Kobelco Hydraulic Excavator

SK135SRD-5 Shop Manual

S5YY6229E01
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Kobelco Hydraulic Excavator SK135SRD-5 Shop Manual S5YY6229E01Size: 61

MBFormat: PDFLanguage: EnglishBrand: KobelcoType of Machine: Kobelco
Hydraulic ExcavatorType of document: Shop ManualModel: Kobelco
SK135SRD-5Number of Pages: 288 PagesBook Code No: S5YY6229E01Printed:
05.2018Content:Cover_S5YY6229E01 S5YY6229E01 -1.1ABOUT THE
COPYRIGHT OF THIS SHOP MANUAL -1.2PREFACE - 2.1ABOUT THE
COPYRIGHT OF THIS SHOP MANUAL -2.2BASIC COMPONENTS OF THE
MACHINE -2.3DIMENSIONS -2.4GENERAL SPECIFICATIONS -2.5WORKING
RANGES -3.1ABOUT THE COPYRIGHT OF THIS SHOP MANUAL -3.2 CLAMP
ARM (MULTI-USE DISMANTLING MACHINE) -3.3CRUSHER ATTACHMENT
(HE750PR) -4.1ABOUT THE COPYRIGHT OF THIS SHOP MANUAL
-4.2PERFORMANCE INSPECTION STANDARD TABLE -4.3OPERATION
PERFORMANCE MEASUREMENT OF CLAMP ARM -5.1ABOUT THE
COPYRIGHT OF THIS SHOP MANUAL -5.2FOREWORD -5.3MECHATRO
CONTROLLER -6.1ABOUT THE COPYRIGHT OF THIS SHOP MANUAL
N6.2HYDRAULIC CIRCUITS AND COMPONENTS N7.1ABOUT THE
COPYRIGHT OF THIS SHOP MANUAL N7.2ELECTRICAL EQUIPMENT LIST
N8.1ABOUT THE COPYRIGHT OF THIS SHOP MANUAL A8.2HYDRAULIC
COMPONENTS A 8.3CAB INTERFERENCE PREVENTION SYSTEM A8.4CAB
INTERFERENCE PREVENTION SYSTEM ADJUSTMENT
PROCEDURES8.5TEST PROCEDURES OF CAB INTERFERENCE
PREVENTION SYSTEM A9.1 ABOUT THE COPYRIGHT OF THIS SHOP
MANUAL A 9.2INSPECTING AND MAINTAING MACHINE09.3INSPECTION AND
MAINTENANCE CHART 0 9.4INSPECTION AND
MAINTENANCE9.5INSPECTION & MAINTENANCE CHART (CRUSHER
ATTACHMENT) N9.68 HOUR (DAILY) INSPECTION & MAINTENANCE
PROCEDURES9.750 HOUR INSPECTION & MAINTENANCE
PROCEDURES9.8120 HOUR INSPECTION & MAINTENANCE
PROCEDURES9.9500 HOUR (6-MONTH) INSPECTION & MAINTENANCE
PROCEDURES9.10REPAIR PROCEDURES9.11 ROTATION OF SWING
BEARING9.12 TROUBLESHOOTING
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than huge turtles can be seen, each one as big and as broad
as a blacksmith’s bellows.

The log before me is so water-stained, so yellow with age,

and so worn, that I cannot make out—do what I may—the
latitude and longitude of the Gloaming Star at this particular
time. But from all I have read and from all I know of these
oceans and islands, I think the land now in sight must have
been either Tasmania itself or some of the isles not far off.
Seeing, on a nearer approach, no signs of a harbour, nor any
deep water, only the white foaming breakers booming on a
low sandy beech; and the green woods beyond, and the
wind coming on to blow higher and higher from the west,
they put to sea again, and stood away still farther north.

