonholes, and whisky and sodas. He usually

PRIZE PHOTOGRAPHIC COMPETITION: FIRST AND ONLY PRIZE, SECTION 111.

forgot these loans, or else promised to repay them a thousandfold when his old aunt in England died.

Bab had found herself at times, with a thrill of horror, •disbelieving in the existence of this old aunt.

He was good-looking, in that blase, worn style that appeals to many girls — sweet-tempered when things went well and creditors were not pressing; clever, for an exiled aristo•crat, and generous — with other people's money. Flirting with Barbara was merely a pastime to him. But the girl was in ■deadly earnest, and flouted all her other lovers for his sake. Had she but known it, the Hon. Jack was more attracted by Mirian Allan, her friend ; and he exerted all his powers of fascination to force a look or word of admiration from her.

" She's not a fit -companion for you, dearest," he said to Bab, after a most decided snub from Mirian. " I don't like to see my little girl so friendly with such a gauche, ill-bred person. That is one of the drawbacks of the colonies — one is brought into contact with all sorts of people one would never meet in London society. Who — er, is she ? "

" She's a typewriter," said Bab, giving a last tender touch to a yellow rose she had fastened into his overcoat. " Her father was a solicitor and drank himself to death, and Miriam looks after her little sister. She's very good, Jack, and she works so hard. She has very few friends, and no relations. Perhaps that has made her a little bitter. You see, she hasn't got a Jack, dear " — with a laugh that held tears, for she had just had a cutting reproof from her Jack for talking to Mr Paterson on the stairs. Not that the Hon. Jack had any right to scold, for there was not even a secret engagement between him and Bab ; and he did not consider it at all illogical that he was going to take Miss Vivian to morning tea at a fashionable tea rooms. Men are not to be bound by

such trammels

One wet afternoon, about a month later, while Bab was stirring a pudding over the fire, and the grimy-faced maid was receiving instructions with open mouth, Miriam's knock was heard. Bab had seen very little of her friend of late. Spoon in hand, she opened the door. " I want to speak to you," Miriam said. " No, I won't come in ; I'm too wet. Did you hear that Mr Manders has been accepted for the second contingent? "

" Miriam, do you think — is it because I ? " faltered Bar-

" Don't be a goose, Bab," came sharply from Miriam. " He's been thinking of this ever since the war broke out. He'll be made an officer, too, for he's been years a volunteer. He's not a bit cast down, Bab, on your account. I met him just now, radiant with excitement. Indeed," — with a smile — " we've seen a good deal of him lately. He goes into camp tomorrow."

Barbara went back, rather crestfallen, to her spoilt pudding. She felt a little hurt at Samuel's sudden cure. However, it was better that his heart should be given to Queen and the Empire than to another girl. But Miriam's smile haunted her, however, for some time.

That evening Dick, her brother, was brimful of patriotic fervour and admiration of Sammy's conduct.

" He's a brick," the lad declared, " and he'll make a fine soldier. My word, I wish I were old enough to go instead of moochin' about town carryin' spades an' scuttles for old Cannon. Fightin's more fun than hangin' round a girl, at any rate," with a glare at his sister, between whom and himself there waged a perpetual feud, based on the questions of grubby hands and torn clothes. " Is Mr Manders that fiery-brained young man who comes here sometimes? A scanty siege diet — of mule steak or hide

brawn — would decidedly improve him. I shouldn't think that he would be very nimble.'' This came from the Hon. Jack, with a sneer. Bab dared not speak. She feared to face his curled lip and scornful eye.

" He's a jolly sight better chap than some who put on airs," burst out loyal Dick, the memory of many tips making him personal. " And brave as they make 'em, Sam Manderb is ; though he has red hair, and is stout, and hasn't got any fine relations to brag about."

His mother arose in wrath, and ordered the irate youth from the room.

"He does require a father's firm hand, ' moaned his mother, feebly.

" He requires a thrashing," growled the Hon. Jack

" I like fine tae see lads stick up for their frien's," said a little Scotchman who was touring, and had been beguiled into staying at Inverclury House by the name on the gate. " An' after all, it isna fine clothes or fine manners that mak' our best soldiers. It's the brave heirt and the strong arm. I kent well Hector Macdonald when he was a draper's laddie, and whaur is he noo? Ay, a stout heirt and a strong arm gae far tae makin' a quid soldier. An' if the heirt is a Scottish ane, sac much the worse for the enemy."

