Before the grand stand the knights slowly drew up again. Marston's horse was so lame and tired that he dismounted and let a darky boy lead it under the shade of the trees. But he stood on foot among the other knights, his arms folded, worn out and vanquished, but taking his bitter medicine like a man. I thought the Blight's eyes looked pityingly upon him.

The Knight of the Cumberland had gone back to his horse as though to get something from his saddle. Like lightning he vaulted into his seat, and as the black horse sprang toward the opening tore his mask from his face, turned in his stirrups, and brandished his spear with a yell of defiance, while a dozen voices shouted:

"The Wild Dog!" Then was there an uproar.

"Goddle mighty!" shouted the Hon. Sam. "I didn't do it. I swear I didn't know it. He's tricked me—he's tricked me! Don't shoot-you might hit that hoss!"

There was no doubt about the Hon. Sam's

"You have fairly and gallantly won, Sir Knight of the Cumberland, and it is now your right to claim and receive from the hands of the Queen of Love and Beauty the chaplet of honor which your skill has justly deserved. Advance, Sir Knight of the Cumberland, and dismount!"

law to the police, he had brought him into the inner shrine of law and order and he knew what a political asset for his enemies that insult would be. And there was no doubt of the innocence of Mollie and Buck as they stood, Mollie wringing her hands and Buck with open mouth and startled face. There was no doubt about the innocence of

"Get off yo' hoss, son," said the Hon. Sam kindly, "and get down on yo' knees at the feet of them steps. This fair young Queen is a-goin' to put this chaplet on your shinin' brow. That horse'll stand."

The Knight of the Cumberland, after a moment's hesitation, threw his leg over the saddle and came to the steps with a slouching gait and looking about him right and left. The Blight, blushing prettily, took the chaplet and went down the steps to meet him.

"Unmask!" I shouted. "Yes, son," said the Hon. Sam, "take that rag off."

Then Mollie's voice, clear and loud, suddenly startled the crowd. "You better not, Dave Branham, fer if you do and this other gal puts that thing on you,

dare-devil Knight of the Cumberland. Marston had clutched at the Wild Dog's bridle and missed and the Wild Dog struck savagely at him with his spear. Nobody dared to shoot because of the scattering crowd, but every knight and every mounted policeman took out after the outlaw and the beating of hoofs pounded over the little mound and toward Poplar Hill. Marston ran to his horse at the upper end, threw his saddle on, and hesitated-there were enough after the Wild Dog and his horse was blown. He listened to the yells and sounds of the chase encircling Poplar Hill. The Wild Dog was making for Lee. All at once the yells and hoof-beats seemed to sound nearer and Marston listened, astonished. The Wild Dog had wheeled and was coming back; he was going to make for the Gap, where sure safety lay. Marston buckled

his girth and as he sprang on his horse, unconsciously taking his spear with him, the Wild Dog dashed from the trees at the far end of the field. As Marston started, the Wild Dog saw him, pulled something that flashed from under his coat of mail, thrust it back again, and brandishing his spear, he came, full-speed and yelling, up the middle of the field. It was a strange thing to happen in these modern days, but Marston was an officer of the law and was between the Wild Dog and the Ford and liberty through the Gap, into the hills. The Wild Dog was an outlaw. It was Marston's duty to take him.

The law does not prescribe with what weapon the lawless shall be subdued and Marston's spear was the only weapon he had. Moreover, the Wild Dog's yell was a challenge that set his blood afire and the girl both loved was looking on. The crowd gathered the meaning of the joust-the knights were crashing toward each other with spears at rest. There were a few surprised oaths from men, a few low cries from women, and then dead silence in which the sound of hoofs on the hard turf was like thunder. The Blight's face was white and the little sister was gripping my arm with both hands. A third horseman shot into view out of the woods at right angles, and it seemed that the three horses must crash together in a heap. With a moan the Blight buried her face on my shoulder. She shivered when the muffled thud of body against body and the splintering of wood rent the air; a chorus of shrieks arose about her, and when she lifted her frightened face Marston, the Discarded, was limp on the ground, his horse was staggering to his feet, and the Wild Dog was galloping past her, his helmet gleaming, his eyes ablaze, his teeth set, the handle of his broken spear clenched in his right hand, and blood streaming down the shoulder of the black horse. She heard THE

the Blight home next day. Marston was in bed with a ragged wound in the shoulder, and I took her to tell him good-by. I left the room for a few minutes, and when I came back their hands were unclasping, and for a discarded knight the engineer surely wore a happy, though pallid face.