In the morning, land was in sight again, and not far off, and
the coast was rocky and wild; the wind, too, had gone down
considerably, so sail was made, and seeing a wide gap in the
rocks they made for it, and found themselves in an hour’s
time in a lovely wood-girt bay. But wood is too tame a term
to apply to it. Primeval forest is surely better. Never before
had any one on board beheld such wondrous trees, nor such
a wealth of vegetation. The ferns, which were of gigantic
size, were a special feature in this tree-scape, while
immense climbing plants, with gorgeous hanging flowers,
made an intricate wildery of this forest land. Great flocks of
pigeons sometimes rose into the air, which they almost
darkened. Ibises grey and red sat and nodded on the rocks,
looking like rows of soldiers and riflemen, while the woods
resounded with the cries of strange birds and the chattering
of innumerable monkeys.

Boats landed about noon, and came off laden with fruit, but
they could find no water that was not brackish.

An expedition was accordingly got up to go farther inland

and search for it. Both Leonard and Douglas went with it.
They were fortunate enough to find a running stream. The
casks were filled, and after a rest, they were preparing to
return, when a wild war-whoop rent the air, and they found
themselves suddenly confronted by a dozen nearly naked
savages, armed with club, and spear, and shield. The march
shore-wards, however, was commenced, and carried out in
perfect order, the natives following slowly on after them, and
threatening their rear. They grew bolder when they noticed
the intention of the men to embark with their casks. Spears
were thrown, and more than one man was wounded. Then
Leonard and Douglas lost their patience and fired. Two
savages bit the dust. The others stood as if petrified. They
had evidently never heard of or seen such a thing as a gun
before. Then recovering themselves, with one unearthly
shriek they turned and fled away into the darkness of the
forest.

Nothing was to be gained by stopping here and fighting

those dusky sons of the woods, so anchor was got up that
evening, and the Gloaming Star resumed her voyage.
Although the ship was still, to some extent, scarce of water,
they trusted to future good fortune, as brave sailors were in
the habit of doing in those days.

After coasting about for nearly a fortnight, with variable

winds, land breezes, sea breezes, and even half-gales, they
found themselves one forenoon once more approaching the
land. The wind was fair, the day was fine, and men were
kept constantly in the chains lest, the water suddenly
shoaling, the vessel might get stranded.

There was plenty of dash and “go” about Captain Blunt, but
no such thing as rashness, a quality which in a commander
is oftentimes fatal, and involves the loss of many a gallant
ship and thousands of lives annually.
Strange birds such as they had never seen before kept
constantly wheeling and screaming around the vessel, and
there were stranger creatures still in the water. They had all
heard of sea-serpents or of the sea-serpent, but here they
were on this particular bank in scores and in hundreds,
gliding along in the water or floating in knots—ugly-looking
flat-tailed creatures, though of no great size. I have heard of
a lieutenant having been killed by the bite of one of these
strange snakes; at the same time I can hardly believe it. The
story, briefly told, is as follows:—

Bitten by a Sea-Snake.

It was in the gun-boat B— some few hundred miles south of

Bombay in the Indian Ocean. Lieutenant Archer was asleep
in his cabin in the afternoon, just after luncheon, and the
day being fine and the weather fair when he lay down, he
had opened his little port for fresh air; in other words, he
had pulled the scuttle out. One of those sudden squalls,
however—so common in this lovely sea—came down on the
ship just as she was about to cross a coral bank infested
with these serpents.

The tramping noise on deck, the rattle of ropes overhead,

and the flapping of sails and shouting of orders might have
failed to waken Archer—he was used to it—but something
else did. No, not a snake; the snake comes in afterwards.
But he shipped a sea through the scuttle which deluged the
bed. The officer sprang out, put in and fastened the scuttle,
shook the rug, and then himself as a big dog might have
done, and quietly turned in again. He got up to keep the first
dog-watch, and on putting his hand down to take up his
jacket the terrible sea-viper struck him. It is said he was
almost instantly paralysed with terror and pain. The doctor
found him, pale, perspiring, with starting eye-balls, and
almost bloodless, and nothing could rally him, for he sank
and died.

Now I give the story as I got it. It may be true. It may be

like some of Rory O’Reilly’s yarns, worthy of credence as far
as one half goes, the other half being left for the story-teller
himself to make the best of.

