to the Ordnance Depot Co., No. 101, Camp Meade.

On October 12, 1918, Raymond Stegmaier, of Jamaica, N. Y., was
detached from the battery on special duty as orderly to Lieut.-Col.
Palmer.

William Van Campen, of Ridgewood, N. J., was injured by an explosion
of a hand-grenade on Nov. 5, 1918. The following day he was sent to
Base Hospital No. 24 at Limoge. Nicholas J. Young, of Pottsville, Pa.,
was transferred to the same hospital, October 16th, following the gun
explosion at La Courtine.

David L. Grisby, of Terre Haute, Ind., was transferred to Base
Hospital No. 15 to undergo an operation. He left the battery at Ville
sous La Ferte on November 22nd.

Charles A. Weand, of Pottsville, Pa., Nov. 30, 1918, was sent to Base
Hospital No. 11, A. P. O. 767, France.

Henry J. Buhle, of New Brunswick, N. J., was sick in the hospital at
La Courtine when the regiment left the artillery range, in France,
November 14, 1918.

Carl J. O'Malia, of Scranton, Pa., and Frederick M. Bowen, of
East Rutherford, N. J., were patients at the hospital in Rimaucourt
when the outfit left Blancheville, France.

Arthur D. Roderick, of Hazleton, Pa., and William R. Jones, of
Bergenfield, N. J., became detached from the battery while on leave.
They were taken ill in Paris and sent to a hospital in the French
metropolis.

Edward Campbell, of Hazleton, Pa., one of the battery cooks, remained
at the embarkation camp at St. Nazaire, France, to take charge of camp
bakery. Cook Campbell returned to the States the latter part of July.

CHAPTER XXXI.

PERSONALITIES.

September 20, 1918. Adam O. Dyker was re-christened "Honey-Bee" Dyker.
The event took place in a rather stinging manner at Camp La Courtine,
France.

On the night in question Private Dyker was on guard duty at the
battery kitchen, which was situated under a canvas roof in a locality
that was infested at that particular time with bees and yellow
jackets.

While walking his post at the midnight hour Dyker thought of a can of
strawberry jam that he knew the cooks had deposited in a certain
place. Groping his way through the dark Dyker found the can of
preserves, also a spoon, and immediately started to fill a sweet
tooth.

In a short time the entire battery guard was aroused by a distressing
cry from one of the outposts. At first it was difficult to determine
whether the call was from a 311 Regiment post or a 312th Regiment
post.

The question was soon settled, however, when Dyker appended to the
customary outpost call the designation of both the battery and the
regiment, and added these words. "For God's sake hurry up, I'm all
bee'd up."

The jam which he devoured was full of bees and yellow jackets. While
the humor of the incident appealed to the boys of the battery, all
sympathized with the unfortunate guard, who had an agonizing time of
it in the camp hospital for several weeks as a result of eating
honey-bees.

Shortly after the armistice was signed John J. Jlosky drank too much
cognac and fell out of line at retreat one night. He was ordered to
report at the battery office. When asked why he did not stand at
attention he replied to Lieut. Bailey: "How do you expect a man to
stand at attention with sand-paper underwear on?"

The battery had just been issued woolen underwear that day.

In recalling stable-police duty at Camp Meade, Md., there is one
incident that always amused Bill Powell. Here's the story in his own
words:

"After the usual morning duties as stable police, 'Mad Anthony'
assigned me to load a wagon of manure. After struggling with it for
perhaps an hour I felt extremely proud of the transference of the
large amount of material from the ground to the wagon. I was then
ordered to go with the driver. I thought this pretty soft. It was a
zero day and I soon found that I was mistaken. We were on our way to
unload the manure in flat cars.

"When we got to Disney, half frozen, the driver disappeared to a
position near a roaring log fire and I commenced to unload. Here's
where I realized the advantage of being a driver.

"While resting I noticed another wagon being unloaded nearby with a
detail of three negroes doing the heaving. This got my ire, and when I
got back I looked up 'Mad Anthony' and related what I had seen.

"'Mad Anthony' looked at me and replied, 'Hell, isn't one white man as
good as three niggers?'

"Not wishing to admit differently I left--satisfied."

CHAPTER XXXII.

A FEW GENERAL ORDERS.

     "I desire to express to all the men with whom I was fortunate
     enough to serve, sincere thanks for their universal loyalty and
     courtesy to me and the other officers who were with me. It was
     difficult during the active life of the battery to express to its
     members the affection I felt for them collectively and
     individually, and the high personal regard I had for them all,
     both as soldiers and friends.

     "We were never fortunate enough to be called into action, but at
     all times, I am sure, that all those who came in contact with
     Battery D felt that its personnel could be depended upon to do
     the right thing at the right time. We all had our blue moments,
     but, wherever we may go, or whatever we do, the spirit of Battery
     D and the friendships we made will help us.

     "Let me conclude by wishing a life of health, happiness and
     success to all my old friends in Battery D, and may I further add
     that, in looking back, I could have no greater wish than to feel
     that their friendship and respect for me could be as great as the
     friendship and respect I hold for them all."
                                               CAPT. A. L. SMITH.
"Stepping Stones," Gwynedd Valley, Pa., 1920.

     "I had the good fortune to serve with the best Battalion of Field
     Artillery in the United States Army--the Second Battalion, 311th
     F. A."
                                                MAJOR D. A. REED.
909 Amberson Ave., Pittsburgh, Pa., 1920.

     "My memories of Battery D are the most pleasant of my army
     experiences. I know that your book will fulfill the very definite
     need for a complete and accurate account of the experiences and
     travels of the members of the battery."
                                             CAPT. PERRY E. HALL.
Springfield, N. J., 1920.

     "It would indeed be most regrettable should there be nothing
     permanent to remind us of those ties of friendship, far greater
     than those of organization, which bound us together for the
     greater part of two years. The recollection of the
     wonderful spirit and morale of those with whom we were so
     intimately associated must ever bring back that old feeling of
     just pride which we all felt in our battery."
                                        LIEUT. FRANK J. HAMILTON.
4822 N. Camac St., Philadelphia, Pa., 1920.

     "The happiest days of my life were spent in the 311th F. A. and
     one of my best friends is Captain Smith of Battery D."
                                   LIEUT.-COL. HERBERT H. HAYDEN.
Army & Navy Club, Washington, D. C., 1920.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

MEMORABLE DATES.

  1918.

  July 13--Left Camp Meade, Md., U. S. A.
  July 14--Set sail from Port Richmond, Philadelphia, Pa.
  July 17--At anchor in Halifax harbor, Nova Scotia.
  July 20--Left Halifax bound overseas.
  July 30--Battle with German U-Boats.
  July 31--Landed in Barry, South Wales.
  August 3--Hiked to Southampton, England.
  August 4--Landed in Cherbourg, France.
  August 5--Left Cherbourg via rail.
  August 7--Arrived in Montmorillon.
  September 4--Left Montmorillon via box car.
  September 4--Arrived at La Courtine.
  November 14--Left La Courtine via box car.
  November 16--Detrained at La Tracey.
  November 16--Landed in Ville sous La Ferte.
  November 26--Left Ville sous La Ferte via motor train.
  November 26--Arrived at Blancheville.
  December 19--One hundred left on horse convoy.
  December 25--Mule convoy arrived at Cirey les Mareilles.

  1919.

  January 9--Left Blancheville mounted.
  January 13--Arrived at Benoite Vaux.
  March 19--Trip by road to Boncourt.
  April 1--Left Boncourt mounted.
  April 3--Arrived in Cirey Les Mareilles.
  April 12--Matériel turned in at Andelot.
  April 19--Entrained at Rimaucourt.
  April 21--Arrived at St. Nazaire.
  May 14--Set sail for United States.
  May 27--Arrived in New York harbor.
  May 28--Debarked at Bush Terminal, Brooklyn.
  May 28--Arrived in Camp Dix, N. J.
  May 30--Battery officially discharged.
  June 4--Discharge papers distributed.

FINIS


"Oh, come off. Don't be so consumedly skittish about the use of English,
I suppose you want me to say that the 'transaction between you was not
concluded,' etc., etc. Oh, you're a droll one, doctor." He appeared
to notice a change on my face, which he evidently misconstrued, and he
added, gayly. "Oh, it was all right, my boy, as long as it was you--glad
to do you a good turn any day; but what a queer idea for that little
woman to marry such a man! How did it happen? I'd like to know the
history! Every time I saw him come swelling around I made up mind to ask
you about them, and then I always forgot it when I saw you. When he told
me you had been his wife's guardian I thought some of kicking you the
next good chance I got, for allowing the match, and for not telling me
you had such a pretty ward. You always were a deep rascal--go off!" He
rattled on.

