an arm-chair in front of a blazing fire, in the little library belonging to the rectory of St. Stephen's, in the populous district of C: he was in fact no other than the rector himself. He was a widower, and whenever the children came home from school he always managed to spare an hour from his manifold duties that he might have a quiet chat with them of an afternoon, and it was on one of these occasions that he had been asked to tell his story. "Here, papa," said Frank, the eldest boy, put your bad leg on this chair in front of the fire, and then we'll all draw round and listen. We have often wondered how it was you came to have a cork leg."

"Well," began Mr. Manson, "you have most of you, I dare say, heard of the method the ancient Spartans had in training their youths to endure hardships, privation, and pain; and what agonies they would go through rather than betray any sign of suffering. It is said of one youth, that having stolen a fox he hid it under his cloak, and that rather than be detected with it in his possession, he allowed it to gnaw a hole in his side, laying the ribs quite bare. If you can at all imagine the fearful suffering he must have undergone in the operation you may perhaps be able to form some idea of the pain I had to go through. But to my story.

When I was a young man, it was undecided at first what profession I should follow. My father strongly advised, nay, almost insisted upon my entering the army, but my own taste led me to prefer the quieter life of the Church.

Our house had been for many generations noted for the military bravery displayed by its members, and my father being an old soldier himself, could not bear that his only son should allow the old sword to hang on the wall and rust, so to oblige him I became a warrior of the State instead of a soldier of the Church; but it was a profession that was always distasteful to me, and I could not help cherishing secret ideas that one day I would free myself from it. But I need not have plotted, for I was released from my thraldom sooner than I expected.

I was serving with my regiment in India, when a letter arrived announcing the death of my poor father, leaving me all his property, which was not, however, great, for his pension died with him. And as, of course, it could matter nothing to him now under which banner I served, I felt myself free to throw up my commission and return to England. Here I studied hard, and at length was admitted as a minister of the Church.

Having had rather severe study, I determined to take a holiday before accepting any post in my new capacity, and selected Hungary as the field of my explorations. While travelling in the neighbourhood of Temesvar I became acquainted with an English family who had settled there, and one of the daughters of the house was the lady who afterwards became my wife and your dear mother.

Now it so happened that in that neighbourhood a good many English had been gradually collecting, and it became necessary for their comforts that they should be able to visit an English church, which many of them had not been able to do for years. Accordingly, a scheme was set on foot, and money collected in order to establish a residential chaplaincy,

and a site was fixed upon, midway between two or three villages as being handy for all. Now, as I had become engaged to your mother, and had but few friends of my own in England to care for me, I determined to try and obtain the post myself, and settle down to a hum-drum sort of existence, and after a little trouble, by the aid of my intended father-in-law, I succeeded in doing so. But life was not to pass in such a quiet way as I anticipated, for the charge of such a district I soon found was no light matter. The villages were situated far apart, and then even the outlying districts beyond these had to be visited, for many of the natives became in time members of my congregation.

In summer this was all very well, for I could ride easily from one district to another, but in the winter time, when the ground became frozen and covered with snow, it was not so easy a matter; it then became necessary to use a sleigh, but although the pace was perhaps quickened, various obstacles blocked the roads, and one had sometimes to make long détours to come back almost to the same point; besides, one was unable to go across the country, and had to keep chiefly to the roads made between one village and another.

But the danger of being upset in the dark was not all, for with the winter came a new and a terrible danger-a danger the name of which, mentioned in the winter in Hungary, would make the people shudder, and mothers clasp their infants tighter to their breasts. The evil of which I speak is that of wolves. Perhaps you think, Oh, is that all? Why not carry a gun? A man is a match for a wolf any day; and so in ordinary cases he would be, for a single wolf is naturally a great coward, and will run away at the approach of man unless he be driven into a corner and brought to bay. Single wolves are never to be feared, and in the summer time the people never give them a thought, for while food is plentiful they keep to the mountains, and are rarely seen in greater numbers than two in a place; and save for the loss of a stray sheep or two they, at this season of the year, do but little damage.

When, however, the ground is covered with snow, food becomes scarce, and the wolves are driven down the mountains by hunger and the steadily increasing cold. Gradually gathering in numbers as they descend, and becoming emboldened by famine and companionship, they make depredations upon. the farms and sheep-pens, which unless sufficiently guarded by large fires and armed men, are sometimes totally looted; even the guardian shepherd sometimes falling a victim with his flock. Cases have even been known of travellers losing their way in the dark, being chased by wolves, and forced to climb a tree, and to remain there sometimes for days together, until the pack either departs or relief comes to their aid. So voracious are they that they will even eat their own species, and when two rival packs meet, war to the death ensues, the survivors eating the bodies of the slain foes.

