Sent Inti Exile.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXI, Issue XXVI, 24 December 1898, Page 808

Sent Inti Exile.

Author of ‘ A Rolling Stone,' ‘ Had He Known, and ‘ On a Lee Shore.’

,1W

C.E. Cheeseman.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CHAPTER VII. (Continued).

Yes, there were the orphans. I was not to leave without seeing them again. It seemed as if there were some fatality in this; at least so it looked to me by the light of after events. The children filed past me row after row of neatly uniformed boys and girls. Almost at the end of the procession, marched a girl who had a prouder bearing than her companions, and a more elastic step. Amongst so many unintelligent, com-mon-place faces hers was striking by its animation) the fire of thie dark eyes the delicacy of the ivory complexion. It was Hilda who looked at me and smiled. I waved my hand to her. The next moment the children had all passed by, and I had gone aboard the tender. The friendless little waif has had my last farewell, and faster and faster still the darkening shore is left behind.

Hours after this, I was walking to and fro on the deck. The night was cloudy and sultry; the sea had a thick and sluggish motion as if oil had been poured on the waves; the wind was a lazy, loitering wind that died away and came again by fits and starts. Even the steamer seemed lazy, and the monotonous throb of the engines as she forced her way onwards had a drowsy sound. I do not know of what I was thinking, for thought itself moved slowly on that dreamy night. But my vague fancies, whatever they might be, had nothing to do with the one who suddenly glided to my side, and timidly touched my hand. I was so astonished I actually started at the touch. ‘Hilda,’ I exclaimed, ‘is it you? However have you come here?’ She laughed; but the laughter had a sound of tears. The hand I had taken clasped mine tightly. ‘Oh, don’t be angry,’ she said, ‘please don’t be angry. No one but you has been good to me. No one else ever spoke nicely to us, or seemed sorry for us. 1 saw you were going away, and I heard people who were with us say that the steamer was leaving fo» Sydney, and I thought if I could get to Sydney, you would help me to find the people who knew my mother. So I ran away. 1 just slipped behind the rest, and dodged amongst the crowd. The other girls saw me; but they didn’t say anything. A lady with some children was going on the steamer, and I went on behind them, and no one noticed me. And then 1 hid myself till it was quite dark.’ ‘ And what am I to do with you ?’ I said. ‘ I suppose I must go and tell the captain that I’ve found a stowaway on board. What do you think he will say to that ?’

She must have thought I was speaking seriously, for at this she burst out crying. ‘ No. don’t tell him,’ she sobbed. ‘We haven’t got very far yet, and he might send me baek again. Oh. I can't stay here, where nobody cares

about me. In Sydney there are plenty of people who knew my mother, and who would pay the captain for letting me come in his ship. Mr Tomlins would if he knew. You might take care of me for a little while.’

Who could have withstood that appeal ? Even in the dusky light I saw the big tears upon her cheek, the imploring gaz.e of her eyes. ‘ Hilda,'

I said, ‘ I will take care of you. Don’t be afraid, the captain won’t send you back again. If I can help it, you shall never go back. Stay here quietly for a moment. Let me wrap this plaid round you, though. I will be back again immediately.’ I sought the captain. We were not strangers to each other. I had fallen in with him on some of my previous voyagings.

‘ Captain,’ I said, ‘ I have some news for you. I have found a stowaway.’ ‘ A stowaway ! ’ The captain's eyes opened widely. ‘ You found a stowaway ? You must be joking Mr Blake. It’s a little early for our free passengers—if we have any—to show themselves. I’m not so much troubled with them as I used to be, when I was on one of the Atlantic liners. When I was second officer of the Scythia we had them by the dozen and more. 1 tell you I got so sick of the thing once, when I’d found fourteen, that I went and shouted down to them,

“ Now, if there are any more of you fellows hiding below, just come up at once, and let’s have done with you.” You may believe me or not, but the words were hardly out of my mouth when nine or more came up, and Withers, our chief officer, said he could almost have taken an oath that the ship was clear of them.’ ‘ Captain,’ I said, ‘ this is a very small stowaway. Could you come with me for a few minutes. I would like you to inspect this free passenger ’

The captain stared at me still more. What he thought I don't know ; but in a few words I satisfied his curiosity. 1 told him what 1 knew of Hilda, and he was as sympathetic as 1 could desire. He followed me to where I had left her.

