The big storm had demoralized the long-distance telephone service, so, that it was by night lettergram that George Steadman was commissioned by the official organizer of the Government to find P.J. Neelands, who had not been heard of since the morning of the storm. Mr. Steadman was somewhat at a loss to know how to proceed.

He was very sorry about Mr. Neelands and his reported disappearance. Mr. Neelands was one of the friendliest and most approachable of the young political set, and Mr. Steadman had often listened to his speeches, and always with appreciation. He wondered why Mr. Neelands had come to Millford now without telling him.

At the hotel, nothing was known of the young man, only that he had taken a room, registered, slept one night, and gone, leaving all his things. Mr. Steadman was conducted to Number 17, and shown the meagre details of the young man's brief stay. His toilet articles, of sterling silver with his monogram, lay on the turkish towel, which at once concealed and protected the elm top of the bureau; his two bags, open and partly unpacked, took up most of the floor space in the room. His dressing-gown was hung on one of the two hooks on the back of the door, suspended by one shoulder, which gave it a weary, drunken look. There was something melancholy and tragic about it all.

"In the midst of life we are in death," said George Steadman to himself piously, and shuddered. "It looks bad. Poor young fellow—cut off in his prime—he did not even have a fur coat! and went out never thinking."

He examined the telegram again—"On business for the Government," it said, "of a private nature. See 'Evening Echo' March 21st, Page 23." What could that mean?

George Steadman did not take the "Evening Echo." He hated the very sight of it. The "Morning Sun" was good enough for him. He remembered the thrill of pride he had felt when his Chief had said one day in debate, that he wanted nothing better than the "Sun" and the Bible. It was an able utterance, he thought, reminding one of the good old Queen's reply to the Ethiopian Prince, and should have made its appeal even to the Opposition; but the leader had said, in commenting on it, that he was glad to know his honorable friend was broad-minded enough to read both sides!

And now he was told to look up the Opposition paper, and the very page was given. His first thought was that it was a personal attack upon himself. But how could that be? He never opened his mouth in the house—he never even expressed an opinion, and as the campaign had not yet begun—he had not done anything.

He read the telegram again. In desperation he went back to the long distance booth, but found the line still out of order, and a wire had come giving the details of the damage done by the storm. It would be several days before communication could be established. There was no help coming from headquarters, and from the wording of the telegram there seemed to be a reason for their not giving clear details. He must get a copy of the paper.

Reluctantly he went to the printing office and made known his errand. Mr. Driggs was delighted to give him the paper—he had it some place, though he very seldom opened any of his exchanges. He evidently bore Mr. Steadman no ill-will for his plain talk two weeks ago. With some difficulty he found it, with its wrapper still intact. It was a loose wrapper, which slipped off and on easily. Mr. Steadman remarked carelessly that there was an editorial in it to which his attention had been drawn, on hearing which Mr. Driggs turned his head and winked at an imaginary accomplice.

Mr. Steadman went over to the livery stable to find a quiet, clover-scented corner in which he might peruse his paper. An intuitive feeling cautioned him to be alone when he read it.

In the office, Mr. Steadman found a chair, and opened his paper. Bertie, ever on the alert for human interest stories, watched from a point of vantage. He told Mrs. Crocks afterwards about it.

"The paper seemed to tangle up at first and stick to his fingers. He wrastled it round and round and blew on it, and turned over pages and folded it back—Gee, there was a lot of it. It filled the whole table, and pieces dropped on the floor. He put his foot on them, like as if he was afraid they'd get away. At last he found something, and he just snorted—I got as close as I could, but I couldn't see what it was. There was a picture of a girl—and he read on and on, and snorted out three times, and the sweat stood out on his face. Twice he cleared up his throat like your clock does when it gets ready to strike, and then he tore out a page of the paper and put it in his pocket, and he gathered up the rest of it and burned it, all but one sheet that was under the table, and I got it here."

Bertie brought home the news at six o'clock. Mrs. Crocks had a copy of the paper in her hands at six-fifteen.

Meanwhile, George Steadman, was feeling the need of counsel. His head swam, and a cruel sense of injustice ate into his heart. He was a quiet man—he did not deserve this. All his life he had sidestepped trouble—and here it was staring him in the face. In desperation he went to Driggs, the editor. He was a shrewd fellow—he would know what was best to be done.

He found Mr. Driggs still in a sympathetic mood. He threw back his long black hair and read the article, with many exclamations of surprise. In places he smiled—once he laughed.

"How can any one answer this, Driggs?" asked Mr. Steadman in alarm. "What can be done about it? I wish you would write something about it. I can't think who would do this. There were no strangers that day at the school—not that I noticed. None of our people would do it. What do you think about it, Driggs? Would the girl write it herself?"

"No," replied the editor honestly, "I am quite sure Pearl did not do this."

Suddenly Mr. Steadman thought of the telegram and the missing man. He resolved to take Driggs into his confidence.

Driggs was as quick to see the import of it as King James was to smell gunpowder on that fateful November day when the warning letter was read in Parliament.

"The Government have sent him out to investigate this in your behalf," he said.

"But where is he?" asked Mr. Steadman.

Mr. Driggs' bushy brows drew down over his eyes.

"There's one person can help us," he said. He threw on his jute-colored waterproof and his faded felt hat. Mr. Steadman followed him as he went quickly to the Horse Repository.

