Vintage Illustration of Grace Darling

The Story of Grace Darling

By Mrs. Alice H. Putnam

One September night long ago, a steamer was sailing off the coast of Northumberland on her way to Dundee. The pilot had steered her safely until they were as far north as the Farne Islands. But here, the high winds and heavy seas, which the autumn weather often brings the sailor, drove the vessel onto a dangerous ledge of rocks, and she was broken almost in two. There were a good many passengers on the boat, and the captain, with his wife, and many others, were washed off the deck and dashed onto the rocks.

On one of these islands stood a tall light-house called the “Folkstone Light.” I suppose it was built of stone, bolted and riveted firmly to the solid rock, for that is the way most of the light-houses on the coast were made. Often the angry waves would beat against it as they rolled over the whole island, but the keeper was faithful, and from sunset to sunrise the bright light would shine far over the water, and was sometimes a comfort and sometimes a warning to the sailors.

The keeper, Mr. Darling, had a daughter who had grown to be a strong, brave girl—as much at home on the water as on the land. She could row and sail a boat as well as any man about there. It was a part of her work to help her father care for the lamps.

On this stormy night it must have carried hope to the poor half-drowned men to know that some one was near who would help them if possible.

When Grace Darling saw the danger the crew were in, she at once begged her father to get out the boats and go to the aid of the drowning men.

But Mr. Darling said “No, we dare not try it. The sea is too heavy; no boat could live in it. Wait until morning.” So hour after hour passed and Grace watched the dreadful storm with a sad heart, for she knew the men would soon grow too weak to cling to the rocks.

At last, towards morning, she said, “Father, I am going. I must at least try to do something for them; don’t say no.”

The father could not hold his brave child back, and she went alone in the little boat that was tossed like an egg-shell on the heavy sea, now up, up, on the top of a giant wave, and then down deep in the trough made between the waves. It was well, then, that Grace had gained a man’s strength by her rowing and swimming, or she never could have guided her boat so surely to the island, and steered safely around its dangerous, sharp rocks to the place where the steamer (or what was left of it) was wedged.

She was thankful to be able to save the lives of the nine sailors who, moment by moment, were growing weaker and less able to hold on to a place of safety. Grace carried them all back to the light-house in safety.
It was not long before people in other parts of England heard of the brave deed, and many letters and beautiful medals, in remembrance of her courage, were sent her. But she received them very quietly, saying that she had only done what she ought to do, and what any one with her strength ought to have done.

She lived some years after this, but though she has gone from here now, I think folks will always love to think of Grace Darling, the brave girl who risked her own to save other lives.

Victorian Valentine Postcard

“Ah! there you are at last, Cora. I was just going to send your breakfast up to you. Did you have a pleasant time, at the party, last night?”

Cora drew up her chair, stirred her coffee sleepily, repressed a yawn, and replied, slowly:

“It was a perfect crush. I got myself ensconced, and enjoyed myself in a corner: I had no mind to spoil my dress by trying to dance in such a crowd.”

Mrs. Blondin-for Cora’s sister was married-stared. Cora was usually willing to dance, if she could get standing-room and no more.

“You must have had a most agreeable companion,” she observed, sagely. “Who was it?”

“I was talking most of the evening to a friend of Mr. Melton’s,” she replied, the color growing deeper in her cheeks. “He is visiting here.”

“Oh! I wonder if it wasn’t Val-” began Mrs. Blondin. “But here is Kitty with the letters,” she said, stopping short in her sentence.

“No, ma’am,” answered the maid; “the postman hasn’t come round yet. It’s only a note from Mrs. Melton, which the messenger said I wuz to be very particular to give into your own hands; and he’s waiting for an answer.”

While Cora finished her coffee, Mrs. Blondin broke the envelope, read the note, and then, with an evident effort to repress a smile, put it in her pocket, and going to a table near by, dashed off a few lines, and gave it to the maid.

Cora’s eyes followed every movement curiously. “My dear sister,” she purred, coaxingly, “what is it all about? And why this mystery? Let me see it, too;” and she held out her hand.

“It’s only a note from Mrs. Melton, saying she will call this evening with her husband, and asking permission to bring their friend-Mr. Hartwell,” replied Mrs. Blondin.

“Oh! is that all?” pouted Cora, in a tone of pretended disappointment.

“What did you suppose it was?” asked her sister, teasingly. “Not a valentine, eh? Although this is the great day.”

Cora made a little face, and ran out of the room; and then her sister laughed heartily, as she drew the note out of her pocket, and read it again. It ran thus:

“Dear Nellie: When we were school-girls together, you were always begging me not to scheme and plot; but ’tis my nature to,’ and you know I never use my gifts maliciously. I have composed a little snare for your sister, whose interest in our friend Mr. Hartwell only equals to his in her. You remember Valentine, don’t you? You know he is everything that is good and manly; so you need have no scruples in aiding me. All I want of you is silence concerning Mr. Hartwell’s first name. Don’t breathe it; and leave the rest to me. Shall you be at home this evening? If so, Mr. Melton and I will call, about eight; and I suppose I have your permission to bring our friend.”

“Ever yours, Agusta Melton.”

