LITMIR.BIZ

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dear, oh, dear, what shall I do?" he exclaimed, and began to cry with vexation.

      The cat now came to his assistance. It began to lick up the spilled milk.

      Iver seized the occasion.

      "Look, see, pretty puss!" said he, caressingly, to the child. "Stroke pussy. Don't be afraid. You see she likes the milk that you wouldn't have. Naughty pussy eats little birds and mousies. But she won't touch babies."

      The cat having appropriated the spilled milk looked at the infant with an uncanny way out of her glinting green eyes, as though by no means indisposed to try whether baby was not as good eating as a fledgling bird, as toothsome as a mouse.

      Iver caught up the cat and scratched her under the chin and behind the ears.

      "Do you hear? The pussy purrs. Would that you also might purr. She is pleased to make your acquaintance. Oh do, do, do be quiet!"

      Then casting aside the cat he endeavored slowly to distil some of the milk down the child's throat without suffering it to swallow too much at once, but found the task difficult, if not impossible for his hand shook.

      "Wait a bit," said he. "There are straws here. I will cut one and put it through the rag, and then you can tipple like a king upon his throne."

      He selected a stout barley straw, and finding a knot in it endeavored to perforate the obstruction with a pin. When this failed he looked about for another straw, and at last discovered one that was strong, uninterrupted by knots, and sufficiently long to serve his purpose.

      For awhile he was so engrossed in his occupation that the child remained unnoticed. But when the straw had been adjusted satisfactorily, and the apparatus was in working order, as Iver ascertained by testing it himself, then he looked round at his charge.

      The babe was lying silent and motionless.

      His heart stood still.

      "It is dead! It is going to die! It will become a wanderer!" he exclaimed; and putting down the feeding bottle, snatched up the lantern, crept on his knees to the child, and brought the little face within the radius of the sickly yellow light.

      "I cannot see! O, I can see nothing! There is no light worth having!" he gasped, and proceeded to open the door in the lantern side.

      "What is do be done?" he asked despairingly. "I do not know if it be dying or be in a fit. O! live! do, do live! I'll give you a brass button and some twine out of my pocket! I promise you my next lollipops if you will. Nasty, cross, disobliging thing." He went to the barn door and looked out, saw that the rain was coming down in torrents, came back. "Is it true," asked he, "that you must be a wanderer, if you die unchristened? Shall I ever hear you yowling in the wind? It is too, too dreadful!"

      A chill came over the boy's heart.

      Iver had never seen death. He was vastly frightened at the thought that the little soul might fleet away whilst he was watching. He dared not leave the child. He was afraid to stay. If he were to desert the babe, and it expired – and to run home, would not the soul come crying and flapping after him?

      He considered with his hands to his head.

      "I know what I will do!" exclaimed he, suddenly; "I'll make a

      Christian of it, anyhow."

      There was standing on the floor an old broken red bowl of coarse pottery, out of which fowls had been fed. It was now empty.

      Iver took it, wiped it out with his hand, and went with it to the door, where a rude "launder" or shoot of wood carried the water from the thatch immediately over the door, and sent the collected moisture in a stream down one side. The boy held the vessel under the shoot till he had obtained sufficient for his purpose, and then, returning within, said, "I'll stop your wandering," went up to the child, sprinkled some water over it and said, "Mehetabel, I baptize thee – "

      The cat made a spring and dashed past.

      Down went the contents of the bowl over the babe, which uttered a howl lusty, loud enough to have satisfied any nurse that the baptism was valid, and that the devil was expelled.

      CHAPTER VI

      MEHETABEL IT MUST BE

      In at the barn door came Mrs. Verstage, Iver's mother.

      "Iver! Wot's up?"

      "Oh, mother!"

      "Where's that babe?"

      "Here, mother, on the ground."

      "On the ground! Good life! Sowsed, soaked through and through, whatever have you been doin'? Holdin' it under the spout?"

      "Baptizin' it, mother."

      "Baptizin' of it?" The woman stared.

      "I thought the creetur was dyin'."

      "Well, and wot then?"

      "Mother. Lest it shud take to wanderin'."

      "Baptizin' of it. Dear life! And what did you call it?"

      "Mehetabel."

      "Mehetabel! 'Taint a human name."

      "It is, mother. It's a Scriptur name."

      "Never heard on it."

      "Mehetabel was the wife of Hadar."

      "And who the dickens was Hadar?"

      "He was a dook – a dook of Edom."

      In the churchyard of Thursley stands a large white stone, on which is carved a medallion, that contains the representation of a man falling on the ground, with one arm raised in deprecation, whilst two men are robbing and murdering him, and a third is represented as acting sentinel lest the ruffians should be surprised. On the ground are strewn the garments of the man who is being killed. Beneath this rudely sculptured group is this inscription: —

       I N M E M O R Y O F

      A generous, but unfortunate Sailor,

      Who was barbarously murdered on Hind Head,

      On September 24th, 1786,

       B Y T H R E E V I L L A I N S,

      After he had liberally treated them and promised them his farther Assistance on the Road to Portsmouth.

      In the "Royal Huts," a tavern, in which now very good entertainment for man and beast may be had, a tavern which stands somewhat further along the way to Portsmouth than Hind Head, may be seen at this day some rude contemporary paintings representative of the murder.

      The ruffians after having killed their victim, robbed him, not only of his money, but also of his clothes, and hastened on their way.

      A hue and cry were raised, when the corpse had been discovered, and the men were arrested upon the following day at Sheet, near Peterhead, and were found in possession of the clothing of the deceased. In due course of time they were tried at Kingston, and on the 7th of April, 1787, were hung and gibbeted in chains on Hind Head Hill, beside the old road and close to the scene of their crime.

      A cross now marks the summit, and indicates the spot where stood the gallows, and a stone for some time pointed out the locality where the murder was committed. When, however, the new Portsmouth Road was cut further down the hill, skirting the Punch-Bowl at a lower level, then the stone was removed to the side of the new road. At present it is an object visited by vast numbers of holiday-makers, who seem to take almost as lively an interest in the crime that was committed over a century ago as if it were an event of the present day. At the time the murder aroused the greatest possible excitement in the neighborhood, and pre-eminently in the parish of Thursley.

      As may be gathered from the wording of the inscription on the tombstone that covers the victim, his name never transpired. No relations claimed the right to bury him. None appeared to take charge of his orphan child.

      The parish fretted, it fumed, it protested. But fret, fume, and protest availed nothing, it had to defray the cost of the funeral, and receive and lap the child in its parochial mercies.

      A deceased wife's sister undoubtedly existed somewhere. Such was the conviction of every parishioner. The

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