Several times I had decided to speak, but as often restrained myself. My
blank face and unsettled manner appeared to touch his sense of humor.
He concluded that it was good acting. I decided to confirm the mistake,
until I had time to think it all over. Finally, I said, as carelessly as
I could:

"How long had this--a--husband been here? That is--when did he get
back?"

"Been here! get back! Been here all the time; smoked more good cigars
and surrounded more wine than any other one man in the house. Oh, he was
a Jim-dandy of a fellow for a hotel!" Then, with sudden suspicion: "Why?
Had he told you he'd go away before? Oh! I--see! _That_ was the trade?
Paid him to skip, hey? M--m--m--yes! I think I begin to catch on." He
could hardly restrain his mirth, and winked at me in sheer ecstasy.

I went slowly out. When I arrived at the house I directed the servant to
say to anyone who might call that the doctor was not at home. I went
to my room and wrote to Dr. Griswold, asking him for information about
Florence Campbell, the fair patient he had sent me. "Who was she? What
did he know of her? Where were her friends?" I told him nothing of this
last development, but asked for an immediately reply, adding--"for an
important reason."

Three days later a telegram was handed to me as I drove up to my office.
It was this:

"Never heard of her. Why? Griswold?"

I did not sleep that night. For the first time my faith in Florence
Campbell wavered. Up to that time I had blamed her husband for
everything. I had woven around her a web of plausible circumstances
which made her the unwilling victim of a designing villain--an expert
forger, no doubt, who used her, without her own knowledge, as a decoy--a
man of whom she was both ashamed and afraid, but from whom she could not
escape.

But how was all that to be reconciled with this revelation? Griswold did
not know her. How about his introduction and that "sulph. 12"? I looked
through my desk for Griswold's note. It was certainly his handwriting;
but I noticed, for the first time, that it did not mention her name.

Perhaps this was a loop-hole through which I might bring my fair
patient--in whom I was beginning to fear I had taken too deep an
interest--without discredit to herself.

Might she not have changed her name since Griswold treated her? I
determined to give her the benefit of this doubt until I could be sure
that it had no foundation.

I felt relieved by this respite, and, heartily ashamed of the unjust
suspicion of the moment before, I gave no hint of it in the letter I now
wrote Griswold, describing the lady, and in which I enclosed his letter
of introduction to me.

The next few days I went about my practice in a dream, and it was no
doubt due to fortuitous circumstances rather than to my skill that
several of my patients still live to tell the tale of their suffering
and of my phenomenal ability to cope with disease in all its malignant
power.

V.

In due time Griswold's letter came. I went into my office to read it. I
told myself that I had no fears for the good name of Florence Campbell.
I knew that some explanation would be made that would confirm me in my
opinion of her; but, for all that, I locked the door, and my hand was
less steady than I liked to see it, as I tore the end of the envelope.

I even remember thinking vaguely that I usually took time to open my
letters with more precision and with less disregard for the untidy
appearance of their outer covering afterward. I hesitated to read beyond
the first line, although I had so hastened to get that far. I read: "My
dear old friend," and then turned the letter over to see how long it
was--how much probable information it contained. There were four closely
written pages. I wondered if it could all be about Florence Campbell,
and was vaguely afraid that it was--and that it was _not_. I remembered
looking at the clock when I came into the office. It was nearly six
o'clock. I laid the letter down and went to the cooler and got out
a bottle of Vichy. I sat it and (placed) some wine by my elbow on the
desk, and took up the letter.

"I never heard of anyone by the name of Florence Campbell, so far as I
can recall. I certainly never had a patient by that name. Some months
ago I gave the letter you enclose--which I certainly did write--to a
patient of mine who was on her way to Europe and expected to stay some
time in New York on her way through.

"She, however, was in no way like the lady you describe. Her name was
Kittie Hatfield, and she was small, with dreamy blue eyes and flaxen
hair--a _perfect_ woman, in fact." Oh! Tom! Tom! thought I--true to your
record, to the last! I had long since ceased to wonder at the lapse,
however, for Florence Campbell herself was surely sufficient explanation
of all that. "I understood"--the letter went on--"that Kittie did not
stop but a few days in New York, when she was joined by the party with
which she was to travel. She stayed at the F------ Avenue Hotel, I have
learned, and became intimate with some queer people there--much to the
indignation of her brother, when he learned of it."

I laid the letter down and put my head on my arms, folded as they were
on the desk. I was dizzy and tired. When I raised my head it was dark.
I got up, lighted the gas, and found myself stiff and as if I had been
long in a forced and unnatural position. I recalled that I had been
indignant.

This brother of the silly-pated, blue-eyed girl had not liked her
to know Florence Campbell, indeed! He was, no doubt, a precious
fool--naturally would be, with such a sister, I commented mentally.
What else, I wondered, had Griswold found out? Was the rest of this old
fool's letter about her? I began where I had left off.

"I have since learned from him that the man--whose name _was_
Campbell--was a foreigner of some kind, with a decidedly vague, not
to say, hazy reputation, and that his wife, who was supposed to be an
invalid, and an American of good family, never appeared in public, and
so was never seen by him--that is by Will Hatfield--but was only known
to him through Kittie's enraptured eyes. She was said to be bright and
pretty. Kittie is the most generous child alive in her estimate of other
women; however, he thinks it possible that Kittie either gave her the
letter from me to you, and asked her to have proper medical care, or
else that the woman, or her husband, got hold of it in a less legitimate
way; which I think quite likely. Kittie thought the Campbell woman was
charming." The "Campbell woman," indeed! I felt like a thief, even
to read such rubbish, and I should have enjoyed throttling the whole
ill-natured gossipping set--not omitting flaxen-haired Kittie herself.

I determined to finish the letter, however.

"Hatfield is so ashamed of his sister's friendship for the woman that
I had the utmost difficulty in making him tell me the whole truth, but,
from what I gathered yesterday, he thinks them most likely the head of a
gang of counterfeiters or forgers and--"

I read no further, or, if I did, I can recall only that. It was burned
into my brain, and when a loud pounding on my office-door aroused me, I
found the letter twisted and torn into a hundred pieces, the Vichy and
wine-bottles at my side half-empty, and the hands of the clock pointing
to half-past ten.

"Doctor, doctor," called my lackey; "oh, doctor! Oh, lord, I'm afraid
something's wrong with the doctor, but I'm afraid to break in the door."

I went to the door to prevent a scene. One of my best patients stood
there, with Morgan, the man. Both of them were pale and full of
suppressed excitement.

"Heavens and earth, doctor, we were afraid you were dead. I've been
waiting here a good hour for you to come home. No one knew you were in,
till Morgan peeped over the transom. What in the devil is the matter?"
said my patient.

"Tired out, went to sleep," said I; but I did not know my own voice as I
spoke. It sounded distant, and its tones were strange.

They both looked at me suspiciously, and with evident anxiety as to my
mental condition. I caught at the means of escape.

"I am too tired to see anyone to-night. In fact, I am not well. You will
have to let me off this time. Get Dr. Talbott, next door, if anyone is
sick; I am going to bed. Good-night."

There was a long pause. Then he said, wearily: "You are a young man,
doctor. You have taken the chair I left vacant at the college. I would
never have told the story to you, perhaps, only I wanted you to know why
I left the class in your care so suddenly this morning, when I uncovered
the beautiful face of the 'subject' you had brought from the morgue for
me to give my closing lecture upon. That class of shallow-pated fellows
have not learned yet that doctors--even old fellows like me--know a
good deal less than they think they do about the human race--themselves
included."

I stammered some explanation of the circumstances, and again there was a
long silence.

Then he said:

"Found drowned, was she? Poor girl! Do you believe, with that face, she
was ever a bad woman? Or that she had anything to do with the rascality
of her husband, even if he were consciously a rascal? and who is to
judge of that, knowing so little of him? Did I ever recover the five
thousand dollars? Did I attempt to recover it? Oh, no. All this happened
nearly ten years ago now; and if that were all it had cost me I should
not mind. The hotel people never knew. Why should they? This is the
first time I have told the story. You think I am an old fool? Well,
well, perhaps I am--perhaps I am; who can say what any of us are, or
what we are not? Thirty years ago I knew that I understood myself and
everybody else perfectly. To-day I know equally well that I understand
neither the one nor the other. We learn that fact, and then we die--and
that is about all we do learn. You wonder, after what I tell you, if the
beautiful face at the demonstration class this morning was really hers,
or whether a strong likeness led my eyes and nerves astray You wonder if
she drowned herself, and why? Was it an accident? Did _he_ do it? This
last will be decided by each one according as he judges of Florence
Campbell and her husband--of who and what they were. Perhaps I shall
try to find him now. Not for the money, but to learn why she married the
man he seemed to be. It is hard to tell what I should learn. It is not
even easy to know just what I should _like_ to learn; and perhaps, after
all, it is better not to know more--who shall say?"

