10618	----	"JESUS SAYS SO." * * * * * BOSTON: MASS. SABBATH SCHOOL SOCIETY, Depository, No. 13 Cornhill. 1851. [Illustration: Frontispiece.] "JESUS SAYS SO." OR, A MEMORIAL OF LITTLE SARAH G---- FROM THE LONDON EDITION. _Approved by the Committee of Publication_. BOSTON: MASS. SABBATH SCHOOL SOCIETY, Depository, No. 13 Cornhill. 1851. "JESUS SAYS SO." Sarah G---- was one of several children, living with their parents in a narrow lane in London. Early in the year 1847, Sarah's father had met with a serious accident, and was then in the hospital, where he remained for many weeks a severe sufferer. Sarah and her brothers, deprived of the usual means of support, and their mother being in constant attendance on her husband, were consequently often left in great necessity. More than once have these little ones been known to reach the hour of four or five in the afternoon, before taking any food; but amidst all their privations, no complaint was heard from the lips of Sarah. It was not known until after her death, how silently, yet how powerfully, the Spirit of God was, even at this time, working in her heart. There was nothing particularly attractive in her appearance; quiet and unobtrusive, she seemed to the outward observer like most other children; but "the Lord seeth not as man seeth." The Great Shepherd of the sheep had his eye on this little lamb of the fold, and marked her for his own. At home she was gentle and affectionate, obedient to her parents, and during their absence she watched kindly over her little brothers. Her poor family tasted largely of the cup of sorrow, but poverty and distress, instead of producing impatience and unkindness, seemed to bind each one more closely to the other. They experienced the truth of those words: "Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith," Prov. 15:17. "Better is a dry morsel, and quietness therewith, than a house full of sacrifices with strife," Prov. 17:1. The death of her youngest brother appeared to make a strong impression on Sarah's mind; she said she liked to think she had a brother in heaven. Soon after that event, she was admitted into a Sabbath school, and it was her delight in the week to prepare her lessons. "Sunday is such a happy day," she would say; and on that morning she would rise earlier than usual to get ready for school. A little circumstance, which occurred at this time, marked her tenderness of conscience. A new bonnet had been promised to her, but not arriving at the time she had hoped, her disappointment was so great that she shed many tears. This was mentioned to a friend, who talked to her about it. Sarah made no remark at the time, but afterwards she said to her mother, "I did not know before that it was wrong to cry when we were disappointed; I will try not to do so again:" and in the evening her father overheard her begging God to forgive her pride and fretting about the bonnet. Another feature in Sarah's character may be here noticed: this was her love of truth. "She has never deceived me," was her mother's frequent remark. "I cannot remember a single instance of untruth, _even in play_," and perhaps this truthfulness of spirit enabled her the more readily to trust the word of another. "She promised me," Sarah would say, and on the promise she would ever rest, in all the sweet dependence of a child. Surely this may speak a word to those professing to be the followers of Him who keepeth his promise for ever--the covenant-keeping God. How lightly are promises often made! how carelessly and thoughtlessly broken! Sarah was only permitted to attend the Sabbath school for a few weeks. Her health and strength failed, and soon she was confined to her room, then to her bed, which she scarcely left for several months. But now the work of God within her became more evident. It was a pleasant service to sit by the bed of this young disciple, and read and talk with her of a Saviour's love. She said but little, except in answer to questions, but her bright and happy countenance showed how welcome was the subject. Who that witnessed her simple, child-like faith, would not acknowledge the fruit of the Spirit's teaching? It was the more apparent, as she had but little help from man, and few outward advantages, not even being able to read; but she treasured up in her mind all she heard, and it was as food to her soul, the joy and rejoicing of her heart. At an early period of her illness, a violent attack of pain and palpitation of the heart made her think she was dying, and she told her mother so, adding, "But I am not afraid, I am so happy." "What makes you so happy?" was asked. "Because I am going to heaven, and when I pray to Jesus, my heart seems lifted up." "But, Sarah, do you think your sins forgiven?" "Yes, mother, I am sure so." "What makes you so sure?" "Because _Jesus says so_." "Jesus says,"--this was ever the ground of her confidence, and proved to all around her the Saviour's oft-repeated lesson,--"Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, shall in no wise enter therein." Sarah lingered many weeks after this. Her mind was full of peace; as she lay on her sick bed, no shade of fear passed over her, all was sunshine within. This one happy thought filled her mind,--"Jesus loves me, I am going to heaven." A friend wishing to find out on what her hopes of happiness rested, and if she had a real sense of sin, said to her, "You talk much of going to heaven, tell me, do you deserve to go there?" "Oh, no," was her reply, "I do not deserve it." "Why not?" In a solemn tone, she answered, "Because I have sinned." It was remarked, "How then can you go there? Heaven is such a holy place, no sin can enter there." With the brightest smile she quietly replied, "Ah! but Jesus says he will wash away all my sin, and make my soul quite white, and he will carry me there." Oh that all would learn of her thus to take Jesus at his word! What an enemy to peace is an unbelieving heart! None spoke ill of this little girl, even those who knew her least remarked, "she was a good pleasant child," but her grateful affection beamed strongly towards all who showed her any kindness, and one who watched her with interest throughout her illness, will not soon forget the earnest smile of welcome with which she was always greeted, when too ill to speak. Thus she told her thanks. Once, the 103d Psalm was read to her, with some remarks on David's causes of thankfulness. It was remarked, "You, too, Sarah, have many things to bless God for; for what do you thank him most?" She answered, "Oh, I thank him most for sending Jesus from heaven to save me." Many were the words of comfort she spoke to her poor sorrowing mother, whose heart at times seemed almost broken at the prospect of losing her. She said, "You will not cry, when I am in heaven, dear mother. I am only going a little while first, and you will soon follow;" and once, on an occasion of deep family distress, she pointed to the surest way for relief, saying, "Mother, why do you cry so? Does not the Bible say God cares for the sparrows, and are not you better than a sparrow? O mother, pray, do pray, and then you will be so happy." So calmly, so peacefully, did this young disciple enter the dark valley, that truly she might have said, "There's nothing terrible in death To those who go to heaven." Resting in her Saviour's love she feared no evil, his rod and his staff they comforted her; sin was her only dread. Her only fear was that of offending her heavenly Father, and on this point she often did express much anxiety, saying, "Do tell me if I have done wrong. I do not want to sin; I am so afraid of making God angry. Sometimes my sins look so black, and seem to come between me and God." Then, as if she still felt secure in the only hiding-place for sinners, she added, "But Jesus says he will take them all away, and wash me whiter than snow." She delighted much in some little books suited to her age and circumstances that were read to her; one entitled, "The Infant's Prayer," and another, "The White Robes," were her greatest favorites. In allusion to the last of these, she often prayed, "O Lord Jesus, hear a poor little girl, do give me that beautiful white dress, without one spot or one stain;" and once when her mother noticed a little hurt on her arm occasioned by her putting on a change of dress, she sweetly said, "Never mind that, dear mother; my next dress will not hurt me." It was very pleasant to see the affection manifested by her brothers towards their little sick sister, and she repaid their kindness by anxiously entreating them to care for their souls. To her father she said, "I want you to promise me one thing--to meet me in heaven. O father! do love Jesus. I love him, indeed I do; but I want you to love him too. There is only one Jesus, one Saviour; and, father, he is so holy." Then turning to her mother, who was standing by her bed, she added, "You do love Jesus, but, O mother, pray do love him more, and more, and more;" she spoke with such energy, as if to impress her parents with her own feeling, as almost startled them. In this state of mind Sarah drew near the end of her pilgrimage, and it was not until about three days before her death that even the shadow of a cloud seemed to darken her path. Then, for the first time, her mind was agitated with doubts as to her Saviour's love for her, and very distressing to those around her were her anxious cries for pardon. "Father, forgive me, for Jesus Christ's sake," was her constant petition. She was visited by a minister and by several Christian friends, who used every effort to give her relief, but for some time all in vain; she seemed unable to lay hold on any promise for her comfort. One of these friends especially felt a deep interest in the dear child, though she had not known her until now. Of her little Sarah asked most earnestly, "Do you think that Jesus loves me?" She was assured that he did. "Do you know he loves me?" she asked; and then followed the solemn inquiry, "How do you know it?" After reading and talking with her for some time, she begged her friend would "pray with her to make her a little happy?" and afterwards in her own words, she would again plead with God, "Father, forgive me, for Jesus Christ's sake, and wash me in his blood, and make me a good girl, and take me to heaven." On one occasion she said, "I wish I could be a little happy,--I want something, I do not know what I want." She was answered, "I think I can tell you what you want, it is peace, it is to feel that God has pardoned all your sins." "Yes," she replied, "I think that is it." At another time, when talking of the joys of heaven, "Yes," she said, "they are singing, Glory, glory, glory," referring to her favorite hymn, beginning, "Around the throne of God in heaven, Thousands of children stand." But, as her friend says, it is not possible to convey her manner, her sweet tone and look. She said, "I wish I could go to heaven now, up through this ceiling, now while I feel a little happy." "But, my dear child, you cannot go to heaven in this way. You must die first; Jesus died; we must all die; it is God's appointed way for us to get to heaven." "Oh! I do not mind my sufferings, but I wish I was there now." Once she spoke rather impatiently, "I wish I could die, I wish I could die." She was reminded, "Jesus says, 'If you love me, keep my commandments;' and though you cannot obey God's will now in the same way as if in health, you can still suffer all he appoints." She quickly asked, "Will Jesus be angry if I am not patient? I will try, then, and pray to him to make me patient." Satan for a short season seemed permitted to make trial of her faith and love, and she struggled hard against his attacks. But the dear little one was safe in the arms of her Good Shepherd, and none could pluck her out of his hand. Her anxious prayers were heard and answered, and peace was restored to her soul. Her brightened countenance required not the addition of words to assure her friends of this, and yet they rejoiced to hear her say, "I am quite happy; I know Jesus loves me, and I shall soon see him." On the Sabbath, her last day on earth, she was very feeble, only able to utter a single word at a time, but her heart was full of thankfulness towards all who had cared for her, and especially to those who had sought to comfort her in her last distress, begging her mother would "always love them." At night, as her parents were watching beside her, she suddenly raised herself, and, throwing her arms alternately round the neck of each, seemed to take a last farewell. She was unable to speak, but to her mother's inquiry, "Tell me once again, my child, are you quite happy?" she replied by lifting up her hand, and pointing to heaven, while the brightest smile lighted up her countenance. This was her last act of consciousness. She lingered a few hours without any apparent suffering, and then her happy spirit took its flight, and joined the blissful company, that, having washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb, are ever before the throne of God, rejoicing in their Saviour's love. Sarah died at the age of eleven years, in August, 1848. Dear reader, before you close this book, ask, "Am I like Sarah G----? Have I ever prayed to Jesus to wash away all my sins, and make my soul quite white in his precious blood?" And then have you begged him to take you to heaven when you die, that you may be happy with him for ever? If not, do not wait another day, but entreat him now to give you his Holy Spirit to teach you to love him. Remember, it is this kind Saviour who calls you, who says, "Suffer the little children to come to me, and forbid them not;" and who promises to gather the lambs with his arm, and to carry them in his bosom. [Illustration] 
10888	----	[Illustration: ARTHUR AND HIS DOG.] ARTHUR HAMILTON, AND HIS DOG. _Written for the Massachusetts Sabbath School Society, and approved by the Committee of Publication_. 1851. ARTHUR HAMILTON. CHAPTER I. LEAVING HOME. One pleasant October evening, Arthur Hamilton was at play in front of the small, brown cottage in which he lived. He and his brother James, were having a great frolic with a large spotted dog, who was performing a great variety of antics, such as only well-educated dogs understand. But Rover had been carefully initiated into the mysteries of making a bow while standing on his hind legs, tossing pieces of bread off his nose, putting up his fore-paws with a most imploring look, and piteous whine, which the boys called "begging for money," and when a chip had been given him, he uttered a most energetic bow-wow-wow, which they regarded as equivalent to "thank you, sir," and walked off. While they were thus amusing themselves, their mother was sitting on the rude piazza which ran along the front of the cottage, now looking at the merry children, and then thoughtfully gazing at the long shadows which were stretching across the road. Mrs. Hamilton was a woman of wonderful strength, and energy, both of body and mind; and she had been sustained for many years by the Christian's hope; but there was now a heavy burden resting on her soul, which even her native energy and Christian trust were unable to remove. She had known many days of worldly prosperity, since she had resided in that little cottage; but of late, trials had multiplied; and days and nights of heart-crushing sorrow had been appointed unto her. He who should have shared life's trials and lightened their weight, had proved recreant to his trust, and was now wandering, she knew not whither; and poverty was staring the deserted family in the face. Debts had accumulated, and though Mrs. Hamilton had done all that could be done to meet the emergency, though she had labored incessantly, and borne fatigue and self-denial, with a brave and cheerful spirit, it had been found necessary to leave the home so dear to her,--the home where she had been brought a fair and youthful bride; where she had spent many happy years, and which was endeared to her by so many sweet and hallowed, as well as painful, associations. Every foot of the green meadow, the orchard on the hill, and the pasture lying beyond, was dear to her; and it was painful to see them pass into other hands. But that heaviest of all the trials which poverty brings to the mother's heart, was hers also. The conviction had been forced upon her, that she must separate the children, and find other homes for such as were old enough to do any thing for themselves. This necessary separation had now taken place. Her eldest son had gone to a distant southern state, carrying with him, his mother's prayers and blessings; and a strong arm, and stout heart, with which to win himself a name and a place in his adopted home. John, the second, still remained with her, assisting, by his unceasing toil, to earn a supply for their daily wants. Henry, the third son, a bright-eyed youth of sixteen, had attracted the notice of his pastor, and by his advice and assistance, had been placed on the list of the beneficiaries of the American Education Society, and was now at an Academy, preparing for College. James was living with a farmer in the neighborhood, and was now on the green with Arthur. These changes had already taken place, and now, could she part with Arthur,--her sweet-tempered, gentle Arthur? That was the question which agitated and saddened her. An offer had been made her, by Mr. Martin, who lived in an adjoining town, and whom she knew to be an excellent man. He wished to take Arthur, and keep him till he was twenty-one; would clothe him, send him to school, and treat him as one of his own family; training him to habits of industry and economy. Could she hope any thing better for her darling boy? There was a younger brother and two sisters still remaining at home, and embarrassed as she was, ought she not to be grateful for such an opening, and thankfully avail herself of it? Such was the view another might take of the subject, but to her it was unspeakably painful to think of the separation. Arthur was ten years old; but he was a modest and timid boy, whose sensitive nature had led him to cling more closely to his mother's side than his bolder and more active brothers. Mrs. Hamilton knew that this was no time for the indulgence of sentiment; she knew that _duty_ must be done, even though every chord of her heart quivered with agony. After much consideration and earnest prayer, she had concluded to let him go, and the thought of sending him away from her, and all he loved, among entire strangers, was what made her so sorrowful. She strove to calm herself by the reflection, that she had done what seemed to be right, and by remembering the blessed promises of God's Holy Word to the fatherless, and to all those who put their trust in Him. With a cheerful voice, she called the boys, telling James it was time for him to go home, as Captain L., with whom he lived, was a very particular man, and would be displeased if he staid out beyond the proper time. Mrs. Hamilton's sons had been trained to obedience, and James never thought of lingering and loitering for half an hour, as I have seen some boys do, after being told to go. He just gave Rover a good pat on the back, and saying a hasty "good-night" to his mother and Arthur, he ran home. Arthur was alone with his mother, and she told him of the arrangement she had made for him, and the reasons for it. Arthur was quite overcome at the idea of a separation from the mother he loved so dearly, and exclaimed-- "Oh, mother, don't send me away from home, I can earn something, and will work very hard if you will only let me stay. Please mother, let me stay with you!" "It is quite as painful to me, Arthur," said his mother, "to part from you, as it can be to you; but I think it is best for you; and I am sure you will not increase my trials by complaining. Be a brave boy, Arthur, and learn to submit cheerfully to what God sends upon you. Trust in Him, and he will bless you wherever you are. Always remember He watches over you, and loves you. I think Mr. and Mrs. Martin will be kind to you, and I hope you will make yourself very useful to them. They are quite aged, and a pair of young hands and feet can be of great service to them. Always do cheerfully whatever they wish of you, even if not quite so agreeable at the moment. Always be respectful in your manners to them, and to all others with whom you come in contact, and try to make them happier. A little boy may do a good deal to make others happy, or unhappy. I hope you will try to do what is right at all times, and I doubt not you will be contented and happy there, after you become accustomed to it." Arthur had dried his tears, but his heart was heavy as he laid down in his bed that night, and when he was alone, his sobs burst forth afresh. It seemed to him very cruel to send him among strange people, and he thought he should rather go without much to eat or wear, than to leave home. About ten days after, John carried Arthur to Mr. Martin's. Mrs. Hamilton had made his clothes look as neat and tidy as possible, by thoroughly washing and mending them, (for she could not afford to get any new ones), and John had made him a nice box, in which they were all carefully placed. Arthur tried to be a brave boy, as his mother wished; but he could not eat his breakfast that morning. Every mouthful seemed to choke him; and when he bade his mother and the children good-bye, the tears would come fast and thick into his eyes, in spite of all he could do to prevent it. Tears were in his mother's eyes too, but she spoke cheerfully. "Well, Arthur," said she, "it will be only six weeks to Thanksgiving, and Mr. Martin has promised you shall come home then; and how glad we shall all be to see you!" It was a sunny, autumn morning. The white frost lay on the grass and the fences, and the north-wind was chilly, as the boys drove on. Rover persisted in following them, and finally Arthur begged John to take him in, and carry him over. Rover was delighted, and laid himself down in the bottom of the wagon, and looked affectionately into Arthur's face. "Poor Rover," said he, "you will miss me I know; and I shall miss you a great deal more. I wonder if Mr. Martin has a dog?" "I guess not," said John, "for he took no notice of Rover, and every body who likes dogs speaks to Rover, because he is so large and handsome. I am afraid you will be homesick at first over there, but we must do the best we can, for these are hard times. I don't see how we can do any thing more than pay the rent this year, after all my summer's work; for the dry weather ruined the potatoes, and corn won't bring more than fifty cents a bushel; and how we are to live, I don't see. I am not afraid for myself, but it is too bad for mother, and the little ones; so, if you are homesick, you must try to get over it again, and not come back, or let mother know it, for she has just as much trouble as she can bear already." "Oh, no," said Arthur, "I won't be homesick, I _will_ be a brave boy, as mother calls it, and never complain, let what will come; but I do wish we were not so poor." "I don't know," said John, "I think poor folks that work hard, enjoy about as much as anybody, after all. It isn't a disgrace to be poor, if we are only honest, and do what is right; and you know the minister said last Sabbath, that Jesus Christ when he lived on the earth was a poor man, and worked with his hands for a living. He won't despise the poor now he has gone into heaven again; for he will remember how he was poor once. Mother says, nothing will break her heart but living to see us do some wicked deed, and that she could not survive that. We must be careful not to break her heart, musn't we, Arthur?" So the lads rode on till noon; and when the sun shone out warmly, the forest-trees looked more magnificent in its golden light, than King Solomon in all his glory. There was the crimson-leaved maple, and the yellow beach, and the variegated oak, mingled with the fresh green hemlocks and pines. There was something in the quiet, and deep stillness of the woods, which made the boys silent, as they rode through; they felt the influence of its exceeding beauty, though they could not have expressed it in words; for God always speaks to us through his works, and if we will listen to the voice, our hearts will be softened, and pleasant and profitable thoughts will arise. It was two in the afternoon, when John and Arthur reached Mr. Martin's. He was not at home, but Mrs. Martin received them kindly, saying, "she expected they would come that day." She was a grave-looking old lady, who wore spectacles, and the inquisitive manner in which she looked over the top of them into Arthur's face, quite frightened the little fellow, and he could only reply in very low monosyllables to the questions she asked him; so John gave her such information as she desired. Mrs. Martin showed them the small chamber in which Arthur was to sleep, and John carried up the wooden box, and put it down in one corner. After staying half an hour, John thought he must go. A sense of the loneliness of his situation among strangers, where no one familiar voice would be heard, and not one familiar object seen, came over the heart of poor Arthur with such force at this moment, that he burst into a flood of tears, exclaiming-- "Oh, don't leave me here, John! don't leave me, I cannot stay." Brushing the tears from his own eyes, John drew the sobbing child out into the yard, saying, as he put his arms affectionately about his neck,-- "But Arthur, what do you think mother would say to see you coming back with me? How it would distress her! Indeed you _must_ stay, and try to be contented. I think it looks like a pleasant place here. This is a very pretty yard, and yonder is a large garden; I dare say Mr. Martin will let you have a bed in it next spring." "But it is living here all alone, which I dread," said Arthur. "You know mother says we are never all alone," said John. "God will be with you, and if you try to be a good contented boy, he will approve of your conduct, and love you. Only six weeks too, remember, till you come home. Just think how soon they will be gone!" Rover had been gazing wistfully into Arthur's face, as if he wondered what was going on that made them all so sober, and now he gently laid his paw upon his hand. Arthur caressed him fondly, saying-- "Oh, Rover, dear good fellow, how I wish I could have you for company." "I wish you could," said John, "but I don't think it would be right to leave him, for Mr. Martin might not wish to have him." John now untied his horse, saying, "Try to be contented for mother's sake, dear Arthur." Many years after, when John was a middle-aged man, he told me that nothing in his whole life had made him feel worse than leaving little Arthur behind him, that day. "I can see the poor little fellow now," said he, "just as he looked standing at the gate, weeping bitterly." Rover refused at first to leave Arthur, but John lifted him into the wagon, and drove off. It was a lonely evening to Arthur. There was no frolic with Rover and the children on the green; no kind mother's voice to call him in; no affectionate good-night kiss for the little stranger. Mr. and Mrs. Martin were very kind-hearted people, but they had little sympathy with a child, and made no conversation with him. There was no hardship imposed on Arthur; indeed they required less of him than he had been accustomed to doing at home, and had he been a courageous, light-hearted boy like his brother James, he would soon have been very happy in his new home. But we have said he was shy and sensitive; like a delicate plant he needed sunshine to develope his nature, and shrank from the rough chilling blast. None, who has not experienced it, can know any thing of the suffering such a child endures when deprived of the sweet influences of home. Such an one often appears dull and stupid to a careless observer, when there is throbbing under that cold exterior, a heart of the keenest sensibility. Let the bold, healthy, active boy be sent from home, if necessary; a little hardship, and a little struggling with the rougher elements of life, will perchance but strengthen and increase his courage, and prepare him for the conflicts and struggles of after years; but oh, fond mother, keep that delicate, timid child which nestles to thy side with such confiding trust, which trembles at the voice of a stranger, and shrinks like the mimosa, from a rude and unfamiliar touch, under thine own sheltering roof-tree, for a time at least; there seek to develope and strengthen his delicate nature into more manly strength and vigor; there judiciously repress excessive sensibility, and increase confidence in himself and others; if it can possibly be avoided, do not expose him, while a child, to the tender mercies of those who do not understand his peculiar temperament, and who, however kind their feelings, cannot possess his confidence. We need not dwell on the first weeks of Arthur's stay at Mr. Martin's. They thought him a little homesick, but presumed he would soon get over it; he performed the little tasks they exacted of him with great alacrity, and was quite a favorite with Mrs. Martin, who said he was the most quiet, and well-behaved child she ever saw. At first, Arthur thought of nothing but home, and home-scenes; but he struggled bravely to rise above sad and sorrowful thoughts, and to be contented. "They shall never hear me complain," he said to himself, "and dear mother too shall never know how bad I feel. I want to do my duty, and be a _brave_ boy." Every fortnight a letter came from home, and though Arthur read it with streaming eyes, it was a precious treasure. He would read them over and over, till he seemed to hear his mother's voice once more, and feel her loving hand upon his head. He answered them; but wrote only a few words, saying, he was well, and the other common place remarks children usually write. He was not happy, but he was calmer now, and did not _every_ night cry himself to sleep. The visit at home, was a bright, cheering spot, to which he often looked forward; and as week after week passed away, slowly indeed, he rejoiced in the certainty that that long-looked-for period was getting nearer and nearer, and _would_ come at last. CHAPTER II. THANKSGIVING. Thanksgiving! dear, delightful Thanksgiving! What a happy sound in all childish ears! What visions of roast turkeys, plum puddings, and pumpkin pies rise before us at the name! What hosts of rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes, nicely-combed little heads, and bounding feet; what blazing fires and warm parlors; what large stuffed rocking-chairs, with comfortable-looking grandpapas and grandmamas in them; what huge bundles of flannel, out of which, plump blue-eyed babies roll; what stuffed hoods and cloaks, from which little boys and girls emerge; and better than all, what warm hearts brimming with affection; what sweet songs of joyful praise; what untold depths of "sacred and home-felt delight," belong to thee, dear, glad, Thanksgiving-day! Let us look in at Mrs. Hamilton's on Thanksgiving eve. Every thing in her little sitting-room is just as clean as it can possibly be; the fire burns brightly, and the blaze goes dancing and leaping merrily up the chimney, diffusing throughout the room an aspect of cheerfulness. Henry, "the student," as John calls him, is at home; for of course it is vacation in his school; and his mother looks with pride on the manly form and handsome face of this her favorite boy, who has certainly grown taller and handsomer since his last visit at home, in her eyes at least; and who is now entertaining himself by teaching his pet, Emma, (a little girl of four,) to repeat the Greek alphabet, and whose funny pronunciation of Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta, &c., is received with peals of laughter by the other children. "We will make a famous Greek scholar of you yet," said Harry, "who knows, darling Em, but you may be a great poetess before you die? But you won't be a blue stocking, I hope!" "My stockings are _red_," said the unconscious Emma; "mother don't make me _blue_ stockings," sticking out her little feet by way of confirming the fact. Charlie, the baby, as he is called, now almost three years old, has donned his new red flannel dress, and white apron, in honor of the day. James is cracking butternuts in one corner, and a well-heaped milk-pan is the trophy of his persevering toil. Lucy, the eldest sister, has come home, and she and Mary are deep in some confidential conversation the opposite side of the room, stopping every now and then to listen, as if expecting to hear some pleasant sound. Among them all, the mother moves with a beaming face and quiet step, completing the arrangements of the table, which is standing at the backside of the room, covered by a snowy cloth, and decorated with the best plates, and china cups and saucers, the relics of more prosperous days. "Hurra, they've come! they've come!" said James, tossing down his hammer, and bounding over the pan of nuts; "that's our wagon, I know." All are at the door. 