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Title: Two brave boys, and, The wrong twin

Author: Mary E. Ropes

Release date: September 18, 2024 [eBook #74440]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO BRAVE BOYS, AND, THE WRONG TWIN ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: THE LONG PURSUING LINE OF WOLVES HAD BROKEN.]



                         Two Brave Boys

                               and

                         The Wrong Twin


                               BY

                         MARY E. ROPES

                           Author of

          "Karl Jansen's Find," "Caroline Street," etc.



                            LONDON
                 THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
        4 Bouverie Street & 65 St. Paul's Churchyard



[Illustration]



                          CONTENTS.

                       [Illustration]


                       TWO BRAVE BOYS


  CHAPTER I. THE MUTTERINGS OF THE STORM

  CHAPTER II. LITTLE DETECTIVES

  CHAPTER III. CAPTURED

  CHAPTER IV. AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND

  CHAPTER V. STEPAN MAKES COFFEE

  CHAPTER VI. RED-SCAR GOES TO SLEEP—ALF AND BERT ESCAPE WITH THE PONY

  CHAPTER VII. A RACE FOR LIFE—CHASED BY WOLVES

  CHAPTER VIII. TRICKING THE WOLVES—THE HUT IN THE FOREST

  CHAPTER IX. A WONDERFUL MEETING—HOW PAMPHIL ESCAPED FROM PRISON

  CHAPTER X. THE MEETING IN THE HUT—SAFE AT HOME


                      ————————————————


                       THE WRONG TWIN


  CHAPTER I. THE WRONG TWIN AND THE RIGHT ONE

  CHAPTER II. THE TWINS' JOKE

  CHAPTER III. A DESPERATE PLAN

  CHAPTER IV. BROTHER BOB

  CHAPTER V. "IS IT BECAUSE YOU WENT TO THE BAD?"

  CHAPTER VI. FATHER AND SON

  CHAPTER VII. AN ARRIVAL, AND THE NOISE IN THE NIGHT

  CHAPTER VIII. GERALDINE'S BURGLAR

  CHAPTER IX. THE APPEAL



                       TWO BRAVE BOYS

                       [Illustration]

CHAPTER I.

THE MUTTERINGS OF THE STORM.

IT was the month of January, and the keen Russian winter had wrapped
the woods and marshes in a snowy garment, and put the rivers in prison
behind thick panes of ice glass, and dressed up the tall pines and firs
till they looked like sheeted ghosts under the cold starlight.

But in Mr. John Oliver's roomy wooden house, standing on ground
somewhat raised, and overlooked by the huge chimneys of a big mineral
oil factory, was perfect warmth and comfort, for the great stoves built
into the walls of the room, and faced with white glazed tiles, kept the
whole place of an equal temperature.

It was about eleven o'clock, and two little boys were in bed in their
nursery. Their narrow iron bedsteads were drawn close together, and
in one of them a little fair-haired lad of about ten or eleven was
fast asleep. Not so, however, his brother, who had raised himself to a
sitting posture, and now, with his dark head and eager face bent over
the sleeper, said in a whisper—

"Wake up, Bert! I want to tell you something. Do wake up!"

Bert stirred uneasily, then rubbed his eyes, yawned, and sat up.

"Oh, it's you, Alf!" he said drowsily. "I was in the middle of a dream.
What's the matter?"

"Hush! Don't talk above a whisper. I don't want Niania (nurse) to come
in before I've had time to tell you. Matter? Well, nothing yet, but
there's going to be heaps the matter if what I've heard comes true."

"What have you heard?" questioned Bert, quite wide awake now.

"I'll tell you," said Alf. "After you'd gone to bed, and I'd finished
my lessons for to-morrow, I remembered that I hadn't mended my skate
that was broken, and so I went over to our own little workshop, for I
hadn't any tools in the house. But as soon as I was inside I forgot all
about what I'd come for."

"Did you? Oh, Alf, what was it?"

"Well, you know how thin the partition is between our workshop and the
men's tool-room?"

"Yes, and it's full of cracks, too."

"But happily they're too small to see through, or I might have been
caught listening," responded Alf.

"But what did you hear?"

"I'm coming to that! There was talk going on between a man, whose voice
I did not know, and the foreman of the cooper's shop, Anton Griboff."

"Oh, I know! The chap with the suet-pudding face, the currants for
eyes, the plastered hair, and the squint!"

"Yes, that's the chap! Well, the two must have been talking lots
before I came to the workshop, for I found I'd jumped into the middle
of a plot. And this was to get up a sort of strike; not a real strike
though, but just an excuse to mutiny. They have arranged among
themselves to demand things that they know very well no manager could
give, such as nearly double wages and a six-hours day, and I don't
remember what beside. But, of course, dad won't think of it."

"Perhaps they think they can frighten him," suggested Bert.

"Then they don't know dad!" And Alf gave a soft little chuckle of pride
in the possession of such a dad.

"Well," he continued, "I stood there as still as a mouse till all was
quiet and the men had gone home, and then I crept back to the house and
went straight to dad and mother."

"And told them all about it?" asked Bert.

"Of course," replied Alf.

"And what did dad say?"

"Dad said he'd seen this mutinous spirit among the men for some time,
and that it was all brought about by a few who were trying to make
trouble for the sake of what they could get out of it."

"Was that all, Alf?"

"No; dad turned to mother and said: 'My dear, I must send you and the
boys away to England. If there's going to be trouble here, it would not
be safe for you to remain.'"

"And what did mother say?" asked Bert, with expectant, shining eyes.

"Mother? Why, she just looked up with her pretty smile and the
star-look in her eyes, and she said: 'Herbert, I fear I must disobey
you in this matter. If there is going to be danger, my place is here
by your side, and the boys cannot go away alone. No, we will all stay
together, and trust to God to bring us safely through.'"

"And what did dad say then?"

"Nothing more—not a word. But I saw the tears in his dear old eyes, and
so I thought I'd leave him and mother to themselves and come to bed;
but I couldn't sleep till I'd told you."

Here a voice from the next room said in Russian: "Why are you talking
at this time of night, children? Go to sleep—both of you—like good
little pigeons."

"Oh, Niania, I wish you'd come here a minute," said Alf. "I want to ask
you something."

Nurse gave a little grunt, but not a cross one, for she was never angry
with her children, as she called them.

"Nurse," said Alf very solemnly in Russian, "if there's going to be a
rising among the men in the zavot (factory), on whose side will you
be—on ours or on theirs?"

Old Niania threw a loving arm round each of the little lads and drew
them close.

"My darlings," she cried, "my doves, my gold and silver and diamond
children, do I not belong to you, heart and soul? Whatever happens, I
am on your side, now and ever; so help me God!"



CHAPTER II.

LITTLE DETECTIVES.

THE plot, part of which Alf Oliver had overheard, ripened so quickly
that events followed each other closely. First, the English governess
took fright and left in a hurry for St. Petersburg, where she had
friends.

In the factory there was a spirit of rebellion and defiance, and the
men, instead of doing their work, were constantly gathering in little
groups, muttering and scowling when the manager passed them.

At last things came to such a point that next to no work was done.
The oil barrels remained unfilled, the cart-horses stood idle in the
stables, and the great sledge-carts, which should have been carrying
casks of oil to the railway station in the town fifteen miles off, were
hauled up close together, lumbering the loading yard.

At length, Mr. Oliver resolved to take a bold step and meet the
so-called strike half-way. He gave orders that the men should come
together into one of the buildings, and he met them there.

But he had no idea that Alf and Bert, who were like their father's
shadows, had followed him in and now stood behind him on a platform
made of a few planks laid upon barrels.

"My men," said Mr. Oliver in a loud, clear voice, "something is wrong
with you; anyone can see it! You won't work, and I am running the
factory at a loss. Well, now! Let us say you are tired, and this being
so, I am going to give you all a holiday. To-morrow this factory will
be closed, your wages paid, and you will all be discharged.

"Those of you who wish to return to your duty, and do it properly, may
come back in a week's time, when the works will open again. But any men
who return later than that will find their places filled by new hands.

"Now, foremen of the various departments, see that my orders are
carried out. Put out the fires, pile up the empty barrels tidily, put
away the tools, lock up everything, and bring the keys to me. I have no
more to say—the matter now lies with you. Good-night, my men."

Only one or two loyal voices made response; the rest of the workmen
kept silence. Two and two they filed past the manager, some looking
nervous and frightened, others sullen, evil and threatening.

Alf pulled Bert's sleeve.

"Look at that squinting pudding of an Anton," said he. "Doesn't he look
as if he meant mischief?"

"What can he do?" replied Bert. "Isn't the place to be closed for a
week? And perhaps he's one of those who won't come back."

"I don't know; I fancy he's one of the worst of them, and now dad's
nipped their little plot in the bud, that villain will think of
something else to do. I'm sure of it."

"Well, we must be dad's detectives and keep a sharp look-out, Alf,"
said little Bert with pride, and his brother assented.

The next day or two passed quietly enough, but on the third night
something happened.

The two boys were awakened about eleven o'clock by the sound of men's
voices, loud and angry. Their bedroom was over the office, and it was
from the office that the sounds came.

Always now on the alert, Alf and Bert quickly got into their
dressing-gowns and soft slippers and stole down the wide staircase of
the big, two-storeyed house. The office door stood open, the lights
were burning, and peering in unperceived from the dark hall, the boys
saw Anton Griboff, his friend Stepan the fitter, and a third man,
a fierce, rough-looking fellow, with a broken nose and a large red
scar that cut across both cheeks on a line with the mouth, giving the
appearance of a hideous grin from ear to ear.

The three ruffians were standing before the manager, and the boys heard
Anton say: "We have come for the key of that safe, and we mean to have
it. Give it up."

"The money in the safe is not mine, and I hold the key in trust,"
replied Mr. Oliver firmly. "You shall not have it."

Anton made a sign, and the other men suddenly sprang upon Mr. Oliver
and held him, while Griboff searched the pockets for the key. In a
moment, with a cry of triumph, he held it up.

But the next instant, he suddenly fell violently forward, struck his
head sharply against the big open desk, and lay still, the cause of
this being that Alf and Bert, creeping in on their hands and knees
behind Griboff, just as he found the key, each seized a leg and pulled
back with all their might. As the man's burly form came crashing down,
the key of the safe dropped from his hand, and Alf pounced upon it and
passed it on to Bert.

"Run and hide it," he whispered, "while I try to help dad."

The struggles of the manager were vain. The two rascals, taking no heed
of their fallen comrade, proceeded to tie Mr. Oliver's arms to his
side, and his ankles together. Alf, behind them in the dark doorway,
and unseen by the ruffians, dared not speak, but his father saw him,
and gave him a look which the boy rightly understood to mean that he
was to go and get help.

For a long minute he stood in the dark corridor, wondering what he
should do.

Two of the men belonging to the factory—Oscar Kleinweh, a German, and
Samuel Levi, a little Jewish engineer—were true men and loyal to his
father, but they had gone away when the factory was closed.

Alf's thoughts turned to his mother, who had gone to bed with a bad
headache. Her room was in the next wing, and she would probably have
heard nothing; he would not go to her.

There was no one of whom he could ask advice. Well, then, he must judge
for himself.

"There's no help to be had nearer than the town," said he to himself,
"and that's fifteen miles away."

Alf scampered upstairs.

"Quick, Niania, my clothes!" he said. "I'm the only one to go and get
help, and I must start at once."

The nurse did not try to prevent him. She saw that the situation was
desperate. The man-servant and coachman had joined the strikers,
and would not have helped had they been on the spot. Everything now
depended upon this boy, who was hardly more than a child.

"The key, Bert!" said Alf. "What have you done with it?"

"It is here," said nurse, "on a string round my neck, under my dress.
It shall be quite safe; have no fear for that! Nor for your father. I
am going to lock Bert into this room to keep him safer, while I go down
and see if I cannot be of use to the master. But the villains will not
dare to harm him. It is the money they want. But now how wilt thou go
on thy quest, my pigeon? If thou take the sledge and horse, the men
will be sure to see thee."

