(Continued from page 231.)

CHAPTER XIII.

'Goody,' said Estelle, as they sat round the blazing logs, 'why did Madame Bricolin call Jack the Giant of the Hospice de la Providence? I don't think it half so nice a name as the Giant of the Treasure Caves. There is something romantic, like a fairy story, in a treasure cave. Don't you think so, Jack?'

The sailor was standing up to separate the nets he was about to mend. They lay in a tangled heap at his feet, and it looked to Estelle as if he would never have room enough to spread them out, large as the kitchen was. Yet he must do so if he wanted to find the torn places. No such difficulty presented itself to Jack's mind, however. He laughed as he drew himself up to his full height of six feet seven inches.

'I haven't read many fairy stories, Missie,' he said; 'but treasure caves, such as ours, don't figure in them, I fancy. Our treasure is mostly smugglers' stuff. Some day I will take you to see them, and some of them will astonish you.'

'Oh, yes. Do take me. I love caves. I know of some—— ' She stopped, hesitating. 'I am sure I do—but where? Did we go to some once?'

'Only those we went to to-day.'

'And they are the treasure caves?'

'Yes; but the real thing is below, where you have not yet grown strong enough to go.'

Little did he guess under what circumstances he would show her that mysterious cave, the entrance to which was his secret.

'But,' went on Estelle, 'you have not told me why Madame Bricolin calls you a giant—— '

'I suppose,' answered his mother, with a glance of pride at her tall son, 'anybody would call him a big man. Even in England he would not be thought small.' Mrs. Wright laughed. 'And in France, where the men are mostly short—no height at all, to speak of—why, he is a mighty man! So MÈre Bricolin calls him a giant.'

'He is a giant,' said Estelle, looking at Jack, admiringly. 'But why of the Hospice de la Providence?'

'Because we live in the Hospice, dearie. It does seem more natural to call a man by the house he lives in.'

'Was this ever a hospital?' exclaimed Estelle, in surprise. She did not like the idea at all.

'It was some years ago,' said Jack, his foot in the twine, his needle ready to begin work. 'You wouldn't think it, would you? It is a vast deal more cosy and comfortable now than it ever was then.'

'How sick people were ever got up here I can't imagine,' observed Mrs. Wright, knitting vigorously. 'I know I'm never too ready to trudge up and down that steep path, and I'm a deal better than many of them poor folk were.'

'A bit lazy, eh, Mother?' replied Jack, smiling. 'We were glad enough of this shelter when we first came.'

'So we were, my son,' said Mrs. Wright, heartily; 'and I for one am not grumbling over what should be a blessing. You and I am very happy here, and it's solid, which some of the houses in Tout-Petit are not. We can't have our roof blown off,' she added with a laugh.

'There wasn't a decent house to be had then, nor is there-now,' went on Jack. 'The empty ones were all tumbling to pieces, and in such a state of dirt that when the landlord offered this to Mother we jumped at it. It is damp, year in year out. We always have fires burning in the rooms we use. But what of that? It is cheerful, and we must have some draw-back wherever we are. But, Missie, this is only a very, very small part of the old Hospice, just the driest corner. The caves and passages run the whole length of our terrace, and all the shrubs and flowers you see were planted to cheer up the sick people.'

'Yes,' said Mrs. Wright, 'they used to sit on this terrace, as well as take their exercise here. You have seen how sunny and bright it is. But it is very different in the rooms they lived in. They are very gloomy, damp, and get no sun at all. They have no windows, and only a glimmer of light comes through the door.'

'And that was all the air they got, too,' added Jack. 'You shall come and see them one day, if you like, Missie. It isn't cheerful, but it is interesting. For more than twenty years these places have never been used at all, so we had no difficulty in getting the landlord to let us make changes. It just suited us, and we were allowed to do as we liked. So, you see, we have windows and doors; we have a fireplace in each of the rooms we inhabit, and shafts to the top of the cliff, which act as chimneys. So we are pretty comfortable, on the whole.'

'But,' said Estelle, drawing nearer to Mrs. Wright, 'isn't it dreadful to have those long, gloomy places so near you? Did any of those poor sick people die, and are they buried here, too?'

'They are not buried here,' replied Mrs. Wright. 'Why should they be? There's the churchyard in the village. But the new hospital is in a far healthier place than this, and better for everybody.'

This conversation made a deeper impression upon Estelle than even the Treasure Caves had done. She was very silent, and all Jack's efforts to rouse her met with but little success.

'You are going out to fish to-night?' she asked, her eyes wide open with a nameless terror.

They had risen from the supper-table. Mrs. Wright washed up and put away the china, and Jack had gone to prepare for the night's work. His appearance in his oilskins seem to put the finishing touch to the child's misery. He was going away all night. She and Goody would be quite alone—quite alone, with all those dreadful rooms where the sick and dying had lived; those gloomy, chill, sunless abodes for the suffering. Her mind, sensitive and imaginative, shrank with horror from the picture presented to her by her active brain.

'Don't go!—don't go!' she cried, clinging to the sailor's arm, as he stooped to gather his nets and other necessaries together.

He looked at her in astonishment. She was trembling from head to foot, while she clasped and unclasped her hands on his arm.

'My dearie, my dearie, what is it?' cried Goody, as surprised as was her son. She was frightened at the excitement the little girl displayed. 'Nothing shall hurt you, dearie. Jack is going only for one night. He will be back in the morning.'

'No, no, he must not go!' almost screamed Estelle, beside herself with despair because he did not at once yield to her entreaties. 'He can't leave us all alone.'

'She will be ill again,' sighed Mrs. Wright, her kind old face puckered with anxiety. 'What has terrified her so?'

'Missie,' said Jack, firmly, 'nothing can be done while you go on like that. Be quiet, or you will be ill. Don't you hear what the mother says? She will be with you all night, and what more do you want?'

He unloosed her fingers from his arm, and, holding her hands, told her she must be calm before they could listen to a word she said. He would not even let his mother caress her, fearing the child would be still more unnerved by any display of tenderness at this juncture. Mrs. Wright, however, hurried off to fetch some cordial in which she had firm belief, and which she felt sure would restore Estelle after her fright.

(Continued on page 246.)