'Tis they! Yes, 'tis John and Arthur, our dear little Arthur home again! How they all seize upon and kiss him! How the mother holds him to her heart with tearful eyes! Ah, this is joy; such joy as can be purchased only by separation and suffering. Who that looked now on Arthur's beaming eye, and glowing cheek, could dream that they had been clouded by sorrow, or dimmed by tears? Of all the happy groups that were assembled in our old Commonwealth that night, few we think were happier than this. Rover was by no means a silent witness of the joy. He would not leave Arthur's side a moment, and constantly sought to attract his notice. Arthur had been always very fond of Rover, almost more so than the other children, though he was a great favorite with all, and Rover had missed him since he went away almost as much as Arthur had missed Rover; so it was a joyful re-union on both sides. He was a large dog, of the Newfoundland breed, with shaggy hair. He had beautiful white spots, and long, silky ears, and was a very good-natured dog. He would let Charlie get on his back, and ride him all about the yard; and the boys had made a little sled to which they fastened Rover, and Emma, well wrapped up in her hood and cloak, with her woolen mittens on, would have quite long rides after him; sometimes in the yard, and sometimes in the street. How much the children had to talk about that night; how many stories to tell Arthur, and questions to ask him in return! Arthur had decided beforehand not to make any complaint, or to say he was unhappy, or homesick; and indeed in the pleasure of being at home again, he almost forgot he had ever been unhappy. He was to stay till Monday morning, and to him those four days seemed a long period of enjoyment, quite too long to be saddened yet by the thoughts of separation. The night settled down on the inmates of the cottage, and sweet sleep sealed up all eyes; even those of the weary mother. The year had brought many trials, and some heavy ones, but there was in spite of them all, much to be thankful for, especially that all her beloved children had been preserved to her, and were so healthy, so promising, and so likely to prove blessings to her. Ah, how long afterwards did she recall that merry evening, and those beaming faces, with a heavy heart! CHAPTER III. THE SEPARATION. Thanksgiving is over! Its dinner, its frolics, its boisterous mirth, are all in the past! It is Sabbath evening. A sadness seems to hang about the party. Lucy had returned to her aunt, with whom she lived. James was to go home that evening. Henry and Arthur in the morning. They with John and their mother, sat thoughtfully around the fire; the younger children were in bed; little was said by any one, but Mrs. Hamilton, wishing to have a more private interview with Arthur, took him to her room. There she questioned him about his new home more particularly. To her amazement, the moment she spoke of his returning, he burst into a flood of tears. Poor Arthur! he meant to be brave, and to hide his troubles, but now that his heart had been warmed by the light of affection and home-joy, the idea of going back was terrible to him. He could not deceive, or keep back any thing. With passionate earnestness, he besought his mother to let him stay at home. "I will only eat a potatoe and a piece of bread, if you will let me stay, mother; indeed I won't be much of a burden to you, but oh, dear mother, don't send me back there," cried he, sobbing as if his heart would break. This was a sad trial for Mrs. Hamilton, and she paused to think what was right, and to ask for guidance from on high. It seemed to her that Arthur's dissatisfaction arose from his own weakness of spirit, rather than from anything really disagreeable in his situation. They were kind to him; he was not over-worked; could attend a good school; and would it not be an injury to him, to indulge this excessive love for home, and yield to his entreaties? Would he ever be a man, with courage to face the storms of life, if she, with a woman's weakness, allowed her feelings to prevail over her judgment? It must not be. She must be firm for his sake; cruel as it seemed, it was real kindness, and she trusted he would soon be contented. If not, she could then change her determination if she wished. So she told him once more, that duty and not present enjoyment was to be consulted; that she still thought it was best for him to stay at Mr. Martin's, and she still believed he would find contentment and peace there, in doing his duty. She did not upbraid him, but told him very tenderly, she wished him to acquire more strength of purpose, and to gain the habit of controlling his feelings. If he did not, he could never be happy or useful, and it would be sad indeed to grow up a weak, timid and useless being, who had not strength of character enough to pursue what was right, if difficulties lay in the path. "Whenever you are lonely and sad," said she, "think of me, and how much pleasure you are giving me by staying and doing your duty. Think of your Father in heaven, who watches over you, and will be well-pleased when you try to subdue your faults. Never forget to ask Him for strength to do right, and He will give it, if you ask in sincerity. Remember always that He has placed us in the world to become his children, and grow holy; and it is often through trial, we are made better. You will be a better boy if you conquer your weakness, and become cheerful and contented, than you could have been, had no sacrifice been required of you. My dear child, I do believe God will bless you, and enable you to conquer." With such words Mrs. Hamilton sought to soothe and strengthen her child, while her own heart was throbbing with painful emotions. She could not sleep that night, for her heart yearned over her darling boy, and she longed to fold him under the shelter of a loving home. She felt that she needed in her own heart more of that perfect submission to God's will which she enjoined on others, and it was only by earnest and humble prayer that she could calm her troubled spirit, and feel trust and confidence that all was for the best. But she had found prayer to be a balm for the wounded spirit in many an hour of suffering, and she now realized the sweetness of that inestimable privilege. "Oh not a gift or blessing With this can we compare; The power which he hath given, To pour our souls in prayer." CHAPTER IV. THE PRESENT. Arthur left home early Monday morning. It was a cold, dreary day without, and a dreary one within to Mrs. Hamilton. She had no unoccupied moments in which to sit down, and pore over her troubles; but amid all her cares and labors, the pleading, sorrowful face of her boy would rise before her, like an accusing angel. She feared she had shown him too little sympathy in his sufferings, and had too much repressed the manifestation of his feelings. She seemed to herself, as her imagination followed her weeping boy, a cruel, heartless mother; and again only in prayer could she find relief and peace, and even then, a weight still rested upon her spirits. A few days after Arthur's departure, an idea occurred to Mrs. Hamilton which she was sure would give him pleasure. This was to send him Rover, to keep as his own. But would the children be willing to part with their pet and playfellow? And if they were, would Mr. Martin give his consent? That very evening she proposed it to the children, and she was pleased to find how willing they were to make some sacrifice for their little brother's sake. Even Emma, who loved so dearly to play with him, and ride on the sled after him, seemed ready to part with him when she found it would make Arthur happy. Yet it was with a mournful voice, she told him, as she patted him and stroked his long ears, "You must be a good doggie, Rover, and make my brother Arthur happy. He be good brother, and you must be good doggie too. Won't you, Rover, good fellow?" Mrs. Hamilton wrote to Mr. Martin stating Arthur's fondness for the dog, and that if he had no objections, they should like to give him to Arthur for his own; but added, that she did not wish to do so unless perfectly agreeable to him. She was quite surprised to see Mr. Martin coming in at the door on the second morning after the letter was sent. He said he had come within three miles on business, and thought he would just ride round, and take the dog. "I fear you may find him troublesome, sir," said Mrs. H., "for my children have allowed him to take great liberties with them." "Not a bit! Not a bit!" said the old gentleman; "to be sure my wife don't take to dogs overmuch, but you see, the boy is a little home-sick, and we want him to feel more contented, if we can; so I was very glad to take the dog. He is a noble fellow, on my word. How old is he?" "Two next Spring," said Mrs. H., "and he is a very kind, faithful creature, I assure you. We all love him very much." Emma and Charlie, who had just comprehended that the stranger-gentleman was going to take away the dog, began to look very grave indeed. Emma was no martyr, to suffer calmly for conscience' sake, much less little white-headed Charlie, who obstinately asserted with a most heroic air, that "nobody should tarry off _his_ doggie." "But your dear brother Arthur is all alone, and he cries at night when he goes to bed, because he has no brother nor sister there, not even a pussie or a dog. He won't cry if Rover is with him. Don't you want Rover to go?" "Esmaam I do; but I want Rover to stay here with me too." "But he can't make Arthur happy then. Arthur, poor, dear Arthur, will have nobody to comfort him." "Rover _must_ go," said Emma, sorrowfully; "but I wish there were two Rovers, one for Arthur, and one for me." It was a pretty sight to see these children put their fat, little arms round Rover's neck, and hug him over and over again, and kiss his rough face with their rosy mouths, and let their sunny curls lie among his shaggy locks. Great tears rolled down Emma's cheeks as the dog went out of the door; but though Emma was no martyr, she was a warm-hearted, generous little girl, and she did not want to keep the dog away from Arthur, though so sorry to part with it. "We have got you and I, and two kitties, haven't we Charlie," said she, "and sister Mary and brother John." "And your mother beside, who I hope is worth counting," said Mrs. Hamilton. "You can spare Rover very well, I think." After Arthur left home on that dark, cheerless Monday morning, he felt very sorry indeed that he had made any complaint to his mother; for he knew that by doing so, he had given her trouble, instead of being a comfort and help to her, in the midst of her sorrows. Besides, he had broken his resolution; for he had most firmly resolved not to complain; he had yielded to the strong impulse of the moment, and now he was afraid he never should gain self-control. But there was nothing to be done, but to make stronger efforts to be contented and useful in his new home. He humbly asked God to enable him to do better, and to pardon the weakness of the past. Whenever a little boy desires with his whole soul to do right, and prays to God for strength, he will certainly find he can, however difficult it may seem at first. God, our kind heavenly Father, has promised to give us his Holy Spirit if we ask Him for it in sincerity; and however young you are, or weak, or ignorant; however far away from earthly friends, or human sympathy, He will hear the softest word you utter, the faintest breathing of a silent prayer, and will come into your soul and bless it. That glorious spirit is infinite. It gives life to the archangel hosts; it blesses the weakest, and lowliest child. Arthur found that by making a great effort, a _very_ great one, he could restrain his tears and turn his thoughts away from his own troubles, and indeed from himself entirely. He had a few books, and he became fond of reading them. Sometimes Mrs. Martin would ask him to read aloud, and though she seldom wished to hear any thing but newspapers, that was a diversion of his thoughts. Arthur had a clear, pleasant voice, and read very well for a child of his age; and every time he read aloud, he was improving himself in this part of education. Another pleasant change was, going to school. Arthur had dreaded this very much, because all the scholars would be strangers to him, and he had never been to school without older brothers and sisters with him. Being so shy and timid, he did not form acquaintances so readily as some boys; but in two or three weeks, he had become quite friendly with some, particularly Theodore Roberts. Theodore was two years older than Arthur, but recited in the same classes. He passed Mr. Martin's on his way to school, and usually called for Arthur. They walked about half a mile, partly through a wood, to reach the school-house; a little brown building, with only one room in it. Theodore was a bold, generous-hearted boy, and his influence over Arthur was very good; while Arthur's gentler nature and more refined manners were of service to Theodore, who was not very particular about little things. One night, as Theodore and Arthur were coming home from school, they stopped to look at a squirrel's nest in a hollow tree, just in the wood. A pretty striped squirrel was running up and down a tree at a little distance, whisking his bushy tail, and watching them with his large, bright eyes. They found a large store of nuts in the hollow tree, and Theodore proposed they should take them out. "Oh no, no!" said Arthur, "would you have the poor squirrel starve?" "Oh, he'll find enough to eat, never fear," said Theodore, "a squirrel is too cunning to starve." "But it isn't right to take them, Theodore. Just think how many hours the little fellow worked, and how hard he tugged to get them all in here, and they are _his_ now, I'm sure; he has a good right to them, and I wouldn't any sooner rob him of his nuts, than I would a man of his money!" "La, what a fuss you make about it;" said Theodore with a loud laugh, "but since you feel so bad, I'll let his squirrelship alone, this time." "Thank you," said Arthur, "and now, Theodore, I must say if you had done it, I wouldn't have liked to play with you so well as I did before, for I should think you were a cruel boy, and I couldn't love you." "You are a curious fellow," said Theodore, with another loud laugh. Such lessons were not lost on Theodore, for though he had had very little instruction in morals or manners, he had a heart in the right place under his rough outside. "We'll begin our stone house to-night, if you'll come in, Theodore," said Arthur, as they reached Mr. Martin's gate. "No, I can't stop to-night. Sister Susan is coming to see us, and I want to get home early." This made Arthur think of _his_ sisters, and it was with rather a heavy heart he entered the yard. Mr. Martin stood near the door, and as Arthur passed him, he said, "I have got a present in the house for you!" "A present for _me_, sir!" said Arthur, "Yes, for you; and something you'll like too, I guess. What do you think it is?" Rover, who knew the sound of Arthur's voice began to bark loudly, and in a moment the door was opened, and he was in Arthur's arms. Never was there a more joyful meeting between old friends. Arthur was so excited that he laughed and cried at once, and said all kinds of wild things to Rover, who in his turn, kept caressing his young master, and telling him in his way, how glad he was to see him again. And indeed the poor dumb animal seemed to express as much affection and delight, as if he had had a tongue to say in words, how much he loved him. "How do you like your present, my boy?" said Mr. Martin. Arthur could hardly speak for emotion, but in a moment he replied, "Very much, indeed, sir, and you are very good to get him for me. But may he stay here with me?" "Yes, he is your dog now, Arthur; they have given him to you at home; they seem to set a great deal by him too, there." Arthur well knew how dearly they all loved Rover, and he felt sure it must have been hard for them to give him up. His heart was touched by this generosity and he resolved to become worthy of it, and to strive to do something to make the family happy in return. Rover seemed to impart new life to Arthur. He had now something to love, and something that loved him; and though it was only a poor dumb animal, it filled the vacant place in his heart. Never had Mrs. Martin seen his dark eyes sparkle so, and his pale cheek look so bright. And did the children at home regret making this sacrifice for their little brother's sake? If any little reader asks this question, we fear they have never tried the experiment of giving up something they loved, to make another happy. If they had, they would know, what great delight there was in it; what a warm, delicious feeling it spreads throughout the heart. "It _is_ more blessed to give than to receive," and happy as Arthur was in receiving this precious present, they were still happier in having given it. As Mrs. Hamilton was undressing Emma that night, the latter said, "Mother, do you think Arthur has got Rover yet?" "Oh yes, some hours ago, I hope. I dare say he found him there when he got home from school; and how happy he is to-night! Dear child! I can see just how bright and happy he looks, as he strokes Rover, and talks to him!" "Oh, I am glad he is gone, mother, for this dear brother was all alone." "So I glad," echoed Charlie, who was snugly tucked into the trundle-bed. "Yes," said their mother, kissing them both, "it always makes us glad when we have made another happy; and I am glad you have had an opportunity of learning early how pleasant it is to make sacrifices for others." "The darkest lot is not all gloom," thought she as she sat down by her little table and began to sew. "Poverty can teach many sweet lessons, and give us many rich enjoyments." And her eyes filled with tears; but they were sweet, refreshing tears. CHAPTER V. BRIGHTER DAYS. Arthur was never lonely now; for Rover was constantly at his side, except in school, and he always went to the school-room door with him in the morning, and often when Arthur came out of school at night, he would find Rover standing by the door, waiting for him. A happy dog was Rover, in his new home. Mrs. Martin fed him with her own hand, and many a nice dainty did he get, which he was not accustomed to. Arthur was such a sweet-tempered, obliging boy, so ready to obey her, and had such gentle, respectful manners, that the good old lady was glad to make Rover happy for his sake. Obliging little boys almost always find that those they live with, are obliging too; while quarrelsome boys usually find it their fortune to fall among quarrelsome companions; for good temper and bad temper are both contagious and infect all those who come in contact with them. On bright, cold winter mornings, after eating his nice breakfast, Rover would scamper off to school with Arthur. He was in too fine spirits to walk by his side, so he would bound off before him, plunging into the snow drifts up to his neck; then bound back again, with a short quick bark, shaking himself from the feathery snow; and away again for another merry race. If he was separated for an hour from Arthur, he would leap up at his return, and almost overwhelm him with his rough embraces. But this seldom happened out of school hours, for let Arthur go where he would, to the barn, the brook, of an errand, or on a visit to his friend Theodore, there Rover was sure to follow. Arthur would sometimes take him into his room at night and let him lie there, but Mrs. Martin did not approve of this, but as she was always up by day-light, she would open the door and Rover would go scampering up the stairs ready for a great frolic on Arthur's bed. As the school continued, Arthur became attached to his teacher and was quite a favorite with his schoolmates. "_Little_ Arthur Hamilton" he was always called by them, not because there were not many other boys smaller than he, but from his gentleness and timid softness, he seemed one to be protected by them; and the roughest boy never thought of pushing and striking _him_. Arthur made a visit of two days at home in the spring vacation. His mother's heart was cheered by the visible improvement in her boy; and she told him he had done much to make her happy, by rising above his weakness and gaining the victory over his besetting sin. "Nothing," she told him, "could ever grieve his mother's heart like seeing her children do wrong; nothing ever make her so happy as their doing right." Henry was still at the Academy, hoping to enter College the ensuing Commencement; Lucy with her aunt; and James at Captain L's. Arthur did not see them, but he had a pleasant visit with the rest. He went to all his favorite places of resort; the orchard, the "old pasture," and the little brook in the meadow. He led Charlie in one hand, and Emma in the other out on the green grass in the lot, and picked for them the pretty wild-flowers which were springing up everywhere among it, while Rover ran along by their side, or bounded off in a merry frolic. They were all glad to see Rover once more, and never was a dog so petted and caressed, as he was on this visit to his old friends. When Arthur returned home, he found that the spring had brought a variety of labors with it. Mr. Martin was a farmer, and there were many things to do, suited to his age and strength. He did all that was required of him with alacrity, but he often found at night that his limbs were very weary when he lay down in bed. Mr. Martin soon found he could not endure so much as most boys of his age; but said he to his wife, "Out-of-door work will do him good, and make him hearty; a woman never can bring up a boy properly!" Mrs. Hamilton also hoped that exercise in the open air would give tone and vigor to his somewhat delicate system, and develope his slender frame into manly strength and symmetry. She wished nothing better for her sons than to become intelligent, industrious, and honest farmers; and such with God's blessing she hoped Arthur would in time be. CHAPTER VI. SAD NEWS. It was a hot Saturday in August, when Henry Hamilton left school to go home and spend the Sabbath with his mother. This he frequently did, as it was but ten miles distant, and such a walk was only pastime to the vigorous youth, now glowing with health and strength in every vein. On this day however, the walk appeared unusually long to him; and he sat down twice by the road-side to rest himself. This was very uncommon; but he said nothing of fatigue when he reached home about sunset. He met them with his usual cheerful smile, and had a laugh and pleasant words for the children as they crowded round him. Of all Mrs. Hamilton's children, Henry was the most sanguine and light-hearted, and when at home, he was always the life of the family circle. He was sincerely desirous of gaining a thorough education, and of doing credit to his patrons and friends, and he hoped to be permitted to accomplish much good in the world, when he had acquired his profession. There was much enthusiasm in his character, and much of generous impulse; yet they were modified by Christian principle. Henry was a sincere Christian. There was little of noisy pretension, or loud profession; but in his soul was a deep and abiding sense of obligation to God; a supreme desire to do his will, and a fervent love to his fellow-men. To a remarkably fine person, was added an intellect of uncommon quickness and discrimination, and his teachers spoke in high commendation of his progress. We have said he was the favorite son of his mother; and if a thrill of pride passed through her heart as she gazed on his beaming face, if she garnered up in her inmost soul many precious dreams of a brilliant future, who can wonder? Who shall blame her? It is now many years since "the dust fell on that sunny brow," but I well remember Henry Hamilton--"handsome Henry Hamilton"--and seldom indeed since have I seen a more striking form and face. There was a frank, joyous expression beaming forth from his dark eyes, and his mouth had always a sweet smile playing about it; there was a high intellectual forehead, indicating thought, though it was half hidden by the sunny, brown curls which clustered about it, and gave a youthful look to even this portion of his face. His tall, well-developed figure was the perfection of manly symmetry, and his musical laugh was ever ringing out freely and unconsciously. His temperament was just the reverse of Arthur's. Bold, courageous, self-relying, he hoped all things, and feared nothing that man could do; by nature too, he was quick and passionate, yet full of affection and all generous impulses. Such was Henry Hamilton, now eighteen years of age--the pride of his family--the favorite of all who knew him. The night of his return home, he became violently ill, and no remedies appeared to relieve his sufferings. I will not pain my young readers with a recital of his agonies. They were most intense; and on the third day after he was attacked, at six o'clock in the afternoon, he went from an earthly to a heavenly home; from the bosom of his mother, to the bosom of his God! There were few intervals of sufficient ease, to allow of conversation. During these, he expressed entire confidence in the Saviour, and perfect submission to the will of God, though death then was most unexpected to him. He also expressed regret that he had done so little for God, and besought a friend who stood by his bedside, to be faithful to his Christian vows. The last struggle was a fearful one; but his mother supported him in her arms to the last; and to her his last look was given,--a look of sweet affection, trust, and gratitude. I stood beside his dead body an hour after the spirit had left it. I had never before, and have never since, seen one so beautiful in death. The last rays of the setting sun streamed softly in at an open window, and one sweet ray fell upon his head. It was a bright halo,--a glorious crown, for that sleeping dust to wear. The fair, wide brow, the rich, dark curls, the softly-closed eyelids, the beautiful mouth, had never been so lovely. All was life-like,--radiant. There was an expression of heavenly joy I have never seen in a sleeper since. I had not seen him in his mortal agony, and now it seemed impossible he could have ever suffered. Can this be death, thought I?--Ah, there is a stillness too deep for life! Those closed lips do not move; those eyes do not open; there is no lingering breath, no beating heart! It is only dust. The spirit _has_ fled! Beautiful sleeper! There shall be no waking of thy precious dust till the resurrection morning! Others came in, and I left the room, reluctantly, for it was pleasant to me to be near one I had loved in life. I went into the sitting-room, several neighbors were moving about, but the mother was not there. I found her in the piazza; she was calm, but oh, who could fathom the depths of her anguish? Who but He who formed the soul with all its mysterious capacities for suffering? The red light lay on the western hills, and they were very beautiful in their summer greenness, stretching along the horizon in wavy outlines; the summer sky above was beautiful, and so were the quiet fields, and the ancient trees standing breathlessly silent in that glorious twilight. Rays of heaven were blending with all that was loveliest on earth; but though the mother's eye was fixed upon the scene, it was evident she did not see it, nor feel its healing power. What wonder? The agony was too recent,--the blighting of all her hopes too sudden for resignation and peace to come into her soul at once. The heavy blow had fallen, and her heart was crushed! No tear was in her eye, no trembling in her voice, as she replied to questions; but a face more expressive of utter woe I have seldom seen. What word of consolation could a mortal speak at such an hour? "The heart knoweth its own bitterness," and a stranger may not inter-meddle with its griefs. Let it be alone with God! James was sent the next morning to bear the heavy tidings to Arthur, and to bring him home to see the precious dust committed to its kindred dust. Arthur was stunned by the suddenness of the blow. He rode back with James, scarcely speaking a word. He could not feel that Henry was _dead_; it seemed like some fearful dream from which he must rouse himself. But when he saw his mother, and felt himself pressed in speechless agony to her heart, his tears burst forth in torrents. Childhood can weep over its sorrows; it is only later griefs that refuse the healing balm of tears. CHAPTER VII. THE GATHERING. It was thought best to lay Henry's beloved form in the earth on the day following his death. It was one of those intensely warm, sultry days, August often brings. Not a leaf stirred upon the trees, not a cloud dimmed the sky. One by one, neighbors and friends dropped in, with noiseless step. Hushed voices and stifled sobs alone were heard in the house of death. Many, very many had loved Henry, and many looked with tearful eyes on his peaceful form. The life-like glow had passed away from his sweet face, the marks of the destroying angel were more clearly visible, but there was a soft repose, still beautiful to look upon, diffused over every feature. Aged men and women who had known him from a child, sobbed as they gazed on one so young, so gifted, snatched away from life. The pastor who had baptized him when an infant, and one from the adjoining town were there. Both had known Henry, and both had loved him. Both spoke with tearful eyes and quivering lip of his worth and loveliness. Holy words of prayer were spoken,--the bereaved mother and weeping children were commended to God, the only refuge in this hour of darkness, and fervent intercessions were offered, united with grateful thanksgivings for all that had been enjoyed in the past, and for all the cheering hopes which brightened the future. The hymn "Why should we mourn departing friends, Or shake at death's alarms?" was read and sung. Once more the children were all together under the roof where they had often met; all save the son whose home was now in a sunnier clime. But how unlike was this to their last joyful gathering! Hours of rejoicing, and hours of mourning, ye are strangely blended in the experience of human hearts. The little village burying-ground was not far distant. A grave was opened there, for him who but one short week ago was as full of life, of bounding vigor and of high hopes, as the strongest there. "Oh, had it been but told you then, To mark whose lamp was dim; From out the ranks of these young men Would ye have singled _him_? "Whose was the sinewy arm that flung Defiance to the ring? Whose shout of victory loudest rung? Yet not for glorying. "Whose heart in generous thought and deed, No rivalry could brook? And yet distinction claiming not; There lies he,--go and look! "Tread lightly, comrades! we have laid His dark locks on his brow; Like life, save deeper light and shade,-- We'll not disturb them now!" Of all who stood by that open grave, none wept so passionately as little Arthur. He could not control his emotions, and it was in vain that friends tried to soothe him. Poor child! did a sad presentiment of coming evil pass over his soul? "Slowly and sadly they laid him down," and "slowly and sadly" they returned home; that home now so vacant, so desolate! There let us leave them; sorrowing, but "not sorrowing as those without hope." It is on just such scenes as these, that the light of Christian Faith shines with a pure and holy radiance, cheering the bereaved heart, and speaking sweet words of reunion, of immortality, of glory "which fadeth not away." CHAPTER VIII MORE TRIALS. The next day Arthur returned to Mr. Martin's. His affectionate heart was saddened, and every pleasure seemed to have lost its charm. But the griefs of childhood quickly pass away; and Arthur in a few days became calm and cheerful. A close observer, however, might have seen a deeper shade of thoughtfulness in his eyes, and a softer tone in his always gentle voice. He went to school again, and mingled in his quiet way, with the sports of his companions. Theodore could not be spared from home-duties to attend school in the summer months, and Arthur saw much less of him than formerly. They would meet occasionally after tea, and with Rover by their side, stroll down by the stream which wound in fanciful little curves about the lot; or would play at ball, on the green before the house. Arthur seemed less inclined than usual for noisy sports, and Theodore sometimes thought he was a sad, stupid playfellow. One evening about five weeks after Henry's funeral, Mrs. Martin said to her husband,-- "It seems to me, Arthur is not well to-day. He has complained a great deal of his head, and his face looks flushed and feverish." "I haven't noticed him to-day," replied Mr. Martin, "but he certainly is not a healthy boy, and I am afraid never will be." The next morning, Arthur refused to eat; and before night a burning fever had evidently seized upon him. A physician was called, who said at once,-- "He is a very sick child; his head is so hot, I fear a brain fever. You had better send for his mother, for mothers I find are generally the best nurses. He's a fine little fellow, and we must try to save him." Mr. Martin went himself for Mrs. Hamilton the next morning. It was indeed heavy tidings that he bore. Was God about to strip her of all she loved? Her little, tender-hearted Arthur was a precious child, and must he be taken too? But she quietly prepared to go to him. That was manifestly her first duty. There was no time for the indulgence of grief, though heavy forebodings weighed upon her heart. When Mrs. Hamilton reached the bedside of her child, she found him delirious, and was shocked to see he did not know her. He was much sicker than she expected to find him, and her heart sunk within her. "Is there no hope, Doctor?" she asked, with a quivering lip. "Certainly there is a chance for a boy of his age; but he is a very sick child, Mrs. Hamilton. Twill be a hard struggle for life, and it is impossible to tell what will be the result." Day after, day, night after night, the mother bent over the sick-bed of her child; her heart sickening with alternations of hope and fear. Sometimes the pulse would lessen, and the medicine seem to affect him favorably, and she would hope her prayers had been heard, and that life and not death was to be his fate; then the fever would rage with renewed violence, and his little frame would be convulsed with pain. At no time did he appear to know who was with him, or have the slightest gleam of consciousness. He talked but little, and that incoherently; like one in a dream. Those were long, sad hours to the anxious mother's heart. "How I lived through those days and weeks of anguish, I know not," she afterwards said, "but strength was given me according to the day." And where was Rover, faithful, affectionate Rover, in these mournful days? The poor animal moaned and howled perpetually. He would it through the whole day and night, upon the stairs leading to Arthur's room, endeavoring to gain admittance, and when driven away, would contrive to return to his post, watching with intense eagerness those who entered or left the room; continually making that dismal moaning which a dog in distress usually does. It was heartrending to hear him. One day, they allowed him to enter the room, hoping it might quiet him; he jumped upon the bed instantly, and disturbed the suffering child so much that he was never permitted to go in again. Poor Arthur! he no longer had a smile or caress even for Rover, the companion of his lonely hours, the sharer of his exile! He did not even notice him, except by raising his hand to keep him off. After three weeks of severe suffering, a change came over the beloved child. The physician thought it barely possible that such a crisis might terminate favorably, and had prescribed powerful stimulants, but it was soon evident that he was rapidly sinking in spite of them. He suffered no longer, but the shadows of the grave were gathering upon his face, and it was not probable he would survive till morning. But Mrs. Hamilton did not wish any one to sit up by his bedside except herself. "They were wearied," she said, "by watching; she should not sleep if others watched, and if any thing was needed, she would call them." So she passed the night alone with her sweet boy. In after years, I have often heard her speak of it. It was one of those glorious moonlight October nights. The loveliest of landscapes lay before her eye as she stood by the window, and gazed out upon the scene. Green hills, with intersecting valleys, forest trees lifting their tops toward the sky, wide-spreading pasture lands, and, threading its way among them, a little mountain-stream, bright and pure as innocence itself; all these were visible, and over all, lay that holy moonlight bathing each object in its spiritual radiance. Who would imagine, to look on the earth on such a night, that it could be filled with sin and suffering, that those glorious skies bent over breaking hearts, and opening graves? The scene was full of calming influences, and the heart of the mother as she gazed, was soothed and elevated. She felt the presence of God who had made the universe; and she knew that while he guided those glorious orbs in their courses, he also felt compassion and love for her poor suffering heart. _He_ had afflicted her, and He, in his infinite power and love, knew so much better than she what was best and good, that it was pleasant to commit all her interests into his hands. Her older son, her bright, beloved boy, had gone she believed to mingle his songs in a purer worship than that of earth, and would she call him back from glory? As she lifted her eyes up to the serene heavens, she almost fancied she heard his voice, saying, "He doeth all things well, do not fear to trust him." And when she returned to her dying child, it was with a feeling of sweet confidence. "I will not fear to trust him, even with this darling child. His gentle spirit was not fitted for earthly strifes; now it shall expand in an atmosphere of perfect love. 'The Lord gave him, the Lord taketh him away; blessed be his name.'" The dying boy breathed gently, and looked as if in a sweet sleep, sometimes a smile would play around his mouth, as if he were in a pleasant dream. There was no perceptible change till nearly morning, then Mrs. Hamilton called Mr. and Mrs. Martin. They stood in tearful silence round his bed, (for they loved Arthur almost as a child), watching his shortened breathing. There was no pain, no sigh, but as the morning light gleamed across the eastern hill, the spirit passed away. CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND GATHERING. Once more the family stood together under the cottage roof; once more the neighbors and friends one by one, silently passed in; once more a coffin stood upon the table, and aged men and women, and middle-aged and children looked into it with weeping eyes; once more stifled sobs were heard; once more that mother with her children sat in the inner room; but not all; all were not there. The pale weeping boy was no longer clinging to his mother's side. He slept; and tears would never dim his eyelids more. Sweet, gentle Arthur; _his_ dust was now fair to look upon. He had never been a beautiful child, but his face wore a sweet and mild expression in life, and it was serene and sweet in death. Once more, the voice of prayer was heard, and the sweet hymn was sung; once more they walked to the place of graves; and he, who just eight weeks before had stood weeping there, was now gently laid down to sleep "that sleep, which knows not waking" till "the trump of God shall sound." "Unvail thy bosom, faithful tomb! Take this new treasure to thy trust; And give these sacred relics room To slumber in the silent dust." Once more, slowly and sadly, the stricken family went to their home, now still more vacant--still more desolate! Once more Christian faith shed its soul-cheering light into the aching heart; once more the sorrowing found "there was balm in Gilead, and a physician there." CHAPTER X. ROVER, WHERE IS HE? The day little Arthur was laid in the grave, Rover was seen to stand in Mr. Martin's yard, as the body of his young master was carried out; and when Mr. and Mrs. Martin returned home and found Rover was not there, they supposed he had gone with the procession, and had remained behind at his old home, and therefore they felt no anxiety about him. At Mrs. Hamilton's when the question was asked, "Where is Rover?" some one replied, "he staid at Mr. Martin's probably; nothing has been seen of him here." He would now be more fondly cherished than ever by the brothers and sisters of his beloved master; and they resolved to send for him as soon as possible and bring him back. He had been such a fond and faithful friend to dear little Arthur, and had contributed so much to his enjoyment the last year of his life, that henceforth he would be associated with the image of that dear, dead brother, and would have for them a tender and mournful interest. When they sent for him, nothing could be found of the poor creature; no one had seen him, nor did long and protracted search discover any tidings or traces of him. Had he wandered off into the woods on that mournful day, and laid down and died of grief? Had he been stolen and carried off? Had he been accidentally destroyed? No one could tell. No one ever knew. But now, after long years have passed away, with the memory of little Arthur Hamilton is associated that of the faithful Rover; and an allusion to the dear child so early called away, is sure to bring up the remembrance of Rover, and of his mysterious end. CHAPTER XI. THE TWO GRAVES. It is twenty-two years since Henry and Arthur Hamilton were buried in that little grave-yard. Last spring, passing by the spot, I got out of the carriage and entered the quiet little enclosure. I well remembered where they lay, after this lapse of years, and without difficulty found the spot. Two small white stones had been erected, and I sat down on the grass and spent an half hour in gentle musing, and in half-sad, half-pleasing memories. Once more the manly form and beaming face of Henry Hamilton rose before me, and I seemed to hear his clear, ringing laugh. I thought of all his sanguine hopes and earnest plans for usefulness; how eagerly he had striven to excel in study; how warmly he had sympathized with the suffering and sorrowful; how joyfully he had entered into the recreations of the happy; and then I thought of the sudden blighting of all those warm affections, those passionate desires. But were they blighted? Rather, was not all that was good and lovely in him, still existing and perfecting? Was he not still loving, sympathizing, rejoicing? True, that outward form was now dust beneath my feet, and it was sad that any thing so beautiful should have passed away from before our eyes; but the warmly-beating soul with all its noble longings, and rich aspirations, had not perished with it. When, oh when, shall we learn that we and those we love, are immortal beings? When shall we learn that death does not destroy, only remove them and us? The grass had sprung up thick and green over little Arthur's grave, and the sweet morning sunlight lay quietly upon it. One little blue violet had opened its pretty leaves, and lay there smiling. I was about to pick it, to keep as a little memorial of the spot and the hour, but it seemed so full of life; so fit a companion for the precious dust beneath, I would not shorten its existence, but left it to wither there. My tears flowed; for little Arthur was a child I had dearly loved; but yet I knew not why I should mourn his early death. The God who had watched over him here, was still watching over him, and we need not fear to trust that loving Friend. Death is not terrible in itself; it is sin that makes it fearful. If we were pure and holy, we should be happy here, or in another world, just where God thought best to place us; but we are sinful, and we need pardon and redemption from sin, before we can look calmly and fearlessly upon the grave. Jesus Christ has told us how ready he is to forgive sin; how much he has suffered that we might be forgiven, and to every human being, even to the youngest who reads this page, he is saying, "Come unto me ye that are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest." THE SOUL'S RETURN. Return, my soul, unto thy rest, From vain pursuits and maddening cares; From lonely woes that wring thy breast, The world's allurements, toils and snares. Return unto thy rest, my soul, From all the wanderings of thy thought; From sickness unto death made whole, Safe through a thousand perils brought. Then to thy rest, my soul, return, From passions every hour at strife; Sin's works, and ways, and wages spurn, Lay hold upon eternal life. God is thy rest;--with heart inclined To keep his word, that word believe; Christ is thy rest;--with lowly mind, His light and easy yoke receive. THE END. 