The day wore on. Kitty, the maid, got a lace-paper missive, with two clasped hands, a cupid, a church-door, a ring, and a rhyme, which made her heart light for the rest of the day: for who but the milk-man sent it?

As for Cora, the valentines she received were almost legion. No one was so popular. And now to-night she sat at a little round table in the drawing-room, with her pile of valentines before her. Never had she looked prettier. She wore a simple black-silk dress, which brought out in exquisite relief her fair rose-bloom complexion. Her golden hair, bound by a narrow fillet of black velvet ribbon across her head, fell in masses down her back. Her blue eyes looked up with a soft far-away expression. Her rich red half-pouting lips were as tempting as ripe pomegranates.

Her sister was standing by her, taking up one valentine after another, and commenting on them, wondering from whom each came. “I should have thought your new acquaintance of last night would have sent one,” she said. “I wonder if this, after all, is not from him,” she added, as she held up an unusually elegant one.

At this instance the door opened, and the maid announced “Mr. Hartwell,” before the speaker could put down the valentine.

As the girl spoke, a tall handsome gentleman entered. He bowed to Mrs. Blondin, and said, holding out a letter:

“Mrs. Melton was so earnest in her entreaties that I should bring you this note, that I hurried off before her, at her own desire; and she begged me to ask you to open and read it at once.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Blondin, “it is for my sister,” glancing at the envelope.

“Mrs. Melton is abounding in mysteries to-day, laughed Cora, as she rose, and, courtesying to the new-comer, took the letter. “She sent a fleet messenger early this morning with some secret communication for my sister. I wonder what is in it. But pray sit down.”

He complied. She sank again into her chair, and read the note. But having done so, she looked perplexed. She turned the papers over, shook them, peeped into the envelope, saying:

“Why, how strange! Is this all, Mr. Hartwell? Didn’t she give you another letter for me?”

“That was all, Miss Cora; and although she did not acquaint me with the contents, she seemed to attach great importance to my personally giving it to you.”

“Well, I don’t suppose there is any reason why you shouldn’t know the contents. Mrs. Melton only says she sends me a valentine, which she hopes I will accept,” said Cora.

Mr. Hartwell uttered an inarticulate exclamation: started for the door; came back; and, muttering a vague apology, stood gazing at the fair speaker. “Has he lost his senses?” thought Mrs. Blondin. As for Cora, she looked at him in undisguised wonder.

“I believe in my heart you have lost it, Mr. Hartwell,” she said at last, with a gay laugh. “You have lost my valentine, and you are afraid to confess. Isn’t it so? Really, you act like one with something on his conscience. Well, I’m sorry to lose it; but never mind.”

“One moment, I beg!” he cried. “Let me explain; for Mrs. Melton will tell you if I do not. My Christian name is Valentine, and she-you know she is full of fun-she must have meant that when she sent the note by me. She sent you a Valentine.”

“Oh!” said Cora, stiffly; “was that it? Yes, she certainly is full of fun; but I must say I think her joke has been carried a little too far this time.” Her voice was quite indignant.

“Miss Grayson, I beg you to believe me. I did not know any more about it than you. I am truly distressed,” said the visitor.

“Pray don’t apologize. I believe you. Let us drop it.” Softening a little in her tone.

But Mr. Hartwell did not wish to drop it.

“Miss Cora, there is something else, Mrs. Melton send you a valentine which she hoped you would accept. We have met but twice, it is true; and I should never have presumed, on my own part, to offer myself on such a short acquaintance. But is has been done fore me; and-pardon me-I do not regret it. there is such a thing as love at first sight; and I love you devotedly.”

He tried to take her hand, forgetful of her sister’s presence-who, however, had retired discreetly into the background. But Cora drew back shyly. Neither of them heard the door-bell ring, nor saw a laughing group gathered at the door of the room. Both stared violently when Mrs. Melton’s merry voice rang out:

“Upon my word, things seem to be progressing nicely. The good fates always preside over my little plots. So my Valentine pleases you?”

As she spoke, she came in effusively, and patted the young girl’s flushed cheek.

“Not at all!” began Cora, indignantly. Then she stammered: “At least-I mean-” and suddenly stopped.

“It was really very amusing of you, Mrs. Melton,” said Mr. Hartwell, lightly, coming to the rescue. “Not at all a bad joke.”

“Then she accepted you, Valentine?” queried the saucy little lady.

“She did not refuse me flatly,” he replied. “As to accepting, in time I hope she may.”

And in time she did. Yes! she married her VALENTINE.

Rose Coghlan

I have seen the infant sinking down, like a stricken flower, to the grave—the strong man fiercely breathing out his soul upon the field of battle—the miserable convict standing upon the scaffold, with a deep curse quivering on his lips—I have viewed death in all his forms of darkness and vengeance with a tearless eye,—but I never could look on woman, young and lovely woman, fading away from the earth in beautiful and uncomplaining melancholy, without feeling the very fountains of life turned to tears and dust. Death is always terrible—but, when a form of angel beauty is passing off to the silent land of the sleepers, the heart feels that something lovely in the universe is ceasing from existence, and broods, with a sense of utter desolation, over the lonely thoughts, that come up like specters from the grave to haunt our midnight musings.

