"Yet am I not here to no purpose. There is a certain coy nymph, 'Health' by name, who is reported in these parts--her I am charged to seek. Where she hides 'twere hard to say; whether on the hill-side, golden with bracken, or in the spray of the sea, or on the bluff headland, or by the breezy links--in all these I seek her. Sometimes I spy her afar off; but the wanton comes and goes. Yet I am persuaded I shall presently find her, and bring her home rejoicing to them that sent me. "Finally, brethren, I pray you, have me often in your remembrance, and report to me such things as concern our common welfare, for I desire ardently to hear of you. "Farewell, from one who loves you and counts himself your brother. "T.B. Reed." Alas! "the coy nymph, 'Health' by name," was never found. Within a week or two of the despatch of this letter, he became so much worse that he was advised by the Belfast doctors to return at once to London. He suffered from a hopeless internal malady, which he bore with heroic patience. At Highgate, on 28th November 1893, he passed peacefully away. It was given to him in his short life--for he condensed into the span of forty-two years the literary labours of a long life--to materially add by his charming boys' books to the happiness of the youth of his generation. It was given to him also by his labour and research to make a solid contribution to the learning of his time. He has enriched many lives by his friendship, and by the example of his unceasing thoughtfulness for the welfare of others. To all who had the inestimable privilege of knowing Talbot Reed, there will be the remembrance of a man "matchless for gentleness, honesty, and courage,"-- the very ideal of a chivalrous English gentleman. John Sime. Highgate, London, _February 1894_. CHAPTER ONE. WANDERING LIGHTS. It was the first time Tim and I had fallen out, and to this day I could scarcely tell you how it arose. We had gone out on to the headland to drive in the sheep; for the wind was blowing up from seaward, and it was plain to tell that the night would be a wild one. Father was away with the trawlers off Sheep Haven, and would be ill pleased should he return to-morrow to find any of the flock amissing. So, though mother lay sick in the cottage, with none to tend her, Tim and I, because of the dread we had of our father's displeasure, left her and went out to seek the sheep before the storm broke. It was no light task, for the dog was lame, and the wind carried back our shouts into our very teeth. The flock had straggled far and wide in search of the scanty grass, and neither Tim nor I had our hearts in the work. Presently Tim took a stone to dislodge one stubborn ewe, where it hid beside a rock, and, as luck would have it, struck not her but my cheek, which received a sharp cut. "Faith, and you'll make a fine soldier when you're grown," said I, in a temper, "if that's the best you can shoot."