15541	----	WHAT TWO CHILDREN DID BY CHARLOTTE E. CHITTENDEN NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1903, BY GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO. _Published, September, 1903_ [E-book Transcriber's Note: Obvious typos have been corrected and missing punctuation provided.] Contents I. ON THE WAY II. AT THE SHORE III. BETH AND HER DOLLS IV. THE WEDDING V. THE NEW WAY VI. A PLAN VII. THE SECRET VIII. THE REWARD IX. ONCE A YEAR X. BETH'S BIRTHDAY XI. THE DAY AFTER XII. SUNDAY XIII. THE FOUR TOGETHER XIV. THE WEDDING AND THE VISIT XV. THE LOST INVITATION XVI. THE MAIL AND ETHELWYN'S VISIT XVII. OUT AT GRANDMOTHER'S XVIII. HOW THEY BOUGHT A BABY XIX. BOBBY'S GRANDFATHER XX. THE VISIT TO THE HOME What Two Children Did _CHAPTER I_ _On the Way_ In the train we're watching Outdoors speeding by: Endless moving pictures, Framed by earth and sky. "Mistakes are very easy to make, I think," said Ethelwyn, with an uneasy look at her mother who sat opposite, thinking hard about something. The reason Ethelwyn knew her mother was thinking, was because at such times two little lines came and stood between her eyes, like sentinels. "Do you think God made a mistake when He sent us here?" asked Beth. They were in a Pullman car which was moving rapidly along in the darkness. Inside it was very bright and beautiful, and would have been most interesting to the children, had it not been for those two lines in their dear mother's face. "She is thinking about the naughty things we have done," said Ethelwyn to Beth in a tragic tone, at the same time taking a mournful bite out of a large, sugary cooky. They had eaten steadily since starting, and any one who did not understand children, would have been alarmed at possible consequences. On the seat between them there was a hospitable-looking basket with a handle over the middle and two covers that opened on either side of the handle. Underneath the covers and the napkins the children, entirely to their joy, had found sandwiches without limit. Some were cut round, others square, and all were without crust; inside they found minced chicken, creamy and delicious, also ham and a little mustard, and best of all were the small, brown squares with peanut butter between. "It's like Christmas or a birthday, having these sandwiches," said Ethelwyn. "They're all different and all good, and each one seems better than the others." Then they began on the cookies, and bit scallops out of the edges, while between times they thought about their last mistake and their mother's forehead lines. Sitting up straight against the velvet cushioned seat, the two children looked about the same age; the two heads were nearly on a level, as were both pairs of feet stuck out straight in front of them; but Ethelwyn's came a little farther out than Beth's, and her golden head came a little farther up on the seat than Beth's dark one. Just now there was a small cloud on their horizon. Although they found the interior of their palace car, the porter, and the passengers, fascinating, and the luncheon an endless feast, they both felt that before they slept they must straighten things out; hence their first question. Mrs. Rayburn came back presently to a realizing consciousness of the two anxious faces opposite hers, and with a smile dismissed the sentinel lines. "God never makes mistakes," said she, with refreshing faith and emphasis. "It is we who do that." "I think," said Beth, slowly pondering on this, "that the old surplus in the garden of Eden who bothered Adam and Eve has something to do with it." "Serpent, child," said Ethelwyn crushingly, beginning on cake. "Surplus, I mean," said Beth, getting out a piece of cake for herself. "I'd give a good deal, sister, if you wouldn't always count your chickens before they're hatched!" Whereupon she climbed down and went over to sit by her mother, where she glared indignantly at her sister. Her dear "bawheady" doll was in her arms. This doll was so called because early in life he had lost his wig, and thereby developed a capability for being a baby, a bishop, or a boy. There was a fascinating hole on top of his head, thus making it possible to secrete things like medicine or food until they were fished out with a buttonhook or darning needle. He was fed on cake now, but was generally given crusts, when there were any, because Beth did not like them. "Why did you ask that question?" asked their mother. "We thought you looked as though we'd made you an awful lot of trouble," said Ethelwyn, regarding the gorgeous ceiling of the car. "Yes, you did, although I was not thinking of it just then; you ran away--" "Walked, mother," corrected Beth, "to the 'lectric car, with grandmother's gold dollar, to go down to buy a trunk specially for our dolls--" "It was fun, mother," put in Ethelwyn, "only when we stood up and fussed to see who'd push the button to get off, the man slowed up so fast we both fell through a fat man's newspaper into his lap and upon his toes. He was angry too, for he just said 'ugh,' when we asked him to excuse us, please. The trunk man gave us back four big silver nickels with the trunk; we put them inside, and you can have them, mother, to help heal your feelings." "Your mistake was in not asking--" "We thought you'd better not be 'sturbed, 'cause ever since grandpa and brother died, you've thought such a lot, and looked so worried--" "But I was more worried about you when I found you weren't in the house or grounds; I thought you might be lost, and I was about telephoning to the police station about it, when you came, and there was just time to catch the train." Then Ethelwyn got down, and went over to squeeze in on the other side of her mother. She knelt on the cushions and patted the dear face until the little smile they loved, came out again, and drove the care lines away. "Children are such a worry, mother," she said in a funny, prim fashion, "that I should think you'd be sorry you ever bought us." "But we are going to be good from now on, so good you'll nearly die laughing," said Beth, getting up to pat her side of the face. Their mother laughed now in a bright fashion they loved, and squeezed them up tightly. "No, no, chickens," she said, "I'm never sorry I bought you; you were bargains, both of you, but I've had much to think of, and plan for, in the last few months, and perhaps I've neglected you somewhat." "Can you tell us 'bout things, mother?" asked Ethelwyn. "P'raps we could help some." "Yes, I am going to, but not now, for the porter wishes to make up our beds." "There are stickers in my eyes," said Beth, yawning. "There's one more question I'd like to know about though," she said as they moved across the aisle. "If God can't make mistakes, why does He let it be so easy for folks to?" "That I don't just know," said her mother, "but it's a good sign when we know they are mistakes." It was only a short time after this that they were all asleep in their curtained beds, and while it was still dark, and the children were too sleepy to realize much about it, they reached their destination and were driven to the seashore, cottage where they were to spend the summer. _CHAPTER II_ _At the Shore_ Underneath the washing waves The requiem of the sea, For those whose hopes are buried there, Is tolling ceaselessly. It was interesting to go to sleep in a Pullman car, and to wake up in a dainty room hung with rosebud chintz draperies, and with an altogether delightful air of coziness about it. But there was something outside their room that, like a magnet, drew them out of bed. They climbed on chairs, and gazed eagerly out of the windows. The house they were in, was on a hill. Pine trees grew near, and there below them and very near, was the great silvery blue sea, with the sunshine flashing on its tossing waves? The children gasped with delight. "It's another door to Paradise," said Ethelwyn. "The gold place that shows where the sun sets is another one," said Elizabeth. Then they heard their mother, who had come in quietly, and in a moment was cuddling them up in her arms. "We've lost a lot of time, I'm afraid," said Ethelwyn after they had given her a bear hug and a kiss. "That ocean is the prettiest thing, mother. P'raps that's the way to Paradise where father and grandfather and brother have gone." "Yes," said their mother, helping them into their clothes. "It is one of the ways." "Tell us about this place, please," begged Ethelwyn, "and how we happened to come to such a de-lic-ious place. Will you have to work so hard, motherdy, here? And will the little lines come between your eyes?" Whereupon Elizabeth at once abandoned to their fate, her harness garters with their many buckles, and climbed up to see. Yes, the lines had gone, and she kissed the place to make sure before she climbed down again. "Hoty potys is the twissedest things," she remarked, worse tangled than ever. "Hose supporters, dear child," corrected Ethelwyn with the exasperating air that always roused Beth's wrath. "This cottage," mother hastened to say, while she untangled the buckles with one hand and buttoned Ethelwyn's waist with the other, "belongs to Mrs. Stevens and her daughter, Dorothy. I have known them for years. Recently they wrote asking me to bring you children and come to them for the summer; they, too, were lonely, and they knew that I needed rest, quiet, and time to plan for the future. There are few people living here but fisher folk--" "Christ's people?" "Yes, like them in trade, at least. They are poor and need help--" "Are we rich people now, and can we buy things for them?" "Your grandfather left you a great deal of money, children, and you must learn to use it generously. It was his wish, and mine, that you should begin at once to think about such things before you learn to love money for its own sake, and what it will buy." "O, we don't care at all, do we, sister?" said Beth, stretching up on tiptoe to get her "bawheady" from the bureau. "We'd just as lief give it away as not, 'cause we've always you, mother dear." "Is the money more than grandmother's gold dollar?" asked Ethelwyn. "Much more." "O, then we'll have fun spending it for folks; I'd like to. But, oh, I'm hungrier than I ever was before." "Me, too," said Beth. "I feel a great big appeltite inside me." They decided at once that the dining-room also was charming, with its cheery open fire of snapping pine knots, for the air outside was chilly. Then, too, there was a parrot on a pole, who greeted them with, "Well, well, well, what's all this? Did you ever?" Miss Dorothy Stevens had the kind of face that children take to at once. There never could be any question about Aunty Stevens, who laughed every time they said anything, and who on top of their excellent breakfast, brought them in some most delicious cookies--just the kind you would know she could make, sugary and melty, entirely perfect, in fact,--to take down on the beach for luncheon. After breakfast was over they at once started for the beach. Sierra Nevada, their colored nurse, following them with small buckets, shovels, wraps, and cushions. "Mother, this is the nicest place, and I love the Stevenses; but why are they sad around the eyes, and dressed in black, like you? Has their father gone to Paradise too?" asked Ethelwyn, as they walked along. "Yes, dear. Besides, the young captain whom Dorothy was going to marry went away last year and, his ship was wrecked and he has never been heard from. So they fear he was drowned." "O, mother, can this pretty sea do that? What was it they were saying about a tide?" Their mother tried to explain all she knew about the tides, and when she had finished, Ethelwyn said: "I think it would be easier to remember to call it tied, and then untied." _CHAPTER III_ _Beth and Her Dolls_ Dollie's poor mother is quite full of care, As she who lived in a shoe, For this child is tousled, this one undressed-- Mother has all she can do. More dollies there are, than possible clothes, Some of them must go to bed. And some to be healed by mother with glue, Lacking an arm or a head. Then others, wearing the invalid's clothes, Care not a fling or a jot Nor know that to-morrow their own fate may be The bed, or the mucilage pot. The first Sunday that the children were at the seashore was warm and beautiful. Mrs. Rayburn and Mrs. Stevens went to church in the picturesque stone chapel built by a sea captain, as a memorial to his daughter who was drowned on the coast some years before this. "We'll be really better girls to stay at home some of the church time," said Ethelwyn at breakfast, "we'll go this evening with Miss Dorothy." "My dolls are needing a bath and their best clothes for Sunday-school," said Beth to Ethelwyn, who had decided to go down on the beach; "and I can do it all comfy and nice while you are gone." So Ethelwyn and 'Vada went for a run on the beach, and mother Elizabeth, with a look of happy care on her face, and her beloved six dolls in her arms, came out on the porch, where she had already taken a basin of water, soap, a tiny sponge, and towels. Directly she became aware of some one near her, and looking up saw a girl with dark eyes and short, straight hair watching the proceedings with much interest, her hands clasped behind her back. "My name is Nan," said the visitor as soon as she caught Elizabeth's eye, "Who are you? Is this your house? We've just come, and mother is in bed with a headache, and father's gone to church, so I'm roaming around seeking something to devour--" "Does that mean eat?" said Elizabeth, a scene in one of her picture books of lions devouring their prey coming into her mind. "I think it's what my father calls a figure of speech. He's a minister--a clergyman, you know. We've come down here to board, and he's going to have the services in the Chapel of the Heavenly Rest. Mother's sick about always, so I have to roam around--Say, I know a game; let's baptize your children." "They don't need it; they're not born in sin--" "Everything is," emphatically. "Don't try to teach a minister's child things, for pity's sake. I'll do the baptizing. Come along." The rainwater barrel, half sunken in the ground, was at one of the rear corners of the house. "We are not allowed to play in that, I think," said Elizabeth uneasily. "That doesn't mean me, I'm older'n you. Here, give me the doll without a wig." Down went the beloved "bawheady" with a thud that carried desolation to Beth's tender heart. Four others followed in quick succession before Beth could protest. Then clinging to Arabella, she started to run. Nan tried to run after her, but caught her foot on the barrel's brim and straightway joined the five dolls. Elizabeth opened her mouth to shriek, when in an opportune moment, a young man appeared on the scene, and speedily fished out Miss Nan, who dripped and coughed and choked; inarticulate, but evidently wrathy sounds wrestled for utterance in her throat. At last she shook herself free. "I'm perfectly degusted with this whole preformance," she said as she went stalking off, dripping as she went. Then the young man laughed and laughed, until he became aware of Elizabeth wistfully staring at him. "What is it?" he asked. "My dolls. They're baptized clear to the bottom; please get 'em out." "I'll do it, if you will take this note to Miss Dorothy Stevens," said the young man, at once throwing off his coat and pushing up his shirt sleeve. Beth, before she trotted off, saw that he had a blue anchor on his arm. When she came back, the rescued five lay stretched on the grass in a pathetic row, and she at once ran to her prostrate children. "You are to go to the parlor and tell Miss Dorothy all about it," she said, in passing, to their rescuer. "Your note made Miss Dorothy cry; and she was all white 'round her mouth. Thank you for the dolls," she called as an afterthought. So busy was she drying her afflicted family that it was some time after the others had reached home that 'Vada, wildly excited, came to find Elizabeth and to tell her that Miss Dorothy's sweetheart had come back. "From Paradise?" queried Beth, getting up at once and bristling all over with questions she wanted to ask him about that interesting place. "Mighty nigh," said 'Vada, rolling her eyes. "He was shipwrecked on the raging main, and hit on de head wid somefin that done knock all de sense out of him, so he's pick up by some folks dat didn't know 'im, an' he went cruisin' aroun', till he come to, and, by 'me by, back to see his sweetheart." Elizabeth went into the parlor later on, and stared so insistently at the young captain that her mother drew her gently to one side and whispered to her. "But I'm anxious to see a sweetheart that has been in Paradise, mother," she explained. _CHAPTER IV_ _The Wedding_ Bells ring, Birds sing, Every one is gay; Hearts beat, Chimes sweet, On a bridal day. It was one of the things for the children to remember always, that Miss Dorothy was married while they were there to help. They helped so much in the matter of scraping all the cake and icing pans, stoning, and especially eating, raisins, that it was a wonder they were not ill. The morning on which the wedding was to take place dawned as bright and golden as could be desired. It was a very simple, pretty wedding in the stone chapel, towards which, in the early morning, the bridal party walked. Nan, Ethelwyn, and Elizabeth went ahead, bearing flowers, and after them came Miss Dorothy in her white gown, clinging to the arm of her sailor lover. Mrs. Stevens and the children's mother, together with a few friends, awaited them in the pretty church, and Nan's father married them. They then all went to the bride's home for breakfast, immediately after which, the young couple were going away for a year. This fact, and the mother's sad face impaired the appetites of the guests, with three noble exceptions. The trio at the end of the table ate with zest and unimpaired enthusiasm, of the good things that they fondly believed might never have reached their present point of perfection had it not been for their skill. "Should you think," Elizabeth paused to say, in a somewhat muffled voice, entirely owing to plum cake and not grief, "that one of us is married too?" "My father," returned Nan loftily, "is not given to making mistakes of that kind. There weren't husbands enough to go 'round anyway." "What is a husband?" "You've been helping make one, child, and you ask that!" So Elizabeth concluded it was a small portion of the refreshments that had escaped her notice. Afterwards they went down to the harbor from which the bride and groom were to sail. "Like the owl and the pussy cat," said Ethelwyn, cheerfully. As they kissed their friend good-bye, they placed around her neck a pretty chain, hanging from which was a medallion with their pictures painted on it. "You can look at us when you get lonesome," suggested Beth. The last good-bye was said, and they drove sadly home in a fine, drenching rain that had suddenly fallen like a vail over their golden day. 'Vada had started the open fires and they were cheerfully cracking, while Polly from her pole croaked crossly, "Shut up, do! Quit making all that fuss!" Mrs. Rayburn took Aunty Stevens away with her, and by and by in the afternoon, they found her tucked up on the couch in their sitting-room looking somewhat happier. "Aren't you glad you have us, and specially mother?" asked Beth, kissing her. There was only one answer possible to this, and it was given with such emphasis that Ethelwyn nodded and said, "That's the way we feel. Mother knows how to fix things right better'n anybody, unless it should be God." "Let's sing awhile, sister, while mother thinks of a story or two," suggested Beth. So they squatted in front of the grate and sang, "Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee, I am so glad that Jesus loves me." Then they sang what they called "Precious Julias," "Little children who love Mary Deemer." "Why," Beth stopped to ask, "does it say Precious Julias when it's 'bout Mary Deemer, sister?" "Middle name, prob'ly," answered Ethelwyn; "anyway that's Mary Deemer," pointing to a picture of Murillo's "Magdalene," "and the reason that she's loved by children, is because she is pretty and good. If you are good, Elizabeth, people will love you." "I'm as good as you are, anyway," began Beth wrathfully, when she saw Nan in the doorway. "May I come in?" she asked, wistfully. "Mother has a headache, father's gone fishing in a boat, and I've a toothpick in my side." "Come in, deary," said Mrs. Rayburn, who felt an infinite pity for sturdy little Nan, with her invalid mother. "Bless me, what cold hands! What's this thing you have in your side?" she continued, cuddling Nan up in her lap. Nan breathed a contented breath. "O, it's gone now. It's a sharp, pointed thing that sticks me when I'm lonesome." "We're having Sunday-school, the singing part, and you may come if you're good, and know a verse, and won't baptize the Sunday-school," said Beth, multiplying conditions rapidly. "I know a verse that father says he thinks ought to be in the Bible," said Nan. "Let's not have Sunday-school," she continued, snuggling down on Mrs. Rayburn's shoulder. "It's so nice here, and I want to tell you 'bout my dream I had the other night. Dreamed I went to heaven awhile, and when I came home I slid down fifty miles of live wire and sissed all the way down like a hot flatiron." "There's a gold crack in the sky now that shows a little weenty bit of Heaven's floor, I think, right now," said Ethelwyn, going to the west window. They all followed her, and sure enough there was the gold of the sky shining through the misty rain clouds. "Now, if God and the angels would just peek out a minute, I'd be thankful," said Elizabeth. _CHAPTER V_ _The New Way_ It's--hard--to--work-- And easy to play; I'll tell you what we've done, We play our work And work our play, And all the hard is gone. The children were always glad when Mrs. Flaharty came to wash, for she was never too busy to talk to them, nor to let them wash dolls' clothes in some of her suds, nor, in her own way, to converse, and to explain things to them. One Monday morning the two were in the back yard with gingham aprons tied around their waists for trails, and with one of Aunty Stevens' bright saucepans which they put on their heads in turn. In this rig, they felt that their appearance left little to be desired. They were having literary exercises while Mrs. Flaharty was hanging the white clothes on the line, and, by reason of her exceeding interest in the proceedings, she took her time about it too. In the midst of Ethelwyn's recitation of "Mary Had a Little Lamb," she paused to say, after, "The eager children cry," "What do you s'pose the silly things cried for?" "'Cause they didn't have any lamb, prob'ly," promptly replied Elizabeth from the audience, where she sat surrounded by her dolls. "Hurry up, sister, it's my turn." "Is it ager, children, you're askin' about?" asked Mrs. Flaharty, flopping out a sheet. "If you'd ever had the ager, what wid the pain in your bones an' the faver in your blood, you'd be likely to cry--whin you had the stren'th." "Is it shaking ager?" asked Elizabeth doubtfully. "Oh, I didn't know that. Come and sit down on the steps, Mrs. Flaharty, and I'll tell a story I made up for this special 'casion." "It's troo wid the white does I am, an' I reckin I can sit and take me breath before I begin on the colored; besides, I'd have to be takin' away the foine costumes ye has roun' your waists, if I wint now." So Mrs. Flaharty sat down ponderously. "I've a poem, too," said Ethelwyn, taking her place in the audience, and Elizabeth began: "Once there was a little boy whose father was cross to him, and kept him home all the while, and when he let him go anywhere, he said he 'mustn't' and 'don't' so much, it spoiled all his fun. Once the boy went in the woods where lived a fairy prince. 'Go not near the fairy prince,' had said the boy's father so much that the boy thought he'd die if he did. So the fairy prince looked over the back fence and said, 'Avast there,' so the boy avasted as fast as he could. 'I'm in trouble,' said the fairy prince. 'What about?' said the boy. 'I can walk only on one foot till somebody cuts off my little toe,' said the prince. "So the boy did it with his father's razor, and it thundered and lightened, and his father came and scolded over the back fence, but the prince waved his magic cut toe; then they all banged and went up on a Fourth of July sky rocket, till the father fell off and bumped all his crossness out of him, and like birds of a fevver, they all lived togevver afterwards." "The saints be praised," said Mrs. Flaharty, fanning herself with her apron. Then Ethelwyn came forward. "This is my poem," she said, bowing to the audience. "A little girl lived way down East, She rose and rose, like bread with yeast, She rose above the tallest people, And far above the highest steeple. She kept right on till by and by She took a peek into the sky--" "Oh, what did she see?" asked Elizabeth, interested at once. "That you can guess," replied the poet with dignity. "Mother says she likes poems and pictures that you can put something into from your own something or other, I forget what--you let folks guess about it." "My sister is smart," complacently remarked Elizabeth to Nan, who had just come over. "So am I, then," said Nan, not to be outdone. "I can make up beautiful poems." "Let's hear one." So Nan came forward, bowed profoundly and began: "I have a little kitty, Who is so very pretty, Tho' growing large and fat, I fear she'll be a cat. One day, my sakes, she saw a dog, Her tail swelled up just like a log; He barked, she spit, She does not love dogs, not a bit." "What color is she?" asked Ethelwyn. "That is left for your guessing part," said Nan promptly. Mrs. Flaharty now reluctantly arose. "It's a trate to hear ye," she said, "but I mus' git troo, and go home. There's a spindlin' lad named Dick nex' door but wan to where I live, that can walk only wid a crutch an' not able to do that lately. He'd be cheered entoirely wid your rhymes an' tales." "O, maybe mother'll take us to see him this afternoon. We'll ask her. She's intending to go down that way herself, I know, and she'll be so good to Dick; she just can't help it," said Ethelwyn, and at once they dashed off to see, leaving the saucepan crown rolling down the yard, and their gingham aprons lying on the steps. _CHAPTER VI_ _A Plan_ It's nice to get gifts, But better to give: For giving leaves always a glow That warms up a part In every heart; The joy of it never can go. There was woe in Ethelwyn's heart and pain in her throat, and the woe was on account of the pain; for Elizabeth and her mother had gone to town to arrange things for Dick, who was to be taken to the hospital, where he was to undergo an operation that would, in all probability cure him. And now Ethelwyn, ever desirous of being at the head and front of things, had taken this wretched cold and could not go. Very shortly after Mrs. Flaharty had told them about Dick, their mother had taken them to see him. His home was a long way from their cottage, where the fisher people lived, and the sights and smells in the hot summer air were hard to bear even for those who were well. Poor little Dick, lying day after day on his hard bed, with no care except what the kind-hearted washerwoman could give him, felt that life was an ill thing at best, and he was fast hastening out of it, with the assistance of ill nutrition and bad ventilation. Dick's own mother and father were dead, and his stepmother, a rough-looking creature, when she remembered him at all, looked upon him as a useless encumbrance, and by her neglect was making him very unhappy. Ethelwyn and Elizabeth, quite unused to suffering of this sort, sat soberly by, during their first visit, and watched their mother bending tenderly over the feeble little invalid, and ministering to his needs. In a week's time they had changed things marvelously. The stepmother had, for a sum that meant a great deal to her, relinquished all claim upon Dick, so he was placed in the care of a sewing woman, who, by reason of rheumatism in her fingers, could not sew any more; and she filled the starving sore spot in her childless heart with a loving devotion to Dick. The sum paid her for this care kept them both in comfort, and Dick, with flowers and birds about him, and with wholesome, dainty food, gradually lost his gaunt, hunted look and began to take a fresh hold of life. The doctor attending him gave it as his opinion that in one of the city hospitals the little fellow might be cured, and it was to see about this that Elizabeth and her mother had gone to town. The night before they were all in their sitting-room, talking it over. Aunty Stevens, who was greatly interested, had brought her knitting and joined them. "It would be a lovely work," said Mrs. Rayburn, thoughtfully looking at the fire, "to make a home for Dick and many such poor little weaklings, somewhere up on these heights where, with fresh air and good, well-cooked food, they could have a fighting chance for life." "There's our money," said Ethelwyn, cuddling her hand in her mother's. "Let's make one with it." "Would you like that?" "Yes, indeed we should," they answered in a breath. "But it would take a great deal of money, and instead of being very rich when you grow up, and being able to travel everywhere and have beautiful clothing and jewels, you might have to give up many things of that sort." "But," said Elizabeth, climbing up into her mother's lap, "isn't doing things for poor children like Dick, better than that?" "There's no doubt about it," said their mother, her eyes shining as she kissed the tops of the two round heads now cuddled on her shoulders, in what Beth called her "arm cuddles." "Well, we don't mind then, do we, sister?" "No indeed," said sister promptly, kicking her foot out towards the fire. "Dresses are a bother, and always getting torn, and traveling makes you very tired, only the luncheon's nice. But I'd lots rather build a home." "Let's see," said mother, "if you are as ready to give up something now. Elizabeth's birthday is next week and Ethelwyn's next month. I had thought we might take a short yachting trip,--all of us, Nan, Aunty Stevens--" "O, mother," they cried, turning around to hug her. "Then there is a doll in town that can walk and talk. Beth, deary, you choke me so I can't talk;--and a camera for sister. Would you mind giving up these things to help pay the hospital expenses, or to buy a wheel chair or some comfort for Dick?" Down went the heads again, and dead silence reigned except for the crackling of the fire and the clicking of Aunty Stevens' needles. "May we go away and think it over?" said Ethelwyn soberly. "Yes." So they slid down and disappeared to think it out alone, as they always did when obliged to settle questions for themselves. Ethelwyn went outdoors, and crawled into the hammock on the porch. The wind blew mistily from the sea and was heavy with dampness and cold, but the child paid no attention to that; she was so busy thinking. Surely, she thought, there was money enough for Dick and the others without giving up her camera and the sea trip. She had longed for a camera all summer. Nan had the use of her mother's and had taken their pictures in all places and positions, and she did so wish for one. But then, there was poor Dick, how uncomfortable he had looked. Elizabeth, meantime, went to the bedside of her beloved doll family. They were lying serene and placid, exactly as she had placed and tucked them in at bedtime, with her own motherly hand, and the memory of Dick lying racked with pain on the comfortless bed where she had first seen him, almost decided her at once. But a doll that could walk and talk, though, would be lovely. "But then, darlings," she said, after a little, "you might think I would love her better than you, and you are such dears, you don't deserve that." So Beth kissed them all with fervor, her mind quite made up. While they were away, Aunty Stevens said, "Isn't that a pretty hard test?" The children's mother shook her head thoughtfully at the dancing fire. "I hope not," she said. "I don't wish them to do things now that they will repent of afterwards. But it seems to me that if they are trained now to be unselfish, they will always be so. Don't you think, dear Mrs. Stevens, that the whole trouble with the world is its selfishness?" "No doubt at all about it," said the older woman, nodding emphatically over her flying needles. "Then if the world is to be made better, and rid of this, which lies at the bottom of all the crime, sin and unhappiness, the younger ones of us will have to be taught to sacrifice, at least some luxuries, to help give less fortunate ones the necessities of life," said Mrs. Rayburn, getting interested, and talking fast and earnestly. "How I hate the expression 'Look out for number one,' It's such teaching as this, that makes human beings so forgetful of others," she went on after a little pause, "and the modern socialist only seems to be trying to exchange one set of selfish, grasping rules for another of the same sort. So the world will go on, until the laws are again based on the teaching of our Lord, and Christian socialism will prevail." "Yes, you are quite right, but what are you among so many?" asked Aunty Stevens, smiling across at her friend. Mrs. Rayburn's cheeks flushed. "Yes, I know," she said. "I suppose it looks as though I alone were trying to reform the world; but I am not. I am only one little atom trying to teach still smaller atoms that they must do their share." "Was it not in 'Bleak House' that that exceedingly unpleasant personage used to give away her children's pocket money? And the black looks she received from them when she was not looking, were something dreadful." "Well," said Mrs. Rayburn, laughing, "I hope you don't think the cases are parallel." "No indeed, I don't. I was trying to say, I think you are right because you go at it in the right way, and let them choose. Then, because they love and have perfect confidence in you, they will be pretty likely to choose the right way." "People so often say, 'Let children have a good time,' but interpreted, from their point of view, a good time, means a selfish time. That is selfish enjoyment, but it might be good occasionally to put to the test the truth that it is more blessed to give than to receive." Elizabeth now came in with her baby doll in her arms. She soberly climbed up again into the blessed fold of her mother's arms. "I'd just as lief Dick would have it as not, momsey, for I've my heart chock full of dolls now, and it will be so good to have Dick and others well and comfyble." Ethelwyn came a moment later. "It's all right, mother," she said, also climbing up to her place. "I can make pictures with a pencil more easily than I can bear to think that Dick needs my camera money, I'll be glad to do it, mother." But Ethelwyn's voice was hoarse, and the next morning she was not well enough to go to town. _CHAPTER VII_ _The Secret_ Such fun to have a secret! To tell one too is fun. But then there is no secret That's known to more than one. Ethelwyn had intended to have a most unhappy day, so after her mother and Beth went, she lay face down in the hammock with a very damp ball of a handkerchief squeezed up tightly against her eyes. But by and by she heard Aunty Stevens calling her. "Here I am," she answered, at once sitting up. "Do you feel well enough to help me make some apple pies?" Ethelwyn rolled out of the hammock, and ran into the kitchen in a trice. "O if you only knew how I love to cook, Aunty Stevens," she cried. "And nobody will hardly ever let me. I can make the bestest cookies if any one else just makes the dough. So if you don't feel just prezactly well, you can sit in the rocking-chair, and I will do it all." "Thank you, deary, but I'm feeling pretty well to-day, so we will work together. Let me tie this apron around you." Then Aunty Stevens brought out the dearest little moulding-board and rolling-pin, and drew out of a corner a small table. "O isn't everything about this just too cunning? Did these used to be Miss Dorothy's?" said Ethelwyn in a rapture, Mrs. Stevens nodded. "Here's your dough, dear. Now roll it out to fit this little plate." This took time, for it persisted in rolling out long and slim, and not at all the shape of the plate, but at last it was fitted in. "Now what comes?" said the little cook, lifting a red and floury face. "A thick layer of these apples--no, just a layer of sugar and flour--then the crust won't soak. Now the apples. Sugar them well. Put any of these spices on that you wish." "I like the taste of cinnamon, and spice-oil, but nutmegs are so cunning to grate. I b'lieve I'll put 'em all in," said Ethelwyn, critically studying the spice shakers. "Now dot the apples over with butter, a dash of cold water, and a sprinkle of flour. Now roll out your top crust. Cut little slits for it to breathe through; pinch the two crusts together, after you have wet your finger and thumb in cold water. There! now it is ready to go in the oven." "O isn't it sweet?" said Ethelwyn. "Nobody can cook like you, Aunty Stevens. Nobody. I think it's a great--great appomplishment." "Thank you, dear. Now sit down, and when I have cleaned up things a little, we'll go out on the west porch, and I am going to tell you something. I have saved it for a secret for the little girl who couldn't go to town to-day, but who gave up her