"Yes," replied Alf, "I must ride the pony, for I can saddle him
myself in the stable, and watch my time for getting out. I've got the
duplicate key of the stable door. Now, nurse, my short fur coat, my fur
cap, and big felt boots! So! Now I'm ready!"

And giving the old woman and Bert each a kiss, Alf left the nursery and
slipped noiselessly down the back stairs, meeting no one.

The women servants were asleep in the further wing of the big house,
and none of the ordinary working household were about at this time of
night.

Alf did not dare to return even for a moment to the front of the
building, for fear of being caught. Softly he crept out the back way,
and in a moment was inside the stable, and had bolted himself in and
lighted a lantern.

Sharik (ball), the pony, was a plump, round, sturdy little creature,
a great pet with the boys; and now he rubbed his rough head fondly
against Alf's shoulder, as the saddle and bridle were being adjusted.

Then, softly undoing the door, Alf peeped out. There was no one in
sight; all was clear. He led Sharik out, locked the door, and was soon
in the saddle.

The direct road to the town passed the front of the house, and took a
straight line for some distance, but Alf dared not risk going to the
front. He made for the frozen river at the back, and only joined the
road when he felt it safe to do so. Then, however, he put the pony to
its full speed. For such a sturdy little beast, Sharik was very swift,
and he was also docile, strong and sure-footed.

The night was fine, and but for the burden of care on his young heart,
Alf would quite have enjoyed his ride. In little more than an hour the
lad reached the town, and at full gallop arrived at the police-station.
The head constable was well-known to the Olivers, and he at once
promised to send help.

A sotnia (hundred) of Cossacks, too, were in the town for a day or two,
and the sergeant thought that their lieutenant would allow some of his
men to accompany the police to the factory.

"Will you wait and go with us, little gentleman?" asked the sergeant.

"No, thank you, Yakov Ivanitch, I must get home quickly; I am so
anxious."

The constable eyed the gallant little figure of the boy, who had
mounted again.

"You are young to ride out alone so far, at dead of night," said he.

"I was not alone, Yakov Ivanitch," replied Alf, his fearless dark eyes
meeting the man's frankly.

"How not?" exclaimed the sergeant.

"God was with me," said the boy. "I felt Him there every step of the
way." And with a wave of his small hand, he galloped away.

Sharik needed no urging on the homeward journey, and even Alf's
impatience could find no fault with his good little steed.

When within a quarter of a mile of the house, he left the high road and
again took the way by the river, coming up at the back of the house.

He could see no lights in any of the windows as he dismounted and led
his pony into the stable. The kitchen door was unlocked, as he had left
it, and when once inside, he soon had the gas alight. But what was his
surprise to see the long pinewood table loaded up with dirty plates and
dishes with remnants of food; glasses, cups and empty bottles added to
the disorder. The place looked like some low tap-room.

Full of forebodings, the boy took a candle from the shelf, and went
down the long corridor that ran from the back to the front of the house.



CHAPTER III.

CAPTURED.

AT the open door of the office Alf paused; the room was empty and dark,
but in the corner stood the safe, still apparently fast locked; so at
least the key had not been found.

All the other lower rooms had been overhauled and looted, everything
valuable having been carried away, unless indeed it had proved too big
to be handled.

Alf then went upstairs, but there seemed to be no one anywhere. Even
the servants' rooms were empty, their cupboards and drawers open, and
garments scattered about, as though they had dressed in great fear and
haste.

Last of all, he went to the nursery. By this time the horrible silence
of the house was getting upon the boy's nerves, and for the first time
he felt his courage giving way, as he stood in the dear familiar room,
now so lonely and deserted.

He turned and was about to descend the stairs again, when he fancied he
heard a little sound somewhere close by.

"Anyone here?" he called, with a shudder at the sound of his own voice.

Then the door of a big wall-cupboard opened softly, and Bert's fair
head and white face appeared.

In an instant the boys were locked in a close embrace, and for a minute
or two neither could say a word. But at last Alf mastered his feelings
and began to question Bert, learning from him that the workmen had come
to the house in force, and had gone all over it, making a great noise
and alarming him greatly.

He said that soon after Alf had left for the town, the nurse went to
see if she could do anything for Mr. or Mrs. Oliver, promising to
return to Bert very soon.

But she had not come back, and meanwhile the child had heard the talk
of the ruffians on the stairs, and their threats to bring a bomb or
dynamite and blow up the safe, since they could not open it otherwise.

Then, for fear of their coming in and finding him, Bert hid in the
cupboard, and only found courage to come out when he heard his
brother's voice.

"Then you don't know what has become of dad and mother and nurse?"
asked Alf.

"No, I don't know anything," replied Bert.

"Well, happily Yakov Ivanitch will be here presently with his own men
and some Cossacks, and perhaps they'll find out what has become of all
our people."

"Ach, so? Will they, indeed?" said a harsh voice behind them. "Well, it
is well to know what is likely to happen, then one is prepared."

The boys, turning quickly, saw that the speaker standing in the doorway
was the man with the great red scar, the brutal face, and heavy,
powerful form.

"So it's you we have to thank, young gentlemen, if the whole nest of
police hornets comes buzzing about our ears?"

"Not both of us," retorted Alf stoutly; "my brother had nothing at all
to do with it."

"Oh, indeed! So it was you alone? Well, whoever it was, I think we
won't wait here for your friends to arrive. Lucky I happened to think
of taking one more look round! Come along, both of you!"

And grasping in his huge hands the collar of each boy, he dragged them,
in spite of their struggles and hearty kicks at his shins, down the
stairs and into the back yard, where a sledge was waiting, with a horse
harnessed, and Alf recognised both as his father's.

"Where art thou taking us, thou ruffian?" cried Alf.

"That's not your business," replied Red-scar. "I am not here to be
questioned; get into the sledge."

"I cannot leave my pony behind," said Alf stoutly. "He is in the
stable, and I must go and fetch him."

The man hesitated. "There is no time to lose," he urged.

"It will not take long," rejoined Alf, "and my brother can come with
me."

"What! And lock yourselves into the stable and wait for the police?"
snarled Red-scar. "No, thank you But the pony is worth money, so you
may fetch him, and I shall hold your brother as hostage for your
return."

Once in the stable, Alf deliberately fed his pony, for Sharik had made
a double journey, at high speed for him, and might have to run far
again directly. His saddle and bridle were still on him, so his young
master took all the time at his disposal in giving him a good feed of
oats, unheeding, until the good little animal had partly satisfied its
hunger, the calls and curses of the man.

But at last, fearing on Bert's account to anger Red-scar further, he
led Sharik out, knotted a leading strap round his arm, and without
replying to the horrible language of the ruffian, got into the sledge
beside Bert, while Red-scar scrambled on to the driver's seat.

Alf looked eagerly in the direction of the town as they emerged into
the high road. He was hoping, almost against hope, that the rescuers
might appear, even now, at the eleventh hour. But no one was in sight
along the white snow road. Their driver turned the horse's head in the
opposite direction, and with a sharp cut of the whip set the pace at a
gallop.

"Whither art thou taking us?" asked Alf presently.

"After a while you will see," replied the man, with a brutal laugh.

"Be assured of one thing, thou hideous ruffian," said the boy
indignantly, "that ere long thou and thy fellows shall smart for this.
My father hath ever been a just and kind master to his workmen; and for
this ill return they shall, without doubt, pay the price."

"Crow not so loud, my chicken!" sneered the man, his cruel red smile
scorning to stretch all round his head. "Troublesome cockerels now and
again get their necks twisted."

"The wicked old cocks always do," retorted the lad, nothing daunted;
"and so, please God, shalt thou, too, one fine day; and the sooner the
better for the rest of us!"

"Wait a bit, my fine young gentleman!" snarled the fellow over his
shoulder. "Your turn will come presently. Hideous ruffian, am I? That
makes one more thing to thank you for, you stuck-up young monkey!"

It was after three o'clock in the morning by Alf's watch when, in the
middle of a pine forest, Red-scar pulled up the panting horse before
the door of a rude shanty, a woodman's log hut, built of whole pines
roughly trimmed with an axe, and with the crevices stuffed with moss
and lichen.

Out of a chimney smoke curled upwards in fantastic shapes, and
dispersed in the wintry sky.

"Get down," said Red-scar. He had scrambled out of the driver's narrow
seat, and now threw back the furred apron that had protected his young
passengers.

"What is this place?" asked Bert, shivering as he stood in the snow of
the little clearing round the hut.

But the man did not condescend to reply. He strode to the door of the
hut and thumped on it with the handle of his whip.

It opened, showing the light inside, and holding the door open—Stepan
the fitter. "Come in, come in!" he said, with some show of heartiness,
as the lads, stiff with cold, stood shivering on the threshold. "There
is a good fire in the stove here, and I will make some tea to warm you.
What about the horses, Gavril?" he added, turning to Red-scar, whose
real name the boys now heard for the first time.

"That means Gabriel in English, Bert," said Alf, with an attempt at a
smile. "Nice specimen of an archangel, isn't he?"

"The horses?" repeated Red-scar, from the door; "the shed will be all
right for them. There is plenty of straw, and I have stopped up all
the cracks and mended the door, so that it shuts quite tight. Also I
brought hay and oats," and he stepped to the sledge and dragged two
sacks out of the front of it. "They made a good footstool for me," he
added, "and kept my feet warm."

Stepan, while his companion was occupied with the horses, busied
himself in making the tea.



CHAPTER IV.

AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND.

STEPAN took from off a rude shelf along the wall a great round black
loaf, a plate of yellow salt butter, and some tin mugs big enough to
hold a pint each. He out several slices of bread and butter, laying
them down on a wooden platter. Then he poured out the tea and pulled a
bench up to the rude table in the middle of the room.

The boys gladly took their seats, for they were chilled and hungry; and
Bert was about to sip his tea when Alf touched his hand.

"Don't let's forget our grace," said he, and bending his head and
closing his eyes he said in a soft whisper: "We thank Thee, Lord, for
this food; take care of us, and of those we love, for Jesus' sake.
Amen."

The boys were seated together at one end of the table, while Red-scar
(who had now returned) and Stepan sat facing them; and Alf, glancing
up, now and again, from the food before him, could not but note the
contrast between these two men, whom he now rightly regarded as his
jailers. And he turned with a certain sense of relief from the brutal
aspect of Gavril to the brown-eyed, clear-skinned, black-bearded Stepan.

This man had been—as Alf knew from his father—a superior workman in
the fitters' department, receiving high wages and occupying a good
position. And Alf wondered to see him throw in his lot with a brute
like Gavril, and against such a master as Mr. Oliver had always been.

Just before the meal was ended Red-scar left the hut to get snow for
water, and Alf found courage to speak to Stepan of what lay like a
burden upon his heart.

"Look here, Stepan," he said, "I can speak to thee, for thou art not
as the other. Tell us what has become of our parents and old Niania?
Knowest thou?"

"On my honour, young sir, I know not," replied Stepan. "When Gavril
and I bore Anton away unconscious to his own house, we left the master
bound securely, but unhurt, lying on the sofa in the office. When we
returned in half an hour's time, he was gone. As for the key of the
safe, Anton found it, held it up for us to see, then suddenly fell,
and from that moment the key vanished. The lady and the nurse had also
disappeared before we went upstairs, though how or where I know no
more than you. I only am sure that it was before the rougher among the
workmen came swarming, as drunk as they could be, and turned everything
upside down."

"And what had my poor father done—tell me that, Stepan," said Alf,
"that you men should rise against him thus? What, for example, had he
done against thee?"

"Ah, young sir, you are scarce more than a child; how can you
understand? My grievance was nothing that the other men knew of or
shared in. But because they mutinied, I went with them—but for reasons
of my own."

"Tell us, Stepan, what was thy grievance?" asked Alf, and Bert echoed
his brother's words.

"Did you ever see my young brother, Pamphil?" questioned Stepan.

"Was he working in the zavot about a year ago?"

"He was," replied Stepan, "but he got into bad company, and was found
one night by the master dead drunk on the floor of the Refinery Room,
with a half-smoked pipe beside him."