Mr M'Tavish met Dick at the kitchen door later, " commandeering plum pudding," as the boy explained ; and he put half a crown into his hand with a cheery wink of approval.

Miriam Allan, one grey, misty evening, reached her lodgings. She was damp, and tired, and sad ; her employer had told her that business was so bad he would not need her after that month. Private work was hard to get. She herself could manage. She could get a place as servant, if things came to the worst ; but there was little Joyce to think of.

As she turned her latch key and entered the house, she heard a silver ripple of laughter, and her face brightened.

The landlady poked a tousled head out of the kitchen : " A gen'elman to see you, Miss Allan," she said rather tartly. Opening her sitting-room door, Miriam saw a pretty sight. Crimson firelight flooded the little room, transforming the bald prose of worn haircloth and faded chintz into poetry. On a low chair sat a man in khaki, a tiny girl in a white frock perched on his knee, her two arms round his neck, and her soft fair curls across his breast.

" And Merryheart and Goldilocks married, and lived happy ever afterwards," the man was saying as Miriam paused unheard and unseen, on the threshold.

" They always do, don't they, in fairyland? " Joyce said, one little white hand stroking the close-cut red hair that gleamed in the firelight. "Yes, dearie, always — in fairyland. Why, Miss Allan," putting the child gently down and rising, " Joyce and I never heard you come in, did we, girlie ? How tired you look ! Sit down here, and, Joyce, run for slippers and take your sister's hat. Do let me, Miss Allan."

Before Miriam could resist, she was pushed gently into the armchair. Tears rushed to the girl's eyes — she was unused to being tended. And the man, seeing the quivering lips, carried Joyce over to the piano, and began to play softly. As the listener heard the tender music and saw the little fair head close against the man's shoulder, she thought what did red hair and a clumsy figure matter if the heart within was of gold. With a little fantastic trill in the middle of one of the Lieder, he stopped, and got up, looking at his watch. •' I'm a brute, Miss Allan, keeping you from your tea all this time; but it's so pleasant here. I only called to tell Joyce that we are really ordered off next week. She was a little goose, and cried, and I had to tell her a fairy tale to comfort her."

Barbara stood up, her pale face flushed, and her eyes still dim with tears. She held out her hand.

" How I wish I were a man, too, to go with you," she cried. "We'd fight shoulder to shoulder; wouldn't we? It's a hard thing to be a woman and have to wait at home and do nothing." The man came a little nearer, pressing the child's fair head against him. " Don't say you can do nothing, Miss Allan. I never can be grateful enough for your letting me into your home. You see, I never had a home. Lodgings are places to sleep and feed in, and to get out of as quickly as possible. I shall never forget this little room and its rest and peace. You can do more for me still, Miss Allan, if you will. Be my stay-at-home chum and write me all about the dear town and little Joyce and yourself. Some day I may come back to this room, perhaps with a wooden leg, Joyce, dearie — and finish the Lieder. By then, Joyce, I shall have another tale — not a fairy tale — to tell you. Good-bye, my little girl," kissing the tearful white face. " Take care of your big sister for me. G-ood-bye, Miss Allan." " Kiss Miriam, too," said the little child — a sweet link between man and girl. " Will Miriam let me ? " queried the man, with a grave smile. Miriam lifted her trembling lips. As he kissed her, he slipped a ring on her finger. "Keep that, my chum, for me till I come back — if I come back. No, Joyce dear, I must go now. You would not like your soldier to be punished, little girl ? " He laid the child on Miriam's lap, and with one yearning glance at the pleasant room and the two heads — dark and fair — close together, in the shabby armchair, he shut the door behind him.

Dick Macdonald was completely demoralised. He spent all his spare time at Newtown Park, trudging along the weary road, for tram tickets were unattainable luxuries. His meals were anything, snatched anyhow, and eaten anywhere. A thick slice or two of bread and jam, wrapped up by the grimy little maid, who had a fellow-feeling for Dick, and who, too, was wildly patriotic, was often his only tea. It was devoured as he sat on one of the benches overlooking the conical white tents and the clusters of khaki figures. The sharp orders, the shrill sweet bugle calls, the thud of the galloping horses, wakened in Dick unconquerable longings. He followed Lieutenant Manders humbly about, and looked up to him as Tommy Atkins to Lord Roberts.