That afternoon the train on which we left the Gap was brought to a sudden halt in Wild Cat Valley by a piece of red flannel tied to the end of a stick that was planted midway the track. Across the track, farther on, lay a heavy piece of timber. The Blight and I were seated on the rear platform and the Blight was taking her last look at her beloved hills. When the train started again, there was a cracking of twigs overhead and a shower of rhododendron leaves and flowers dropped from the air at the feet of the Blight. And when we pulled away from the embankment we saw, motionless on a little mound, a black horse, and on him, motionless, the Knight of the Cumberland, the helmet on his head (that the Blight might know who he was, no doubt), and both hands clasping the broken handle of his spear, which rested across the pommel of his saddle. Impulsively the Blight waved her hand to him and I could not help waving my hat; but he sat like a statue and, like a statue, sat on, simply looking after us as we were hurried along, until horse, broken shaft, and shoulders sank out of sight. And thus passed the Knight of the Cumberland with the last gleam that struck his helmet, spear-like, from the slanting sun. END.

RUSKIN

I never wrote a letter in my life which all the world are not welcome to read if they will.*

HE other day in rereading, for perhaps the thirtieth time, that most delightful book "Yesterdays with Authors," by the late James T. Fields, I came upon the following passage in one of Miss Mitford's letters: "I think that the most distinguished of our young writers are, the one a dear friend of mine, John Ruskin; the other the Reverend Charles Kingsley.

As for John Ruskin I would not answer for quiet people not taking him for crazy too. He is an enthusiast in art, often right, often wrong, in the right very stark in the wrong very sturdy,'-bigoted, perverse, provoking, as ever man was; but good and kind and charming beyond the common lot of mortals." I remember well with what a thrill of delighted assent I first read these words some three and thirty years after they were written: at a time when the "young" writer of Miss Mitford's happy description was looked upon as a sage and prophet of universal fame; for me, a being of almost incalculable age and wisdom, but of a sympathy with and understanding of youth, its enthusiasms and mistakes, as filled such happy youngsters as were brought into personal contact with him, with a devotion that fell little short of worship. Perhaps no writer has had more direct and personal influence on girls and women all the world over, while the influence of the man over such happy girls as were privileged to be numbered among his pets, was absolutely unbounded; and what a noble use he made of it!

It has been too much the custom of late years to speak and think of Mr. Ruskin's teaching as of the voice of one crying in the wilderness with a cry, ever denunciatory, of present times and people. He certainly found (nor was he singular in that respect) much to deprecate, in its results-to landscape and atmosphere, to say nothing of

*"Fors Clavigera," Letter 59.

VOL. XL.-61

mankind-of what are familiarly known as the "resources of civilization" as exemplified in our modern manufacturing centres (sometimes I feel quite thankful that he was spared the ubiquity of the motor-car with its attendant horrors of noise and smell); and he was often more vehement than judicious in his denunciation of such things. But, however paradoxical his public utterances, in private his influence was full of sweet reasonableness, and his advice to such fortunate young people as came under his direct sway full of the sanest common sense.

