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 "Samuel, Samuel!" cried Kennedy, in a tremulous voice.

"What is it, Dick?"

"Is it a dream—is it possible?"

"What?"

"Wait a second;" and the Scot rapidly arranged the glasses and looked again.

"Well," said the doctor.

"'Tis he, Samuel!"

"He!" exclaimed the latter. They both said "he," there was no necessity to name him.

"'Tis he on horseback, and scarcely a hundred paces in advance of his enemies. He is flying from them."

"It is Joe, indeed," said the doctor, growing pale.

"He cannot see us in his flight," said Kennedy.

"He shall very soon see us, then," said the doctor, lowering the flame of the blow-pipe.

"How?"

"In five minutes we shall be within fifty feet of the ground, in fifteen close above him."

"I had better fire a shot to attract his attention."

"No, he cannot retrace his steps; he is cut off."

"What is to be done then?"

"Wait."

"Wait! with those Arabs there?"

"We shall catch them! We shall pass them! We are only two miles distant, and provided Joe's horse holds out."

"Great Heaven!" exclaimed Kennedy.

"What is it?"

Kennedy had uttered a cry of despair at beholding Joe thrown to the ground. His horse, evidently exhausted and worn out, fell beneath him.

"He sees us!" cried the doctor; "he raised his arm as a signal to us."

"But the Arabs will take him! what is he waiting for! Ah! the brave fellow! Hurrah!" cried Dick, who could no longer contain himself.

Joe had immediately jumped up after his fall, and at the moment when one of the foremost horsemen came riding down upon him, he bounded up like a panther, avoided his blow by a step aside, threw himself upon the horse, seized the Arab by the throat in his muscular hands, and strangled


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 him, threw him upon the sand, and continued his headlong course.

A simultaneous shout from the Arabs rent the air, but, occupied in their pursuit, they had not observed the "Victoria" 500 paces behind them, and only thirty feet above the ground. They were now within twenty lengths of the fugitive.

One of them nearly approached Joe, and was about to thrust his lance into his body, when Kennedy, with firm eye and steady hand, stopped him neatly with a bullet, and he rolled on the plain.

Joe did not even turn round at the report.

A portion of the troop halted, and fell on their faces in the dust before the "Victoria," the remainder continued the pursuit.

"But what is Joe about? why doesn't he stop?"

"He knows better than to do that, Dick. I understand him. He keeps going in the same direction as the balloon. He depends upon us. Brave lad! We will take him out of the very jaws of these Arabs. We are only fifty paces off."

"What must be done?" asked Kennedy.

"Put your gun aside."

"There it is," said the Scot, as he laid it down.

"Can you hold 500 lbs. of ballast in your arms?"

"More than that."

"No, that will be sufficient."

And the bags of sand were then piled up by the doctor upon Kennedy's arms.

"Now wait at the back of the car, and be ready to throw all that ballast out at once. But, for your very life, do not do so till I tell you."

"All right."

"Without that we cannot help Joe, and he will be lost."

"You may depend upon me."

The "Victoria" was flying almost above the troop of horsemen who were riding with loose reins after Joe. The doctor in the front of the car held the ladder extended, ready to launch it at the proper moment. Joe still kept about fifty feet ahead of his pursuers. The "Victoria" passed them.

"Attention!" cried Samuel to Kennedy.

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 "I am ready."

"Joe, look out!" cried the doctor in a ringing voice, as he threw down the ladder, whose lowest round dragged up the dust as they fell.

At the doctor's summons, Joe, without checking his horse, turned round. The ladder was close to him, and in a moment he had caught it.

"Throw out the ballast!" roared the doctor.

"Done," replied Kennedy; and the "Victoria," lightened by a weight more than that of Joe, rose 150 feet into the air.

Joe held on tightly to the ladder during its tremendous oscillations; then, making an indescribable gesture to the Arabs, and climbing up with the agility of a clown, he arrived at the car, where his companions received him in their arms. The Arabs uttered yells of surprise and rage when they perceived the "Victoria" bearing away the fugitive, and rapidly increasing her distance.

"Master—Mr. Dick!" Joe had said, and, yielding to emotion and fatigue, he had fainted, while Kennedy, with delirious joy, cried out "Saved—saved!"

"Well—yes!" said the doctor, who had regained his usual impassibility.

Joe was almost naked, his arms bleeding and his body covered with wounds; all these told of his sufferings. The doctor dressed his hurts and laid him down in the tent.

Joe soon regained consciousness, and asked for a glass of brandy, which the doctor did not refuse, Joe not being a person to be treated like an ordinary individual. After drinking it he shook hands with his two companions, and declared himself ready to relate his adventures.

But they would not permit him to speak, and the brave lad fell into a sound sleep, of which he was in great need.

The "Victoria" then took an oblique course towards the west. In consequence of a strong wind, it arrived at the confines of the thorny desert above the palm trees, bent and torn by the tempest, and after having completed a journey of 200 miles since Joe had been received on board again, it passed the tenth degree of longitude towards evening.


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 that the great similarity of the views held by the two men should not be attributed to accident. The only point on which they were at actual variance was the constitution of the elementary or vernacular school. This Alsted would have restricted to the use of girls, and of boys destined for a handicraft, while Comenius insists on the necessity of giving a distinct primary education to those who are afterwards to enter a learned profession. With the exception of this difference of opinion, a large number of the most striking precepts that figure in the Great Didactic might have been taken direct from Alsted’s Encyclopædia. The man who declared that instruction in the mother tongue should precede the study of Latin, who thought that grammar was the least effective instrument in teaching a language, who proclaimed, almost in Baconian language, the doctrine of “Experience,” and who believed in method to such an extent that he drew up time-tables of the most intricate description for a day, a week, a month, and a year, assuredly played the part of a kindly foster-father to the callow educational zeal of the Herborn student.

That Comenius, while at Herborn, devoted much attention to the study of educational method, we know from his own words. Wolfgang’s Ratke’s essay on the Reformation of schools had been authorised and approved by the Universities of Jena and of Giessen in 1612, and a tractate on the new method, probably that by the Giessen professors Helwig and Jung, rapidly found its way into Comenius’ hands. To this he gratefully acknowledges his debt and attributes his efforts to reform the school at Prerau.

From Herborn he proceeded to Heidelberg, where he matriculated in June 1613. Here he appears to have


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 Epping I have performed quaint ceremonies in a ring; I have mingled with the teeming hordes of Drury Lane on Boxing Night, and, during the run of a high-class piece, I have sat in lonely grandeur in the front row of the gallery, and wished that I had spent my shilling instead in the Oriental halls of the Alhambra.'

"There you are," said B., "that is just as good as yours; and you can write like that without going more than a few hours' journey from London."

"We will discuss the matter no further," I replied. "You cannot, I see, enter into my feelings. The wild heart of the traveller does not throb within your breast; you cannot understand his longings. No matter! Suffice it that I will come this journey with you. I will buy a German conversation book, and a check-suit, and a blue veil, and a white umbrella, and suchlike necessities of the English tourist in Germany, this very afternoon. When do you start?"

"Well," he said, "it is a good two days' journey. I propose to start on Friday."

"Is not Friday rather an unlucky day to start on?" I suggested.

"Oh, good gracious!" he retorted quite sharply, "what rubbish next? As if the affairs of Europe were going to be arranged by Providence according to whether


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wind dropped during the night, and the "Victoria" remained quietly at the summit of a large sycamore; the doctor and Kennedy watched in turn, and Joe profited by this arrangement to sleep soundly and uninterruptedly for twenty-four hours.

"That is what he wanted to set him up," said Ferguson; "Nature has taken upon herself to cure him."

At daylight the wind again blew pretty strongly, but in gusts: it first came from the north, then from the south; but at length the "Victoria " was driven to the westward.

The doctor, map in hand, noted the kingdom of Damaghou, an undulating region of wonderful fertility, with its villages built of long reeds, entwined with branches of the asclepia; corn ricks were raised up in the small cultivated fields upon little platforms, to preserve them from the attacks of mice and ants. The balloon soon reached the town of Zinder, recognizable by its vast square used for executions—in the center of which is the "death-tree." At the foot of this tree the executioner watches, and whosoever passes beneath its shade is immediately hanged.

On consulting the barometer, Kennedy could not help saying: "Why, we are going towards the north!"

"What does that matter? If we get to Timbuctoo we shall have no reason to complain. Never has a happier journey been accomplished under more pleasant circumstances."

"Nor in better health," said Joe, who just then popped his cheery face between the curtains of the awning.

"Here is our brave friend," cried Kennedy; "our preserver. How do you feel now?"

"Much as usual, Mr. Dick, much as usual, thank you, and as well as ever. There is nothing to set a man up like a little pleasant traveling after a bath in Lake Tchad; is it not so, sir?"

"You are indeed a noble fellow," replied Ferguson, as he shook Joe by the hand. "What anxiety and fear you have caused us!"

"Well, and you too. Can you believe that I was easy about you? You can boast of having given me a fine fright."


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 devoted some attention to the study of astronomy, as we find him purchasing the original manuscript of one of Copernicus’ works. This, however, is the solitary incident that is known of his residence here.

After a journey through Europe, in the course of which he visited Amsterdam for the first time, he went back to Heidelberg. A short illness followed, possibly the result of exposure on his travels, and in 1614 he returned to Moravia on foot. He was now twenty-two years old, and, as he could not be ordained for two years, undertook the management of the school at Prerau. This was one of the many schools established by the “Unity” for the education of those of their own persuasion, and must have been rather more than an elementary school, as Comenius, who now for the first time came into contact with the practical difficulties of instruction, began to evolve an easier method for teaching Latin. To this he devoted a great deal of attention and produced a small book for beginners, afterwards printed at Prague in 1616, but which has not been preserved. This was not his first literary effort. As early as 1612, while at Herborn, he had begun to collect the materials for a Bohemian dictionary with the twofold object of purifying his native tongue and of mastering it thoroughly. As he was now old enough to commence his ministry in the Moravian Church, he was ordained in April 1616, in company with his old schoolfellow Drabik. The two following years he probably spent at Olmütz.