Two mornings before the contingent was to leave, Dick was missing. His bed was unslept in, and most of his clothes were gone. Mary, the maid, missed sundry provisions from the pantry, but concealed her suspicions, and suffered consequently. Mrs Macdonald, as the day wore on to evening, and there was no sign of the boy, had hysterics, and Bab was angry and contrite by turns. Her conscience hinted she had

been very hard on poor Dick of late. By 12 o'clock that night his mother spoke of the youth as of a dear deceased paragon, and yet sat up till morning for him with a large stick, sustaining herself meanwhile with many cups of tea.

At 10 o'clock the next morning Dick and Lieutenant Manders walked in, Dick dusty and red-eyed, with an untidy bundle under his arm. Wild embraces and frantic reproaches followed, but Lieutenant Manders intervened :

" Don't be angry with the lad, Mrs Macdonald. He's sorry for running away, and he's promised never to try and get a passage to South Africa again in that way, haven't you, Dick? " throwing a brotherly arm about the boy's shoulders. Dick turned and rubbed his rough head against the trim khaki coat, then with a howl of anguish, rushed to his own little room.

" I found him in the hold of the troopship," said the soldier, in answer to the mother's tearful question where Dick had been hidden. "He nearly killed me, the young ruffian," he added, laughingly looking at his wrist. " But we are really great chums. Promise me you'll not be angry with him, Mrs Macdonald. He's a good lad." With a hasty goodbye, he left, and Bab watched the trim, upright figure swinging out of the gate with wonder at the change two months had wrought in the man.

Poor Dick was discovered by Mary, who stole up with bread and jam and rough consolation, face downward, a dishevelled mass of dejection, on his bed. His bundle had burst its paper, and a most pathetic collection had tumbled out — a tattered Boy's Own Paper, an old revolver, a large stick of liquorice, and a photograph of his dead father, as well as some various garments. Mary knelt down and patted the heaving shoulders.

" Don't, Dickie," she said; and then, helpless in the face of such grief — " It's blackberry jam, and put on very thick." A dirty hand stole out, and Mary put the slice into it, and with a parting word of cheer, left the thwarted patriot.

Soft mists lay about Wellington hills the day the contingent was to start. Thousands of flags tossed their gay colours against the grey sky. On the unruffled satin of the harbour the dark hulks and great white warship lay motionless.

As the contingent drew nearer the wharf, the crowd grew denser ; the bands crashed out ; wild hurrahs broke again and again from the bystanders, who climbed on every point of vantage for a last glimpse of the men. Here they came, the files of smart, upright men, their set brown faces under their soft hats turned towards the troopship. Clinging to many were weeping girls who for to-day cared not for mere conventionality. An old woman, in a shabby widow's bonnet, trotted along by the side of her tall young son, holding his hand as if she were the child and he her protector. It was fine, the cheers, the waving of flags, the crashing out of the blood-stirring martial airs; but beneath it all was a current of agony — the grief of those left behind, perhaps never to see their sons or lovers again.

Miriam Allan, with little Joyce, watched eagerly for the brave young face of her friend, but there was a curious similarity in the men as they marched past, not only in the dress and carriage and bronzed faces, but in the set mouth that dared not relax, and the stern eye that dared not soften.

Barbara was not far from Miriam. She wa:-- -unhappy and not in the least patriotic. The Hon. Jack had promised faithfully to take her to lunch, and then to the wharf. He had broken his promise — a mere bagatelle to him ; but to Bab, who had sat up the night before trimming a hat with red,

jfRIZE PHOTOGRAPHIC COMPETITION : SECTION 111.

white, and blue ribbon, and ironing a white frock, it was r. heart-breaking disappointment. Dick's company had been accepted as a last resource, and poor Dick was suffering a series of snubs and bearing them with alarming patience.

Suddenly Bab caught sight of the Hon. Jack in tender converse with a tall, slender girl in a most enviable grey frock and a big grey-feathered hat. The two passed quite close 1o her, and Barbara was sure the man had seen her, for he turned so quickly in the opposite direction. The girl flushed, and her eyes filled as Miss Vivian and her companion strolle.L across to the other side of the wharf. " I'm quite as pretty," she muttered ; " but I don't wear fine clothes, and haven't a thousand a year." Dick looked up

wonderingly at his sister, and then across to where she was staring. He saw the situation and ground his teeth, for he hated Jack Powell, and loved his sister, though she did " rag " him. He slipped his hand through her arm. " Never mind, Sis," he said, " he's a regular sweep ; and her get-up's not a patch on yours, anyway ! " Poor boy, he meant well, and though Bab knew his utter ignorance of feminine attire, his words consoled her a little.

