''Tis my father,' whispered Ralph; 'he was wounded in the thigh by a ball at Newbury; but I got him on his horse and set off in the darkness, hoping to reach Oxford somehow. But we had gone but eight miles when he fainted and fell from his horse. Some one was riding up behind, and careless whether it were friend or foe so long as I found help, I cried out. It was your brother, and he, in grat.i.tude for some slight service which I did him months ago, held the horse while I lifted my father up, and then guided us to the entrance to that pa.s.sage,' pointing to the door in the corner; ''tis in an old tower a mile hence, and so we brought him here.'

'Antony brought him! Antony here, and did not tell me?' cried Millicent hastily.

'He had no time; in truth he laid himself open to suspicion by loitering so long. But see! my father wakes,' and he hurried forward as the old man raised himself on his arm and gazed round.

'Water,' he muttered; 'water, Ralph! I feel weak,' and he fell back again unconscious.

'He has had no food since he left the field, and my water-flagon is long since empty,' explained Ralph. 'I thought that mayhap you could get us some food in the night when the household is quiet, for I too am well-nigh famished.'

'Famished!' cried Millicent impetuously; 'I should think so. I shall go and get some food this very moment.'

'But stay!' said her companion hastily; 'we are safe so far, but a little want of caution would ruin all; rather wait than be discovered.'

'Antony said you could trust me,' she said proudly, and she vanished through the panel, shutting it carefully behind her, leaving Ralph wondering if he had done rightly in trusting his secret to this impulsive young girl. There was something in her face, however, which gave him confidence.

It seemed a long time before he heard a little tap on the wood, and, drawing back the door, he found her standing with her arms full. In one hand she held a gla.s.s of milk, while under her arm was a flagon, and in her ap.r.o.n was a large loaf of bread, with some cups and a knife.

'I got these easily from the cellar,' she said, 'but I could not bring any meat, for old Joan was in the b.u.t.tery; I must get that at night.'

To Ralph, faint with hunger, what she had brought was food fit for a king, and he began to feed his father while Millicent slipped away to her room again.

That night, when every one was asleep, Millicent went up and down the house without her shoes, flitting about like a ghost from place to place, taking things here and there which she did not think would be missed. Some blankets from the great chest in the gallery, a pair of sheets, an old shirt of Antony's, some soft rags, a good supply of provisions--anything, in short, that she thought would be of use to the two occupants of the hidden room, for she knew that she must not visit them too often, in case her secret was discovered. When she had collected them in a heap behind the panel, she tapped lightly on the wood and Ralph came. The tears came into his eyes when he saw the comforts which she had gathered together.

'May Heaven reward you,' he said, 'for I cannot.'

'Nay,' answered Millicent, ''tis but little to thank me for, as you will find if you have an appet.i.te like Antony; for there were only one round of beef and two pasties in the b.u.t.tery, and I dare not take too much for fear Martha the cook should notice in the morning; and I must not come again till to-morrow night, but then I will bring a few eggs--they will nourish your father.'

And with a sigh of relief Millicent saw him disappear with the things; and she went to sleep thinking that after all it would not be so difficult to provide the strangers with food until the old knight was able to travel, and no one would ever find out.

Alas! her troubles were just beginning, for next evening, while she was waiting in her room until it was safe to carry food to the fugitives, a small stone came sharply against the window, and, looking out, she saw a dark figure standing in the shadow of the great yew-tree.

'Who is there?' she cried softly.

''Tis I, Mistress,' said the figure, moving close up to the window. It was Mark Field, Antony's own man and foster-brother.

'What brings you here, Mark? Has aught befallen Antony?' she asked in haste.

'Nay, the young master is well and safe in London, Mistress Millicent, but he bade me carry this note to you and to deliver it into none other hands but yours. It is of importance, for he bade me ride like the wind and spare not my steed, and I was to tell no man I was here, or wait for an answer, but just give it to thee, get a fresh nag from the stable and hasten back to London, so that no man might mark my absence; so good-night, Mistress,' and the honest fellow handed up the paper to Millicent and vanished in the darkness.

She opened it and read: 'Dearest,--Rumours have got abroad that Sir Denvil de Foulkes and his son are harbouring near Ba.s.set Court. Our father knows nought of the matter, and is anxious that troopers be sent to watch the district. They will live at the Court and doubtless search the house. Set your wits to work, for my honour is at stake. I would fain have those two escape. The younger had better depart; his appearance with the King's force would remove suspicion. For the other you must do your best.--ANTONY.'

Millicent sat still for a long time. The danger was great, but her courage rose to meet it. If she could prevent it, no harm would come to the helpless old man in the secret room; neither would the disgrace of having harboured an enemy fall on her father. No one, so far as she knew, knew aught of the hidden room. If the soldiers could be kept from discovering that, all might be well. There seemed only one way to prevent them doing so. If she were ill and in bed while they were in the house, they would not search her room too narrowly.