And the doctor bade me good-night and bowed himself out to his carriage
with his old courtesy, and left me alone with the strange, sad story of
the beautiful girl whose lifeless form had furnished the subject of my
first lecture to a class of medical students.

MY PATIENTS STORY.

  _"Things are cruel and blind; their strength detains and deforms:
  And the wearying wings of the mind still beat up the stream of their storms.
  Still, as one swimming up stream, they strike out blind in the blast.
  In thunders of vision and dream, and lightning of future and past.
  We are baffled and caught in the current, and bruised upon edges of shoals;
  As weeds or as reeds in the torrent of things are the wind-shaken souls."_

  Algernon Charles Swinburne.

I.

Perhaps I may have told you before, that at the time of which I speak,
my Summer home--where I preferred to spend much more than half of the
year--was on a sandy beach a few miles out of New York, and also that I
had retired from active practice as a physician, even when I was in the
city.

Notwithstanding these two facts, I was often called in consultation,
both in and out of the city; and was occasionally compelled to take a
case entirely into my own hands, through some accident or unforeseen
circumstance.

It was one of these accidents which brought the patient whose story I am
about to tell you, under my care.

I can hardly say now, why I retained the case instead of turning it over
to some brother practitioner, as was my almost invariable habit; but for
some reason I kept it in my own hands, and, as it was the only one for
which I was solely responsible at the time, I naturally took more than
ordinary interest in and paid more than usual attention to all that
seemed to me to bear upon it.

As you know I am an "old school" or "regular" physician, although that
did not prevent me from consulting with, and appreciating the strong
points of many of those who were of other, and younger branches of the
profession.

This peculiarity had subjected me, in times gone by, to much adverse
criticism from some of my colleagues who belonged to that rigidly
orthodox faction which appears to feel that it is a much better thing
to allow a patient to die "regularly"--as it were--than it is to join
forces with one, who, being of us, is still not with us in theory and
practice.

Recognizing that we were all purblind at best, and that there was and
still is, much to learn in every department of medicine, it did not
always seem to me that it was absolutely necessary to reject, without
due consideration, the guesses of other earnest and careful men, even
though they might differ from me in the prefix to the "pathy" which
forms the basis of the conjecture.

We are all wrong so often that it has never appeared to be a matter
of the first importance--it does not present itself to my mind as
absolutely imperative--that it should be invariably the same wrong, or
that all of the mistakes should necessarily follow the beaten track of
the "old school."

I had arrived at that state of beatitude where I was not unwilling for
a life to be saved--or even for pain to be alleviated, by other methods
than my own.

I do not pretend that this exalted ethical status came to me all at
once, nor at a very early stage of my career; but it came, and I had
reaped the whirlwind of wrath, as I have just hinted to you.

So when my patient let me know, after a time, that he had been used to
homeopathic treatment, I at once suggested that he send for some one of
that school to take charge of his case.

He declined--somewhat reluctantly, I thought, still, quite positively.
But, in the course of events, when I felt that a consultation was due
to him as well as to myself, I asked him if he would not prefer that the
consulting physician should be of that school.

He admitted that he would, and I assured him that I should be pleased to
send for any one he might name.

He knew no doctor here, he said, and left it to me to send for the one
in whom I had the greatest confidence.

It is at this point my story really begins.

I stopped on my way uptown to arrange, with Dr. Hamilton, of Madison
Avenue, a consultation that afternoon, at three o'clock. I told the
doctor all that I, myself, knew at that time, of my patient's history.
Three weeks before I had been in a Fifth Avenue stage; a gentleman had
politely arisen to offer his seat to a lady at the moment that the stage
gave a sudden lurch which threw them both violently against each other
and against the end of the stage.

He broke the fall for her; but he received a blow on the head,
which member came in contact with the money-box, with a sharp crack.
Accustomed to the sight of pain and suffering as I was, the sound of the
blow and his suddenly livid face gave me a feeling of sickness which did
not wholly leave me for an hour afterward. Involuntarily I caught him in
my arms--he was a slightly built man--and directed the driver to stop
at the first hotel.

The gentleman was unconscious and I feared he had sustained a serious
fracture of the skull. He was evidently a man of culture, and I thought
not an American. I therefore wished, if possible, to save him a police
or hospital experience.

By taking him into the first hotel I reasoned, we could examine him;
learn who and what he was, where he lived, and, after reviving him, send
him home in a carriage.

The process of bringing him back to consciousness was slow, and as the
papers on his person, which we felt at liberty to examine, gave no clue
to his residence, we concluded to put him to bed and trust to farther
developments to show us what to do in the matter of removal. The lady
on whose account he had received the injury had given me her card, which
bore a name well known on the Avenue, and had stated that she would, if
necessary, be responsible for all expense at the hotel.

It was deemed best, therefore, to put him to bed, as I said before, and
wait for him to indicate, for himself, the next move. I placed in the
safe of the hotel his pocketbook, which contained a large sum of money
(large that is, for a man to carry on his person in these days of
cheques and exchanges) and his watch, which was a handsome one, with
this inscription on the inside cover, "T. C. from Florence."

The cards in his pocket bore different names and addresses, mostly
foreign, but the ones I took for his own were finely engraved, and
read "Mr. T. C. Lathro," nothing more. No address, no business; simply
calling cards, of a fashionable size, and of the finest quality.

This, as I say, was about three weeks before I concluded to call Dr.
Hamilton in consultation; and I had really learned very little more of
my patient's affairs than these facts taken from his pocket that first
day while he was still unconscious.

He was silent about himself, and while he had slowly grown better his
progress toward health did not satisfy me, nor do I think that he was
wholly of opinion, that I was doing quite all that should be done to
hasten his recovery.

He was always courteous, self-poised, and able to bear pain bravely; but
I thought he watched me narrowly, and I several times detected him in
a weary sigh and an impatient movement of the eyebrows, which did not
tally with his assumption of cheerful indifference and hospitality.

I use the word hospitality advisedly, for his effort always seemed to
be to treat me as a guest whom he must entertain, and distract from
observing his ailments, rather than as a physician whose business it was
to discover and remedy them.

He had declined to be moved; said he was a stranger; had no preferences
as to hotels; felt sure this one was as comfortable as any; thanked me
over and over for having taken him there, and changed the subject.
He would talk as long as I would allow him on any subject, airily,
brightly, readily. On any subject, that is, except himself; yet from his
conversation I had gathered that he had travelled a great deal; was a
man of wealth and culture, whether French, Italian or Russian, I could
not decide. He spoke all of these languages, and words from each fitted
easily into place when for a better English one, he hesitated or was at
a loss.

Indeed, he seemed to have seen much of every country and to have
observed impartially--without national prejudice. He knew men well, too
well to praise recklessly; and he sometimes gave me the impression, I
can hardly say how, that blame was a word whose meaning he did not know.

He spoke of having seen deeds of the most appalling nature in Russia,
and talked of their perpetrators sometimes, as good and brave men. He
never appeared to measure men by their exceptional acts.

Occasionally I contested these points with him, and I am not sure but
that it may have been the interest I took in his conversation that held
me as his physician; for as I said, I was well aware that he did not
improve as he should have done after the first few days.

But I liked to hear him talk. He was a revelation to me. I greatly
enjoyed his breath and charity--if I may so express the mental attitude
which recognized neither the possession of, nor the need for, either
quality in his judgments of his fellow-men.

He had evidently not been able to pass through life under the impression
that character, like cloth, is cut to fit a certain outline, and that
after the basting-threads are once in, no farther variation need be
looked for. Indeed, I question if he would have been able to comprehend
the mental condition of those grown-up "educated" children who are
never able to outgrow the comfortable belief that words and acts have
a definite, inflexible, par-value--that an unabridged dictionary, so to
speak, is an infallible appeal; who, in short, expect their villains to
be consistently and invariably villainous, in the regulation orthodox
fashion.

Individual shades of meaning, whether of language or of character,
do not enter into their simple philosophy. Mankind suffers, in their
pennyweight scales, a shrinkage that is none the less real because
they never suspect that the dwarfage may be due to themselves--to their
system of weights and measures. All variations from their standard
indicate an unvarying tendency to mendacity. He whom they once detect in
a quibble, or in an attempt to acquire the large end of a bargain, never
recovers (what is perhaps only his rightful heritage, in spite of an
occasional lapse) the respect and confidence of these primer students
who are inflexible judges of all mental and moral manifestations.