It was strange now that, although far away among the

woods they had seen the smoke of fires, on landing with
men to dig wells and search for water, not a sight of a
human being could be seen. They dug well after well, but all
were brackish.

So this island had to be deserted.

The next place they came to swarmed with natives, and very
fine-looking fellows they were, armed to the teeth, however.
They obstinately refused to hold any palaver with the
officers or crew of the Gloaming Star. Even the display of
beads did not tempt them, and although here were streams
of fresh water, it was ultimately decided to sail away and
seek for it on other and probably more hospitable shores.

It is impossible to chronicle all the wanderings of our heroes

in those lovely islands, and their cruises round their coasts,
but all summer long off and on they voyaged in their midst.
Then came the autumn—which is contemporaneous with our
spring—and higher winds began to blow, and the weather
got sensibly cooler and more pleasant.

There was no dearth of fresh provisions anywhere, there was

fish in the sea and game on shore, and although the dangers
they had to incur in search of water were sometimes great,
they succeeded in getting it nevertheless.
One day about the middle of February they found
themselves approaching a beautiful though small island,
which, as it was well-wooded and hilly, gave promise not
only of water, but of a supply of good things for the larder as
well. The weather was not quite so clear, however, as usual.
As the wind seemed freshening and blowing towards the
land, the Gloaming Star altered her course, and towards
evening found herself at the lee side of this terra incognita,
when she dropped anchors, being sheltered on one side by
the rocks, and on another by a long spit of land, covered
with shingle, that jutted out into the sea.

There was no smoke to be seen among the trees, no huts

near the shore, never a sign of human life anywhere. The
island was as much their own as Robinson Crusoe’s was.

Leonard and Douglas with a boat’s crew of five men landed

in the afternoon, and after making their boat fast to the
trunks of some mangrove trees, that grew near the spit of
land, they went away into the interior on a prospecting
expedition.

They found the island far more lovely than they could have
imagined in their wildest dreams. It was indeed a garden of
nature—hills and glens, woods and waters, and even inland
lakes, foaming cataracts, wondrous trees, and climbing
flowers of every shape and colour. Birds and strange beasts,
but nothing apparently hurtful or venomous. And yet all was
in the smallest compass.

No wonder that the sun was almost setting before—laden

with delicious fruit—they began to make their way back to
the beach.

A Fearful Gale.
As long as they were in the shelter of the trees and hills,
they had no idea how high it was blowing, but as soon as
they gained the beach things appeared in their true light.
The sea, even with the wind blowing off the land, was
houses high, and like a snow-field with the froth and spume
that covered it. The Gloaming Star could hardly be seen in
the midst of the spray and even green seas that dashed over
her.

As they gazed despairingly towards her, the gale suddenly

increased to tenfold its former violence. The waves now
made a clean breach over the spot of land that sheltered the
ship, if shelter it could be called. Gravel, sand, earth, and
dead branches were torn off the ground and hurled into the
air; it got darker and darker; the lightning played quick,
vivid, and bright everywhere about them; and high over the
roaring of wind and water rose the deafening rattle of
thunder. While trees were being uprooted in the woods, or
snapped like twigs, and the whole island was shaken to its
very foundation, Leonard and his party were creeping on all
fours to the shelter of a rock, and night fell just as they
found themselves safe inside a cave on the sea-beach.

All that night the wind howled and roared, and the rain came
down in torrents. Sleep was out of the question, for the
thunder was constant, and by the glimmer of the lightning’s
flash they could see each other’s blue, pale faces as they
crouched on the sandy floor of the cave.
Morning broke at last, and the wind went down, the sun rose
and shone luridly over the heaving waters, and they stood
together on the sea-beach—alone!

The Gloaming Star was nowhere to be seen, but whether

she broke her moorings, and drifted out to sea to founder, or
whether Captain Blunt had thought it would be safer to run
before the fearful gale, they could not guess.

The wind still blew stiff, but the force of the hurricane was
spent. They went to the place where the boat had been left.
It had been smashed to pieces, hardly a timber was left, and
the keel stuck up out of a sandbank, beside the tree to
which the painter had been attached.
Leonard looked at Douglas, and Douglas at Leonard, and
both smiled, though somewhat sadly. The same thoughts
were evidently passing through the minds of each.