Two years ago, I took up my residence for a few weeks in a country village in the eastern part of New England. Soon after my arrival I became acquainted with a lovely girl, apparently about seventeen years of age. She had lost the idol of her pure heart’s purest love, and the shadows of deep and holy memories were resting like the wing of death upon her brow. I first met her in the presence of the mirthful. She was indeed a creature to be worshiped—her brow was garlanded with the young year’s sweetest flowers—her yellow locks were hanging beautifully and low upon her bosom—and she moved through the crowd with such a floating and unearthly grace, that the bewildered gazer almost looked to see her fade into the air, like the creation of some pleasant dream. She seemed cheerful and even gay; yet I saw that her gaiety was but the mockery of her feelings. She smiled, but there was something in her smile which told that its mournful beauty was but the bright reflection of a tear—and her eye-lids, at times, closed heavily down, as if struggling to repress the tide of agony that was bursting up from her heart’s secret urn. She looked as if she could have left the scene of festivity, and gone out beneath the quiet stars, and laid her forehead down upon the fresh, green earth, and poured out her stricken soul, gush after gush, till it mingled with the eternal fountain of life and purity.

Days and weeks passed on, and that sweet girl gave me her confidence, and I became to her as a brother. She was wasting away by disease. The smile upon her lip was fainter, the purple veins upon her cheek grew visible, and the cadences of her voice became daily more week and tremulous. On a quiet evening in the depth of June, I wandered out with her a little distance in the open air. It was then that she first told me the tale of her passion, and of the blight that had come down like mildew upon her life. Love had been a portion of her existence. Its tendrils had been twined around her heart in its earliest years; and, when they were rent away, they left a wound which flowed till all the springs of her soul were blood. “I am passing away,” said she, “and it should be so. The winds have gone over my life, and the bright buds of hope and the sweet blossoms of passion are scattered down and lie withering in the dust, or rotting away upon the chill waters of memory. And yet I cannot go down among the tombs without a tear. It is hard to bid farewell to these dear scenes, with which I have held communion from childhood, and which, from day to day, have caught the colour of my life and sympathised with its joys and sorrows. That little grove where I have so often strayed with my burried Love, and where, at times, even now, the sweet tones of his voice seem to come stealing around me till the whole air becomes one intense and mournful melody—that pensive star, which we used to watch in its early rising, and on which my fancy can still picture his form looking down upon me, and beckoning me to his own bright home: every flower and tree, and rivulet, on which the memory of our early love has set its undying seal, have become dear to me, and I cannot, without a sigh, close my eyes upon them for ever.”

I have lately heard, that the beautiful girl, of whom I have spoken, is dead. The close of her life was calm as the falling of a quiet stream—gentle as the sinking of the breeze, that lingers, for a time, around a bed of withered roses, and then dies “as ‘twere from very sweetness.”

It cannot be said that earth is man’s only abiding place. It cannot be, that our life is a bubble cast up by the Ocean of Eternity, to float a moment upon its waves and sink into darkness and nothingness. Else why is it, that the high and glorious aspirations, which leap like angels from the temple of our hearts, are for ever wandering abroad unsatisfied? Why is it, that the stars, which “hold their festivals around the midnight throne,” are set above the grasp of our unlimited faculties—for ever mocking us with their unapproachable glory? And finally, why is it, that bright forms of human beauty are presented to our view and then taken from us—leaving the thousand streams of our affections to flow back in an Alpine torrent upon our hearts? We are born for a higher destiny than that of earth. There is a realm, where the rainbow never fades, where the stars will be spread out before us like the islands that slumber on the ocean, and where the beautiful beings, which here pass before us like visions, will stay in our presence for ever. Bright creature of my dreams—in that realm I shall see thee again. Even now thy lost image is sometimes with me. In the mysterious silence of midnight, when the streams are glowing in the light of the many stars, that image comes floating upon the beam that lingers around my pillow, and stands before me in its pale, dim loveliness, till its own quiet spirit sinks like a spell from heaven upon my thoughts, and the grief of years is turned to dreams of blessedness and peace.

[Hartford Review]

Story from The Lady’s Album, early 19th century.

Image: Rose Coghlan, Actress (1851-1932) photograph by Sarony, NY

It was the afternoon before Christmas Day, and honest John Grahame was packing up his butter tubs and the remnant of his Christmas marketing before returning to his expectant family far off in the quiet country.

All the day long the great market-house had been full to overflowing with an eager crowd of people, busy with the buying of their Christmas cheer; and John’s fat turkeys, ducks, and country, home-made sausages had been so well patronized that not one remained to burden his two strong horses, which has drawn the whole heavy load into the great city on the afternoon previous. Many a kindly greeting of the season had been given honest John by his smiling customers; for Saint Nicholas gives to all who love him a happy face and light heart in this his own festive season.