One afternoon, during an unusually severe winter, I was sitting with your mother in our little parlour playing with Frank, who was then only a little baby, in front of a blazing fire of pine-wood. I had just congratulated myself that all my visiting for the day was done, and that I might now indulge in a

comfortable lounge by the fire without any probability of having my rest disturbed, for our house stood quite alone, some distance from even the nearest woodcutter's hut. All at once, however, we heard a thumping at the outer door, and my servant, coming in, said that a man, apparently a woodcutter, wished to see me. I knew at once that it must be something very important that could have brought him so far just as day was closing, for during the past few days the depredations committed by the wolves in the neighbourhood had been truly alarming, and few would be brave enough, even fully armed, to come through the pine woods at dusk without something very important compelled them to do so. What was my surprise, however, when he told me that he had come from a village some three miles away to fetch me to the bedside of his niece, who he was afraid was dying, and who had desired to

see me.

How could I refuse such a request? The danger I knew was fearfully great, for night was advancing rapidly, and the wolves would be on the prowl.

Already the red sun was tinging the tops of the pine-trees with a ruddy glow, and in a few minutes, half an hour at the most, darkness would be upon us. However, it was a matter of life and death; it would be an awful thing if I waited until the morning to go, and should then find the woman dead. My stern duty called me, and as a clergyman I dared not refuse to risk some danger to go and comfort a dying soul. I told the man, to his intense relief, that I would go, and ordered my servant to get the sleigh ready directly, for the sooner we set off the better would be our chance of finding the road, and at the same time there would be less likelihood of being chased by the wolves.

I informed my wife of my unexpected journey, and she begged and prayed of me not to go, but to wait until the morning. But duty is stern, and I could not listen to her persuasions. I arranged, however, that I would stop at the village all night, and return by daylight the next morning. I there fore bade good-bye to her, and prepared for my journey. I looked carefully to my revolvers, saw that every chamber was correctly loaded, and slipped them into the holsters at the side of the sledge. Then wrapping myself from head to foot in my furs, for it was intensely cold, and taking two or three torches to use if necessary (for fire will very often frighten wolves away), I prepared to settle down for my anything but enjoyable journey.

But here a difficulty came in the way. My servant was always in the habit of driving me, and it was rarely that I handled the reins myself. But now I should not be able to take him, for the sledge was only made to carry two, and if I took my servant the messenger would have to return on foot-an alternative which was not to be thought of for a moment. He would undoubtedly have to ride with me, and we should have to manage the best way we could. It took of course some little time to complete our arrangements, so that by the hour we were ready to start the sun had sunk below the horizon, and but for the reflection afforded by the snow it would have been quite dark.

Well, off we started at a good round trot, trying to make the best of our time while the road was

tolerably level. We had covered a good mile and a half without having seen anything in the shape of a wolf, although we could hear their hideous baying in the distance. Some little way ahead of us, however, I knew that we should have to pass through a deep cutting where the road had been lowered to render it more practicable; and this was the part that I dreaded most, as it was bordered close up to the edge of the cutting by a thick pine forest, which was a well-known haunt of wolves.

Suddenly, as we were approaching this gorge, a quick change of the wind brought the well-known baying of a pack of wolves upon our wide-opened ears, followed quickly by the sharp cracks of one or two rifles.

"The wolves are in the cutting," said my companion, "and are attacking someone. Hark! there go the rifles again. Had we not better turn, sir? If they come down the gorge we are lost."

It would be useless, my friend," I said. "They would soon overtake us. Our horse is blown, while they possibly are fresh; besides, there are others in the gorge besides ourselves-we had better try to reach them. Light a couple of torches: we will hurry on quicker." But our horse now began to show signs of great fear, as another howl was borne upon our ears.

"Quick, friend," I said; "take a revolver, and we will try to dash through them.' But now the baying had become frightfully near, and was on all sides of us; the horse quivered from fright in every limb, as I urged him forward with repeated cuts of the whip.

Suddenly the light of the torches revealed that we were struggling in the midst of a pack of these fearful animals in front, in rear, at each side, they swarmed upon us. With a last cut at the horse, I dropped the reins, and seizing a revolver in one hand and a torch in the other, my companion and I prepared to sell our lives as dearly as posible. Suddenly I felt a fearful jerk, the torch flew out of my hand, and I seemed to be smothered amid a heap of rugs. Struggling with the weight that was upon me, I found that the sleigh had overturned, crushing my legs beneath it. Around me on every side I heard the awful howls of the wolves, but they either did not see me or could not get at me; on closer listening I could hear them snarling and fighting over some object but a little way off. The horrible thought crossed me-my companion! evidently they were devouring him! I could not bear the thought. I yet retained my revolver with a chamber or two undischarged, and without thinking how useless the attempt to rescue him would be, I struggled to free myself. The exertion was useless, and only brought further trouble.