“Well,” said Douglas, “if the ship is safe, and I believe she is,
she is sure to come back for us.”

“And a few days or even weeks in so beautiful a place won’t

hurt,” said Leonard.

“This is like being marooned, isn’t it, gentlemen?” one of the

sailors remarked.

“Well, it is being marooned by fortune, but we must make

the best of it.”

In the bright lexicon of youth there is no such word as “fail.”

There should not be, at all events; and so these deserted
sailors at once set about making the best of a bad job.

They had hope in their hearts—which were stout ones all of

them—and after a bit they quite enjoyed their Crusoe life.

They had axes, and spades, and knives, and guns, and
plenty of ammunition; but even had they possessed none of
these tools, they could have lived on the fruit that grew so
abundantly everywhere, on bushes on the hills, and on trees
in every glade and glen.

As gales of wind or hurricanes might come again and level

the strongest hut they could build, they determined to
become for a time cave-dwellers. They searched for, and
found farther inland, and up on a terrace in the side of a
woody hill, just the place that would suit—a large, dry, lofty
cave in sight of the sea. They at once set about fitting it up
for a dwelling. The floor was covered deep in silvery sand.
Nothing could be better, whether to squat in by day, or sleep
on by night. The entrance to the cave was built up with
felled trees, leaving only a small entrance for light, and a
doorway. Thus the dwelling-house was speedily completed.

“Why not,” said Leonard, “fortify this terrace?”

“Good,” replied Douglas; “we have nothing else to do, and I

can’t forget that footstep in the sand of Crusoe’s Isle.”

“And as we never know what may happen,” continued

Douglas, “I propose that we store our guns and ammunition,
and trap game for our food.”

This proposal was carried unanimously.

Some of the men were clever trappers, and others were

good fishermen, so there was no want of food, and water
was abundant.

On the sea-beach a fire was kindled, and day and night this
was kept up, sentries being always posted here, armed.

The rampart was soon completed round the terrace, and a

strong one it was.

A whole week had gone, and as yet nothing had been seen
of the Gloaming Star, and the hopes of our heroes began to
get very low indeed.

A whole week, then another and another. Their hearts sank

with each recurring day. They got tired even of the beauty of
the island, and tired and sick of gazing always out to the
sea, which looked to them now so void and merciless. They
envied even the sea-birds, that seemed so happy and
joyous, and whom nothing could imprison.

“It would be a good idea,” said Douglas one day, “to build a
boat and sail away somewhere.”
“Yes, but whither?”

“Yes, whither?” repeated Douglas sadly.

One day, while roaming together on the other side of the

island, suddenly there sprang up in front of Leonard and
Douglas, as if from the very earth, a naked savage. He stood
but for a moment, then waving a club aloft with a wild shout
of fear and wonder, he fled far away into the woods.

They returned to the cave, and reported what they had

seen, and all agreed that though danger might accrue from
the visit of natives to the island, still it might end in their
being set free.

It was determined, however, to be now doubly vigilant. The

sentry was no longer placed on the beach but inside the
rampart, and never less than four men went to the woods
together.

Days and days went past, a sad time of doubt and

uncertainty, and still no signs of savages. They came at last,
however.

And one morning, looking down over the ramparts, they

could see a group of tall, armed, and painted natives,
standing on the sand spit examining the broken keel of the
boat.

Then they disappeared in the bush.

Arms were got out now; the one little gate that led through
the rampart was doubly barricaded; the little garrison waited
and watched.

The forenoon wore on, birds sang in the trees, the low wind
sighed through the woods, and the lovely flowers opened
their petals to bask in the sweet sunshine. There were joy
and gladness everywhere except in the hearts of those
anxious mariners.

The day wore on, and the sun began to decline in the west.
Our heroes had just finished dinner when the sentry lifted
his finger, and beckoned to them. Through an opening in the
rampart they could perceive fully a score of club- and spear-
armed savages creeping stealthily up the hill.