"I suppose," said Alf, "that his duty was to keep watch there, and
above all to see that no risk was run of fire, which was the great
danger always. Also I have heard my father say that smoking is strictly
forbidden all over the factory."

"It is so," rejoined Stepan, "and Pamphil was much to blame;
nevertheless, he was very young, and had been led away by others more
vicious, though wiser, than he; but the master dismissed him at once.
I pleaded for him and he listened, but it was all in vain. Pamphil was
discharged. And then, in despair, he went from bad to worse, and now he
lies in prison for murderous assault and perhaps he may lose his life.
And knowing this, how can I forget that all this misery might have been
prevented had the master kept the poor lad in his employ, or at least
given him another chance!"

"But suppose," suggested Alf, "that some terrible accident had happened
through Pamphil being drunk or heedless; and suppose life and property
were lost on his account! Would not my father be blamed—and justly—for
keeping a man in his employ who was not to be trusted? Oh, Stepan, this
grudge of thine is an unjust and unworthy one."

"Our father was good to thee when thou wert ill of the fever," put in
Bert. "He went to see thee every day, and mother sent food from our own
table to strengthen thee. Hast thou forgotten?"

Stepan did not reply; it was all too true, though he did not like to
confess it.

But just then, Gavril came back with two great buckets of snow, which
he emptied into a huge kettle and set on the stove to boil, after which
he went out again for firewood.

"And now, young gentlemen," said Stepan, "if you will take my advice,
you will lie down on the bed in that warm corner, and get a few hours'
sleep. You must need it."

"Look here, Stepan," said Alf; "a straight word with thee! We dare not
sleep—my brother and I—if we be left alone with Red-scar, for he hates
us and might do us an injury. Promise that if we sleep, thou wilt not
leave us."

The man's brown eyes softened as he looked at the little lads, who, in
spite of all he had done, trusted him still.

"You may sleep in peace, my children; no harm shall come to you," he
said gently.

And as they went and lay down, he took from a nail in the wall his big
sheepskin coat, and carefully covered them. In a few minutes, he could
tell by their regular breathing that they were asleep.

"Ah!" said Gavril, who now returned with the firewood. "So thou hast
put the brats to bed. I would dearly love to choke the impudence out of
that older boy!"

And the cruel grin widened like a beast's at sight of prey, and the
cat-like eyes narrowed till they were only two gleaming slits. He
stepped across to the low bed and, stooping, pulled the collar of the
sheepskin shoob away from Alf's face and throat. Stepan was watching
him closely, distrust and dislike written large in his frowning brow
and set lips.

"Hands off, Gavril!" he said sternly. "I promised the children that
they should sleep secure, and they shall! Come away from them!"

"Thou soft-hearted old coddle!" sneered Red-scar, replacing the fur,
and taking his seat by the stove. "But now to business! How long are we
to keep these imps in hiding?"

"How can I tell? Thy purpose was to hold them to ransom; but, pray,
who is there to ransom them? The parents and nurse have disappeared;
thou dost not know of any reward offered. Much more likely is it that
the police will track us down, and give us a taste of Siberia for our
pains. Poor little fellows! They have come to trouble before their
time, and through no fault of their own."

"Nay, then, if thou art so soft-hearted," said Gavril mockingly, "it is
a pity thou art not on the manager's side rather than ours."

"Well, yes," replied Stepan coolly; "if 'our side' means to be with
thee, it would certainly be more to my credit if I went back to serve
under my old master."

"Thou double-faced traitor!" exclaimed Gavril with a threatening
gesture.

"I was a fool," said Stepan, "to let my own private grievance drive
me to join the rest of you—such a black gang, too, and thou, Gavril,
blackest of all!"

"Another word, and I brain thee with this axe!" cried Red-scar.



CHAPTER V.

STEPAN MAKES COFFEE.

"BAH!" said Stepan, moving not a muscle as Gavril brandished the great
axe over his head. "It seems to me that, for a man no longer in his
first youth, thou art passing foolish. Hast thou not sin enough yet
upon thy soul but thou must add murder to thy wrongdoings? In truth,
Red-scar, thou hast much to learn, and thou wilt one day learn thy last
lesson too late, with a noose about thy neck."

"Now out upon thee for an old croaker!" cried Gavril, but his cheek had
paled, and he had put the axe down.

"Hush!" said Stepan. "No more! The boys are waking."

Two days passed, and Alf and Bert had not much to complain of, save
that they were not allowed to leave the hut. Gavril was away most of
the time, and they were left with Stepan, who, though often moody, was
never unkind.

But on the third day he announced his intention to go and make inquiry
about his brother, who was in prison in a town about twenty versts
away. As he spoke, the boys' cheeks blanched with terror.

"Oh, Stepan," said Alf, "if thou leave us here, we shall die of fright.
Red-scar hates us, and if he find that he can gain nothing by us, he
will get rid of us somehow. In this lonely place, what is to hinder his
doing just as he likes?"

Stepan listened thoughtfully. At last he said, "Ah well! It must come
to a breach sooner or later, and why not sooner? One thing I can do, my
children. Gavril expects to be away all to-night, and he charged me,
in case I had to leave before his return, to bolt you in securely so
that you should not escape. Suppose we say that I bolt the doors as I
promised, but if you are outside them instead of inside, I will not try
to prevent. Truth to say, I am weary of the responsibility of having
you here; before God, I wish you no ill, and I bitterly repent that
ever I took sides with the Black Gang. I have but thrown myself out of
good work; my family will be in distress, and what have I gained?"

"Dear old Stepan! Reproach not thyself any more," cried Alf, "and all
shall yet be well."

"Yes, Stepan. Only help us, and thou shalt not regret it," pleaded Bert
with tearful eyes.

"When our father comes to his own again," said Alf, "we will tell him
how thou didst protect and befriend us, and he will gladly take thee
back."

"But, my children, I know not what to do with you now, or whither to
conduct you. I must see my brother, or at least hear something about
him. My wife and children are with my old mother at St. Petersburg, so
I have no care for them just now. But as for you, I cannot take you
with me; what am I to do? To leave you here is to expose you to danger,
for I trust not Gavril."

"Let me tell thee what I propose," said Alf. "I have a feeling that can
we but get bank to our home, all will be well."

"Trying to get back is a great risk," replied Stepan, "but it is a
choice of evils, and perhaps it is safer for you to be on the march
homeward than alone with Gavril here."

"Of course I shall take Sharik," continued the boy. "He can easily
carry us both, and perhaps he will find the way home, though I do not
know it. He is such a clever little beast."

"There is plenty of food in the hut," said Stepan, "so you can fill
your pockets, and you must also carry some oats for the pony."

So this course was decided upon, and the details were talked over and
arranged before they went to bed.

But they had not had time to fall asleep when there came a loud
knocking at the door, and the harsh voice of Gavril shouted, "Wake up
there! Are you all dead? Open the door!"

Stepan, with a muttered exclamation, drew back the bolts. The boys
were sitting up pale and trembling, despair in their hearts, for they
had suddenly realised that their plan for flight was rendered utterly
useless. Red-scar had returned earlier than he was expected, and now
they would have to be left in his hands.

"Here I am," said he, "and you none of you look over and above pleased
to see me. Well, I have no good news for thee, Stepan; quite the
contrary. The factory and house are under guard, and Cossacks are
patrolling round the whole place. Lots of our men are under arrest, but
there is a report that the works are to start again in a week's time,
and that new hands have been engaged."

"That means that dad's safe, Bert!" whispered Alf. "Oh, if we could but
get there!"

"I hear that every hole and corner are being ransacked to find these
brats," Gavril went on, "and a reward has been offered, but it is not
enough. Another two days, and it will be doubled, and then I will think
about taking these dear sweet children home."

Stepan did not reply, and Gavril said, "Well, now I have told my news,
am I not to have any supper?"

"There is plenty on the shelf; help thyself," said Stepan.

"And am I to have nothing hot to drink after my long drive?"

For a moment Stepan appeared to take no notice; then, all at once, as
though acting on a sudden impulse, he replied, "All right, I will make
thee some coffee."

Gavril muttered a word or two of surly thanks, and went out to see to
the horse, while Stepan set about making the coffee.

"Oh, Stepan," whispered Bert, "now Red-scar has come home there is no
chance of our getting away."

"It does seem hard!" said Alf. "Just when we had settled it all so
nicely too."

Stepan looked up with something very like a smile on his swarthy face.

"Be not down-hearted, my children," he said. "I think we will give
Gavril the slip yet."



CHAPTER VI.

RED-SCAR GOES TO SLEEP—ALF AND BERT ESCAPE WITH THE PONY.

STEPAN would not suffer Alf and Bert to ask any questions; but they
felt that he had a definite purpose and plan, and hope began to rise
again in their poor little hearts. Quietly they lay in bed, watching
him. They saw him put fresh wood on the fire, and water to boil. They
saw him get the canister of coffee and measure out a liberal quantity.

And then they saw something else which set them wondering. Into a tiny
saucepan containing only a little water, he emptied a small paper
bag of faded-looking green things like round dried pods. He put a
cover on the saucepan and set it to boil. Then when he had made the
coffee, straining it through a bag, he poured through the bag also the
decoction he had prepared in the small saucepan and mixed it with the
coffee.

It was just ready, and the small saucepan rinsed out and put away, when
Gavril came in.

"Make haste now and get thy supper," said Stepan. "Thou art keeping
these children awake, and me too; thou hast forgotten that I must make
an early start."

Gavril grunted and took a long draught of coffee.

"This coffee of thine has a queer taste, Stepan," he said. "What hast
thou done to it?"

"What should I do?" replied the other coolly. "Perhaps it was made in
too much of a hurry. People who come in at midnight can hardly, in the
backwoods, expect a hotel supper served."

"Well, anyhow, it is hot, and it warms me," said Gavril.

"Yes, and there is condensed milk in it, so it is nourishing. Drink it
up and lie down, and I will put out the light."

Gavril said no more. He ate his bread and cheese, and two salted
cucumbers, and drank up the coffee to the last drop. Then, overcome
with weariness, apparently, he rolled himself up in his sheepskin, lay
down on the pile of straw in a corner, and was snoring loudly in a few
minutes.

Stepan remained quite quiet for about a quarter of an hour, glancing at
Gavril at intervals. At last, assured of his sound slumber, he went to
and fro in the hut, collecting the things that would be required for
the journey of the boys and himself. Bread, cheese, a small kettle and
tin of tea, and a few lumps of sugar, an axe, and his own revolver.
The food he divided into two portions, one for himself, one for the
children, all but the parcel of tea and sugar, which he gave to them
just as it was.

"You may get up now," he whispered to Alf and Bert, as his preparations
neared completion; "get up and put on your furs; and you," he added to
Alf, "see to the pony. No," he said, with a smile, as the lad's eyes
turned with fear to the snoring Gavril; "you need have no misgiving. He
will not wake for hours. I gave him a decoction of poppy-heads in his
coffee, on purpose to quiet him, so that we could get away."

"Then why should we not take our own sledge and horse as well as the
pony?" said Alf. "Gavril stole them from us; we shall but be taking
back our own."

"It is true, you are right," said Stepan.

"Look here, dear Stepan," said Alf, clasping the man's rough brown hand
in both of his. "Thou art so good to us, we cannot but love thee, and
father will love thee too when we tell him all. Take thou the horse
and sledge for thy journey, and then afterwards bring them back to the
factory; and we, in our father's name, promise thee a welcome, and that
all shall be forgotten save thy goodness to us. Sharik can easily carry
my brother and me; and so we shall run away both with horse and pony,
and Red-scar, if he chase us, must do it on his own splay feet. Say,
Stepan, shall it not be so?"

The man's brown eyes grew moist. He raised the boy's hand to his lips.

"Yes, little sir, if God please, it shall be even so," he said.

More loud than ever was Gavril's snoring when the sledge glided
noiselessly away over the snow through the wood, with Sharik trotting
nimbly behind, making nothing of his double burden.

Until they reached the edge of the forest, their way lay in the same
direction, but there the roads diverged.

"That is your route, my children," said Stepan, pointing across the
snowy landscape, "and this is mine. Good-bye. God be with you."

