Produced by Susan Skinner, June Troy, Chris Curnow, Pamela Patten and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net [Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER VOL. XX.--NO. 989.] DECEMBER 10, 1898. [PRICE ONE PENNY.] [Illustration: IN DREAMLAND.] _All rights reserved._] “OUR HERO.” A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO. BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the Dower House,” etc. CHAPTER XI. THE FRENCH FLEET SIGNALLED. Mrs. Bryce could seldom be happy for long together in one place. Before the end of September she had decided to quit Folkestone for Sandgate. Polly, nothing loath, chimed in with the plan eagerly; and Mr. Bryce, whatever he thought or wished, made no objection. “If Buonaparte should come, my dear, what then?” was all that he ventured to suggest; and Mrs. Bryce snapped her fingers, not at him, but at the First Consul. “Let him come, if he will. Pray, my dear, do you consider that we are bound to shape our course with a view to pleasing old Nap?” demanded the vivacious lady. Mr. Bryce disclaimed any such meaning. He wondered privately what his wife’s feelings would be, if one day a round shot from a French ship should rush through the room in which she might be seated. But in that respect Sandgate was no worse than Folkestone; and since he never expected logic from his wife, he made no effort to convince her that she might be in the wrong. To Sandgate therefore they went, on a rainy autumn day, when the sea wailed dismally, and the wind howled more dismally still, and the lodgings which Mr. Bryce had managed to secure wore an aspect most dismal of all. Even Mrs. Bryce’s spirits were affected by the state of the atmosphere. Books in their possession were few, and had all been read. Jack failed to appear so soon as they had expected. Mr. Bryce sallied forth, despite the rain, but the ladies could not think of following his example. Mrs. Bryce, in despair, turned to one or two old volumes of the _Gentleman’s Magazine_, lying in a corner, and in so doing, to her gratification, she fished out two or three recent numbers of the same serial, including the current number for September, 1803. “Ah, ha, my dear Polly, now we shall do!” she declared cheerfully. “Now we may defy the elements, and you shall get on with your purse-netting, and I will find something to read aloud for your entertainment. I wonder much that Jack does not come.” “Jack is busy, or he would be here,” Polly said confidently. Just as she had her half-netted blue silk purse nicely arranged between foot and knee, Mr. Bryce walked in, carrying letters, at the sight of which Polly dropped her work and started up. “Nay, not from France. Nothing from France,” Mr. Bryce said, with quick understanding; and Polly returned to her seat languidly. “One from Bath for you, and one from Norfolk for my wife. Two letters in a day! You may count yourselves fortunate.”