As soon, however, as they were boldly hailed from the fort—

for fort it might now be considered—they cast all attempts at
concealment aside, and with a yell that was re-echoed back
from every rock around they dashed onwards to the attack.

“Steady, men. Take good aim, and don’t throw away a shot.”

A volley completely staggered the enemy. They fell back

quicker than they had come, going helter-skelter down the
hill, and leaving several dead and wounded behind them.

Not for long though. Savages may be beaten, but if there is

the slightest chance to overcome by numbers they invariably
return.

The day passed, however, and eke the long, dreary night,
during which no one closed an eye till the sun once more
rose over the sea in the morning. Most of the men slept all
the forenoon. Luckily they did, for in the afternoon the
savages returned in redoubled numbers, and this time many
of them actually swarmed over the ramparts, but only to be
felled inside.

It was a terrible mêlée, but ended once more in victory for

our side.
A whole week now wore away without further molestation,
but the worst was to come, for the garrison was reduced to
five defenders, two having been wounded in the last fight,
one of whom had succumbed to his wounds.

It was early in the morning, and the stars were still shining
bright and clearly over the sea, when one of the sentries
reported the woods on fire to windward. The flames spread
with alarming rapidity, and by daybreak were close at hand;
the fort was enveloped in smoke, while sparks as thick as
falling snowflakes in a winter’s storm were showered around
them.

In the midst of smoke and fire the savages intended making

their final attempt to carry the fort, and our heroes
determined to sell their lives dearly, and fight to the end.

Already they could hear the yells of the approaching

spearmen, though they were invisible.

But why come they not on? Why does the yelling continue
and go farther and farther back and away? Hark! it is the
ring of firearms.

Oh, joy! the Gloaming Star must have returned. But was this
really so? No, for the white men now engaged in a hand-to-
hand combat with those daring savages are men of a
different class from the honest crew of the Gloaming Star.

The sound of the battle grows fainter and fainter, till it

ceases entirely.

Leonard and Douglas wait and watch, trying to peer through

the smoke, and unravel, if possible, some of the mystery
that has been taking place below.
Dimly through the haze at last they can notice figures
dressed in white clambering up the hill.

“Come out at once, you white fellows,” cries a bold English

voice. “Come forth, if you don’t want to be roasted alive. The
fire is close on you.”

The rampart gates were opened, and the besieged bade

speedy farewell for ever to their cave and fort. Sturdy, bare,
brown-armed sailors, armed with cutlasses and pistols, were
their rescuers, but presently they found themselves on the
beach, and standing in front of the ringleader or captain of
the band. A tall handsome man he was, dressed in white,
with a turban of silk around his head, and a sword by his
side. He was smoking a cheroot.

“Happy to see you, anyhow,” he said. “Squat yourselves

down on the sand there; I guess you’re tired.”

“And I, Captain Bland, am glad to see you once again.”

“What! you know me then?”

“Yes, though you can hardly be expected to remember the

lad you kidnapped.”

Bland jumped up and seized Leonard by the hand, while

tears filled his eyes.

“Oh!” he said, “this is a greater joy then ever I could have

dreamt of, greater than ever I deserved. I care little now
how soon my wanderings are ended, or how soon I leave the
world itself.”

“Do not speak in this sad tone, Captain Bland; believe me, it
is a pleasure to me to meet you. I never believed you the
hardened criminal that some would have you.”
“Criminal!” cried Bland, flushing excitedly, “who dare call me
criminal? And yet,” he added, in a tone of great sadness, and
even pathos, “perhaps I have been a criminal, a smuggler,
yea, even to some extent a pirate. I have never yet,
however, done one cruel action; but had I my life to begin
over again, how different it would all be!”

“And that barque lying out there is yours?”

“Yes; and my trade you would ask? I deal in slaves and gold.
I have found gold. But what good is it all? I live a life of
constant excitement; were this to fail me I should die. But
you saved my worthless life, lad.”

“And now you have saved ours.”

“Yes, and I’ll do more. I’ll restore you to your ship and your
captain. He it was who sent me here in search of you, but he
mentioned no name, and little did he know the pleasure he
was giving me.”