You may trust a sailor to be kind to children. In a few minutes the captain was sitting beside the little stowaway, and talking to her in a manner that soon dispelled her fears. Afterwards he went with me to give Hilda into the charge of a stewardess, and was careful in ordering that she should have every attention. There was no need for this injunction. Her advent created quite a sensation among the ladies, and every one wanted to show kindness to the child. It was a happy little faee that beamed upon me. when I said good night to her.

I had acted impulsively, no doubt, but I am not sure whether our best actions are not done on the impulse of the moment. It is true . that sometimes I wondered what I was to do with my charge when I arrived in Sydney.' and how long I should be in finding her friends—it appeared that she had no relatives there. But 1 consoled myself—it would be all right if I met with Cousin Anne. She would know exactly what ought to be done, and she would not be slack in telling me. But I wasn’t certain about my cousin—or my aunt, as she insists on being called, merely, I believe, for the sake of claiming greater authority. No one could be certain of Miss Winter for very long. By this time she might have flown off to Fiji ; she might be in New Caledonia, studying the French convict system. Well, what if she were not in Sydney ? Surely it was not hard to take care of n child of ten years. If she had been my sister. I should have found no

difficulty in the matter. Again I seemed to hear the pleading words : ‘You might take care of me for a little while !’ I saw the large clear eyes, all wet with tears, looking into mine. The little stowaway should not want for help that I could give.

CHAPTER VIII.

HILDA FINDS A HOME. We were in Sydney—l and my youthful charge. With this young lady of ten in my eare I had begun to feel quite grave and elderly. The captain had rallied me about the responsibility I had taken on myself. I didn’t feel quite comfortable when I thought over the matter. There was the Board to be reckoned with. A Board has no conscience, no soul, no brain. It was impossible to foresee what such an anomalons creature might proceed to do or say, when it was advised of the fact that its runaway ward was in Sydney, and that I was partly responsible for her escape. I was not conscious of having done anything wrong ; but it was highly probable that I had acted illegally. Even of this I was not certain, my ideas about law being of the most vague and shadowy description. I knew the ten commandments ; but the laws and enactments of the British empire and the various Boards which muddle through its government are upwards of ten hundred thousand, and for all I could tell I might have broken a great many of them. ‘ You’ve been rather impulsive, Mr Blake,’ said the worthy captain. ‘ I think all the better of you for it ; but there are some who might not. It’s a weak point in your case that when we found the little girl on board it wasn’t by any means too late to have sent her back to her lawful guardians. Perhaps some one will say that’s what should have been done.’

‘ But you, yourself, Captain ?’ I asked. ‘ What did you say ? ‘Yes, yes, I know what I said. But, to tell you the truth, she reminded me of a little maid I have at home, and so I couldn’t do what the Board may conceive to have been my duty. But if I were you, I’d write to them at once.’

‘Oh, the Board!’ I said, irritably, and inwardly I anathematised that body of virtuous citizens. I foresaw myself involved in correspondence with them. I should be tied up and entangled—l might say strangled—in those endless coils of red tape with which a Board is as liberally provided as a spider is with material for its web. ‘I shall certainly let them know at once,’ I said. ‘As for the little girl, I am taking her to a relative of mine, Miss Winter, who is now in Sydney.’ The captain looked interested. ‘Miss Winter? The celebrated lady traveller? 1 had the pleasure of having her as a passenger once.’ ‘I have no doubt,’ I said. ‘I believe she has been on ejery line of passenger steamers in the world.’