I repeat that this comfortable and regular philosophy was foreign to my
patient's mental habits, and I began to consider, the more I talked
with him, that it did not agree with my own personal observations. I
reflected that I was not very greatly surprised, nor did I lose faith
in a man necessarily, when I discovered him in a single mean or
questionable action.

Why, then, should I be surprised to find those of whom I had known only
ill-engaged in deeds of the most unselfish nature? Deeds of heroism and
generosity such as he often recounted as a part of the life of some of
these same terrible Russian officials. There seems, however, to be that
in us which finds it far easier to reconcile a single mean or immoral
action with an otherwise upright life, than to believe it likely, or
even possible, for a depraved nature to perform, upon occasion, deeds of
exalted or unusual purity. Yet so common is the latter, that its failure
of recognition by humanity in general can be due it seems to me, only to
a wrong teaching or to a stupidity beyond even normal bounds.

For, after all, the bad man who is all bad, is really a less frequent
product than that much talked of, but rare creature, a perfect woman.
Perhaps one could count the specimens of either of these to be met with
in a life time, on the fingers of one hand.

But to return to my patient and his story.

It was of these things that he and I had often talked, and I had come
to greatly respect the self-poise and acute observation, as well as the
broad human sympathy of this reserved and evidently sad-hearted man.
Sad-hearted I knew, in spite of his keen sense of humor, and his firm
grasp of philosophy.

I gave Dr. Hamilton a brief outline of all this, as well as of the
physical condition of the man whom he was to see; for I believe it to be
quite as important for a physician to understand and diagnose the mental
as the physical conditions of those who come under his care before he
can prescribe intelligently for other than very trifling ailments.

You can imagine my surprise when I tell you that the moment Dr. Hamilton
stepped into the room, and I mentioned his name, my patient, this
self-poised man of the world, whose nerves had often seemed to me to be
of tempered steel, looked up suddenly as you have seen a timid child do
when it is sharply reproved, and fainted dead away.

II.

I confess that I expected a scene.

I glanced at the doctor, but he showed no sign of ever having seen my
patient before, and went to work with me in the most methodical and
indifferent way possible to revive him.

"You did not mention that this was one of his symptoms--a peculiarity
of his. Has he been subject to this sort of thing? Did he say he was
subject to it before he hurt his head, or has it developed since?" the
doctor inquired quietly as we worked.

I bit my lip. His tone was so exasperatingly cool, while, knowing my
patient as I did, his startled manner and sudden fainting had impressed
me deeply.

"It is the first time," I said, "since he was hurt--that is, since
he recovered consciousness after the blow--that he has exhibited the
slightest tendency to anything of the kind."

I hesitated, then I said: "Doctor, if you know him; if this is the
result of seeing you suddenly (for he did not know who was to come)
don't you think--would it be well?--Do you think it best for you to be
where he will see you when he begins to revive?"

The doctor stared at me, then at my patient. "I don't know him--never
saw him before in my life so far as I know. What did you say his name
is? Mum--oh, yes, Lathro--first and only time I ever heard it. Oh, no,
I suppose his nerves are weak. The excitement of seeing me--the idea
of--a--er--consultation." I smiled, involuntarily. "You don't know the
man, doctor," said I. "He is bomb proof as to nerves in that sense of
the word. He--a--There must be some other reason. He must have mistaken
you for some one else. I am sorry to trouble you, doctor, but would you
kindly step into the other room? He will open his eyes now, you see."

When, a moment later, my patient regained consciousuess, he glanced
about him furtively, like a hunted man. He did not look like himself.

He examined my face closely--suspiciously, I thought--for a moment. Then
I laughed lightly, and said: "Well, old fellow, you've been trying your
hand at a faint. That's a pretty way to treat a friend. I come in to see
you; you step out to nobody knows where--to no man's land--and give me
no end of trouble rowing you back to our shore. What did you eat for
dinner that served you that kind of a trick?"

He looked all about the room again, examined my face, and then smiled,
for the first time since I had known him, nervously, and said:

"I think my digestion must be pretty badly out of order. I'll declare
I saw double when you came in. I thought there were two of you; and the
other one--wasn't you."

I laughed; "That is good. Two of me, but the other one wasn't me. Well,
thank heaven there is only one of me up to date."

He smiled, but seemed disturbed still. I decided to ask him a direct
question:

"Well now, just suppose there had been two of me--is that an excuse for
you to faint? Does associating with one of me try you to that extent
that two of me would prostrate you?"

He did not take me up with his old manner. He was listless and absent.
I said that I would go down to the office and order some wine and return
at once. I slipped into the other room, and with my finger on my lips
motioned to Dr. Hamilton to pass out quietly before me.

I followed him. "There is something wrong, Doctor," I said: "I am sorry,
but I shall have to ask you to go without seeing him again. I can't
tell you why yet, but I'll try to find out and let you know. Order some
champagne sent up to me, please, as you go out, and I will see you as
soon as I can."

The moment I re-entered the room, my patient, whose restless eyes met
mine as I opened the door, said: "I thought you were talking to some
one."

"I was," said I carelessly; a bell-boy, "I ordered wine. It will be up
soon." Then I changed the subject; but he was nervous and unlike himself
and none of the old topics interested him.

When the door opened for the boy with the wine an expression of actual
terror passed over my patient's face. When I left him a half hour later
I was puzzled and anxious.

III.

The moment I entered his room on the following day he said: "I
thought you had planned to have another doctor come and look me over,
yesterday." He was watching me closely as he spoke: "Did I hear you
mention his name?"

Ah, thought I, here _is_ a mystery in spite of Dr. Hamilton's denial. I
will try him.

"Yes," I said, "I had decided to ask the best Homeopathic doctor I know,
a skilful man, especially successful in diagnosing cases, to overhaul
you and see if he agrees with me that you ought to be on your feet this
blessed minute, if my diagnosis of your case is entirely right. I
don't see why you are still so weak. He may find the spring that I have
missed. Why?"

"Did you--I am not acquainted with the doctors here,--I think you said
his name is--?"

"I have not mentioned his name to you," I said, "but the one I had in
mind is Dr. Hamilton of---- Madison Avenue."

There was no doubt about it, the color rose slowly to his face, and he
was struggling for self-control. At length he said: "No, I do not
wish to see another doctor. I am perfectly satisfied with you. I am--I
say--no, positively do not ask him; that is, do not ask anyone to come
unless I know and definitely agree to it. And I certainly shall want to
know who he is first."

All this was wholly foreign to the man, to his nature and habit.

"Tell me," I said, "what you have against Dr. Hamilton, for I cannot
fail to see that there is something behind all this."

He did not reply for some time; then he said wearily, but with great
depth of feeling.

"I suppose I may as well tell you. I cannot forgive him for an injury I
did him long ago."

I did not say anything nor did I look at him. Presently he went on
hoarsely; "If I had only injured him, perhaps I could get over it but
I took a mean advantage of--I did it through a woman who liked him--and
whom he--loved and trusted." There was another long silence; then I
said; "You were right to tell me, Lathro. You need not fear that I will
betray you to him, and he does not know you. He did not recognize you
either before or after you fainted. Of course I knew there was something
wrong. He will not come again."

He sprang to his feet, and a wave of red surged into his face. "I knew
it! I knew I had seen him! I was sure it was not a delusion," he said.
"He was here. No, he would not know me. He never saw me. I did not
injure him like a man, I struck from behind a woman. A woman who cared
for his respect, and I let him blame her. I suppose I could get over it
if it were not for that. I came back here partly to let him know, if
I could some way, that she was not to blame"--there was another
long silence--"and partly to get rid of myself. Russia did not do
it,--Turkey,--France--none of them. I thought perhaps he would--I had
some sort of a wild idea that he might settle with me some way. I have
carried that forged cheque in my brain, until--"

I started visibly. I had had no idea that it was so bad as this. I
changed my position to hide or cover the involuntary movement I had
made, but he had seen it and the color died out of his face. He
forced himself to begin again. "I carried that forged check," he was
articulating now with horrible distinctness, "wherever I went. She never
knew anything about it. She knew I was--she thought, or feared, that I
might be somewhat--what you Americans call crooked; but she did not know
the truth, not until the very last. She knew that I had been unreliable
in some ways long ago; but she did not dream of the worst. At
last,--sometimes I think I was a fool to have done it,--but I told her.
I told her the whole truth, and--she left me. She had borne everything
till then. I think she came here. Before long I followed. She told me
not to, and I said I would not; but of course I did. I could not help
it. I knew then, and I know now, that I am putting myself into the
clutches of the law; but I do not care--not now-- since I cannot find
Florence Campbell."

