right in those very chequered knickerbockers that were so
terrible when their knees held one vice-like, while things were tied to
one's tail. He was face to face with another boy, exactly like himself.

'_You_ haven't changed, then--but there can't be two Maurices.'

'There sha'n't be; not if I know it,' said the other boy; 'a boy's
life's a dog's life. Quick, before any one comes.'

'Quick what?' asked Maurice.

'Why tell me to leave off being a boy, and to be Lord Hugh Cecil again.'

Maurice told him at once. And at once the boy was gone, and there was
Lord Hugh in his own shape, purring politely, yet with a watchful eye
on Maurice's movements.

'Oh, you needn't be afraid, old chap. It's Pax right enough,' Maurice
murmured in the ear of Lord Hugh. And Lord Hugh, arching his back under
Maurice's stroking hand, replied with a purrrr-meaow that spoke volumes.

'Oh, Maurice, here you are. It _is_ nice of you to be nice to Lord Hugh,
when it was because of him you----'

'He's a good old chap,' said Maurice, carelessly. 'And you're not half a
bad old girl. See?'

Mabel almost wept for joy at this magnificent compliment, and Lord Hugh
himself took on a more happy and confident air.

Please dismiss any fears which you may entertain that after this Maurice
became a model boy. He didn't. But he was much nicer than before. The
conversation which he overheard when he was a cat makes him more patient
with his father and mother. And he is almost always nice to Mabel, for
he cannot forget all that she was to him when he wore the shape of Lord
Hugh. His father attributes all the improvement in his son's character
to that week at Dr. Strongitharm's--which, as you know, Maurice never
had. Lord Hugh's character is unchanged. Cats learn slowly and with
difficulty.

Only Maurice and Lord Hugh know the truth--Maurice has never told it to
any one except me, and Lord Hugh is a very reserved cat. He never at
any time had that free flow of mew which distinguished and endangered
the cat-hood of Maurice.

II

THE MIXED MINE

The ship was first sighted off Dungeness. She was labouring heavily. Her
paint was peculiar and her rig outlandish. She looked like a golden ship
out of a painted picture.

'Blessed if I ever see such a rig--nor such lines neither,' old
Hawkhurst said.

It was a late afternoon, wild and grey. Slate-coloured clouds drove
across the sky like flocks of hurried camels. The waves were purple and
blue,