. I hope he will not
attack us with his gang.'

'I hope not,' responded Annie, a gentle maiden of some sixteen summers.

Just then came a knock at the door of the hut, and a gruff voice asked
them to open the door.

'It is Sam Redfern the Bushranger, father,' said the girl.

'The same,' responded the voice, and the next moment the hall door was
smashed in, and Sam Redfern sprang in, followed by his gang.

------------ CHAPTER II

Annie's Father was at once overpowered, and Annie herself lay bound with
cords on the drawing-room sofa. Sam Redfern set a guard round the lonely
hut, and all human aid was despaired of. But you never know. Far away in
the Bush a different scene was being enacted.

'Must be Injuns,' said a tall man to himself as he pushed his way
through the brushwood. It was Jim Carlton, the celebrated detective. 'I
know them,' he added; 'they are Apaches.' just then ten Indians in full
war-paint appeared. Carlton raised his rifle and fired, and slinging
their scalps on his arm he hastened towards the humble log hut where
resided his affianced bride, Annie Ridgway, sometimes known as the
Flower of the Bush.

------------ CHAPTER III

The moon was low on the horizon, and Sam Redfern was seated at a
drinking bout with some of his boon companions.

They had rifled the cellars of the hut, and the rich wines flowed like
water in the golden goblets of Mr Ridgway.

But Annie had made friends with one of the gang, a noble, good-hearted
man who had joined Sam Redfern by mistake, and she had told him to go
and get the police as quickly as possible.

'Ha! ha!' cried Redfern, 'now I am enjoying myself!' He little knew that
his doom was near upon him.

Just then Annie gave a piercing scream, and Sam Redfern got up, seizing
his revolver. 'Who are you?' he cried, as a man entered.

'I am Jim Carlton, the celebrated detective,' said the new arrival.

Sam Redfern's revolver dropped from his nerveless fingers, but the next
moment he had sprung upon the detective with the well-known activity of
the mountain sheep, and Annie shrieked, for she had grown to love the
rough Bushranger.

(To be continued at the end of the paper if there is room.)

------------ SCHOLASTIC

A new slate is horrid till it is washed in milk. I like the green spots
on them to draw patterns round. I know a good way to make a slate-pencil
squeak, but I won't put i