One thing yet remained to be done, and John would have sooner lost his strong right hand than have neglected this pleasant duty. There must be a nice present bought for the kind wife at home, and stop—a happy thought flashed athwart the good man’s mind. He would buy Margery a new bonnet, for times had been hard this winter, and, although she had made no mention of it, John well knew in his heart that it would be the very thing to please her. Then there was his little Dolly, who, with her eyes as black as a sloeberry and bright as stars in a frosty night, had stood on tip-toe to kiss him as he sat in his wagon well rolled in a blanket to keep out the cold, and who ran down the walk to open the wide gate, kissing her hand to him until he was hidden from her sight by a turn in the road.

“Pussy shall have her doll she has asked for so often and a good big box of sugar-plums, too,” he softly promised himself, a loving look coming into his mild brown eyes; so, calling his boy to finish his preparations for him, he sallied forth upon his errand of love. He strolled along the busy streets, looking into the store-windows with wondering curiosity until a milliner’s display caught his eye, and he paused in front of the window.

His big, burly frame, with its rough overcoat, took up so much room and looked so utterly out of place that many a curious, smiling look was cast upon him. He stood so long a time trying to conquer his diffidence and enter the store that a little street gamin sang out, with a nasal twang, “say, old’un, which suits yer complexion best? Buy the one with the peaked top, old cabbage-head.”

John, thus rudely roused to a sense of his position, shook his big fist good-naturedly at the saucy urchin and entered the store. Good humor and love held high carnival in Johns heart this blessed Christmas-tide, and left no room for unkind feelings for any one.

The smiling saleslady, wondering at her odd customer, displayed several bonnets to John’s astonished eyes, fairly bewildering him with the variety of shapes, colors, feathers, flowers, and the many other varieties that she exhibited to him. At last he sank into a chair, saying, “Well, ma’am, I guess I’ll have to leave it to you; I can drive a plow and manage a farm, but I can’t buy a woman’s bonnet.”

The woman laughed heartily, and, picking out one of quiet gray silk with a red rose and a gray feather, presented it to his tired gaze, and our good farmer, glad to be quit of this Herculean task (worse to him than a whole day’s hay-making), clutched the bonnet box, and without a murmur paid the fashionable price the woman named, only too glad to get off thus easily.

Next came the toy store. There he found less difficulty, and soon picked out an immense doll, almost as large as the human Dolly, and to this was added the box of goodies so dear to the heart of all little ones.

Now then he was all ready, and in another half hour was rattling over the stones of the city toward the country.

The horses, as if knowing whither they were bound, laid themselves to their work right willingly, every now and then playfully turning toward one another and nodding, as if exchanging their ideas on the many queer sights they had seen in the wonderful, great city. John turned up the collar of his overcoat and tucked in his blanket closely around him, for he faced the wind and the sunset sky looked angry and lowering. In fact, in less than half an hour snowflakes began to fall, at first slowly and softly, then faster and faster, until the air grew thick and misty with the quickly falling flakes.

The stout horses bend their heads to the gusts of wind that whirled the snow in their faces, and John urged them on in cheery tones. Once he stopped and lighted his lantern, which he carried for such emergencies, and the rays fell far into the road ahead, just enough to make darkness visible.

As the horses paused at the top of a steep hill to regain breath after their long pull, John thought he heard a feeble cry on the side of the road. He listened intently and heard it repeated. He hurriedly snatched up the lantern and proceeded in the direction from whence the sound came, and there, by the rays of the light he carried, and all cuddles up under a blanket shawl, was a baby about nine months old.

“My certes!” exclaimed John. “I’ve found my Christmas box. Poor, wee lambkin! What hard-hearted wretch left you here to die, poor little innocent?”

The baby stopped crying and looked at him with her finger in her mouth and her great blue eyes fixed, half in wonder, half in fear, on his pitying face. John held out his arms coaxingly, and a smile came over the baby face and “Coo, coo,” broke in lisping tones from the rose-bud mouth. He tenderly lifted the little creature, and opening his coat, folded her close to his great, warm heart.

No sound save that of the bitter wind disturbed the stillness, no track of any living being was to be found, and John, with his burden in his arms, clambered back into his wagon, and, closely nestling the little one, chirruped to his stout horses, that knew the road too well to need much watching.

Wondering, solemn thoughts came to John as he sat there with the baby in his arms, of that other little Baby, who came to this world so many centuries ago that very night; who was born among the dumb beasts and cradled in the manger of a stable, but who withal was Lord and Saviour. And he thought how the very stars had sung for joy, and how a thrill of happiness vibrated from end to end of God’s fair world at the advent of the long-promised King; and as these thoughts came solemnly, sweetly, thronging to his mind, his voice rang out clearly over the stormy night in the dear old Christmas hymn,

“When shepherds watched their flocks by night,”

and he vowed that this Christmas baby should share his home and heart with his own flesh and blood. Presently his voice ceased, and, looking down, he saw his baby fast asleep, her long lashes lying on her soft cheek; and quietly and gently he drew out his warm buffalo-robe and cast about in his mind for a place in which to lay his sleeping charge. The large, empty box, which had borne his poultry to market, caught his eye, and, placing it in his warm, comfortable robe, he made a soft bed for his Christmas present; so he nestled her down among the skins and covered her with his overcoat.

