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himself to a Malay lady of noble birth, and for nearly forty years he has guided the fortunes of his kingdom. His subjects-Cocos Islanders and Bantamese, with a few Europeans of his own family-have lived in prosperous content, and once only have they made an attempt, in the end unsuccessful, to extend their empire by bringing Christmas Island under their sway. In the Cocos Islands themselves Ross the Third has done wonders. His "home ceased to be a mere jungle-clad ring of islands and became a place of ordered and fertile groves. When the cyclone came upon him, as it comes sooner or later upon every island in the ocean, his resolution was equal to the strain. He restored and rebuilt whatever the storms destroyed, and he leaves the Cocos Islands in such a state of peace and prosperity as few ambitious states enjoy.

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To read an account of the

life so lately brought to a close is to realise that romance is undying. It is but a quarter of a century ago that George Clunies-Ross sailed from the Cocos Islands in a schooner of one hundred and seventy-eight tons, which he had built and rigged himself. It was his purpose to bring his children to England to be educated, and during the voyage, which lasted six months, he and his brother kept watch and watch about. What a story Defoe might have written of that voyage! What a pride Britain may still take in the achievements of men brave and resourceful as was George Clunies-Ross! Far better is it, indeed, to reign in the Cocos Islands than in Wall Street, and no inspired millionaire dreamed of by Mr Lee is likely to do more for his kind than the benevolent despots of mixed Scottish and Malay blood who have ruled and will still rule over the Cocos Islands.

THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED ALONE.

BY LYDIA MILLER MACKAY,

the beginning of winter, a
tramp came to Soirasa; and
it also happened that the
first person of whom he heard
was Ann. It was about the
darkening; and as he came
down the rocky
rocky highroad
that led into the village he
heard the voices of two men
coming towards him, and with
some furtive instinct born,
no doubt, of his past he
stepped into the shadow of
a stone dyke until they should
have gone by. It chanced
that they were speaking of
Ann, and of the unsuitability
of an old frail woman living
so long in a house by her-

IN a deep glen among the far hills of the Western Highlands there lived some years ago an old Good Woman. The place was a solitary place, far from a road, and the house was set upon a bare hillside, and for some time after the death of her son the woman lived in the house alone. About a mile away there was the small village of Soirasa, and the people who lived in it and in the neighbourhood held the Good Woman, whose name was Ann, in great respect and affection; for she was a great saint and learned in Divine things, though in this world's learning she was un- self.

educated being unable to "Ah, well," said one to the

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other, "it would be well for us if we were like Ann. She has great riches."

"Yes," said the other, "she has riches indeed, and there is none that can rob her of

read or write. Ann received
great kindness from the people,
and more than one woman
offered to stay in the house
with her until it could be
arranged that her grandson
should with his wife remove these."
from his croft on the other
side of the parish and come
to work his grandmother's
croft, which was a better
one. The Good Woman, how-
ever, although she was grate-
ful for the many attentions
she received from friends, re-
fused all such offers. She
was still able to do the work
of the small house of two
rooms, and, as all knew, she
had the Great Companion-
ship.

Now it happened that, about

Now when the tramp heard talk of an old woman living alone, who was rich, he listened with eagerness, for he thought the men spoke of this world's wealth-of a hoard hidden in some safe place known to none but herself, a stocking-foot perhaps, filled with her savings after the fashion of the Highland people. But the men said no more, and when they had passed the tramp went on his way to Soirasa brooding in his evil mind over what he had

heard. It happened curiously that again the same night he heard Ann's name mentioned. He had been drinking in the bar of the inn, and was hanging about the door, when a man who had grown maudlin over the whisky began to lament that he was not a better man, and then to abuse others whom he considered worse than himself, saying that he would not at all events be like Ann's grandson, and that it was a disgrace to the parish that a Great Good Woman should be left alone in winter in a bare glen like Glen Eira. He spoke in this way for some time, and the tramp listened, and now he knew that Ann's dwelling was in a place called Glen Eira, and again he brooded over the whole thing according to his nature. He thought it would be easy to frighten such a frail old woman, and by threats to induce her to reveal where her money was hidden. He slept in a barn in Soirasa that night, and next day the thing had taken firm root in his mind, and dark thoughts, not only of theft but also of murder, had possession of him.

The next day broke very gloomy, and by the afternoon snow had begun to fall. In the darkening the tramp stopped a little child who was going home from school and asked her where Glen Eira

was.

"It is up the track of that burn," she told him, and pointed to where a stream ran out from among bare hills.

"Is it far?" he asked.

"As far as to the village," she answered. He was then about half a mile from the village, and he waited until there was no one in sight and then took the way up the burnside. It was indeed a very lonely place. There was no road, and had it not been for the burn the tramp might have found it difficult to discover the house. At first the glen was narrow, with grey boulders of rock hanging rock hanging to its sides. Afterwards it opened out, and there was a little tarn in the depths of it, and on the snowy hillside above the tarn there was the dwelling he soughtso small, so snow-covered, that he would even then have missed it in the gathering dusk, had it not been that Ann had already lit her lamp and set it in the window.