My cousinly aunt was still in Sydney. I found her at the boardinghouse from which her last letter had been written. It was surprising to me that she should have been rooted to one spot for so long. It was years since we had met, and 1 was glad to look upon her pleasant face again. Pleasant it was, not only from expression, but also by reason of its comeliness. As for the rest, let any one imagine a very tall and slightly-built figure, a handsome coiffure of grey hair—it must have silvered \ery early—a clear-toned voice, which I have heard say some sharp things, but never an ill-natured one, and a hand which was cool and firm and strong to the grasp. Let any one, I say, imagine this, and he will have a very good idea of the lady who called herself my aunt Anne. When I reached her sitting-room she was standing before a large easel, anxiously regarding the painting upon it. She threw down her implements, and came to meet me with outstretched hands. ‘Cecil! my dear boy, how glad I

am to see you. And how well you are looking. I was afraid that you might be ill. Why didn’t you write? I had no answer to my last three letters.’ ‘I am very sorry,’ I said, guiltily. ‘lt was unkind to leave you so long in uncertainty. But just then the world wasn’t going well with me, and I did not wish to trouble you with bad news. I thought I would wait until I had something better to tell you; and then I thought I would come myself instead of sending a letter.’

‘But have you left your business?’ said my aunt, who was nothing if not practical. ‘Or is it business thaft brings you here? I hope, Cecil, that you are employed in some way. You talk about not wanting to trouble me, but I assure you that while I had no news at all I was very troubled. I knew that if you had been successful you would have told me. You ought to have something to do—to be settled in some trade or profession. It is late enough for you to be making a choice.’

‘That is very true,’ I replied. ‘ I have found it too late or too early for almost everything. But I have something to do, or I could hardly have come here.’

‘I am very glad that you have succeeded. What- is it? Have you gone into trade?’

‘Not exactly,’ I replied, mysteriously. ‘May I wait a while before I tell you? I want to consult with you about something else. You know how 1 value your advice.’

‘I don’t know,’ said my aunt, trying to look stern and forbidding. ‘The last time I offered you advice you wouldn’t take it. If you had done as I wished you would have been a thriving barrister by this time.’ I shook my head. ‘A briefless barrister, you mean. What was Ito subsist on while I read law and waited for some one to employ me? If I could have hibernated while the briefs came in, I would have done as you wished.’

‘You know very well what you could have subsisted on,’ said my aunt, reproachfully.

‘I do indeed. I spoke foolishly. I don’t undervalue your kindness; but I’m glad I didn’t take advantage of it. I had burdened you too long.’ ‘What was it you wished to consult with me about?’

‘lt is about some one else, rather than myself. I haven’t come alone. I have a little girl with me. She has no one to look after her; indeed, I suppose lam her only friend. I have promised to do what I can for her, and I thought that you might help me.’

My aunt almost jumped. ‘Good gracious, Cecil !i A little girl! Why, you’re hardly able to manage your own affairs, and you must take that responsibility on your shoulders. Wherever did you find the child, and what do you mean to do for her? I really did not think that you were so romantic—a modern Don Quixote.’ ‘lf I am Don Quixote,’ I said, ‘then you are Donna Quixota, for I am sure that in my place you would have done the same thing.’ I told her the story from the beginning, and I could see that she was interested in my account of Hilda. ‘Where is the child?’ she said. ‘Why didn't you bring her with you ?’ ‘I left her at the hotel,’ I said. ‘I did not like to bring her here until I had seen you. Besides, I was not quite certain of finding you. You are such a bird of passage that no one can be certain of you for long.’ ‘Oh, I am here for some time. I have my paintings to finish. What do you think of these Australian flowers ?’