birthday presents for the sake of others." "O goody," said Ethelwyn, beaming with joy. "Next to cooking, I love to hear secrets. And would you mind telling me a thing or two, I have been thinking about lately? I have been meaning to ask mother about it. You know in church we say we believe in the resurrection of the body. Well, what do you s'pose," leaning forward impressively--"becomes of the bodies the cannibals eat?" "Well, Ethelwyn," said Mrs. Stevens with a gasp. "I suppose it's no harder than to resurrect them from anywhere else." "O yes, I should think so," said Ethelwyn earnestly, "because they'd get dreadfully mixed up in themselves. But never mind. I suppose the Lord can manage it." Aunty Stevens and she then went out on the porch that faced the sea. "O now I'm going to hear the secret," said Ethelwyn, sitting down on the arm of the chair. "And my own pie is in the oven baking. Aren't we having a good time, Aunty Stevens?" "Yes, we are," said Aunty Stevens, hugging her. "And now I am going to tell you. I'm afraid, deary, that I have been a very selfish woman. When my husband died, I felt as though I had nothing to live for but Dorothy, and when she too went away, I felt that there was no use in living. The other evening when I heard you all planning for others, it occurred to me to be ashamed, for here is this house, and I am all alone in it. Why it's the very thing for a children's rest and training school." "O Aunty Stevens," said Ethelwyn, getting up close to hug and kiss her. "I can give the cottage, and I can manage it, and your money can fit it up, and hire teachers." "Yes, sir," said Ethelwyn, wildly excited. "You can teach them to make pies like mine--" "Yes, they can be taught to do all sorts of things about a house--" "And Dick?" "He shall be the first one." "And his 'dopted aunt?" "Yes, indeed. She can help in many ways." "O this is lots better than going to town. I just wish I could tell mother and Beth. Seems to me I can't possibly wait." "I see Nan coming. Suppose 'Vada should take you two down to have your luncheon on the beach." "The pie, too?" "Yes, and other things, if your throat is better, so you can go." "O it's all well, cured with joy, I guess. Anyway mother said I might go outdoors, you know. It was the noise and smoke in town she thought would hurt me." So they went off on their picnic, and did not come home until time to dress for the train that was to bring back Mrs. Rayburn and Beth. "Well Ethelwyn," said Aunty Stevens, meeting her, "how was the picnic?" "The picnic as far as the pie, and other eating were concerned, was perfect, but Nan was a trial sometimes," said Ethelwyn, sighing deeply; "she said she couldn't possibly go home, 'count of her mother having a headache as usual, and she was as cross as a bear. I had my hands pretty full with that child. She does not give in to me like my sister--I will say that." And Ethelwyn again sighed deeply, as she walked into the house for her bath and toilet. When the train stopped, and Elizabeth appeared, Ethelwyn and she rushed at each other, and both began to talk at once. "I've a secret that will make your eyes stick out--then I made a pie--" "I saw the doctor that makes bone people. There was one for a sign at the pittalhos where we were--" "Hospital, child." "And he was undressed, even from out of his skin; you could, see clear through him. I was scared, because I thought that the doctor would make mother and me into one, but he was nice and said he'd cure Dick. We saw his bed all white--" "Wait till you know the secret. I saved you a piece of pie--Nan wanted it--" "I rode up in an alligator--" "Elevator." "And a man at the pittalhos said, 'where did I get those dimple holes,' and I said prob'ly they wasn't fat enough to stuff it all--he laughed though at that." And so they chattered on until they reached home. _CHAPTER VIII_ _The Reward_ To help the sorry, hungry poor, Or ease a burdened one, Begins to bring the answer, when We pray "Thy Kingdom come." It all unfolded like a beautiful flower, and every one was interested in getting ready the Children's Rest and Summer Training School, which was to be the name of the cottage. In the midst of it all, Mrs. Stevens one day received from Japan a long and happy letter from Dorothy and her husband; and a mysterious box, which was smuggled away for the birthday, came for the children. Dick was getting better every minute, and was looking forward with eager delight to the time when he should go to the Rest, well and strong. In the Rayburn sitting-room one evening, the children were looking over a portfolio of photographs. Aunty Stevens as usual was knitting, and laughing with them over the pictures. Ethelwyn was showing them, for she had seen them before. "This is Beethoven," she announced, holding up one of the great masters. "He isn't very pretty, but I s'pose he made up in being clever." "He is sort of kind-looking," said Beth, who always liked to say something nice about every one. "He is better than pretty," said Ethelwyn. "He's a very good musician. He can play the piano." "Where does he live?" "Paradise, I think. Mebbe not, though." "I'm sorry for his folks." "This is Handel." "What of?" and Nan got up to look. "Not a dipper-handle, but a man of that name. He could play too." "He looks kind of like a woman--look at his hair." "That is his wig." "Was he a bawheady?" and Beth got up to look more closely at the man who was afflicted like her beloved doll. "I s'pose he must have been. But it doesn't show like your doll's," said Nan. "This is a bust of Diana." "Where is she busted?" "All but her head and shoulders." "Who did it?" "A man I guess. This is the 'Kiss of Judas.'" "Oh, isn't Judas mean-looking?" "Looks like a bug thief." This from Beth. "Burglar, child," said Nan. "Bug thief is what I meant," said Beth with dignity, for she didn't propose to be corrected by Nan or sister. Then she walked over to her mother. "Are you very old, mother?" she asked. "I've been meaning to ask. Are you a hundred, or eleven, or is that your size shoe?" "Elizabeth Rayburn!" said Ethelwyn, dropping the photographs and coming over to her mother, followed by Nan. "Our mother isn't old at all!" "No I know she isn't, only she must be toler'bly old, to know so much goodness." "I'm just old enough to love you," said their mother, laughing and hugging them all three at once in a way she had. "I've some money in the bank," said Nan presently. "I've been thinking what I'd buy for the Rest, and I've 'bout decided on a feeble chair." "Goodness me! I shall never sit in it, if it's feeble, Nan," said Aunty Stevens, laughing. "No, _for_ the feeble," corrected Nan. "I want my mother to give something too; she has some money, and I believe if she would give it for my brother's sake, she would feel better and wouldn't cry so much. Perhaps she will." "We are all going to church to-morrow, 'cause your father is going to preach about the Rest,--pray over it too, and mother's going to sing the offertory, two verses, if the sermon's too long, and three if it isn't. You tell your father that, for singing is much more interesting than preaching any day." "Ethelwyn!" "Why it is, mother." "I'll tell father, but he is likely to go on a long time when he is once started," said Nan. "If I don't go to sleep, I'll be sure to wiggle," said Beth. But they all went to sleep. Ethelwyn sat in the choir seats close to her mother; while Elizabeth sat below with Aunty Stevens. Nan sat quite near them and sweetly smiled at Elizabeth. "How do you feel?" she asked in a shrill whisper. "Wiggly? I told father not to preach very long, but there is no telling. Mother has some gum drops for me if I wiggle." "Don't you think you will then?" asked Beth. But Nan's mother stopped further disclosures by turning her daughter around, and setting her down with emphasis on the other side of her. Fortunately they all three fell asleep in the early part of the sermon and did not wake up until Mrs. Rayburn began to sing. At the first note Ethelwyn slipped down, and stood with her hand in her mother's. Then Elizabeth eluded Aunty Stevens's vigilant eye, slipped out of the seat and walked up and stood on the other side, her head raised looking into her mother's face, and to their great delight the three verses were sung. _CHAPTER IX_ _Once a Year_ Birth days, Earth days, Seem very few; Year days, Dear days, When life is new. By constant and hard work, the house was ready for occupancy on Ethelwyn's birthday. Two or three days before it was finished, Nan's mother came over, the melancholy look on her face somewhat lifted. She brought with her the deed of the land adjoining the cottage and sloping down to the sea. This land she at once undertook to have equipped for a playground with swings, tennis courts, a ball ground and all the things that delight young hearts. "It is for Philip," she said simply. "I have put his money into it, and perhaps, by looking a little after homeless, suffering children, I can forget my own heartache." "You have chosen the very best way to do so," said Mrs. Rayburn. Nan's "feeble" chair came the night before the opening, and all three of the children christened it, by getting in, and wheeling it over the shining floors at a high rate of speed, thereby proving it to be anything but feeble. The morning train brought a bevy of pale-faced, joyless-looking waifs. At first they were stiff and shy, but under the vigorous leadership of Nan, Ethelwyn, and Beth, they were soon organized into a Rough Riders Company, and slid down the banisters, and shot out into the playground with shrill yells of delight. Dick was general, for he was not yet strong enough to run, so he sat in his wheel-chair, and directed the others. "We made him general, for generals never have anything to do but boss others; they are never killed or anything," explained Nan. A doctor from the hospital had sent down a wagon and goat team. There were bicycles and a hobby-horse, and boats safely fastened; so they rode, ran, trotted, or sat in the boats, all the happy day. Two things were almost forgotten in all the excitement. One was, that this was Ethelwyn's birthday, and the other, that they had to go away the next day. In the evening, however, there was a birthday cake, with eight candles on it. Then they had the fun of opening the box from Japan. There was a whole family of quaint dolls for Elizabeth, labeled by Dorothy's husband, "Heathen dolls: never baptized." "Nor never will be, by Nan," said Elizabeth, fondly hugging them to her, and fixing guilty Nan with a steadfast glance. There was the cunningest watch for Ethelwyn about the size of a quarter of a dollar. "It's a live one, though," said its owner proudly, shaking it and holding it up to her ear. There was a parasol and a sash for Nan, and three Japanese costumes complete for the "three little maids from school." These, they at once put on. Then they all went out on the lawn, and hung Japanese lanterns in the trees, and Nan's father set off the fireworks, which were also in the box; so the day closed in a blaze of glory. At last they were in the sitting-room again. The adopted children clean and dressed in white gowns were asleep in their dainty iron beds, and dreaming of happiness past, and to come. Nan, her father, and mother, and Mrs. Stevens came in for a last word. "I shall put on mourning to-morrow," announced Nan in a melancholy voice, "for I shall be a widow. What makes you go away, Mrs. Rayburn?" "School and business call us to town, Nan, but we shall come every summer, and spend Christmas here, too, I hope." "This has been the best birthday I ever spent or ever expect to," said Ethelwyn with the air of having spent at least fifty. "It is such a good idea to give things away instead of always getting them, but if you can do both, as happened this time, it covers everything." Then they were all quiet for a little while, until Mrs. Rayburn went to the piano, and touching the keys, sang softly: "And does thy day seem dark, All turned to rain? Seek thou one out whose life Is filled with pain. Put out a hand to help This greater need, And lo! within thy life The sun will shine indeed." _CHAPTER X_ _Beth's Birthday_ The space between our birthdays seems to grow apace, When we're young they loiter; when we're old they race. It began with a bad time; and so did the next day, as things sometimes do, even though they turn out all right at the end, like a rainy morning that clears off into a blue and gold afternoon. Ethelwyn and Beth did not fall out very often, but then they didn't have a birthday very often, nor Christmas, nor any other of the days when the land flows with ice cream and candy, and is bounded on the next day by crossness and pitfalls. That was one reason. That day early they had decided never to be bad again, never; "because," said Ethelwyn, "it is very troublesome getting good again, and makes mother feel bad." "Uh huh," said Beth. They were not up yet, and the door leading into their mother's room was open. This was their "present" birthday, but they had not yet begun on their presents. For fear you shouldn't understand this, I will tell you Beth's way of explaining it. "Sister and me is twin children two years all but a month apart, and on the first birthday which comes in July, we have presents, and on the second, in August, we have a party, or a trip away, or something, and we have all the month to choose in." They generally chose thirty different things. Their mother nearly always let them have the last one, but once or twice, as when they wanted to go up in an air ship, she compromised on a steam launch on the river, as safer, and nearer at hand. This morning being "present" morning, they were glad to see the sunshine darting in at their window, and to hear the birds singing outside something like this-- "Wake up, children: the day is new. It's full of joy for dears like you." So they woke up laughing, at least Ethelwyn did, and told Beth what the birds sang; but Beth was sleepy and uttered her usual "Uh huh." "You are a very lazy child," said Ethelwyn in a superior tone, "and are not thinking about your presents at all, nor the making of good revolutions." "What's them?" asked Beth, still with her eyes shut. "Something you need to make very much, for you are not too good a child, I'm sorry to say. Mother esplained about people making things like that at New Year's, and birthdays, and so I've been thinking of some specially for you--" "I can make my own," said Beth, fully awake now, "and I can help make yours when it comes to that, I guess." "Well," said Ethelwyn, "I have been thinking of a few for you to begin with. One is, never to be late for breakfast, and not to be selfish about getting the bath first, and never wanting to give up when your sister wants you to--" "You can make your own, while I'm getting my bath first now," said Beth, sliding out of bed. "I'm anxious to see my presents." Ethelwyn, speechless with rage, hastened her departure with a push, and then fell asleep until the breakfast bell rang. How mortified she felt after what she had said to Beth! Sierra Nevada hurried her through her bath and toilet as quickly as she could, but she would be late for breakfast anyway. When she came into the dining-room, her mother kissed her gravely, but she was not allowed to look at her presents until after she had eaten. She felt very miserable at the shrieks of delight from Beth, who was dancing around her doll house, with its two floors beautifully furnished, and dolls of every size, shape, and color living in it. No wonder the oatmeal and the muffins lost their flavor! But Ethelwyn effervesced quickly, and as quickly subsided. Presently she was glad again, for there were books, candy, games, a walking doll from Paris that could talk as well, and a camera from Aunty Stevens. The camera, she told her mother, she had been longing for for years and years. Uncle Tom sent each of them some candy, and a five dollar gold piece, with a note intimating that they were to spend it as they liked. Then there were two bicycles from Uncle Bob, some more candy, a pony, and some home-made molasses candy from their grandmother. The pony was a real live pony, and Joe, a dear friend of theirs, from a near-by livery stable was to take care of it. "I feel thankful that we are a large family of relatives," said Beth, after a long and speechless period of rapture. Their mother, being a wise woman, put away some of the candy, all but grandmother's molasses, and a box or two for friends. Then came little Nora, the niece of their dressmaker, Mrs. O'Neal, with a quart of pecans, for the birthday. She went home with a box of candy, and told her little sister Katie about it. "O I wanted to go too," wailed Katie. "You were asleep, dear, when I went, but I told them the nuts were from you, too." "But I wanted to hear them say, 'thank you!' Take me now." "I have to go down town for auntie. But she'll let you go." "Yes, indeed," said their busy aunt when asked. So Katie went up-stairs to make herself tidy. "It's mesilf wants to take a 'silvernear,'" she said as she scrubbed herself; and then in an evil moment, she beheld a small plate with a bunny on it, which Nora owned and loved. "It's just the thing," thought Katie, "and kind of partly mine because it's in our room." So she took it with her when she went, and it burned her little hand like fire. Ethelwyn and Beth were preparing a tea party in the doll house. "O Katie, how nice!" said Ethelwyn. "We'll put it in the tea party. We were coming over to get you and Nora to come; there are some beautiful iced cakes coming up in a minute." "I can't stay," said Katie feebly, "I feel kind of sick inside." So saying she rushed home, but it was no use; poor Katie's conscience grew worse all the time, and presently she came back. "I--I--know you won't like me any more," she said, red and miserable, "but it's Nora's plate I gave you, and I'm no better than a thafe." But Ethelwyn and Beth put their arms around her, and comforted her dear little sore heart. "I know just how you feel," said Ethelwyn. "I took mother's gold dragon stick-pin for my dolly's blanket one day, because I was in a hurry, and lost it of course, and felt so mizzable, as if nothing could ever be nice again. Now take the plate and go and get Nora, dear, and we'll have the best tea party." And they did, and the guests had each another box of candy for their "silvernears," besides, but Ethelwyn and Beth ate far too much, and that's the reason their next day good time began by being a bad time too. _CHAPTER XI_ _The Day After_ In the lovely playtime, life seems always gay. In the sober worktime, sometimes it grows gray. Mother was superintending the strawberry jam in the kitchen, giving orders to the grocery boy, and paying Mrs. O'Neal for sewing, all at once. You can't do this unless you are a mother, but mothers can do almost everything at once. "It's a fortunate thing that the Bible says everybody mustn't work on Sunday. It says man-servant, maid-servant, cattle, stranger within thy gates, but nothing at all about mothers, though, because they positively have to," said Ethelwyn, after a profound season of thought in the hammock. "When our mother rests, she darns stockings," said Beth, who was dressing her doll near by. "Not on Sunday, child!" said Ethelwyn scandalized. "Well nobody said she did, I guess. She tells us Bible stories then. I always think they sound so pretty, against her Sunday clothes," said Beth. "Pooh!" said Ethelwyn who was cross. She was going down to the grocery presently on her wheel to get some eggs, but she was putting it off as long as she could. She started after awhile, and unluckily had the groceryman tie the eggs on the wheel. She came along safely, until within view of Beth lying comfortably in the hammock; then with a desire to show off, she spurted, or tried to, and her wheel ran off the walk, and tipped her off upon the grass on top of two dozen eggs! Her mother picked her up, and after stilling Beth's laughter, and her crying, washed her, and put her in the hammock, all in so short a time that only a yellow stain on the grass showed that a tragedy had happened. Then mother went back to her jam. Beth snickered at intervals, however, though Ethelwyn sternly bade her be quiet. "You were so yellow and funny, sister," said Beth, giggling. Ethelwyn opened her mouth for a reply that would do justice to the subject, when Bobby, their next door neighbor came along. "Hullo, Bobby," they cried. "Hullo," said Bobby at once. "Come in and see our birthday presents," said Ethelwyn, and Bobby at once trotted up the walk. He was a round-faced little chap, with small freckles on his button of a nose. His family had just moved into town from a farm. "Where have you been, Bobby?" asked Ethelwyn as they went towards the house. "I went down to the grocery for mother; I thought I knew the way but I got mixed up, and stopped under a lamp-post, to think. Pretty soon a woman came along and put a white letter in a box; so I thought I'd save trouble if I put mother's grocery list in, and I did. A man in gray clothes came along, and unlocked it, and took the letters all out. I told him 'bout my list, and he laughed, and gave it to me, and asked me if I didn't know 'bout letter boxes? I didn't, so he told me, and took me along with him down town." "Sister--" began Beth, giggling, "went to the grocery--" "Let's play in the house," said Ethelwyn frowning at Beth. "You can stay awhile, can't you, Bobby?" "I guess I'd better ask, first," said Bobby. He trotted home and soon came back with his face shining from soap and water, and his hair brushed straight up so that it looked like a halo around the full moon. Then Nan, the minister's daughter, came in. She had also come to live in their town and was the same funny, outspoken Nan, as always. "It's a very convenient thing that I know you children," she had said, "for it's a great trouble to have to find out, and learn to know everybody in a town." They were playing games in the nursery, when mother came up-stairs, having finished the jam, ordered the groceries, and paid Mrs. O'Neal. She was going to combine resting and mending, as usual, so she came to the nursery, just as they were beginning a temperance lecture. Bobby was selling tickets, and mother cheerfully paid a penny, and sat in her low rocker near the window. Nan had chosen to be lecturer, so Ethelwyn, Beth, and Bobby made a somewhat reluctant and highly critical audience. Besides, there were the dolls in various uncomfortable attitudes, but very amiable nevertheless. And to them all, Nan now came forward and made a profound bow. "My subject is Temperance, ladies and gentlemen," she began, "and I hope you'll pay attention, because it's a true subject, as well as a useful one. "I wish men wouldn't get drunk. It's dreadful smelly even going by a saloon, so I don't see how they can. I think it would be very nice if pleecemen would think once in a while about stopping such things as drunkers, but they probably like to have saloons around for themselves. A nice thing would be, to have ladies, like your mother and me, for pleecemen. Then we'd scrub things up, and pour things out, till you couldn't smell or taste a thing. But men are meaner than women"--Bobby looked dubious--"some men aren't though"--he looked relieved. "The reason we are so nice and 'spectable, is because my father is a minister, and doesn't dare do disgraceful things, and your mother doesn't get time. So we should be thankful, instead of wishing we had a candy store in the family, and being sorry we have to set examples for other kids. No! No! No! children, I mean. That's all, and I hope you won't forget all I've told you." "Let's play church now," said Ethelwyn promptly, "and I choose to be preacher, because I know about Moses and Abiram. The choir will please sing Billy Boy." So they put on nightgowns for surplices. "What can I do?" said Beth, who was tired of always being an audience. "Take up the collection," said Ethelwyn, "we need some more pennies." "'The sermon, beloved," said Ethelwyn after the singing, and a little preliminary ritual, "is about Moses and Abiram, who both wanted to be boss of the temple. "'I will be boss,' said Moses. "'Not much,' said Abiram, standing on his tippest toes. "Then they fit, and I've forgotten which one whipped, 'cause we haven't got that far yet; anyway it's lunch time, so do hurry and take up the collection." _CHAPTER XII_ _Sunday_ No matter how bad we are through the week, When Sunday comes 'round we grow very meek. "I hope, Beth," said Ethelwyn, who always woke up first, "you will remember to-day is Sunday, and not quarrel with your sister," But Beth cuddled down in the pillows and refused to answer a word. After a while, Ethelwyn, watching the sunbeams dancing on the pink wall, went to sleep herself, and opened her eyes only when her mother kissed her awake. Sierra Nevada, being a devout Roman Catholic, always went to early mass on Sunday mornings, and their mother gave them their baths, to their great delight and comfort. The bath was all ready for them now, crystal clear with the jolly sunbeams dancing on its silver disk. "We'll get a sunshine bath," said Beth, trying to catch the golden drops. "Inside and outside," said mother smiling. "You look so pretty, motherdy," said Ethelwyn approvingly, "So much prettier than black, cross old 'Vada, who always rolls her eyes at me and says, 'Miss Effel, you is de troublesomest chile dat ebba was bown.' You have sense, and in that blue gown, white apron, and cap, you are pretty. You get prettier all the time you are getting old, mother. You'll be a beautiful angel when you are very old." "Thank you," said her mother laughing. "Come on now, do you know your verse?" "I did," said Ethelwyn, "but the verse hasn't any sense: it's about St. Peter's wife's mother being sick with the fever--" "And St. Peter cut off the priest's right ear, and then he went out and crew bitterly," said Beth, jumping up and down to see how high she could splash. "Elizabeth!" said her mother, going off into spasms of laughter. "You are a heathen! Can't you ever get things right? I will say, though, I think the verses they select for infant classes are anything but suitable, but for pity's sake don't say the one you told me, you will disgrace me. I will hear you after breakfast." But Aunt Mandy the cook was sick with the toothache, which she called a "plum mizzery" in her face, and mother was so busy, that 'Vada, who had returned and was more solemn than ever, dressed them and took them to Sunday-school. The infant class sat on seats that began close to the floor, and gradually rose to the top of the room. Ethelwyn and Nan sat high up, while Beth was a little way below. Bobby sat near her, and had grinned all over his round face when she came in. "I've brought my white mouse in my pocket; I'm going to stay for church, and I get lonesome," he whispered. "Uh huh," said Beth nodding, "I've brought my paper dolls." But sister punched her in the back with her parasol to be quiet, and just then the teacher asked her verse. Beth thought hard. "Mother said I mustn't tell you about the priest crewing about his cut off ear," she said thoughtfully, "but I know another verse about St. Peter, it's easier to merember than the other one, 'cause it's poetry." "Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, had a wife and couldn't keep her--" "Next!" said the teacher with a face red, and then she coughed. The next was Bobby, who cheerfully took up the refrain, where Beth left off. "--Put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well," he concluded promptly. The older pupils, with two scandalized exceptions,--Ethelwyn and Nan--laughed, and the younger ones turned around and looked interested. The teacher coughed again and changed the subject. But the adventures of Bobby and Beth were by no means over, for when they came out into the large room where the hundreds of scholars sat, the infant class was marshaled up into the choir seats to sing "Precious Julias" as Beth still called it. The upright of the front seat was standing unfastened from the floor, waiting for repairs, but no one knew it, Beth and Bobby least of all. They, and six other infants pressed close up against it, and sang with all their might. Unfortunately they pressed too hard on the loose back. All at once it went over, and eight unfortunate infants sprawled flat on their faces, hats rolling off, and books tumbling down. Everybody stopped singing to laugh, but it changed to little shrieks of dismay, as a poor frightened white mouse, thrown out of Bobby's pocket by the shock, went running down the aisle. Bobby ran after it in hot pursuit. Beth followed loyally, for she had seen where it went. They caught the trembling little creature at the door, and then they looked at each other. "Let's go home," said Bobby. "Uh huh, let's," said Beth. They met Beth's mother on the way to church. "We'll stay at home to-day, mother," said Beth, "we've had just all we can stand." So they went home and played church in the front yard, until Ethelwyn and Nan came home just before the sermon. Those young ladies had fully intended solemnly to lecture the two at home, but it was very pleasant under the trees, with the birds, and Bobby and Beth singing lustily, so they joined in, and Ethelwyn then preached. "I choose to," she said, "because I went to an awfully dry lecture on art or clothes or something, with mother. I slept some, 'cause it was almost as hard to understand as a sermon, but when I was awake I heard a good deal that will do you good. "Clothes," she went on after this introduction, "will ruin your health if you don't look out, and study statoos and things for some kind of line, clothes-line, I guess. So when you see a lot of white statoos--which aren't as interesting as the circus but more good for learning, which is always the way in this life--learnified things are likely to be dry--you'll learn something. But I went to sleep before I found out what or why statoos is the thing to study; but they are so cold-looking, from being undressed, that I think it would be a kind act to make pajamas for them, and trousers for our dolls so they will live longer--" "_I_ will not," said Beth firmly, from the congregation. "It wouldn't be fun to have all boy dolls, and you know it, sister, and besides wasn't Billy Boy the first doll we broke after Christmas? and he's up-stairs now waiting for his funeral." "O, let's have it now," said Nan, who didn't like sermons unless she preached them. "No, here's mother and we'll have to have dinner now, so we will have the funeral to-morrow," said Ethelwyn. _CHAPTER XIII_ _The Four Together_ Begins with a funeral and ends with a feast. Sorrow is drowned for this time at least. It fell out that there were _two_ doll funerals the next day. Beth lost Ariminta, her composition doll, and she went down into the garden early to find her. She looked in Bose's kennel, but it wasn't there; then she saw a robin in the path digging worms, and he looked so wise that she followed him to the early harvest apple-tree, and sure enough! there was Ariminta on a lower branch where she had put her the night before. She was very wet, for it had rained, and her wig was quite soaked off. So, filled with remorse, Beth went after the glue-pot. "I never knew such a mean mother as I am," she said, "I haven't any thinkery at all, worth mentioning. If your grandmother, my dear, should leave me out, till my hair soaked off--say, sister," she broke off suddenly to ask--"what keeps our hair on?" Ethelwyn never at a loss for an answer, said promptly, "Dust, child" "I haven't any," said Beth, feeling her short brown curls cautiously for fear they would come off. "It's small in small persons, and big in big persons," said Ethelwyn, with a patient air of having given much thought to the subject. "Ho!" said Beth. "Well if Ariminta's going to be dry for Billy Boy's funeral, I'll have to dry her in the oven." But alas! for Beth's "thinkery not worth mentioning!" In her haste to get back to prepare herself and family for the funeral, she forgot to tell Aunt Mandy, who was going to make cake, and so started a fire in the stove. When she opened the oven door to put in the cake, she took out Ariminta's remains, and that is why there were two subjects for a funeral instead of one. Beth was exceedingly sorry, and wept a few real tears over Ariminta. "I'm a double widow, and a orphing to-day," she said, "and I don't reserve a single child to my name!" Nan and Bobby came to the funeral, and Bobby chose to be undertaker, while Nan insisted on preaching the sermon. "You preached yesterday," she said to Ethelwyn, who also wished to. "And you did the day before--" "I think I ought to," said Beth, "because it's my fam'ly." "That's why you shouldn't, child," said Nan. "Would my father enjoy preaching my funeral sermon, do you think?" she asked triumphantly. And while they were doubtfully considering this, she began the service. Beth attired in Aunt Mandy's large black shawl was very warm and mournful. The family, especially Billy Boy's widow, were wrapped in black calico swaddling garments, and looked more stiff than ever, but still smiling. The remains were in cigar boxes, all but Billy's wig and eyes which Beth had thoughtfully saved for another doll. "I am sorry I have to preach this sad sermon," said Nan. "Might have let me, then," said a voice from the congregation. "The mourners will please keep quiet," said the preacher sternly, "and if the widow and orphans wouldn't grin so, I'd be glad. You'd better be thinking about how you'd feel to be buried, and you are likely to be in this family," she continued with an offensive accent on _this_. "Let's hurry up, I'm hot," said the chief mourner. So they went down and buried the boxes, singing "Billy Boy" as a requiem. Bose watched their departure with interest, and dug up both boxes without delay. Bobby and Nan were invited to stay to lunch, and they accepted with cheerful alacrity. "I asked mother, for fear you'd ask me if I could stay, and she said yes indeed I _could_, and she'd be glad to have me," said Nan. Bobby yelled his request over the fence, and was told he could stay too. They had strawberry jam, hot biscuit, fried chicken, and little frosted spice cakes, for which Mandy was famous. "Just supposing your mother and mine had said no, about this luncheon," said Nan to Bobby. "I never could have gotten over the loss of these cakes." "You've eaten four. I'm glad Mandy made a good many," said Beth calmly. "Why Beth!" said her mother horrified. "Yessum, she has," continued Beth. "I've passed them four times, and she took one every time. I've had five!" she concluded. In the afternoon the postman brought them a letter from their Cousin Gladys, who was in Paris with her father and mother. So they all gathered around mother to hear it. "DEAR E. AND B.," it began. "This is a silly city. "They talk like babies. No one can understand them. I'd like them better if they'd talk plain American. "Their stoves look like granddaddy long legs; they are funny boxes, and when you are cold, they wheel them into your room, and stick the pipe in the hole, and by and by wheel them out. We live in an artist's house on a street that means Asses street, and our front room is a saloon but not a drinking one, and it runs right through the up-stairs to the skylight. You have to pay for that. Think of charging for daylight! We went to a bird show and I saw a cockatoo sitting on a pole asleep. 