"What is it, you mite?" asked Sylvia. "We thought you might have seen him, mum," said the little figure, opening its blue eyes with wonder at the kindness of the tone. "Him? Whom?" "Cranky Brown, mum," returned the child; "him as did it this morning. Me and Billy knowed him, mum; he was a mate of ours, and we wanted to know if he looked happy." "What do you mean, child?" said she, with a strange terror at her heart; and then, filled with pity at the aspect of the little being, she drew him to her, with sudden womanly instinct, and kissed him. He looked up at her with joyful surprise. "Oh!" he said. Sylvia kissed him again. "Does nobody ever kiss you, poor little man?" said she. "Mother used to," was the reply; "but she's at home. Oh, mem," with a sudden crimsoning of the little face, "may I fetch Billy?" And taking courage from the bright young face, he gravely marched to an angle of the rock, and brought out another little creature, with another gray uniform, and another hammer. "This is Billy, mum," he said. "Billy never had no mother. Kiss Billy." The young wife felt the tears rush to her eyes. "You two poor babies!" she cried. And then, forgetting that she was a lady, dressed in silk and lace, she fell on her knees in the dust, and folding the friendless pair in her arms, wept over them. "What is the matter, Sylvia?" said Frere, when he came up. "You've been crying." "Nothing, Maurice; at least, I will tell you by-and-by." When they were alone that evening she told him of the two little boys, and he laughed. "Artful little humbugs," he said, and supported his argument by so many illustrations of the precocious wickedness of juvenile felons that his wife was half convinced against her will. Unfortunately, when Sylvia went away, Tommy and Billy put into execution a plan which they had carried in their poor little heads for some weeks. "I can do it now," said Tommy. "I feel strong." "Will it hurt much, Tommy?" said Billy, who was not so courageous. "Not so much as a whipping." "I'm afraid! Oh, Tom, it's so deep! Don't leave me, Tom!" The bigger boy took his little handkerchief from his neck, and with it bound his own left hand to his companion's right. "Now I _can't_ leave you." "What was it the lady that kissed us said, Tommy?" "Lord, have pity of them two fatherless children!" repeated Tommy. "Let's say it, Tom." And so the two babies knelt on the brink of the cliff, and raising the bound hands together, looked up at the sky, and ungrammatically said, "Lord, have pity on we two fatherless children." And then they kissed each other, and "did it." THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH From 'His Natural Life' It was not until they had scrambled up the beach to safety that the absconders became fully aware of the loss of another of their companions. As they stood on the break of the beach, wringing the water from their clothes, Gabbett's small eye, counting their number, missed the stroke oar. "Where's Cox?"