I said that I admired them very much, and so I did. One can say that conscientiously of most flowers. But I had too much respect for my aunt to tell her what I really thought of the execution of the various paintings she dragged from her portfolios, or of the enormous one that was on the

easel. My aunt was a clever woman in many ways, but she was not an artist. ‘Where are you staying?’ she asked. I told her the name of my hotel. ‘That is not far off. If you are not too busy go and bring this wonderful child, and let me have a look at her. But, remember, I’m not going to do anything foolish or sentimental. If you think that I shall help you out of your difficulty by adopting the little girl, or providing for her in some way, you are greatly mistaken.’ I laughed. ‘Whoever thought of such a thing? I don’t know that lam in a difficulty. I have only set myself the task of finding her father, and sending her to him.’ ‘Her father! You may depend upon it, he is some scapegrace. If he were good for anything he would have found out where his child was, and claimed her long ago. Of course I don’t want to be unfeeling, and if you like, I will take charge of the poor child while we hear if she has any relatives who are likely to be of service to her, but the common sense solution of the whole matter would be to send her baek to the institution she came from—the Board or whatever you may “all it.’ I went to my hotel, and in a short space of time was back again with Hilda. As soon as my aunt had seen her, she appeared in a hurry to get her into her possession. She was fond of all children; but she was irresistibly attracted by a pretty child. ‘Really, Cecil,’ sh|e said, drawing me aside, ‘I don’t know when I’ve seen a more interesting little girl. I’ve taken a great fancy to her. She is no ordinary child. Such a noble face, is it not? And considering her disadvantages, poor thing, she has such nice manners. No one need tell me that her mother was not a gentlewoman. I am sure of it. It is a great pity that she should have to grow up amongst ignorant illbred children.’

‘Yes,’ I said wickedly; ‘but your advice was that she should be sent back again. Didn’t you say that was the common sense solution of the whole matter?’ ‘Yes; but we must not be too hasty. We’ll have to write to that Board you are always talking about before we can do anything. But it’s a shame that a handsome, intelligent child like that should have no better prospect in life than that of being brought up by a Board! They send the girls out to service when they are grown up, don’t they? Well, think of that. Is that the sort of girl that should be sent into a kitchen to scour pots and pans?’ ‘Really, I don’t know,’ I said, with pretended indifference. It’s a useful occupation. It’s highly desirable that the pots and pans should be scoured. For my part, I think it’s a pity that a good many people whose imagination soars above the kitchen can’t be dismissed to that humble place. They’d be more useful in attending to its duties, than in straining after things they can never reach, or in pretending to something which they never had.’

‘Cecil, you have a most irritating manner. How like a man you are!’ ‘I hope so,’ I said. ‘What else can you expect me to resemble?’ ‘I might expect you to rise above commonplace views and opinions. I say that no amount of training or drudgery or repression will turn that child into an ordinary servant girl. She hasn’t sprung from that class, and you have no right to force her into it. Half the misery in this world comes from people being forced into the wrong places. She’s too clever for any common position, and she’s a great deal too handsome. Now you may say what you like’— ‘My dear aunt,’ I remonstrated, ‘I am saying nothing at all.’ ‘But you were going to say. AH you men cling to a system, a set of rules. If you’d a thousand children to look after’—l groaned in protest—‘you’d try to make them all into one sort of person, as if they were manufactured articles, and could be turned out by any amount, exactly alike. You and your Board.’

‘I and my Board!’ I exclaimed. ‘I protest against being tacked on to any Board. Why are you so fierce against that unfortunate institution; and why am I to be attacked? I’m not aware that there’s any conspiracy on foot to turn Hilda into what you call an ordinary servant girl. If 'there is. I will help you to circutn-

vent it. But first of all, I want your help in another matter. I want to commission you to spend this for Hilda —to buy her some frocks and things. I believe that with the exception of what has been given her by one or two of the ladies on board th»e steamer, she has nothing but what she is wearing now.’ ‘Frocks and things,’ said my aunt, looking at what I had given her. ‘Why, Cecil, this is enough to keep the child in clothes for two years!’ ‘Oh, well,’ I said, ‘it’s best to be on the right side. You can’t expect me to understand such abstruse matters as the qualities and prices of drapery goods. That’s the difficulty I wanted to shelve. I think myself well out of it.'