'Scratch its back with your parasol, Gladys,' said mother, so I did, and it opened one eye when I stopped, and said, 'Encore,' I was put out to think even the birds didn't talk American, but when I said so, mother laughed but I don't see why. "Write and tell me all the news. No more now from "Your cousin, "GLADYS." "O, it's thundering!" said Bobby when the letter was finished. Beth at once climbed into her mother's lap, as if for protection. "Are you afraid of a shower, Beth?" asked Nan. "No,--not--a shower," said Beth, "only I don't like it when it goes over such a bump!" Mother kissed her and sent the others up-stairs to get ready for a show. "Get up a good one and I'll pay five cents admission," she said. "Oh I'll go too," said Beth, "p'raps when I am busy I won't notice the noise." By and by they called Mrs. Rayburn, and she went up-stairs with her sewing, and dropped her nickel into a box, because the whole force was in the show. They were getting ready in the next room, from which was heard much giggling. Presently the door opened, and in walked Ethelwyn draped in a green denim closet door curtain, and bobbing up and down at every step. "What is this?" said mother. "You have to guess, it's a guessing show." Then came Beth in her Japanese costume, fanning vigorously. Nan followed in a Turkey red calico wrapper, beloved of 'Vada's heart. She tumbled down every two or three steps, which might have been the fault of the wrapper, or part of the show. Last of all was Bobby, very hot and sweaty, in a moth-ball smelling fur rug, and ringing a bell. "It looks like the four seasons," said mother. "O mother, but you are smart," said Ethelwyn; "we thought you couldn't possibly guess, so we were going to charge you another nickel!" she continued in a disappointed voice. "I will pay it for guessing," said mother, laughing. "I'm spring, all dressed in green, and I spring when I walk," said Ethelwyn beginning again. "I'm summer," said Beth fanning. "And I'm fall," said Nan, tumbling down, "that hurts the worst," she added with pride. "I'm Christmas," said Bobby, "and I know now why it doesn't come in summer. My! I'm hot!" he continued, mopping his brow. "I'm Fourth of July," said Beth. "And I'm Thanksgiving and turkey--" "There isn't a thing but April fool in spring, I do believe," said Ethelwyn, disgusted. "Decoration Day, Arbor Day, and May Day," said mother. "It was a fine show, and the sun is out. You may go down now, and buy peanuts with your money." _CHAPTER XIV_ _The Wedding and the Visit_ Out in the country, God's flowers bravely grow. And all the dusty wayside is edged with golden glow; They were up in the nursery the next morning, having a wedding. A doll had opportunely lost her wig, and that always meant a good deal of excitement for the wigless one, for she was at once put to bed, and given medicine through the opening on top of the head, or made into a boy doll. This last happened now; poor cracked and dead Billy Boy's wig was jauntily glued on the wigless head, and the late Janet became Lord Jimmy, and was in the process of being wedded to Arabella, the walking, talking doll from Paris. They were propped up in the doll house, and Beth was marrying them. "Lord Jimmy," she said, "wilt thou marry Arabella and nobody else and be her quilt in time of trouble--?" "A quilt!" said Ethelwyn. "What's that?" "A comfort then," said Beth with dignity, "or something like that. Anyway I wish you wouldn't talk in the middle of the wedding--and give her clothes, and things to eat, eh? Make him nod 'yes,' sister." So Ethelwyn, reaching out an energetic hand, clutched the bridegroom by the waist and made him bow so low, that his freshly-glued wig came off. "O, for goodness sake, sister," said Beth, in an exasperated tone, "I never knew any one that could upset things like you--" But their mother was heard calling them, in a way that meant something nice, so the poor bald-headed bridegroom and his wig were left at the feet of the haughty Arabella, who stared rigidly at the landscape outside, and tried not to see him. "We are going to drive out to Grandmother Van Stark's to spend the day, and perhaps a little longer," said mother. "Oh won't that be the nicest thing!" they cried in a breath. "Who can go on the pony?" "Ethelwyn may ride out, and Beth back," said mother. "I've always been so thankful to think you weren't born a _no_ and _don't_ mother," said Ethelwyn, hugging her. "Are we going right away?" "Right away." Sure enough there was Joe leading Ninkum, their own pony. Mother and Beth were to go in the phaeton. All the way out they played games with the trees and flowers. Ethelwyn rode alongside the phaeton. They counted the spots they passed that were purple with thistles, and they were many. Others were pink and white with clover and daisies. Their mother told them the story of the Field of the Cloth of Gold, when they drove down the lane bordered with golden Spanish needles. But they enjoyed the missing word game the most, because it was new. "It's your turn to make up a game, mother," said Beth. "I will give you lines that rhyme, only I will leave off the last word, after the first line," said mother, "and you must guess what that word is." "There was a man rode to the mill. The road ran steeply up the--" "Hill," cried Beth. "Yes; now let sister guess the next." He stopped beside a flowing--" "Rill?" asked Ethelwyn, after thinking awhile. "Yes." "This horse was dry, so drank his--" "Fill." "Along there came a girl named--" "Jill." "He wished that his was Jack, not--" "Will." "For people sometimes called him--" "Bill." "This really was a bitter--" "Pill." "And made him feel both vexed and--" "Ill." Mother had to tell them that, because they both guessed sick. "He brought his gun along to--" "Kill." "A bird to give to Jill a--" "Quill?" Ethelwyn guessed after a long time. "They lingered long, they lingered--" "Till," and again mother had to tell them this. "The sun went down and all was--" "Still." They had both missed one, so they each had to pay a forfeit or get up a game. But they were now within sight of Grandmother Van Stark's fine old colonial house, and there on the porch stood grandmother herself, who had seen them coming, so had come out to meet them. "Oh isn't our grandmother pretty though?" said Ethelwyn, as they turned in at the circular driveway. She had snow white hair, dark eyes and a very stately carriage. She welcomed them warmly, and invited them into the grand old hall with its white staircase and mahogany rail. Modern children seemed almost out of place in this old-time house. "I always seem to think you need short-waisted frocks, and drooping hats like Sir Joshua Reynolds's, and the Gainsborough pictures," said their mother laughing. "O may we go up to the attic and dress up?" begged Ethelwyn. "After while," said grandmother. "It is luncheon time now. I am glad you came to-day, my daughter, for Nancy, the housemaid, has gone home for a week's rest, and there is a meeting of the women of the church this afternoon to arrange about a rummage sale, and a loan exhibition, and they are rather depending upon me to contribute to both; but as Nancy is away, I cannot well leave for I am a little overtired with more duties than usual. So I have made a list of things that I will lend, and give. I should like you to take it down." "Yes, mother, I will, but what about the children--?" "O mother, please let me stay," begged Beth. "I will take excellent care of grandmother, and I will take Nancy's place, so grandmother can lie down; I know how, I've watched Nancy lots of times. You can take sister." This was the final arrangement, and soon after luncheon they drove away to town. Grandmother disappeared up the beautiful staircase after shutting the blind doors, and shading the hall from the afternoon sun. Then Beth arrayed in a red sweeping cap, instead of Nancy's white one, which she and cook failed to find, and armed with a huge silver salver for cards, instead of Nancy's small one, took up her position in the hall, on the bottom stair, to await visitors: but the hall was full of slumberous shadows, with sunshine flecks dancing down from the blind doors to the polished floor. It is not strange, therefore, that by and by the red sweeping cap began to droop over the silver salver, until finally they all settled down together, and the new parlor maid was sound asleep, to the music of the tall old clock in the corner of the hall back under the stairway. Then some one came up the walk, and rapped briskly with the end of his riding whip on the blind doors. The parlor maid suddenly awoke, stumbled to the door, and fumbled with the fastenings, but it was no use, she couldn't open them; thereupon she turned the slats and looked through at the young clergyman standing there. The red cap nodded affably. "Could you climb in through the window, s'pose?" she asked. This was such a new and startling novelty at the Van Stark homestead, that the visitor laughed, while the parlor maid patiently waited for his decision. He had shone in athletics at his college, so when he stopped laughing, he put his hands on the stone window-sill leading into the library, and vaulted in so lightly and easily, that Beth was delighted to think she had thought of it. She then went back to adjust her sweeping cap, which had dropped off, and to pick up the salver, which she had put down to free her hands. "Put your card there," she instructed him, bobbing her head towards the exact centre of the salver, and thereby completely covering one eye with that abominably big and wobbly cap. The reverend gentleman gravely complied, whereupon the maid swung herself around, but with caution, somewhat after the manner of a boat carrying too much sail. After Mrs. Van Stark had come down, the parlor maid reappeared without her badges of office, and was duly presented to the rector of the church, who made no sign, save a twinkle of his eye, of having met her in another, and humbler capacity, but shook hands and talked to her without that insufferable air of patronage which elder people at times seem to delight to bestow upon their juniors. As he was taking his leave, he explained that he was going down into the grove for a little while to read and to take pictures. As he went out, they met, coming in, an old lady whom Grandmother Van Stark greeted with rare cordiality, kissing her on both cheeks and calling her Tildy Ann. She called grandmother Jane Somerset, and explained that her son, going to town, had brought her that far on his way, and would call for her on his return. She had brought her knitting in a beautiful silk bag, and explained that she was making a long purse of black silk and steel beads, for the sale at the church. Beth brought grandmother's bag down to her, and grandmother produced silk stockings that she was knitting for the same purpose. They sat down for a comfortable chat, and Beth, feeling that it was too prehistoric an atmosphere for her, by and by stole up-stairs to the attic and went on a rummage for old clothes in which to dress up. She found an old figured silk gown, with short sleeves. By much rolling up and pinning, she made the skirt the right length. Then she pulled out an old green silk calash and set it on her head. This she felt was a finishing touch, so she softly crept down the stairs and past the old ladies, who had entirely forgotten her, and out on the lawn; then she walked down the circular driveway and out into the road, where presently the clergyman, striding along to where his pony was tied, overtook her. He looked with astonishment at the quaint little figure in the silk frock, but when the disguised parlor maid looked out from the depths of the great bonnet, he went off into peals of laughter again. "You seem to laugh a great deal," said Beth. He at once stopped and said: "It is a weakness of mine, and now let me beg a favor of you. Will you come back to the porch, and sit in a Chippendale chair, and let me take your picture for the sale at the church?" "Yes, I don't mind at all," said Beth promptly, turning around and putting her hand in his. "You see Mrs. Tildy Ann and grandmother were having such a long-way-back time, I had to dress up to match everything." "I see," said the minister. "But she may presently miss you and be worried." "O that's so," said Beth. "Let's hurry. I promised to take care of grandmother," she added, in a remorseful tone. But nothing had happened, and the picture proved a great success, many of them being sold at the fair. "I don't like it much," said Beth, when she saw one, "for it reminds me of how I forgot to take care of my Grandmother Van Stork." "It will do you good, I trust," said her mother. "It'll improve my thinkery, I hope," said Beth. _CHAPTER XV_ _The Lost Invitation_ A heartache when the heart is young, Seems quite too big to bear; But when it ends in laughter, Away goes every care. When they started to return the next day, Beth in triumph mounted Ninkum. She had a little difficulty in turning around to wave a farewell to dear grandmother on the porch, because the pony took this opportune time to munch the grass at the road-side, and Beth nearly went over his head. "Dear me, Ninkum, you are very rude," she said, much vexed. "You try to spill me off, besides making Grandmother Van Stark feel as though you didn't have enough to eat while you were visiting her!" There was another disturbing feature also, and that was sister, whose countenance kept peering above the phaeton top, and who shouted exceedingly unwelcome advice, until silenced and firmly seated by the maternal command. However, these were small things, compared with the bliss of galloping down the smooth road, bordered by flowers and green fields. "I am very fond of wild flowers," said Ethelwyn by and by, "because they come right from God's garden, and they keep things so cheerful and bright out in the country." "I remember some verses about wild flowers and woods that a friend of mine wrote," said mother, "and I intend sometime to put some of them to music." "O say one, mother," said Ethelwyn, who loved verses. So Mrs. Rayburn began: "I know a quiet place, Where a spring comes gurgling out, And the shadowed leaves like lace Fall on the ground about. "A tempting grapevine swing Is swung from the near-by trees, And life is a dreamful thing Lulled by the birds and bees. "Flowers at the great trees' feet Are sheltered quite from harm; For above the blossoms sweet, The oak holds forth his arm. "Perhaps if I lie quite still, I may hear far down below, The first and joyous thrill Of things, when they start to grow." "I've wondered if they do get out of the seed with a little cracky pop," said Ethelwyn. "What, sister?" asked Beth, coming up on Ninkum. "Flowers and things." "I've wondered how things know how to make themselves flowers, and not potatoes, or something like that," said Beth; "but I suppose God tells them." "And I've often thought what was it that makes part of them stalk and leaves, and then all at once end in a flower," said Ethelwyn. Then, after a moment's silence, she proposed, "Let's have another game." "Yes, mother, you think of one." "I was thinking of one this morning," said mother, "for I thought likely you would be asking me to make up one, though it isn't my turn." "O, but motherdy, you are so much smarter than we are!" said Ethelwyn. "That is one way to get out of it," said mother, laughing. "Well, I will tell you a story, and leave a blank occasionally, which you must fill up with the name of a tree. "There were two little girls who dressed exactly alike, and, as they were very near the same age, it was difficult to tell which was the--" "Elder?" said Ethelwyn, after a hard think. "Yes." "I didn't really know there was such a tree, but I had heard something like it, and thought there wasn't a younger tree." "One of the little girls was named Louise and the other Minerva, and people grew to calling them by their initials, which together made--" "Elm," said Beth. "They were very good children, and people used to say what a nice--" "Pear," they both said at once. "They were. They had cheeks like a--" "Peach." "It was spring, and they were invited to a sugaring off party, and they saw the men tap the trees to make--" "Maple sugar," cried Beth, who knew that, if she knew anything. "So, when they went home, they tapped a tree in the front yard, and invited a party to come and eat maple sugar; but they tapped the wrong tree, and their father was vexed, saying, 'I ought to take a ---- to ----'" But mother had to tell them these words for they had never heard of birch, or of yew. "'I wonder if you will be ----'" "Evergreen," said Ethelwyn, after a little prompting. "'All your life.' 'I thought,' said one, 'that maple sugar parties were very ----'" "'Pop'lar? (mother had to tell them this also), 'at this time of year.'" "---- laughed their father." "Haw, haw," said Ethelwyn, who had been thinking of the tree under which they played at home. "'I'll have to take you to the seashore to play on the ----'" "Beech," said Beth in triumph. "Then he lighted a cigar and knocked off the ----" "Ash," said Ethelwyn. "And walked down street, whistling a song from 'Mikado.' Tit ----" "Willow," they both cried at once, for they knew that song as well as the tree. "You have done well," said mother, "but you each have two fines to pay, and it really is your turn next time; so you must remember to think up a game. But here we are at home, and there is 'Vada coming out to meet us." "O, 'Vada, what has happened since we went away?" said Ethelwyn, climbing out. "Mista Bobby gwine to give a party this ebenin'; it's his birthday, and his uncle brought him some fiah works like those you all had las' yeah," said 'Vada. "O goody! did he invite us?" "Nome, not to say invite. But he's been in to see if you all was expected home." "O, it won't matter," said Beth easily; "we'll go anyway. Of course he knew we would come." When Nan came over, she brought her invitation with her. It was very formally enclosed in a small envelope, and informed his friend that Bobby would be at home on that very evening. This struck Beth as very silly. "Of course he'll be at home if he's going to give a party! Just as though he'd be anywhere else!" she remarked. They wished to go over immediately and tell Bobby that they were home and all ready to be invited, but their mother would not allow this. "He will come over by and by," she said. But the day went by and no invitation came, although great preparations were going on, as they could see, for they kept very near the window that looked out on Bobby's lawn. A slow drizzling rain was falling, or they would probably have been much nearer. But Bobby was evidently very busy getting ready. They caught only flying glimpses of him, and their hearts grew heavy within their breasts. "O dear! I shall never, never get over this, never!" said Beth, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I wouldn't have thought Bobby could have done it," said Ethelwyn, also swallowing. After their bath, they begged for their best slippers, silk stockings, and embroidered petticoats, and on having their hair done in their dress-up-and-go-away-from-home style. "Because," said Ethelwyn, "something may happen yet to make him think of us." So mother let them have on what they liked, for she was very sorry for them. In the evening, after dinner, when the electric lights came flashing out, it was worse, because, still standing forlornly by the window, they saw the orchestra come, with their instruments, and presently the sounds of music came floating up to them. Then the ice cream man came, and Beth, who had almost melted to tears at the sight of the orchestra, shed them openly when the ice cream went around the side of the house. Having no handkerchief, she wiped her eyes on Soosana, her big rag doll. She always loved Soosana when she was unhappy, for she was so squeezy and felt so comfortable. "I hope Bobby will be sorry when he has time to think about it," she remarked in a subdued tone. "Look at that!" said Ethelwyn in such a hopeful voice that Beth at once emerged from her eclipse behind Soosana, and looked with all her eyes. There was Bobby, resplendent in a new suit and slippers with shining buckles, running across the lawn. Ethelwyn and Beth at once pushed up the window, in order to meet him half-way. "Do you want us, Bobby?" called Beth encouragingly. "Yes; why on earth don't you come?" cried Bobby. "We are all ready to dance and Nan and everybody but you, are there, and I wouldn't let 'em begin till you came, so hurry up." "We will," they cried in a breath, "and we would have come a long time ago if you only hadn't forgotten to invite us till so late. What made you, Bobby?" "Why I didn't!" said Bobby in a surprised tone. "I took your invitation over to your front door and--and--your bell is pretty high up--" "Yes, I can't reach it at all," said Beth breathlessly; "go on." "So I shoved it under the door--" Ethelwyn disappeared like a flash, and, sure enough, under the carpet's edge she could see sticking out the little white corner of the envelope. She knelt down and pulled it out, then ran back. "We'll come right over in a minute, Bobby," she called happily. "We're pretty nearly all dressed for fear you'd remember you had forgotten--" "All right, hurry up," called up Bobby. Down on the floor went Soosana, all damp with tears, but she still smiled broadly at the ceiling in the dark. She probably did not, if the truth were known, quite enjoy being used as a handkerchief, but she felt it was her mission in this life to act as comforter, and so she bore it with cheerfulness. The next morning she was told by happy, though sleepy, Beth that it was a "beyewtiful party, with fireworks, and ice cream, and dancing, and games, and souvenirs. I should never have been so happy again, Soosana, if I had missed going, I know," she concluded, kissing Soosana with such fervor, that she put a dent in that portion of her doll's head where she had been kissed; but this time Soosana was sure she did not care. _CHAPTER XVI_ _The Mail and Ethelwyn's Visit_ Good-bye, speed by Days till we meet again. Hearts' ease, ne'er cease, Keep free from fret or pain. There had come an interesting mail that morning, for it began with another letter from Cousin Gladys, who was in London now for the winter, and there was also one from Aunty Stevens and from Grandmother Van Stark. While the two children ate their oatmeal and cream, they read their cousin's letter. This was it: "DEAR COUSINS: "We have seen the Coronation, and my eyes ached, there was so much to see and do. It was worse than a circus with six rings. "The King is not pretty, but I suppose that won't hinder him from being good, and nurse is always saying, 'Pretty is that pretty does, Miss Gladys.' I think she thinks that the two hardly ever go together. The dear Queen is pretty, however, and so young-looking and sweet that even nurse has to give in about her. "I will tell you all about it when we come home, but it tires me now even to think about it. One morning I begged to go back to the hotel and rest, and nurse was so disappointed that I told her she could go out and I would stay alone. I dug around in my trunk and got rather homesick, looking at the things I had at home. I found some jacks but no ball, so I thought I would go down to a near-by shop, and buy one. I slipped down and out, before I had time to think about mother making me promise not to go anywhere alone. I turned a corner or two, but didn't find the right kind of a shop. It was cloudy, and sort of foggy, and crowds and crowds of people were pushing along. I knew all at once that I was lost, and I began to feel a lump in my throat, bigger than any ball you ever saw, and just then I saw a tall man coming towards me. I saw only his legs, but they looked so Americanish that I rushed up, and said, 'Please take me to the L---- Hotel,' He stopped at once and said, 'Well, I certainly will; I am going there myself.' He was a minister from New York. He laughed when I told him about the jacks, and then he talked to me in such a nice way about going out alone, that it made a great impression on me. I found mother and nurse in such a state when I got back. I was kissed and then put to bed to eat my supper, but the minister came to call in the evening, and when I had promised never to do such a thing again, they let me get up. He was so nice, and brought me a ball. I play jacks every day now, and think of America and nice 'things like that. I shall be glad to get there again. "Yours truly, "GLADYS. "P.S.--I can probably beat you at jacks when I get back, I practice so much." "I'll get mine out to-day," said Ethelwyn, "and we'll see whether she can or not. When will she come home, mother?" But mother was reading Aunty Stevens's letter, and did not hear. "The Home is getting on beautifully," she said presently. "There are ten pale little children out there now. Dick is quite well and strong again, and helps with the work in every way. They are very anxious that we shall come on this summer." "O let's; for my birthday," said Ethelwyn. "Can't we, mother?" "I will see. But Grandmother Van Stark would like one of you to come out and stay with her for a few days. Peter is coming in this afternoon and will take one of you out." "O me!" they cried at once. "Let's pull straws," suggested Ethelwyn; so she ran to find the broom. It was she who drew the longest straw, and Beth drew a long breath, saying with cheerful philosophy, "Well, I am thankful not to leave mother. I'd prob'ly cry in the night, and worry dear grandmother." So every one was satisfied, and Ethelwyn, dimpling delightfully under her broad white pique hat, bade them good-bye, and took her place beside Peter in the roomy old phaeton. "Are you any relation of St. Peter's?" she asked politely, after they were well on the way. "Nobody ever thought so," said Peter, looking down at her with a twinkle in his eye. "Well, I didn't know," she said. "I thought I'd like to ask you some questions about him if you were. We have had a good deal about him at Sunday-school lately. I'm studying my lessons nowadays for a prize; they are going to give a sacrilegious picture to the child that knows her verses the best by Easter, and I think maybe I'll get it, for I'm only about next to the worst now." "How many are there of you?" "O, a lot; but if I do get it, I shall ask for a goat and cart instead. We have plenty of pictures at home, but we are much in need of a goat and cart." Peter had a peculiar habit, Ethelwyn afterwards told her grandmother, of shaking after she had talked to him awhile, and gurgling down in his throat. She felt sorry for him. "He was prob'ly not feeling well; maybe what Aunt Mandy calls chilling," she said. She found grandmother making pumpkin pies, for the minister and his wife were coming to dinner the next day. Grandmother was famous for making pumpkin pies, and never allowed any one else to make them. "It's my grandmother's recipe," she said, and Ethelwyn nearly fell off her chair trying to imagine grandmother's grandmother. "I shouldn't suppose they would have been discovered then," she said, after a struggle. "Pumpkin pies don't go out of style like clothes, do they, grandmother?" "Mine never have," said grandmother proudly. "I suppose Mandy never makes pumpkin pies." "Yes she does, but they don't grow in yellow watermelons; they live in tin cans." "Pooh!" said grandmother, "they can't hold a candle to these." "No, but why would they want to?" "Hand me that japanned box with the spices, please, dear. Now you'll see the advantage of doing this sort of thing yourself; here are mustard and pepper boxes in this other japanned box, but I know just where they always stand, so I could get up in the night and make no mistake." Just then grandmother was called away from the kitchen. "Don't meddle and get into mischief, will you, deary?" she said. And Ethelwyn promised. She intended to keep her word, but while she was smelling the spices, it struck her that it would be a good joke to season the pies from the other box. "Like an April fool," she thought; so she took a spoon and measured in a liberal supply of mustard and red pepper; then she went out into the yard. It was fortunate that the minister and his new wife were not coming until the next day. Ethelwyn, however, spent a very unhappy afternoon. That night she woke up sobbing, and crawled into grandmother's big bed. "What's the matter, child?" said grandmother, sitting up in bed with a start. "Are you sick?" "Yes, grandmother, awful! You'll never like me again, I know." And then she told her about the pumpkin pies. "Well, child, I am thankful you told me," said grandmother with a sigh, "for when you are as old as I am, and have a reputation for doing things, it goes hard to make a failure of them, and I should have been much mortified. Fortunately there are plenty of pie shells, and there is more pumpkin steamed, so that I can season and put them together in the morning. But I am glad, dear child, that your conscience wouldn't let you sleep comfortably until you had told; be careful, however, never again to break your word. Remember the Van Starks' watchword, 'Love, Truth, and Honor.' Now cuddle down here and go to sleep." Ethelwyn, feeling much relieved, slept in the canopy bed with grandmother, until long past daylight. When she came down-stairs, the great golden pies were coming out of the oven, and the minister and his wife violated propriety and made Grandmother Van Stark proud and happy by eating two pieces each. _CHAPTER XVII_ _Out at Grandmother's_ Grandmother's house, I tell you most emphatic, Is full of good times from cellar to the attic. There came to Grandmother Van Stark's one day, a forlorn black tramp kitten, mewing dismally. Ethelwyn, who loved kittens devotedly, was melted to the verge of tears by his wailing appeals in a minor key; so she cuddled him and fed him on Lady Babby's creamy, foamy milk. In the intervals of eating, however, he still wailed like a lost soul. "The critter don't stop crying long enough to catch a mouse," said cook, eyeing the disconsolate bundle of grief with strong disfavor. "He almost did this morning, Hannah," said Ethelwyn in his defense. "I saw him watching a hole, and he's so little yet, I grabbed him away. Besides, I don't like mice myself, and I was so afraid I'd see one or two." "No danger; his bawling will keep them away," said Hannah, grimly. "O, well then, his crying is some good, after all," returned Ethelwyn, triumphantly. "That's a good deal nicer than killing the poor little things." "Humph!" said Hannah. But Grandmother Van Stark had given orders that Johnny Bear--so named from one of Ernest Thompson-Seton's illustrations, which Ethelwyn thought he resembled--was to be treated tenderly and fed often, because Ethelwyn loved him, and she herself loved to feed hungry people and animals. But one morning there was a great commotion over the discovery that a mouse had been in Grandmother Van Stark's room. "This is a chance for Johnny Bear to make a reputation as a mouser," said grandmother. "We will take him up-stairs to-night and he shall have a chance to catch that mouse." "O grandmother, I'm sure he will," said Ethelwyn, earnestly; so she talked to him that afternoon about it. It had rained in the afternoon,--a cold drizzly rain, so Nancy had lighted a little snapping wood-fire in Grandmother Van Stark's sitting-room. Into this opened the sleeping room in which was Ethelwyn's small bed, and the big mahogany tester bed, where Grandmother Van Stark had slept for more years than Ethelwyn could imagine. Ethelwyn put Johnny Bear and his basket in front of the grate. It was so "comfy" that he stopped yowling at once and began to purr. "How does middle night look, Nancy?" said Ethelwyn, as she lay in her little brass bed, watching the dancing shadows on the wall. "Like any other time, only stiller," replied Nancy. "Go to sleep now, Miss Ethelwyn." So Ethelwyn presently fell asleep and woke up with a little start just as the clock was striking twelve. Johnny Bear was stirring around uneasily in the other room. He had been very still; his stomach was full, and his body warm, so that there really was no possible excuse for making a noise. In fact, there was a faint scratching in the closet that concentrated his attention, and froze him into a statue of silence. Presently he pounced, and a little shriek, piteous and faint, told the story. Then Johnny Bear played ball with his victim, and ran up and down the room as gaily as if he had never known what it was to cry. But all at once something went wrong; a crackle in the grate sent a glowing coal over the fender and on the rug, where it smoldered and smoked, and then ran out a little tongue of flame. So Johnny Bear began to mew again loudly and uneasily, the clock struck twelve, and Ethelwyn awoke. "Hush, Johnny Bear, dear," she said softly from the other room; "you'll wake up grandmother." But grandmother was awake, and lifted her head just in time to see the tongue of fire. She was over the side of the bed in a minute, and, snatching up a pitcher of water, dashed it over the rug. Ethelwyn jumped up too and snatched Johnny Bear in her arms. "I don't think twelve o'clock at night looks stiller, do you, grandmother?" she asked. "Aren't you glad Johnny Bear came to live with us, and--oh! oh!" he cried, for she had stepped on a soft little mouse, lying quite still now on the floor. "O Johnny, how could you?" she said sorrowfully, quite forgetting her instructions to him in the afternoon. "But he is brave, isn't he, grandmother?" "Very," said grandmother, "and he shall have a saucer of cream in the morning. But come now, chicken; I've put out the fire, and covered the other, so I think we can sleep in peace." So they both went to sleep, and Johnny Bear from that time on wept no more. The next morning, Ethelwyn joyfully told Hannah and Peter all about it. Their praise was unstinted enough to suit even her swelling heart, and she proudly took the saucer of cream to Johnny, saying, "There, darling, everybody loves you now, even Peter and Hannah and Nancy, because you did your duty so nobly. I knew you would, so I loved you all the time." "Miss Ethelwyn," said Nancy, appearing, "there are callers in the drawing-room, and your grandmother wishes you to come in." Ethelwyn went in, and was presented to several of the ladies of the church, who had come to see about a reception to be given to the clergyman and his new young wife. It was, Ethelwyn found with joy, to be given at Grandmother Van Stark's. "O may I stay up?" she begged, and grandmother, who always found it hard to deny her grandchildren anything, said she might. When evening came, Ethelwyn dressed in her best white frock, a little later than the hour when she usually went to bed, came down the staircase with grandmother, who was more stately and lovely than ever? In her black velvet gown, with the great portrait brooch of Grandfather Van Stark, surrounded by diamonds, in the beautiful old lace around her neck. Grandmother was permitted to sit while receiving the guests. Between her chair and where the clergyman and his wife stood, Ethelwyn slipped her own little rocker, and sat there, highly interested in the streams of people that came by. "It's like a funeral," she announced during a slight lull. Grandmother and the clergyman looked around startled. "Why, child, what do you know about funerals?" asked grandmother, while the clergyman, of course, laughed. "'Vada took me and Beth once to a big mercession, and we went into a big church and the folks all went up and looked at somebody, just like to-night. 'Vada said it was a big gun's funeral, just like you and your wife, you know," she concluded cheerfully, nodding to the clergyman. "Well of all things--" began grandmother, but a new lot of people coming in demanded her attention. The clergyman and his wife, laughing heartily, shook hands with the new people, and Ethelwyn was rather indignant to hear her remark repeated several times. "I'm not going to say anything more," she thought, "they always laugh so." She sat very quiet, indeed, until by and by the lights and the pink, blue, and white gowns danced together in a rainbow, and then she knew nothing at all about the rest of it, nor that the minister himself carried her up-stairs and put her in Nancy's care. But the first thing of which she thought in the morning, was the refreshments, in which she had been so vitally interested the day before; so she came very soberly down-stairs to a late breakfast. "Well, chicken," said grandmother, "how did you like the reception?" "Not very much," said Ethelwyn. "I'm so ashamed to think I didn't get any ice cream--" "There's some saved for you; and I think I see your mother and Beth coming in the gate, I was so sorry they couldn't come last night." "I do believe they _are_ coming," said Ethelwyn, standing on tiptoes, "and, yes, see, they have Bobby and Nan with them, to help take me home!" There was a wild triple shriek from the surrey, followed by three small forms climbing rapidly down. They were proudly escorted by Ethelwyn to see Johnny Bear, the chickens, Peter, Hannah, and Nancy, all before mother was fairly in the house and the surrey in the barn. They ate the reception refreshments with such zeal that grandmother said, "Well there! I was wondering what we would do with all the things that were left, but I needn't have worried." "No, the mothers are the only ones that need worry,--over the after results," said Mrs. Ray burn, laughing. They started home in the afternoon, all standing on the surrey steps and seats to wave a farewell to dear Grandmother Van Stark as long as they could see her. Of course they played games going home, and this time Ethelwyn had really made up one. "I'll say the first and last letter of something in the surrey or that we can see, and then whoever guesses it can give two letters." So she gave "m----r," and Beth guessed mother at once; then Beth gave "h----s," and Bobby disgraced himself by guessing horse, but he was warm, because it really was harness, and Nan guessed it. Then she gave "f----s," and that took them a long time, because it didn't sound at all like flowers, but Bobby finally guessed it, and then he gave them "g----s," which mother guessed as girls. "You tell us a story, motherdy," said Ethelwyn, cuddling up close. "I just love to hear you talk, I haven't heard you for so long." "Were you homesick for me?" "Not ezactly," said Ethelwyn, "but I had a lonesome spot for you all whenever I thought about it." Ethelwyn always pronounced the word "exactly" wrong. Her mother liked to hear her say it, however, and one or two more; "for they will grow out of baby-hood all too fast," she said. "I went over to see Miss Helen Gray yesterday," said Mrs. Rayburn, "and she told me some funny stories about Polly, her parrot. You know she is really a very remarkable bird. Ever since Miss Helen has lived alone, she and Polly have been great friends, and it seems as though Polly really understands things she says to her. She bought her in New Orleans, where she boarded next door to the Cathedral. So Polly soon learned to intone the service, not the words, but exactly the intonation. "One day Miss Helen, who allowed her all sorts of liberties, let her out, but first she made her tell where she lived. '1013 H---- Street,' Polly said. 'Will you be good and not get lost?' 