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CHAPTER XIII ERIE OF THE LIGHT-HOUSE,

Maurice sat down weakly on a block and wiped his face on his sleeve.,

He endeavoured to recollect himself that, by calming his terrors his memory might better serve him. Urgent alarms often induce vain hopes which we should laugh at in the cool mood. He believed he might have put that letter down in his bedroom, and perfectly well knowing that he had not done so, and yet coaxed by a will-o'-the-wisp hope, he ransacked the room as though he knew that in it was to be found a gold piece of value whose discovery demanded a careful search only. What was certain in his mind was that that letter was in his pocket when he walked that morning to visit the Minorca. He remembered withdrawing it from his pocket, but in what part of the walk he knew not, and re-perusing a portion of it to refresh his memory. He tried to find comfort in the recollection that the letter bore no address and no signature. But a thundercloud of horror came down on this feeble streak of sunshine when he recalled the damning, incriminating contents of that sheet[Pg 152] which he had scrawled in pencil at "The Swan Inn." Whoever found it would know that Mr Lawrence, and Mr Lawrence alone, had written it, and this, too, irrespective of the handwriting.,

"Simply a letter, your honour, folded into four, without address, written in pencil, and not sealed?" said the hunchback.

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"I was goin' down the path to the road, Anse with me, when the teacher went past, runnin' fer all he was worth. Come to think of it his coat had been clawed some, an' I remember now his face was bleedin' from a scratch er two. He didn't see us an' he didn't stop. He kept right on goin'. Anse an' me went on to the school, an' there we found Ringdo jest finishin' the teacher's lunch. I brought him back an' put him in his cage. That's all, Ma, an' it's every blessed word true.",

Bad news travels fast but good news wings its way quite as speedily. Life teaches the human heart to accept the one bravely and to laugh happily with the other, for after all life is just a ringing note that sounds through and above the eternal weaving of God's shuttle—at times clear, reaching to the highest stars; at other times a minor wail of pain. But the weaving goes on, drab threads mingling with the brighter ones; and so the heart learns to withstand, and better still to hope. It may be, when the shuttle runs slower and the fabric is all but woven, if the weaver is brave and strong he is able to decipher the riddle of it all. "If you would experience happiness, find it in the happiness of others.",

Mrs. Wilson looked out of the window and considered. "Let's see. That leaves little Louie the only girl among all of you boys, so we'll jest have to have another girl er two. How'd you like to have Ann Spencer and Phoebe Scraff?",

Maurice was compelled to quicken his steps in order to keep up to the long strides of the anxious woman. Suddenly he halted. "Missis Wilson," he said, "you fergot to take that last pan o' cookies out'a the oven."