He pronounced the name as if it were a treasure wrung from him by force.
"It is the only really criminal thing I ever did. I do not know why
I did it. They say that crime--a taste for it, develops slowly, by
degrees. Maybe so; but not with me, not with me.

"I had money enough; but--oh, my God! how I hated him. I saw that he
was growing to love her without knowing it. I often heard them talking
together. They did not know it, and if they had it could not have been
more innocent; but I was madly jealous, for the first time in my life.
I determined to make him think ill of her, and yet I said just now that
forgery was my only crime. That was worse, by far, but I believe it is
not a crime in law."

He smiled scornfully. "I have outgrown all that now. The storm has
left me the wreck you see; but I thought it all out last night, and
determined to tell you. You are to tell--him--for her sake," he said
between his set teeth.

"He may see her yet some day. She will never return to me--God bless
her! God help us both!"

"No, she will never return to you nor to anyone else," I said, as gently
as I could.

He sprang up with the energy of a maniac. "How do you know? What do you
know?" he demanded.

"I only know that she is dead, my friend," I said, placing my hand on
his arm, "and that Dr. Hamilton does not wish to punish you. I heard it
all; the story of the forgery of his name, and that a Florence Campbell
was in some way connected with it. I heard it from him long, long ago;
but he does not know that you are Tom Campbell. You are safe."

"Does not wish to punish me! I am safe! Great God, no one could punish
me. I do that. Safe! Oh, the irony of language!"

There was a long pause. He had gone to the window and was staring out
into the darkness.

Presently the sound of convulsive sobbing filled the room; I thought
best to remain near the door and make no effort to check his grief with
words.

At last the storm spent itself. He came slowly into the middle of the
room and stood facing me. At length he said:

"One of the greatest punishments is gone, thank God. Florence Campbell
is dead, you say. Do you know what it is, Doctor, to wish that one you
loved was dead?"

"Yes, yes." I said; "but it is best for you not to talk any more--nor
think, just now--not of that--not of that."

He broke in impatiently--"Don't you know me well enough yet to know that
that sort of thing--that sort of professional humbug is useless? Must
not talk more of that--nor think of it, indeed! What else do you suppose
I ever think of? The good men who are bad and the bad ones who are
good--the puppets of our recent conversations? Suppose we boil it down a
little. Am I a bad man? That is a question that puzzles me. Am I a good
one? At least I can answer _that_--and yet I never did but one criminal
deed in my whole life, and I have done a great many so-called good ones
to set over against it."

"Then you can answer neither question with a single word," I said. He
took my hand and pressed it with the frenzy of a new hope.

"At least one man's philosophy is not all words," he said. "You act upon
your theories. You are the only one I ever knew who did."

"Perhaps I am the only one you ever gave the chance," I replied, still
holding his hand.

We stood thus silent for a moment, then he said with an inexpressible
accent of satire: "Would you advise me to try it, doctor, with anyone
else?" I deliberated some time before I replied. Then I said: "No, I am
sorry to say that I fear it would not be safe. There is still so much
tiger in the human race. No, do not tell your story again to any one; it
can do no good. Most certainly I would advise you _not_ to try it ever
again."

As I left the room he said: "True, true. It can do no good, none
whatever."

The next day he left. I never saw him again. Two years later I received
a kind letter from him in which he greatly over-estimated all I had done
for him. The letter came from St. Petersburg and was signed "T. Lathro
Campbell, Col. Imperial Guard."

I fancied, in spite of his letter, that he would rather sever all
connection with this country, and feel that he had no ties nor past; so
I never answered his letter.

Sometimes I wonder if he misunderstood my silence, and accepted it as a
token of unfriendliness--and yet--well, I have never been able to decide
just what would be least painful to him; so I let it drift into years of
silence, and perhaps, after all, these very good intentions of mine may
be only cobble-stones added to the paving of the streets of a certain
dread, but very populous city which is, in these days of agnosticism
quite a matter of jest in polite society.

Who shall say? Which would he prefer, friendly communication or silence
and forgetfulness?

THE END


'Of course.  You can't be really scalped or burned to death without
noticing it, and you'd be sure to notice it next day, even if it
escaped your attention at the time,' said Cyril.  'I think Anthea's
right, but we shall want a most awful lot of feathers.'

'I'll go down to the hen-house,' said Robert.  'There's one of the
turkeys in there - it's not very well.  I could cut its feathers
without it minding much.  It's very bad - doesn't seem to care what
happens to it.  Get me the cutting-out scissors.'

Earnest reconnoitring convinced them all that no Indians were in
the poultry-yard.  Robert went.  In five minutes he came back -
pale, but with many feathers.

'Look here,' he said, 'this is jolly serious.  I cut off the
feathers, and when I turned to come out there was an Indian
squinting at me from under the old hen-coop.  I just brandished the
feathers and yelled, and got away before he could get the coop off
the top of himself.  Panther, get the coloured blankets off our
beds, and look slippy, can't you?'

It is wonderful how like an Indian you can make yourselves with
blankets and feathers and coloured scarves.  Of course none of the
children happened to have long black hair, but there was a lot of
black calico that had been got to cover school-books with.  They
cut strips of this into a sort of fine fringe, and fastened it
round their heads with the amber-coloured ribbons off the girls'
Sunday dresses.  Then they stuck turkeys' feathers in the ribbons.
The calico looked very like long black hair, especially when the
strips began to curl up a bit.

'But our faces,' said Anthea, 'they're not at all the right colour.
We're all rather pale, and I'm sure I don't know why, but Cyril is
the colour of putty.'

'I'm not,' said Cyril.

'The real Indians outside seem to be brownish,' said Robert
hastily.  'I think we ought to be really RED - it's sort of
superior to have a red skin, if you are one.'

The red ochre cook used for the kitchen bricks seemed to be about
the reddest thing in the house.  The children mixed some in a
saucer with milk, as they had seen cook do for the kitchen floor.
Then they carefully painted each other's faces and hands with it,
till they were quite as red as any Red Indian need be - if not
redder.

They knew at once that they must look very terrible when they met
Eliza in the passage, and she screamed aloud.  This unsolicited
testimonial pleased them very much.  Hastily telling her not to be
a goose, and that it was only a game, the four blanketed,
feathered, really and truly Redskins went boldly out to meet the
foe.  I say boldly.  That is because I wish to be polite.  At any
rate, they went.

Along the hedge dividing the wilderness from the garden was a row
of dark heads, all highly feathered.

'It's our only chance,' whispered Anthea.  'Much better than to
wait for their blood-freezing attack.  We must pretend like mad.
Like that game of cards where you pretend you've got aces when you
haven't.  Fluffing they call it, I think.  Now then.  Whoop!'

With four wild war-whoops - or as near them as English children
could be expected to go without any previous practice - they rushed
through the gate and struck four warlike attitudes in face of the
line of Red Indians.  These were all about the same height, and
that height was Cyril's.

'I hope to goodness they can talk English,' said Cyril through his
attitude.

Anthea knew they could, though she never knew how she came to know
it.  She had a white towel tied to a walking-stick.  This was a
flag of truce, and she waved it, in the hope that the Indians would
know what it was.  Apparently they did - for one who was browner
than the others stepped forward.

'Ye seek a pow-wow?' he said in excellent English.  'I am Golden
Eagle, of the mighty tribe of Rock-dwellers.'
'And I,' said Anthea, with a sudden inspiration, 'am the Black
Panther - chief of the - the - the - Mazawattee tribe.  My brothers
- I don't mean - yes, I do - the tribe - I mean the Mazawattees -
are in ambush below the brow of yonder hill.'

'And what mighty warriors be these?' asked Golden Eagle, turning to
the others.

Cyril said he was the great chief Squirrel, of the Moning Congo
tribe, and, seeing that Jane was sucking her thumb and could
evidently think of no name for herself, he added, 'This great
warrior is Wild Cat - Pussy Ferox we call it in this land - leader
of the vast Phiteezi tribe.'

And thou, valorous Redskin?' Golden Eagle inquired suddenly of
Robert, who, taken unawares, could only reply that he was Bobs,
leader of the Cape Mounted Police.

'And now,' said Black Panther, 'our tribes, if we just whistle them
up, will far outnumber your puny forces; so resistance is useless.
Return, therefore, to your own land, O brother, and smoke pipes of
peace in your wampums with your squaws and your medicine-men, and
dress yourselves in the gayest wigwams, and eat happily of the
juicy fresh-caught moccasins.'

'You've got it all wrong,' murmured Cyril angrily.  But Golden
Eagle only looked inquiringly at her.

'Thy customs are other than ours, O Black Panther,' he said.
'Bring up thy tribe, that we may hold pow-wow in state before them,
as becomes great chiefs.'