'Yep,' said Polly, so she went out, and Miss Helen heard her talking in the yard. A lady came along beautifully dressed. "'La, how fine,' said Polly. "The lady looked around angrily, thinking it was a boy. "'Didn't see me, did you?' said Polly, and then the woman saw the funny little green bird on the lawn and she petted and complimented her until Polly felt very much puffed up. "Miss Helen went in for a few minutes, though, and when she came out, Polly was gone, stolen probably by some one that slipped up behind her. "Poor Miss Helen grieved and grieved over her, and offered great rewards, but to no avail. In about a year she went to Florida, and one day, going by a bird fancier's that she knew, the man invited her to come in, saying that he had a lot of new parrots to show her. "O I wonder: if Polly is there!' she said, and told him about her. "'No, I haven't any that know as much as that,' said he; 'but there is one who looks as if she understood things, but she won't, or can't, talk.' "So Miss Helen went in, and there, sure enough, was her poor Polly huddled up sulkily in a cage. "'Polly,' called Helen, and Polly started and came to the front of the cage. "'Helen, Helen,' she called, going perfectly wild; '1013 H---- Street. I'll be good! Yep! Yep! Yep!' and then she began to intone the service. "The bird fancier was astonished enough. "'I bought her and some six others from two sailors,' he said, 'but I never dreamed she could talk!' "Miss Helen paid him a big price and went off with Polly on her finger chattering like one mad." "O I'd love to see her," cried Beth. "Well go over there some day. Here we are at home." "I'm glad," said Ethelwyn. "It's nice to go away, but it's nicer to come back." _CHAPTER XVIII_ _How They Bought a Baby_ Spend your money Speed you, honey, Quick as you can fly Up the street, Toys and sweet Money burns to buy. And all this time they had saved their birthday money! It was accidental, for they had in the multitude of other events and presents, forgotten they had it until one morning, in emptying their banks for "peanut" nickles, with a dexterity born of long practice, they discovered the two gold coins, for they each had been given one, of course, and they rushed off at once to show them. "Haven't we saved this money, though?" they said, full of pride, and then they straightway sat down to make plans for spending it. "Let's each buy a puppy for a parting gift to Bobby and Nan," suggested Ethelwyn, as she and Beth were soon going away to visit the Home. "Yes, sir, let's," said Beth. "They dearly love Bose, and Mr. Smithers, our vegetable man, has six and will sell us two, I know." Mr. Smithers said he would be charmed--or words to that effect--to sell them two Newfoundland puppies at five dollars each, and they struck a bargain at once. It was easier to do because mother had gone to town on business and was to be away all day. Mr. Smithers promised to bring them in that afternoon, and they went off to wait until then with what patience they could muster. They met Joe on their way to the barn, and noticed that his usual ruddy countenance was grave and pale. "My sister is sick," he explained, "and she's getting no better." "Why don't you tell mother?" asked Ethelwyn. "O it's everything your mother's done for us this summer, without bothering her more," he said. "I'm going to try to get my sister up in the country, but--I can't yet awhile." "Will it cost very much, Joe?" "No, not much, but there's so many of us to feed and clothe that we never have any money left for anything else." "Mother will help, I know," said Ethelwyn, and they went up to the house, pondering deeply. "Those horrid puppies! I wish we'd never heard of them," said Ethelwyn. "Then we could give Dick the money. What did you think about them for?" "You did yourself." "No, I didn't. Anyway, let's watch for Mr. Smithers at the back garden gate, and tell him not to bring them." So they went down through the garden, and, looking over the gate, they saw a very sulky little colored girl carrying a long limp bundle of yellow calico, with a round woolly head protruding at the top. "O that cunning baby I Where'd you get him?" they cried both at once, opening the gate to look at him. The sulky nurse shifted the bundle to her other shoulder. "Allus had him, mos'," she said; "him or 'nuther one, perzactly like him, to lug roun' while ma's washin'." "Don't you like to play with him?" asked Ethelwyn in a shocked tone. "No, I don't," was the emphatic reply; "nor you wouldn't needa, ef you had it to do contin'ul." "Why, you can play he's a doll." "He's showin' off now, but when he gits to bawlin', you ain't a gwine to make no mistake 'bout his bein' nuffin' 'tal but a cry-baby," she continued, preparing to move on. "Would you sell him?" asked Beth eagerly. "Yessum, I sholy would," said his sister with a gleam of interest; "we ain't a gwine to miss him, wid six mo'! I'll sell him easy fo' a dolla'." There was a hurried consultation between Beth and Ethelwyn. "It's cheaper, and would leave nine dollars for Joe. Bobby could keep him one day, and Nan the next, or we could get something else for one of them. I think Nan would like him the best." "We will buy him," said Ethelwyn, at the end of the consultation. There was a moment of hesitation, and then the yellow bundle went into Ethelwyn's outstretched arms. Beth went off to get the money. She ran breathlessly down the street to get the change, she was so afraid the girl would change her mind and take back the baby. There was no doubt but that the girl was in rather a dubious state of mind over it, but the silver dollar clinched her resolution, and she walked firmly off, without a backward glance in the direction of the gurgling Samuel Saul, which was the alliteral name of the yellow bundle. Ethelwyn and Beth, after a further consultation, took him to the attic. They considered it providential that Sierra Nevada was assisting in the laundry, and that the coast was therefore free from all observers. Samuel Saul was rocked in the cradle in which the ancestors of the children, as well as themselves, had been rocked, and he, well contented with the motion and not ill pleased with his surroundings, presently fell into a delicious slumber. "'Rockabye baby on the tree top,'" came from the open attic window, and floated down to Joe currying Ninkum, and to 'Vada, Mandy, and Aunt Sophie in the laundry. Joe smiled at the cheerful refrain, and 'Vada, sure that they were in no mischief, mopped her dripping brow, and went on with her work. Watching Samuel Saul's peaceful slumbers grew a little monotonous after a while, so Beth descended to the kitchen for a plate of cookies and a glass of water, and leaving this substantial luncheon beside their sleeping charge, they went down-stairs and for a while played on the piano with more strength than anything else. After that they took more cookies and went over to play with Bobby. Bobby, making a chicken yard out of wire netting, was delighted to have assistance, and they telephoned for Nan, who speedily joined them. "Mother's gone to town to-day to see your grandfather, who owns a bank, Bobby," said Ethelwyn. "I expect it's on account of his losing a whole lot of money," rejoined Bobby, standing on tiptoe on a box to pound in a nail. "Where did he lose it? Were there holes in his pockets?" asked Beth, unrolling the wire at Bobby's order. "On change," said Bobby, with his mouth full of nails. "Our money is in your grandfather's bank, and the Home money and Grandmother Van Stark's. I hope he hasn't lost anybody's but his own," said Ethelwyn anxiously. "You're not very polite," said Nan. "Well I do, but if he lost only change, prob'ly it's his own, and mother's gone to give him some more." "Pooh!" said Bobby, "it's not--" But before he could say anything more, excited voices were heard, and four black and shining faces appeared over the top of the fence, while a guilty eye looked through a knot-hole farther down. "Has you all seen anything of a low down black pickaninny which is los'?" This remark came from 'Vada. "Which is _stole_," corrected a mountain of flesh, quivering with wrath. "Is it Samuel Saul?" asked Ethelwyn. "It is so; will you projus him?" asked the mountain. "He's in the attic asleep; his sister sold him to us for a present to Bobby and Nan--" "O let's see him," cried Nan, with lively interest. "You all is gwine to leab him alone--" began the mountain, when Mandy turned ponderously in her direction. "Will you, Martha Jane Jenkins, please kindly rec'lect dat you is 'sociatin' wid quality now, an' take a good care how you talk, though sholy it may be de fus time dat you has ebber been in good sassity--" "Dat is sholy de trufe w'en I has been wid you," said Martha Jane Jenkins, wrathfully. But now from the open attic windows were heard such piercing shrieks that they all with one consent turned in that direction. "Americky, you go bring me you brudda," instructed Martha, cuffing soundly the girl with the guilty eye. Presently America and the children returned with the wailing Samuel Saul to the place where Mandy, 'Vada, and Aunt Sophie were standing, loftily ignoring the angry mother and making caustic remarks calculated to add to her discomfort. In the capacious arms of his mother, Samuel Saul ceased his repining and contentedly gurgled again. As the united ones went off, Martha Jane Jenkins with her head in the air and America remorsefully weeping in the rear, Ethelwyn said, "Well, our dollar's gone, and our baby too, and I thought we had made such a bargain. I don't know what Mr. Smithers will say." "And poor Joe too," said Beth. "There comes Mr. Smithers now," exclaimed Bobby. "Yes an' I ain't got your puppies either, for when I got home I found my boy had sold two and given away two, so there wasn't any left but what we wanted to keep." "Well, I'm thankful," said Ethelwyn; "for we bought a baby instead, only its mother took it back, and we just had to use the rest of the money for something else. Thank you, Mr. Smithers." "You're entirely welcome," responded he. _CHAPTER XIX_ _Bobby's Grandfather_ And now let's be glad, While everything's bright. Days that are sunny Are shadowed by night. That evening there was considerable news to tell mother when she came from town, and she both laughed and lectured them a little over the baby episode. After the children told her what Bobby had said about his grandfather losing money, they asked anxiously, "Oh mother, did he lose anything of ours?" For the first time in a long while the two straight worry lines came back between mother's eyes, and the children immediately climbed in her lap to kiss them away. "I can't tell yet, dearest ones," she said after a while. "I have been very foolish to leave so much of our money in one bank, I am afraid, but I had such faith, too much, perhaps, and I fear--" It was very comforting to have their dear warm cheeks against her own, and courage, almost vanquished during this trying day, came back. After awhile she laughed with them again, and told them stories until bedtime, promising them also that Joe's sister would be sent to the Home as soon as she was able. The next morning, however, the lines came back, and the children, seeing them, resolved that they would write Bobby's grandfather a letter. "If there's anything I'm glad of, it's that I know how to write," said Ethelwyn. "It was very hard to learn." They went up-stairs to the nursery where their own small desks were and taking some of their beloved Kate Green a way paper with pictures of quaint little children on it, after much trouble, ink, and many sheets of paper, as well as consultations with Bobby and Nan, they finished and posted a very small envelope to Bobby's grandfather, whose address they obtained from Bobby. Bobby's grandfather, on coming down the next morning to the bank, found this communication among the official-looking matter on the desk. The picture in the corner of the envelope was surrounded by these words: "Little Fanny wears a hat, Like her ancient granny; Tommy's hoop was--think of that-- Given him by Fanny." The poke-bonneted pair with Tommy and his hoop looked curiously out of place among their official surroundings. The lines of worry were thickly sown in the banker's face, and as there were no round, rosy-cheeked children in his silent home to kiss them away, they stayed and grew deeper each day. He half smiled, however, as he picked up the Greenaway envelope and curiously broke the seal. This is what he read: "DEAR BOBBY'S GRANDFATHER, "We live next door to Bobby, who is quite often a nice boy, though he wishes us to say always, and we are sorry to learn that you are losing change money, for your sake, and for fear you'll go on and lose ours, Grandmother Van Stark's and the Home's. Ours doesn't matter so much as the others, for we have $9.00 left of our birthday money, and it's lasted so long that it will prob'ly go on lasting, specially if we forget it, or unless we buy more babies, which we shan't do now because of not being able; but dear grandmother without money would be awful, and the Home not to have money for the poor little city children that are sick would be awful, too. Please, please don't lose that, and we will pray for you and love you hard all the days of our life. Amen. "As there is no more paper in our boxes on account of spoiling so much we will say good-bye. "ETHELWYN, BETH, NAN, and BOBBY. "P.S.--The first one she wrote it. "P.S.--My mother said because she had faith in you was why you have our money, and so have we." When the banker had finished this somewhat remarkable epistle, of which the children had been so proud, there were tears in his eyes, although his mouth was smiling, and the lines of worry did not seem so deep nor so stern. He pushed his other mail aside unread, and sat for a long time thinking. Presently he called for his stenographer, and dictated telegram after telegram, the import of which made that impassive person start and glance up in amazement several times. Then, seizing a sheet of paper, the banker started to write a letter for himself. "DEAR CHILDREN, (it began) "Do not worry. I shall not lose one penny of yours, nor Grandmother Van Stark's, nor the blessed Home's, nor any one's, I hope, but my own, and not enough of that to hurt; at any rate, I shall still have enough, I think, to buy a railroad ticket to Bobby's house. So tell him that I wish he'd tell his mother to have a good supper to-morrow night, and you children must plan it and all come and eat with me. "Yours, with love, "BOBBY'S GRANDFATHER. "P.S.--Be sure to have plenty of candy for supper." The excitement and the joy that this letter produced were something startling. Away went the worry lines from Mrs. Rayburn's dear face, and back came the laughter the children loved. In Bobby's house they planned a most wonderful menu of fried chicken, candy, cake, and ice cream. Mandy baked spice cakes at Nan's and Bobby's special request, and nobody thought anything whatever about indigestion or after effects; for where everybody laughs and is happy, there is no need to fear indigestion. The children went to the station to meet the guest, and, when the train came in, greeted him with shouts of welcome, and, proudly surrounding him, marched down the street like a royal procession. There would not be words enough to describe the feast that followed at Bobby's house. All the children wished to sit next to his grandfather, so that he had to change places at every course (all of which had candy interludes) and thus that mighty matter was accomplished to the entire satisfaction of the children. And after supper Bobby's grandfather played games with them and soon lost his worry lines, probably on the floor where he was playing horse or bear. No one picked them up, so it isn't positively known where he lost them. When Ethelwyn and Beth suddenly bethought themselves that they were to go with their mother to the Home the next day, to take Joe's sister there, it was at once decided that Bobby and Nan should go too, for one beautiful outing before school should begin. "And we will need it," said Bobby, with a deep sigh over the arduous educational duties before him. Then Bobby's grandfather brought out some curious knobby-looking bundles from his valise, and while the children shut their eyes, he hid the packages and then turned the children loose to find them. There was a great outfit of Kate Greenaway writing paper for Ethelwyn; a black doll-baby apiece for Beth and Nan; and a watch with a leather fob and jockey cap attachments for his namesake, Bobby. There were also a book and a game for each one. While they were playing with their gifts, Mrs. Rayburn and Bobby's grandfather talked apart, and it was a happy talk, as Ethelwyn and Beth could see when they came up to where they were sitting. When at last it was time to say good-night, Ethelwyn and Beth had a surprise for Bobby's grandfather. It was four silver dollars. "Two of our dollars are gone to help take Joe's sister to the Home," Beth explained, "but this is for you on account of your losing the change money. It's from us all, instead of good-bye presents we were going to get for Nan and Bobby. They said they'd rather." Bobby's grandfather hesitated just a little and was about to make a gesture of refusal, when, seeing their mother shake her head, he kissed the children's red cheeks and said, with a shake in his voice, "You dear children, I'll keep these and your letter, as long as I live, so as not to forget your faith in me." _CHAPTER XX_ _The Visit to the Home_ On the train we ran through rain, Then out in sun and blue; And all the trees bent down and raced, And all the houses too. Somehow, that night, after the children were all in bed, and the grown people were talking over the next day's journey, it seemed to Bobby's grandfather that he too would like to go along, and he said he could not for the life of him see why Bobby's mother should not go too, and also Nan's father and mother if they wished. Well, it was short notice, but by telegraphing, telephoning and telling by mouth they arranged it; and the next morning quite an imposing party boarded the Eastbound Limited, and took possession of the drawing-room car, for Bobby's grandfather never did things on a niggardly plan. He and Bobby's mother were seated on one side, and Nan's mother (her father could not leave) and Mrs. Rayburn were across from them, while Nan, Ethelwyn, Beth, and Bobby appeared and disappeared, like meteors, in the most unexpected places. Joe's sister was not well enough that day to accompany them, so it was arranged that her brother should bring her as soon as she felt better. If I have, by the use of the word "grandfather," given you an idea of decrepitude and old age, in the case of Bobby's grandfather, I wish at once to change that idea. He was a very erect and handsome man, with a white mustache indeed, but with a firm mouth underneath that gave no sign of diminished force. He had always told Mrs. Rayburn that he thought it was very foolish for her to give such large sums of money for charity. "It's not right," he now repeated, twirling his mustache. The morning paper lay across his knees, and, as he spoke, with an air of finality and disapproval, he picked it up. "What isn't right, grandfather?" asked Bobby, suddenly appearing on the back of his chair, and encircling his grandfather's neck with a pair of sturdy legs. His grandfather drew him down by one leg into his lap. "Giving all your money away to people who don't appreciate it," he explained. "How do you know they don't?" asked Bobby. "Because, sir, people don't appreciate what is given to them, as much as they do what they earn." Bobby pondered over this. "I like my Christmas presents better than the money I get for chopping kindling," he replied at length; "because the Christmas money is more, for one thing." "And more certain," put in his mother, laughing; "the kindling money isn't always earned." "Are you talking about the Home money?" asked Ethelwyn, looking over the back of the chair in front of them. "Yes." "But we like to give it, and so will you, when you see how nice it is, and Dick and Aunty Stevens and the best cookies that she can make. What's the good of keeping money? We can always buy more down at your bank," she concluded easily. "You may not always think so, young lady, nor take such wide views of things. When you grow up, you may wish you had more money," said the banker, laughing. "Does keeping money make folks happy?" inquired Beth, suddenly popping up. The lines in grandfather's face deepened, and there came over it a look of care. "Not always, child, I must confess," he said at length. "Besides, my father says not to lay up treasure for roth and must to corrupt!" put in Nan, coming to the surface. At this, they all shouted, much to Nan's discomfiture. For awhile the banker looked out on the showery landscape, then he turned to the children's mother. "Perhaps you are right, Mrs. Rayburn," he said gently. "The world is all too selfish;" and he sighed as he said it. "It is indeed," came the emphatic answer. "There is no crime, there is no sin, that has not for its basis selfishness. It is the evil part of life, and the Christ life that ought to be man's pattern, is the type of unselfishness." "Well," said the banker, taking up his paper, "I am open to conviction." The sun was shining when they arrived at the pretty station, and they all stopped on the platform to listen a moment to the organ note of the sea. As they waited, a wagon drove up, and a young fellow jumped out and ran towards them. "It's--it's--Dick! Dick who used to walk on crutches!" cried Ethelwyn, fairly rubbing her eyes in astonishment. There were no signs of lameness now in this tall youth, and his face was radiant with happiness. He could not speak for a moment, as he shook hands with those whom he knew, and of whom he had almost constantly thought with heartfelt gratitude. "My sakes! Aren't you mended up well, though?" said Beth, walking around him admiringly. They all laughed at this, of course, and Dick was then introduced to Bobby's mother, his grandfather, and Bobby himself. "Dick is the first patient of the Home," said Mrs. Rayburn, "and he does it credit. He is Mrs. Stevens's right-hand man now. Where and how is dear Mrs. Stevens?" "She is well but could not leave to come to the train," said Dick. "She can hardly wait to see you, though." "I do sincerely trust she has baked a bushel of cookies," said Ethelwyn, as they climbed into the wagon. The approach to the Home was very beautiful. The sun was going down in a blaze of glory, and the wagon wound around the hill road to where the cottage, gay with flags and striped awnings, crowned its summit. Then, above the roar of the sea and the clatter of hoofs, came the sound of children's voices calling from the broad piazza, "Welcome home! Welcome home!" Then a child's voice sang, "To give sad children's hearts a joy, To give the weary rest, To give to those who need it sore, This makes a life most blest." As Bobby's grandfather helped the grown people out of the wagon--the children had climbed down without waiting for help--he cleared his throat once or twice. "I'm nearer conviction than I was," he said. As she hurried towards the porch, Mrs. Rayburn smiled to herself. Nan's mother waited, and walked up with Bobby's grandfather. Over her had come a great and happy change; her eyes were now full of earnest light, and she had forgotten her headaches and other small ills. She now looked up into the banker's face. "After all, life to be beautiful and to reach rightly towards eternity should be helpful, and self-forgetful; do you not think so?" she said. "I was long learning the two great commandments, which embody the whole decalogue, and I probably never should have learned them if it had not been for these blessed children, and their mother." "H--m, h--m," said the banker. On the porch were twenty children. In forty eyes the new light of happiness was dawning. At the beginning, many of them had been hopeless and even evil, but now it was all different, for they had found out that they could laugh. Aunty Stevens herself, full of laughter and bubbling over with joy at seeing her friends again, surrounded by the shouting children, made them more than welcome. Bobby's grandfather was armed with a huge box, which he had mysteriously guarded all day; he now set it down upon the porch. "If you children don't make this box lighter at once, I shall have no use for you," he declared. And they all, scenting candy with infallible instinct, fell upon it with rapture. They had tea on the lawn, that evening, and, after a consultation with Mrs. Stevens, Bobby's grandfather sent a message over the telephone that was followed very shortly by a man with ice cream and a huge cake. When eight o'clock came, one of the teachers began to play a march on the piano in the hall. At once the children fell into line, marking time with their feet, and singing, "Good-night, good-night, Children and blossoms who sleep all the night, Always will wake up happy and bright, Good-night, good-night!" As they sang, they marched away to bed. The others followed them in. The boys' dormitories were in a building on one side of the lawn, and the girls' on the other, while the babies' nursery was in the main building. The spirit of the Home was helpfulness, so each child aided some one else in getting ready for the night. When they were in their white night-gowns, they all dropped upon their knees, and one of the teachers said a short prayer after which they all joined with her in the Lord's Prayer. When the guests came down into Aunty Stevens's sitting-room where the open fire was dancing--for the evening was a trifle chilly--Bobby's grandfather put a few questions to Mrs. Stevens. "When the children are thievish and given to bad language and lying, what do you do?" he asked. "In some way they seem to shed those things, as a worm does its cocoon, after they are here for a while," she answered. "In the light of loving care, the sunny child nature comes out--it cannot help it, any more than a rose can help blooming in the sun; and, with the other children who have been here from the first to regulate things, we do not have much trouble. They are too young to stay vicious, and when they go away they are well enough grounded in good habits not to forget them, we hope, and to go on helping others." "Do you have to refuse many applicants?" "Yes, that is one trouble. We ought to be able to take at least fifty children, and we need an infirmary; but those things will come in time." Bobby's grandfather opened his mouth to speak, just as Bobby himself climbed into his lap with a question trembling on his lips. "Well, sir?" inquired his grandfather. "May I have some of the money you're going to leave me, to give now, just as Ethelwyn and Beth did?" asked Bobby. "How do you know I'm going to leave you any, you young freebooter?" "Well, I s'posed you would; most people would think so, 'cause I'm named for you, and you always said you liked me," remarked Bobby, somewhat embarrassed. His grandfather patted him comfortingly on the back. "Yes, Bobby, I do like you, and all the better for your request. We'll build the infirmary, and maybe more. I am open to conviction no more," he added, looking towards Mrs. Rayburn, "for I _am_ convicted and I hope converted." ADVERTISEMENTS MOLLY BROWN SERIES College Life Stories for Girls By NELL SPEED. Cloth Bound. Illustrated. Price, 60c. per vol., postpaid MOLLY BROWN'S FRESHMAN DAYS. Would you like to admit to your circle of friends the most charming of college girls--the typical college girl for whom we are always looking but not always finding; the type that contains so many delightful characteristics, yet without unpleasant perfection in any; the natural, unaffected, sweet-tempered girl, loved because she is lovable? Then seek an introduction to Molly Brown. You will find the baggage-master, the cook, the Professor of English Literature, and the College President in the same company. MOLLY BROWN'S SOPHOMORE DAYS. What is more delightful than a re-union of college girls after the summer vacation? Certainly nothing that precedes it in their experience--at least, if all class-mates are as happy together as the Wellington girls of this story. Among Molly's interesting friends of the second year is a young Japanese girl, who ingratiates her "humbly" self into everybody's affections speedily and permanently. MOLLY BROWN'S JUNIOR DAYS. Financial stumbling blocks are not the only things that hinder the ease and increase the strength of college girls. Their troubles and their triumphs are their own, often peculiar to their environment. How Wellington students meet the experiences outside the class-rooms is worth the doing, the telling and the reading. Any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. HURST & COMPANY Publishers NEW YORK MOTOR MAIDS SERIES Wholesome Stories of Adventure By KATHERINE STOKES. Cloth Bound. Illustrated. Price, 50c. per vol., postpaid THE MOTOR MAIDS' SCHOOL DAYS. Billie Campbell was just the type of a straightforward, athletic girl to be successful as a practical Motor Maid. She took her car, as she did her class-mates, to her heart, and many a grand good time did they have all together. The road over which she ran her red machine had many an unexpected turning,--now it led her into peculiar danger; now into contact with strange travelers; and again into experiences by fire and water. But, best of all, "The Comet" never failed its brave girl owner. THE MOTOR MAIDS BY PALM AND PINE. Wherever the Motor Maids went there were lively times, for these were companionable girls who looked upon the world as a vastly interesting place full of unique adventures--and so, of course, they found them. THE MOTOR MAIDS ACROSS THE CONTINENT. It is always interesting to travel, and it is wonderfully entertaining to see old scenes through fresh eyes. It is that privilege, therefore, that makes it worth while to join the Motor Maids in their first 'cross-country run. THE MOTOR MAIDS BY ROSE, SHAMROCK AND HEATHER. South and West had the Motor Maids motored, nor could their education by travel have been more wisely begun. 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Price, 50c. per vol., postpaid THE DREADNOUGHT BOYS ON BATTLE PRACTICE. Especially Interesting and timely is this book which introduces the reader with its heroes, Ned and Herc, to the great ships of modern warfare and to the intimate life and surprising adventures of Uncle Sam's sailors. THE DREADNOUGHT BOYS ABOARD A DESTROYER. In this story real dangers threaten and the boys' patriotism is tested in a peculiar international tangle. The scene is laid on the South American coast. THE DREADNOUGHT BOYS ON A SUBMARINE. To the inventive genius--trade-school boy or mechanic--this story has special charm, perhaps, but to every reader its mystery and clever action are fascinating. THE DREADNOUGHT BOYS ON AERO SERVICE. Among the volunteers accepted for Aero Service are Ned and Herc. 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18226	----	[Illustration: TAKE MINE!] * * * * * MY YOUNG DAYS. BY THE AUTHOR OF "EVENING AMUSEMENT," "LETTERS EVERYWHERE," ETC., ETC. _WITH TWENTY ILLUSTRATIONS BY PAUL KONEWKA._ NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO., 713, BROADWAY. LONDON: SEELEY, JACKSON, & HALLIDAY. 1872. * * * * * [Illustration: THE MITTENS.] * * * * * CONTENTS. PAGE I.--HOME SICKNESS 1 II.--UNCLE HUGH'S STORY 10 III.--THE LITTLE STOWAWAY 21 IV.--MY HOME, AND WHAT IT IS LIKE 33 V.--LITTLE COUSINS 46 VI.--WHAT ABOUT LESSONS 59 VII.--HURRAH FOR THE HOLIDAYS! 76 VIII.--THE COTTAGE ON THE CLIFF 90 IX.--SUSETTE AND HER TROUBLES 108 X.--AUTUMN DAYS 123 XI.--GOOD-BYE TO BEECHAM 137 * * * * * MY YOUNG DAYS. I. _HOME SICKNESS._ "I want to go home!" How many times in my life, I wonder, have these words come rushing up from the very bottom of my heart, tumbling everything out of the way, never listening to reason, never stopping for thought? How many times since that dreary afternoon in the great, big drawing-room at grandmamma's? And, oh dear me! what miserable heartache comes before that fearful want! Oh, grown-up people, don't you know how sour everything tastes, and how yellow everything looks, and how sick everything makes one, when one wants to go home? So it was that one wretched day. How well I remember it all! The large, large drawing-room so full of cushions, couches, easy-chairs, little tables covered with funny knick-knacks, marble-slabs and more knick-knacks, beautiful fire-screens, large mirrors, soft fur lying about on the floor, and many-coloured antimacassars on the chairs. By and by, all these wonders had happy memories pinned on to them, of uproarious games with merry little play-fellows. Now, I was all alone, and very lonely, in it all. True, there was grandmamma nodding in her easy-chair, in the firelight, on one side, and there was Uncle Hugh reading the "Times" by the same light on the other. But what were either of them to the little tired stranger on the low stool between them? Once grandmamma's eyes had opened just to look at me, and say, "Making pretty pictures of the red coals, my dearie?" And Uncle Hugh had answered, "Yes, to be sure; dreaming of the King of Salamanders!" And they went to sleep again or went on reading, and the little company smile faded away from my face, and I went back to those very real dreams of the nursery at home, and baby there, and little brother, and papa and mamma, and the long time ago, hours and hours ago! when I said good-bye, and Bobbie kissed his hand out of window, and the carriage took me off--a happy little woman, really going in the puff-puff! Oh, how could I ever have felt so happy then and be so miserable now? Had I ever thought that I was coming away from them all, with nobody at all but Jane, the new nursemaid, to take care of me? Had I ever thought how _quite_ alone I should be, never able to find my way in this great, big house, sure to get lost in some of the passages? And how could I ever go to sleep without Bobbie close by, and wouldn't Bobbie cry for me at home? And oh, nurse wouldn't be there to tuck me up, and perhaps grandmamma wouldn't like the candle left! And who would give me my good-night kiss like,--like,--oh, oh, like----But it would come, that great big sob, it wasn't any use to choke it back! And, when it had come, of course, it was all over with me, and there was nothing for it but to cry out just as if I was not in that grand drawing-room-- "I want to go home! I want, oh, I do want mamma!" What a disturbance that cry of mine did make, to be sure! Grandmamma was wide-awake in a moment, looking very much distressed, and laying her hand on the bell. This troubled me very much; for hadn't Jane told me when she brushed my hair and made me tidy, that I was to go down and be a good girl, "and do things pretty" in the drawing-room, and would she scold me if I was sent away for crying and making a noise? But Uncle Hugh came to my rescue, threw away his paper, and cuddled me up in his great strong arms almost like papa. And he showed me his watch, and made it strike, and then began to show me all kinds of wonders about the room: little tiny black men under a glass case, small china monkeys, cats and frogs, and funny shells and fishes, and snakes' skins, and lots of other things. And after that we came back to the easy-chair, and he sang me sailors' songs, and told me all about "The House that Jack built!" [Illustration: THE CAT THAT WANTED THE GOOSE.] "Little woman," he said at last, "did you ever hear of 'The Goose that Jack killed?'" and then he sang in his funny way, "This is the goose that Jack killed; and this is the cat that wanted the goose that Jack killed; and this is the dog that chased the cat that wanted the goose that Jack killed; and this is the thief that cheated the dog that chased the cat that wanted the goose that Jack killed; and this is the dream that haunted the thief that cheated the dog that chased the cat that wanted the goose that Jack killed; and this"-- But "Good night, Uncle Hugh, there's Jane come to fetch Miss Sissy to her tea, upstairs in the nursery." II. _UNCLE HUGH'S STORY._ Yes, tea alone in the nursery, that strange room that looked as if it hadn't been a nursery for a great many years, and was as queer and awkward as an old woman trying to look young again. No clatter of spoons to make baby laugh, no chatter of childish voices, only little me, all alone with Jane--little me, so puzzled and strange and bewildered in the new place! Perhaps Jane thought me dull, for she talked away fast enough, about that dear old lady, my grandmamma, and about the beautiful place we were in, and what if Master Bobbie should grow up some day to find it all his own, and be the lord of it all. I didn't care much if he did; I only wanted him now, little boy as he was, to put his fat arms round my neck, for I was "little sister" to nobody here; it was mere mockery calling me "Miss Sissy" all the time. Perhaps Jane heard the sigh, for she stopped afterwards in the middle of her long story about the little cousins from over the sea, that were coming here in a day or two. She had me on her lap, and she was just taking off my shoes and socks, but she drew my head to her shoulder, and told me that I had "Janie-panie" with me, who was always going to take care of me all the time. I was very tired, and my eyes went shut on the pillow after that, before they had time to cry home-sick tears. And next day there were so many new things to see; two little puppies to make friends with, beside the parrot and pussy. But I mustn't begin to tell you all the things that happened that day. You see, I have made quite a long story of my first evening, so you must try and fancy all about the walk in the park with Jane, and the drive with Grandmamma to the town, and the toy-shop, and what we bought there. When we came home it was my tea-time; and after that Jane changed my frock, and did my hair, and took me down to dessert, in the dining-room. Ah, then the shy fit came on, and I bent my head very gravely to take the sweet bits off Uncle Hugh's fork, I remember. But when he had pushed back his chair, given his arm to grandmamma, and his hand to me, and taken us into the drawing-room--then, while he made me nestle down on his knee in the soft easy-chair, all my shyness went away at the look of his merry eyes. "Now for the goose that Jack killed," he said; and then and there began the funniest story you ever heard. Only I can't tell it in the funny words and with the merry, twinkling glances he gave me. [Illustration: THE DOG THAT CHASED THE CAT.] It was when Uncle Hugh was a middy, and he had been sailing in a great big ship ever so long, till at last they came to some foreign country, I don't know where. Well, Uncle Hugh and his friend Jack Miller went roaming about, very glad to get off the sea. They took possession of a little empty hut on the beach, and spent some of the time there, and some of the time roaming about on the hills. Now it chanced, one day, that they saw a flock of wild geese flying over the shore. Jack had a gun with him, and he instantly shot one of these geese. Uncle Hugh says they had had so much salt meat at sea, that they smacked their lips to think of a nice fat goose for dinner. So they carried it off to their hut, and then they pulled off all the feathers one by one, and made it quite ready to cook. What funny cooks they must have been! But it wasn't quite time to roast it, so they tied it up by a string to the door and went away, leaving the captain's dog, Neptune, to watch it. [Illustration: THE THIEF THAT STOLE THE GOOSE.] Now, Nep was a very funny dog--a nervous dog, Uncle Hugh called him--and he was quite afraid something would happen. By and by, poor pussy came to have a peep at the goosey-gander, and she climbed up the steps on tip-toe just to look. Nep watched her, and didn't feel easy in his mind, and when poor pussy just stretched forward her head (because she was a little short-sighted, I dare say), Nep could bear it no longer. He gave a great loud bark, and flew along the road after the wretched, flying cat. Silly dog! while he was gone after puss, and just as he had his fore-paws quite over her back, up comes a sly thief to the hut door, quietly unhooks the bird, and runs off the other way, with its head hanging over his shoulder. "And, so, you see, Sissy," said Uncle Hugh in his funnily grave way, "poor Jack and I came back to find our dinner all gone!" But they got scent of the thief, and they caught him and shut him up in their little hut, and locked him in, and left him with nothing but bread and water. "For there was