Bertie was hastily consulted, and Bertie as usual ran true.

"Sure I saw him," said Bertie. "Ain't he back yet? Gee! I'll bet he's froze! He'll be dead by now for sure. He had on awful nice clothes, but thin toes on his boots, sharp as needles, and gray socks with dots on them, and a waist on his coat like as if he wore corsets, and gray gloves—and a cane, Swell! He was some fine looker, you bet, but he wouldn't last long in that storm."

"Where did he go, Bertie," asked Mr. Steadman, trying to hold his voice to a tone of unconcern.

"He asked about teachers, and about how far it was to Watsons."

Mr. Driggs and Mr. Steadman's eyes met.

"If he's any place," said Bertie cheerfully, "he'll be there."

To the Watson's Mr. Steadman and Mr. Driggs determined to go, although, by this time the evening was well advanced.

The storm had piled the snow into huge drifts which completely filled the railway cuts, but fortunately for those who travelled the sleigh roads, the snow was packed so hard that horses could walk safely over it. Bridges over ravines were completely covered, people made tunnels to the doors of their stables, and in some cases had to dig the snow away from their windows to let the light in. But the sun had come out warm, and the weather prophets said it was the last storm of the season.

When Mr. Steadman and Mr. Driggs approached the Watson home, they found every window lighted and several sleighs in the yard. From the house came sounds of laughter and many voices.

"There is no funeral here," said Mr. Driggs lightly.

George Steadman shuddered, "he may never have reached here," he said in a voice of awe.

They knocked at the woodshed door, but no one heard them. Then they went quietly in, and finding the kitchen door open, went in.

Mr. Watson, who stood at the door of the "room," shook hands with them quietly, and said in a whisper:—

"They're acting tableaux now, just step up to the door and see them.
The children are having a party. Pearl will explain it in a minute.
Just step in and watch; you're just in time—they're just goin' to do
King Canute."

The two men looked in. About a dozen young people were in the room, which was well lighted by a gasoline hanging-lamp. The furniture was pushed into a corner to leave a good floor space. A curtain was suspended from one of the beams, and behind it there seemed to be great activity and whispered directions. Every one was so intently waiting, they did not notice that the audience had been augmented by the two men at the door.

In front of the curtain came Pearl to announce the next tableaux:—

"Ladies and gentlemen," she said solemnly, although her audience began to laugh expectantly, "we will now present to you a historical tableaux, a living picture of a foolish old king, who thought he could command the waves to stand still. Seated in his arm-chair on the shore you will see King Canute. Behind him are the rugged hills of the Saxon coast. Before him the sea tosses angrily. The tide is rolling in. Each wave is a little bigger than the last, the seventh wave being the largest of all. This tableaux, ladies and gentlemen, in the production of which we have spared no trouble and expense, teaches the vanity of human greatness. Careful attention has been given to detail, as you will observe."

She disappeared behind the curtain for a moment, and when it was pulled back by invisible hands—(broom wire handled by Mary) she was discovered sitting robed in purple (one of the girls had brought her mother's Japanese dressing-gown) with a homemade but very effective crown on her head. Her throne was an arm-chair, raised on blocks of wood. As King Canute, Pearl's eyes were eagle-like and keen, her whole bearing full of arrogance and pride. Dramatically she waved her right arm towards the sea, and in bitter words chided it for its restless tossing, and commanded it to hear the words of the ALL HIGH, Great and Powerful King, and stay—just—where—it—was!

But even as she spoke, a small wave came rolling in, gently lapping the shore. It was Danny Watson, with a small white apron tied around his person, which at each revolution, made a white crest of breaking foam.

The King re-doubled his imprecations, and commands, tearing his hair and threatening to rend his garments, but wave after wave came rhythmically to shore, growing in size and speed, until the seventh wave, crested with foam—a pillow-case torn across and fastened with safety-pins—came crashing to her feet, amid thunderous applause.

When the company, with the king at one end and the first and smallest wave at the other, stood up to take their applause, and respond to curtain calls, next to Pearl stood the seventh wave—crested with foam, dishevelled of hair—a four days' growth of whiskers on his face—but a happy-looking wave—nevertheless.

Mr. Steadman grabbed hold of his friend hysterically. He could not speak.

"Well, thank God, he's not dead anyway," he gasped at last.

"But I fancy," murmured Mr. Driggs, "that he is dead—to the cause!"

"Make a speech, Pearl," cried one of the company. "Mr. Neelands would like to hear you do that one of the Premier's, when he laid the cornerstone, about 'the generations yet unborn.' Go on, Pearl, that's a good one!"

"Don't forget 'the waves of emigration breaking at our feet'!" said
Mary, handing Pearl one of Teddy's coats.

Pearl slipped on the coat, carefully adjusting the collar. Then fingering an imaginary watch-chain, she began. Her face grew grave—her neck seemed to thicken. Her voice was a throaty contralto.

"We are gathered here today." she declaimed, "to take part in a ceremonial, whose import we cannot even remotely guess! Whose full significance will be revealed, not in your time or mine, but to the generations yet unborn!"

Peter Neelands gave a shout of recognition! Mr. Driggs felt a strong hand on his arm. George Steadman whispered hoarsely. "Come away, Driggs. That girl frightens me. This is no place for us!"