“And the Gloaming Star?”

“Is in the hands of my merry men. Do not be alarmed. It

was a bloodless victory. And now she shall be restored to
you safe and sound.

“Come, my boats are here to take you off, and your ship lies
safe at anchor not sixty miles away. Come.”
 Book Three—Chapter Five.

The Old Folks at Home.

“Gloomy winter’s noo awa,

Soft the westlin’ breezes blow,
Amang the birks o’ Stanley Shaw
The mavis sings hoo cheery O?”

Burns.

“I asked a glad mother, just come from the post,

With a letter she kissed, from a far-away coast,
What heart-thrilling news had rejoiced her the most,
And—gladness for mourning! Her boy was returning
To love her—at home.”

Tupper.

Scene: The wildery round Grayling House in early spring.

Everything in gardens and on lawns looks fresh and joyful.
Spring flowers peeping through the brown earth, merle and
mavis making music in the spruce and fir thickets, and
louder than all the clear-throated chaffinch. Effie walking
alone with book in hand, a great deerhound, the son of
faithful Ossian, following step by step behind.

Effie is not reading, though she holds that book in her hand,
and albeit her eyes seem glued to the page. For Effie is
thinking, only thinking the same thoughts she thinks so very
often, only making the same calculations she makes every
day of her somewhat lonely life, and which often cause her
pillow at night to be bedewed with tears.

Thinking, wondering, calculating.

Thinking of the past, thinking what a long, long time has

elapsed since Leonard and Douglas—her brother’s friend—
went last away to sea; wondering where they might be at
that very moment, and calculating the weeks and days that
had yet to elapse before the time they had promised to
return should arrive. She finished by breathing a little prayer
for them. What a joyful thing it is for us poor mortals, that
He, Who sticketh closer than a brother, is ever and always
by our side, and ever and always ready to lend a willing ear
to our silent supplications!

Effie ended with a sigh that was half a sob, a sigh that made
great Orla the deerhound thrust his muzzle right under her
elbow, and so throw her arm around his neck.

What would Effie have thought or done, I wonder, had she

known that at this very moment Leonard’s ship lay safe at
Leith, and that not only he, but Douglas and Captain Blunt,
were making all the haste that could be made in a chaise
and pair towards Glen Lyle?

On the arrival of the Gloaming Star, our heroes first and

foremost did something which may not accord with my
readers’ idea of romance. A most useful and most needful
something it was. They paid a visit to a West End tailor.
Before doing so, however, they went to Captain Lyle’s lawyer.

The old man—he was very old—did not at first know

Leonard, but as soon as he did, he shook hands with him
over and over again. He was almost childlike in his joy to see
him again.

“What will your father say?” he cried, “and all of them, all of
them?”

Of course Leonard had a dozen questions to ask, and what a

big sigh of relief he got rid of, when told that not only were
all of them well, including Peter and Peter’s pike, which by
some means or another—considered supernatural by Peter—
was once more all alive and plunging, but that the estate of
Glen Lyle was free again, and that Captain Fitzroy had
rented one of the farms, thus figuratively, if not literally,
turning his sword into a ploughshare.

Leonard had stood all the time he was getting this news, but
now that the hysterical ball of doubt and anxiety had left his
throat, he flung his hat to the other end of the room, and
took a chair. Douglas and Blunt did the same, and the whole
four glided right away into a right jolly, right merry whole
hour’s conversation, what the Scotch folks would call “a
foursome crack.” The old lawyer’s clerk—and he was old, too
—came on tiptoe to the door and listened, for he had not
heard such laughing and joking and merriment for many and
many a long year.

The wanderers rose at last to say good-bye for the present.

“Now don’t write and tell them we’ve come,” said Leonard.
“We want to go and surprise them.”

“But, my dear young squire—”

“Bother the squire!” cried Leonard, laughing.

“Well, my dear Leonard, then—”

“Yes, that’s better.”

“Aren’t you going right away down at once? Do you mean to

say you’ll let the grass grow beneath your shoes for an
hour?”