Of the next few years, as of the whole of the earlier portion of his life, the information to be obtained is fragmentary. In 1618 he was sent to Fulneck, where he acted as pastor to the Moravian community and was at the same time inspector of the school. During the three years that followed he devoted himself entirely to the spiritual and bodily welfare of his flock, sparing no pains to further the prosperity of the town. He even tried to introduce bee-culture, and sent to Hungary for bees, then


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 "We shall never understand each other, Joe, if you take things in that way."

"I see that his fall has not changed him a bit," said Kennedy.

"Your devotion has been sublime, my lad; you have saved us, for had the 'Victoria' fallen into the lake, nothing could have extricated her."

"But if my devotion, as you are pleased to call my somersault, has preserved you, have you not also saved me? Since here we are, all three in good health, consequently we have none of us any reason to reproach each other, after all."

"The fellow is just as impossible as ever he was," said the Scot.

"The best way to understand each other," said Joe, "is not to talk about it. What is done, is done. Good or bad, it can never be recalled."

"Mad as ever," said the doctor, laughing. "At least, will you tell us your adventures?"

"If you really desire it. But first I must get this plump goose ready for cooking, for I perceive that Mr. Dick has not been idle lately."

"Do as you say, Joe."

"Well, then we shall see how African game suits the European stomach." The goose was quickly grilled over the flame of the blow-pipe and soon afterwards eaten. Joe took his share like a man who had eaten nothing for many days. After the usual tea and grog he related his adventures. He spoke with visible emotion, while he looked the incidents in the face with his habitual philosophy.

The doctor could not refrain from pressing him by the hand frequently when he perceived that the faithful servant had been more concerned about his master's safety than his own; and referring to the phenomenon in the isle of the Biddiomahs, the doctor explained its frequent occurrence on Lake Tchad.

At length Joe, continuing his recital, reached the time, when, plunged in the marsh, he uttered that despairing cry for assistance. "I believed myself lost, sir," he said, "and my thoughts went forth to you. I began to struggle to rise, how, I will not tell you. I had decided not to be swallowed up without an effort, when at two paces from me I per-


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 ceived the end of a newly-severed cord. I made a last attempt, and by good luck reached the cable. I pulled, it resisted. I hauled myself along it, and finally reached terra firma. At the other end of the cord was an anchor."

"Ah, sir, I have indeed the right to call it the Anchor of Hope. I recognized an anchor of the 'Victoria.' You had, then landed at this place. I followed the direction of the cord which told me your route and after much exertion I drew myself out of the slough. I recovered my strength with my courage, and I walked during part of the night away from the lake. I arrived at length on the border of an immense forest. There, in an enclosure, some horses were feeding, unaware of my approach. There are some moments when everyone can ride, is it not so? I did not lose time in reflecting. I jumped on the back of one of the animals, and we were soon flying towards the north with great speed. I will not tell you about the towns I did not see, nor the villages which I avoided. No. I crossed cultivated fields, I cleared the bushes, I leaped palisades, I pushed my horse to his speed. I got excited, my spirits rose. I reached the border of the desert. Good; that suited me. I could see before me more plainly. Hoping always to catch sight of the 'Victoria' waiting for me. But no! About three hours after I fell in, like a fool, with an Arab encampment. Ah, what a chase that was! You see, Mr. Kennedy, a hunter never knows what a hunt is till he has been chased himself; and if you will take my advice do not try it. My horse fell from fatigue, the Arabs were close upon me, I tumbled down, but soon jumped behind an Arab horseman. I did not intend it, and I hope he bears me no malice for having throttled him. But I had seen you—you know the rest. The 'Victoria' followed me closely, and you picked me up flying like a knight, playing at the quintain and bearing off the ring. Was I not right to depend upon you, eh, Mr. Samuel? So that was easy enough Nothing is more natural. I am ready to begin again if you will be in any way benefited; and so, as I said, sir, it is not worth speaking about."

"My brave Joe," replied the doctor, with emotion, "we were not wrong in trusting to your intelligence and pluck."

"Bah! sir, one has only to follow events, and you will


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 be all right. The surest way is to take whatever comes as it comes."

During Joe's narrative, the balloon had rapidly passed over a large extent of country. Kennedy remarked a collection of huts on the horizon, and the doctor, referring to the map, declared that it was the small town of Tagelel, in the Damerghou.

"Here," he said, we shall strike Barth's route. Here he left his two companions, Richardson and Overweg. The first followed the route to Zanzibar, the second to Maradi; and you recollect that Barth was the only one who returned to Europe."

"Thus," said the Scot, tracing the course of the "Victoria" on the map, "we are going to the north."

"Due north, my dear Dick."

"And are you not disturbed by so doing?"

"Why?"

"That direction leads to Tripoli and the Great Desert."

"Oh! we shall not go so far, my friend; at least, I hope not."

"But where do you expect to stop?"

"Well, Dick, have you no curiosity to visit Timbuctoo?"

"Timbuctoo!"

"Certainly," replied Joe, "it would be absurd to come upon a journey to Africa without seeing Timbuctoo!"

"You will then be the fifth or sixth European who has visited this mysterious town."

"Let us go to Timbuctoo."

"Then we must get between the 17th and 18th degrees of latitude, and there find a favorable breeze to carry us to the west."

"Good," replied Kennedy, "but have we not still a long journey to make to the north?"

"About 150 miles."

"In that case," said Kennedy, "I shall get a little sleep."

"Do you also sleep, sir," said Joe to the doctor, "you have need of repose, for I have given you an immense amount of watching."

Kennedy lay down in the tent, but the doctor, who was little affected by fatigue, remained at his post.

After about three hours the "Victoria" was passing very rapidly over a stony tract of land with high mountains of


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 granitic formation. Some isolated peaks were 4,000 feet high. Giraffes, antelopes, and ostriches, bounded with surprising agility amongst the acacias, mimosas, "sonahs," and date-trees. After the sterility of the desert, vegetation was regaining the upper-hand. It was the country of the Kailouas, who conceal their faces by a cotton bandage like their dangerous neighbors, the Touaregs.

At ten o'clock at night, after a splendid "run" of 250 miles, the "Victoria "halted above an important town. By the moonlight they could perceive that it was half in ruins, some of the mosques were interlaced here and there with broad bands of white light. The doctor made an observation by the stars, and found he was within the latitude of Aghades.

This town, formerly a great commercial center, had already fallen into ruins at the time Doctor Barth visited it.

The "Victoria," unperceived, took the ground two miles beyond Aghades, in a large field of millet. The night was quiet, and day broke at five o'clock, when a gentle wind began to impel the balloon towards the west and even a little southwards. Ferguson was very anxious to profit by this good fortune. He rose rapidly and fled away along the extended beams of the rising sun.

17th of May passed quietly and without incident. The desert was again encountered, a moderate wind impelled the "Victoria" to the southwest, it deviated neither to the right nor left, and its shadow was traced in a direct line upon the sand.

Before his last departure the doctor had taken care to replenish his store of water. He was afraid of not being able to obtain water in those countries infested by the Touaregs. The plain, about 1,800 feet above the level of the sea, depressed towards the south. The travelers having crossed the route from Aghades to Mourzouk frequented by caravans, arrived in the evening in 16° lat. and 4° 55′ long., having had a long and monotonous journey of 180 miles. During that day Joe cooked the last head of game, which


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 unknown in Fulneck. His married life now began, and in the society of his wife, a Hungarian lady, Comenius spent what were probably his happiest years.

The year in which he entered upon his pastorate at Fulneck is memorable for the outbreak of the Thirty Years’ War, and from this time onwards the position of the non-Catholic bodies, exposed as they were to the relentless persecution of Pope Paul V. and the Jesuits, was most precarious. Their hopes were finally overthrown by the battle of the White Mountain in November 1620, and by execution of the chief Bohemian Protestants, which followed at Prague in June 1621.

Comenius’ wanderings were now to begin. In 1621 Fulneck was plundered and burned by Spanish troops. On this occasion he lost everything that he possessed, including the greater part of his library and the manuscript of some Didactic works on which he had been engaged, and took refuge, in company with many others of the Brethren, on the estate of Karl von Zerotin. Here he remained for three years, during which time he occupied himself in reading books on education, and wrote besides several religious works in the Czech language. To this period must also be ascribed his metrical translation of the Psalms, a composition of great poetic merit; his Labyrinth of the World, an allegorical description of life, dedicated to Karl von Zerotin; and a map of Moravia that was for a long time the best in existence.

It was doubtless in this literary activity that he sought relief for the sorrow caused him by the death of his wife and his two children, who were carried off in 1622 by an epidemic that was raging through Moravia. He was thus once more left alone in the world.

In 1624, with startling rapidity, if we consider the cir-


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 "Leave off!" she shouted, and prodded him on the nose with her elbow with such violence that he saw stars before his eyes.

The pain in his nose was soon over, but the torture in his heart remained.


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 cumstances and the forlorn condition of the Brethren, he married again. His bride was Maria Dorothea Cyrill, the daughter of John Cyrill, a Moravian pastor and a former senior of the Consistory at Prague. The members of the Unity cannot have been left entirely destitute by the persecution to which they were subjected, as Maria brought her husband a small fortune. The sequel proved that marriage at such a time had been far from prudent. In the same year the order was issued that all non-Catholic preachers and pastors were to leave Bohemia within six weeks, and a few months later another mandate expelled them from Moravia as well. Karl von Zerotin had great influence with Ferdinand II., but the Jesuits were too strong for him. He received a personal injunction to cease harbouring non-Catholics on his estate, and the twenty-four ministers whom he was sheltering had to conceal themselves as best they could in caves and forests.