With these words he was turning away, when both boys called out, "Wait
one moment!"

And as he reined up, Alf guided the pony close to the sledge, and the
lads threw their arms round the man's neck and kissed him.

"Nay, Stepan," said Alf, as the poor fellow gave a great sob, "thou
must not weep. We shall (for God is so good) soon see thy face again.
Look forward to a welcome from us who love thee."

But Stepan could make no answer. The tears were running down his cheeks
as he drove away, looking back again and again, and waving his hand.

"And now, Sharik, I wonder if you have any sort of idea where our home
lies?" said Alf. "Sit quite still, Bert, and we will see if he chooses
any road for himself."

The boys sat motionless, having reined up the pony. Now Alf dropped the
reins and waited.

After a full minute Shank turned his head with a look of inquiry, and
Alf said very emphatically, "Home, Sharik! Find your way home, old boy!
Maybe you know it; we don't."

The wise little animal threw up his head and sniffed the air. Then he
snorted and struck off at a smart canter, along a road that led across
a frozen marsh for miles and miles. And the moon looked down upon the
little travellers, and the stars peeped at them. And the God and Father
Whom they trusted was far above moon and stars, yet very near to them
in His love and care.

"It can't be much more than twenty to twenty-five miles to the factory
from here," said Alf, half turning in the saddle; for Bert was sitting
behind him, both arms round his brother's waist, to keep himself on the
pony's back.

"No, it can't be so very far," assented Bert, "for we came in little
over two hours, when Red-scar drove us, and we did not run more than
eleven miles an hour, for all his slashing."

"Still, it is a long way for Sharik, and with two of us on his back,"
rejoined All, "though I must say he doesn't seem to mind it a scrap, so
far. But, of course, he may be tired after a while, and when he is, we
must get off and give him a rest and a feed. But we must move on now as
quickly as we can, for fear of pursuit."

"But," said Bert, "Red-scar has only his own legs on which to pursue
us, and Sharik is going bravely; no man walking or running could
possibly overtake him."

"No, and I felt pretty safe too, till just now," replied Alf. "But look
at that deep snow we're coming to! The pony will have to go slowly, for
he will sink in up to his knees."

"Well, yes, of course," rejoined Bert; "but then, if Red-scar came
after us, would he not do the same?"

"No, he wouldn't; that's just it! I never thought of it till just this
minute, but do you remember seeing two queer-looking things shaped like
something between a sledge and a boat, and with thongs to them? They
were hanging up in the corner of the log-house farthest away from the
stove."

"Yes," answered Bert; "I remember now you speak of them; what were
they?"

"Stepan told me they were snow-shoes, and when you have them on you
can slip over the snow almost as though you were skating on ice. You
don't sink in a scrap, and that's why the bear-hunters always use them.
Because—if Mr. Bruin wakes up very cross out of his winter sleep, and
a hunter happens to miss fire, and the bear chases him—he can get away
easily on his snow-shoes, while old Bruin sinks up to his haunches in
the drifts."

"But, Alf," said Bert, "you don't really believe that Red-scar could
overtake Sharik, and get possession of us again, do you? It would be
just too dreadful!"

"Yes, worse than anything I could think of," rejoined Alf. "But there,
Bert dear, we won't look forward to such a thing and make ourselves
miserable over it. After all, just think how We have been watched over
and protected, in spite of dangers. And I have the same feeling now
that I had when I rode to the town—that God is with us—close to us
both; and that if we put our whole trust in Him, and just take the way
that He opens up before us, all will be well."



CHAPTER VII.

A RACE FOR LIFE—CHASED BY WOLVES.

"WHO could have thought," said Bert, "that Stepan would turn out our
friend after all—and so good to us! That was God's doing, wasn't it?"

"Of course it was," said Alf confidently.

"But, oh, if only Stepan could have come with us, it would have been
such a comfort," said Bert.

"Yes, but how could he, when he was so anxious about his brother? And
he told me yesterday that some of the prisons in those small towns here
in the interior of Russia are such dreadful holes that prisoners often
die of cold and want and disease, and no one ever hears of them any
more."

While the boys were talking, the pony was going steadily forward,
picking his way carefully where the road was uneven and the snow frozen
into rough ridges; but quickening his pace to a canter whenever the way
was smooth enough.

But now—suddenly—he stopped short, his head turned to meet the wind,
his nostrils evidently receiving a scent that startled and alarmed him.

The lads felt him stiffen and grow rigid under the saddle, and their
hearts beat quick with fear.

Full of horror of what might be coming, they looked round,
half-expecting to see Red-scar striding after them on his snow-shoes;
but no human foe was in sight. They saw, however, against the white
background, two or three black shadows skulking along at some little
distance behind, and stopping when Sharik stopped. And in a moment the
young riders understood what had thrilled their brave little steed with
fear.

"Wolves?" questioned Bert in a husky voice.

"Yes," replied Alf; "but not many of them yet; not enough to be
dangerous. We may be able to get to some place where we can be safe
before there are more of them. They haven't sounded their hunting-cry
yet."

"Oh, Alf!" sighed poor Bert, "I never thought of such a thing as this!
It's too dreadful."

"Go on, Sharik!" cried Alf, pressing his heels against the pony's fat
sides. "You can gallop when you choose, and you, Bert, sit tight!"

In the distance, under the cold white moonlight, the lads could see
before them the long dark line of a forest. Alf pointed to it.

"We may get shelter there," he said.

And even as he spoke, the long-drawn howl, the rallying-call of the
leader-wolf, rang out on the wind that came up behind them. It was the
hunting-cry, and at the sound, Sharik galloped as he had never galloped
before.

It is very unusual in these modern days, even in Russia, for wolves in
any number to be found as near as this to a town. But the frost had
come early, and the winter was very severe, so that the wild animals
had approached the dwellings of man in search of food; and now this
flying quarry of theirs seemed to them fair game.

Flying quarry, indeed! It appeared to the boys that they were not
riding at all, but just hurtling through the air; such was their pony's
speed, utterly unknown to them before, utterly unexpected now. But
Sharik knew well enough that he was flying for his own life as well as
for that of his young masters, and terror winged his small hoofs and
carried them along at racing speed.

Now and then Alf or Bert looked back, and marked how the line of the
pursuers lengthened, and, in spite of their pony's breakneck pace, the
lads could not but realise that the hunters were gaining upon their
quarry.

Also, after about twenty minutes of this tearing gallop, Sharik began
to show signs of distress.

"He can't keep this up much longer," said Alf, "and we're some way
still from the woods. We must pull up and let him get his breath."

"Then the wolves will overtake and pull us down," said Bert.

"Let me think a moment!" muttered Alf. Then, after a silence, he turned
his head and said: "Where's the kettle, Bert?"

"Here, slung to my belt," replied the little boy.

"Can you manage with one hand to get it free? I'll turn and help to
hold you on."

In a second or two Bert had unslung the kettle—a light, new, bright tin
one.

"Fish my ball of string out of my pocket, if you can," said Alf.

Bert dived his hand into a big back pocket of the fur coat, and pulled
out a small ball of strong twine, which Alf always carried about with
him.



CHAPTER VIII.

TRICKING THE WOLVES—THE HUT IN THE FOREST.

"I'M so buttoned up in this tight coat that I can't get at anything
in my vest or trouser pockets. Have you a pocket-knife, Bert, or some
copper coins, or metal things of any sort?" asked Alf, keeping the pony
well in hand, and patting the shaggy neck, now bathed in sweat.

"Yes, I've my old knife, and some three and five copeck pieces; will
that do?" questioned Bert.

"If I hold the kettle, can you put the things into it?" inquired Alf.

"Yes, I can hold on to you with one arm. There! Now they're in!"

"Does the lid fit tight?"

"Yes, very tight indeed. But, oh, Alf, the wolves are nearer!"

"Never mind," rejoined the elder boy. "Now I'm going to pull Sharik up
for a minute, and you must quickly tie this end of the string to the
handle of the kettle, and mind and tie the right kind of knots."

There was a pause. The pony had stopped, panting heavily, his head
drooping, his mouth all foam. The line of wolves—closer now—had stopped
too, ears pricked inquiringly, tails out.

"Have you done it? Then give me the ball of string, and you hold on to
my waist, for I'm going to start again. Don't bother about the kettle,
let it drop behind, and I'll pay out a long line, and let the thing
come bumping and clattering after us. It may puzzle the wolves, and
make them afraid of catching us up, and so we shall perhaps gain time
for Sharik to get his wind again."

Alf's good idea was at once acted upon, and as the bright tin kettle
descended to the road, and came pounding and bumping along, clattering
and ringing and jingling with the tumbling and shifting of its metal
contents, the wolves began, with common consent, to lag behind.

For here, undoubtedly, they seemed to think, was a trap or snare of
some weird and deadly nature, and they dared not pass it, but loped
along some way behind, looking dejected and well-nigh despairing.

Seeing this, Alf suffered Sharik to go his own pace, and presently the
good little steed got his wind again, and galloped on bravely.

"Hark!" exclaimed Bert, clutching his brother in his excitement.
"What's that!"

Alf pulled up—no easy matter, for Sharik was going his best. Both boys
shuddered, as a loud, hoarse cry of horror and fear came towards them
on the following wind. It was the cry of some strong man in mortal
peril and deadly terror, and as it rang out again and again on the
frosty air, both the boys turned sick with sympathetic fear and a
dreadful understanding of the truth.

For, strange to say, the long line of pursuing wolves had broken, and
those that had been nearest to the young riders had turned, and were
cantering back as though scenting another and an easier quarry.

As the lads waited, listening spellbound, two shots rang out sharply,
followed by dismal howling and snarling. Then there was a pause and
another shot, more yells, and one last despairing call for help that
was not at hand.

The eyes of the two boys met, and the same thought flashed into the
minds of each.

"Yes," said Alf, in a hushed, awe-struck voice, "it is, I truly
believe, Gavril of the Red-scar. He had come after us on his
snow-shoes, but God did not suffer him to overtake us. Oh, Bert, do you
remember what dad was reading at prayers the other morning? The words
of a bit of a verse have been haunting me ever since we started to-day.
The enemy said, 'I will pursue,' but the enemy didn't overtake the
Israelites, nor our enemy us. Now, Sharik, go on, and get us quickly to
the wood."

The tardy light of the winter morning was just beginning to glimmer
grey-white in the east as the young riders reached the wood which, for
all the last part of their way, had been the goal of their hopes.

The road, such as it was, narrow and ill-defined, led through the heart
of the forest; and—anxious to find some safe place where they could
rest—the boys rode slowly along, eyeing with eager glances every little
clearing for signs of a woodman's hut or peasant's cottage, or even a
shed, so that it had walls and a roof.

For some time, however, nothing was to be seen but the thickly-growing,
snow-clad pines and firs. But at last Bert's quick eyes spied out among
a mass of saplings a small building, made apparently of split pine
logs, the round side turned outwards.

Nothing could well have been poorer in the way of a house, nothing more
uninviting. Yet never was the sight of a king's palace so welcome to
anyone as this hovel to our tired young travellers, for at least it
promised safety and a place where they could lie down and sleep off
some of their great weariness.

The door was fast closed, but there were sounds within, and they could
see a light through the little bottle-glass window. Leading the pony,
the boys stopped at the door and knocked.

"Go not to the door, Sonia, open it not!" cried a man's voice within.
"Who knows but it may be the police?"

"Nay," replied a woman's sweet tones, "the police will not come hither.
Have no fears, my dear. I will see who knocks."

The door opened, and a young woman asked:

"Who are you, my children, and what do you alone in the heart of the
forest at this early hour?" she said gently.

And her face was so kind and true, and her voice so sweet, that Alf at
once resolved to tell her all and enlist her sympathies.

"Wilt thou, in thy goodness of heart," he said, "suffer us children to
enter your cottage, and sleep for an hour or two in some corner? We are
chilled to the bone and spent with weariness, for we have ridden for
hours in the bitter cold, and been chased by wolves, so that it is only
of God's mercy that we have come through at all. But we will tell thee
our whole story if we may but come in."



CHAPTER IX.