'We'll bring them up right enough,' said Anthea, 'with their bows
and arrows, and tomahawks, and scalping-knives, and everything you
can think of, if you don't look sharp and go.'

She spoke bravely enough, but the hearts of all the children were
beating furiously, and their breath came in shorter and shorter
gasps.  For the little real Red Indians were closing up round them
- coming nearer and nearer with angry murmurs - so that they were
the centre of a crowd of dark, cruel faces.

'It's no go,' whispered Robert.  'I knew it wouldn't be.  We must
make a bolt for the Psammead.  It might help us.  If it doesn't -
well, I suppose we shall come alive again at sunset.  I wonder if
scalping hurts as much as they say.'

'I'll wave the flag again,' said Anthea.  'If they stand back,
we'll run for it.'

She waved the towel, and the chief commanded his followers to stand
back.  Then, charging wildly at the place where the line of Indians
was thinnest, the four children started to run.  Their first rush
knocked down some half-dozen Indians, over whose blanketed bodies
the children leaped, and made straight for the sand-Pit.  This was
no time for the safe easy way by which carts go down - right over
the edge of the sand-pit they went, among the yellow and pale
purple flowers and dried grasses, past the little sand-martins'
little front doors, skipping, clinging, bounding, stumbling,
sprawling, and finally rolling.

Yellow Eagle and his followers came up with them just at the very
spot where they had seen the Psammead that morning.

Breathless and beaten, the wretched children now awaited their
fate.  Sharp knives and axes gleamed round them, but worse than
these was the cruel light in the eyes of Golden Eagle and his
followers.

'Ye have lied to us, O Black Panther of the Mazawattees - and thou,
too, Squirrel of the Moning Congos.  These also, Pussy Ferox of the
Phiteezi, and Bobs of the Cape Mounted Police - these also have
lied to us, if not with their tongue, yet by their silence.  Ye
have lied under the cover of the Truce-flag of the Pale-face.  Ye
have no followers.  Your tribes are far away - following the
hunting trail.  What shall be their doom?' he concluded, turning
with a bitter smile to the other Red Indians.

'Build we the fire!' shouted his followers; and at once a dozen
ready volunteers started to look for fuel.  The four children, each
held between two strong little Indians, cast despairing glances
round them.  Oh, if they could only see the Psammead!

'Do you mean to scalp us first and then roast us?' asked Anthea
desperately.

'Of course!'  Redskin opened his eyes at her.  'It's always done.'

The Indians had formed a ring round the children, and now sat on
the ground gazing at their captives.  There was a threatening
silence.

Then slowly, by twos and threes, the Indians who had gone to look
for firewood came back, and they came back empty-handed.  They had
not been able to find a single stick of wood, for a fire!  No one
ever can, as a matter of fact, in that part of Kent.

The children drew a deep breath of relief, but it ended in a moan
of terror.  For bright knives were being brandished all about them.
Next moment each child was seized by an Indian; each closed its
eyes and tried not to scream.  They waited for the sharp agony of
the knife.  It did not come.  Next moment they were released, and
fell in a trembling heap.  Their heads did not hurt at all.  They
only felt strangely cool!  Wild war-whoops rang in their ears.
When they ventured to open their eyes they saw four of their foes
dancing round them with wild leaps and screams, and each of the
four brandished in his hand a scalp of long flowing black hair.
They put their hands to their heads - their own scalps were safe!
The poor untutored savages had indeed scalped the children.  But
they had only, so to speak, scalped them of the black calico
ringlets!

The children fell into each other's arms, sobbing and laughing.

'Their scalps are ours,' chanted the chief; 'ill-rooted were their
ill-fated hairs!  They came off in the hands of the victors -
without struggle, without resistance, they yielded their scalps to
the conquering Rock-dwellers!  Oh, how little a thing is a scalp so
lightly won!'

'They'll take our real ones in a minute; you see if they don't,'
said Robert, trying to rub some of the red ochre off his face and
hands on to his hair.

'Cheated of our just and fiery revenge are we,' the chant went on
- 'but there are other torments than the scalping-knife and the
flames.  Yet is the slow fire the correct thing.  O strange
unnatural country, wherein a man may find no wood to burn his
enemy! - Ah, for the boundless forests of my native land, where the
great trees for thousands of miles grow but to furnish firewood
wherewithal to burn our foes.  Ah, would we were but in our native
forest once more!'

Suddenly, like a flash of lightning, the golden gravel shone all
round the four children instead of the dusky figures.  For every
single Indian had vanished on the instant at their leader's word.
The Psammead must have been there all the time.  And it had given
the Indian chief his wish.

Martha brought home a jug with a pattern of storks and long grasses
on it.  Also she brought back all Anthea's money.

'My cousin, she give me the jug for luck; she said it was an odd
one what the basin of had got smashed.'

'Oh, Martha, you arc a dear!' sighed Anthea, throwing her arms
round her.

'Yes,' giggled Martha, 'you'd better make the most of me while
you've got me.  I shall give your ma notice directly minute she
comes back.'

'Oh, Martha, we haven't been so very horrid to you, have we?' asked
Anthea, aghast.

'Oh, it ain't that, miss.'  Martha giggled more than ever.  'I'm
a-goin' to be married.  It's Beale the gamekeeper.  He's been
a-proposin' to me off and on ever since you come home from the
clergyman's where you got locked up on the church-tower.  And
to-day I said the word an' made him a happy man.'

Anthea put the seven-and-fourpence back in the missionary-box, and
pasted paper over the place where the poker had broken it.  She was
very glad to be able to do this, and she does not know to this day
whether breaking open a missionary-box is or is not a hanging
matter.

CHAPTER 11
THE LAST WISH

Of course you, who see above that this is the eleventh (and last)
chapter, know very well that the day of which this chapter tells
must be the last on which Cyril, Anthea, Robert, and Jane will have
a chance of getting anything out of the Psammead, or Sand-fairy.

But the children themselves did not know this.  They were full of
rosy visions, and, whereas on other days they had often found it
extremely difficult to think of anything really nice to wish for,
their brains were now full of the most beautiful and sensible
ideas.  'This,' as Jane remarked afterwards, 'is always the way.'
Everyone was up extra early that morning, and these plans were
hopefully discussed in the garden before breakfast.  The old idea
of one hundred pounds in modern florins was still first favourite,
but there were others that ran it close - the chief of these being
the 'pony each' idea.  This had a great advantage.  You could wish
for a pony each during the morning, ride it all day, have it vanish
at sunset, and wish it back again next day.  Which would be an
economy of litter and stabling.  But at breakfast two things
happened.  First, there was a letter from mother.  Granny was
better, and mother and father hoped to be home that very afternoon.
A cheer arose.  And of course this news at once scattered all the
before-breakfast wish-ideas.  For everyone saw quite plainly that
the wish for the day must be something to please mother and not to
please themselves.

'I wonder what she WOULD like,' pondered Cyril.

'She'd like us all to be good,' said Jane primly.

'Yes - but that's so dull for us,' Cyril rejoined; 'and, besides,
I should hope we could be that without sand-fairies to help us.
No; it must be something splendid, that we couldn't possibly get
without wishing for.'

'Look out,' said Anthea in a warning voice; 'don't forget
yesterday.  Remember, we get our wishes now just wherever we happen
to be when we say "I wish".  Don't let's let ourselves in for
anything silly - to-day of all days.'

'All right,' said Cyril.  'You needn't jaw.'

just then Martha came in with a jug full of hot water for the
teapot - and a face full of importance for the children.

'A blessing we're all alive to eat our breakfasses!' she said
darkly.

'Why, whatever's happened?' everybody asked.

'Oh, nothing,' said Martha, 'only it seems nobody's safe from being
murdered in their beds nowadays.'

'Why,' said Jane as an agreeable thrill of horror ran down her back
and legs and out at her toes, 'has anyone been murdered in their
beds?'

'Well - not exactly,' said Martha; 'but they might just as well.
There's been burglars over at Peasmarsh Place - Beale's just told
me - and they've took every single one of Lady Chittenden's
diamonds and jewels and things, and she's a-goin' out of one
fainting fit into another, with hardly time to say "Oh, my
diamonds!" in between.  And Lord Chittenden's away in London.'

'Lady Chittenden,' said Anthea; 'we've seen her.  She wears a
red-and-white dress, and she has no children of her own and can't
abide other folkses'.'

'That's her,' said Martha.  'Well, she's put all her trust in
riches, and you see how she's served.  They say the diamonds and
things was worth thousands of thousands of pounds.  There was a
necklace and a river - whatever that is - and no end of bracelets;
and a tarrer and ever so many rings.  But there, I mustn't stand
talking and all the place to clean down afore your ma comes home.'

