sought island-continent visible to the whole world. It revealed, lying far to the south of the track along which the lazy Spanish galleons had crept for eight generations, a new land as vast in area as those Cortes and Pizarro plundered, and with immeasurably happier conditions. The Pacific itself, in the light of that single voyage, became a new sea with definite navigation.

But if it is Cook's title to deathless fame that in this way he conquered the Pacific for civilised use, it is of more immediate interest to English readers to know that the result of his voyage was to give Australia to the British Empire. It is, in a sense, almost amusing to take the clue of Cook's log and follow the little bluff-bowed Endeavour mile by mile along the Australian coast. The Endeavour, it must be remembered, was simply a North Sea collier of 370 tons burden, sheathed in wood, as unsinkable as a bottle, and about as weatherly. She was what is called a catbuilt ship, with apple bows, a wide, deep waist, the hull narrowing towards the stern. She was purchased at the modest cost of 2800%., and Cook, who had Nelson's trick of always falling in love with the ship he commanded, was never weary of praising the Endeavour -or, after the Endeavour, the Resolution. 'I do now,' he says, and ever did, think her the most proper ship for this service I ever saw.' The small tonnage of the ship was, to Cook's practical mind, its merit. She could be easily careened and easily handled; and, struggling with the currents that thread the Barrier Reef, Cook was actually able to thrust out oars through the ports of the Endeavour, and turn her, in this way, into a galley.

Into this ship of less than four hundred tons was crowded a complement of eighty-five men, with provisions for nearly two years. But the Endeavour, though seaworthy and handy, was an amazingly slow ship, and the rate at which she crept along the Australian coast scarcely exceeded the walking pace of an active man. Day after day the record of the twenty-four hours' run is 'twenty-six miles,'' thirteen miles,'' ten miles.'

PRISCILLA OF THE GOOD INTENT

A ROMANCE OF THE GREY FELLS.

BY HALLIWELL SUTCLIFFE.

CHAPTER XIV.

SUMMER

WHEN the sun began to warm the land again, and the sheep were crying up and down the pastures, their lambs beside them, full summer came with a swiftness rarely known in these grey highlands. The lilacs bloomed two weeks before their time. The birds let loose their litanies, as if the like blue sky and thrust of the greenstuff forward had not been known till now. Folk moved abroad with keen sunlight in their eyes, and in their voices a cheery welcome for their fellows. Even Widow Lister forgot to fidget, forgot her love of gossip with a spice in it, and turned instead to tranquil tending of the garden-strip that fronted her cottage. From the hedgerows and the fields, from the moors that raked up into the blue arch of the sky, there rose a quiet, insistent song of peace.

Cilla of the Good Intent met Gaunt by chance these days on the highway, or in half-forgotten bridle-paths that were young when grey old Garth was in the building; and they passed a greeting one to the other, and went their ways. She was puzzled-and so was he, had she guessed the truth-to note the change in him. He was less assured than of old; there was shame and appeal in his eyes when he met her; he seemed to Priscilla like some big, helpless dog that had lost its way and went seeking for its home.

Cilla was true daughter to Yeoman Hirst. She might suffer, but malice went by her like a peevish wind-gust that is over and done with as soon as it is past. She wished no ill to Gaunt, though he had spoiled her first dream o' love. She wondered, simply and without over-much repining, that her life had grown so empty, that she no longer cared for the flower-scents and the wood-reek that guarded Garth village like a benediction.

I Copyright, 1908, by Halliwell Sutcliffe, in the United States of America.

The year wore on to July, and there had been no rain since a light April shower that had followed the snowstorm. The pastures, striding stony limestone hills, grew parched and brown. With August, and still no rain from the pitiless blue sky, even the brown of the grass was burnt, and the lightest of warm breezes carried its dust away. Far up the crests of the hills there was no green to soften the white glare of the limestone. All was pitiless and bare, and lacking any gift of charity. The sun, at usual times a rare and welcome guest, had overstepped his welcome now, and the air lay hot and languid.

A rumour came to Garth these days, and the farmers, as they rode down the street to market, grew less cheery in their greetings to another. They knew, each one of them, the danger that lay near to their wives and bairns; and, knowing it, they kept silence, as the way of the hills is when a tempest shakes them.

Their wives heard the rumour by and by, and there was clatter of tongues along the dust of Garth's grey street. Widow Lister, by gift of nature, talked more shrilly than her sisters, just as she had been the first to bring the news which no folk cared to hear.

'I telled ye so,' she whispered, running out to meet Hirst one day as he passed down the street. The black fever has come nigh to Garth, and ye wouldn't take no heed. I'm a lone widow myself, with no one to care for

'Oh, ay, but you have!' Hirst's voice was cheery still, though it was less boisterous than usual, and behind it there was a hint of sharp reproof. You've got yourself to care for, Widow. That means a lot to ye.'