The Brethren now recognised that all hope of remaining in their fatherland must be relinquished, and in 1625 sent Comenius and two companions to Poland to report on the advisability of their removing thither in a body. On the way the messengers made the acquaintance of Christopher Kotter, a native of Sprottau. Kotter was a prophet, and his visions and the announcements that he had to make concerning the future of the Evangelical Church were full of interest to the Brethren. Comenius, to whom anything of a prophetic nature was always an attraction, gave a proof of his remarkable energy by translating the whole of Kotter’s prophecies into Czech, a task which took him sixteen days. After a short visit to Berlin, where there were a number of Bohemian exiles, he returned to Moravia. During the next two years the Brethren held themselves in readiness to fly at a moment’s notice. The only incident of any interest is the appearance on the scene of a prophetess, Christina Poniatowska. Christina was an hysterical girl, only sixteen years old, and her visions, like those of Kotter, dealt with the speedy restoration of the Evangelic Church, and the cessation of


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Rh compendium of History and Chronology united as should bring them acquainted with the state of the world in past ages, and with the principal events which have occurred since the creation of the world. With the creation it should commence, describe the primitive state of man, the entrance of evil, the corruption of the antediluvian age, the flood, and the peopling of the earth anew from one family, in which the compiler should avail himself of all the light thrown on this subject by modern research and investigation: he should particularly notice the nations of the east, incorporating in their proper place the best accounts we now have both of India and China. He should go on to notice the call of Abraham, the giving of the decalogue, the gradual revelation of the Scriptures of truth, the settlement of Greece, its mythology, the Trojan War, the four great monarchies, the advent of the Saviour of men, the persecutions of the Christian church, the rise of Mahometanism, the origin of the papacy, the invention of printing, of gunpowder, and the mariner’s compass; the reformation, the discovery of the passage to India by sea, and the various discoveries of modern science. Such a Synopsis of History and Chronology, composed on the same plan, that of comprising each event in a concise but perspicuous sentence, would exceedingly enlarge their ideas relative to the state of the world, certainly not to the disadvantage of Britain, whom God has now so exalted as to render her almost the arbitress of nations.

5. Lastly, it would be highly proper to impart to them just ideas of themselves, relative both to body and mind, and to a future state of existence, by what may be termed a Compendium of Ethics and Morality. The complete absence of all just ideas of this kind, is the chief cause of that degradation of public morals so evident in this country. The system of ethics, (if it deserve the name) which pervades India, and indeed nearly the whole of


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 the persecutions to which it was being subjected. Needless to say, Comenius displayed as great an interest in her as he had done in Kotter. Already the visionary tendencies, out of which his enemies made such capital in later years, were getting possession of him.

In 1627 a few of the Evangelical Pastors, preparatory to their final departure, took refuge on the estate of George Sadowski at Slaupna, and here Comenius again took up the threads of his didactic efforts. As a slight return for the protection afforded him, John Stadius, one of the pastors, had undertaken the education of Sadowski’s three sons, and asked Comenius, whose interest in the subject was well known, to draw up a few rules for his guidance. The request was gladly complied with, and the return to his former pursuit was accentuated by the following incident.

One summer day Comenius and a few of the other pastors walked over to the castle of Wilcitz to look at the library there. Among other works of interest they found the Didactic of Elias Bodinus, which had recently been brought from Germany. The perusal of this fired Comenius to attempt a work on a similar scale in his own language. True, his Church and the institutions that it supported were falling into ruin before his eyes, but, if he might believe the prophecies of Kotter and of Poniatowska, the day was not distant when the Brethren would be restored to their native land, and then his first task would be the reorganisation of the schools. “With this end in view,” he writes, “I entered on the work with fervour, and completed as much of it as I could while I still remained in my native land.”

His efforts were soon interrupted. In 1628 all who shared the evangelic faith had definitely to leave Bohemia. Comenius, accompanied by his wife, his father-in-law, and the prophetess Poniatowska, set out for Poland, and on the 28th of March reached Lissa, a town in the province of Posen. Here, under the powerful protection of Count


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Rh the east, is far less friendly to public and private virtue than even that which prevailed in Greece and Home when idolatry was at its highest pitch. The doctrine of the metempsychosis carried to the extent in which it is in India, while it seems to exalt man to the state of a god by terming him an identical part of the deity, in reality sinks his ideas of the deity to the level of every thing immoral and degrading; while men’s maintaining that God does every thing within them, takes away all reverence for him, and sets them free from every tie of moral obligation. Further, the idea of the soul’s passing from body to body, strips death of every thing awful, and humanity of every thing tender; and instead of elevating the minds of the Hindoos above terrene objects, it renders them insensible to the finest feelings of humanity, and causes them to set scarcely any value on human life, even though it be the life of those who gave them existence. Thus these two grand principles, piety and humanity, which are the foundation of all virtue, both public and private, and which enter into the essence of both natural and revealed religion, are almost extinguished in the mind of a Hindoo by the natural operation of the system he holds: and when to this we add that disregard of justice and all good faith, and that proneness to knavery, falsehood, and deceit, which instantly follow the absence of piety, justice, and humanity, we have before us all the great features of depravity visible in their general character.

If we would therefore wish to improve the public morals of our Indian fellow subjects, this must be attempted by the introduction of a remedy suited to the nature of the disease, by imparting to them that knowledge relative to themselves, to their responsibility for their actions, their state both here and hereafter, and the grand principles of piety, justice, and humanity, which may leaven their minds from their earliest youth. Should any one say: “effect


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 Raphael of Lissa, he was destined to find a home for the next twelve years, and it is to this period that his chief educational activity belongs. Though to the end of his days he never ceased to devise fresh plans for the easier instruction of the young, most of the works that made his name famous were written before 1641. There were many reasons why these years should be especially fruitful. Now for the first time since his ordination he took to teaching as a means of earning his livelihood, and, as a master of the Gymnasium at Lissa, of which he became Rector in 1636, he had ample means of putting his theories into practice, and of bringing them into harmony with the dust and friction of the class-room. To these years of actual work in a large institution is due much of the practical character of his writings, and the very faults of the Gymnasium (it had to be completely remodelled in 1635, in order to bring it into harmony with his ideas) served to show him more clearly what should be avoided. In addition to this he had far more time to devote to educational theory than at any later period of his life. Though the welfare of the Unity already absorbed a large share of his energy, he had not that weight of responsibility that made him, as its bishop, look on all else as a subsidiary task. His pansophic conceptions, that afterwards took such hold of him, were only in their infancy, and more important than all, his spirit was still unbroken. He still believed that the Evangelical religion would be restored in his native land, and that the happy days of his early ministry would be repeated. He still believed that the prophecies of Kotter and of Poniatowska would be fulfilled, and in his efforts to reform the Gymnasium at Lissa and to write suitable school-books for it, he saw nothing but a preparation for the future reformation of schools in Bohemia, and a means by which the youth of his own country might be brought up with minds well tempered to fight for their country and their Church. He accordingly applied himself to his task with great vigour. The


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Man is Nature's last and most perfect work, but, however high his development or great his achievements, he is yet a child of the earth and the rude forces that have formed all the life that exists thereon. He cannot Separate himself from the environment that gave him birth, and a thousand ties of nature bind him back to the long forgotten past and prove his kinship to all the lower forms of life that have sprung from the great universal mother, Earth.

As there is a common law of being, which controls all living things, from the aimless motions of the mollusk in the sea to the most perfect conduct of the best developed man, so all the activities of human life, from the movements of the savage digging roots, to the work of the greatest artist with his brush, are controlled by universal law, and are good or bad, perfect or imperfect, as they conform to the highest condition nature has imposed.


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 you and I start for an excursion on a Thursday or a Friday!"

He said he was surprised that a man who could be so sensible, occasionally, as myself, could have patience to even think of such old-womanish nonsense. He said that years ago, when he was a silly boy, he used to pay attention to this foolish superstition himself, and would never, upon any consideration, start for a trip upon a Friday.

But, one year, he was compelled to do so. It was a case of either starting on a Friday or not going at all, and he determined to chance it.

He went, prepared for and expecting a series of accidents and misfortunes. To return home alive was the only bit of pleasure he hoped for from that trip.

As it turned out, however, he had never had a more enjoyable holiday in his life before. The whole event was a tremendous success.

And after that, he had made up his mind to always start on a Friday; and he always did, and always had a good time.

He said that he would never, upon any consideration, start for a trip upon any other day but a Friday now. It was so absurd, this superstition about Friday.

So we agreed to start on the Friday, and I am to meet him at Victoria Station at a quarter to eight in the evening.


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4 The early savage dwelt in caves and cliffs and spent his life in seeking food and providing a rude shelter from the cold. He looked upon the earth, the sun, the sea, the sky, the mountain peak, the forest and the plain, and all he saw and heard formed an impression on his brain and aided in his growth. Like a child he marveled at the storm and flood; he stood in awe as he looked upon disease and death; and to explain the things he could not understand, he peopled earth and air and sea with gods and demons, and a thousand other weird creations of his brain. All these mysterious creatures were made in the image of the natural objects that came within his view. The gods were men grown large and endowed with marvelous powers, while tree and bird and beast alike were used as models for a being greater far than any nature ever formed.

An angry god it was that made the rivers overrun their banks and leave destruction in their path; an offended god it was that hurled his thunderbolts upon a wicked world or sent disease and famine to the sinning children of the earth, and to coax these rulers to be merciful to man, the weak and trembling children of the ancient world turned their minds to sacrifice and prayer. And the first dim thoughts of these rude men that were transcribed on monu-


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Rh ment and stone, or carved in wood, or painted with the colors borrowed from the sun and earth and sky; in short, the first rude art was born to sing the praise, and tell the fame, and paint the greatness of the gods. But all of this was natural to the time and place; the graven images, the chiseled hieroglyphics, and all this rude beginning of literature and art were formed upon what men saw and heard and felt, enlarged and magnified to fit the stature of the gods.