He did not mind the cold, although his face glowed scarlet and he had to swing his arms and slap his hands to keep the blood in circulation; but he whistled merrily to his good horses, that rattled on with increased speed and soon drew up before the gate of his farm-house.

The door was opened and the figure of a woman appeared, peering into the darkness; the light of a candle she shielded with her hand falling upon the black eyes and eager face of Dolly, who stood with her head pushed out under her mother’s arm.

“Margery,” shouted John to his wife, “come see my Christmas box. Give the light to David and let him hold it here in the wagon. Here give me both your hands,” said John, stooping down and helping his wondering wife into the wagon; and there, quietly sleeping, her rosy cheek pressed closely to the soft skins, lay John’s Christmas box.

Her mother-heart was touched, and, opening to this little, homeless waif, she bore her into her happy home, looking already upon her as her own.

Who could depict Dolly’s delight at this “real live baby?” Not even the great magnificence of the new purchase or the purchase of the box of candies could compare, in her estimation, with this newly found treasure.

The baby-girl’s quaint, serious ways were a never-failing source of delight, and Dolly wondered how she ever could have cared for her stupid baby, that could not crow or laugh or poke it’s little fingers into her eyes and pull her hair; and once again Margery and John grew young in watching and guarding their Christmas box.

******

Years rolled on, brining their usual changes of joy and sorrow, of good and evil fortune; had left their traces in wrinkles and gray hairs on the middle-aged, and opened the gates of Heaven to many of the old; had changed romping school-children into strong young men and sweet, winning maidens. But the old farm-house still stood, looking very little older than it did seventeen years ago this Christmas Eve.

Surely Time has dealt gently here; there sits John, as ever—his hair more thickly mixed with gray, his brow more wrinkled, but with a soft sadness in his eyes that was new to them.

A young woman sits by the window trying a close, warm hood on a chubby baby, the very miniature of John, and the young mother is a facsimile of the Margery of old, whom, alas! we do not find. Naught but her empty place and a loving memory ever green in John’s faithful heart remains of the farmer’s wife.

“Well, father,” said Dolly, giving her baby a hearty kiss and setting him down on the floor until she tied on her own hood and folded closely her warm shawl, “I must be getting toward home. Ned will be wanting his supper, and it’s a goodish piece to walk against this bleak wind. I hate to leave you all alone, but Clarie will soon be in. So be sure to come to-morrow night after church and we will have a merry Christmas.” So saying, Dolly picked up her fat baby with a loving squeeze, and, nodding gaily, left the house.

“So like her mother,” murmured John to himself, as he turned with a sigh into his solitary home, and, filling his pipe, he settled himself in the warm chimney-corner. The embers glowed brightly on the hearth, casting a pleasant glow on the shining pewter ranged on the dresser and half illuminating the dusky corners of the large, old fashioned kitchen.

John, gazing into the coals, saw many a pleasant sight. First peered out a smiling baby face; next came a little, golden-haired lassie, with bright, fairy figure, flying down the path with outstretched arms to meet him returning home, tired with his hard day’s work; this faded into slender school-girl, with large, serious eyes, the very color of the midsummer sky, hovering around him with an eager love and anxious to forestall his slightest wish; next came a sick-chamber, with the poor, weary, pain-worn occupant tenderly nursed and soothed by this same sweet face and gentle hand; then a sad and weary time, when all the world seemed empty and his loneliness became all but heart-breaking; but even amid this blackness was the one bright face, ever winsome and kind, and ever striving, with all the might of a loving heart, to fill the gap left by death.

“God bless my Christmas box!” John murmured, softly—when there stole an arm around his neck, a voice spoke in his ear, and a soft kiss fell upon his cheek:

“Why, father, dear, how long have you been asleep! the fire is all out and your pipe, too. They kept me longer at the church fixing the greens than I thought for; you should see how pretty it looks. Hark, father! listen to the Christmas carol! they are practicing it for to-morrow!”

The golden head was drawn closely to the breast where it had lain so helplessly seventeen years ago, and, in the soft gloaming of the twilight, John and his Christmas baby listened with hushed breath to the mysterious, beautiful voices borne to them from the neighboring church.

A German Folk-Tale by J. Stirling Coyne, Adapted by
Frances Jenkins Olcott

Once, long ago, there lived near the ancient city of Strasburg, on the river Rhine, a young and handsome count, whose name was Otto. As the years flew by he remained unwed, and never so much as cast a glance at the fair maidens of the country round; for this reason people began to call him “Stone-Heart.”

It chanced that Count Otto, on one Christmas Eve, ordered that a great hunt should take place in the forest surrounding his castle. He and his guests and his many retainers rode forth, and the chase became more and more exciting. It led through thickets, and over pathless tracts of forest, until at length Count Otto found himself separated from his companions.

He rode on by himself until he came to a spring of clear, bubbling water, known to the people around as the “Fairy Well.” Here Count Otto dismounted. He bent over the spring and began to lave his hands in the sparkling tide, but to his wonder he found that though the weather was cold and frosty, the water was warm and delightfully caressing. He felt a glow of joy pass through his veins, and, as he plunged his hands deeper, he fancied that his right hand was grasped by another, soft and small, which gently slipped from his finger the gold ring he always wore. And, lo! when he drew out his hand, the gold ring was gone.