The tramp of measured feet came nearer, and the strains of " Soldiers of the Queen " more distinct. Down the wharf came the dust-coloured rows of men " off to Table Bay." By the side of his column was Samuel Manders. Again Bab was struck by the difference the out-door training had made in him. There was no love-sickness about this man, with his keen stern eye, his firm lips, and his energetic walk. As he met her gaze, he saluted gravely ; but Dick rushed out of the crowd and caught his hand, pressing into it a knife he had bought with his scanty pocket-money. The grave face melted. " God bless you, Dick ! " he said, and patted the shoulder of the boy, who, with eyes full of tears, crept back to his sister's side. A little space was given the troopers to say farewell. At the end of the wharf were gathered friends and relatives, some weeping unrestrainedly, others with smiles sadder than tears. A grey-haired father stood with his arm about his tall son's neck, " I'd not keep you back, Jim, if I could ; but oh, laddie, I'm old, and it's hard to part."

Miriam and Joyce hurried by the sad little groups, looking for Lieutenant Manders. Suddenly he came toward them. Joyce ran into his arms with a little cry of joy, and he lifted the tiny white figure and laid his brown cheek against the gold curls.

"Good-bye, my dear little lass," he said; "good-bye, Miriam, my chum. Don't be very angry, dear, when you read the letter that is waiting you at home. Keep a place in your hearts for me, even if I never come back. Hush, little Joyce," as the childish sobs rose pitifully, " I can't bear to hear you cry. You must be brave, and say, ' God keep my soldier safe ! ' "

The white, tear-stained face was raised from his shoulder, and the child, with a sob, repeated the words :

" God keep you, my soldier," said Miriam, too, witf> eyes brimming with tears. " Thank you for your goodness to Joyce and me. We shall both long for your home-coming."

A sob, a kiss, and the man was striding up the gangway, not daring to look back. Very pale and stern, he leant against the railing with a little crushed posy of mignonette in his hand which Joyce had given him. He had become a great favourite with the men during the camp life, and many sympathetic eyes watched him as he stood a little apart from the rest. He had been always the one to help others in trouble and to cheer others in sorrow. " If a chap's in a bit of a 'ole," Trooper Farrell said one day to a crony, " go and make a clean breast of it to ' Sammy,' Ell ' rag ' you, but ell 'elp yer out." Even the volunteers on the wharf shared the feeling of admiration for the little lieutenant. " Good-bye, Sammy ! they yelled, staccato fashion ; and then, fortissimo, " Come back, . Sammy, with the Victoria Cross, and we'll make you Premier ! Lieutenant Manders laughed as he listened to this injunction, and turned away to cheer up a mere boy trooper who was leaving an invalid mother.

Down among the surging crowd was Bab and the Hon. Jack. Miss Vivian had found herself bored, and noticed a naval man hovering round who was far superior to her companion both in looks and conversation. So the Hon. Jack was forced to abdicate in favour of the dapper paymaster of H.M.S. Tasman, who was beautiful exceeding in blue and gold. Bab found her lover at her elbow. She was cross, but he soon convinced her that the vapid Miss Vivian had wearied him horribly, and that he had longed to be with her all the time. As for the lunch appointment, business interfered with that. A deft compliment on the new hat, and the pretty face beneath it, a tender look, and Bab was again in her fools' paradise. Proud of the tall, distinguished man who paid her such evident attention, she talked and laughed gaily, hardly heeding the heart-breaking partings around. All the troopers were now on board. The weird Maori war cries were given again and again, and received with shouts

and cheers by the crowds on the wharves. The steamers around, festooned with flags and black with people, were beginning to slip out to form the line between which the troopship should pass.

From the thronged khaki figures floated out, " Should auld acquaintance be forgot ! " Every other sound was hushed as the dear familiar tune rose up into the still air. Tear-wet faces were raised to- try to discern their loved ones, and, as the last words died away, a woman's despairing cry was heard. " A mother," said a man pitifully, " and a widow," as the frail old lady who had clung to her stalwart son's arm was carried fainting into one of the sheds.

But there was time for sorrow afterwards, and the bands crashed out anew. The volunteers yelled cheery messages to the troopers to bring back one of Cronje's teeth, or a lock of Kruger's hair; but the women were very silent, and stood, their hearts in their eyes, looking at the troopship.