As the world grew older art was used to celebrate the greatness and achievements of kings and rulers as well as gods, and their tombs were ornamented with such decorations as these early ages could create; and yet all literature and art were only for the gods and the rulers of the world. Then, even more than now, wealth and power brought intellect to do its will, and all its force was spent to Sing the praises of the rulers of the earth and air. The basis of all this art of pen and brush was the reality of the world, but this was so magnified and distorted for the base use of kings and priests that realism, in the true sense, could not exist. It would not do to paint a picture of a king resembling a man of flesh and blood, and, of course, a god must be far greater than a king. It would not do to write a tale in which kings and princes,


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 6 lords and ladies, should act like men and women, else what difference between the ruler and the ruled? The marvelous powers that romance and myth had given to gods and angels were transferred to those of royal blood, The wonderful achievements of these kings and princes could be equaled only by the gods, and the poor dependents of the world, who lived for the glory of the great, were fed with legends and with tales that sung the praises of the strong.

Literature, sculpture, painting, music, and architecture, indeed all forms of art, were the exclusive property of the great, and the artist then like most of those to-day, was retained to serve the strong and maintain the status of the weak. No one dreamed that there was any beauty in a common human life or any romance in a fact. The greatest of the earth had not as yet learned to know that every life is a mystery and every death a tragedy; that the spark of the infinite, which alone transforms clay to life, animates alike the breast of the peasant and the soul of the prince. The world had not yet learned that the ant hill is as great as Mont Blanc, and the blade of grass as mysterious as the oak. It is only now that the world is growing so delicate and refined that it can see the beauty of a fact; that it is developing a taste so rare as to distinguish between the false and the true; that it


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have been a good deal worried to-day about the question of what luggage to take with me. I met a man this morning, and he said:

"Oh, if you are going to Ober-Ammergau, mind you take plenty of warm clothing with you. You'll need all your winter things up there."

He said that a friend of his had gone up there some years ago, and had not taken enough warm things with him, and had caught a chill there, and had come home and died. He said:

"You be guided by me, and andand [sic] take plenty of warm things with you."

I met another man later on, and he said:

"I hear you are going abroad. Now, tell me, what part of Europe are you going to?"


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 Rh can be moved by the gentle breeze as well as by the winter's gale; that it can see greater beauty in a statement true to life than in the inflated tales, which children read.

Most of the art and literature the world has known has been untrue. The pictures of the past have been painted from the distorted minds of visionists, and the pliant brains of tools. They have represented impossible gods and unthinkable saints; angels and cherubs and demons; everything but men and women. Saints may be all right in their place, but a saint with a halo around his head was born of myth and not of art. Angels may be well enough, but all rational men prefer an angel with arms to an angel with wings. When these artists were not drawing saints and madonnas, they were spending their time in painting kings and royal knaves; and the pictures of the rulers were as unlike the men and women that they were said to represent as the servile attitude of the painter was unlike that of the true artist of to-day. Of course an artist would not paint the poor; these had no clothes that would adorn a work of art, and no money or favors that would remunerate the toil. An ancient artist could no more afford to serve the poor than a modern lawyer could afford to defend the weak.

After literature had so far advanced as to con-


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 8 cern other beings than gods and kings the authors of these ancient days told of wondrous characters endowed with marvelous powers; knights with giant strength and magic swords; princes with wondrous palaces and heaps of gold; travelers that met marvelous beasts and slew them in extraordinary ways; giants with forms like mountains and strength like oxen, who vanquished all but little dwarfs. Railroads were not yet invented in those early days, but travel was facilitated by the use of seven league boots. Balloons and telescopes were not yet known, but this did not keep favored heroes from peering at the stars or looking down from on high upon the earth; they, had but to plant a magic bean before they went to bed at night, and in the morning it had grown so tall that it reached up to the sky; and the hero, although not skilled in climbing, needed to simply grasp the stock and say, "Hitchety, hatchety, up I go. Hitchety, hatchety, up I go," and by this means soon vanish in the clouds. Tales of this sort used once to delight the world, and the readers half believed them true. We give them to the children now, and the best of these view them with a half contempt.

The modern man does not enjoy these myths. He relishes a lie, but it must not be too big; it must be so small that, although he knows in his


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 Rh inmost soul that it is not true, he can yet half make himself believe it is not false. Most of us have cherished a pleasing, waking dream, and have fondly clung to the sweet illusion while we really knew it was not life. The modern literary stomach is becoming so healthy that it a wants a story at least half true; should the falsehood be too strong, it acts as an emetic, instead of food. These old fairy tales have lost their power to charm, as the stories of the gods and kings went down before. They have lost their charm, for, as we read them now, they wake no answering chord born of the experiences that make up what we know of human life.

When the beauty of realism shall be truly known we shall read the book, or look upon the work of art, and in the light of all we know of life, shall ask our beings whether the picture that the author or the painter creates for us is like the image that is born of the consciousness that moves our soul and the experiences that have made us know.

Realism worships at the shrine of nature; it does not: say that there may not be a sphere in which beings higher than man can live, or that sometime an eye may not rest upon a fairer sunset than was ever born behind the clouds and sea, but it knows that through countless ages


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 10 nature has slowly fitted the brain and eye of man to the earth on which we live and the objects that we see; and the perfect earthly eye must harmonize with the perfect earthly scene.

To say that realism is coarse and vulgar is to declare against nature and her works, and to assert that the man she made may dream of things higher and grander than nature could unfold. The eye of the great sculptor reveals to him the lines that make the most perfect human form, and he chisels out the marble block until it resembles this image so completely that it almost seems to live. Nature, through ages of experiment and devolpment, has made this almost faultless, form. It is perfect because every part is best fitted for the separate work it has to do. The artist knows that he could not improve a single organ if he would, for all the rest of nature must be adjusted to, the change. He has the skill to reproduce this shape in lasting stone, and the human brain, could not conceive a form more beautiful and fair. Here is a perfect image of the highest work that countless centuries of nature‘s toil has made, and yet some would seek to beautify and sanctify this work by dressing it in the garb that shifting fashion and changing fancy makes for man.

Only the vulgar supersitition of the past ever


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 Gymnasium at Lissa consisted of four classes, and instruction was given for five hours daily. All the time that remained to him he devoted to the working out of his ideas. The Great Didactic, his Magnum Opus, for which he had already begun to make notes at Slaupna, now began to assume a definite shape, and in order that it might embody the views of those whose opinion was most worth having, he attempted to place himself in communication with Ratke, first ascertaining that he was still alive. But Ratke, who in his characteristics resembled a vendor of quack medicines, returned no answer to Comenius’ letter. Again he wrote adjuring him, by all that was sacred, not to keep him in suspense any longer, but to give him some details of the true method that he was reported to have discovered. Again he waited in vain for an answer, and it was not till three years later that a letter from George Wincler, pastor of Goldbergen in Silesia, explained the silence. The fact was that Ratke made as great a mystery of his method as was possible, and hoped, by judiciously concealing its details and advertising its merits, to sell it for a high price to some prince or noble. Without gold he resolutely refused to speak. “What hopes,” writes Wincler, “did not the pompous eulogy of Ratke’s method by Helwig and Jung arouse? But our friend Ratke preserves his silence, and will continue to do so. Mr. Moser, the chief assistant in our school, actually went to live with him in the hope of finding out the basis of his method, but came away empty-handed.”

As a matter of fact, Comenius was acquainted with many points of the method that was so carefully shrouded, and, though he cannot resist a sneer at the system and its pretensions, never forgets to acknowledge that it was Ratke who first fired him to attempt school-reform.

Getting no answer from Ratke he now addressed a


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 CRIME AND PUNISHMENT


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 that out of America would come compassion and understanding. America, their only friend and refuge.

But America did not understand. The American people did not even hear about it. But these Russian folk did not know that the American people never heard about it. All they know is that a few weeks after that appeal came the landing of the American troops.

And now they say to one another: "How stupid we were to stand there in the heat and the dust stretching out our hands like beggars!"


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 i.e, the third street after crossing the Prangin Ditch from Beach street.
 * Cantonese, Kwo kong chai tai sam thiu lo 過港仔第三條路

 * Queen Street :
 * Hokkien, Cha̍p-jī keng 十二間 "twelve houses," there is a row of twelve houses of the same height.
 * Cantonese, Shap yi kan 十二間
 * Hokkien, Kŭ Hô Ha̍p siā ke 舊和合社街 "old Ho Hap society street," called after the Kong-si because of this society there.
 * Cantonese, Kau Wo Hap she kai 舊和合社街
 * Cantonese, Kau Wo Hap she kai 舊和合社街

 * Race Course Road :
 * Hokkien, Toā chhài hûiⁿ lō͘ 大菜園路 “big vegetable garden road," from the many vegetable plantations there.
 * Cantonese, Tai chhoi un 大菜園

 * R. C. O. Front :
 * Hokkien, Koan-á kak 關仔角 "Government office corner"=the corner of the Government offices.
 * Cantonese, Tai ma-thau 大馬頭 "big jetty," after the Old Jetty there.

 * Residency Road :
 * Hokkien, Jĩ ông chhù lō͘ 二王厝路 "Second King's house road," second King being the Chinese way of calling the Resident Councillor.

 * Rope Walk :
 * Hokkien, Gī-hok ke 義福街 "Gi hok street," so called because the Gi hok secret society had their Kong-si house there formerly.
 * Cantonese, Yi fuk kai 義福街
 * Hokkien, Phah soh hāng 打索巷 "making rope lane"; formerly cocoanut husk ropes were manufactured there. [Vide Kimberley Street (5)]
 * Hokkien, Phah soh hāng 打索巷 "making rope lane"; formerly cocoanut husk ropes were manufactured there. [Vide Kimberley Street (5)]

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 letter to John Valentine Andreae, whose works, both religious and educational, he had read with great interest. Andreae, who was then pastor of the church at Calva in the Duchy of Wittemberg, sent a prompt reply, but only to the effect that he was too old to pronounce an opinion on such matters. Greatly disappointed, Comenius wrote again, but, though the answer that he elicited was long and sympathetic, it contained nothing that could help him to put his ideas into shape.