'Now, what do ye mean?'

'I mean this, that folk who have only themselves to think of forget to think for others. See you here, widow, the fever's not reached Garth yet. Twill reach it sooner, I warrant ye, if ye go scaring timid women-as you're scaring 'em each minute

o' the day.'

"Eh, now, I'm to be scolded, am I?' The widow brushed a few tears away, and looked up into Hirst's face with the timidity which had always served her well. To be sure I've no man-body to speak up for me. I mun bear my crosses meekly, for nobody heeds you much once you're lone and widowed.'

Hirst's face, with all its jollity and kindliness, was lined deep

by hardship, by fight in life's open with such plain foes as weather, peevish soil, and foot-rot that attacked his sheep. The widow's was rosy, plump, unmarked save by such little wrinkles as a baby carries she had sat by the hearth all her days, sheltered by four walls; and Death, when it had come to force her from the fireside warmth to the churchyard and her husband's grave, had been no more than a worry which spoilt her comfort for awhile. Yet the round, shining face, looking up into his, made Yeoman Hirst uneasy this morning: it put him in the wrong; it made him feel as if he had rebuked a kitten for playing with a ball of wool.

'Well, we're made as we're made, widow!' he cried, preparing to move on. 'I only ask you to listen when I tell ye what a power o' harm ye can do by scaring folk when the fever's close at our doors.'

'Yet ye're going to Shepperton Market, same as if Shepperton hadn't got fever in every other house.'

6

'True,' said Hirst, his jaw set firm. There's need to go to Shepperton, fever or no, if I'm to do right by the farm. There's no need for stay-at-homes to chatter and wake a sleeping dog.'

Widow Lister watched him go through the white, breathless sunlight, and for once she did not call him back.

They're strange, is men,' she thought. 'My own man was like Hirst-would run into any sort of danger if he'd a whim for it— yet he'd grow outrageous as a turkey-cock if I set my tongue round a lile, soft bit o' gossip. Men, they never seem to understand life, poor bodies! Ah, there's David the Smith coming up street. He's a soft heart, he. I'll just get him to see what ails yond canary-bird o'mine while he's passing.'

David, however, was impatient. He listened to the story of the bird's ailments, but his air was brisk and downright, just as Yeoman Hirst's had been. A man is apt to carry that air when he knows that danger lies close to his womenfolk.

'Starve him a bit, widow. Cosset him less by the hearth, and he'll come round, same as other men-birds. I've a bigger job than canaries to see to.'

Again the widow did not pursue him as he strode fiercely up toward Good Intent.

'The fever's come to Garth a'ready, I'm thinking,' she murmured dolefully. If David's lost half o' the few wits he had, we've come to a fine pass.'

David halted as he came to the gate of Good Intent.

His face

was full of suffering, and for that reason it showed a greater dignity. He unfastened the latch with sudden decision, as if ashamed of his cowardice, and stepped into the cool, grey porch, and stood at the door of the house-place.

Cilla was standing at the table in the full light of the sun that streamed through the narrow windows, and she was ironing a lilac frock. She had not heard his step.

'Cilla!' he said in a low voice.

She started and let the iron fall, and did not heed that it was burning the lilac frock-the gown which, so short a while since as this year's spring, had pleased Reuben Gaunt. They stood there -David on the threshold, Cilla at the table-and they looked at each other in silence, asking some big question.

'You may come in, David,' she said at last.

He came and stood beside her, after taking up the iron and setting it on its stand with the instinct of a good workman.

'The lilac gown is burned right through, Priscilla.'

'It has served its time, David. Did you come to Good Intent just to tell me I was careless with my ironing?'

'No, I didn't, Cilla.' The smith had grown resolute again. 'I came to tell you that I'm sailing Tuesday o' next week for Canada.'

She was stunned for the moment. David the Smith had seen her bonnie since he knew her first, but never bonnie as she was just now, with the sunlight on her drooping head, her fingers plucking at the scissors on her girdle.

'I've ta'en time to make up my mind, I own,' he went on stubbornly, ‘but 'tis made up now. My aunt Joanna, over-seas yonder, is a lile bit like Widow Lister; she's helpless without the goodman she nagged into his grave, and she willun't take no fro' me. She's fonder o' nephew David these days than ever she was when she had him close under her hand. She wants something done for her, ye see.'

Cilla glanced up at him, then down again. 'What—what has made you in such haste to leave, David?'

'Haste, ye call it? I've been for going ever since April came in, and putting off makes a job no easier.'

It seemed to her

'You'll be glad to leave Garth and see bigger countries ? ' Priscilla could not understand herself. hat she wished to hurt David in some way;

she was surprised,