In my young days we had, in common with innumerable other provincial towns, a Ruskin Society, which, while it followed in the footsteps of the Kyrle Society in trying to bring some beauty and pleasantness into the homes of the very poor, had, of course, its periodical meetings when papers were read and discussion invited. I remember how, very young and very timid, I electrified a meeting by reading aloud a letter from the master himself, apropos of a paper that had just been read by a member who sternly advocated the advisability of "a grant" to purchase photographs of Fra Angelico's pictures for distribution among the very poor. Now, although I was mortally afraid of the Ruskin Society, I was not in the least afraid of the master, and I had boldly written to him complaining that a photograph of his beloved Carpaccio's St. Ursula had been received with the scantiest approbation by a bedridden old woman I was wont to visit periodically. He answered thus:

"Give the poor whatever pictures you find they like of nice things, not of merely pathetic or pompous ones. They're apt to like sick children starving in bed, beggars at street doors, Queen Vic opening parliament, etc. Give them anything that's simple, cheerful or pious; always, if possible, coloured-never mind how badly. Shall I send you some coloured birds?"

Pray note, all altruistic and philanthropic folk, the "whatever pictures you find they like."

561

Again, he writes at about the same time: "To answer your main question about 'having a right to be happy,' it is not only everybody's right but duty to be so, only to choose the best sort of happiness. And the best sorts are not to be had cheap."

He never spared himself if he thought that he could give happiness to a child, or rightly guide some affectionate enthusiasm. How such a busy man-and in the early eighties he was a very busy man-found time to write letters to his girl friends concerning any and every subject upon which they chose to consult him has often puzzled and not infrequently annoyed certain serious people who considered that they had suffered some neglect. But if in the matter of public opinion he was something of a Dulcis Gallio, he always used his influence to uphold authority, and a vigorous objection to competitive examinations from one who did not shine in such mental exercises brought this reply:

"If I cannot relieve you from your competitive work, at least I may strengthen you in the assurance that even learning what we can't understand, to please those to whom we owe duty, is often in the end better for us than learning what we like to please ourselves."

Again:

"8. 2. 86.

"But what is this new thing I hear? That you are lazy! I thought you played tennis all day—and did lessons before breakfast and after tea! I do think tennis nice-but -now this is quite serious, and I want you to tell the other girls-I don't like any ardently competitive games, in which young people are proud of victory, except only cricket-I haven't time to say why I except that. But I would far rather see girls playing well at ball than tennis-everyone having their part in helping, not defeating. The pretty play of the rest-throwing the ball far and high-and swiftly following ball with ball round wide circles-and so onand I should like them all to become-all who have sharp ears and pretty feet, -exquisite dancers-practising constantly slow and fast dancing to all manner of music— and some singing while the others danced, so as to make themselves independent of 'bands.' And they should make themselves good runners, not by running racesbut by each running without distressing

themselves, a greater distance by ever so little each (fine) day. And if you'll come to Brantwood you can learn rowing and climbing-and-one or two things besides, perhaps, from the bookshelves, and the mineral cabinets.

"I wonder, after this long term at College, whether there would be any possibility of mama bringing you and T (and Bee if catchable) to see what Brantwood looks like: I shall be here all the year, and it would make every intermediate day brighter for me if I had the hope of seeing the two of you, or the three, playing tennis on my tennis ground-engineered out of the hillside for the sake of fairies of your order.

"You really have given a very sad account of yourself in your last two letters, and I have written to Miss B. that I think you ought to be expelled. Brantwood College is of course always open to you in that event-be it in spring, summer, autumn or winter-but Sept.? is a dreadful time away."

A little later to the same girl:

"What a patient, good, believing child you are! but I suppose in this lovely weather you've been playing Chopin and tennis all day, which, perhaps, may help you in passing the time without letters!

"I don't quite understand why reading me should add to the happiness of playing Chopin, if I make you so discontented with your spiritual life! What sort of a life do you mean by that? I'm sure I never meant to make you discontented with anything but your bodily life, if there's too much tennis or Chopin or 'going out to call with mother' in it! Alas! how much the meaning of the word 'mother' in England nowadays is resolving itself into 'the person who takes daughters out to call.' If there's one way of wasting time which I hate worse than another it's 'calling.' Effectual as it is, often, to the upsetting of the whole afternoon of Caller and Called on. Women ought to call on each other, as men do, on business-and then get it done at the speediest."

This letter produced a protest on the "calling" question, and he answers:

"I'm so very thankful for what you tell me of your own, and say of other girls' mothers. I have had some sorrowful experience by mischance in these things: but