Of greater use were the didactic works of Rhenius, Ritter, and Glaum that now came into his hands. These writers were loud in their complaints of contemporary education, and turned a search-light on the defective arrangements that Comenius saw daily in the Gymnasium. Less stimulating, perhaps, but of more definite assistance, were the writings of Eilhard Lubin and of C. Vogel. Lubin, a friend of Andreae’s, had been elected Professor of Theology at Rostock in 1605, and had brought out a parallel edition of the New Testament in Latin and Greek, to which he had prefixed some hints on the teaching of Latin to boys. Vogel, who was head-master of the Paedagogium at Göttingen, had drawn up a scheme of instruction in Latin in which he had specified the daily task for twelve months. The student was to commence by learning a list of simple words, arranged in alphabetical order with the German meanings attached, and was then to aid his memory by combining these words into sentences. In this way he claimed that a boy of moderate intelligence, by working only two hours daily, could easily learn the whole Latin language in one year. The system was probably in Comenius’ thoughts when he devised the


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 Rh suggested that the reproduction of the human form in stone was an unholy work. Through long dark centuries religion taught that the flesh was vile and bad, and that the soul of man was imprisoned in a charnel house, unfit for human sight. The early Christians wounded, bruised, and maimed their house of clay; they covered it with skins, which under no circumstances could be removed, and many ancient saints lived and died without ever having looked upon the bodies nature gave. The images of saints and martyrs, which in the name of religion were scattered through Europe, were covered with paint and clothes, and were nearly as hideous as the monks that placed them there. When the condition of Europe and its religious thought are clearly understood, it is not difficult to imagine the reception that greeted the first dawn of modern realistic art. Sculpture and painting deified the material. They told of beauty in the human form which hundreds of years of religious fanaticism had taught was bad and vile. If the flesh was beautiful, what of the monks and priests, who had hidden it from sight, who kept it covered night and day through all their foolish lives, who maimed and bruised, cut and lacerated, for the glory of the spirit, which they thought was chained within. The church had taught that the death of the flesh was the birth


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 THE NOVELS OF FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Translated from the Russian by CONSTANCE GARNETT, Crown 8vo,

THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV

THE IDIOT

THE POSSESSED

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD

THE INSULTED AND INJURED

A RAW YOUTH

THE ETERNAL HUSBAND

THE GAMBLER AND OTHER STORIES

WHITE NIGHTS

AN HONEST THIEF

THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY


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 12 of the soul, and it therefore believed that the artist's resurrection of the flesh was the death of the soul. This old religious prejudice, born of a misty, superstitious past, has slowly faded from the minds of men, but we find its traces even yet. The origin of the feeling against realistic art has well nigh been forgot, but much of the feeling still remains. No one would now pretend to say that all the body was unholy or unfit for sight, and yet years of custom and inherited belief have made us think that a part is good and the rest is bad; that nature, in her work of building up the human form, has made one part sacred and another vile. It is easy to mistake custom for nature and inherited prejudice for morality. There is scarcely a portion of the human body but that some people have thought it holy, and scarcely a single portion but that some have believed it vile.

It was not shame that made clothing, but clothing that made shame. If we would eradicate from our beliefs all that inheritance and environment have given it would be hard for us to guess how much should still remain. Custom has made most things good and most things bad, according to the whim of time and place. To find solid ground we must turn to nature and ask her what it is that conduces to the highest happiness and the longest life.


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 Rh The realistic artist cannot accept the popular belief, whatever that may be, as to just where the dead line on the human body should be drawn that separates the sacred and profane. There are realists that look at all the beauty and loveliness of the world, and all its maladjustments, too, and do not seek to answer the old, old question whether back of this is any all-controlling and designing power; they do not answer, for they cannot know; but they strive to touch the subtle chord that makes their individual lives vibrate in harmony with the great heart of that nature which they love; and they cannot think but that all parts of life are good, and that, while men may differ, nature must know best.

Other realists there are that believe they see in nature the work of a divine maker, who created man in his own image, as the last and highest triumph of his skill; that the minutest portion of the universe exists because he wished it thus. To the realist that accepts this all-controlling power, any imputation against a portion of his master's work must reach back to the author that designed it all.

We need not say that the human body might not be better than it is; we need only to know that it is the best that man can have, and that its wondrous mechanism has been constructed


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 ; Sandilands Road :
 * Hokkien, Koè káng-á tē kaú tiaù lō͘ 過港仔第九條路 "passed rivulet, number nine street," i.e., the ninth street after crossing the Prangin Ditch from Beach Street.
 * Cantonese, Kwo kong chai tai kau thiu lo 過港仔第九條路

 * Scotland Road :
 * Hokkien, Batu Gantong 峇抵眼東 Malay, overhanging rock; there is a big overhanging rock there.

 * Seh Tan Court :
 * Hokkien, Sìⁿ Tân kong-si 姓陳公司 after the Kong-si house of the Seh Tan clan.
 * Cantonese, Shing chan Kung-si 姓陳公司

 * Sek Chuan Lane :
 * Hokkien, Toā mûiⁿ laû laī 大門樓內 "big archway inside " within the big archway; there was a big compound house there with two entrances, over each of which there was a big archway, the present Sek Chuan Lane being formerly one of the two entrances. (Vide Chulia Street, PART II.)
 * Cantonese, tai mun Tau lung 大門樓隴

 * Stewart Lane :
 * Hokkien, Koan im têng aū 觀音亭後 "Koan im temple back' behind the temple of the Goddess of Mercy.
 * Cantonese, Kun yam min hau 觀音廟後

 * Sungei Ujong :
 * Hokkien, Hô͘ chio tiâⁿ 胡椒埕 "Pepper yard," from the court-yard there where pepper is exposed to be dried.
 * Hokkien, Bān Tek Hong lō͘ 萬得豐路 the road where chop Ban Tek Long owns the pepper yard above referred to is situated.
 * Cantonese, Man tak fung kai 萬得豐街
 * Cantonese, Man tak fung kai 萬得豐街

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 Janua Linguarum; the claim has been made with equal assurance by all the inventors of infallible language-methods, from that day to this.

More original, and full of sound common-sense, were the ideas of J. Cecilius Frey, a physician residing in Paris. He had brought out a work on education in 1629, and this must have come into Comenius’ hands shortly after publication. According to Frey, all languages should be learned colloquially, and attention should be given to arithmetic, geography, drawing, and mechanics. In this upholder of “real studies” Comenius must have hailed a kindred spirit.

With these works before him Comenius applied himself to the double task of creating a more comprehensive and philosophically-based scheme of education than had ever before been devised, and of compiling a series of classbooks suited to the various stages of scholars. These books, while carefully adapted to the capacity of the schoolboy, were written in accordance with the philosophic principles set forth in The Great Didactic, and thus to a remarkable degree combined theory and practice. The class-books were written for the practical teacher, the Didactic was intended for the schoolmaster whose interest in his work was not confined to the school-room, and for nobles, statesmen, and philosophers who wished to reform the schools of their country, but found no scheme ready to hand that was both practical and comprehensive.

Comenius’ aims were revolutionary, and his didactic principles were capable of changing by slow degrees the aspect of civilisation, but the philosophic basis on which they rested was that of harmonious development from existing institutions. Children were to learn their lessons in less time and with less trouble. This had been suggested by previous writers. The time thus gained was to be


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 14 with infinitely more than human skill; that every portion is adapted for its work, and through the harmony of every part the highest good is reached; and that all is beautiful, for it makes the being best adapted to the earth. Those who denounce realistic art deny that knowledge is power and that wisdom only can make harmony, and they insist instead that there are some things vital to life and happiness that we should not know, but that if we must know these things we should at all events pretend that we do not. One day the world will learn that all things are, good or bad, according to the service they perform. One day it ought to learn that the power to create immortality, through infinite, succeeding links of human life, is the finest and most terrible that nature ever gave to man, and that to ignore this power or call it bad, or fail to realize the great responsibility of this tremendous fact, is to cry out against the power that gave us life and commit the greatest human sin, for it may be one that never dies.

The true artist does not find all beauty in the human face or form. He looks upon the sunset, painting all the clouds with rosy hue, and his highest wish is to create another scene like this. He never dreams that he could paint a sunset fairer than that which lights the fading


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 Rh world., A fairer sunset would be something else. He sees beauty in the quiet lake, the grassy field, and running brook; he sees majesty in the cataract and mountain peak. He knows that he can paint no streams and mountain peaks more perfect than those that nature made.

The growth of letters has been like the growth of art from the marvelous and mythical to the natural and true. The tales and legends of the ancient past were not of common men and common scenes. These could not impress the undeveloped intellect of long ago. A man of letters could not deify a serf, or tell the simple story of the poor. He must write to maintain the status of the world, and please the prince that gave him food; so he told of kings and queens, of knights and ladies, of strife and conquest; and the coloring he used was human blood.

The world has grown accustomed to those ancient tales, to scenes of blood and war, and novels that would thrill the soul and cause the hair to stand on end. It has read these tales so long that the true seems commonplace and unfit to fill the pages of a book. But all the time we forget the fact that the story could not charm unless we half believed it true. The men and women in the tale we learn to love and on hate; we take an interest in their lives; we hope they may succeed or fail; we must not be told


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 devoted to a thorough grounding in morality and religion. This again had been frequently urged, though not so weightily or so systematically. But when we come to the introduction of “real studies,” the rudiments of which are to be taught in the nursery, and when his views on this subject gradually merge into “Pansophia” or “Universal Knowledge,” we feel that a really new element has been introduced. This element, however, contains nothing subversive. Nothing could be further removed from the method of Rousseau. Comenius starts with no fundamental condemnation of society. No brilliant paradoxes fill his pages. His reform is to be a gradual development of what already exists, and, that his suggestions may be practicable and may pave the way for a transition with as little friction as possible, he bases them on the writings of his predecessors. With some of these he was not familiar. As we shall see, in our general view of the educational systems of the age, there were writers of whom he had not heard; but, be that as it may, he had done all in his power to analyse the tendencies actually at work, and his Didactic is an endeavour to embody all that was good in existing schemes, while adding many features that were new.

