The boy answered—also, after waiting a little
first—"Yes."

The Indian put a third and last question:
"Will the English gentleman come here, as he
has promised to come, at the close of day?"

The boy said, "I can't tell."

The Indian asked why.

The boy said, "I am tired. The mist rises
in my head, and puzzles me. I can see no more
to-day."

With that, the catechism ended. The chief
Indian said something in his own language to
the other two, pointing to the boy, and
pointing towards the town, in which (as we
afterwards discovered) they were lodged. He
then, after making more signs on the boy's
head, blew on his forehead, and so woke him
up with a start. After that, they all went on
their way towards the town, and the girls saw
them no more.

Most things, they say, have a moral, if you
only look for it. What was the moral of
this?

The moral was, as I thought: First, that the
chief juggler had heard Mr. Franklin's arrival
talked of among the servants out-of-doors, and
saw his way to making a little money by it.
Second, that he and his men and boy (with a
view to making the said money) meant to hang
about till they saw my lady drive home, and
then to come back, and foretel Mr. Franklin's
arrival by magic. Third, that Penelope had
heard them rehearsing their hocus-pocus, like
actors rehearsing a play. Fourth, that I should
do well to have an eye, that evening, on the
plate-basket. Fifth, that Penelope would do
well to cool down, and leave me, her father, to
doze off again in the sun.

That appeared to me to be the sensible view.
If you know anything of the ways of young
women, you won't be surprised to hear that
Penelope wouldn't take it. The moral of the
thing was serious, according to my daughter.
She particularly reminded me of the Indian's
third question, Has the English gentleman
got It about him? "Oh, father!" says Penelope,
clasping her hands, "don't joke about
this! What does 'It' mean?"

"We'll ask Mr. Franklin, my dear," I said,
"if you can wait till Mr. Franklin comes."
I winked to show I meant that in joke.
Penelope took it quite seriously. My girl's
earnestness tickled me. "What on earth
should Mr. Franklin know about it?" I
inquired. "Ask him," says Penelope. "And
see whether he thinks it a laughing matter,
too." With that parting shot, my daughter
left me.

I settled it with myself, when she was gone,
that I really would ask Mr. Franklin—mainly
to set Penelope's mind at rest. What was said
between us, when I did ask him, later on that
same day, you will find set out fully in its
proper place. But as I don't wish to raise
your expectations and then disappoint them,
I will take leave to warn you here—before we
go any further—that you won't find the ghost
of a joke in our conversation on the subject of the
jugglers. To my great surprise, Mr. Franklin,
like Penelope, took the thing seriously. How
seriously, you will understand when I tell
you that, in his opinion, "It" meant the
Moonstone.

       RAILWAY THOUGHTS

THE pursuit of health is like hunting the
hare: the further you run, and the faster you
run after her, the more you enjoy and benefit
by the sport. I hold that there is more health
to be derived by continuous travelling than by
merely shifting your place of abode. Thus, if I
occupy a week in going to John o'Groat's house
and back, I derive more benefit than if I
performed the journey in a couple of days—supposing
that to be possible—and spent the other five
at John o'Groat's house. There are, so to speak,
elements in railway travelling highly conducive
to health, more especially to the health of those
whose pursuits are habitually in-door and
sedentary. Those elements are excitement, variety,
an occasional sense of danger, followed by a
sense of safety—though this does not always
follow—and fresh air. To the sedentary man,
who has been spending months, as it were, in
his easy-chair, there is a great amount of
exhilaration in being suddenly transferred to an
express train. The very bustle of the railway
terminus is a taste of new life. It is the first
glass or two of wine at dinner. When the
train is at full speed rattling through the green
fields—champaign country as they might be
called in this connexion—you become hilarious.
Of course, a man may take too much railway
travelling, just as he may take too much
champagne. Use and abuse are much the same in
both cases. Two or three glasses of champagne
—perfect happiness; a bottle—heaviness
of breathing, thickness of speech, and a disposition
towards prostration. A hundred miles by
rail—very pleasant, very appetising; five
hundred, and you are a dead dog. Nothing but a
long night's rest will restore you after that heavy
bout of enjoyment on the rail. The only
temporary picker-up, that has any effect whatever, is
a warm bath. But there is a medium in all
things, in railway travelling as well as in drinking;
and I repeat, that I consider a week or
so on the railway, when you don't take too
much at a sitting, to be a very wholesome and
enjoyable thing. It clears the lungs, circulates
the blood, stimulates the brain, and raises the
spirits. I believe it is a good thing to mix your
airs, and to mix them well and thoroughly.
"Never mix your liquors," is an exploded
fallacy. I have it on the authority of a toper
of many years' (unsteady) standing, that it is the
greatest mistake in the world to stick to one
liquor.

"Be warned by my example, young man,"
says the old toper. "I have never gone to
bed, what you might call sober, for fifty years;
and look at me!—I can get drunk yet, and