‘Here she is,’ said Mrs. Jones.

‘Some one wants to see you at head-quarters,’
said the policeman. ‘There is a boy there and some
money.’

‘Dick!’ cried Mrs. Briggs. ‘Oh, I can’t bear to
look at him!’

But Mrs. Jones had already tied on her bonnet,
and wrapped her in a shawl, and taken her by the
arm and was hurrying her off.

‘The wretch !’ Mrs. Jones said. ‘I’m glad he is
caught. You'll get your money back.’

And she led Mrs. Briggs along—poor Mrs. Briggs,
who cried all the way, and cared nothing for the
money! And soon they were at the police-station,
and then, and not before, the policeman said to the
two women,—

‘He’s pretty bad,’ he said. ‘They’ll take him to
the hospital in an hour. I suppose you’re prepared
for that. He’s nearly beaten to death, you know.’

‘Did you beat him, you cruel wretch ?’ said Mrs.
Briggs. ‘I wouldn’t have had that done for twice
the money.’

‘J beat him!’ said the man. ‘Well, women have
the stupidest heads. Why, if I hadn’t got up when
I did, he’d have been dead. He held the bag of
money tight, and the thief was pummelling him with
a loaded stick; and the pluck he had for a little
shaver—I tell you, I never saw the like! “You
shan’t take granny’s money from her!” says he, and
fought like a little tiger. If it’s your money, old
lady, he’s given his life for it, for all I know.’

Then old Mrs. Briggs clapped her hands and
cried,—

‘Oh, Dick! Dick! I knew you were good. I
must have been crazy to doubt you!’ And then she
wrung her hands and cried, ‘Oh, Dick! for just a
paltry bit of money !’

And so she knelt beside the pale face upon the
pillow, and kissed it, and called it tender names.

And Dick, never guessing her suspicions of him,
whispered,—

‘I was afraid he’d get off with it if he killed me,
granny, and you in such hopes last night.’

He did not know what she. meant by begging him
to forgive her. It would have killed him if he had,
for he was very near death.

But Dick did not die. He got well at last, and
came back to the little shop; and though Granny
Briggs had her savings, she never went to the Home;
for long before she died Dick was a prosperous
merchant in the city, and his home was hers, and
she was very happy in it.

 

 

ULLESWATER.

LS counties of Westmoreland and Cumberland
are famous for their grand scenery There
the noble mountains rise, there the streams murmur,
the waters foam, and the lakes lie. bright and beau-
tiful in the deep hollows. The lake in the picture,
Ulfo’s Lake, or Ulleswater, is one of the finest—
perhaps we may safely call it the finest—of all. The
head of the lake, called Patterdale, is surrounded by
very bold scenery. Close by are three lofty peaks:
Helvellyn, 3070 feet high; Fairfield, 2930; High

 

Street (so called from the road made over it, the
highest road in England), 2700 feet high. Between
Fairfield and High Street is the Kirkstone Pass, by
which the traveller can get from Ulleswater to
another fine lake, named Windermere. The name of
Kirkstone is given to the pass from a large block of
stone, which looks like a church; in the North of
England a church is called a ‘ kirk.’

Near the head of the Lake of Ulleswater are three
islands, called Cherryholm, Wallholm, and House-
holm. They are rocky, and none of them, we hear,
is inhabited—not even Householm. But where is
the boy or girl who would not like to spend a
summer day on Cherryholm ?

The famous waterfall of Airey Force is in Gow-
barrow Park. Here, too, is Lyulph’s Tower. Lyulph
was a bard, descended from the Druids. He pre-
tended to foretell coming events from dreams and by
watching the stars. Perhaps in the top of his tower
he had a room from which he gazed upon the
heavens when the nights were cloudless. In Sir
Walter Scott’s poem, called the Bridal of Triermain,
Lyulph tells a strange story of other days; one of
those old fairy tales which children love, and which
linger long among the mountains.

Gowbarrow Park is a very sweet spot. ‘Here,
says Wordsworth, ‘are beds of fern, aged hawthorns,
and hollies decked with honeysuckles, and fallow-
deer glancing and bounding over the lawns and
through the thickets.’

There was once a king of Cumberland. It was a
kingdom to itself. The last king was called Dunmail,
and he is buried under a great heap of stones on the
south side of Helvellyn, at a place called Dunmail-
raise. There was also once a king of Patterdale;
and who was he, do you suppose? Not a great
warrior, like King Arthur, but a simple farmer
named Mounsey. In those troublesome days when
the English and Scots were not friendly, unhappy
quarrels often arose in the north of England. On
one of these occasions a number of Scottish ‘moss
troopers, as they were called, came to Patterdale to
rob and slay; but Mounsey armed a number of
youths, and fought the troopers so bravely that they
made their way back again as quickly as they could.
After this gallant deed Mounsey was called ‘ King of
Patterdale.’

I must also tell you what a good dog did on
Helvellyn seventy years ago. This dog, a terrier,
was with his master, a young gentleman, travelling
across the mountain. They reached a very dan-
gerous place, and somehow the tourist fell over a
lofty precipice, and -was killed. , The dog safely
reached her master’s body, and never left it for three
months. She drove away the hill-fox and the raven.
From spring to summer she guarded the dear remains
of her master. At length a shepherd heard the
sound of her bark, and found the human skeleton,
from which the flesh had been wasted by the weather
and the mountain winds.

This sad accident happened in the year 1805, and two
of our greatest poets, Sir Walter Scott and William
Wordsworth, have written each a fine poem upon
this subject. As we read them we can fancy we are
looking at the dead traveller; we can see the little
faithful friend watching with a love that nothing