From the first day of his residence in Lissa, Comenius never ceased to work at his comprehensive treatise The Great Didactic. Written in Czech, and probably completed in 1632, it remained in manuscript till 1849, when it was printed at Prague. A Latin translation, however, with several additional chapters, was published at Amsterdam in 1657, and occupies the first ninety-eight pages of the Opera Didactica Omnia.

Even before his final departure from Bohemia, Comenius had probably sketched out his educational scheme, in which he provides for the education of a child from the very hour of its birth. Six years in what he calls the Mother School, six years in the Vernacular School, and six years in the Latin School enable a young man to proceed to the University at eighteen, having had a training, though necessarily a somewhat superficial one, in every


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 ; Batu Itam :
 * Hokkien Batu I-tām 峇抵夷淡
 * Kheh, Chin kau lung 進教隴 "Christian place."

 * Batu Lanchang :
 * Hokkien, Batu bān chiang 峇抵閩漳

 * Batu Uban :
 * Hokkien, Batu bān 峇抵閩

 * Bayan Lepas :
 * Hokkien, Mâ la̍k pâi 嘛𠯿排

 * Bukit Penera :
 * Niáⁿ téng 嶺頂 "hill-path top."
 * Kheh, Au tang 凹頂 "valley top."

 * Gelugur :
 * Kheh, Liong hang hiau 涼坑口 "cold stream mouth."

 * Gertak Sanggul :
 * Hokkien, Boé ô͘ 尾湖 "last lake."
 * Kheh, Bi fu 尾湖

 * Ginting :
 * Hokkien, Bûn téng 文頂
 * Kheh, Vun ting kok. 文頂 Vun ting is a corruption for "Ginting," and kok means corner.

 * Jalan Bharu :
 * Hokkien, Sin lō͘-thaû 新路頭 "new landing place."
 * Kheh, Sin tu thiau 新渡頭

 * Jelutong :
 * Hokkien, Ji̍t lo̍h tōng 日落洞

 * Pasir Blanda :
 * Kheh, Chuk sa wi 竹沙園 "Bamboo sand enclosure."

 * Pasir Panjang :
 * Hokkien, Toā soa po͘ 大沙埔 "Big sand field.”
 * Kheh, Thai sa pu 大砂埔

 * Paya Trubong :
 * Hokkien, Tò bōng laĭ 倒蒙內 tò

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 I replied that I thought it was somewhere about the middle. He said:

"Well, now, you take my advice, and get a calico suit and a sunshade. Never mind the look of the thing. You be comfortable. You've no idea of the heat on the Continent at this time of the year. English people will persist in travelling about the Continent in the same stuffy clothes that they wear at home. That's how so many of them get sunstrokes, and are ruined for life."

I went into the club, and there I met a friend of mine—a newspaper correspondent—who has travelled a good deal, and knows Europe pretty well. I told him what my two other friends had said, and asked him which I was to believe. He said:

"Well, as a matter of fact, they are both right. You see, up in those hilly districts, the weather changes very quickly. In the morning it may be blazing hot, and you will be melting, and in the evening you may be very glad of a flannel shirt and a fur coat."

"Why, that is exactly the sort of weather we have in England!" I exclaimed. "If that's all these foreigners. can manage in their own country, what right have they to come over here, as they do, and grumble about our weather?"

"Well, as a matter of fact," he replied, "they haven't any right; but you can't stop them-they will do it. No, you take my advice, and be prepared for everything. Take a cool suit and some thin things, for if it's hot, and plenty of warm things in case it is cold."

When I got home I found Mrs. Briggs there, she having looked in to see how the baby was. She said:

"Oh! if you're going anywhere near Germany, you take a bit of soap with you."


text:
The Terriford Mystery/Chapter 16

ARLY that same afternoon Miss Prince made her way to the rectory. She felt too anxious, too excited, too restless to stay quietly at home, and she knew that the rector would soon be returning with the news of what had happened.

She and the rector's wife, Mrs. Cole-Wright, were on terms of armed neutrality rather than friendship, and that though they “ran the parish” between them. Mrs. Cole-Wright was the best-read woman in the neighbourhood. In happier circumstances she might have cut a certain figure in the world. As it was, her sarcastic tongue and reputation for “cleverness” caused her to be avoided by many of her neighbours.

She shared to the full the prevailing excitement concerning Harry Garlett, and so, for once, she was glad to see Miss Prince.

“The rector is not yet back,” she observed, “but you must wait and hear what he has to say. I suppose that unfortunate man has been committed for trial, though I don't quite see what actual evidence they have against him.”

“How d'you mean?” exclaimed the other, surprised. “Surely you don't doubt that poor Emily Garlett was poisoned?”

“Of course I don't doubt that,” answered Mrs. Cole-Wright impatiently. “But I do ask myself how they will be able to bring the murder home to Harry Garlett, unless they can prove that he had arsenic in his possession, or that he bought arsenic for any purpose whatsoever, within a comparatively short time of his wife's death.”

“I think it's almost certain that they did find some arsenic in the Thatched House,” said Miss Prince. “But we shall soon know”

She did not look up as she spoke; she kept her eyes fixed on a worn spot in the rectory drawing-room carpet.

Even as she said the words there came the sound of the front door opening and shutting, and a moment later the rector came hurriedly into the room, almost as eager to tell his news as they were to hear it.

“Well, it's gone as I suppose we all expected it to do,” he exclaimed. “Garlett has been committed for trial at the next assizes on the charge of having murdered his wife!”

“How did he take it?” asked his wife.

“Very oddly, to my thinking. The unhappy man addressed the magistrates. Think of that! Why, he himself was sitting on that very magistrate's bench less than a month ago”

“What did he say?” exclaimed the two ladies together.

“He only spoke for about three minutes—but it seemed an hour to me! He declared most solemnly that he was not guilty, and he made a kind of appeal—it made me go hot all over—asking how it was possible that any one who had ever known him could believe him guilty?”

And then Miss Prince looked into the rector's kindly, troubled face.

“Did they find any arsenic at the Thatched House?” she asked in a low voice.

“Nothing was said about that,” answered the clergyman slowly. “If any arsenic was found they have not chosen to bring the fact forward to-day. Of course what told terribly against Garlett was Maclean's evidence.”

“Had he anything new to say?”

“Well, I don't know that he had, exactly. But there was quite a sensation in the court when he revealed that Mrs. Garlett had taken a plateful of strawberries and sugar from Harry Garlett's own hand a few hours before the poor soul died in agony! One could tell that according to Maclean's theory the arsenic was administered in the white powdered sugar which seems to have been thickly sprinkled over the strawberries.”

“My strawberries!” exclaimed Miss Prince, as if speaking to herself, “my strawberries—alas!”

They both turned on her quickly.

“Your strawberries, Miss Prince? What do you mean?”

“Ever since I was a girl,” she answered, “I have grown a few forced strawberries each spring. I thought every one in Terriford knew that.”

There came a spot of colour into her sallow face. She had never presented the Cole-Wrights with a basket of her forced strawberries, and now she regretted the omission.

“Do you mean you grow them in pots in the house?” asked Mrs. Cole-Wright, a touch of sarcasm in her voice. She had no love of gardening—another peculiarity which tended to make her unpopular with her neighbours.

“I grow them there in two small barrels in which holes have been pierced,” answered Miss Prince quickly. “A French governess showed me how to do it when I was little more than a child, and I grow those tiny Alpine strawberries that the French call the 'Four Seasons,' On that fatal Saturday last May, hearing that poor Emily Garlett was feeling rather less well than usual, I took her up my first gathering, so to speak. Though the berries were rather white they were very sweet. To think that they should have helped to kill her!”

“And was it your sugar, too?” asked the rector abruptly.

“Good gracious, no—of course not! I took the strawberries to the Thatched House in a little covered basket which I left with Miss Cheale, and she brought me back the basket that same evening.”

“Did Mr. Garlett allude to the strawberries in his speech to-day?” inquired Mrs. Cole-Wright.

“I'm sorry to say he did. He denied absolutely that he had given his wife any strawberries. He said that he had never even seen them! But of course no one doubted that Maclean had told the truth, the more so that one could see that he gave his damning evidence with the greatest reluctance. I thought at one moment that the poor fellow was going to break down. It's an awful thing for the Macleans. I feel truly sorry for them.”

“You mean because of Jean Bower?” observed his wife. Then she gave a curious little laugh. “Men are so sentimental, aren't they, Miss Prince? The girl will get over it soon enough, Philip—never you fear! It's lucky they weren't already married. There I admit that Jean Bower and the Macleans have had a lucky escape. But as for the girl, no pity need be wasted over her. Why, she hardly knew Harry Garlett, when he came back four months ago!”

“I hope that's true,” remarked Miss Prince in a singular tone.

“What d'you mean?” asked her hostess eagerly.

“I have my doubts as to the terms they were on before Harry went away.”

“Do you mean before his wife died?” asked the rector, in a horror-struck tone.

“My dear Philip,” exclaimed his wife. “Do you never hear any gossip?”

“I never heard any gossip as to the relations of these two people,” he said decidedly. Then, looking at his wife, “Did you?”

“I can't remember exactly when I first heard a word said. But I do remember that I didn't believe a word of it,” answered Mrs. Cole-Wright. “But of course I'll change my mind if Miss Prince has any evidence that they were intimate?” and she looked fixedly at her visitor.

“Intimate!” exclaimed the rector in a horrified tone.