A WONDERFUL MEETING—HOW PAMPHIL ESCAPED FROM PRISON.

"ENTER in God's name, my poor little doves," said the woman. "And thou,
my husband, make room by the fire for our frozen visitors! Hearest
thou, sleepy one? These children are ice-cold, and thou halt been
roasting this hour or more and now art done to a turn." And she laughed
softly.

Bert crossed the threshold and entered the hut, but Alf still stood
outside, his arm through Sharik's rein.

"Good dame," said he, "what shall I do with my pony? He has carried
us both so bravely, and now is even more spent and weary than we are
ourselves. We have food for him and also for us, so we need not to be
chargeable to thee and thy husband. Only let us rest a while, and have
some boiling water for our tea, and to make a mash for Sharik, and at
noon we go forward again to the big oil zavot."

Here the man by the stove made an uneasy movement and turned his head
away.

"The big oil zavot?" repeated he. "With the English manager?"

"Yes. Knowest thou the place and him?" asked All.

"Seest thou not, oh, my husband," said the woman, "that thou art
keeping the young gentleman outside—him and his horse? Come in, young
sir, and since we have no stable or other shelter than this, let the
pony enter with you. He is not vicious, I suppose?"

"Vicious! Our Sharik?" cried both lads at once. "See here, good dame!"

"Lie down, Sharik!" said Alf, laying one hand on his mane and the other
gently on his stout little knees, which were trembling now with fatigue
and fear. The pony put his face up to Alf's, and rubbed his velvet nose
against the boy's cheek; then, obediently, he bent his knees and lay
down contentedly in a corner.

"There, kind soul, thou seest what sort of a pet he is! Our fitter and
friend, Stepan, says that Sharik is like a human being for sense, and
like an angel for temper."

"Your fitter and friend, Stepan, young gentlemen?" exclaimed the man,
who had hitherto kept his face away from the light, and had stolen only
a glance or two at the young visitors.

"Yes, knowest thou him?" cried Alf. "We thought him at first our enemy,
like Anton and Gavril of the Red-scar; but afterwards, he proved
himself our friend."

"Yes," put in Bert, "and he would fain have come homeward with us, but
that he felt he must go and seek his brother in prison, and see how he
fared."

At this the man sprang to his feet in uncontrollable agitation, and
faced the children in the light of the lamp.

Both Alf and Bert uttered an exclamation of amazement, and then stood
staring at him for a minute, unable to say a word.

At last Alf cried out joyfully: "By all that is wonderful—thou must
be—thou art—that very brother of Stepan's whom he went to see! Yes—I
remember thee well! Thou art Pamphil!"

"It is true, young sir," rejoined the man, "I am Pamphil!"

"But how didst thou escape from prison?" inquired Alf.

"Ask my Sonia there," replied Pamphil.

"It was like this, young sir," said Sonia. "I had a cousin, a warder in
the prison, and he had pity on my husband. We had only been married a
week when he was put in gaol, and for something he did not do."

"Did not do?" echoed Bert.

"No; another made the murderous assault, but being fleet of foot, he
escaped. My husband had been drinking, and did not know what was going
on, and so was arrested for the other man's fault, because he was the
only one present. There was no proper trial; perhaps there never would
have been. Well—my cousin Vassia was a warder, and he bribed Pamphil's
warder with my gold cross (which had been in our family for eighty
years) to let my husband escape. Pamphil came straight here to me.

"My father is a woodman, and this is his hut where he sleeps when he is
wood-cutting. Here we are safe. And now and then, I go to our village
for flour, and salt, and butter and tea, and Pamphil sometimes snares
a hare or shoots a bird, and so we manage to live. And I am happy,
because he has given up the drink, and says he will never take any
again."

"That is true, Sonia, but with all this talk we are keeping our guests
from their refreshment and from the sleep they so much need."

It was almost sunset of a brilliant winter's afternoon, and the boys
and Sharik were still asleep. For though Alf had thought to start for
home at noon, Sonia found him and Bert sleeping so soundly that she had
not the heart to wake them.

And she had just gone to the door to look out for a moment, when a
one-horse sledge, with a man in it, drew up before the hut. Sonia gave
a cry of joy, and opened the door wide.

"Come here, Pamphil!" she said, hushing her voice to a whisper,
remembering the children.

Pamphil reached the doorway just as the man had got out of the sledge,
and they met on the threshold.

"Thou, Stepan!"

"Thou, Pamphil!"

And then the two brothers fell on each other's necks, and kissed in
true Russian fashion.

"I went to the prison," said Stepan. "And there I saw Sonia's cousin,
who told me of thine escape. And of course I knew that thou must hide
for a time, and yet wouldest wish to be with thy wife."



CHAPTER X.

THE MEETING IN THE HUT—SAFE AT HOME.

"SO, then," continued Stepan, "having driven this way before on
business for the factory, I remembered thy father's hut, Sonia, and
thought I would call here, on the chance of finding thee, and also to
ask if thou knowest anything of the two little gentlemen who started
from a hut ten miles or more from here on the homeward journey. I am
terribly anxious about them, for on the way here to-day I came upon
the remains of a man who had been devoured by wolves. Fresh snow had
fallen, so that very little remained uncovered, but it made me feel
doubly uneasy. I did not know that wolves came here to these parts
in any numbers; but it must be the early and severe winter that has
brought them."

"Since thou art so anxious, brother, come and look here," said Sonia,
and she pointed to the farthest corner of the room, where, on a bed of
straw, lay Sharik the pony, and Alf and Bert with their heads pillowed
on his back—all fast asleep.

"Now God be praised for all His mercies!" exclaimed Stepan, taking off
his cap and crossing himself. "This is joy indeed!"

By this time, the sound of the eager voices had penetrated even into
dreamland, and the boys sat up, rubbing their eyes.

"I was dreaming," said Bert, still more than half-asleep, "of Stepan."

"So was I," rejoined Alf, and then, looking up, he exclaimed, "And here
he is!"

Then both lads, crying and laughing at once, threw their arms round the
man's neck, and tears of gladness and thankfulness ran down his cheeks
as he held them in a close embrace.

Sonia now set to work to prepare tea for the travellers, and the horse,
harnessed to the sledge, was warmly covered over, and made quite happy
with a full nose-bag, while Sharik was fed and petted to his heart's
content. Half an hour later, Stepan and the boys were on their way
homeward in the sledge, the pony trotting merrily behind, and neighing
for joy, every now and then, to his friend in the shafts.

It was quite dark when the sledge stopped inside the great yard at
the house door. Work in the factory seemed to be in full swing, fires
everywhere, and the electric light streaming forth.

"Drive round to the stable-yard, Stepan," said Alf, "while we go in and
see if we can find anybody."

So saying, the boys passed through the big swing doors into the warm
hall. The office doors on either side of the hall were locked, for it
was Saturday, and the clerks had gone home.

"No one here," said Alf; "let's go up and try and find mother."

Upstairs they went, and paused on the first landing by the open door
of their parents' room. As they did so, they heard nurse's voice, and
stayed to listen.

"Dear Barina," she said, "no wonder this suspense is making you ill,
but, I beg you, do not despair. I seem to feel it here in my heart that
our dear children are safe, and that our prayers will be answered."

"Thy master is away searching for them himself, Niania," said the sad,
feeble voice of Mrs. Oliver, "but so far he—"

At that moment, the boys stepped from behind the screen that was round
the door, and mother and children were re-united.

And now, what remains to tell can be told in a few words: Mr. Oliver
came home late that night, only to find his sons safely there before
him.

How Stepan's repentance, and his kindness to the children, led to his
being restored to his place in the factory; how, after a while, Pamphil
too returned, having become steady and reliable; how Anton Griboff,
owing to the injury to his head, went mad and died in a lunatic
asylum—all this needs no further telling. Enough that trials and
dangers through which Alf and Bert Oliver had passed had deepened their
characters and strengthened their faith in God.

And later on, even when they were sent to school in England, they never
forgot their Russian adventures, or that they had once been, in deed
and in truth, in peril in Tsarland.



                           THE END.



                       THE WRONG TWIN

                       [Illustration]

CHAPTER I.

THE WRONG TWIN AND THE RIGHT ONE.

"CHILDREN, don't quarrel!" said Mr. Ellis, lifting his eyes from the
old manuscript he was examining.

"Be a nice, kind daddy," pleaded Dina, "and tell us a story just for
once, won't you? The rain is pouring down; we can't go out; Miss
Goodlett hasn't come back yet from town, and if we stay in with no one
to look after us, we shall quarrel again. Do, daddy!"

"Yes, dad, please do!" pleaded Gerald.

"Nonsense, children! Can't you see I'm busy? How selfish young folks
are, and how tiresome!"

Mr. Ellis spoke crossly, as he too often did, and Dina replied
drearily, "Are they? Then I wish we'd been born a hundred years old!
You'd have been proud of us then, daddy, and would always have been
inviting people to come and see your antique twins."

"Other children's daddies play with them and tell them stories on wet
days," said Gerry, in an injured tone, as he drew his sister out of the
room. "Oh, Dina, if only mamma were here!"

"Yes, wouldn't it be lovely! But her chest is not well enough for her
to come home yet."

"Nurse was talking to cook yesterday," remarked Gerald, "and I
overheard what was said. She told her that it was enough to make
anyone's lungs bad to live in a damp house, with no end of old bones
and parchments and specimens about; and that if mamma was sensible,
she'd stay where she was rather than be 'turned into a mummy afore her
time.'"

"And what did cookie say?" Dina inquired, with great interest.

"Oh, she said that nothing would please her more than to pile up all
dad's most precious treasures in the fireplace under the copper, set
them alight, and boil the clothes with them. For then, she said,
they'd have been of some use in the world, and 'be cleared away decent
afterwards as ashes into the dustbin.'"

Both children laughed at this, then, running to the window, they
discovered that the weather had improved.

"Look!" cried Gerald. "It's clearing up. Let's go and sail our boats in
the round pond."

So the twins took their boats and were soon in the home field, which
belonged to an old farmer near. Some cattle were grazing here, and
Gerry said, "You're farther sighted than I am, Dina; look if you can
see Farmer Donn's bull anywhere about. Somebody said he wasn't safe
now."

"He's nowhere that I can see," replied the little girl; "I think it's
all right."

And the children went on to the round pond which was in the centre of
the meadow. Here they found that the bank near the water was very muddy
and slippery, trodden into puddles too by the feet of the cattle, and
Dina began to pull off her shoes and stockings.

"Well, as you're doing that I need not," said Gerald; "I hate making
myself in a mess. You can go down the bank just as well by yourself,
and launch both the boats, and give me the string of mine while I stay
up on the grass."

Geraldine assented to this. She was too well accustomed to her
brother's selfishness to take much notice unless he was unkind as well.
So now she stepped, with little bare white feet, into the spongy mud,
handed Gerald the string of his boat, and presently both children had
forgotten everything but their small boats.

Suddenly they heard a shout behind them. "Look out! The bull! The bull!"

They both started and glanced round, and there was Farmer Donn's great
black bull rushing towards them across the grass. He had torn up the
paling of the smaller field in which he had been shut up, and thus
gained an entrance into the home meadow.

Running at full speed after the bull, and brandishing a pitchfork, came
Farmer Donn's cattle-man, and while he ran, he shouted, "Run, children!
Run! Run for your lives!"

And, knowing that they were running for their lives, away went the
twins, like leaves driven by a gale; away, as with winged feet, towards
the gate, while thundering after them and gaining at every stride,
galloped Nero, Farmer Donn's fierce black bull.

"It's no good!" gasped Gerald after a minute or two of hard running. "I
can't keep this up. I'm just done."

Geraldine snatched at his hand. She was both stronger and fleeter than
her brother, and her little bare feet trod lightly and swiftly over the
wet grass.

"Hold up another minute, Gerry!" she panted. "We'll be at the gate
by that time." But as she spoke, she glanced over her shoulder, and
shuddered to see that the bull was close behind—almost upon them.

Then a sudden thought flashed into that active little brain. She
would save her twin brother, her poor Gerry, and if she died in doing
it—well, it did not so very much matter, save to her mother—and she was
far away. To everyone else she was a plague, a bother, the wrong twin,
while Gerald was the pet of all.

