roots of his white hair, the professor stared feebly round
on the company, and twiddled in his fingers a sheet of thin foreign
paper.

"Yes, sir?" Mrs. Barbara turned to her master eagerly alert for the
news, and Jinty wondered if it were to say the dream-father was coming
home at last.

But Mike, though some folk believe that ravens understand every word you
say, continued to dip again and again into his stolen bread and milk
with a lofty indifference. It might be an earthquake that had come to
Old Studley for all he knew. What if it were? There would always be a
ledge of rock somewhere about where he, Mike, could hold on in safety if
the earth were topsy-turvy. Besides, he had now scooped up the last
scrap of Jinty's breakfast, and it behoved him to be up and doing some
mischief.

His bold black eye caught a gleam of silver, an opportunity ready to his
beak. It was a quaint little Norwegian silver salt-cellar in the form of
a swan. Mike, with his head on one side, considered the feasibility of
removing that ancient Norse relic quietly. Then, afraid perhaps of
bringing about bad luck by spilling the salt, he gave up the idea and
stole softly away, unnoticed by his betters, who seemed ridiculously
occupied with a thin, rustling sheet of paper.

But to this day Mrs. Barbara has never found the salt-spoon, a little
silver oar, belonging to that Norse salt-cellar, and she never will,
that's certain.

"Extraordinary, most extraordinary!" the professor was repeating. Then,
when Mrs. Barbara felt she could bear it no longer, he went on to read
out the foreign letter.

It was from his son, Jinty's father, and told how his life had been
recently in grave peril. His house had been attacked by native rioters,
and he would certainly have been murdered had it not been for the
warning of a friendly Chinaman. Mr. Ransom escaped in the darkness, but
the loyal native who had saved him, paid the cost with his own life. He
was cruelly hacked to pieces for his so-called treachery. When the
rioters were quelled by a British detachment, Mr. Ransom's first
thought was for the family of his faithful friend. But it was too late.
With the exception of one tiny girl all had been killed by the rioters.
This forlorn little orphan was already on her way crossing the Pacific,
for she was to be housed and educated at Old Studley with Mr. Ransom's
own little daughter, and at his expense. Common gratitude could do no
less.

[Sidenote: Ah Lon]