My endeavours attracted the attention of the outsiders round the unholy banquet, and they came sniffing and snarling round the sledge, tearing and scratching the furs with their claws. It was a moment of frightful suspense; but, horror of horrors! one of my feet had got jammed under the back of the sledge, and was outside! Quickly I felt the rug that was round it giving way, and soon my boot was torn off. Oh, the thought even now is too horrible

the wolves began actually to gnaw my foot! And there I was as in a vice, entirely at their mercy. I was not trained as a Spartan; my nerves could endure no more, and I fainted.

How long I remained in a state of insensibility I

sharp crack of rifles, and the gladsome sound of human voices. I shouted with all my might, and soon I felt the sledge lifted from over me. The relief to the nerves was so great that I again fainted, and recollect nothing more until I found myself in my own bed, with the anxious face of my wife bending over me. When I was strong enough to talk, I learnt how my deliverance had been effected. My poor companion had, as I feared, been devoured. The shots we had heard previous to our overthrow had proceeded, it seemed, from a party of peasants armed with guns, who had turned out for the express purpose of slaughtering wolves, and who were engaged in the slaughter when the sound of our horse's feet had drawn off the attention of the wolves in another direction.

By the crack of our revolvers they knew that the animals had attacked us; a minute or two more, and our horse dashed past them, his harness trailing in the wind, and followed by three or four dozen howling demons.

Then the peasants determined to try and help us, and, seizing each a flaming brand from their fire, rushed up the gorge. My poor companion was past help, but they carried me back to their fire and bound up my wounds, wrapped me up in a pile of furs, and the next morning carried me home.

The exposure to the frost had, however, caused mortification to set in, and, to save my life, the limb had to be amputated at the knee. What became of our horse I never knew, though he was probably overtaken and eaten.

The shock to my nerves had, however, been so great that I had to yield up my post, and, coming back to England, I obtained my present living, where the rest of you children were born, and where, God willing, I hope to pass the rest of my days in peace and quietness. And now, children, your curiosity is satisfied, I hope, and you have heard how I obtained my cork leg, and endured the agonies that called forth the title from a friend the other day that I was a modern Spartan, and certainly, if they had to undergo such agonies as I suffered upon that occasion, I am only too thankful that I did not live in those good old T. R. C.

times.

BY JULIA GODDARD.

CHAPTER I.

LISON BRAND read from the 144th Psalm, "Blessed be the Lord, my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight."

Then she made a pause.

"That is a very unchristianlike sentiment, Aunt Miriam. What is the use of children learning, "Let dogs delight to bark and bite,' when one finds David offering up thanks for what all Christians should deprecate ?"

Then Alison made another pause, waiting for an answer.

The elder lady gently closed the Book of Psalms from which Alison had been reading, and looked upon her niece's glowing face.

"It is a wide question," said Miss Miriam Brand, speaking more to herself than to Alison. Again Alison spoke :

"Aunt Miriam, I thought you disapproved of war altogether, and were looking forward to the time when the swords and spears shall be beaten into ploughshares and pruning-hooks."

"Suppose we leave David and his wars out of the question, with the one remembrance that it was a punishment from the Lord that the sword should not depart from his house, and that David may have felt thankful that he was strong enough to maintain the warfare entailed upon him, and to come forth victorious. And instead of analysing David's feelings let us apply the words to ourselves and our own battles."

Was Aunt Miriam turning traitor to her peace principles? Alison gazed in surprise on the quiet face and silver grey hair braided beneath the simple cap.

"We have all a battle to fight," murmured Aunt Miriam," and may our hands and fingers be strong and well directed, even as David's were."

Then it all flashed upon Alison, and she sat down at her aunt's feet.

"Let us talk," she said; "it does one good to hear you. You do believe that life is a battle we nave to fight?-that it is like soldiers carrying on a warfare ?"

And Alison's eyes glistened.

"Yes," returned Miss Brand, "life is a battle, a very hard one sometimes;" and again Aunt Miriam's eyes had the far-off look that Alison had often noticed when some remembrance of the past had risen to Miss Brand's mind.

"You do not remember my grandfather, Aunt Miriam ?" said Alison, suddenly.

"No," replied Miss Brand," he died when I was but a baby; your grandmother was left with five children, the eldest nine years old, two boys and three girls. Your grandfather was an extravagant man, and had run through all his property. He died abroad of a fever, just as your grandmother was planning to go to him. She was but a little over thirty, a fine-looking woman, lively and high-spirited; she was much attached to her husband, and had

taken part in his reckless course, without considering or, perhaps, understanding the consequences; and when the final catastrophe came, it was a terrible blow and a terrible awakening."