This, that takes a minute in the telling, flashed through the child's
mind in a second, and she had made her plan.

Just in front of them was a clump of trees. Geraldine dragged her
brother to the far side of this clump, and pushed him down so that he
lay with one of the trunks of the trees between him and the bull.

"Lie still, Gerry!" she cried. Then out of the tree clump she dashed,
not twenty yards from the bull, and before he could turn in his tracks,
began to race back towards Joe Gerson, Farmer Donn's cattle-man.

With a snort of rage, Nero paused for a moment, head erect, tail
straight out. Once he glanced towards the clump of trees, then back
towards the fluttering pink skirt and twinkling feet of the flying
child. Then he made up his mind to follow her, and turning, resumed his
mad gallop, never seeing, in his headlong, blind rage, that Joe was
waiting for him. And the first thing that he knew was a very painful
sensation caused by the prongs of the pitchfork—which brought him
suddenly to a full stop and gave him something else to think of besides
the little light form he had been chasing like the great cowardly bully
that he was.

Joe was quickly joined by some stablemen and haymakers, and when a
strong cord had been passed through the ring in the great brute's nose,
and was held on either side by a man brandishing a hayfork, Nero felt
that he had no further chance of making himself famous, and submitted
sullenly to being led home and shut up in an outhouse.



CHAPTER II.

THE TWINS' JOKE.

AS for Geraldine, when the bull met Joe, and she heard the bellow of
pain that showed he had encountered his match, the child had dropped
senseless upon the grass. There she lay, while Gerald meanwhile had
picked himself up and, none the worse for his hard run, had found his
way home. The little girl was still there when Joe came back to look
after her, after securing his unruly charge.

"Was there ever such an unselfish, plucky, clever little lady!" said
the kind old fellow to himself as he lifted the child tenderly,
thankful to see in the small white face signs of returning
consciousness.

Slowly the fluttering eyelids lifted, and a look of intelligence dawned
in the great dark eyes. Then her lips moved.

"Thank you, Joe," she whispered. "Is Gerry safe?" And she gazed eagerly
up in the man's face.

"Which if Gerry means the young gent as was with you, miss, he's safe
as eggs," replied Joe. "He have gone home; I see him just in front of
the paddock as I were comin' back to find you, which I think he might
have come hisself to see where you was, more partic'lar as you'd just
done the cleverest, neatest, bravest dodge, and took all the danger on
yourself to save him. I could see what you was after, only I couldn't
get up sooner to help you. But you was good and brave, little lady, and
so I'd say if it was my last words."

"I don't think I deserve all that," said Dina, slipping from the man's
arms to the ground, and walking by his side. "You see, Gerry's my twin
brother, and I love him."

"Yes, miss, and you're the young gent's twin sister, and still he
forgot you."

This came back to Dina's mind after she had gone to bed in the little
room next to Gerald's, and, realising how true it was, she broke into
bitter sobbing and crying. "I saved him, yet he never thought of me
afterwards! No one loves me!" And faster came the tears, and deeper the
sobs.

Suddenly she heard a whisper in the darkness, and a cool, smooth cheek
touched her face.

"Don't, Twinnie darling—don't cry!" said Gerry's voice. "Somehow I
never really understood till just now what you'd done for me, not till
I was thinking it all over in bed; and I know I'm wicked sometimes,
dear, but I do love you, Twinnie, I do!"

So Geraldine was comforted and fell asleep, and dreamed that she was
once more in some deadly peril, and was rescued by One whom she somehow
knew to be the Lord Jesus Christ. And yet she had never thanked Him, or
remembered Him, or loved Him, though she had known that His life had
been given for hers.

"I thought Gerry was very cruel when he seemed to have forgotten me,"
said the child to herself on waking from her vivid dream. "I wonder—oh,
I wonder what Jesus thinks of me!"

Only for a day or two after the adventure with the bull were things in
the house more peaceable. Then—all about nothing—came a great upset.

Mr. Ellis, when he heard of Geraldine's courage (which he did from
Joe's master) called the children into his study, and was pleased to
express himself as gratified, adding that he hoped his daughter was
taking after his family and ancestors, who had always been remarkable
for presence of mind.

"But what are you giggling at, children?" he asked, half offended, as
the twins burst out into peals of laughter, after a glance and nudge at
each other.

"Only a riddle, dad," replied Gerald, "and an old one, but not bad.
Dina and I both thought of it when you said presence of mind."

"And what may this very amusing riddle be?" inquired Mr. Ellis drily.

"The question is, 'What is better than presence of mind in an
accident?'" said Dina.

"How silly!" commented Mr. Ellis. "Nothing can be better," and his
face maintained an unchanged gravity, though the children's eyes were
dancing with merriment.

"That's not the answer, dad! Do you give it up?" cried the little girl.

Mr. Ellis gave a resigned nod of assent.

"All right, dad!" said Gerald. "The answer to 'What is better than
presence of mind?' is simply 'Absence of body.'"

"Yes, dad," added Geraldine, "and we were thinking that if those family
portraits of the ever-so-old Ellis folks were at all like the real
people, it's rather a good thing that we haven't got their presence of
mind and body here now."

Mr. Ellis suddenly looked up with real displeasure. He was absurdly
proud of his family, and resented, even from his children, anything
that seemed like a slight to his ancestors.

"This is quite unbearable," he said, rising from his seat. "I see I
have been over-indulgent to you, and you take advantage. I am seriously
displeased at your want of respect in speaking of those whose portraits
you see in the dining-room. Go upstairs—both of you—and consider
yourselves in disgrace for the rest of the day."



CHAPTER III.

A DESPERATE PLAN.

THE twins eyed each other in consternation. Peevish fault-finding by
their father was common enough, and they had grown quite used to it,
but punishment was a thing well-nigh unheard of, and they had made the
sudden discovery that any fault they might commit, any scrape into
which they might fall, all counted for nothing. The only fault that was
past forgiveness was a laughing word against this hobby of his, and
what he deemed the honour of his house.

The children said not a word in protest. Out of the room they went
instantly, Gerald glaring angrily over his shoulder at his father,
Geraldine with her little dark head held very high, and her small nose
tilted.

Up they went to their own bedrooms, but kept the door open between, so
as to talk freely.

"Now then, what do you think of that, Dina?" exclaimed Gerald, standing
in the doorway.

"Think of it? Why, of course it's unjust. We'd done and said nothing
naughty a bit, and anyway it was only a joke, and couldn't hurt any old
ancestors."

"Of course not," rejoined Gerald, "and I, for one, am not going to
stand being punished when I don't deserve it."

Dina, did not respond; she was thinking intently.

Gerald went on. "Let's run away for the whole day, and don't come home
till we've given him a jolly good fright."

"We'd only get punished worse when we got back," said Dina.

"Yes, I didn't think of that," admitted Gerald.

There was a pause of a few seconds, then Geraldine's quaint little face
lighted up.

"Have you any money, Gerry," she asked, her eyes full of a new purpose.

"Only half-a-crown besides what's in the twins' box," replied the boy.

Now the twins' box was an old money-box, given them when they were
quite tiny children. Their nurse taught them to save their pennies and
put them into the slot in the lid. And later on, when relatives or
friends, or on rare occasions their father, gave them a Christmas or
birthday tip, these coins, too, were duly put, from force of habit,
into the faithful old box. So, year after year, the money was dropped
in and was forgotten.

"I meant to put this half-crown in the other day when mother sent it
for our birthday," said Gerald, "but I changed my clothes in a hurry,
and left it in my jacket pocket."

But Dina was not listening. She was thinking.

Presently she said, "That money's quite ours, isn't it, Gerry?"

"Rather!" replied Gerald with assurance. "But what have you got in your
head, Dina?"

"Gerry," replied the child, "for ever so long I've had such a big want
just here—" and she laid a small brown hand on her heart—"to see mother
and ask and tell her all sorts of things. We've done without her too
long, and things at home will be going wronger and wronger now we've
fallen out with dad. She can't come to us; she isn't well enough, but,
Gerry, why shouldn't—"

"Oh, I see, Twinnie!" cried Gerald. "I see! You want awfully to see
mother, and so do I; and you think we had better run away."

"Yes," said Dina in a mysterious whisper, "just run away to mother."

The next morning found the twins with their plans made. Indeed they had
been chattering half the night making their final arrangements. The
money-box was opened, and, much to the children's delight, the contents
proved to be about five pounds, in coins varying in value from a rare
half-sovereign to a frequent halfpenny.

From an early tip-toe visit to Mr. Ellis's study, while the rest of the
household was asleep, Gerald and Dina brought upstairs the big atlas
where even small towns were easy to find, and the twins soon found on
the map the place by the sea where their mother had for some time been
staying. Then they put down on a slip of paper the names of all the
towns in the direct line of travel between their home and the town for
which they were bound.

"There," said Gerald, "that will be a guide to us. When we are able to
walk, we will do so and save our money, and when we are tired, we can
go by train or tramcar, if we can get one. I heard dad say the other
day that it was only about a hundred and fifty miles, as the crow
flies."

"It will be more for us, as we are not crows!" replied Dina.

"At night," said Gerald, "we shall have to sleep at inns or farmhouses,
and buy food next morning to go on with."

"Yes, that's the way the children in the story-books do," replied Dina,
with a comfortable sense of following good example.

"There's still one thing we've got to do before we go," said Gerald.
"We must write a letter to dad. They always do, you know."

"Oh, yes, always," assented Geraldine out of her large experience; "and
in the letter let's tell him why we're going, and where."

"We will," rejoined Gerald. "I'll do the writing—shall I?—because my
hand's better than yours. Here goes then!"

   "'Dear Dad—'"

"But he isn't dear!" protested Dina. "Don't let's begin by telling
stories."

"All right. Then it shall be just 'Dad,'" and Gerald wrote as follows:—

   "'Dad, youve hert our feelings dreffuly by punnishing us for nuthing
we did rong for the saik of our nasty mussty old ansestars, so we're not
goeing to remane to be bulied, but we're off to Mother who isn't ungust
and unkinde. Dont come after us for we will never be taken alive.

                          "(Signed) THE TWINS."



CHAPTER IV.

BROTHER BOB.

SO the twins' letter was folded and addressed to their father, and left
on the hall table.

The night before, they had packed a few clothes in a black bag taken
from the box-room, and, now quite ready for their journey, they went
down to breakfast.

Their father did not breakfast with them, but had his meal brought to
him upstairs, so they could freely discuss their plans. They were just
rising from the table when there came a double knock at the front door,
and the parlour-maid took in a telegram and carried it up to Mr. Ellis.
The twins went on with their chatter, debating where to leave the
letter they had written to their father.

Suddenly Mr. Ellis's bell rang loudly, once, twice, thrice; and before
it could be answered, he came out in his dressing-gown on to the stairs.

"Is the boy waiting? Let him take this reply!" he called in a hoarse,
strained voice. "And tell Jack to harness the mare at once. I want the
dog-cart to take me to the station and catch the next train."

"What can it be?" whispered Gerald. "Something has happened."

But before his sister could answer, their father's voice was heard
calling them. Such a strange, broken voice, too—so different from his
usual querulous, peevish, high-pitched tones.

They ran up, and he met them, and they saw his face was white and drawn
and full of pain.

"Children," said he, "I've had bad news—the worst you can imagine."

"Oh, dad!" cried Dina, clasping her little hands together. "Nothing
wrong with mother?"

"Geraldine—Gerald—my poor little twins," said the father, for once
shaken out of his selfishness, "you have no mother. Your mother died
last night."

"O God! God!" moaned Dina, as she crept upstairs and throw herself down
upon her bed. "I wanted so to go to mother, and You've taken her away.
Please let me go to her where she is! Oh, please God, do take me too!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The last sad rites had been over for about a month, and the dreary home
had settled back into its usual dull routine.

Mr. Ellis had now gone back to his musty parchments, his ancient
curiosities, his old coins and antique gems; and the twins saw no more
of him than they had done before their mother's death.