Miriam and Joyce, hand in hand, moved a little aside, watching the little figure that had grown so dear to them. Bab and the Hon. Jack were close to the volunteers, and hemmed in against a shed wall. Suddenly there was a swirl in the crowd, and a sudden scatter and turmoil. A horse, ridden by one of the officers, had got beyond control. It reared, it plunged, it kicked furiously, scared by the noise and crowd. Nearer and nearer it came to where Bab and Powell were standing. For a second the scared rider seemed to have got him quietened, but the frightened animal reared again, throwing the man with a sickening thud on the wharf. Then with a mad dash, it made straight for the place where Bab was standing. With a shriek she clung to her lover's arm ; but he flung her from him with a curse, and swerved aside out of danger. She, a little heap of pitiful finery, lay all crushed under the hoof. The last sight in her eyes was the gleaming hoof above her head, the last sound Powell's fierce, " Damn you, let me go ! "

The unconscious girl was carried away, poor Dick trudging by the side of her bearers, the tears streaming down his face. As the sad little procession passed down the wharf, the troopship swung off from her moorings. From the men on board came shouts of farewell and wild hurrahs, and then, in a sudden silence, a tenor voice was heard singing the saddest of songs to wanderers, " Home, sweet home." Voice after voice joined in, till there was a flood of harmony that hushed the shouting and the bands. A stifled sob was heard here and there as the brave young voices .sang.

Down the misty harbour, between the lines of flag-decked crowded steamers, farewelled by the boom of cannon and the cheers and songs of a great multitude, the troopship passed out to the open sea. In saddened groups the crowd dispersed. The excitement was over ; the anxiety and grief remained.

Unconscious of the accident, Miriam and Joyce turned homewards, a little sad and silent. As she stepped into her sitting room, a waft of perfume met her. A great bunch of violets in a gold and scarlet bowl stood on her little table near the wicker chair, and a note lay near.

The tears she had not let fall all the afternoon dropped now fast, as she laid her cheek against the cool scented petals, her chum's gift to comfort her when he had gone. Joyce's cries of delight bewildered her, and telling the child to run out of the room, she opened the letter.

" Dear Little Chum, — I should like — yet I should be afraid — to watch your face as you read this. I cannot bear to go away and think of you wearing yourself out, and so I have dared — trembling a little, Miriam, because you are so proud with all your sweetness — to leave you this. Some day you can pay me back a thousandfold if I live, and if I die — why, surely I shall be happier to know — if I know anything — that you are free from care. If you will not take it for yourself, think of little fragile Joyce. Dear, the money is nothing to me except as a means to smooth out the tiny crease from your forehead that tells — I have watched it deepening for months — how hard a thing it is to live on a pound a week. I feel as if I were taking advantage of you. You cannot be cruel to me to-day, so perhaps you will take the contents. Write soon to Your Soldier Chum."

Down beside the violets sank the dark head. The bank notes — more than the girl had ever owned — fluttered unheeded to the floor as her tears fell fast on the little blotted note, erased and amended as if the writer had found it not easy to word. Little Joyce, running in with a cup of tea, "to cheer up poor Sis," found Miriam sobbing as if her heart would break. But they were tears without bitterness.

For weeks Bai'bara lay in the little room where, not so long ago, she had pirouetted and chatted so gaily of her lovers. The thin scarred face with the hollow blue eyes lay quiet on the pillow. For the slender limbs were paralysed, and Barbara would never move again. Friends were kind, and at first came often, but the girl was impatient and fretful, and one by one they ceased their visits. Only Miriam never was hurt or vexed, and told her tenderly of all the little gossip of the outside world in which Barbara would never move again. But the names of two men were never mentioned by the girls.

The Hon. Jack had contented himself with polite inquiries and conventional regrets. He had repeated his own version of the accident so often — with little addenda highly creditable to himself — that he had grown to consider himself quite a hero. So that when one day he found the men at his club turning the cold shoulder to him, and Miss Vivian actually cut him in the street, he could not understand it at all. He did not realise that his words and action had been noted and repeated — not at all to his own advantage. But things grew worse, and he thought it wise to shift his quarters, so he told Mrs Macdonald one morning that he was leaving for Sydney the next week. Upstairs, Bab heard the news very quietly. " Tell him, mother, I should like to see him before he

goes."

Mrs Macdonald was beginning a flood of objections ; but something in her daughter's eye hushed them. The Hon. Jack was jauntily brushing his hat in the hall and whistling " The Absent-minded Beggar." His face fell as he heard the message.

"Oh, Mrs Macdonald, I really couldn't. It might excite her too much, poor little girl. Besides, I'm not a bit of good, as some fellows are, in a sick-room."

" She wants to say good-bye," repeated the mother obstinately.