‘l’m not going to take this,’ said my aunt decidedly. ‘I want to buy her things myself. Why shouldn’t I? It’s very seldom I have the pleasure of shopping. My clothes last such a time, and on principle I can’t dispose of them before they’re half worn out. Besides I’m not going to encourage you in extravagance. I know you can’t afford to throw away money at this rate. There, take that back and go and attend to your business, if you have any, which I doubt. You can come in at the end of the day, and dine with me. and then I shall expect to hear what you are engaged in.’ ‘I will come and dine with pleasure,’ said I, ‘but I shall have to leave you earl.y in the evening, for that is my busiest time. As for my business, it is this,’ and I showed her one of my printed cards. ‘Come and hear me to-night. It is mv first appearance in Sydney.’ My aunt looked at me in astonishment. ‘This?’ she asked, taking the card from my hand. ‘This!’ and there was disappointment in the tone of her voice. She seemed to check herself and said quietly that she would be pleased to hear me, and that she hoped I would do well. Her face was clouded by' an expression of grave displeasure; she had the mortified air

of one who found her aims defeated. 1 was humbled. I felt ashamed of myself, and the poor result of a University education. In the evening we dined together—a dinner party of three, for Hilda sat at the table with us. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled with happy excitement, and besides, she was transfigured almost beyond my knowledge in a wonderful new frock. ‘Yes, that suits her admirably,’ my aunt observed. ‘What did you say, Cecil?—too fine!’ I had said nothing; but 1 was accustomed to having all sorts of observations attributed to me. ‘lt is just about as durable as anything I could buy. It is always economical to get good things for children.’ ‘Oh. certainly,’ I said, ‘I was only thinking of the consternation of Hilda’s legal guardians and protectors, if we were to send her back to them in that attire.’ ‘She is not going back just yet,’ said my aunt; and 1 smiled and held my peace. I had no reason to be disappointed with the result of my first appearance in Sydney. It was more successful than I had dared to expect. When it wsis over, and I had joined my aunt again, she took my hand and pressed it between both her own. ‘Cecil. I am afraid I let you see I was a little dissatisfied with you. I am afraid I hurt you.’ ‘You never hurt me in all your life,’ 1 said, ‘You are incapable of hurting anyone.’ 'But I had no right to be dissatisfied. You have done well for yourself.’ ‘ I can do nothing but this, that is plain truth,’ I answered. ‘ I am fit for nothing else. You had a right to be disappointed. Here am I, after all you have done for me, unable to fill any useful position or aspire to any sort of a career. I am making a living' out of what used to be the amusement of my leisure hours. To learn things by heart, to stand on a plat-

form, and repeat them to people is all that I can do.’

' But if they are good things ?’ said Anne Winter smiling at me. 'lf they are the best in our language ? If they help people to forget their troubles, their work and worries to be happier perhaps wiser, than they were before? Is that anything to complain of '? You are digging in an inexhaustible gold mine. You may spend your life in telling people the liable and beautiful things that have been written in English. and not get through them all. And most people need telling. They talk about the riches of English literature, and read trash. You were brilliant to-night, Cecil. I was proud of you. But never tell me again that your splendid training at the University was wasted upon you. But for that you would not have done so well to-da v.’

My aunt’s old belief was still unshaken. Perhaps she was right. By habit 1 defer to her opinon, and 1 have always thought that she made fewer mistakes than most persons. We spent the day together, and our consultation was of Hilda.. We listened to her story, told in the simple, straightforward manner of a child. In a few words we were made to understand the different characters of her parents, and the circumstances which had led to her being separated from them. Her father she scarcely mentioned. She seemed to pity him. to regard him with compassion rather than affection—a strange feeling for a child to have for its father. But when she spoke of her mother the tears eame into her eyes, she lingered over the dear name as if she loved the very sound.

She had parted from her mother at Auckland. Mrs Dalzell giving her into the charge of a trustworthy woman who had promised to see her safe to England. The theatrical company of which Mr and Mrs Dalzell were members went on to San Francisco. So swiftly and secretly had this exchange of Hilda been effected that her father could have known nothing of it until it was too late to protest. 1 was sorry about papa,’ Hilda said. ' I said good-bye to him ; but he didn t know I was going away altogether. Mother promised to tell him afterwards.

