Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 724. Various

is a game suited for young and middle-aged folks only. This is a delusion, for no outdoor pastime is more fitted for elderly people. To attain great excellence in the game, the player must commence early in life; but to become enamoured of its joys requires but a beginning, and that beginning may be made by men who have long passed the meridian of life. We could point to many elderly gentlemen whose lives are being lengthened by the vigour-inspiring game, and who, when their daily round or rounds are finished, can fight their battles o'er again in the cheery club-house, with all the zest of youth. When games such as cricket have been found too much, or perhaps the exertion of tramping the moors too severe, the sexagenarian may safely take to the easy but invigorating pursuit of golf, and 'bless the chiel who invented it.' If he misgives his ability to cope with the exertion, or fancied exertion, of pacing a few miles of green turf and wielding a club, our advice to him is to place himself in the hands of a professional golf-player – plenty of whom are to be found wherever there are links – and try; and in a wonderfully short time our veteran may find himself interested, perhaps absorbed, in a game the delights of which he has lived all these years without having been able till now to realise!

      FROM DAWN TO SUNSET

PART IIICHAPTER THE SECOND

      Deborah waited and watched – a gloom unutterable weighed on her spirits – and no Mistress Fleming came. At last old Jordan Dinnage arrived at the castle alone, looking scared and sorrow-stricken.

      'The master is very ill,' said Mistress Marjory, as she waited on Jordan. 'These be bad days, Master Dinnage. I doubt if he lives till morning. Doctor says he won't; but doctors know naught. In general, if doctors say "He'll be dead by mornin'," it means he'll live to a good old age; I've seed it often. But mark my words, Jordan Dinnage: there's not much life in our dear Master; he's goin'. This comes o' leavin' Enderby. I felt it; I knew'd 'twould be so. This comes o' Master Sinclair's leavin's. O Jordan Dinnage, it's wrong, it's grievous wrong, this leavin' Enderby, for this grand blowed-out old place, an' these flaunting livery-men an' maids. Master Sinclair's curse is on us!'

      'Nay, nay, Mistress Marjory; these be women's superstitions. Mistress Deborah did rightly. A goose she would ha' been to fling all this grandery and gold guineas in the ditch, for fear o' bad luck, 'sooth! It's no more that, than thou'rt a wise woman! The Master'll pull through; an' if he don't, better die a prince than a beggar.'

      Marjory shook her head. 'Give me honest beggary. An' where's Mistress Dinnage? Be sure Lady Deb 'ud be glad o' her company now. Why didst not bring her along, Jordan? It speaks not much for her love.'

      Jordan reddened. 'Not a word agen Meg, Mistress Marjory! She'll be comin' soon. I must see Mistress Deborah.'

      'Well, come now. An' heaven send Master Kingston soon.'

      Deborah met the dear old man with outstretched hands. 'Jordan, I am so glad to see ye! Where is Margaret?'

      Jordan shuffled from one foot to the other, and twisted his hat round in his hands. 'Well, Lady Deb – Mistress Deborah – I've not brought Meg along.'

      'I see ye have not!' cried Deborah impetuously. 'But where is she?'

      The old gray eyes, growing dim with age, looked straight and honestly on their young Mistress, yet humbly too, as he answered in a low voice: 'Where she ought to be, Mistress Deborah – off to her young husband, Master Charlie Fleming.'

      'Jordan, Jordan! Is this true? Her husband? Ye bewilder me. Are they wedded then? Is she gone to Ireland?'

      'Sure enow! O Mistress Deborah, I come to ask forgiveness! It isn't for the like o' Jordan Dinnage to have his daughter Mistress Fleming; but dear heaven knows I know'd naught, an' never sought it out, nor had high notions. Mistress Deborah, I ask forgiveness, an' I hope the master'll forgive me.'

      Deborah took the old trembling hand. 'The master is in no state to blame or to forgive. But, Jordan, thou may'st give me joy o' this. It gladdens mine heart in my sore troubles like a sunbeam on a dark, dark cloud. Forgive thee? Ay, I am proud to be Margaret Fleming's sister; an' well believe my father would bid her welcome too – faithful honest Jordan. Now come, Jordan, come, and see how he lies. He knows me not, and he calls ever upon Charlie. Hast sent my letter to Ireland? Hast the address?'

      'Ay, ay; it's gone.'

      'Then I will write again to-night. Heaven send he may come in time. Sometimes, Jordan, he lieth in a stupor; again he calls for Charlie or for me.'

      Reverently pulling his white forelock, with his old habit of respect, to his fiery but beloved master, Jordan stood at the foot of the bed, and saw the shadow of death on the face of Vincent Fleming.

      'My boy,' murmured the dying man, with his eyes upon Jordan – 'my boy Charlie!'

      Old Jordan gazed helplessly and sorrowfully from him to the doctor who stood by, and Marjory, who entered. 'What's to be done?' he muttered. 'It kills him!'

      'Patience, patience!' whispered the solemn doctor; 'he may see his son yet. There is great hope for him, Mistress Fleming; keep good heart.'

      'Not hope of his recovery, Master Allan,' said Deborah, with stern and still despair. 'I know death when I see it. You have held out hope before; yet make him live till my brother comes. Ye hear me, Master Allan?'

      'Ay, Mistress Fleming; I will use my poor skill to the utmost. Bear up. I will return to-night, Mistress Fleming;' and with a courtly bow, he left her.

      But for Deborah, she kneeled beside her father, and with old days and old memories her heart was like to break. Jordan was weeping bitterly; she heard the old man's sobs; but on her own heart a still Hand was laid, enforcing strength and calmness. For two things she prayed: that Charlie might come in time; and that her father might be himself before he died, to hear that Charlie had ever been true to him. And so through the long night she watched; and old Marjory oft slept and nodded, as age and dulled senses will; and though Sir Vincent at times called plaintively for his Deb, his 'Rose of Enderby,' his more frequent plaint was for his boy.

CHAPTER THE THIRD

      In those days there were wild doings in Ireland. 'Liberty and Reform' were the watch-words which did then, and ever will, electrify the fiery, rebellious, ardent spirits that flocked under one banner to struggle and to die. Irish and French met and fought together against the iron hand of England; thousands perished; the fated isle ran blood.