no policeman there, Sissy; we had to play policemen ourselves." [Illustration: THE DREAM THAT HAUNTED THE THIEF.] And there they left him all night. And the poor thief thought about his little hungry children at home, till he fell asleep and dreamt (I wonder how Uncle Hugh knew that?) that he saw the goose all smoking hot, gravy and all, and a knife and fork all ready to cut it up. But they didn't mean to be cruel--I don't believe Uncle Hugh could be! So they had a nice, hot supper themselves on board the big ship, and plenty of fun, and lots of merry songs. And then they cut three big slices and put them aside. And don't you think the thief-man must have been surprised when he saw the nice breakfast that Jack brought him next morning? I think Uncle Hugh said that he wrapped it all up and took it home to his children. How queer he must have felt as he slunk off, the sailors standing round and giving him three cheers and plenty of jokes! III. _THE LITTLE STOWAWAY._ One of my earliest friends at the Park was a little French boy, a kind of page of my uncle's. Shall I tell you about him? You will think it very funny that a servant-boy should be allowed to be my friend, so I must explain. Little Gus, as my uncle called him--though his real name was Gustave--was altogether a little foreigner. He couldn't talk English at all properly; in fact, the greater part of our conversation was carried on by signs. He was very much afraid of everybody in the house, except Uncle Hugh. He thought there was nobody in all the world like the Captain, as he called him. His bright eyes used to twinkle and his white teeth shine whenever he could find a chance of running an errand, or doing any little job for the Captain; and I think it was, perhaps, because he took me for the Captain's little pet that he grew so fond of me. He would follow me all about the garden, and watch me as I talked away to Jane, and be ready to find my ball or fetch my hoop the minute I wanted them. Now, after we had been a little while at the Park, I found that Jane had got very fond of flowers, and was always anxious to go to the glass-houses directly we came out into the garden. "Why, Miss Sissy," she would say, "there never was anything like the ferns, and the orange-trees, and the cactuses in them houses; and Mr. Owen so civil-like in showing them to us, too." So off we went to the hot-houses, and there Mr. Owen and Jane talked and talked till I got tired of the hot air, and went to play outside; and there just outside was Gus, always waiting to pick me the prettiest flowers, and find me the first sweet violets. But I was shy, and his words were so foreign that they frightened me; nor did I like at all being called "Petite mademoiselle," which was not my name, and couldn't mean anything that I could think of. At last I grew braver, and one day I ventured to ask-- "Who is your papa?" "Me hab no papa, no mamma!" he said, looking very full at me. "Where do you live then?" I asked. "You're not a bit like Bobbie!" "Me live wid de Capitaine; me never will leaf de Capitaine--never, never, never!" he answered eagerly. This made me feel very queer, and I think I looked half-frightened, for his look changed quickly, and he said, smiling his own sunny smile-- "Me fetch petite mademoiselle somet'ing nice; me fetch de puss dat de Capitaine just bring home!" A pussy! That sounded pleasant, and I waited eagerly for his return. I waited a long time, as it seemed, and I had grown tired, and was looking for daisies on the grass, when I heard his step and the tap of his favourite holly-stick on the gravel. What a funny boy he was to call that "something nice"! There he stood, his eyes and mouth all one smile, and held out at arm's length by the ears a dead rabbit. My look and exclamation of horror made him grave at once. [Illustration: POOR DEAD PUSSY!] "Oh, the poor little rabbit!" I cried. "Has Uncle Hugh killed him quite dead?" "Yes, yes, he quite dead! De Capitaine's gun kill him quite, de small dog pick him up. Petite mademoiselle not frighten, he quite dead!" Ah, that was just the reason of my fright! Away I ran to Jane, and hid my face in her gown; and a very vigorous scolding did she give the French boy when she found what he had done. Poor fellow! he was very much disconcerted, and did not know what to say. Two hours after he came back, and finding me alone just going for a drive, he said softly-- "Little puss all alive now, run away in de voods. Petite mademoiselle, come see?" What did he mean? The rabbit could not be "quite dead" at one time, and "all alive" afterwards. But grandmamma was coming downstairs, and I had no time to answer him. By and by, when I was lying back on the soft cushions stroking grandmamma's pretty white fur, I told her all my puzzle. "Ah, my pet," she said, "poor Gus had a very cruel French father, and doesn't know any better. He ran away from home when your uncle's ship was touching at Marseilles, and hid himself in the hold. They found him when they got out to sea--a little stowaway the sailors called him--and your uncle liked his dark, pitiful eyes, and was very kind to him; but he has not learnt much yet that's good. Don't have too much to say to him, my darling!" Well, it wasn't very likely I should, for he and I found it not very easy to understand each other; yet he liked to do anything he could for me, and was always watching to see what I wanted. Nearly a year after that, I remember, it was very cold, and the little southern boy felt it especially. He had grown ever so tall and thin, but not strong, and he went about looking blue and shivery. How I came to be still at the Park I will tell you in another place, but there I was, and my friend Gus won my pity by his wretched looks. I used to look at his blue hands, and wonder what could be done. At last I remembered a pair of warm knitted gloves, that had been given me, which I never wore. They had no fingers, only a thumb, and I doubted whether Gus would wear them; but I made up my mind that he would be glad anyhow to keep his chilblains from the wind. I don't think I shall ever forget his look when I presented them to him, holding them by the pretty blue wool which fastened them together. That his "petite mademoiselle" should think of him, and make him a present, too! and then that that present should be one that he could not anyhow use! It was fairly too much for him; he looked at them, he looked at me, turned furiously red, stammered, stuttered, turned round, and literally ran away! I never tried to make him a second present. IV. _MY HOME, AND WHAT IT WAS LIKE._ Now, do you know, I feel rather ashamed of myself that I have not all this while told you in the least who I was, or where I came from. I began in the middle by saying, "I want to go home," but never told you in the least where my home was, nor what it was. Well, to tell you the truth, I did not know much about my family history in those early days. I knew that my name was Mary Emily Marshall, commonly called Sissy, and I knew that my papa was "the gentleman that makes all the sick people well,"--"or tries to," Jane would add. I never did. Of course, if my papa tried to do anything he did it. That was my doctrine. We lived quite down in the country among the poor people, and we were not rich ourselves. Mamma had been born in this beautiful park, and I know now, though I did not then, that it was a great trouble at the Park when she married the country doctor, who loved the poor people so much that he would not leave them to grow rich and honoured as a London physician. But there was no grandpapa left now to be angry; and grandmamma, though we had never seen her, we had always loved for the beautiful presents she sent us. There were only three of us at this time--my little self; Bobbie, a boy of four years old, boasting of the fattest, rosiest cheeks in the world; and wee Willie, the white-faced, fretful baby of six months. Oh, how well I remember the old house, with its great lamp hanging out over the lonely road, and shining among the trees, to show the villagers the way up to their good, kind friend the doctor. Many were the blessings we little ones used to get as we passed down the village street, and we owed them all to our father's goodness. Happy times we had of it, Bobbie and I, in that old house at the top of the hill. I don't think any little brothers and sisters were ever quite such good friends. There were three years between us, but I was little and he was big, so nobody guessed it, and we played together, and never thought which was the elder. The great treat of the day was the game with papa in the evening, but that couldn't be counted upon. Very often he would have to leave the dinner-table suddenly, and when we heard his peculiar slam of the hall-door before the bell rang to summon us down, we knew that we had lost our game, and we comforted ourselves by telling each other that papa had gone to see some little sick child like baby Willie, and to make him quite well; and then we would make up our minds to a good quiet game by ourselves. [Illustration: PAPA AND MAMMA.] We used to take turns, he playing at doll with me one time, and I playing at horses with him next time. How well I remember my hairless, eyeless doll, and all the pleasure she gave us! And good-natured old nurse was quite willing, whenever Willie was a little better than usual, to work wonders with dolly's toilet. One week she would be a fine, grand lady, to whom Bobby would act footman and I lady's-maid. Next week, she was a soldier fighting grand battles, and lying dead on the battle-field at last, with a patch of red paint on the forehead, and we two singing dirges and songs of victory; and then, all of a sudden, the soldier was turned into a baby, with long white clothes and the prettiest of caps. The day that grandmamma's letter came, asking for "one of the dear children to stay with her," dolly was just learning to walk. We were having our firelight play before tea. I had tied up my curls to look like a grown woman's hair, and I had papa's umbrella to keep the rain off dolly in her first walk. Bobbie had papa's hat and stick, and he held Rosalinda's other hand. I was just telling him not to walk so fast, because his long strides would tire our little girl, when I heard papa's voice calling me. In a minute more I was standing between his knees, and mamma was watching my face as I tried to take in the idea of this first visit. "Jane shall go with you, my darling--you will not be all alone," said mamma; "indeed, you shall not go at all if you had rather not, but grandmamma wants to have you." And then papa added a great deal about seeing the place where mamma lived when she was my age, and told me that I should come back with such rosy cheeks. And all the while I was thinking of the new doll's-house that grandmamma would give me perhaps. The thought of this took me back to Rosalinda, and I felt sure that Bobbie would let her fall if I didn't be quick and go to him. So I said, "Yes, I will go," very much in a hurry, and was ever so glad to get away and run upstairs again. "Queer little fish!" I heard papa say as I left the room. "She thinks a great deal more about the doll and Bobbie, than of the visit to Beecham." "Children never look far forward," was mamma's answer. But I did look forward by and by. When dear Rosalinda was safely tucked up in her cradle, and Bobbie and I had "time to think," as we said, then we talked it all over. And very wonderful plans we made. Such numbers of injunctions did I lay upon Bobbie, as to the care of the dolls while I was away, that the poor little fellow said with a sigh, "Yes, I'll try and 'member, Sissy!" So I consoled him by the thought of all the presents grandmamma would send him when I came back. In fact, I was to bring something for everybody, so I thought. Two dear little rabbits for Bobbie, perhaps a new black silk gown for nurse, a beautiful sash for the baby, and so on, and so on. [Illustration: SO NICE!] The next afternoon Bobbie and I had our last feast. Do _you_ often have feasts? I don't mean cake and fruit, and good things at the dinner-table. Oh no, I mean a real tiny feast all to yourselves, with the nursery-chair unscrewed to make table and chair, with square paper plates twisted at the corners, paper dishes with sugar on one, currants on another, rice or raisins on another, and little doll's-house cups for the make-believe wine and the real milk. Ah, that nice sugared milk taken in little sips out of the oldest nursery-spoons! How well I can fancy myself now, giving Bobbie his spoonful, while pussy looked enviously up at us? Then it was that the bright thought struck me that I would bring home some real Beecham kittens to puss, that would do quite well in the place of those dear little lost ones, that James had taken away and forgotten ever to bring back? Well, you know, all the preparations were made, my pretty new frock tried on, all my kisses given, and all sorts of messages sent home from the station, and in the highest of spirits my first start in life was accomplished. What my feelings were when the day came to an end, you know, so I need not tell you. V. _LITTLE COUSINS._ So now you know who I was, where I came from, and all about me. Let me, then, go on telling you about this remarkable visit to grandmamma. You have heard all about those first quiet days, when I was all alone, the only little thing in all the place. It was very different afterwards, I can tell you. You know Jane had told me all that was going to happen. Indeed, she talked always very fast, and didn't mind filling my little head with her opinions of my betters which was certainly a mistake. It was a shame, she said, that my uncle, "the Reverend," should send all his children here, while he and his wife went taking their travels and their pleasure all about to those gay foreign places! Grandmamma talked about it in quite a different way. She told me how ill my aunt had been, so ill that my uncle had been obliged to take her away from England for the whole winter. And she said that now they had left the place on the beautiful Swiss lake, and were going to try some German baths. Only they could not take the children there, so they were to come and stay at the Park for a month or too, the while. I thought this would be very nice, and I began to ask all sorts of questions about Harry and Lottie, and Alick and Murray, and Bertie and the baby. How funny it would seem when the nursery was so full! I thought the day would never come. But it did. The carriage was sent off to the station, and in due time it came back, quite full to overflowing with children! There was a good deal of shyness at first, when we all stood in a row, and looked at each other, answering grandmamma's questions seriously, and feeling very odd. But that was only the first evening. Next day we were quite happy and comfortable, had a very merry breakfast, and then a delightful ramble about the gardens and orchards. Of course, I was only one of the little ones, coming in between Alick and Murray, feeling very small beside Lottie and Harry. Yet we were all very good friends, and Lottie soon told me that she thought it would be very nice to have a girl to talk to, and not only boys. This remark pleased me, though when I thought of Bobbie, it sounded rather strange. Indeed, I am not sure that I was not a little too fond of boys' play. I remember feeling rather disappointed one day when she said to me in the garden-- "Sissy, let's come and have a nice quiet walk together, and leave the boys to play by themselves." [Illustration: GOING TO THE WARS.] Now, three of the boys were just preparing for a military march, one with a bright flag, another with a trumpet, and another with a sword-stick, so-called; and there was a most refreshing prospect of shouting, stamping, and huzzahs! Do you wonder that I turned away rather unwillingly? However, Lottie's confidences soon made up for it all. Such beautiful stories Lottie could tell! When she began to talk about the Alps, and the blue lake and the mountain flowers, I thought it seemed almost as good as my hymns and verses. I know I looked up at her with eyes full of admiration, and when she put her arms round me, and gave me a loving kiss, I thought I had never been so happy before. And then she listened to all I had to tell her about Bobbie, and baby Willie, and Rosalinda, and gave me her advice about dressing Rosalinda like the Queen. My letters, too, she read, and said they were very nice, which made me love mamma for writing them all the more. And she showed me her own letter that had just come across the sea, with its foreign stamps and thin paper. Quite a nice talk it was altogether, and we were ever so sorry when we were called in to dinner. My boy-cousins were very polite to me at first, and hardly seemed to know what to make of me. Harry was a little too patronizing, called me "a mite of a thing," and played tricks upon me in a gentle way. But then he was not often with us. He had not been a night in the house before he had quite determined to be a sailor like Uncle Hugh, so it followed, as a matter of course, that he must be always with him. Force of habit, however, made him confide all his plans and thoughts to Lottie, so that our private talks in the shrubbery were often interrupted by his merry voice. Then he would throw himself down among the grass and periwinkles, and tell us all about his future ship. This usually ended in Lottie's being carried off to make sails or flags for his new craft. Then, being left to myself, I soon ran off to my other cousins, nothing loath to have a game of romps with them. Alick seemed likely to be my special friend. What a funny little fellow he must have been, though I did not think so then! Jane called him a little dandy, much to his displeasure; yet I am afraid his friendship was likely to increase my childish vanity. He was so fond of decking me with flowers, making wreaths for me, and then looking at me, and sometimes comparing my hair or eyes with Lottie's; and his look of vexation if my face was dirty or my pinafore torn, often comes back to me even now when I feel untidy in any way. One afternoon, when Alick and I and one of the other boys were alone, it suddenly came into our wise little heads that we would play at going to a party. What vast preparations we made! What pains the boys took to tie up my sleeves with some bright ribbon meant for Harry's flags! How cleverly we succeeded in carrying off a hair-brush, and what a long time it took to decide how the boys' hair and ties should be arranged! And then came the flowers, my wreath, and the bouquet to be carried for me by one of my gentlemen. We were all ready, I remember, and I was just taking Alick's arm, and we had all put on our best airs and graces for a solemn entrance to the supposed ball-room, when, all of a sudden, who should come round the corner but Uncle Hugh and Harry! [Illustration: GOING TO A PARTY.] Oh, those bursts of laughter pealing out again and again! Oh, the writhings and twistings of Uncle Hugh in his excessive mirth! Would they _ever_ stop laughing? Even now my cheeks almost tingle with those painful blushes, and my heart beats with that frightened shame! And yet it was for Alick that I was chiefly troubled, as I saw him fling down the flowers and run, while Harry, shouting "conceited young jackanapes," pursued him at full speed. I had never seen such rough play or heard such mocking laughter, and I burst into tears, sobbing out my trouble on my uncle's shoulder as he carried me off and laughingly soothed me, pressing the prickly wreath all the while against my head. It was a long time before our adventure was forgotten. Harry's merry jokes brought the colour over and over again to my face, and the angry words to Alick's lips. But we were both cured, certainly, for the time, of any love of display or dandyism! VI. _WHAT ABOUT LESSONS?_ And now, little reader, I know quite well what thought has been popping in and out of your head all this time. You have been wanting to ask me what had become of lessons all these weeks, and how a number of little boys and girls could be allowed to run wild, doing just what they liked all day long. [Illustration: BABY, DEAR!] Well, it does seem very shocking, and there is no denying that, for a whole month, we did not often see the inside of a book. Yet, I had learnt to read, and had been in the habit of learning to spell and to count every day of my life at home. I don't quite know how it came about that we were not all of us a very untamed set after a month's idleness at the Park. Perhaps, it was a good thing for us that grandmamma was what she was. The very perfection of tender kindness we all felt her, and yet there was a certain dignity about her, that made it a simple impossibility to be rough or rude before her. And on the whole we were a great deal with her. When not with her, we were supposed to be picking up a great deal of French from my cousin's Swiss nurse. And so, in our way, we did, although I think Susette learned English a great deal faster than we learned French. Yet, when we wished to coax her, the French words came fast enough, such as they were. But I am afraid grandmamma did not think that we were learning quite enough, for one day she called Lottie and me, and told us that she had just seen such a nice young lady, and that she had promised to come and be our governess. What an excitement this news caused us all! How we talked it over all day long. We had many different ideas as to what she was to be like; in fact, the elder boys made pictures of her, which, as it turned out, were anything but good portraits. How we did look at her that first evening! She was very young, very fair and in deep mourning. That is my earliest impression of her. We had a kind of unconfessed idea that she did not take half pains enough to make us like her. She did not seem to care whether we did or not--hardly, I fancy, to think about the matter. It was just the very end of April, almost the bright May-time, and grandmamma went round the garden with her, Lottie and I making our remarks from a distance. I think we were a little surprised to see our new governess so much at her ease, laughing merrily and talking away to grandmamma, just as if there were no little critics taking note of all. By and by, she came in and sat down in "the schoolroom"--such a new word that seemed!--to write a letter. Lottie and I pretended to be very busy with our dolls in one corner, but we were keeping up our watch, and every now and then we met her eye with a merry twinkle in it, looking greatly amused at us. "She looks so young, only a girl! she will never be able to manage us, Jane says," Lottie remarked very softly to me; "but then, I daresay, she can be cross enough when she likes, governesses always are!" All of a sudden, a merry laugh startled us both, and in another minute Lottie found herself flat on the floor, being tickled and kissed and laughed over all at once. I don't think she quite liked it, though she couldn't help laughing, too, but her cheeks were very red, when Miss Grant raised her own head. She kept Lottie flat on her back, and looked down at her, the most thorough amusement all over her face. "Cross enough, do you think? Oh, yes, to be sure I can! Cross enough to eat you up at one mouthful, and little Sissy after you!" How funny it sounded! Lottie laughed and so did I, only very nervously. Then all at once Miss Grant grew very comically grave, and asked us whether we thought we should soon make her cross? And then followed such a funny talk, I think I shall never forget it. Miss Grant was half lying on the sofa now, Lottie and I were bobbing up and down beside her, sometimes looking right into her blue laughing eyes, sometimes hiding our own rosy faces, that she mightn't see how queer she made us feel. "You don't much like the idea of having a governess, I see," she said; "you fancy it will be lessons, lessons all day long now, a great deal of crying, and punishments, very hard things to learn, and no fun any more. If that's what it really is going to be, I shall get so unhappy that I shall soon run away home again! And then you think I shall have to grow cross and ill-tempered, too--that is the worst part of it all." She pretended to be ready to cry, and Lottie, who didn't quite like to give up her own opinion, muttered something about "She thought they always were!" "Are they?" asked Miss Grant, just as if she really wanted to know, and, when we laughed and hid our faces, she went on: "I think I know how it is. This is what you will do to me: You will begin by getting into all the mischief you can think of, and that will give me a headache; and then you will be cross and rude, and that will give me great, deep lines in the forehead; and last of all, you will do vulgar things, that will make my mouth get into the 'don't' shape, which is so ugly, you know; and, by and by, when I look at myself in the glass, I shall find myself turned into a grey-headed old woman, and I shall say, 'Sissy gave me those wrinkles between my eyes, I always had to frown at her so;' and then, 'Those ugly lines by my mouth came when Lottie vexed me so.' What a funny thing it will be to have to remember you in that way when you are grown-up people!" Of course, we did not like this way of taking it for granted that we were rude, troublesome children, yet there was a funny look in Miss Grant's eyes that seemed as if she didn't really mean what she said. And the end of it all was that we made a compact, as she called it, that we would be ever so good-tempered, and then she and we would have the happiest time together that you can fancy. And I think it all came true. Thanks to our papas and mammas, we were not quite the rude children we might have been. They had saved us ever so much trouble, and ever so many tears, by teaching us that hardest lesson "do as you are told," before we were old enough to understand its difficulty. And Miss Grant was always so bright and happy that she scarcely ever let us suspect, even in the naughtiest times, that we were "making the lines come." Out of doors she was the merriest among us, and grandmamma would often say to Lottie that she was ever so much older than Miss Grant, because she would walk soberly about with a book, while Miss Grant was having all sorts of fun with the boys. At last she, too, caught the infection, and then we all had the merriest romps together! How well I remember those early summer days, and the luxury of flowers everywhere. Is there anything so happy-looking, so full of overflowing delight, as the long grass, and the buttercups and daisies, hawthorn and bluebells? We thought ourselves very wise about flowers then, and had very decided opinions on the proper blending of colours. Miss Grant was teaching us this, and even now, when I see any one making a nosegay of wild-flowers, I fancy myself running up to her with a handful of bright things, to watch in my eagerness how they were in a minute turned into the beautiful bouquet that nobody could equal or copy. She had been with us some time, when one morning we had a visitor come to spend the day at Beecham. This lady was not old, yet she had the most wrinkled, aged face I ever saw. When she was gone, Harry, who never minded what he said, asked grandmamma about her, and cried out in surprise when he heard that she had been his own father's playfellow. "You think Mrs. Mowbray looks double as old as papa, do you?" said grandmamma. "Ah, it is trouble that has aged her. You would not wonder at all those lines and wrinkles if you knew all the sorrow and grief her own poor boys have given her through their sin and wilfulness!" Lottie and I looked at each other, and then glanced slily at Miss Grant, but I don't think she noticed us. When we were alone again, we resolved that we would try ever so hard to be good. "Because, you know, Sissy, it wouldn't be nice if Miss Grant were to get her face all puckered and creasy like that, just as if it wanted ironing out, as Susette did with my frock when Murray scrunched it all up under his pillow to hide it. But I suppose you couldn't iron out your face!" Anyhow, I agreed with Lottie not to run any risks, and I do not think we did. At least, all my memories of that happy year at Beecham are mingled with the bright, merry, gentle friend who made easy all the lessons that could be easy, and gave me courage for those that _had_ to be hard; and against whose shoulder I loved to nestle, and listen to Bible-stories with those little hints in them which always set me thinking of my own faults and duties, and made me long to do right, and be the good little Christian girl she wished me to be. Little reader, dear, are you making lines on anybody's forehead? VII. _HURRAH FOR THE HOLIDAYS!_ And yet, however pleasant lessons might be, there is no doubt that holidays were pleasant things, too. Saturday afternoons were always welcome, and all the weeks through we were planning what we would do when they came. Of course these plans were sometimes upset by a rainy day; but, even then, what with battledore and shuttlecock, painting and spinning tops, we contrived to make out the time very happily. And before us all the while was the bright, pleasant prospect of the long summer holidays. Every now and then during these happy months the thought of home came across me, and sometimes one of mamma's letters would have in it so much about Bobby and his play, and his prattle about Sissy's coming back, that I grew a little home-sick and looked wistfully into grandmamma's face as she read the letter. This would always make her say: "You don't want to go home, little one? Aren't you very happy here with Lottie and the boys? And you are getting on so nicely with your books, too; mamma is so pleased to have you with so many little schoolfellows, and kind Miss Grant to teach you! And we are going to have all kinds of pleasant treats in the holidays. No, no, we must keep you another month or two! Perhaps we will send you home when the cold weather comes!" So I ran away again to make plans with Lottie about all the many things that must be done the very first day of no lessons. Then came the last time of history, and the last dreadful sums, and the last copy written, and the last hard French words learnt, and then, happiest of all, the last putting away of books and cleaning of slates! It almost makes me take that long breath for joy even now only to remember that happy day. "And don't you think I'm the happiest of us all?" said Miss Grant; "I am the only one really going home for the holidays!" Which remark was a great relief to my little mind, for I had been afraid we must seem a great deal too glad that she was going. Now I could venture on my very loudest "hurrah," which, after all, was but a feeble imitation of the boys' loud cheers. You know, anticipation is the best part of every pleasure; in easier words, everything looks brighter before it comes than when it _is_ come. I think that was very nearly the happiest day of my whole year at Beecham, when I sat on the floor watching the last things put into Miss Grant's box, and chattering away about the happy days coming. You see, for a long time I had got up every morning with the thought of how many good marks I should get, and of how those hard letters and figures were to be made, and though I had made many a brave fight and won many a delightful victory over the books, yet it _was_ very nice to think that to-morrow I should awake with the holiday feeling instead. And the next morning did really come, though we thought it never would, and we made a very long meal of breakfast, being not quite sure what was to come next. It was a funny day, that first day! Grandmamma and Uncle Hugh went away early for a long drive, and all sorts of business at the end of it; and we knew they would not be home till ever so late. It was very hot--oh, so _very_ hot! We could not go into the sun at all, but Susette and Jane sent us out of the nursery very soon, that we might not disturb baby's midday sleep by our holiday fun. The school-room, of course, we avoided; so, after a little hesitation, we went out into the shade to play. [Illustration: UP TO THE MOON!] And, first of all, we thought of the swing as the best thing to be done, and for half an hour it _was_ most delightful! Don't you know the pleasant feeling it is, just up at the very highest point, when you are not _quite_ sure whether you are frightened or not? Don't you know? And you laugh a little anxiously, and are very glad to find yourself safely down again. Oh, it was very good fun for _a little while_! Only Harry came to swing us, and he was so fond of seeing your feet up into the branches, that you never could be quite sure that he would not send you head-over-heels. Lottie was very brave, but I could not quite stand it, so I stood by and watched; and when they asked me to have another try, I said, "No, thank you." I think Alick saw that I was a little red and uncomfortable, for he asked me to come and play on the lawn. We ran away, taking a last look at the two elder ones. It was not such boisterous play that we had, we two together, yet I think we enjoyed it very much, half-talking, half-playing. We were very good friends, and the morning went very quickly. When the dinner-bell rang, we agreed that we would start off together as soon as we could for the apple-orchard at the top of the hill, where we were not likely to be disturbed. That hot July afternoon, how well I remember it! All among the long grass we lay, looking up at the little, young apples overhead, and now and then setting our teeth in the sour middles of those that had fallen. But we were a little afraid of the effects of these unripe, bullet things, so we did no more than taste them. Then my eight-year-old cousin began to say me long pages of poetry, and when he had exhausted his stores, he astonished me by the funny, learned sound of his Latin declensions. "You know, Sissy," he said, "I mean to be a very learned man some day, and know twelve or fourteen languages, I think. I shall not be content till I know more than anybody else. It will be nice to be wiser than papa. He's ever so clever, you see; but then, of course, new things will be found out every year, and sons must always get a-head of their fathers, or else the world would stand still, you see." I didn't quite see, but I pretended to. Alick had been very confidential lately, and I knew what a sore spot there was in his heart making him talk like this. Hadn't he confided to me with a fierce, red heat on his forehead how his father had told him he wasn't "half a boy," because he had turned giddy climbing a high tree? "But papa always says when Harry bangs his head about, that he doesn't believe there can be any brains behind such a skull as his. I dare say that is the difference between us." So said the young scholar with all the satisfaction possible, and I believed in him with all my heart. [Illustration: HOLIDAY TIME.] However, even he grew tired of wise talk, and proposed a game with the fallen apples. How we pelted each other, how we laughed, and, oh, how hot we did get at last! Then off came hats and jackets, and were left behind under the trees while we went to rest ourselves in a piece of open shade, thrown by that large barn where, by and by, the apples would be stored away; and this was the moment which I seized to get his advice as to a new toy I had lately bought to send to Bobbie. It was one of those wooden soldiers whose arms and legs are to go by means of a string; but the string, you know, is always getting hitched. This was the case now, and it tasked all Alick's wonderful brains to set it right. How my back and arm did ache as I held it up for him, lying flat on the grass, to twitch, and pull, and contrive, and, at last, to conquer! That happy moment had just come when there was a sound of wheels in the road near us. One minute more, and Uncle Hugh's voice was heard calling us, and the carriage stopped to take us up. What grand, glorious news we were told as we drove home, two hatless, jacketless, sun-burnt children, I must not tell you this time. VIII. _THE COTTAGE ON THE CLIFF._ "Well, my dearie," said grandmamma, "uncle and I have just taken such a pretty little cottage for you all, high up on the cliff, looking right over the blue sea. And you are to go off and try if the fresh wind up there will put a little more colour into those cheeks of yours!" My dear little friends, I had just nestled down snugly enough on grandmamma's silk dress and black lace shawl, never having the least idea of the dear, kind purpose of that long sixteen miles' drive, so you won't be surprised to hear that the news gave me such a start that I very nearly jumped out of the carriage. And Alick--well, I don't know whether he was really half a boy or three quarters, but his shout certainly made you fancy him quite a _whole_ boy at that minute! Oh, the bright, bright pictures that came tumbling one over another in one's mind, at the idea of the cottage on the cliff, crabs and shrimps and shells and sea-weed, and merry, merry waves in one happy muddle! And do you know, nothing could induce the horses to trot fast enough up the long drive; they never seemed to consider one bit how much we had to tell, nor, indeed, how much we had _to do_, in preparation for to-morrow. What if they had done a good thirty miles since breakfast, they could stay at home next day and eat hay from morning to night and leave it to Fairy and Whitefoot to do the hot work for us. I really cannot tell you how much sleep we got that night. I have a distinct remembrance of kicking all the bed-clothes off ever so many times, and of calling out to Lottie in the next room, without the smallest respect to rules. And there was Jane as busy as could be, with Susette, packing up little frocks, and pinafores, and nightgowns. Every now and then she would stop to say, "Really, Miss Sissy, you _must_ be quiet, and go to sleep!" But, you know, that was just one of those remarks which it is of no use listening to. It's funny how sometimes sleep seems to run away and won't be caught anyhow! Next night it was just the same. Only it was quite different, too. You know what I mean. That funny bedroom, with its white curtains covered with pink rose-buds, and the venetian blinds, and the moon shining through, mixed up somehow with the sound of the waves; and to have Lottie in the same large bed with me--oh, it was all so odd! And the narrow passages with two stairs at every turn, and