’ I went with Mrs Parkes. But when we got to England we could not find Mrs King - , the lady - I was to stay with. Iler house was shut up. At last some one told us that she had been very ill—that she was dying, I think, and that Mr King- had taken her and the children away to France. We were dreadfully disappointed ; but Mrs Parkes said she would write direct I v and ask mother what she should do next. But I don’t think she did write. She didn’t know any one in the town ; but she expected to get a situation, and 1 was to live with her till mother sent word about me. But only a day or two after this she turned ill. They said it was a fit. 1 was very frightened. her face looked so strange. I was with her when she fell down, and I tried to lift her up ; but she was too heavy for me. Then I ran and called the people in the house, and they carried her into her room. And ail that day and all the next we waited for her to come to herself, but she never spoke again. ’ She died and then no one seemed to care what became of me. I told them what I've told you ; but they didn't want to take any trouble, or they didn’t know what to do. I tried to write to mother, and they sent a letter themselves, and put mine inside ; but I wasn’t quite sure what place I ought to write to. and I suppose it was all wrong, for no answer came. Oh. I wondered and wondered if mother would ever find out where I was and send for me. I didn't know that she couldn’t ; I didn't know that she had died.’

’ My poor chiltl !’ said Anne Winter, putting her arm round her. ‘ Don't cry. my dear. We only ask you to tell us this that we may know how to help you.’ Hilda continued: ‘The people in the house got tired of me. They said I bothered them with always talking about my mother, and asking them to write letters. They wanted me to work for them, and I couldn’t do much. I hadn’t been used to it. Then they said they couldn’t afford to keep me. They were very poor. I begged of them to let me stay till my mother wrote—l thought she might semi a. letter yet and I offered to work harder than ever if only they would not send me to an orphanage.

But they did not seem to believe anything I said now. 1 belonged to nobody, they told me, and I'd better be with the children who were like me. So I was taken to the Orphanage, and after I had been there some time, to Mrs Svarfield's.' ‘ And now,’ said my aunt, from whose verbatim report of Hilda's story, written down at the time, I have copied this— * You have come to us, and we are going to try to find some one who will take care of you. Your father cannot know where you are, or he would send for you. We ought to be able to hear of him, or to meet with some one who knew him. Don't you remember the names of any of your friends or the people who were kind to you.’

‘There was Mr Tomlins, the manager,' said Hilda. ‘He was very kind to me and Isabel. Most people liked him. He was cross sometimes ; but no one minded that.' * Mr Tondins, the manager, who was cross sometimes ? I said. ‘That isn't a heavy indictment against him. I’m suspicious of people who are not cross sometimes . You know, Hilda, there are papers which give all the theatrical news. We have only to look in them to see where all the well-known actors, and the managers and their companies are. If your father is still acting, we are almost sure to find out where he is. Or if his name is not mentioned, we may come upon Mr Tomlins, and if we wrote to him it is very likely that he would be able to tell us something about your father. In one way or another, we shall hear of him very soon.’

‘So you see.’ said my aunt, ‘ that you are not going to be a little castaway much longer. You do belong to somebody. Instead of sending you back to the Orphanage, we may be sending you to your own home by and bv. What do you say to that, Hilda.?’

The child turned suddenly to my aunt and threw her arms round her neck. ‘lf mother were here,’ she said, ‘ she would love you !’

We explored the theatrical newspapers, and very soon came upon the name of Mr Tondins. He was in Melbourne. But we found no mention of Hilda's father. I wrote to Mr Tomlins, and was promptly answered by the manager, whose letter I transcribe in full.