Full of wonder at this mysterious event, the count mounted his horse and returned to his castle, resolving in his mind that the very next day he would have the Fairy Well emptied by his servants.

He retired to his room, and, throwing himself just as he was upon his couch, tried to sleep; but the strangeness of the adventure kept him restless and wakeful.

Suddenly he heard the hoarse baying of the watch-hounds in the courtyard, and then the creaking of the drawbridge, as though it were being lowered. Then came to his ear the patter of many small feet on the stone staircase, and next he heard indistinctly the sound of light footsteps in the chamber adjoining his own.

Count Otto sprang from his couch, and as he did so there sounded a strain of delicious music, and the door of his chamber was flung open. Hurrying into the next room, he found himself in the midst of numberless Fairy beings, clad in gay and sparkling robes. They paid no heed to him, but began to dance, and laugh, and sing, to the sound of mysterious music.

In the center of the apartment stood a splendid Christmas Tree, the first ever seen in that country. Instead of toys and candles there hung on its lighted boughs diamond stars, pearl necklaces, bracelets of gold ornamented with colored jewels, aigrettes of rubies and sapphires, silken belts embroidered with Oriental pearls, and daggers mounted in gold and studded with the rarest gems. The whole tree swayed, sparkled, and glittered in the radiance of its many lights.

Count Otto stood speechless, gazing at all this wonder, when suddenly the Fairies stopped dancing and fell back, to make room for a lady of dazzling beauty who came slowly toward him.

She wore on her raven-black tresses a golden diadem set with jewels. Her hair flowed down upon a robe of rosy satin and creamy velvet. She stretched out two small, white hands to the count and addressed him in sweet, alluring tones:—

“Dear Count Otto,” said she, “I come to return your Christmas visit. I am Ernestine, the Queen of the Fairies. I bring you something you lost in the Fairy Well.”

And as she spoke she drew from her bosom a golden casket, set with diamonds, and placed it in his hands. He opened it eagerly and found within his lost gold ring.

Carried away by the wonder of it all, and overcome by an irresistible impulse, the count pressed the Fairy Ernestine to his heart, while she, holding him by the hand, drew him into the magic mazes of the dance. The mysterious music floated through the room, and the rest of that Fairy company circled and whirled around the Fairy Queen and Count Otto, and then gradually dissolved into a mist of many colors, leaving the count and his beautiful guest alone.

Then the young man, forgetting all his former coldness toward the maidens of the country round about, fell on his knees before the Fairy and besought her to become his bride. At last she consented on the condition that he should never speak the word “death” in her presence.

The next day the wedding of Count Otto and Ernestine, Queen of the Fairies, was celebrated with great pomp and magnificence, and the two continued to live happily for many years.

Now it happened on a time, that the count and his Fairy wife were to hunt in the forest around the castle. The horses were saddled and bridled, and standing at the door, the company waited, and the count paced the hall in great impatience; but still the Fairy Ernestine tarried long in her chamber. At length she appeared at the door of the hall, and the count addressed her in anger.

“You have kept us waiting so long,” he cried, “that you would make a good messenger to send for Death!’

Scarcely had he spoken the forbidden and fatal word, when the Fairy, uttering a wild cry, vanished from his sight. In vain Count Otto, overwhelmed with grief and remorse, searched the castle and the Fairy Well, no trace could he find of his beautiful, lost wife but the imprint of her delicate hand set in the stone arch above the castle gate.

Years passed by, and the Fairy Ernestine did not return. The count continued to grieve. Every Christmas Eve he set up a lighted tree in the room where he had first met the Fairy, hoping in vain that she would return to him.

Time passed and the count died. The castle fell into ruins. But to this day may be seen above the massive gate, deeply sunken in the stone arch, the impress of a small and delicate hand.

And such, say the good folk of Strasburg, was the origin of the Christmas Tree.

Tell you a good ghost story? Very well. I’ll tell you of somthing that happened to me when I was a boy. and you can believe it or not just as you like. There is one thing to be said, though; what I am going to relate to you altered the whole course of my life, and perhaps of yours too, for if I had not seen my cousin’s ghost I might never have been owner of Gadsden Grange.

I was eighteen years old at the time, and was spending my holidays at home. I had just left school, and was going to Cambridge next term. Gadsden Grange was a very different place then from what it is now, for my father had not then begun to rebuild it. It was a long, low, rambling, old-fashioned, red-brick house that had been begun about the reign of James I, and after various additions and patchings, flourished in all its glory during the time of Queen Anne. From that period until my father rebuilt it, it had been steadily going to decay. The oldest portion of the house was the west wing, containing the picture gallery.

I well remember coming home the day before Christmas at half-past four. I had been skating, and was in the highest possible spirits. The day was closing in, and the sun had gone to rest like a great solid globe of fire. The snow, covering the ground like a mantle, had a few minutes ago been blushing in response to the last glances of the sun, but it was now assuming a grey, cold colour, which harmonised with the leafless trees standing out tike gaunt skeletons against the sky. The mist was rising blue in the distance as I approached our home, and I was glad to see the cheerful lights within telling me of dinner. When I entered the hall the butler said to me,

“Master Guy, your father wishes to see you in the library.”

