the State officials, formed a
procession, and marched with no little grace and stateliness round the
magnificent hall of St. Patrick, whilst the strains of the National
Anthem re-echoed down the long corridors and out into the star-lit windy
night.

[Illustration: CREWE HALL.]

THE FEAR OF IT.

BY ROBERT BARR.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. S. BOYD.

The sea was done with him. He had struggled manfully for his life, but
exhaustion came at last, and, realising the futility of further
fighting, he gave up the battle. The tallest wave, the king of that
roaring tumultuous procession racing from the wreck to the shore, took
him in its relentless grasp, held him towering for a moment against the
sky, whirled his heels in the air, dashed him senseless on the sand,
and, finally, rolled him over and over, a helpless bundle, high up upon
the sandy beach.

Human life seems of little account when we think of the trifles that
make towards the extinction or the extension of it. If the wave that
bore Stanford had been a little less tall, he would have been drawn back
into the sea by one that followed. If, as a helpless bundle, he had been
turned over one time more or one less, his mouth would have pressed into
the sand, and he would have died. As it was, he lay on his back with
arms outstretched on either side, and a handful of dissolving sand in
one clinched fist. Succeeding waves sometimes touched him, but he lay
there unmolested by the sea with his white face turned to the sky.

Oblivion has no calendar. A moment or an eternity are the same to it.
When consciousness slowly returned, he neither knew nor cared how time
had fled. He was not quite sure that he was alive, but weakness rather
than fear kept him from opening his eyes to find out whether the world
they would look upon was the world they had last gazed at. His interest,
however, was speedily stimulated by the sound of the English tongue. He
was still too much dazed to wonder at it, and to remember that he was
cast away on some unknown island in the Southern Seas. But the purport
of the words startled him.

"Let us be thankful. He is undoubtedly dead." This was said in a tone of
infinite satisfaction.

There seemed to be a murmur of pleasure at the announcement from those
who were with the speaker. Stanford slowly opened his eyes, wondering
what these savages were who rejoiced in the death of an inoffensive
stranger cast upon their shores. He saw a group standing a