I glared at him over the little pile of dishes that were awaiting the drying process. "Who is he, I'd like to know?" I said to myself in a threatening whisper. But the stranger did not seem disposed to mince matters. He cleared his throat once or twice; and, as I have generally found that this process means unpleasantness to follow by way of revelations, I gave myself a well-merited rest, and prepared to listen also.

"You have been very good to me," he said after a bit. "If you had known more of me perhaps you might not have been quite so ready to haul me out of the gully. If you had known much about my past life," he added softly, "it's not been a good one."

She held up her finger.

"Never go back!" she cried warningly. "Let it be always onward. Light is in front; keep straight on towards it, and then you will be safe. I wish I could tell you things better. But I cannot. One thinks things out in the loneliness, but one cannot tell them straight and plain to others. It must come to you—as it came others-in a flash, and then we see!"

"But-if we cannot-can never see?"

"Then we get nothing! Yet the man whose eyes were opened saw only men as trees, walking-tall shadows, you know-all out of place. But he saw, and by-and-by things were made clear and came easy."

"Look here!" said he, turning towards her and speaking excitedly. "Have you ever seen the sea?”

She nodded her head.

"Well, have you seen it in tempest? Yes? Then you know what it is! Gloom without-night without a dark sky-breakers foaming-waves roaring-death ahead and shipwreck abroad—that is my life-that is my lot!"

The words were sad rather than bitter; they rang mournfully round our wooden walls.

I looked up and looked round.

We had always thought Bessie a queer girl. The pictures on our walls were curious pictures. There was not one gorgeous person among them. There were portraits of one or two grand people of course; it gives you a feeling of belonging to a nation, no matter how far away in the wilds you may be, when you see these. But, besides, there were all sorts of photographs of her own choosing: Holman Hunt's "Shadow of the Cross"; one or two of Sir Noel Paton's; a large copy of Zimmerman's "Christ and the Sons of Zebedee," and, in a corner by themselves, a print of Albert Dürer's

"Praying Hands," which always made me feel queer when I looked at them. It gave you a turn, I can tell you, when, coming first into that room with its pretty curtains, its bird-cages, and its plants, you came upon those "Hands" uplifted silently in the quiet corner. They used to stop us many a time when we might have been going to say something not quite as nice as we might have liked; and, I am bound to say, it was almost as good as going to church to look at them on some Sunday morning when there was nothing else to remind you of the day-nothing but those "Hands," and the sort of peaceful hush that belongs to the day; when toil ceases, and men, unconsciously it may be, put on their clean shirts and jerseys, and smarten up a bit out of deference to "auld lang syne." Not quite that, altogether, boys; but you know what I mean, and I am not one given to preachments. As I looked round at those "Hands" I caught Dick staring at them too. But Bessie's head was bent over the pudding which she was pounding with might and main, for time was going, and the master liked punctuality at meal times.

"The darkest hour is just before the dawn," said she with a smile. "That's about the time of day with you, neighbour; and the sun rises in the east, remember. The dawn is cold and chill, but

it means a new day."

He shook his head.

"The night that goes before the dawn is dark and cloudy and dim; I see no day."

""Watchman,'” said she, quoting a verse I also remembered hearing long ago, "watchman, what of the night? The night cometh, and also the day.''

There is always hope. The present can be saved from wreck. The future is always bright. If you believe in human hands, how easy to go a step higher, and believe in more! You believe in life as life; give the same faith to eternity, and hold on! Out of infinite love comes infinite peace, forgiveness, rest!"

"How?" he asked her wearily.

know!"

"How? For me? You little

For answer she pointed across the room to "The Hands"; then, stretching out her arm to its widest, she pointed to the "Ecce Homo" above the fireplace. "A Man of sorrow, and acquainted with grief,'" she murmured softly.

"Grief!" he cried bitterly. "It is not grief-it is sin, sin! Burdens too heavy to bear; too sad to tell-to you ! ”

"He receiveth sinners, and eateth with them.' 'For us men, and for our salvation, He came down from heaven, and was crucified.' You know the rest. Why weary yourself with continually going back? Do you believe in the forgiveness of sins, or do you not? I suppose you learnt all that when you were a boy."

There was a long silence in the room, and presently Bessie spoke again. “You'll never miss the way, neighbour; you are never very far away from Him!"

"Stop!" he cried hoarsely. "Dare I-such as I am-dare I expect, or hope, that one word of mine will avail-will reach Him?" "Were you ever a child?" asked Bessie calmly, tying up the pudding in a basin, and putting it in a pan on the fire. "Had you ever a father? Were you ever naughty? Were you ever forgiven? When you think these four questions out, you will discover that earthly life is only a parable-a picture-and that beneath it is something higher. Go away now; I am going to sweep up. And whenever you feel like this-so low and sad—just you come in and take a good look at my Hands.' They'll help you! and, bless you, I know all about you, don't disturb yourself! But, be you very sure of one thing-Heaven is more merciful than earth! Matt, are you ever going to finish those cups and saucers?"