Very unwillingly the man followed the tired, bent figure up to the little room. Mrs Macdonald opened the door, and silently motioned him in, turning away herself at a look of entreaty from the pale little face on the pillow.

The man was aghast at the change. Three months had altered the bright beauty into a haggard, worn woman, whose hollow eyes were filled with a sorrow born of more than mere physical pain.

" Really, Miss — Bab, I'm awfully sorry to see you like this. I hope you'll soon be better. This fine weather will set you up again."

He glanced desperately at the strip of leaf-flecked blue sky above the muslin blind.

" I shall never walk again," said Barbara ; "and I only wanted to see you to tell you that I hate you. I owe all my suffering to you. A coward and a brute — that is what you are, though maybe no one knows it but me — and God. I pray no other poor woman finds it out to her sorrow."

" Miss Macdonald, you're quite mistaken. Your illness makes you imagine things. I haven't the slightest" idea to what you refer," blustered the man. " ' Damn you, let me go,' " repeated Babs, with her great blue eyes fixed on his pale face — "that is what you said to me. It is not likely I should ever forget it. And yet I have thought, lying here all the long days, I am better as I am without you than to have married you and found out too late what you were. You can go now. I have done with you — for ever !" The man took a hasty, angry step towards the bed, but his eyes met Barbara's, steadfast and sad. Without a word he turned and left the little room, feeling for once at least a very contemptible cur.

" Lieutenant Manders, shot while rescuing Trooper Irwin under a heavy fire." So ran the heartless cablegram that came one sunshiny morning. It darkened the little home where Miriam and Joyce still lived. It was not so shabby now, for Miriam had got plenty of work, and had been making the house charming against his home-coming. His cheery letters said nothing about immediate return, but the girl was ever hoping, and she and Joyce were ever planning some fresh surprise for "our soldier." A rose-coloured frock was made with deft fingers and laid aside in lavender. So was a straight little white silk frock for Joyce, who begged for a red, white, and blue sash to wear with it. A big wicker chair was softly padded with dull blue, and Miriam's fingers grew tender over the stitches as she pictured the tired head that would rest against its cushions. And, actually, in obedience to some delightfully imperious orders in his last

PRIZE PHOTOGRAPHIC COMPETITION, SECTION 111.

letter, Miriam had begun to make all sorts of dainty garments, over which she smiled and sang.

Somehow Death, had never entered into Miriam's calculations as she sang and smiled over her work, and thought of the friend that had grown into a lover. So when the news ■came that sunshiny autumn morning, it nearly killed her. Yet, broken-hearted though she was, she was proud of her dead hero. She found, by her lover's will, drawn out with the tenderest forethought before he sailed, that she was -almost a wealthy woman. . But she clung to the little home which he loved so well, and, though she garnished the room afresh, she kept untouched the shabby chair in which Lieutenant Manders and Joyce had sat that well-remembered evening. It is Miriam's seat now. Everyone understands that who comes to that sweet little room. And on the other side of the fireplace, screened from draughts, is a sofa on which lies a frail woman, with a face lined with suffering, but with hands ever busy for the poor. Barbara lives with Miriam now. Dick got his heart's desire, and went ■off to South Africa, and the mother died suddenly. Miriam, with quiet determination that the invalid could not, had she wished, have fought against, carried her away to her little house, saying playfully that now Joyce was growing up, she longed for someone to look after. Waiting on them both is tall Joyce, old enough now for a lover of her own. •She tells him, with a wisdom that knows the danger of flattery, that he will never be a hero like the man whose kind eyes look down from the portrait above the mantelpiece. The pretty lavender-scented clothes in the big trunk are Joyce's now, and she and Miriam often spend an hour folding and refolding the dainty garments that were made for one bride and are to be worn by another. Tears sometimes fall on the linen and lace as they talk of the man who lies in a lonely grave on the African veldt. When the lamp is lit and the fire burns clear, Miriam sits and plays softly on the old piano. Grave or gay, as her little audience desire, the music comes, but she always finishes with the Lieder that her lover played years before and left unfinished. She, too, stops always where he did. " He will finish it some day for me," she says, as she .goes to her seat and folds her hands. And his kindly eyes look down smilingly on the little group in the firelight : the happy lovers just stepping into fairyland, and the two women who have loved and lost. [Finis.]

" He who has not seen Cairo has not seen the world. Its soil is gold; its Nile is a wonder; its women are like the black-eyed virgins of Paradise." — Old Arabian Historian.