'I don't see why she should ever have had such lots of diamonds,'
said Anthea when Martha had Bounced off.  'She was rather a nasty
lady, I thought.  And mother hasn't any diamonds, and hardly any
jewels - the topaz necklace, and the sapphire ring daddy gave her
when they were engaged, and the garnet star, and the little pearl
brooch with great-grandpapa's hair in it - that's about all.'

'When I'm grown up I'll buy mother no end of diamonds,' said
Robert, 'if she wants them.  I shall make so much money exploring
in Africa I shan't know what to do with it.'

'Wouldn't it be jolly,' said Jane dreamily, 'if mother could find
all those lovely things, necklaces and rivers of diamonds and
tarrers?'

'TI--ARAS,' said Cyril.

'Ti--aras, then - and rings and everything in her room when she
came home?  I wish she would.'  The others gazed at her in horror.

'Well, she WILL,' said Robert; 'you've wished, my good Jane - and
our only chance now is to find the Psammead, and if it's in a good
temper it MAY take back the wish and give us another.  If not -
well - goodness knows what we're in for! - the police, of course,
and - Don't cry, silly!  We'll stand by you.  Father says we need
never be afraid if we don't do anything wrong and always speak the
truth.'

But Cyril and Anthea exchanged gloomy glances.  They remembered how
convincing the truth about the Psammead had been once before when
told to the police.

It was a day of misfortunes.  Of course the Psammead could not be
found.  Nor the jewels, though every one Of the children searched
their mother's room again and again.

'Of course,' Robert said, 'WE couldn't find them.  It'll be mother
who'll do that.  Perhaps she'll think they've been in the house for
years and years, and never know they are the stolen ones at all.'

'Oh yes!' Cyril was very scornful; 'then mother will be a receiver
of stolen goods, and you know jolly well what THAT'S worse than.'

Another and exhaustive search of the sand-pit failed to reveal the
Psammead, so the children went back to the house slowly and sadly.

'I don't care,' said Anthea stoutly, 'we'll tell mother the truth,
and she'll give back the jewels - and make everything all right.'

'Do you think so?' said Cyril slowly.  'Do you think She'll believe
us?  Could anyone believe about a Sammyadd unless they'd seen it?
She'll think we're pretending.  Or else she'll think we're raving
mad, and then we shall be sent to Bedlam.  How would you like it?'
- he turned suddenly on the miserable Jane - 'how would you like
it, to be shut up in an iron cage with bars and padded walls, and
nothing to do but stick straws in your hair all day, and listen to
the howlings and ravings of the other maniacs?  Make up your minds
to it, all of you.  It's no use telling mother.'

'But it's true,' said Jane.

'Of course it is, but it's not true enough for grown-up people to
believe it,' said Anthea.  'Cyril's right.  Let's put flowers in
all the vases, and try not to think about diamonds.  After all,
everything has come right in the end all the other times.'

So they filled all the pots they could find with flowers - asters
and zinnias, and loose-leaved late red roses from the wall of the
stable-yard, till the house was a perfect bower.

And almost as soon as dinner was cleared away mother arrived, and
was clasped in eight loving arms.  It was very difficult indeed not
to tell her all about the Psammead at once, because they had got
into the habit of telling her everything.  But they did succeed in
not telling her.
Mother, on her side, had plenty to tell them - about Granny, and
Granny's pigeons, and Auntie Emma's lame tame donkey.  She was very
delighted with the flowery-boweryness of the house; and everything
seemed so natural and pleasant, now that she was home again, that
the children almost thought they must have dreamed the Psammead.

But, when mother moved towards the stairs to go UP to her bedroom
and take off her bonnet, the eight arms clung round her just as if
she only had two children, one the Lamb and the other an octopus.

'Don't go up, mummy darling,' said Anthea; 'let me take your things
up for you.'

'Or I will,' said Cyril.

'We want you to come and look at the rose-tree,' said Robert.

'Oh, don't go up!' said Jane helplessly.

'Nonsense, dears,' said mother briskly, 'I'm not such an old woman
yet that I can't take my bonnet off in the proper place.  Besides,
I must wash these black hands of mine.'

So up she went, and the children, following her, exchanged glances
of gloomy foreboding.

Mother took off her bonnet - it was a very pretty hat, really, with
white roses on it - and when she had taken it off she went to the
dressing-table to do her pretty hair.

On the table between the ring-stand and the pincushion lay a green
leather case.  Mother opened it.

'Oh, how lovely!' she cried.  It was a ring, a large pearl with
shining many-lighted diamonds set round it.  'Wherever did this
come from?' mother asked, trying it on her wedding finger, which it
fitted beautifully.  'However did it come here?'

'I don't know,' said each of the children truthfully.

'Father must have told Martha to put it here,' mother said.  'I'll
run down and ask her.'

'Let me look at it,' said Anthea, who knew Martha would not be able
to see the ring.  But when Martha was asked, of course she denied
putting the ring there, and so did Eliza and cook.

Mother came back to her bedroom, very much interested and pleased
about the ring.  But, when she opened the dressing-table drawer and
found a long case containing an almost priceless diamond necklace,
she was more interested still, though not so pleased.  In the
wardrobe, when she went to put away her 'bonnet', she found a tiara
and several brooches, and the rest of the jewellery turned up in
various parts of the room during the next half-hour.  The children
looked more and more uncomfortable, and now Jane began to sniff.

Mother looked at her gravely.

'Jane,' she said, 'I am sure you know something about this.  Now
think before you speak, and tell me the truth.'

'We found a Fairy,' said Jane obediently.

'No nonsense, please,' said her mother sharply.

'Don't be silly, Jane,' Cyril interrupted.  Then he went on
desperately.  'Look here, mother, we've never seen the things
before, but Lady Chittenden at Peasmarsh Place lost all her
jewellery by wicked burglars last night.  Could this possibly be
it?'

All drew a deep breath.  They were saved.

'But how could they have put it here?  And why should they?' asked
mother, not unreasonably.  'Surely it would have been easier and
safer to make off with it?'

'Suppose,' said Cyril, 'they thought it better to wait for - for
sunset - nightfall, I mean, before they went off with it.  No one
but us knew that you were coming back to-day.'

'I must send for the police at once,' said mother distractedly.
'Oh, how I wish daddy were here!'

'Wouldn't it be better to wait till he DOES come?' asked Robert,
knowing that his father would not be home before sunset.

'No, no; I can't wait a minute with all this on my mind,' cried
mother.  'All this' was the heap of jewel-cases on the bed.  They
put them all in the wardrobe, and mother locked it.  Then mother
called Martha.

'Martha,' she said, 'has any stranger been into MY room since I've
been away?  Now, answer me truthfully.'

'No, mum,' answered Martha; 'leastways, what I mean to say -'

She stopped.

'Come,' said her mistress kindly; 'I see someone has.  You must
tell me at once.  Don't be frightened.  I'm sure you haven't done
anything wrong.'

Martha burst into heavy sobs.

'I was a-goin' to give you warning this very day, mum, to leave at
the end of my month, so I was - on account of me being going to
make a respectable young man happy.  A gamekeeper he is by trade,
mum - and I wouldn't deceive you - of the name of Beale.  And it's
as true as I stand here, it Was your coming home in such a hurry,
and no warning given, out of the kindness of his heart it was, as
he says, "Martha, my beauty," he says - which I ain't and never
was, but you know how them men will go on - "I can't see you
a-toiling and a-moiling and not lend a 'elping 'and; which mine is
a strong arm and it's yours, Martha, my dear," says he.  And so he
helped me a-cleanin' of the windows, but outside, mum, the whole
time, and me in; if I never say another breathing word it's the
gospel truth.'

'Were you with him the whole time?' asked her mistress.

'Him outside and me in, I was,' said Martha; 'except for fetching
up a fresh pail and the leather that that slut of a Eliza 'd hidden
away behind the mangle.'

'That will do,' said the children's mother.  'I am not pleased with
you, Martha, but you have spoken the truth, and that counts for
something.'

When Martha had gone, the children clung round their mother.

'Oh, mummy darling,' cried Anthea, 'it isn't Beale's fault, it
isn't really!  He's a great dear; he is, truly and honourably, and
as honest as the day.  Don't let the police take him, mummy!  oh,
don't, don't, don't!'

It was truly awful.  Here was an innocent man accused of robbery
through that silly wish of Jane's, and it was absolutely useless to
tell the truth.  All longed to, but they thought of the straws in
the hair and the shrieks of the other frantic maniacs, and they
could not do it.

'Is there a cart hereabouts?' asked mother feverishly.  'A trap of
any sort?  I must drive in to Rochester and tell the police at
once.'