"I washed them long ago," I replied meekly. "Shall I put them in the cupboard?"

"Of course!" said my mistress sharply; "and be quick about it! It will soon be time for dinner."

CHAPTER III.

OUR master sat in his shirt-sleeves at the close of the day. Jim sat on the fence and swung his legs backwards and forwards. I trained a climbing rose-tree over the pillars of the porch, and Bessie, her dress tucked up and her brown hands filled with nails, handed one to me from time to time, with the hammer.

"Come off that rail!" roared the master, frowning heavily. "Is it not trouble enough to make fences, without sitting on them ourselves to do mischief?"

Jim dropped without a word.

"that's a pre

"Bess!" added the potentate, turning her way, cious scoundrel you've been harbouring! Tim Maloney sent to say that he was known to be Dick the Ranger! Nice company for you, young woman! If he returns some fine night, and treats us to a touch of his Winchester,' I shan't be surprised! Keep yourself spry

at nightfall, Matt, and see to the fastenings and the guns, or we'll come to grief!"

"Has he gone?" asked Jim from the background.

"Of course!

Do you think I'd air my sentiments if he were

prowling round? What a fool you must be, Jim!"

The youth subsided, and retreated into the shade. But Bess spoke up boldly.

"Don't be frightened ! That man won't harm us!

Shouldn't wonder if he gives up that bit of business, and takes to something more natural!"

"What did you think of him, Matt?" asked the master crossly. "You have opinions, I presume, like everyone else; and you saw something of him. Out with it!"

My mouth was full of nails, for Bess had been lavish in her way of handing them up to me, and my mouth was the only convenient receptacle for them, so I made no reply beyond an indistinct murmur which passed unnoticed.

"Matt can't speak, and supper is ready. Stop work, Matt, and let us go in; it is very chilly."

We despatched our suppers slowly, as men who were reluctant to rise in a hurry after a hard day's toil. But the master was an autocrat, and to-morrow was before us.

I slept on my own bed once more, but on the morrow I would be far enough away. I was to take charge of the herd of cattle which the master was sending to Los Angelos, and might outspan on the bare sward, with a blanket and the stars for covering.

My last night at the ranche was a comfort, and I slept the sleep of the just.

When I returned from Los Angelos the ranche was in mid-winter, cold and bare; the master met me gloomily, and the look of the place was all awry. Vinegar was in the far pasture, the little roan mare was down by the river, and Black Dan worked his own sweet will amongst the other horses.

"Summat's up!" said Tim Maloney gravely. "Thim bastes has no bisnis on the rant; thim's Miss Bessie's cattle!"

I dared not question the master, and Jim was invisible. "Read that!" said the master, holding out a letter, and greeting me as if we had parted yesterday. It was a letter with an English post-mark and an English stamp. My heart beat quickly for a moment, and then I knew it was none of mine. The writing was strange. "Who is it from?" I asked, looking up quickly.

"Read it!" he repeated.

I drew the letter forth-it was on thin overland paper-it was very short:

"Dear Miss Blandford,-I owe you an apology.

I never wrote

to thank you for all you did for me. I write to-day, and all I can say is, God bless you! God ever, always bless you!

"Before me hang the 'Praying Hands!' I myself am in my father's home. Need I say more? Some day we shall meet. God grant it may be soon. "Yours ever gratefully,

Where, when, I know not.

"RICHARD BENTINCK."

"There's a coronet somewhere, I think," he remarked, as I returned the letter.

I never looked for it.

"Where is Bessie ?" I asked quickly. "Why did she not come to meet us? She always did-she was the life and heart of the ranche !"

"Bessie !" said the master slowly; and his eyes roved over the distant plains. "Come and see!"

And I went.

Into her little chamber we passed silently. The air was heavy with flowers. Soft perfumes stole round. A dim light from unseen lamps shone over the room. The window was darkened.

On the bed lay something all white, all flowers, all radiance. What was it?

By the bed sat Jim, crying and blubbering like an infant. Not at all ashamed was he of his tears.

I clutched at an object-it proved to be the master's arm. "What ails you?" he asked kindly. It is only Bessie!" and his voice quivered with the pain he bravely suppressed. "Fever did itup at the cottages beyond our ranche. Hold up, old man! It is

our noblest duty to endure !' She said those words. She whispered them when she was going. I hung the 'Hands' there, before her bed, that she might see them-and Him-the 'Ecce Homo,' last of all."

Nobody thought of me, and I lost sight of myself in the stupendous sorrow that had come to me. Yes, to me. For I loved Bessie Blandford as a man loves once, and only once, in a lifetime. I have only told you a little bit of a Texan girl's life. But we live by little and little; and now that she has gone I should like Richard Bentinck to know-if ever he should see these lines-that our Bessie sleeps in peace-dead in the wilderness-on the borders of the great lone land.

On the rough wood cross is one word, rudely cut by her desolate and unknown lover-the one word of hope-Resurgam.