“All I can say is,” Miss Prince spoke in a dogged tone, “that on the very morning I took those strawberries to the Thatched House, Harry Garlett and Miss Bower walked back together from Grendon across the fields. I saw them with my own eyes, just before I left the house.”

As the husband and wife leaned forward in their chairs and looked at her full of keen, if rather shamefaced, curiosity, she went on composedly:

“I'd already heard some talk about them even then. Jean Bower's a very attractive girl, for all her quiet ways. Old Dodson was crazy about her.”

Mrs. Cole-Wright said musingly: “When one comes to think of it, Jean Bower was at the Etna China factory some time before Mrs. Garlett's death. She first came here in the winter.”

“So she did—I'd forgotten that! Still, if Mrs. Maclean is to be believed,” observed the rector, “she and her husband were utterly taken by surprise over the engagement. The day she came to see me about the marriage—you remember how quiet they wanted it to be—she admitted that they had both thought the girl liked Tasker.”

“Dr. Tasker has reason to be thankful to-day,” said Miss Prince slowly.

“Why?” asked husband and wife.

“Because,” she replied briskly, “could anything be more awful than to have one's bride, even one's fiancée, mixed up in such an affair?”

“D'you really think Jean Bower would have been mixed up in it—if she'd been engaged to Tasker?” asked the rector in a pained tone.

“One never can tell,” said Miss Prince sententiously, forgetting—as scandal-mongers are apt to forget—that in this life one cannot have it both ways.

She went on eagerly, “However, Dr. Tasker is out of it, and, next to Harry Garlett himself, the one most affected is Dr. Maclean. Mark my words—there'll be an awful falling-off in his practice!”

She did not utter that prediction with any touch of regret in her voice, for she had never liked her father's successor.

After a pause she added, “He showed himself grossly careless, if not worse, when signing poor Emily's death certificate.”

“He was certainly taken in,” said Mrs. Cole-Wright acidly.

The rector exclaimed: “Yes, indeed! By the way, he made great play to-day with the fact that he was being called as a common, and not as an expert, or skilled, witness.”

“How very odd,” observed Mrs. Cole-Wright. “Surely a doctor is always an expert—or ought to be?”

“Well, no, not according to law,” said the rector. “According to him—and I could see that none of the magistrates dared to contradict him—he was only bound to state, as any other witness might have done, the facts that had fallen under his own observation. They tried hard to make him say what he thought himself as to Garlett's guilt or innocence, but he refused, very properly, to give an opinion.”

“Of course it will be got out of him at the trial,” exclaimed his wife.

“Do you know whether Dr. Maclean is to appear for the prosecution or the defence?” asked Miss Prince.

“For the prosecution, surely?” cried Mrs. Cole-Wright quickly. “But the defence will cross-examine him, and I pity the poor man if, as I heard yesterday, Sir Harold Anstey has already been briefed by Mr. Toogood.”

“Maclean said one thing that struck me very much,” said the rector. “He reminded the magistrates that a medical witness should always remember that he is not retained for any particular person, but in the cause of justice alone. I think you will find that he will make a most excellent witness. He certainly managed to conceal what he really thought from me—I could form no opinion as to whether he believes Garlett innocent or guilty.”

“You'd have made it out fast enough if he thought the man innocent,” said his wife shrewdly.

“Of course he knows Harry Garlett to be guilty,” exclaimed Miss Prince in a hard voice. “I don't see how any one can doubt it.”

“How well I remember,” went on the rector, “Dr. Maclean coming up that Sunday morning, just as I was going into church, to tell me of Mrs. Garlett's death. He looked terribly tired, for he had been up most of the night. But still we had a little talk about it. I was very much shocked, for, if you remember”—he turned to his wife—“I had seen Mrs. Garlett the day before, and she had seemed to me rather brighter than usual.”

He waited a moment, then exclaimed: “By the way, I remember now that Maclean actually mentioned those strawberries as having caused the acute indigestion which resulted in her death!”

His wife looked at him apprehensively. “Be careful what you say, Philip. You don't want to be called as a witness?”

“Of course I don't. Miss Prince? May I rely upon you not to tell any one of this curious little piece of corroborative evidence?”

“What the rector said is not evidence,” said Mrs. Cole-Wright lightly.

Her husband looked at her puzzled.

“One can never be quite sure as to who may be called upon to give evidence,” observed Miss Prince. “But the one witness they are sure to call at the trial is Jean Bower.”

“What an awful ordeal it will be for the poor girl,” said Mr. Cole-Wright in a moved tone.

“The person I shall feel sorry for,” broke in his wife, “is Miss Cheale. I respect that young woman. She was always so quiet, so dignified, and kept herself to herself. She will be a most important witness.”

“And she seems to have been the only person actually with Mrs. Garlett when the poor soul passed away,” chimed in the rector.

“I was surprised at the time,” observed Mrs. Cole-Wright, “that there was neither an inquest nor a post-mortem with a person so important in her own way as poor Mrs. Garlett.”

“And there's another thing,” said the rector hesitatingly, “though perhaps I hardly ought to tell it to you?”

“Of course you must tell us, Philip. All we are saying here is absolutely private”

She looked at Miss Prince, and Miss Prince nodded, gravely:

“Harry Garlett was exceedingly anxious that the burial should take place two days earlier than it did,” said the clergyman impressively. “This fact, to which I now attach a sinister significance, was the more ominous because, instead of raising the question himself, he got Miss Cheale to do so. Miss Cheale and that queer, sickly brother of hers came and asked me if the funeral could take place on the Thursday instead of on the Saturday. Miss Cheale said that Garlett was anxious to have the funeral as soon as possible. But that again”—he turned to Miss Prince—“is a thing I naturally do not wish made public. The wretched man will be condemned on direct, not circumstantial, evidence, unless I'm much mistaken.”

“I suppose he will,” said Miss Prince.

Then she got up to go. She had enjoyed every moment of her visit, save during the short discussion as to the forced Alpine strawberries.

Lucy Warren was moving about her little kitchen trying to make work for herself. She was miserable with the dull dogged misery bred of hope deferred. Since the night she had seen Guy Cheale disappear through the drawing room window of the Thatched House, she had only had one short interchange of words with him.

Months had gone by since then, and yet to Lucy Warren the wounds inflicted on her pride as well as on her heart were still open wounds. She was of course excited and interested in the question of Mrs. Garlett's death, but to her the one thing that mattered was the mystery of Guy Cheale's dis appearance out of her life.

This afternoon the man she had come to love was very present to her mind. She seemed to see his keen, mocking face rise up before her. It was as if his heavy-lidded gray eyes—eyes that could be at once so cruel and so tender, were following her about.

Her feelings toward Agatha Cheale had undergone no change—in fact, when that young lady had stayed at the Thatched Cottage—Lucy had quietly told Miss Prince that she would not meet her, and Miss Prince had allowed Lucy's sister to take her place for the time. Often since then, poor Lucy had regretted that she had not forced herself to stay and face her enemy. She would, maybe, have learned something as to Guy Cheale and his condition; she might even have had the good fortune to discover his address.

As these thoughts were drifting through her mind, there came at the back door a curious, furtive, uncertain knock.

With a strange sense of foreboding at her heart, she went and unlatched the door, and for a moment she thought the slight woman whose face was swathed in a long motor veil a stranger.

“I want to see Miss Prince,” said the husky voice Lucy remembered only too well. Then came a surprise: “Why, it's Lucy Warren! Tell me—do you know if Mr. Garlett was committed for trial this morning?”

Lucy stared at the unexpected visitor, remembering that Miss Cheale was supposed to be too ill to leave London.

“I don't know what's happened to Mr. Garlett. I'm expecting Miss Prince back every minute. She'll have found out for sure,” said Lucy coldly. “Come in, do! You look perished with cold, miss.”

Agatha Cheale came through into the warm kitchen. She loosened her concealing veil, and Lucy saw that her face was thin and worn. She looked very ill, and though there seemed nothing in common between her and her big, fair brother, yet to-day Lucy did see a kind of family resemblance which made her heart beat faster, and impelled her to do a thing she would have thought herself incapable of doing even for Miss Prince. It was in a tone of kindly sympathy that she exclaimed:

“Sit you down, miss, and I'll take off your boots and bring a pair of shoes for you to put on!”

Agatha Cheale sat down wearily.

“I'll take off my boots myself,” she said, “but I shall be glad of the shoes, though I can't stay long.”

“Mother's fretted a deal about Mr. Cheale,” said Lucy nervously. “Is he quite well?”

A challenging look flashed between the two young women, and then Agatha Cheale said coldly:

“I have no idea where my brother is. The last time I saw him was about a month after he left here. He was then going abroad.”

Almost as if the words were dragged out of her, Miss Cheale added: “He asked me about the Thatched Farm—how you all were, and so on. But I told him I did not know.”

After Lucy had fetched Miss Prince's warm bedroom slippers, she asked the visitor: “Won't you come into the little sitting room? I've kept up a good fire there. Miss Prince will be back in a minute.”

But it seemed a very long time both to the young lady sitting in the parlour and to the maid sitting in the kitchen, before there came the familiar knock at the front door. Miss Prince would have thought it quite wrong, almost a “fast” thing to do, to let herself in with a latchkey.

As Lucy opened the door she whispered: “Miss Cheale is here, waiting to see you, ma'am.”

“Miss Cheale!”

Miss Prince could hardly believe her ears. She had supposed her friend to be ill in bed, in London.

As she came in to her sitting room, Agatha Cheale stood up, a look of agonized suspense on her face.

“Is Harry Garlett committed for trial?” she asked.

“Of course he is—surely you did not expect anything else?”

And then Miss Prince felt suddenly disturbed and angry. She disliked intensely anything that savoured of hysterical emotion, and here was Agatha Cheale clasping her hands together with a wild gesture, and exclaiming: “How terrible! For he is innocent—innocent!”