Without a moments delay I hurried up-stairs to my father’s room, whistling and singing as I went. I burst open the door, and was about to make some merry remark when it was suddenly arrested by my father’s appearance.

He was seated in his usual armchair, and as I sit here telling you the story I can see him almost as plainly as I afterwards saw—however, that will come ill the proper place.

You do not remember your grandfather, but you know from his portrait what a splendid man he was. He had been in the Indian Army, and his bronzed face, iron-grey hair, and military bearing made his pleasant smile seem all the pleasanter, and the humorous twinkle in his eye all the funnier. But today there was no trace of merriment on his face. His usual erect position was gone, and he stooped almost double as he sat in his chair—the very embodiment misery.

I was so shocked that for a few moments I could not speak. Before I could think of anything to say in the way of comfort my father motioned me to sit down. I silently obeyed him, and waited in some alarm until he spoke to me. On his lap lay a large letter, with an enormous quantity of sealing-wax upon it. The body of it was in a bold round hand, but the signature was in a crabby, blotty handwriting. My father’s mouth was nervously twitching, and I remember involuntarily counting the twitches to see if they coincided with the ticking of the clock. My father’s favourite setter was crouching at his feet and looking up to him in sympathy. Presently the clock struck five, and my father suddenly sat bolt upright, and said to me,

“Guy, my boy, I have some bad news for you; shut the door, and listen. Don’t interrupt, and don’t ask questions.”

You may imagine how I felt and how I listened.

“You know, Guy,” said my father, “that ours is an old house; both the inhabitants and the house itself. The Estcourts have lived in Gadsden Grange for hundreds of years. You know that I inherit it from my grandfather, Roger Estcourt. He took the property upon the death of his nephew, Guy Estcourt, who died when he was the same age as yourself-eighteen. Guy’s father had died soon after his son’s birth, leaving his little nephew to the care of my grandfather, Roger. The Estcourts were very wealthy in those days, and little Guy would have been the wealthiest squire in the county had he lived to attain his majority. But he did not.

“Roger Estcourt was, from all accounts that have been handed down to us, a hard-featured, sinister-looking man, and his little nephew, like a spring flower, withered under the chilling influence of such guardianship. He had no friends or companions of his own age.

“The story goes that for some reason or other, shortly before the boy attained his eighteenth year, a large sum of money which had been lent out at interest was paid in gold to Roger, as was the custom with mortgages in those days. Roger brought it down from London to the Grange in a strong box, and stayed for some days with his nephew. Then he went away to London, but within three weeks from his uncle’s departure poor Guy fell sick and died. The gossips whispered foul play, but scientific analysis had not made much progress then, and though dark hints were circulated that Guy had been poisoned, no one could prove it, and so Roger was permitted to take possession of the estate without hindrance.”

My father looked so ill that almost involuntarily I moved from my chair and knelt at his feet. He placed his loving hand upon my head, and said,

“It is for your sake, my lad, that I mostly regret it, but

‘I should not love thee, dear, so well,
Loved I not honour more.’

Look at this letter, Guy.”

I looked. I saw that the letter was from a firm of solicitors in London, and that it demanded payment of £10,000 in six months’ time. My father then explained the matter to me, still speaking so kindly and uncomplainingly that I felt as though I would give all the world to help him in his trouble.

“You know, my boy, that wickedness never prospers, and so it happened to my grandfather Roger. His ill-gotten gains did not seem to do him any good, and consequently, penurious as he was, the estate, owing to outside speculations, became impoverished. My father, who was of a rather speculative and sanguine turn of mind, raised further money on the estate, and though he succeeded in effecting many improvements, he died without having repaid the money he borrowed. All my life long I have been struggling to redeem this debt, and I had reduced it to £10,000, but the seasons have been so bad, that I have failed, and there is nothing for it but to sell this dear old place and try our fortune elsewhere. In the present state of depression it is impossible to either renew or pay off this mortgage and yet remain here.

My father stopped, and he was evidently so overcome with emotion that for some moments I did not break the silence. Then I said,

“It is bad news, father, and it is a strange story you have told me, but I feel that it will all come right somehow, and I will work and do something to make you proud of me yet.

He gave me such a smile as I shall never forget, and replied,

“God bless you, my boy. You take half the load off my mind by bearing your trouble so bravely.”

“What became of the box you told me about, father?” I inquired; “the box containing the money that was repaid in my Cousin Guy’s time.”

“That is one of the most curious parts of the story,” he answered. “That box has never been found from that day to this.” “However”, he continued, “we must not think too much of that old family legend. We have enough to do in the present to keep us from wondering about the past. Come, Guy, let us have dinner.”

I followed my father to the dining-room, where my mother and sisters were waiting for us. I knew at once that my mother was aware of what had passed in the library, and. I kissed her before taking my place at. table. My father did all that lay in his power to appear cheerful and happy, and so did my mother, and she was more successful in her endeavours than he was. However, our dinner table was very unlike the usual merry one, and we all felt at last that it was allmost useless to try to keep up appearances any longer. I could hardly eat a mouthful, and I was glad when I found myself alone in my bedroom thinking over the wonderful change which had come over our prospects during the last six hours. I looked at the matter from all possible points of view, and I planned all sorts of schemes for doing something to rescue my parents from the calamity which seemed to overhang them.

