(Continued from page 235.)

On her return, Mrs. Wright found Estelle calmer; still very shaky, and with tears but half dried, but ready to listen to reason. Jack was assuring her there was nothing to be afraid of: that nothing could or would happen to her in his absence. The cavern passages and chambers were absolutely empty, and securely shut up by doors and iron gates. It was foolish to be so frightened about mere fancies.

Mrs. Wright gave her some of the cordial, and said she had better come to bed. She would soon forget her terrors in a sound, healthy sleep, and in the morning Goody would take her down to watch the boats come in, and Jack along with them. She should see all the beautiful fish they brought, and choose what she liked for their supper.

Estelle made no reply. She stood leaning against Goody, but her eyes were fixed with the same terror on Jack, as when he gathered up his things, and prepared to start.

'You are really going?' she began, her voice quivering, and the tears welling up again.

'Hush, my dear,' said Mrs. Wright, holding her tight in her motherly arms. 'I'll take right good care of you.'

'That she will,' said Jack, heartily.

Embracing his mother, and with a touch of his hand on Estelle's head, he smiled down into her tearful eyes, and was gone.

Great indeed was the blank he left behind him! Knowing from sad experience the perils of the toilers of the sea, Mrs. Wright never saw her son depart without anxiety and dread; and to-night, as if to make matters worse, the rain was coming down heavily, and the sighing of the wind was not promising. But it did no good to stop and think, and there was plenty to do.

'Come, dear,' she said, choking down the lump in her throat, 'it won't do to sit down and mope. That's not the way to bear our sorrows. You must think your fears are nothing to matter, with me here to defend you. Come along to bed now. That's the first thing to think about.'

Estelle obeyed, only begging Goody not to leave her.

Nevertheless, the evening's excitement left its trace. Estelle tossed about some time before she could get any sleep, and when at last she fell into a feverish doze, her dreams were distressing. She was back again in the long passage of the ruined summer-house. Behind her was the closed door, all around her fell the earth and stones from the roof, while the continual drip of water filled her ears. She was quite alone—every one had forgotten her—no, no! she heard footsteps running. The bay of mastiffs came near; they were on the track of two men, of Thomas (though she could not remember his name); and she was in front, her feet too heavy to run, the way too long and dark for any hope of escape. She heard the ripple of the sea; and then she was in a boat, and saw herself falling, falling—the cruel water swallowing her up.

She sat up with a stifled scream.

Mrs. Wright, who was sound asleep, woke with a start, and hastening to her, made her lie down, soothing her, and assuring her it was only a nightmare.

Again Estelle sank into a sleep. She was in a large library, the room was surrounded by book-shelves, the backs of the books glistened in the ruddy firelight. All around spoke of luxury and comfort. She was sitting on the hearthrug, her head against the knee of—whom? A gentleman was stroking her hair, and she heard him say, 'It is the sweetest name on earth to me, my darling.' What name? She was sure he pronounced it, but no sound seemed to come from his lips. Weeping, she entreated, oh, if she could only hear that name! It was her own. She felt sure of that, but she could not tell what it was. She looked up to ask again, but the gentleman was gone. There was a sweet old lady sitting in an armchair, surrounded by four children. They had been having tea on the lawn. Before them was a wide stretch of green grass ending at the lily-pond; yellow and white blossoms dotted the calm water, and swans were pluming their wings in the summer sun. The lady was telling the children a story—something sad, something that contained a great lesson, and Estelle tried with all her might to hear what that story was. It seemed quite natural that she should be there; the old lady and the children appeared to be connected with her in some close way. She tried to touch the lady to ask her name, but she could not.

A sense of misery overcame her. She appealed in vain to be heard, but the old lady went on with her story, and the four children listened very gravely and sadly. Throwing herself back upon the grass, she sobbed till a voice said, 'Come, come, Missie, don't take on like that.' The lady, the children, the garden had gone, and she was in a strange place, surrounded by dirty people, men, women, and children, and still more dirty stalls of toys and sweets. Jack held her hand, and pointed out a big flaring painting on the front of a marquee, but as she looked a face peeped out from between the canvas curtains, and, terrified, she clung to Jack's hand, for it was the face of the man after whom the mastiffs had been running. He grinned recognition at her, he nodded, and, coming out of the marquee, advanced towards her.

Trembling with terror, Estelle awoke. Daylight was struggling through the window, Mrs. Wright was beginning to move about, and Estelle herself was safe and sound in her own little bed.

'Your bath will be ready in a couple of minutes, dear.'

Estelle made no answer. Hastening to her, Mrs. Wright was much disturbed to see the condition she was in. There was no getting up that day. The horrors of her dreams had exhausted her, and she lay white and wan, scarcely opening her eyes. She was able neither to talk nor to eat, only wanting to lie still, and see her dear Goody close to her.

Coming home at noon, Jack was horrified to hear the news.

'We forget how young she is, and talk too much of these caves and such things,' he said.

Towards evening, however, Estelle became better. The sense of safety, now that Jack had returned, was comforting. She would not think of that long row of empty chambers in the cliff which had once been full of the sick and dying.

A good sleep that night restored her. She was able not only to get up as usual, but accepted Jack's offer to take her with him when he went to do the marketing for his mother. The change of scene, he thought, would do her good; so would the walk in the fresh air and sunshine. Accompanying them the whole length of the terrace, Mrs. Wright stood smiling and nodding as they looked up at her at every turn of the path, till the trees hid her from their sight.

(Continued on page 254.)