“You cannot possibly know whether he is innocent or guilty,” said Miss Prince coldly. “Sit down, my dear, ^We'll have tea in a moment.”

“He is innocent,” cried the other passionately. “I know Harry Garlett far, far better than I have ever admitted—even to you!”

Miss Prince's heart seemed to leap in her breast. Was she at last to be positively assured of something which no one but herself had ever suspected, with the one exception, maybe, of Dr. Maclean?

Agatha Cheale sat staring before her, a look of terrible suffering in her eyes.

The older woman at last ventured: “You mean, my dear, that there were love passages between you? I always suspected it.”

“No!” almost screamed Agatha Cheale, starting up from her chair. “There were no love passages between us. What love there was was on my side—my side alone.”

And then she broke into bitter sobs. “I'm a wicked woman, a wicked woman”

“Nonsense, my dear! If there have been no love passages, you are not a wicked woman,” said practical Miss Prince.

She walked over to where her friend still stood, a dreadful look of rigid misery on her face.

“Sit down,” she said quietly, taking up the other's hot, nerveless hand. “Sit down, Agatha. You're in a high fever, I do believe.”

“I have been in bed on and off for nearly ten days. But I felt I must come down here and learn what had really happened to-day. Have you seen any one who was there?”

“Yes, I've seen the rector. What told against Harry most was Dr. Maclean's evidence. But no arsenic has yet been traced to his possession.”

In spite of herself, as she said those last words Miss Prince's voice altered slightly.

“Why should he be suspected then—more than any one else who was in the house at the time?”

Miss Prince thought this a very silly question.

“What is absolutely certain, Agatha, is that poor Emily died, poisoned with an unusually large quantity of arsenic.”

“I know that,” said Miss Cheale in a quieter tone. “And yet—I daresay you will think me very foolish—though I do know it's true, somehow I can't believe it. Once or twice I've wondered—you'll think me raving mad”—her voice sank almost to a whisper as she fixed her burning, sunken eyes on Miss Prince's face—“if the analyst, the man who made the examination, could have mixed up poor Mrs. Garlett's remains with those of some one else?”

“My dear Agatha!” the older woman looked at her with concern, and then, choosing her words, she said: “You mustn't allow your feelings of affection for Mr. Garlett to affect”

“I know what you mean,” broke in Agatha Cheale. “But while my reason tells me Emily Garlett was poisoned, everything else tells me that it can't be true.”

“I've often wondered,” said Miss Prince suddenly, “what first started the inquiry. After all, none of us had the slightest suspicion there was anything wrong, had we?”

Agatha Cheale turned herself about, and sitting down, gazed into the fire.

“Well,” she said at last, in a voice that had now become collected and steady, “though none of us suspected anything at the time, there may have been some outsider who thought it odd that there was no inquest.”

“I can tell you who that outsider was,” exclaimed Miss Prince. “Mrs. Cole-Wright thought it a most extraordinary thing that there was no inquest! I remember her saying so to me the very day of the funeral.”

“Perhaps she wrote to the police,” said Agatha Cheale in a hesitating voice.

“I'm sure she didn't. She's a cautious woman, and she's always liked Harry Garlett. No! it's far more likely that some one who saw Harry carrying on with Jean Bower in the factory wrote to the police.”

“I suppose they called the girl as a witness?” said Agatha Cheale. There was acrid bitterness in her voice.

“No,” said Miss Prince, “they didn't call her, oddly enough. They seem to have decided to do without her. Dr. Maclean was most anxious she shouldn't be called. He said she was ill, and, after all, he's the medical attendant of every one of the magistrates who were there”

“Does she still consider herself engaged to Mr. Garlett?”

“She certainly does. Though, as to that, I can tell you a very curious thing.”

Agatha Cheale turned round eagerly, her face full of intense, painful curiosity.

“Harry Garlett has absolutely refused to see Jean Bower—I mean since his arrest. Some people say it's nearly broken her heart. She's so pale and thin you'd hardly believe her to be the pretty girl of a few weeks ago.”

The other drew a long breath. “So he won't see her? Then he can't have really cared for her.”

She waited a moment, and then added in an odd tone, “He is a very cold man.”

Miss Prince was surprised, “I shouldn't call him that”

Agatha Cheale turned round and looked straight into the older woman's face. “He is what foreigners call 'A Jaseph,'” she exclaimed.

Miss Prince shrank back, almost as if she had been struck.

“My dear Agatha—what a horrid expression!”

“It's a true expression,” answered Agatha Cheale. “We'll never speak of this again, and I don't want you to have a worse impression of me than you must. But I cared for Harry Garlett, and I did my utmost—my utmost—to make him care for me. I failed. Let's leave it at that!”

“Did Emily suspect that you liked him?”

“Good God, no!”

And again Miss Prince shrank back a little. This was an Agatha Cheale she did not know—a violent, unrestrained human being, laying her soul bare as few human beings ever have the cruel courage to do.

“I hope you got poor Emily's legacy all right?”

“Yes, I got it almost at once. It enabled me to send my brother abroad.”

“How is he?” asked Miss Prince.

“I don't know, he never writes to me, unless he wants money,” she said bitterly. “I've only cared for two people in my life—my brother and Harry Garlett—and neither of them have cared for me.”

She got up. “I must be going back! The driver of the car I hired at Dill Junction had a friend in Grendon. I said he could go there for an hour. I was afraid he might go into the village, and cause gossip. I think I heard the car come up just now.”

“I wonder if I ought to let you go away?” said Miss Prince hesitatingly. “You don't look fit to go back to London to-day, my dear.”

“I couldn't stay here. If I did I should get into serious trouble for not having appeared at the Police Court to-day.”

She turned and put her arms around Miss Prince's angular neck. “Good-bye, Mary. You're a good friend,” she exclaimed. “Forget all I've said to-day!”

“I will,” said Miss Prince soberly, “indeed I will, Agatha. I don't feel as if you are really yourself, my dear.”

“I'm not myself in a sense, and yet in another sense I'm quite myself, more myself than you've ever seen me be.”

The great tide of life flows on steadily, ruthlessly, whatever be the tragedies or comedies being enacted below the swift-moving waters. Dr. Maclean had an important consultation early that afternoon with a great London specialist. And though both his wife and his niece were aware that he could not be in to lunch, yet both of them shrank from learning the news as to whether Harry Garlett was a free man or had been committed for trial from any one but him.

After the clock had struck two, Jean constantly took the little gold watch, which she wore on an old-fashioned gold chain round her neck, out of her belt, and Mrs. Maclean felt that they had both come near the breaking point.

“Let's put on our things and walk to meet your uncle,” she said at last. “You won't mind our seeing people on the road who may stop and speak to us?”

“I don't mind anything,” she answered listlessly, and soon they were walking quickly in the direction from where they knew Dr. Maclean was to come. As they hurried through the biting January wind a little colour came into Jean's face and she began to look more herself.

“It's foolish to feel as I do to-day,” she said at last. “I'm not really in suspense, for of course I know quite well that Harry has been committed for trial. Nothing excepting a miracle happening—I mean the guilty person coming forward—could have prevented it. And yet?—and yet, Aunt Jenny, I hope against hope!”

“So do I,” said Mrs. Maclean in a low voice.

At last they saw the familiar little car rolling along very much more quickly than it was apt to do, and as the doctor drove up to them a glance at his face was enough.

“Of course he's committed for trial. Nothing new came out—one way or the other.”

Then in a voice which he tried to make colourless, he went on: “I've got a letter for you from Harry, child. I was to give it to you only if he was committed for trial. Would you like us two to drive on, leaving you to read it and walk home alone?”

She looked up into his kind, tired face—oh, so gratefully, and held out her hand for the envelope.

“I think I'll go walking on, for a bit, by myself. Don't be frightened if I don't come in for an hour or so.”

She tried to smile, but failed.

Mrs. Maclean got into the car, and the husband and wife drove off together, their hearts heavy with pity and that most painful of sensations that nothing they could say or do could help the poor girl they both loved so dearly.

After a few moments Mrs. Maclean made a restless movement.

“Don't look round,” said the doctor sharply. “I know what's in the letter I've just given the poor lass. He's not only offered to release her from their engagement, but he begs her strongly to allow it to come to an end. Whatever he may have done, there's something very fine about the chap. Both Toogood and the governor of the prison told me that Jean is never out of his mind—and not selfishly in it, mark you.”

“She'll never give him up,” said Mrs. Maclean woefully.

“Bide a wee, my dear. I think she'll do anything he asks her to do; and though I haven't seen the letter I know that he's put it very strongly to her. He's assured her—a splendid lie if ever there was one—that the breaking of their engagemeant [sic] will be to his benefit, I mean during the course of the trial.”

“If he's said that, perhaps she'll do it.”

“The governor had a little talk with me before the proceedings began. He's so much impressed with Garlett's way of taking the whole thing that he half believes him to be innocent. I wish I could believe it”—unconsciously he was slowing down—“it's no good my pretending that I don't feel very wretched, the more so that I know well enough that if he's hung it will be my testimony that will hang him.”

“Were you asked anything about Jean?” asked his wife in a low voice.

“Of course I was! And of course I had to admit that she'd been at the factory fully five weeks before Emily Garlett's death. Also that they'd corresponded while he was away.”

“Jock! You never said that? Why, it was only the most formal business correspondence,” exclaimed Mrs. Maclean dismayed.

“They particularly questioned me about it, and though I tried to make the truth as clear as I could, I don't think they believed me. Then I had to admit that the moment he came back he and she were always together. Garlett's head foreman was called. I felt sorry for the poor chap—he is obviously attached to Jean, but he had to confess that the factory was humming with talk about them long before they became engaged. That stupid, daft old Sir William Harding asked: 'You mean before Mrs. Garlett's death?' and the foreman was so bewildered that he actually answered: 'I don't seem to remember exactly when the talk about them did begin.'”

“And will it all be put in the papers?”

“Of course it will.”

title: The Terriford Mystery/Chapter 16