All the children sobbed, 'There's a cart at the farm, but, oh,
don't go! - don't go! - oh, don't go! - wait till daddy comes
home!'

Mother took not the faintest notice.  When she had set her mind on
a thing she always went straight through with it; she was rather
like Anthea in this respect.

'Look here, Cyril,' she said, sticking on her hat with long sharp
violet-headed pins, 'I leave you in charge.  Stay in the
dressing-room.  You can pretend to be swimming boats in the bath,
or something.  Say I gave you leave.  But stay there, with the
landing door open; I've locked the other.  And don't let anyone go
into my room.  Remember, no one knows the jewels are there except
me, and all of you, and the wicked thieves who put them there.
Robert, you stay in the garden and watch the windows.  If anyone
tries to get in you must run and tell the two farm men that I'll
send up to wait in the kitchen.  I'll tell them there are dangerous
characters about - that's true enough.  Now, remember, I trust you
both.  But I don't think they'll try it till after dark, so you're
quite safe.  Good-bye, darlings.'

And she locked her bedroom door and went off with the key in her
pocket.

The children could not help admiring the dashing and decided way in
which she had acted.  They thought how useful she would have been
in organizing escape from some of the tight places in which they
had found themselves of late in consequence of their ill-timed
wishes.

'She's a born general,' said Cyril - 'but I don't know what's going
to happen to us.  Even if the girls were to hunt for that beastly
Sammyadd and find it, and get it to take the jewels away again,
mother would only think we hadn't looked out properly and let the
burglars sneak in and nick them - or else the police will think
WE'VE got them - or else that she's been fooling them.  Oh, it's a
pretty decent average ghastly mess this time, and no mistake!'

He savagely made a paper boat and began to float it in the bath, as
he had been told to do.

Robert went into the garden and sat down on the worn yellow grass,
with his miserable head between his helpless hands.

Anthea and Jane whispered together in the passage downstairs, where
the coconut matting was - with the hole in it that you always
caught your foot in if you were not careful.  Martha's voice could
be heard in the kitchen - grumbling loud and long.

'It's simply quite too dreadfully awful,' said Anthea.  'How do you
know all the diamonds are there, too?  If they aren't, the police
will think mother and father have got them, and that they've only
given up some of them for a kind of desperate blind.  And they'll
be put in prison, and we shall be branded outcasts, the children of
felons.  And it won't be at all nice for father and mother either,'
she added, by a candid afterthought.

'But what can WE do?' asked Jane.

'Nothing - at least we might look for the Psammead again.  It's a
very, very hot day.  He may have come out to warm that whisker of
his.'

'He won't give us any more beastly wishes to-day,' said Jane
flatly.  'He gets crosser and crosser every time we see him.  I
believe he hates having to give wishes.'

Anthea had been shaking her head gloomily - now she stopped shaking
it so suddenly that it really looked as though she were pricking up
her ears.

'What is it?' asked Jane.  'Oh, have you thought of something?'

'Our one chance,' cried Anthea dramatically; 'the last lone-lorn
forlorn hope.  Come on.'

At a brisk trot she led the way to the sand-pit.  Oh, joy! - there
was the Psammead, basking in a golden sandy hollow and preening its
whiskers happily in the glowing afternoon sun.  The moment it saw
them it whisked round and began to burrow - it evidently preferred
its own company to theirs.  But Anthea was too quick for it.  She
caught it by its furry shoulders gently but firmly, and held it.

'Here - none of that!' said the Psammead.  'Leave go of me, will
you?'

But Anthea held him fast.

'Dear kind darling Sammyadd,' she said breathlessly.

'Oh yes - it's all very well,' it said; 'you want another wish, I
expect.  But I can't keep on slaving from morning till night giving
people their wishes.  I must have SOME time to myself.'

'Do you hate giving wishes?' asked Anthea gently, and her voice
trembled with excitement.

'Of course I do,' it said.  'Leave go of me or I'll bite! - I
really will - I mean it.  Oh, well, if you choose to risk it.'

Anthea risked it and held on.

'Look here,' she said, 'don't bite me - listen to reason.  If
you'll only do what we want to-day, we'll never ask you for another
wish as long as we live.'

The Psammead was much moved.

'I'd do anything,' it said in a tearful voice.  'I'd almost burst
myself to give you one wish after another, as long as I held out,
if you'd only never, never ask me to do it after to-day.  If you
knew how I hate to blow myself out with other people's wishes, and
how frightened I am always that I shall strain a muscle or
something.  And then to wake up every morning and know you've GOT
to do it.  You don't know what it is - you don't know what it is,
you don't!'  Its voice cracked with emotion, and the last 'don't'
was a squeak.

Anthea set it down gently on the sand.

'It's all over now,' she said soothingly.  'We promise faithfully
never to ask for another wish after to-day.'
'Well, go ahead,' said the Psammead; 'let's get it over.'

'How many can you do?'

'I don't know - as long as I can hold out.'

'Well, first, I wish Lady Chittenden may find she's never lost her
jewels.'

The Psammead blew itself out, collapsed, and said, 'Done.'

'I wish, said Anthea more slowly, 'mother mayn't get to the
police.'

'Done,' said the creature after the proper interval.

'I wish,' said Jane suddenly, 'mother could forget all about the
diamonds.'

'Done,' said the Psammead; but its voice was weaker.

'Wouldn't you like to rest a little?' asked Anthea considerately.

'Yes, please,' said the Psammead; 'and, before we go further, will
you wish something for me?'

'Can't you do wishes for yourself?'

'Of course not,' it said; 'we were always expected to give each
other our wishes - not that we had any to speak of in the good old
Megatherium days.  just wish, will you, that you may never be able,
any of you, to tell anyone a word about ME.'

'Why?' asked Jane.

'Why, don't you see, if you told grown-ups I should have no peace
of my life.  They'd get hold of me, and they wouldn't wish silly
things like you do, but real earnest things; and the scientific
people would hit on some way of making things last after sunset, as
likely as not; and they'd ask for a graduated income-tax, and
old-age pensions and manhood suffrage, and free secondary
education, and dull things like that; and get them, and keep them,
and the whole world would be turned topsy-turvy.  Do wish it!
Quick!'

Anthea repeated the Psammead's wish, and it blew itself out to a
larger size than they had yet seen it attain.

'And now,' it said as it collapsed, 'can I do anything more for
you?'

'Just one thing; and I think that clears everything up, doesn't it,
Jane?  I wish Martha to forget about the diamond ring, and mother
to forget about the keeper cleaning the windows.'
'It's like the "Brass Bottle",' said Jane.

'Yes, I'm glad we read that or I should never have thought of it.'

'Now,' said the Psammead faintly, 'I'm almost worn out.  Is there
anything else?'

'No; only thank you kindly for all you've done for us, and I hope
you'll have a good long sleep, and I hope we shall see you again
some day.'

'Is that a wish?' it said in a weak voice.

'Yes, please,' said the two girls together.

Then for the last time in this story they saw the Psammead blow
itself out and collapse suddenly.  It nodded to them, blinked its
long snail's eyes, burrowed, and disappeared, scratching fiercely
to the last, and the sand closed over it.

'I hope we've done right?' said Jane.

'I'm sure we have,' said Anthea.  'Come on home and tell the boys.'

Anthea found Cyril glooming over his paper boats, and told him.
Jane told Robert.  The two tales were only just ended when mother
walked in, hot and dusty.  She explained that as she was being
driven into Rochester to buy the girls' autumn school-dresses the
axle had broken, and but for the narrowness of the lane and the
high soft hedges she would have been thrown out.  As it was, she
was not hurt, but she had had to walk home.  'And oh, my dearest
dear chicks,' she said, 'I am simply dying for a cup of tea!  Do
run and see if the kettle boils!'

'So you see it's all right,'Jane whispered.  'She doesn't
remember.'

'No more does Martha,' said Anthea, who had been to ask after the
state of the kettle.

As the servants sat at their tea, Beale the gamekeeper dropped in.
He brought the welcome news that Lady Chittenden's diamonds had not
been lost at all.  Lord Chittenden had taken them to be re-set and
cleaned, and the maid who knew about it had gone for a holiday.  So
that was all right.

'I wonder if we ever shall see the Psammead again,' said Jane
wistfully as they walked in the garden, while mother was putting
the Lamb to bed.

'I'm sure we shall,' said Cyril, 'if you really wished it.'

'We've promised never to ask it for another wish,' said Anthea.

'I never want to,' said Robert earnestly.

They did see it again, of course, but not in this story.  And it
was not in a sand-pit either, but in a very, very, very different
place.  It was in a -- But I must say no more.

*Project Gutenberg Etext of Five Children and It, by E. Nesbit*