Their governess had been out of health during her summer holidays, and
had been unable to return to them; their father's half-hearted attempt
to secure another had hitherto met with no result. So the children
wandered aimlessly about the house, grounds and neighbourhood, Gerald
very often vexed at his sister's listlessness and want of zeal in their
games and other occupations.

One day he missed her, in the afternoon, and found her at last in one
of the spare rooms which went by the name of Brother Bob's room.

On the wall of this room there hung a life-size oil-painting of a
handsome youth some fourteen years of age, whom the twins knew as
Brother Bob. There had always been something of a mystery about Brother
Bob, and Gerald and Dina had never seen him, and only knew him by his
picture. All they could learn about him from their old nurse (who had
returned to them since the death of Mrs. Ellis) was that Bob was a
son of Mr. Ellis by a former marriage, and was a mere infant when his
mother died.

His father had sent him to be brought up by an elder sister of his own,
who had spoilt the boy by over-indulgence, so that he had grown up
disobedient, self-willed and headstrong.

Nurse had seen the lad several times years ago, and she still kept a
soft spot in her heart for the poor, naughty scapegrace. Dina soon
found this out and shared it, and often she betook herself to this
room (which had been his when he stayed with his father during school
holidays), and remained there studying the bright, frank young face, so
full of spirit and promise—and wished she had a big grown-up brother.

Once, indeed, she had gathered up her courage and asked her father
where Brother Bob was, and why he did not come to see them; but Mr.
Ellis had turned upon her angrily and forbidden her ever again to
mention Bob's name.

And nurse had shaken her head and said sadly, in her old-fashioned way:

"Ah, well-a-day, Miss Dina, my darlin'! If his own father won't hear
him spoke of, sure the master knows somethin' as we don't, and I fear
me the poor lad has gone to the bad."

What the exact meaning of the phrase "gone to the bad" might mean, the
twins, even after heated discussion, could not agree, but the cloud of
mystery that overhung it seemed to make much worse any meaning it might
have.

"Why are you mooning in front of that picture?" said Gerald. "I want
you to come out with me. The nuts are ripe now in Hazel Copse, and if
we don't pick them, the village children will. Come along."

And with a lingering look at the picture, Dina turned and went with her
brother.

Together they explored the nut wood, filling their baskets and chatting
the while. Thus the afternoon passed, and the autumn twilight began to
close in.



CHAPTER V.

"IS IT BECAUSE YOU WENT TO THE BAD?"

"IT'S getting damp and cold," said Gerald at last; "we must be going
home." And hand-in-hand the twins wended homeward.

A short stretch of road came between the wood and the shrubbery that
surrounded their house, and they had left the road and just entered the
shrubbery gate, when they saw, a little way in front of them, the tall
figure of a young man walking at a good pace towards the house.

"Who can that be?" said Gerald in a whisper. "Visitors never come up
this way."

Suddenly the young fellow, perhaps hearing voices or footsteps behind
him, turned his head, saw the children following, and stayed waiting
till they came up.

"What do you want? This is not the visitors' way," said Gerald, rather
rudely, staring at the tall upright figure in the semi-darkness.

"I know," replied the young man; "I am not a visitor. I was going round
to the servants' entrance. Perhaps you will kindly tell me," (and he
turned to Dina, who had not yet spoken), "if the old nurse who used to
live in Mr. Ellis's family is still there."

"Yes," replied the little girl, "she is. Did you want her?"

"I did—I do," replied the stranger, with a smile which set the child's
heart beating fast; "I wanted to ask her a question."

"Maybe we can answer your question," suggested Gerald.

"Thank you; I only wished to ask whether Robert Ellis's room had been
allowed to remain as he left it, or if it had been turned out and
altered."

"Oh!" cried Dina, "We know all about that. Dear mother would
never—right from the first—have a thing touched. The room was kept
clean and had a fire in it sometimes, but everything is the same as it
used to be—even the dear beautiful Brother Bob picture on the wall."

A queer sound came from the stranger's lips. Then in a choked voice he
said, "Some papers left in the room are wanted, and I thought perhaps
nurse would get them for me—to—give to Robert Ellis."

But just here Dina, who had been gazing intently into the stranger's
face, gave a joyful cry.

"Oh, Gerry! Don't you see? It's Brother Bob himself—I know it is! Oh,
Brother Bob, you can't think how I've wanted you! Come home with us!"
And Dina caught hold of his hand.

But the young fellow shook his head. "No," he said, "I must not."

"Why?" asked Dina. "Is it because you went to the bad?" An odd sort of
smile, half comical, half sad, curled the handsome lips as he nodded
assent.

"Well," put in Gerald, "wherever you went, you're not there now, for
you're here with us—your step-brother and sister—so come along. You
shall see nurse and your old room, and maybe dad, but I won't answer
for him, because no one can, you know."

The interview between Bob Ellis and nurse, and the young man's visit to
his own room, were managed easily enough. The other servants were at
tea downstairs, out of sight and hearing, and Mr. Ellis was, as usual,
in his study, which was on the first floor and facing the opposite side
of the house.

When Bob and nurse came down, they found the twins waiting for them at
the foot of the stairs.

"Have you found your papers, Brother Bob?" inquired Gerald.

"Yes, I have," replied the young man.

"And you saw your picture again, that we're so fond of?" queried Dina.

"Yes, I saw my picture too. And now," added Bob, "I must be off. It
will hardly do for father to catch me here."

"I should think he'd be glad to see you again after this long time!"
said Dina. "And if he asked you to come home to live, you would,
wouldn't you?"

Bob looked down into the earnest little face uplifted towards him, and
said gently, "Well, dear, perhaps, if he really wished it."



CHAPTER VI.

FATHER AND SON.

IN a moment Gerald was knocking at the study door.

"May I come in, dad?" cried his rather shrill tones.

The watchers down below heard an exclamation of impatience, and then
the peevish voice, "Those tiresome brats again!"

"Come in—if you must!" cried Mr. Ellis at last, and Gerald entered.

"Well, child, and what now?" said the father, putting down a magnifying
glass with which he was examining an old silver amulet.

"Please, dad," said the boy, "Brother Bob's here, and he's quite come
back from the bad—you know—where he went, and Dina and I and nurse
want him to come home for good. He won't give you any trouble," went
on Gerald, "and he won't meddle with any of your treasures, and I
shouldn't wonder if he'd teach us twins, and save you the expense of a
governess, so you'd have more money to spend on—" here Gerald looked
round the room—"well, on the nasty things you like."

It was not a very happy finish to his sentence, but it struck him that,
happy or not, Mr. Ellis did not hear it. At the mention of Bob's name,
he had risen from his seat, his face full of anger.

"Bob here?" he exclaimed. "How dare he? Tell him—no—I'll see him
myself! Go down, Gerald!"

And as the boy went, Mr. Ellis came to the top of the stairs, and
called in a cold, hard voice, "Robert, come up here."

"No good won't come of this, I'm afraid!" said nurse.

Bob said nothing; his face wore a strange mingling of expressions as he
went upstairs.

"Come in and shut the door," said Mr. Ellis, going before him into the
room.

Bob obeyed.

"Now, sir, what does this visit mean? Did I not forbid you my house?"

"You did, sir, and I had no intention of intruding upon you. All I came
for was some old letters of my mother's and grandmother's, and a few
trifles which had been theirs. I meant to see nurse and ask for these,
but I met the children, and they would not be content unless I waited
to see you."

"And you were foolish enough to yield to their wish?"

"I was, sir," rejoined the young man in a voice trembling with emotion.
"And after all, am I not your son?"

"You are—worse luck for me! And a prodigal son at that!"

"Since you refer to the prodigal, sir," said Bob "might I venture to
remind you how the father in the parable received his repentant son?"

"I object to Scripture being dragged into every day life," said Mr.
Ellis. "Still, as you are here, I'll hear what you have to say. No one
shall call me unjust or unfair." And he drew himself up with a gesture
and half-smile of self-righteousness that might well have been those
of the proud Pharisee in the parable when, standing and praying with
himself, he said, "Lord, I thank Thee that I am not as other men are."

"Thank you, sir," said Bob. "I've only to tell you that I'm sorry for
the past; I know I've behaved badly; but I'd be glad to give up my
companions and my shady means of living, if I might come home."

"I dare say you would," replied Mr. Ellis; "they all say that, and I
can't trust you. No—as you made your bed, you must lie on it. It would
be robbing myself and the rest if I took you back."

"One moment, father. Hear me out before you send me back to the old
sins and sorrows again. I want to be different from what I've been. I
want to earn an honest living. Give me a chance! Oh, father, for God's
sake, for my poor soul's sake, give me just one chance. Let me come
home?"

The passionate entreaty of the young voice touched, to some extent,
even the hard heart of Mr. Ellis, but the momentary feeling was
instantly swallowed up by the pride and selfishness which were making
him the meanest of men.

"I owe it to myself," said he coldly, "not to turn my house into a
reformatory, and I cannot, therefore, receive you here. I give you this
five-pound note, which you will please to regard as a farewell present,
and under no pretext are you to come here again."

"But, father, for pity's sake—"

"Enough, Robert! I will hear no more."

"Then there's nothing for me but to go—to the bad!" cried the young man
despairingly.

"Really," replied Mr. Ellis, "things being as they are, that's your
affair, not mine."

Then the door opened, and Bob ran downstairs.

"Don't stop me, children! It's all up with me!" he sobbed, as the twins
clung to his arm. "I'm a poor outcast, whom no one loves. I'm going to
the bad again."

Throwing off the little clinging hands, while great tears ran down his
pale cheeks, he opened the hall door and sprang out.

He was already in the dark of the shrubbery path, when he felt a
little, soft, warm hand steal into his own, and Dina's voice whispered,
"You mustn't think nobody loves you, Brother Bob; I love you ever so
much; and I'm going to pray to God for you every day, just as I used
for dear mother. Won't you kiss me, please?"

Brother Bob stooped and kissed his little sister, and tried to speak,
but could not—and so passed on alone into the night.



CHAPTER VII.

AN ARRIVAL, AND THE NOISE IN THE NIGHT.

"DINA, she's come! She's come! I haven't seen her, but I saw the
carriage and the luggage."

"So we've got a governess at last!" remarked Dina. "I'd forgotten she
was coming to-day."

"Let's have our guessing game as to what she'll be like," said Gerald,
"and see which of us gets nearest to the truth."

"All right!" rejoined Dina. "I guess that she is very tall, dark,
rather bony, and wears a big comb in her back hair, and not much hair
to put the comb in. Oh, yes, and blue goggles!"

Gerald laughed.

"What a beauty!" he said. "Now I guess she's fair, red hair perhaps,
and very much poodled—you know what I mean—curled and frizzed and
fussed. She's a sort of pretty, make-believe, doll-de-doll-doll
governess."

Dina laughed in her turn. "I don't like your guess any better than I do
mine," she said.

"Maybe we're both wrong," answered Gerald; and so it turned out.

Indeed so far away from the truth were the guesses of both that, when
the new governess came down to tea, the twins could only stare.

And Mr. Ellis, who had joined them at tea in honour of the new arrival,
said sharply, "Well, children, where are your manners? Have you no
welcome for Miss Burnard?"

"It is natural they should feel a little shy of a stranger just at
first," said she pleasantly, with a bright smile; "but I hope we may be
very good friends soon. Do you know, my dears, I have always wished to
have twins to teach; I think twins are so very interesting."

"We're not," rejoined Dina; "ask dad!"

"No, thank you," laughed Miss Burnard, "I am not going to ask anyone. I
mean to judge for myself. But I love children so dearly that to me they
are always interesting."

After tea the twins went out again, while the governess unpacked her
boxes, and settled comfortably into her own room.

"I say, Dina," said Gerald, "she's not a bit like your guess of the
grenadier party with the comb."

"Nor the poodley, doll-de-doll-doll that you guessed," retorted Dina.

"She's not at all young," said Gerald, "and she's not pretty, and yet—"

"And yet she is," replied Dina with assurance. "Her smile is ever
so sweet, and her big grey eyes are lovely; and then she has such a
quantity of brown hair, with just little gleams of white as if they had
been sprinkled in with a sugar-sifter. And she's tall and graceful,
like darling mother." And the child's voice broke, and her eyes filled
with tears.

