one of my early recollections of our pretty little home in England is so clear as that of the old grandfather's clock that stood in the hall. I remember that my mother and father were very fond of it, and when my brother and I once grumbled, saying, 'That old clock is always slow,' my mother reproved us with the words: 'Oh, children, you must not say that, for the fact that it often goes slow when the big hand is going up towards the hour was the very thing that once saved your great-grandfather's life.'

That was the curious thing about the clock. Every now and then, for some reason, the minute-hand seemed to work loose, soon after the half-hour, and, before it reached the three-quarters, it lost five minutes. It might manage to go a whole day without doing this; but sooner or later it always happened, so that the clock could not be relied upon for time.

Of course, we were very eager to hear the story, and, as we sat round the fire that evening, my mother told us the following tale:—

'You know, children, that we have not always lived in England; my ancestors were French, and lived at ChÂteau Roquefort, in the province of La VendÉe. When the great insurrection broke out in the year 1792, my grandfather, Philippe de Roquefort, was one of the leading insurgents against the Republic. For a time the insurrection was successful, and the Republican generals were driven across the Loire. But at last there came a time when Philippe de Roquefort saw that to resist any longer was hopeless, and, as he had a wife and a little son, he resolved that, for their sakes, it was prudent to flee to England.

'They had abandoned Roquefort itself three days before, but the evening before their leaving France, Philippe was obliged to ride over to the chÂteau (five miles or so from the little town where he and his family, with about a dozen trusty followers, had taken refuge) to fetch some important papers.

'The whole neighbourhood swarmed with Republicans, but, with his knowledge of the country, he reached the deserted chÂteau safely.

'The whole place had a forsaken air as Philippe entered the hall he knew so well, where all his happy boyhood had been spent; but one familiar object caught his eye—the old clock, which had been too cumbersome to take with them in their flight, and which was still ticking in its accustomed manner. Philippe secured his papers, and was just leaving the chÂteau, taking a last fond look at his home, when a heavy hand pulled him backwards, and, before he could reach his sword, he was bound hand and foot.

'"We have caught the bird in his own nest," said a loud voice—and the boisterous laughter of several men made the rafters in the old hall ring.

'Philippe saw that he had been captured by five rough Republicans, who dragged him into the middle of the hall and then sat round him, consulting as to his fate. At last they decided that, at a quarter to six by the old clock, he should be shot. They had some time to wait before going back to their camp.

'Philippe gave himself up for lost. The ruffians soon began to jeer at him, and asked if he had any messages for his friends. Then my grandfather lost all his patience, and throwing aside all prudence, cried: "Yes, you villains, if I had my faithful followers here, they would soon make an end of you."

'The men laughed at this, but suddenly a cruel idea struck one of them.

'"Yes," he said, "Monsieur shall have his way"—and, looking up at the clock, he continued: "It is now five o'clock; Pierre, the peasant's son, who lives yonder, shall ride with a message to these devoted followers. Monsieur shall be shot at a quarter to six; but he can write and tell his friends to be here at ten minutes to the hour; they will come and find Monsieur—five minutes too late. We can get away easily enough before they arrive."

'His comrades agreed to this plan, which gave an adventurous tone to their enterprise, and inflicted, as well, extra misery upon their prisoner.

'A scrap of paper and a pencil were given to my grandfather; but, as he was writing, Philippe remembered with joy that the old clock on which his captors were relying had not yet lost its five minutes that day; he had noticed this as he glanced round the hall before his capture; and, therefore, at a quarter to six—the time when, by the clock, he was going to be put to death—it might be ten minutes to the hour by the proper time—if the clock only went wrong for once at a convenient time!

'The peasant-boy, Pierre, was sent with the message, and the men settled themselves down to ransacking the house, exulting over the trick they were going to play.

'The time crept by. As a quarter to six drew near Philippe was bound to a tree, and the men set to work to load their muskets! Had the clock lost five minutes, or not? Every minute of waiting seemed like an hour, and Philippe could not be sure whether the hand had stuck still too long, or not. He thought it had, but could he trust his eyes in such a terrible situation?

'You can imagine my grandfather's feelings during those last few awful minutes! A hundred conjectures flashed through his mind. Suppose the boy never gave the message! or suppose the men were late! or suppose the clock was not slow after all!

'At last the Republicans were ready, and Philippe gave himself up for lost. Suddenly the sound of horses' hoofs was heard breaking through the undergrowth. The Republicans hesitated, and, as they stood undecided, ten or a dozen men rode up hastily. They were only just in time; the Republicans fought for a few minutes, but they were taken by surprise, and soon surrendered. Philippe was saved!'

'What a narrow escape, Mother,' we cried, 'and if it had not been for the old clock's habit of losing time——'

'Well, my dear, the story would have ended very differently.'