‘ My dear Sir, —1 have just read your letter and am very much interested by what you tell me. You have explained a mystery which has often puzzled me. 1 had a. sincere respect for the late Mrs Dalzell, and am glad to hear that her daughter has been rescued from a most unfortunate situation. If I can befriend her in any way. I shall be very happy to do so. I understand that she is in charge of Miss Winter, a lady whose name is well known to me. It was a fortunate accident which brought her into such good hands. You seem to be acquainted with most of the circumstances connected with this matter, so I need not go into detail. Mrs Dalzell died about a year ago. She never told any one what she had done with the child, and I don’t think that Mr Dalzell succeeded in obtaining the slightest clue that might lead to her discovery. You say that you are anxious to send the little girl to her father, or to some one who has the right to provide for her. I have no idea where Mr Dalzell is to he found; 1 lost sight of him some time ago. Since his wife's death he has fallen lower and lower. While she lived he made some fight against his bad habits: afterwards it seemed as if he didn’t care how fast he went downwards. I am sorry to have to write this, for in spite of his failings, I liked the man, and have done what I could to help him. But he is one whom no one can help. To put it in plain terms, he is drinking himself to death—at least that was the last I heard of him. You cannot give a young girl into the charge of such a man. even if he should happen to be her father. But there need be no difficulty about providing for the child. If I am allowed to do that I shall not think it a burden. I knew her as a baby, I might say. I knew her mother eighteen years ago. when she was beginning her career as an nctress. I have no children of my own to look after. I never married, and never shall. I’m not altogether unknown in Melbourne and Sydney, and if any one wants to find out whether I am a fit guardian for the child, it will be easv enough

to <lo so. 1 would see that she was eaietully brought up aud educated. She needn’t have anything to io with the stage, in that matter 1 should like to respect her mother’s wishes. She would have all the advantages I would give to a daughter of my own 1 can say no more than that. In conclusion, my’ dear sir, 1 may say that I shall anxiously await further instructions from you as to what course I ought to pursue. lam doubtful whether I ought not to communicate with the charitable institution which had the charge of the child. Yoi: mention a Board. What Board? 1 am not fond of Boards; hut no dr übt certain legal formalities will be required.—l am, yours truly, SAMUEL J. TOMLINS. ‘Mr Tomlins seems to stand in awe of the Board as much as you do,’ observed my aunt. ‘What shall we do about this, Cecil? Ought we to send Hilda to him? Would it be the best thing fcr her?’ ‘lt is impossible to say,’ I answered. ‘1 don’t suppose it would be a bad thing. From all that I can hear this Tomlins bears the character of being a very honest man. He is respectable in his profession; he is well enough eff to provide for several adopted daughters if he wished, but— ’ ‘I believe you don’t like sending her away,’ said my aunt, suddenly. •You needn't twit me with that,’ I replied. ‘You know you don't want to send her. and what’s more, T believe yon don't intend to do it.’ ‘How can you say so. Cecil? T should never think of allowing any selfish considerations to influence me. All that I'm anxious about is to do the best for her. But it is difficult to know what is the best. I feel that we have made ourselves responsible for her, and if we should accept this offer from Mr Tomlins, and it should turn out unfortunately, I should always reproach myself for having sent her a wav. Perhaps it is intended that we should keep her.’ ‘ln that case I suppose we shall The question is narrowed down to one of two things. We have done with the Board.’ We had had some correspondence with that august body, and it had calmly acquiesced in our proposal to relieve them of their ward. ‘We must take care of Hilda ourselves, or we must send her to Mr Tomlins. Wouldn’t it be as well to ask her to decide? She ought to have some say’ in the matter.' ‘How can she decide?’ said my aunt. ‘She is too young to understand what would be the best for her. And yet. we shall have to tell her that she can't go to her father, and she will want to know why. It is painful to think of. Surely we needn't let her know what we have heard of him.’ ‘1 am afraid she understands his character only too well,' 1 said, ‘I don't think you need explain to Hilda why her father cannot take care of her. The simple statement will be enough.’

We questioned Hilda, but were no nearer to a decision for all our questioning. We could not discover which the child preferred—to go or stay. She would do as we liked.