At that time, being only a schoolboy, I failed to grasp all the ins and outs of the legal part of the business, but I thoroughly understood how my father would be heartbroken if he really had to leave our home. I am thankful to be able to tell you that I never once thought of myself in the affair, and that all my anxiety was on behalf of my parents. The story that my father had told me had taken a strong hold of my imagination, and my ill-fated cousin seemed to mix himself up in our present difficulties in a most curious and altogether unaccountable manner. I retired to my bedroom, but instead of undressing sat before the fire thinking of the long, long past, and of all my father had told me. Thus I must have fallen into a heavy sleep.

I awoke with a start and a shiver, wondering how long I had been asleep, and why I was so cold. It did not occur to me at the time that the fire had gone out, and that the bells had begun to clash for Christmas.

Then I remembered I had been dreaming, and tried to recall what my dream was about, but it had somehow altogether escaped me. I sat down again, and tried to collect my thoughts. The long fast, or some other cause, must have altogether upset me, and to this day I am not sure how long I was sitting there or what happened to me. At last, as though by a sudden inspiration, I knew what I had dreamed. I had found the strong box containing all the money that had been so mysteriously lost; I had found it in the picture gallery in the west wing. But where?

Impelled by curiosity, if by nothing else, I hurried down the long passage leading from my room to the picture gallery. The house was as still as the grave save for the sound of bells across the snow. The picture gallery is almost exactly the same now as it was then. It is, as you know, divided into three parts; the first part is separated from the middle chamber by the heavy tapestry curtain that still hangs there, and then the door at the other end leads into the smaller gallery. I entered the room from the passage, and as I did so the turret clock chimed.

In the daytime I had never noticed it particularly, but now, as I was alone in the long gallery at midnight, every stroke of the deep bell seemed to go through me and I held my breath between each note, almost fearing to hear myself breathe. It was a most peculiar sensation—more awe than fright—and when I felt the worst I never for one moment had the slightest intention of retreating from my post. I had dreamt that I had found enough money to pay off all my father’s debts. Could it be possible that such a dream should come true?

The room was lumbered up with old furniture, armour, books, and all kinds of miscellaneous articles. I eagerly turned them over with boyish enthusiasm, hoping to find something which would assist me.

How long I continued working, with something like feverish anxiety, thus aimlessly in the weird, uncertain light, I do not know, but suddenly I thought I heard a movement in the middle chamber and raised my head. The moon was shining brightly through the window, and fell upon the portraits of the father and mother of the unfortunate Guy.

Then, without the slightest noise, through the open door leading into the farther chamber, my unfortunate cousin seemed to advance with me into the moonlight. He was dressed in a white shirt, and his face looked “more in sorrow than anger.”

My heart stood still, and I felt a chill pass through my system, leaving, leaving me almost as cold and rigid as the ghost. Notwithstanding this my faculties were perfectly acute, and I remember that, though my cousin seemed as real as any human being, yet I could plainly see through him, and I noticed the old oak panelling shining in the moonlight through his back.

I tried to speak, but I could not. I had something I wished to say, but my lips refused their office.

“My father is not to blame,” I thought. “He never harmed you, Cousin Guy. Why should the sin of Roger Estcourt be visited upon him? We are the same age. I should not have been here had it not been for some good purpose. I am not afraid of you. Help me to help my father.”

I advanced a step, and the figure seemed to retreat. I stretched out my hand, and the figure did the same, and retreated slowly before me through the inner chamber. I followed, when the figure gradually faded from sight. I felt the warm blood coming back to me, and I gradually became more excited. I hurried on, fearing that my adventure would come to nothing. As the ghost faded away from my view I quickened my pace to a run, and, with a loud cry, I rushed against the oak panelling at the end of the inner chamber and fell back upon the floor—stunned.

How long I lay there I do not know, but when I opened my eyes my father was standing over me with a light.

“Whatever is the matter, my boy?” he said. “What are you doing here? Why are you not in bed?”

I hardly answered him, but, springing up, I snatched the light from his hand, and pointed towards the panel against which I had struck. My knocking against it had touched a secret spring, hitherto unknown to any of us, and there, in a small chamber made in the solid masonry of the wall, lay an old-fashioned brass-bound chest. Then my excitement knew no bounds

“There, father,” I cried, “there, I believe, is your money!”

Well, it’s no use going on, is it, boys? I always get excited even now when I tell the tale; but there was money in that box that went far to pay off the more pressing claims, and here we are to-day, the same Estcourts in the same house.

What do you say? Was it really a ghost? What do you think? You must remember that I had been out all day, and had had hardly anything to eat; a doctor could easily explain the whole of it, and so might you, perhaps, if, when the moon is shining brightly, you inspect the room and notice the effect of the mirrors. But you asked me for a real ghost story, and having told you one, it is not for me to spoil it by needless explanations.