"Dad's not often nice to anyone," said Gerald after a brief pause; "but
he was to her. If he'd been half as good to Brother Bob, he'd have been
here now."

"Poor dear Brother Bob!" sighed Dina. "There's nothing now to keep him
from going to the bad," and the little girl turned away sad at heart,
and wandered off alone, brooding over the sorrow which had already come
into her young life.

The next day the children had lessons all the morning, at which Miss
Burnard showed herself an interesting teacher. In the afternoon the
twins took her all over the queer old house.

"For you must see for yourself what a musty old curiosity shop it is,
Miss Burnard," said Gerald.

"Yes," added Dina, "dad cares for nothing much younger than Noah's ark,
and that's why he never cared much about his children, though he's only
had three—Brother Bob and us twins."

"Come along, Miss Burnard," said Gerald, "come and see the only
beautiful things in all dad's collection." And he led the way to the
gem cabinet in the drawing-room.

"You are right, my dear boy," said the governess, when the twins had
done the honours of the cabinet; "these things are indeed beautiful,
and they must be valuable too."

"I shouldn't wonder," replied Gerald discontentedly. "I wish dad would
sell the lot and buy us ponies to ride, but he's the sort of dad who
only thinks of himself."

"I hope—oh, I do hope you are not the sort of boy who often speaks of
his father like that," was the gentle rejoinder, and Gerald could not
resent it, for her smile was so sweet, and the pressure of her hand on
his arm had in it an attractive force that drew the boy to her in spite
of himself.

Dina was wakeful that night, long after the rest of the household was
asleep; and it might have been between twelve and one o'clock when she
heard a curious rasping noise, which seemed to come from the ground
floor, on the same side as her own room. With a heart beating fast, and
eyes staring into the darkness, the child sat up to listen.

Yes—it was not fancy; the subdued sound kept on, and Dina at once
jumped to conclusions.

"We're going to be burgled," said she to herself. "Somebody's trying to
get in at the drawing-room window after the gems. What had I better do?"

The next minute Dina was standing at her brother's bedside.

"Gerry, wake up! It's burglars. Oh, do stop snoring and wake up!
Burglars! Burglars!"

The frightened whisper at last reached the boy's drowsy brain. He
started up and jumped out of bed.

"Let's go and see what's up!" he said; and shoving his feet into
slippers, he flung his dressing-gown about him, and opening his door
came out on the landing, Dina, behind him. Here the rasping noise came
less softly to their ears, and Gerald said, "They're filing the catch
of the drawing-room window. It's the gems they're after."

Suddenly—and before the twins had made up their mind how to act—the
noise ceased and a window was gently opened.

"Oughtn't I to go and tell dad?" whispered Gerald.

"Yes, of course he must know," replied Dina; "I'll go with you as far
as his landing."

Mr. Ellis was a little deaf, and took some waking; and Dina, leaving
her brother to this, and possessed by a strange mingling of curiosity
and dread, crept noiselessly downstairs in the dark, till she stood by
the drawing-room door, which was ajar.

Holding her breath, she leaned forward and peeped in, and saw, by the
light of a lantern which shone full into the gem cabinet, the dark
outline of a man's form in a crouching position. His hands alone were
in the clear light of the lantern as they quickly and deftly collected
the treasures from the shelves, and slipped them into a bag that lay on
the floor. The face of the man was in deep shadow, and not a feature
was visible.

But Dina had seen something which appalled her more than a dozen savage
ruffians could have done. By that light she recognised those handsome
hands, with their long deft fingers, and the plain broad wedding-ring
on the little finger, kept as a precious possession through years of
hardship and want, for the dead mother's sake. For one moment the child
stood in the doorway, rigid with horror; then she darted into the room,
and as the burglar looked up, startled, Dina fell forward into his arms.

"How could you? Oh, how could you?" she sobbed. "You that we love
so!" and the childish voice was thrilling in its agony of sorrow and
reproach. The man's bosom heaved convulsively, and the bag of gems lay
unheeded on the floor as he clasped the poor little wrong twin to his
heart.

"I was starving, Dina, starving. Do you know what hunger means? And
hadn't I a right to something in this house? And if my right was
denied, I must help myself."

"Hark!" whispered Dina. "There's dad coming! Run away quick! I'll come
to you in the shrubbery, if you'll hide in the jungle walk."

As the child spoke she was pulling him towards the window—one of those
big French windows opening down the middle like a double door, and
level with the garden path outside.

As Mr. Ellis entered, he just caught a glimpse of the burglar's tall
form and caught him by the arm ere he passed out, though not firmly
enough to secure him. There was the quick crack of a revolver shot, and
a smothered cry from the thief as he stumbled through the window into
the darkness beyond.



CHAPTER VIII.

GERALDINE'S BURGLAR.

BUT in wrenching himself free in his effort to escape, the man threw
Mr. Ellis down, and the latter, in falling, struck his head violently
against the sharp corner of a carved chiffonier, and lay where he fell,
without sound or motion.

By this time the whole household was roused, and Miss Burnard at once
took the direction of affairs. The master of the house was carried
to his bed, and a messenger was despatched for the surgeon. In the
confusion no one noticed that Dina had vanished, so that wholly
unobserved she crept into the jungle walk, and in a moment came upon
the tall burglar leaning up against a tree and panting heavily.

The child came to his side. "No one knows, Brother Bob; no one shall
know: that's our secret. But you've hurt him—dad, I mean—in knocking
him down."

"And he has hurt me—shot me in the side—and I shall bleed to death, if
I don't have help soon," replied the young man in a failing voice.

"Oh dear, what shall we do?" said the little girl.

Bob said nothing. He seemed faint and ready to fall.

Presently Dina said:

"Lean on me, and try to get as far as the seat."

Bob did so, and sank down heavily on the bench.

"Now I'm going for nurse," said Dina, and she flew back to the house.

In less than ten minutes Bob heard hushed footsteps approaching, and
nurse's soothing tender voice was in his ears. Leaning on the strong
old arm that had carried him as a baby, and supported by Dina on the
other side, he staggered back towards the house.

"I was rather long in comin', my darlin'," said nurse, "but I stayed to
get my room on the ground floor ready for you. Come right in there. The
servants has gone back to their beds; only the upper housemaid and the
governess are up, and they're with master."

"Is he badly hurt?" asked Bob.

"Can't tell yet, my dear; it were a hard knock; he hasn't come to
himself yet, I understand."

The burglar and his two protectors met no one as they entered the side
door, and safely gained nurse's room, where the bed was in readiness
for the patient.

"Now, Miss Dina," said nurse, "leave me to look after Master Bob, and
you must be on the look-out for the doctor when he comes down from
master's room, and send him in here to see his other patient. And not a
word about this business to anyone to-night."

Things straightened out to some extent and fell into working order
during the next few days, without anyone but the twins and nurse
knowing who had been the burglar. Dina had felt she could not keep the
secret from Gerald, but she knew that he was to be trusted.

That Master Bob should have come home to be nursed when he was ill
seemed a natural thing to the servants, and the surgeon (an old friend
of the family) was the only outsider who knew to what the illness was
due. By his express orders, Mr. Ellis had not yet been told of his
son's presence in the house. As the doctor very sensibly said, the
excitement of this unexpected news might retard the older patient's
recovery; while, as for the burglar, he was supposed to have got clean
away, taking nothing with him, and leaving behind not a clue to his
whereabouts.

But then came a time when Mr. Ellis was getting better, and it was
felt by all the household that the secret of Bob's presence in the
house could no longer be kept. Mr. Ellis had really been at his best
during his illness. Miss Burnard, who had quietly assumed the necessary
authority on the first night, had been head nurse, and her firm
gentleness and skill had exerted a good influence, keeping in check the
man's selfishness and peevish discontent. So that, when the doctor told
nurse that her master must now be informed that his son was at home, it
seemed as though it would be easier to tell him than it would have been
a fortnight before.

"Suppose you go to dad, Gerry," said Dina, "and tell him that Brother
Bob is here ill. Dad would take it best from you."

But Gerald stoutly refused. "Let nurse tell him, or Miss Burnard," said
he.

"No, Gerry," replied Dina. "Nurse might let slip some word about that
dreadful night; and Miss Burnard—though she's a dear—isn't one of the
family."

"Then there's only you to do it, Twinnie, for I won't."

"I'm afraid I'll be the wrong twin again," said the child sadly; "but
someone must tell dad, and if no one else can, I suppose I'll have to.
Dad can't like me much less than he does now. That's one comfort!"

The next morning an unlooked-for chance occurred for the carrying out
of the little girl's purpose. Miss Burnard had a bad headache, and
asked Dina to read a chapter out of the Bible to Mr. Ellis, as she
(Miss Burnard) had done ever since the beginning of his illness. And
the child chose to read the Parable of the Prodigal Son.



CHAPTER IX.

THE APPEAL.

THE story of the Prodigal Son had always touched her, and the childish
voice trembled as she read of the young man's repentance and resolve to
return and confess his sin to his father. A picture arose before her
of a weary wayfarer, toiling homeward, grief, pain, suffering in every
line of his face; but that face was the face of Brother Bob.

"When he was yet a great way off," the child read, "his father saw him
and had compassion."

Ah! What a father that was! But would dad act like this? And a
passionate prayer went up from the little burdened heart:

"Dear Lord, make dad like the father that had compassion."

Dina's own heart was so full, and her eyes so brimming over, that she
could neither read further nor see. Covering her face with her hands,
she shook with sobs.

"Why, child, what is it?" inquired Mr. Ellis in unusually tender tones.
"Tell me, Geraldine?"

Dina, with a great effort, mastered her emotion.

She must speak now, and she realised how much might depend upon her
words.

"Dad," she said, in a little broken, pathetic voice, "when that poor
naughty son who had been to the bad—came home and found his father so
kind, and tender, and forgiving, that would help to keep him, wouldn't
it, from going wrong again?"

"I should think it might," replied Mr. Ellis, surprised at the
question, and still more at the earnest way in which it was put.

But he was fairly startled when Dina threw herself on her knees by
the bedside, and clasping her father's hand between both hers, said,
"Oh, dad, the prodigal that went to the bad, and came to grief, and
was tired, and starved, and sick, and so very, very sorry for being
naughty, has come home. Oh, dad, dear dad, will the father forgive him
and give him a welcome, and help him to be good? Dad, tell me quick,
for my heart's breaking. Will he say, 'This my son was dead and is
alive again, and was lost and is found'?"

The child ceased speaking, but her heart was one fervent prayer during
the silence that followed, broken at last by a husky voice, very unlike
Mr. Ellis's usual sharp tones:

"You wish this very much, Geraldine?"

"More than anything else in the world."

"So be it, then. Since the father in the parable could forgive his
prodigal, I can—I will forgive mine."

And so it came about that Bob Ellis returned home, to begin a new life
and be a comfort when he had hitherto been only a sorrow. The whole
household rejoiced over his return, and Miss Burnard was especially
interested in the young man, for in him she recognised a patient whom
she had visited in a hospital a year or two before, and in whom—she had
felt sure—were great possibilities for good.

"It's time we stopped calling Dina, the wrong twin," said Gerald,
the first time that the invalids came downstairs to an early dinner.
"She's always doing things that no one else likes to do, and she's the
pluckiest little beggar that ever was, and the tender-heartedest."

"Oh, don't, Gerry dear!" pleaded Dina. "I'm so often wrong; I'm always
getting into trouble, and—"

"Getting other folks out!" whispered Brother Bob.

"Well," said Miss Burnard, "if to be the wrong twin means to be always
striving—in spite of difficulties and temptations—to do right; if it
means to confess oneself in the wrong and to try to make amends—then,
Dina darling, there is not one of us who would not be glad to change
with you and be a wrong twin too."

"Hear! Hear!" said Mr. Ellis.

"Three cheers for the righter of the two right twins!" cried Gerald.



                                 THE END.



                   ———————————————————————————————————
          LONDON: PRINTED DY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.








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