But her conscience told her that she must really be ill, not pretend; and she gave a shiver as she thought of a mixture of mustard-and-water which Aunt Deborah had administered to Marjorie once when she mistook laburnum-pods for peas. She remembered how ill the child was afterwards, and she thought if she could make herself as ill as that, there would be no deceit in saying she could not get up.

Having come to this decision she rose, and tapping on the panel, she was soon talking over the situation with Ralph and his father, whose wound was healing, although he was not yet able to walk. When he heard the contents of the letter he was anxious to give himself up, rather than bring disgrace and danger on the house which had sheltered him; but this Millicent would not hear of.

Ralph at once began his preparations for his departure, as he felt that Antony's advice was good, and that if once he were known to have joined the King at Oxford the search for his father might be given up. Oxford was only some thirty miles distant, and if he started at once he would not be far from it at daybreak.

Millicent's heart felt heavy when, after bidding her a courteous adieu and embracing his father, he vanished along the dark pa.s.sage which led to the opening in the woods. She wondered if she would ever meet him again. She a Puritan, he a Cavalier--their lots seemed to lie so far apart.

Before the thought had pa.s.sed he was back in the room again. 'The way is blocked,' he said; 'the rains have loosened the soil, and there has been a heavy fall of earth. 'Tis so much the better for you, father; even had the soldiers not discovered the door in the wainscot, they might have found the other entrance in the woods. The question is, how am I to get out?'

'You must get out through my window,' said Millicent; ''tis not far from the ground, and there is the apple-tree.'

Ralph did not speak as he followed her up the steps and through the room to where the cas.e.m.e.nt-window stood half open, but he turned before he swung himself over the sill.

'Hitherto have I dreamt of no fair lady save my mother,' he said; 'she had ever been my guardian angel. Now your face will mingle with hers in my memory, and your name with hers in my prayers. These are troublous times, but if I live I will see you again some time, and meanwhile, as a remembrance, may I have these?' and he touched a bunch of yellow roses which she wore in her belt.

Hardly knowing what she did, she placed them in his hand, and a moment afterwards she was alone. She stood a long time where he left her; then awaking from her reverie, she went to the b.u.t.tery, where she mixed and drank her nauseous draught. Then she went back to her room, and for the next few hours she felt as ill and miserable as any one could be.

(_Concluded on page 338._)

THE RABBIT AND THE HARE.

'I've been to town,' a Rabbit said, 'O sleepy Mr. Hare, And if you don't get out of bed You'll miss the market there.'

'How mean of you!' the other whined; 'You've bought the best, I see, And in the market I shall find The worst is left for me.'

The Rabbit mutely turned away From language so unfair; He trotted home, and from that day He shunned the lazy Hare.

'For this,' said he, 'is plain to me, All lazy folk are p.r.o.ne To blame their friends, and never see The fault is theirs alone.'

A MOTOR-CAR OF THE PAST.

Motorists have cause to be thankful they live in a good-natured age. Of course, they are often blamed for accidents, not always deservedly; but had they lived in the early part of the nineteenth century, they would have been much worse off. About that time, several persons constructed steam carriages, meant to run upon ordinary roads; the popular anger, however, was so great that they had to give up running them. Nearly every town and village greeted them with jeers and hostile cries, with occasional presents of brickbats or stones, and it happened more than once that a furious mob attacked a party, and tried to break the machine to pieces.

[Ill.u.s.tration: An Old-fashioned Motor-car.]

Mr. Gurney was a notable contriver of such carriages. He had several, of different styles, and probably the most remarkable of his experiments was the making of one with a divided boiler, to relieve the fears which were common then amongst people to whom steam was a novelty, and who fancied that a boiler was in great danger of bursting from the pressure of the steam. Some folk said that Mr. Gurney, who was a doctor, took the idea of his peculiar boiler from the arteries and veins of the human body; at any rate, he had a double arrangement of pipes, taking the form of a horseshoe, and made of welded iron. There were forty pipes, so that if one burst it could only do a trifling amount of harm, and the damage was easily repaired. The principle was that of the 'water-tube' boilers of the present day. Mr. Gurney had also what he called 'separators,'

which returned to the boiler any water that was not needed in the pipes.

A tank supplied water to the boiler by means of a pump with a flexible hose; c.o.ke or charcoal was burnt in the furnace, so that there was very little smoke, and the machinery moved almost noiselessly. It was reckoned to be about twelve horse-power, and travelled at any rate between four and fifteen miles an hour. Inside and outside the vehicle eighteen or twenty persons could be seated; the guide or conductor sat in front, and steered the machine by pilot-wheels fastened to a pole, which went from end to end of the carriage. He had also under his management a lever which would stop the carriage speedily, and another to reverse the action of the wheels. The tank, containing about sixty gallons, and the furnace were placed in what they called the hind boot; the fore boot contained luggage, if any was carried. Another of Mr.

Gurney's special contrivances was a propeller fixed at the back of the carriage; it could be made to touch the ground when travelling up a hill, a.s.sisting the steam-power. A few experimental trips were made, but the carriage was not brought into general use.

J. R. S. C.

WONDERFUL CAVERNS.