"They went off sou'-west," shouted the sergeant. "I should----" A furious blast as the gale recommenced carried away whatever else he might have said, and Jim was alone with his good horse on the prairie.

There was no hesitancy in his mind. South-west he would push as hard as he could go. The animals had probably not gone far; he must soon come up with them, and the sooner the better.

Gallantly his steed stepped out through the deepening snowdrifts. Fain would the sensible animal have turned and made his way back to his stable, but Jim's credit was at stake, and no turning back was allowed.

Mile after mile was covered; where could those animals be in this storm?

Ha! a sudden furious rush of wind brought Jim's horse nearly to its knees. How the gale roared, and how the snow drove in his face! Up and on again, south-west after those horses!

But which _was_ the south-west? The daylight had completely faded; not a gleam showed where the sun had set. Jim felt for his pocket-compa.s.s; it was gone! The wind, blowing apparently from every quarter in succession, was no guide at all. Nothing was visible more than a yard away; nothing within that distance but driving snowflakes. Any tracks of the runaways would be covered up in a few moments; in any case there was no light to discern them.

[Sidenote: Lost!]

However, it was of no use to stand still. By pressing on he might overtake his quarry, and after fright had driven them away, instinct might lead them home. That was now the only chance of safety. Would he ever find them?

Deeper and deeper sank his horse into the snow; harder and harder it became to raise its hoofs clear for the next step. Snorting with fear, and trembling in every limb, the gallant beast struggled on. He _must_ go on! To stop would be fatal. Benumbed as he was by the intense cold, bewildered by the storm, with hand and voice Jim cheered on his steed, and n.o.bly it responded.

Suddenly it sank under him. A hollow, treacherously concealed by the snow, had received them both into its chilly depths.

"Up again, old boy!" cried Jim, springing from the saddle, and tugging at the rein, sinking to the waist in the soft snow as he did so. "Now then, one more try!"

The faithful horse struggled desperately to respond to the words. But its strength was spent; its utmost exertions would not suffice to extricate it. The soft snow gave way under its hoofs; deeper and deeper it sank. With a despairing scream it made a last futile effort, then it stretched its neck along the snow, and with a sob lay down to die.

Further efforts to move it would be thrown away, and Jim knew it. In a few minutes it would be wrapped in its winding-sheet.

With a lump in his throat Jim turned away--whither? His own powers had nearly ebbed out. Of what use was it to battle further against the gale, when he knew not in which direction to go?

With a sharp setting of the teeth he set himself to stimulate into activity his benumbed faculties. Where was he? What was he doing there?

Ah, yes, he was after those stampeded horses. Well, he would never come up with them now. He had done his best, and he had failed.

Taking out his notebook, as well as his benumbed powers would let him, Jim scrawled a few words in the darkness. The powers of nature had been too strong for him. What was a man to set himself against that tempest?

But stay! there was One stronger than the gale. Man was beyond hearing, but was not G.o.d everywhere? Now, if ever, was the time to call upon Him.

No words would come but the familiar "Our Father," which Jim had said every night for longer than he could remember. He had no power to think out any other pet.i.tion. "Our Father," he muttered drowsily, "which art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done. . . ."

The murmur ceased; the speaker was asleep.

They found him a few days later, when the snow had ceased to fall, and the wind swept over the prairie, stripping off the deadly white covering, and leaving the khaki jacket a conspicuous object. The sergeant saw it, and pointed--he could not trust his voice to speak.

Eagerly the little band bent over the body of their comrade.

"Why, he's smiling! And see here! he's been writing something in his notebook. What is it?"

Reverently they took the book from the brown hand, and the sergeant read the words aloud:

"Lost, horse dead. Am trying to push on. Have done my best."

"That he did. There was good stuff in him, lads, and perhaps he was wanted up aloft!"

A solemn hush held the party. "'I did my best,'" said a trooper softly at length. "Ah, well, it'll be a good job for all of us, if when our time comes we can say that with as much truth as he!"

[Sidenote: Mary sacrificed herself to help another. The renunciation in time brought reward.]

Mary's Stepping Aside

BY

EDITH C. KENYON

"How very foolish of you! So unbusinesslike!" cried Mrs. Croft angrily.

"I could not do anything else, Hetty. Poor Ethel is worse off than we are. She has her widowed mother to help; they are all so poor, and it was such a struggle for Mrs. Forrest to pay that 160 for Ethel's two years' training in the Physical Culture College. You know, when Ethel and I entered for training, there was a good demand for teachers of physical culture, but now, alas! the supply exceeds the demand, and it has been such a great trouble to Ethel that she could not get a post, and begin to repay her mother for the outlay. She failed every time she tried to secure an appointment; the luck seemed always against her. And now she was next to me, and I had only to step aside to enable her to receive the appointment."

"And you did so! That is just like you, Mary. You will never get on in the world. What will people say? They are already wondering why my clever sister is not more successful."

"Does it really matter what people think?" questioned Mary, and there was a far-away look in her blue eyes, as she glanced through the window at the wide stretch of moorland to be seen from it.

She had been to London to try to secure an appointment as teacher of physical culture at a large ladies' college. There were several applicants for the appointment, which was worth 100 a year and board and lodging, not bad for a commencement, and she was successful.

The lady princ.i.p.al came out to tell her so, and mentioned that Ethel Forrest, her college friend, was the next to her, adding that the latter appeared to be a remarkably nice girl and very capable. In a moment, as Mary realised how terrible poor Ethel's disappointment would be, she resolved to step aside in order that her friend might have the appointment.

The lady princ.i.p.al was surprised, and a little offended, but forthwith gave Ethel Forrest the post, and Mary was more than repaid by Ethel's unbounded grat.i.tude.

"I can't tell you what it is to me to obtain this good appointment," she said, when they came away together. "Poor mother will now cease to deplore the money she could so ill afford to spend on my training. You see, it seemed as if she had robbed the younger children for me, and that it was money thrown away when she could so ill spare it, but now I shall repay her as soon as possible out of my salary, and the children will have a chance."

"Yes, I know. That is why I did it," Mary said. "And I am happy in your happiness, Ethel darling."

"But I am afraid it is rather irksome for you, living so long with your sister and brother-in-law, although they are so well off," Ethel remarked, after a while.

"That is a small matter in comparison," Mary said lightly. "And I am so happy about you, Ethel, your mother will be so pleased."

It seemed to Mary afterwards, when she left Ethel and went by express to York, where she took a slow train to the little station on the moors near her sister's home, that her heart was as light and happy as if she had received a great gift instead of surrendering an advantage. Truly it is more blessed to give than to receive, for there is no joy so pure as "the joy of doing kindnesse."

But on her arrival at the house which had been her home since her parents died, she found herself being severely blamed for what she had done.

In vain Mary reminded her sister that she was not exactly poor, and certainly not dependent upon her. Their father had left a very moderate income to both his daughters, Hetty the elder, who had married Dr.

Croft, a country pract.i.tioner, and Mary, who, as a sensible modern young woman, determined to have a vocation, and go in for the up-to-date work of teaching physical culture.

Finding she could make no impression upon her sister, Mrs. Croft privately exhorted her husband to speak to Mary about the disputed point.

That evening, therefore, after dinner, as they sat round the fire chatting, the doctor remarked: "But you know, Mary, it won't do to step aside for others to get before you in the battle of life. You owe a duty to yourself and--and your friends."

"I am quite aware of that," Mary replied, "but this was such an exceptional case. Ethel Forrest is so poor, and----"

[Sidenote: "Each for Himself!"]

"Yes, yes. But, my dear girl, it is each for himself in this world."