And now Douglas put in his oar.

“Why, Mr Fraser,” he said, “look at us. Run your eagle eye

over us from stem to stern. Rough and unkempt. Covered
with salt. Barnacles growing on us. Could you, Mr Fraser,
suggest our putting in an appearance before ladies in such a
plight? No, sir, the tailor must first and foremost come upon
the scene.”

Mr Fraser laughed heartily.

“Well, well,” he said, “young men will be young men, but I’ll
warrant you, gentlemen, the ladies would be right glad to
see you, barnacles and all.”

And the old gentleman laughed and rubbed his hands, as if

he had said something very clever indeed.

Once upon a time, as the fairy stories begin, my good ship M

— had arrived at Portsmouth after a long commission of
cruising along the shores of Eastern Africa and round India.

At luncheon the day after we came in, our chief engineer

said, in his quiet, stoical manner,—

“My wife is coming to-day by the three train.”

“What!” cried somebody. “And you are not going to meet her
at the station, after so long an absence?”

“No, I’m not,” was the answer. “The fact is, I’ve a very great
horror of anything approaching what people call a scene.
Now if I had gone to meet my wife, the poor thing,
overcome by her feelings, would be sure to faint in my arms
or something. So I’ve sent my assistant to meet her. She
isn’t likely to faint in little Jones’s arms.”

On the same principle, the reader must excuse me if I omit

describing the scene of the meeting and reunion at Grayling
House. I will not even tell of the tears that were shed, tears
of joy and anxiety long pent up, of the hearty handshakes,
of the whispered words and half-spoken sentences of
welcome, for all this can be better imagined than told.

It was three days, at least, before the old house settled

down again to anything like solid order, and conversation
became less spasmodic in character.

Old Peter, who, of course, was quite one of the family, was
probably the last to settle down, owing perhaps to the fact
that he listened with wonder and astonishment to the
conversation at table, and to the tales the wanderers had to
tell, about the wonders they had seen, and the adventures
they had come through. More than once, indeed, he had let
fall a plate, and he had actually filled up Effie’s cup on the
second morning from the water-bottle instead of the teapot.
That same day, when he found Leonard and Douglas in the
garden by themselves, he treated them to the following
morsel of edification.

“Oh, laddies!” he said, “it’s a wondrous warld we live in,

whether we dwall upo’ the dry lan’ or gang doon to the sea
in ships. But few, unco few, hae come through what ye’ve
come through. And what brocht ye back, think ye? What else
but prayer, prayer, prayer? Your father prayed, and your lady
mither prayed, and Miss Effie prayed, and poor auld Peter
prayed, and—and thare ye are. And yonder is Grayling Ha’,
and all aroond us is the bonnie estate o’ Glen Lyle, its hills
and dells, and moors and fields, and woods and waters, a’
oor ain again. And the muckle pike ploupin’ aboot (ploupin’,
Scottice—plunging) as if naething had ever ailed him. Verily,
verily, we’ve a lot to be thankfu’ for!”

“Well, bless you, Peter, dear old friend, for your prayers, and
long may you live to pray. But tell me, Peter, for I forgot to
ask mother, what has become of Zella the gipsy girl?”

“Oh! hae they no tauld you? It’s a year ago come

Whitsunday since they cam’ for her.”

“Who?”

“Who? who but the Faas of her ain tribe, and bonnily they
decked her, in a muslin gown o’ gowden-spangled white, and
they put roses and ferns in her dark hair, and a croon upon
her head, and it’s wondrous beautiful she looked. Ay, ye may
stare, but Zella is queen o’ the gipsies, and no doubt ye’ll
see her ere lang.”

He turned sharp round towards Douglas as he spoke.

“I dinna doubt, sir,” he said, “but that the gipsy queen will
come to your weddin’.”

Now Douglas’s face was, from exposure to sun and weather,

of a sort of dignified brick-dust hue. One would have thought
it impossible for such a face to blush, but deeper in colour it
really got as he laughingly replied to the garrulous old Peter.

“My wedding, Peter! Why, my dear old friend, you’ve been

dreaming.”