burrowed into the spongy flesh. Now he turned to lap the dark pool which glittered at his side like claret in a silver cup. Then raising his great head he snapped irritably at the rain-drops and the moon caught his wicked rolling eye and the red shreds dripping from his jaw; and all the while the gray dog stood before him motionless as though carved in stone. At last as the murderer rolled his great head from side to side, he saw that still figure. At the sight he leaped back dismayed, then with a roar that shook the waters of the tarn, he was up and across his victim with fangs bared, his coat standing in wet rigid furrows from top-knot to tail. So the two stood, face to face, with scarcely a yard of rain-pierced air between them. An age it seemed, they waited so. Then a voice clear yet low like a bugle from a distant city broke the silence. “Eh, Wullie,” he said. There was no anger in the tone, only incomparable reproach. At that the great dog leaped around, snarling in hideous passion. He saw that small familiar figure clearcut against the tumbling sky and for the only time in his life Red Wullie was afraid. His blood foe was forgotten. The dead sheep was forgotten. Everything was sunk in the agony of that moment. He cowered upon the ground and a cry like that of a lost soul was wrung from him. On the mound above stood his master, his white head bared to the wind. The rain trickled down his cheeks and his hands were gripped behind his back. “Wullie, Wullie, to me,” he cried, and his voice sounded weak and far away. At the call the huge brute came crawling towards him, whimpering as he came, very pitiable in his distress—for he knew his fate as every sheep dog knows it. That troubled him not. His pain insufferable was that this, his friend and father, should have found him in his sin, so he crept up to his master's feet and the little man never moved. “Wullie, ma Wullie,” he said very tenderly. “They've all been agin me, and noo you. A man's mither, a man's wife, a man's dog. They're all I've ever had, and noo ane of the three have turned agin me. Indeed, I am alane.” At that the great dog raised himself and placing his fore paws on his master's chest tenderly, lest he should hurt him, who was already hurt past healing, stood towering above him. The little man placed his two cold hands on the dog's shoulders. So they stood looking at one another like a man and his love. At McAdam's word, Oud Bob looked up and for the first time saw his master. He seemed in no wise startled, but trotted over to him. There was nothing fearful in his carriage, no haunting bloodguiltiness in those true gray eyes which never told a lie. Which never, dog-like, failed to look you in the face. For weeks he had traced the “ Killer," for weeks he had followed him as he had crossed Kenmuir bound on his bloody errands, yet always had lost him on the marches. Now he had run him to ground. “I thowt it ud been yoo, lad," the Master said, stroking the rough gray head at his knee. “I'd thowt it been yoo.” A little later as they trudged along, James Moore heard pattering, staggering footsteps behind. He stopped, the other two men went on. “Man!” a voice whispered in his ear, and a face white and pitiable looked into his. “Man, you'l noo tell 'em all, I'd. na like 'em to know it was ma‘Wullie '—think if it had been your dog." “You may trust me," the other answered thickly. The little man stretched out a palsied hand. “God bless ye, James Moore." So the two shook hands in the moonlight with none to witness but God who made them. And that is why the mystery of the “Black Killer" remains unsolved in the Dale land. The Queen's Letter. ANTHONY HOPE. Adapted from “ Rupert of Hentzau.” Rudolf Rassendyll, as an act of friendship to Rudolf, King of Ruritania, his distant relative, takes advantage of a close resemblance between them and impersonates the king through a grave crisis in the latter's affairs. He even plays the king's part as the prospective husband of the princess Flavia. But in so doing he loses his heart, while the princess suddenly discovers in her lover a fervor and fascination she had not found in him before. In the end, the princess dutifully marries the real king ; but thereafter, once a year, she sends a gift and a verbal message to Rassendyll in token of her remembrance of him. This continues for three years. Then, under a passionate impulse, she sends with her yearly gift a letter. The bearer, Fritz von Tarlenheim, is betrayed by his servant Bauer, and assaulted and robbed of the letter by Rupert of Hentzau. Rassendyll seeks Rupert to recover the letter and finally discovers him in hiding at a little shop. “I've come to see the Count of Hentzau, said Rassendyll as he crossed the threshold. “ The shop is shut to-day : you can't come in," said Mother Holf. “But I am in,” said Rudolf ; “ where is Count Rupert ?." Her daughter Rhoda looked at him fearfully. " He's up stairs in the attic," she whispered in frightened tones. Then to her mother: “ It is the king !" What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and mounted the stairs. From the attic room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. As he entered, the count had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished, dirty-white deal. “Ah, the play-actor !” said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. “Yes, the play-actor,” he answered, smiling. “Well, what's your business, play-actor ? Rudolf grew grave. He advanced towards the table and spoke in low, serious tones. “You have what you know of in your hands. If you yield, on my honor I will save your life.” Rupert looked at him thoughtfully. “You'll see me safe off if I give it you ?” he asked. “ I'll prevent your death. Yes, and I'll see you safe.” “Where to?" “ To a fortress, where a trustworthy gentleman will guard you." “For how long, my dear friend ? " |