Aunt Miriam paused for a moment; she looked at Alison inquiringly, as if communing with herself whether she would enter into details. Apparently, the decision was favourable, for in a few minutes she continued:

One night your grandfather came to her saying, Bess, it is all over, the last penny is spent, I'm in debt beyond what I can ever pay, and in a few days there will be half a dozen warrants out against me." She sat staring into his face, half stupefied. "What do you mean ?" she asked.

Again she said:

"What do you mean?"

"That if I don't get away from England I shall soon be in the Fleet Prison. You must be brave, Bess, and when I've settled somewhere, you must come after me with the children."

"Go away from England," she repeated, "at this time of night ?"

"Yes, I must pack up a few things and be off." And he opened the doors of his wardrobe and took

from the shelves what seemed to him most needful, stuffing them into a great carpet-bag, which he lifted from time to time to see how great a weight he could take without encumbrance to himself.

He hesitated.

"Is this all you have, Bess ?" he asked. "All."

He made a motion to put part of it back. But she said:

"No, take it all; I shall do without it."

"But the children, Bess. I shan't be able to send you anything. You had better keep part. I'll only take just enough to get away with."

Still she said "No."

And suddenly there came a light into her eyes, which made her husband say:

"What is the matter, Bess? Your eyes shine like stars, brighter even than in the days when I used to write foolish verses upon them, and you look so grand and stately, Bess. What is it? You'll not forget me. You'll come to me as soon as you can get things together? John and Charlotte and the others will help you."

"Yes, I will come; do not fear."

They had changed places that night; she was the brave one, he the bowed-down, the fearful one.

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"After we have so long forsaken Him? After the long course of waste, of folly, of extravagance ?" Yes, even as the prodigal son found favour when he confessed his sins. I am not afraid." But her courage broke down when the moment of parting came, she clung to him with a strange, wild feeling, that she could not let him go, in spite of the short time that was to elapse before they should meet again. It was late at night, and, wrapped in an old cloak, with his carpet-bag in his hand, he stole out of the house and hurried through the almost deserted streets until he met with his friend.

Here Miss Brand paused, and Alison, who had been listening intently, looked up.

"What happened next?" she asked.
"He got safely abroad."
"And my grandmother?"

"She never joined him-she was getting ready to do so when his last letter came to her. It was written in the beginning of his illness, and in a few days another letter came, in a different hand, to say that he was dead.”

"Yes," said Alison, softly.

"The first dark days went by," continued Miss Brand," and they were very dark days, with not a

"She shed no tears, she sat bearing mutely the pain that was gnawing at her heart, and a wall seemed to rise up between her and the future, as though she were shut out of living, breathing, hoping life.

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She had been forced to leave the home where her husband had left her. Everything had been seized, except the clothing of herself and the children, and, with the help of her friends, she had settled herself in some medium lodgings, until matters could be arranged for her to go abroad. She had faced the change cheerfully, through the hope that in a few weeks she would be with her husband, and they should begin a new and a better life together; and now it was all snatched away from her, just as she was beginning to realise what life and its ends were. It was a judgment upon her too hard for her to bear. Had her husband felt it so likewise? She could not bear to think of it, and yet it forced itself ruthlessly upon her, that alone in a foreign land, without anyone near to help or comfort him, he had died with all his newly-coming knowledge condemning him as it condemned her."

Again Aunt Miriam paused, and Alison drew closer to her.

"Go on, Aunt Miriam," said she; "let me know it all. I am growing into a woman, and I want to fight as good a battle as my grandmother did. Only I am not poor enough, I am afraid; I have everything I want, and my father is rich;" and she gave a little sigh. Miss Brand half-smiled as she stroked Alison's wavy hair.

"Do not despair on that account, my child," she said, gently. There is no path without danger, and no life without its foes to conquer. You will find plenty of trouble in the world."

CHAPTER II.

ALISON BRAND Stood before her mirror that evening and communed with the reflection in the glass. The eyes that looked back into hers were dark blue eyes that changed their expression very rapidly in answer to the thoughts that rose up in her mind-searching eyes, for she was gazing scrutinizingly at the face. before her. Yes, she had been always told that she was like her grandmother, and she saw the likeness now. It came out strikingly, and she examined it as if she had been a painter putting the last touches to a portrait. The soul that was within was making itself apparent. Alison was buckling on her armour and preparing for the battle.

Behind the fair face surmounted by coils of black hair, was a picturesque background-a room furnished tastefully with every comfort that Alison could desire; very unlike the poor lodgings in which her grandmother had faced the foe in life. Again the words rose to her lips :