‘You would be pleased to go to Melliotime. woubl you not?’ said my

aunt. 'Mr Tomlins would be very kind to you. lou liked him —you told us so—and he was a friend of your mother.’ 'its, Hilda said, ‘Mr Tomlins was very good to us.' T here was a puzzled expression on her face, and she glanced from one to the other of us, with a look that seemed to say, ‘Are you also tired of me?' Poor little waif! Her knowledge of this world had not led her to expect much of her fellow creatures. 'Hilda,' 1 said, ‘do you remember what I promised you when 1 found you on the steamer?' She smiled faintly. ‘Oh, yes.’ ‘I don’t mean to break that promise. You shall not be sent away unless you wish to go. Would you like to stay with us?’ ‘Not if you thought I’d better go,' she answered. 'lt’s distracting.' said my aunt, when in the earlier part of the evening I had looked in upon her, before going to my recitation. ‘You are no use at all, Cecil.’ I knew what this meant. My aunt would have been much relieved in mind if 1 had cut the Gordian knot by boldly asserting that Hilda should not go.

'Why don’t you decide?' I said. ‘Decide! How can I? I have got so fond of the child.’ ‘Well. then, why should you want to separate yourself from her?’ ‘But this Mr Tomlins is a wealthy man. You said so yourself. He means to provide for her as if she were his own daughter, Cecil, I know his motive. In his letter I can read between the lines.’

‘Very likely,’ I said: ‘that’s an accomplishment which most ladies possess. They can always read between the lines—a great deal that the writer never imagined.’

‘Why, don’t yon think he's sincere? Is there anything wrong with him?’ my aunt cried, catching at another idea.

■Nothing at all. T believe he is a good sort of man; and he’s wealthy, as you say. If yon think you can’t give Hilda any advantages to counterbalance the fortune, we’d better send her to him at once. I suppose, though, there are some things which are better than a fortune. The care and the example of a good woman ought to be worth something. Tomlins may hire the most accomplished governesses, and all sorts of attendants, but he is hardly likely to have any one in his establishment that, resembles my aunt.’ My aunt turned upon me with indignation. ‘Cecil, you are trying to get on the blind side of me. You sit there and make fun of me, and don't say a word that’s worth listening to.’ ‘I don’t make fun of you. I was perfectly serious. But if you really can’t make up your mind to take the course which in various ways I have suggested to you. there is only one thing I can think of. We had better toss up for it.' ‘What an idea! I don't think it’s right to settle an important matter in that way. It seems a thoughtless, irreverent, action.’ ‘ln old times people took a different view. Now. then.’ and I took a sove-

reign from my purse, ‘let the heat} of our most gracious Queen represent Tomlins. We will stake our chances on the obverse side.’

I spun the eoin and called out, ‘Hallo! if I dont declare, it’s Heads!’ ‘lt isn’t!’ cried my aunt, quite excitedly. ‘Cecil, I saw you—l saw you turn it. over! You bad boy, how can you cheat me like that! No; if we must do such a foolish thing, I will manage it myself. We’ll draw lots this time. I will hold the lots, and you shall draw.’ Will you abide by the result?’ I asked.

’I will,' said my aunt, solemnly. She cut two strips off the edge of a piece of cardboard, upon which some extraordinary landscape had been sketched. ‘lf you draw the short strip.’ she said, offering the lots to me. ‘it means that Hilda is to stay.’

I drew. Undoubtedly it was a short strip—a very short one. ‘She stays!’ I said, triumphantly. ‘There! acknowledge that that was what you wanted all along.'

My aunt made some evasive reply. I quietly possessed myself of the other strip, which in an unguarded moment had slipped from her fingers, and compared it with the one I had just drawn. They were of exactly the same length. ‘What’s this?’ I said, affecting to be very much shocked. ‘Oh, aunty, aunty, I am ashamed of you! You to talk to me about my cheaterv.’

‘I couldn’t help it!’ gasped my aunt, with a sudden burst of laughter. ‘Cecil, how dare you look so virtuous! You know it’s just what, you meant to do yourself. You thought that sovereign had come down the other way up, or you wouldn’t have meddled with it. But this is all nonsense. We are two foolish creatures. I’ve made up my mind at last. If fifty lots go against it. I don’t care. Hilda must stay. I can't spare her.’ (To be Continued.)