The tramp climbed up the steep hillside to the door, and as he went he noted that the snow was falling more thickly and would soon obliterate his footsteps. After he had secured the hoard and killed the woman he intended to strike back to the highroad, and instead of returning to Soirasa he planned to walk all night to a place where the south-going steamer called in the morning. thought it might be days before what he had done should be discovered. He felt no compunction about what he was going to do, but only a sullen rage and hatred against those who had money and comfort while he had none. When he reached the low door he knocked, and the Good Woman opened it and invited him

He

kindly to come in and take shelter from the snow.

"It is like to be a bad night," she said, looking past him out at the door. The door opened straight into the room where she sat, and in contrast to the bitter cold and the falling snow outside it looked cheerful. The floor was of earth, and there was little furniture, but a bright fire of peats glowed on the hearth, and there was a kettle hanging on the crook, and a brown teapot set cosily in the warm ashes. The brightcoloured bowls and plates on the dresser glowed in the light, and seemed to add to the warmth of the room. As for the Good Woman, she was little and wrinkled and old, and wore a shawl over her shoulders, and a high white mutch framing her white hair. Her face was strong and calm, and her eyes seemed to see a long way.

"Poor man!" she said, "it is a bitter night for such as you. I will make you a cup of tea before you go on your way."

The tramp swore savagely at her. "I want no tea," he said roughly. "I want your money. It will be better for yourself if you give it to me at once."

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The old woman looked quietly at him. "Is that your errand?" she answered. "You come to a strange house to ask money when you come here."

The man laughed brutally. "Look here," he said, "you can't deceive me. I know you have money, and I am going to get it. It will be worse for

you if you do not give it to me at once."

He took a great knife from his pocket. "See here," he went on, "if you do not show me the place where your money is, I will take your life."

Ann regarded him steadily. "Poor man!" she said, "do you think you can shorten my life by the time I would take to draw a breath? No, that is not in your power."

The man gave another savage laugh. Her calmness seemed to enrage him. "You may stop that," he cried, "or I will show you what power I have."

The Good Woman was silent, and the tramp thought he had frightened her at last. She seemed to think a moment, then she crossed the room to a cupboard, opened it, and took money from a cup. "I will not deceive you," she said. "I have this money for the rent. Take it. It may be that a greater need than mine has put this sin into your soul."

For a moment Ann's words and her calmness seemed to stagger the man-then he broke into a storm of evil language— "Give me your money,' Whe cried, "you know very well what I mean-the money you have hidden in a safe place,' and he threatened her again with horrible words of murder.

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The Good Woman did not move or take her serene gaze from his face.

"Poor man," she said, "there is a shadow over you that is not mine. You have shed blood already, and the voice of it is crying to you from the ground. You go in fear and trembling

because of it, and you will answer for it yet to God and man."

The tramp's face grew livid, and he staggered and glanced round as though he expected to see something. He took a step forward, but his arm shook and he could not touch her. Ann pointed to the door. "Take up the money and go," she said. "I have none but that."

The man glared at her. Then he took up the money and went out into the snow.

By this time it had grown almost quite dark, and the air was thick with whirling flakes. He stumbled down the hillside, and more by chance than by any sense of direction came to the burn that led back to the highroad, and began following it by the noise that it made. After doing this for some little time he halted. The impression the intrepid old woman had made upon him-the terror her words had aroused in him-began to fade. He stood still and cursed himself for a fool because he had come away as he had done. He had not so much as searched the house for the hoard she was keeping from him. Was his blood turned to water that he should be shaken by a weak old woman? He swore that he would go back and make an end of her, and not leave the place till he had found what he sought. turned round and traced his way back as far as the burn went. After that he went wrong. It was but a short distance from the place where the burn issued from the tarn

He

to the house, but the ground was unfamiliar to the tramp, and the falling snow and darkness would have bewildered one who knew it better than he. He got into another fold of the hills, and was soon hopelessly lost. He stumbled helplessly, falling over stones and clumps of heather, till at last he was bruised all over. Sometimes he went up to his knees in a peat-bog, and before long he was drenched to the skin. But it was the unearthly silence of the place that was terrible to him. Fear laid hold upon him

he seemed to be shut in alone into a vast prison from whence there was no outlet. In the silence there were strange sounds - things falling and cries and something like horrible laughter, and always this tramp with the terrible past saw before him the face of a dead man.

This lasted for hours, till he despaired of life and was dazed and broken, and all the time he cursed and swore and stumbled on. It was when he was utterly spent and had sunk down in the snow that he suddenly saw a light close beside him. He struggled to his feet, stumbled to a door, and knocked. There was movement inside, and Ann the Good Woman opened to him.

"So you have come back," she said, and drew him in.

The tramp was so exhausted that for a while he could not speak. He lay on a settle by the fire, and presently Ann brought him tea and bread, and he ate without looking at her. She went away to the

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