the rooms opening right in each other's faces, so to say! It felt queer, too, to know that we were alone in the house with only Susette and Jane to take care of us, the woman of the house to do hard work, and Gus to run errands for us. By some means or other we did go to sleep at last, and afterwards woke up in the morning to wonder where we were. And then came all the wonders of the new place to be discovered. Harry had persuaded grandmamma to send over the steady old pony with us, and no sooner was breakfast over than he appeared at the door led by Gus, for Master Harry to go, as he called it, on a voyage of discovery. I am not sure that our nurses were not rather glad to be rid of this "Turk of a boy," as they called him; for Harry, good-natured as he was, could not lose a chance of teasing the little ones, and sometimes, a little hurting their tempers. [Illustration: I'M COMING!] There was a great hollow place in the cliff close to our house, down which was the way to the beach, which we took with the least possible delay. Then came the first delights of bathing, and when that was over, the digging in the sand and hunting for shells, while baby took his morning sleep on Susette's lap. By and by we went home to dinner, and after that, to hemming and sewing and reading with the nurses. And when early tea was over, it was cool enough for a fresh walk over the hills, or away to the rocks farther off. This was the way we spent four pleasant weeks, getting as rosy and strong as any one could wish. Three or four times we were surprised in our morning play on the beach by the welcome sight of Uncle Hugh. For, every now and then, he would ride over to give grandmamma some news of the children. This was a great delight, for it was sure to mean, first of all, that there were letters from home for us all,--those foreign sheets that Lottie loved to see, and the long crossed letters full of mamma's love to me. And to us four elder ones, Harry and Lottie and Alick and me, uncle's visit always meant a glorious afternoon in a boat far out at sea. I hardly know whether Harry or Gus delighted most in the prospect of these visits. The pleasure simply of holding the "Capitaine's" horse was enough to make the French boy's eyes glisten and his teeth shine with the broadest smile. And to Harry the delight of handling an oar or managing a sail was beyond anything delicious. But the visit which we had all most cause to remember was the last which Uncle Hugh paid us. He was going away to London on business--business which would soon end in another long voyage, the news of which brought a flush of pleasure to Gus's cheeks, soon changed to intense disappointment at the news that he must this time be left in England. That afternoon we were longer than usual on the sea, only returning just in time for a late tea and bed. Uncle Hugh started about seven o'clock, and Harry as usual mounted his pony in great haste to go with him part of the way. I remember that uncle was in a hurry, and did not wait for him, for as I stood undressing near the window I saw Harry waving his hat and calling after him, with the two dogs at his side. [Illustration: THROUGH THICK AND THIN.] The long summer evening faded away; from my pillow I saw the stars come out one by one, and then kissing my hand to them, I let my sleepy eyes go shut, and was soon in the midst of pleasant dreamland. I don't know how long after this it was, that I was aroused by a sound of whispers at the door, and then by a little timid question from Lottie, "Susette, isn't Harry come home?" "But no, Miss Lottie," was the answer in a troubled voice, and Jane broke in: "Hush, hush! you'll wake Miss Sissy! Go to sleep, there's a darling. He'll be home directly now--no need to be frightened!" "No need to be frightened!" said Susette, in her foreign accent. "But, yes----" Jane had pulled her out of the room, and Lottie and I, now wide awake, were left to wonder, and talk in low, frightened tones. Lottie had heard the whining of one of the dogs under the window--both dogs had gone off with Harry--and she had heard Susette call Jane gently, and then they had whispered outside the door something about Gus and the dog; and after that she had heard Gus run off under the window, the dog barking joyfully and going, too. How we lay and trembled! By and by I got out of bed, and peeped through the Venetians, in spite of Lottie's entreaties. "Oh, Sissy, please don't! Susette will be so angry! Please, Sissy, come back!" I protested that Susette was not _my_ nurse, yet I knew she could scold in such a bewildering torrent of French as did sometimes frighten me; and as I could see nothing but the calm, beautiful starlit sky over the sleeping sea, I dropped the blind, and sprang back into bed. It made a noise as I dropped it, and for some time the fear of being heard, and the anxiety to appear asleep if any one came, made us forget our alarm about Harry. In fact, I think we were getting sleepy again--I was, at least--but we started up at the sound of the hall-door softly opened, and then men's footsteps on the stairs. There was a low moan as the steps passed our door. Oh, how breathlessly we waited! Once, even, I had the door ajar, and was peeping out, when a hurried hand outside suddenly shut it again, making me start back. By and by there was a sound of footsteps going downstairs, and in a moment Lottie and I were both in the passage entreating Jane to tell us what had happened. "Master Harry has been tumbled over the pony's head, Miss Lottie," she said, "and he's been lying in a ditch nobody knows how long; but the dog's saved his life--him and Gus together--and the doctor hopes he won't be very bad, no bones being broken, only bruises and knocks of the head. He don't quite know himself, you see, yet, poor young gentleman! and we have to keep him quiet, so you must go and be as still as mice. The doctor'll be here in the morning, and the missis, too, may be!" All this while she was tucking us into bed again, and when she drew the curtains and left us we were afraid to whisper even, for fear of being heard in the next room and hurting Harry. At breakfast the next morning we were told that Gus was "nigh about at Beecham by this time," and before evening the carriage had come just in sight, and stopped, and grandmamma was walking up to the house. Then followed a very quiet week, during which we never spoke aloud without getting a sharp "hush!" Indeed, we were not allowed to be in the house a minute longer than necessary, being down on the beach whenever we were not eating, drinking, or sleeping. By the end of the week, Harry was to be seen at these rare intervals looking very pale, and quiet, and unlike himself on the sofa. I distinctly remember feeling rather pleased as I looked from him to Alick, and thought how much more of a boy Alick looked with his brown, rosy face, than the pale, languid, almost girlish elder brother, speaking in a weak, tired voice from his pillow. It was about another ten days before the close carriage came from Beecham, and with plenty of soft cushions, Harry was laid in it, and driven away back to the Park. When we saw him there on our return, he was almost himself again, merry and bright, but a little pale and easily tired. IX. _SUSETTE AND HER TROUBLES._ So we all came back to Beecham Park, and the holidays were over, and we had to buckle to work again; work that had a pleasant mixture of play in it, out-of-door fun, Saturday rambles and birthday treats. When first we returned from the sea-side there came a very earnest letter from mamma, begging that Sissy might really be sent home now, for surely grandmamma had had enough, and too much, of her. Indeed, a message was added at the end to say that papa had made up his mind to take a holiday and run down to fetch me. All seemed to be settled, and I myself got into that doubtful state--glad to go home but, oh, so sorry to leave this happy Beecham home! I began to wonder, too, whether I should feel quite at home with papa when he came, and on the morning fixed for his arrival, a very shy fit came over me, so that, at first, it seemed rather a relief when Harry called out to me that a letter had come from my home, and that I was to go up to grandmother at once. But what a grave, sad face met me! My very heart stood still as she kissed me. Then in gentle words she told me that Bobbie was ill, had caught the scarlet fever, so papa could not come. And, to dear grandmamma, I think it was a very anxious time that followed. My little head could not take in all it meant when news came of danger, then of baby's illness, then of nurse's. I could see that other people were sorry; once I found Jane crying, and was caught up on to her lap and kissed and talked to, till a clear memory of the dear, chubby little brother at home came back to me, and I had a long, miserable fit of sobbing. But, you see, I had been away from them all for nearly six months, and the little brothers and sisters around me had somehow shut out the two little fellows at home, and my play and lessons at Beecham seemed much more real than the sorrow all those miles away. In a few weeks all the worst time was over, but, of course, there was no idea now of my going home. I wonder if grandmamma ever thought, in the early spring, that for a whole year she was to have her house full of children! For a long time we fancied every week that we should hear of aunt and uncle coming home. Every now and then Lottie and I would fret a little bit at the idea of parting, but still it did not come. One morning brought a letter for Lottie, with a great deal of news in it. She read it to me in the nursery, as we were having our hair brushed for the evening in the drawing-room. It told us that her papa had just made up his mind to take the work of a clergyman in a more out-of-the-way part, somewhere between Switzerland and Germany, and that it was just the place to suit her mamma, so they would probably stay there till Christmas. Besides, there were some little German cousins of Lottie's living close by with their aunt, so there was a great deal to tell altogether. We were very eager talking about little Heinrich and Carl--so eager that at first we never noticed that Susette had thrown herself into a chair with clasped hands, and her black eyes full of tears. When we came to question her, she said Monsieur and Madame had gone to a place close to her native village, and would they--oh, would they--see her poor, poor father, in the misery extreme, frightful! We were quite used to Susette now, and not at all surprised at her passionate manner; and if we did a little smile to each other at that favourite word "affreuse," yet Lottie was eager and sincere enough in her assurances that certainly papa would go and look for the poor family. Out came the foreign paper at once, and if the summons to the dining-room had not come at that moment, I believe the letter would have been written there and then. As it was, it certainly went the next day. It was our first piece of anything like charity, and we waited eagerly for the answer from Lottie's papa, which, of course, did not arrive directly it was wanted. At last the morning came, when the postman, met by three eager children half-way down the drive, was greeted by the happy cry, "Oh, there it is! I see it in his hand!" And the much-longed-for prize was snatched from him, and triumphantly carried off to the nursery. "Oh, children, do keep off! You must let Susette hear!" cried Lottie, and then she read this. But first let me say that this wonderful letter, having been put away with other more important old papers, has become very worn and yellow, and you must forgive me if I leave out a piece here and there, where it is too torn to read. "'My dear Lottie and all the Chicks,--Your letter came very safely all by itself the other day, just as well as if it had been in grandmamma's as usual; and papa knew what an eager little woman his Lottie was, and so he made his discoveries as soon as possible, and here they are! Poor Susette, I don't wonder she was anxious to know all about her poor father, and the rest of them. They have had a hard time of it since she left them, but they are all so fond of her, and so glad to get news of her. Such a good girl as she is to them all! Mind, children, you make much of her, and don't add to all she has to worry about." [Illustration: SUSETTE'S SISTER.] At this point we all looked at Susette, and little Murray squeezed her hand. Her black eyes were overflowing, and her rosy lips were pressed tightly together; yet she was looking very happy and pleased. Then Lottie went on:-- "'Heinrich and I set off at once to ----' (reader, I _cannot_ read the name of the village!), 'but some time before we got there we met a pretty Swiss girl, with a bundle of corn on her head, whose eyes and mouth reminded me very much of your kind nurse. So I put my hand on Heinrich's shoulder to stop him, and then I asked her if her name was Laurec, and she said, "Yes." So we had a long talk, and she told me all about them at home, and of the fever in the village, and the want of work, and all the rest. I fancy it has been little short of starvation for them all this long time. Then I let her hurry on to tell them at home who was coming. Such a sweet hill-side village as I cannot hope to make my little English birds understand, with its pretty chalets lying against the rock, and the bushy trees shooting out of the cliff above and around them. I went up to the one pointed out to me, and there, lying on a heap of rags, was Susette's little blind sister, that she has often talked to you about. Dear little patient thing! turning her large, dark, sightless eyes towards me with such a bright smile! As she spoke of "le bon Dieu," I thought of the pretty French hymns you used to try to learn, and it gave the soft French words a softer sound when they were on such a happy theme. But we could not stay there; so making our little present to the dear child, we set off up the mountain. We had not gone far, when, among a flock of goats scattered over the hill, we found a poor old man sitting on a rock, with very downcast look, and little Pierre Laurec, who had come to show us the way, told us it was his father. The poor old man was very much out of heart, and it was some time before we could make him understand that we wanted to help him. At Susette's name he looked mournfully in my face as I sat down by him, murmuring that she was gone, gone, bonne fille! [Illustration: UNHAPPY.] "'Well, you know, I must not make my letter too long. Tell Susette that things look brighter now in her old home; that Pierre has found some work in our garden, and his sister comes now and then to your aunt's house; and that we will look after them a little, and send you more news soon. "'Mamma sends ever so much love, and many, many thanks to dear grandmamma for offering to house her tiresome chicks for a few more months. What a grand, happy Christmas we will have together! That is, if only I can get mamma well enough to brave an English winter. Poor mamma wants sadly to get a sight of her baby.--Ever your affectionate "'FATHER.'" That was the letter, reader. Don't you think it was well worth waiting for? X. _AUTUMN DAYS._ "What an idea, papa talking about Christmas!" Alick said, when we came to the end of the letter; and it did seem funny that hot autumn afternoon, when all the leaves were in a glow, looking as if they had been burnt up so long they couldn't and wouldn't bear it any longer! Perhaps they meant to come down. But I suppose, now I come to think of it, that months don't seem so never-ending to grown-up people as they do to children; they are more prepared to see the time fly, you don't know how, so they are not surprised when they find it gone. Besides, you see, they don't get taller and taller as the months pass, so, of course, the time must seem to run past very quickly, they standing still all the while! How odd it must be! I heard a little boy remonstrating last night-- "Well, but, uncle, if you keep your clothes till next year they'll be ever so much too small for you!" Everybody laughed, and told him that uncle, being six feet high, didn't expect to grow any more; and, of course, as I said before, if Alick's papa stood still, the time _would_ seem to go very quickly. And so, I suppose, when the end of October came, he didn't cry out as we did all of a sudden: "I do declare it is not quite two months to Christmas!" It was one damp, misty afternoon, and Lottie, and Alick, and I were learning our lessons all alone in the school-room. We were trying to get the last glimmer of daylight at the window, but it was hardly enough to see what six times nine might be, and that was my great difficulty. You know, don't you? how the things that "you do so want to say" will come into your head just when you ought to be very silent and busy! It's _very_ odd; but even now that I am old enough to know better, I never want so much to talk as just when I ought to be quiet. I wonder how it is? Anyhow, it seemed quite impossible to hold one's tongue that afternoon. Alick was as busy and quiet as could be, working out a hard sum on his slate, but even he looked up when Lottie started that wonderful idea about Christmas; and then we all joined in wondering how the time had gone, and what lots of fun Christmas would bring with it. I had my own particular share of delight, for was there not a certain prospect of papa and mamma coming to the Park to take me home? My little cousins, too, were looking forward to home directly after Christmas; but their mamma could not come and fetch them. She had been well enough to travel, and would be in England very soon now; that is, in the little island down in the south, you know, where the invalids go. She would get a nice home ready for them there and then, as she said in her letters, "have the delight of calling back all the chicks under her wings again!" Well, it was just all these things that we were talking about over our lesson-books at the school-room, when our attention was caught by two figures coming up the drive in the mist. Such a foggy afternoon as it was, all the dead leaves hanging yellow and dripping from the trees! It was not till they got quite up to the house that we saw that the two men were going to give us some music. One had some bagpipes and the other a kind of horn, and, of course, all thought of lessons went out of our heads when we heard them begin. What fun it was to listen, and to watch their queer grimaces and antics, as they danced about to their own music! But we had not been enjoying this long when a terrible thing happened. Oh, little reader, it makes me shudder now! You must understand that our school-room was on the ground-floor, but raised a good way from the ground; a separate room built out from the house, the roof sloping out under the windows of the day-nursery. [Illustration: GIVE US A COPPER!] The first thing we thought of was calling the little ones to hear the music; but when I proposed it, Alick said he was sure they knew all about it, he could hear their voices. Lottie declared that that was impossible; we never heard anything from the nursery unless the window was open. Just then the men began to beg, and Alick ran off to get some pence. Grandmamma said they were to have a cup of the servants' tea, and Alick went to the kitchen to ask for it. When he came back, he told us that Susette was down there getting baby's supper, and that Jane was teazing her about her "brothers the players!" "Oh, Alick!" cried Lottie, "then that's it! Murray and Bertie have got the window open to hear better, and in all this fog and wet!" Alick was just going to laugh at her for being such an "old fidget," when we were startled by a loud cry, and the sound of something falling down the roof. At the same moment we saw Harry rushing up to the house--he was just home from his lessons at the curate's--throwing his arms about in the most excited way. "Oh, it's Murray tumbled out of window?" cried Lottie. And away we all rushed to the front door, feeling sick with fear. Now, up the side of the wall grew a very thick, bushy fig-tree, the stem of which was very big of its kind. When we rushed out into the foggy air, there was Harry clambering so cleverly up among the large, wet leaves; and on the edge of the roof, caught by his clothes in some way that we could not see, was poor little Murray! Susette covered her face with her hands, and most of us turned away too frightened to look. I remember hiding my face in Jane's gown, and feeling her stroking my hair; and I never looked up till there was a cry that it was all right, and Harry and Murray were both safe on the ground again. How glad we all were, and how we all talked at once, and said how we had felt, and how Murray cried though he wasn't hurt, only frightened--all this I mustn't stop to tell you. By and by it came to be one of those things that are always nice to talk about with shudders, and sighs, and laughter. Many and many a tea-time the same wonder and thankfulness were repeated, always beginning with, "Don't you remember that dreadful day?" and so on. Meanwhile Christmas was coming, and Christmas weather came sooner still. Then the snow collected outside the nursery window, and the mornings were very dark, and bed the only comfortable place; and Gus's hands got blue, and his face thin and pinched, and he wished himself away with the "Capitaine" in the warm South Seas. [Illustration: LOOK AT ME!] But there was fun, too, about that cold weather; fun with the snow-man in the Park; fun in learning to skate on the frozen pond, shut in so nicely with the fir-trees; and fun in the real Christmas treats, Christmas-trees, and Christmas games. And so it was a very bright time that came to finish up those happy Beecham days. The end of it all was saying "good-bye" to grandmamma and cousins one fine, frosty morning, just the other side of New Year's Day, and driving off between papa and mamma. When you think of my first evening in that drawing-room, perhaps you will wonder at the doubtful look which I know there was on my face, and which made papa look right into my eyes, questioning, as he said, "Whether I wanted to go home or not." XI. _GOOD-BYE TO BEECHAM._ Was I glad to go home or sorry? How could I tell? When it came to the train, it was all such fun that I chattered away to mamma as fast as possible about the stations we should pass, and the things we should see, till I saw an old gentleman opposite exchanging smiles with mamma. That made me feel shy, and shrink back into the corner silent enough; and with the silence came a sigh, and five minutes later mamma's question surprised me, in a fit of melancholy thought, about all that I had left behind me. When would Lottie and I meet again? And how should we know which was getting on best with the history? Ah, those nice history lessons, with all those exciting stories and our favourite heroes, who would read them with me now? I am not at all sure that I did not have to choke down two or three tears before I could answer mamma. Do you think she noticed it? We were getting near our own station now, and I grew very eager, looking out for papa's brougham. How cold the air was, going out of the station, and what a cosy remembrance of home feeling there was about the soft corner, where I had often nestled when driving with papa! I don't remember much about Bobby's welcome; I know both little brothers seemed a little strange to me till about the middle of tea-time. Bobby was very hot and excited with his half-hour before the nursery fire, making toast for Sissy's first tea at home. I could feel that he was looking at me very hard, but I don't think we were either of us quite comfortable till he had thrown his arms round my neck, repeating his old cry, "Nursey, I'm so glad Sissy's come home!" After that it was all right, and we chattered away nineteen to the dozen. Dear old nurse! she was as pleased to see me again as possible. Indeed, I am not sure that she did not keep me up half an hour later than mamma intended, just talking to me and "blessing my little heart," in her own loving fashion. When I went through the night nursery at last to my own little room, I made her let me stop and look at the little ones; and what a hugging and kissing she gave me when I declared that they were ever so much prettier than the Beecham cousins. Dear little Bobby, with his sweet, rosy, budding mouth, and baby Willie's round cheeks and bright, golden curls, I can remember just how they looked! In a day or two we settled down together, and I was quite at home. The only person who still seemed restless was Jane. For two or three weeks she was always talking about the Park, and wishing herself back there. Then, all of a sudden, she grew quite bright and happy, and talked away to nurse in quite a different way. I didn't know what it all meant; and especially, I couldn't think why she was always getting so red when nurse talked about flowers and plants. At last I found out that Jane was going away altogether; and a month or two after Christmas, nurse dressed Bobby and me one day, and took us to church, and mamma took care of baby at home. And at church we saw Jane with her father and mother, and I whispered to Bobby that the strange man with them was Mr. Owen, grandmamma's head-gardener, and I couldn't think how he came to be in our church! But when the service was all over, nurse took us into the vestry, and told us to go and give Jane a kiss, because she was Mrs. Owen now, and we must "say something pretty." It doesn't seem to do to tell little folks that sort of thing. You remember, when Jane herself gave me that charge ever so long ago, it didn't answer, and now there was Bobby crying and sobbing out that "Mr. Owen shouldn't take Janie away; he was a naughty man; he didn't like him at all!" But nobody seemed to mind this, indeed they all looked pleased; and Mr. Owen turned round, and asked me if he should take me back to Beecham too? Ah, by this time, I was quite sure, and didn't hesitate at all when I said, "No, thank you, I'd rather stay at home." * * * * * And now, little readers, I meant to have tumbled you off my knee, and sent you up to bed, for I fancy my story has not kept you from getting sleepy. But there is nursie making signs to me, as much as to say, "Go on talking; amuse the little ones a bit longer, please, for the bath isn't ready and the water isn't hot, and I can't have them yet." What shall I tell you about? Oh, I know! that second visit of mine to Beecham. It was only a very short one, so five minutes' talk will tell you all about it. I was a great tall girl then, and I had just left school, when grandmamma's letter came, asking Bobby and me to come and spend a few days at the Park with Lottie, and Harry, and Alick. I couldn't say, "No, thank you," if I had wished to, for it was likely to be the last time we five should meet for a long time. Harry, now a young lieutenant with brass buttons and fair moustache, was bound on a long voyage, which would have some fighting at the end; and Lottie was to be married in a fortnight, and to go off to Australia; and Alick, too, was just starting on a tour with his tutor, after which he was to go to a great college in Germany. But there was another reason for our visit which I did not know till I got there, though, I fancy, mamma did. Grandmamma met us with a very tearful welcome, and it was natural for us all to feel sad as we looked at her, so aged since we saw her last, and in her deep, deep mourning. We couldn't help thinking of the blue sea far away, with the soft spicy wind blowing from the beautiful coral islands over the quiet waves, which had so cruelly sucked in dear Uncle Hugh's brave ship and all on board. But the pleasure of meeting soon put away all sad thoughts, and I think even grandmamma looked bright and contented as she listened to our merry talk. It was in the middle of the long summer days, and we rambled about through the gardens, and orchards, and shrubberies where we had played as little children, and laughed over the remembrance of our childish tricks and troubles. Then there was that long talk with grandmamma, and afterwards with Bobby, in her room. When Lottie and I found ourselves alone together just at bed-time, how much we had to say! It seemed to me a little difficult to talk over all her affairs, though when, after some time, she called upon me to admire my two tall cousins, I was quite ready to do so. Yet my own rosy, round-faced, romping schoolboy brother was much more in my thoughts now. I don't think I had ever known till now that my mother was grandmamma's eldest child, so it had never struck me that, now that dear uncle was gone, Bobby, and not Harry, would be master of Beecham Park! How strange it did seem! I thought of the funny boy's blushing awkwardness when grandmamma had told him, and then of his confession to me that "it was a horrid bore, he had so meant to be a discoverer, and get lost in Africa like Dr. Livingstone; and now, he supposed, he couldn't!" And just before I went to sleep that night I thought of his last words about it a few hours ago, as he threw his strong arm over my shoulder:-- "I say, Sis, it'll be ever so long first--that's one comfort!--but if ever I do have to come and live here, you'll come too, won't you? Then you can see after it all, you know, and then it won't be quite so bad!" Should I? Would Beecham ever be my real home? And Jane--Jane down at the Lodge with her three rosy, tidy little daughters. Wasn't this just what she said years ago when she first brought me to Beecham? "What if Master Bobby should grow up some day to find it all his own, and he the lord of it all!" So it had come to pass, and Beecham, dear beautiful Beecham, was to be really _ours_! That was a dozen years ago, my small friends; how funny it seems now! THE END. Simmons & Botten, Printers, 4A, Shoe Lane, E. C. * * * * * =BY MRS. MARSHALL.= EDWARD'S WIFE: a Tale. In crown 8vo, Frontispiece, 5s., cloth. "This is a very charming story; fresh, natural, and touching."--Christian Advocate. CHRISTABEL KINGSCOTE; or, The Patience of Hope. Crown 8vo. Frontispiece. 5s., cloth. VIOLET DOUGLAS; or, The Problems of Life. Crown 8vo. Frontispiece, 5s., cloth. "A pleasant, healthy story of English life, full of sound religious teaching."--Standard. THE OLD GATEWAY; or, the Story of Agatha. Crown 8vo, Frontispiece, 5s., cloth. 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20260	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 20260-h.htm or 20260-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/2/6/20260/20260-h/20260-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/2/6/20260/20260-h.zip) DAYBREAK A Story for Girls by FLORENCE A. SITWELL [Frontispiece: "Little night-dresses rustled."] London S. W. Partridge & Co. 9 Paternoster Row. 1888 Contents. CHAPTER I. LIFE IN THE ORPHANAGE II. THE FLIGHT III. IN THE HOSPITAL IV. IN A THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE V. BY THE SEA VI. CHRISTMAS DAY Illustrations. "Little night-dresses rustled." . . . . . . _Frontispiece_ The Westminster clock tower. St. Thomas' Hospital. Kate and Frances. DAYBREAK. CHAPTER I. LIFE IN THE ORPHANAGE. Long before it was light, little feet were passing up and down those great stone stairs, little voices whispered in the corridors, little night-dresses rustled by the superintendent's door. She did not think of sleeping, for though the moon still hung in the sky, it was Christmas morning--five o'clock on Christmas morning at the Orphanage; and the little ones had everything their own way on Christmas Day. So she sat up in bed, with the candle lighted beside her, bending her head over a book she held in her hand, and often smiling to herself as she listened to the sounds that revealed the children's joy. She was a grey-headed woman, with a face that might have been stern if the lines about the mouth had not been so gentle; a face, too, that was care-worn, yet full of peace. A tall night-cap surmounting her silvery grey hair gave her a quaint, even laughable appearance; but the orphan children reverenced the nightcap because they loved the head that, night after night, bent over them as a mother's might have done. She was reading Milton's "Ode on the Morning of Christ's Nativity," and only laid the book aside as the little feet gathered outside her door, and clear, passionless voices blended in a Christmas hymn. Then the sounds died away again in the distance, and she was left to follow in her thoughts. * * * * * * Upstairs to the great dormitory the children crept; trying to be as noiseless as the fairies who filled their Christmas stockings. Maggie, being the gentlest, led the way, and was trusted to open creaking doors; the younger ones formed the centre of the little army, and behind them all marched Jane, the trusted Jane, who, though she had been one year only at the Orphanage, had won the confidence of all. She was the daughter of honest, industrious, working people, and had not the sad tendencies to slippery conduct which many of the little ones possessed. She was true in word and in deed; and no one could measure the good of such an example amongst the children. The full moonlight was shining in the dormitory on many a little empty bed. Who could resist a pillow-fight? The sub-matron was up already trimming an extra beautiful bonnet to wear on this festive day. Jane remonstrated, but was met with a wrathful reminder that on Christmas Day Mother Agnes let them do just what they liked, a great pillow was hurled at poor Jane's head, and the fight began in real earnest. Just when the excitement was at its highest pitch, a fierce cry rang from the end of the room. The game ceased suddenly, and the children turned to see what had happened. There was that odd little new-comer, Kate Daniels, standing with hands clenched and dark eyes flashing, in front of the last small bed. "You wicked, rough girls," she said, "you have hurt my little sister. I shall make you feel it! I shall do something dreadful to you, Mary Kitson. I hate you!" In their excitement the children had quite forgotten that the little bed at the end of the dormitory had an occupant, a soft curly-headed child of six, who slept soundly regardless of the noise, till that awkward Mary tumbled over the bed and made her cry. They understood it all now, and Jane and Maggie moved up to the bed-side, hoping to soothe the sisters with kind words. But Kate stood in front of the bed glaring at them. "You treat us so because we are strangers," she said, "and I hate you all. I never wanted to come here--they made me come--and I shan't stay if I can help it. I shall run away, and take Frances." Little Frances, meanwhile, clung crying to her sister, who went on talking so wildly and passionately that Jane thought it better to make a move to the lavatory with the younger children, and leave the new girls for a time to themselves. A great change passed over poor Kate's face when she and her sister were once more alone together. The passion left it, and was replaced by a melancholy smile. She sat down on the bed, took her little sister's hand, and looked long into her face. "Are you much hurt, darling?" she said, at length. "Not so badly, but I made a great noise, didn't I!" Kate did not answer, but wrapping a petticoat round the child, lifted her out of bed. "Now, Frances, darling, come with me to the window, and I will show you the prettiest sight you ever saw, and we will forget all our troubles. Look at the roofs with the snow on them, and the moon making such strange, pale lights on the snow. Look at the icicles--did you ever see such lovely ones! Look at the trees--every tiniest little branch covered with frost! Look at the pictures the frost has made upon the window,--see, there are forests,--and oh, more wonderful things than I could tell. "Nobody loves you and me, Frances. We've only got each other,--and I hate everybody but you (you needn't do that though). But I am glad things are so pretty. One might almost think that somebody had loved you and me, and cared to make everything so pretty to please us!" Kate's eyes softened as she said this,--she had beautiful eyes, large and dark. The rest of her face was plain: it showed much strength of purpose, but little feeling. Poor Kate! the furrows on her forehead, the old, sad smile, so unlike a child's, and the bony hands, told of much hard work, much care, and deep and painful anxieties in the past. She was sitting on the window ledge, half supporting little Frances in her arms. It was no new attitude to Kate. Her figure was stunted and slightly bent from the efforts she had made years ago to carry her little sister about; but the weight of little Frances had rested upon her in another way also, and it was perhaps owing to her brave efforts to shield the child from evil and from grief that the contrast in appearance was so marked between the two sisters. Frances with her soft little pink and white face, her solemn eyes, and smiling mouth, and without a hard line anywhere, looked as if life had smiled upon her. All through the day the little strangers kept close together, and took very little notice of what went on around them. They ate their Christmas dinner in solemn silence, and declined to join in the games. Mother Agnes was disappointed, for her whole heart was bound up in her children's happiness; and least of all she could bear to see sad faces on Christmas Day. She watched Kate with much interest, but could not wholly understand her. * * * * * * Before many months had passed, a curious transformation came over Kate. She became the recognised leader of the children. Mother Agnes saw with despair Jane's influence waning before that of this strange new girl. Jane was so safe, so true, so dependable; and Kate, well, who could trust Kate, with her odd ways of going on? Sometimes she would keep the younger ones awake half the night telling them the wildest of tales. She had laws of her own for the play-hours, and a secret system of rewards and punishments. But, worst of all, she was not straightforward. Mother Agnes, with her true, honest nature, was cut to the heart to find that Kate could act a part, and did not scruple to do so, to shield herself and her little sister from punishment. Kate was popular now, and yet no one loved her, and she loved no one except little Frances. She never thought any trouble too great to be taken for her little sister. If any one said a rough word to Frances, Kate contrived to punish the offender in a way that was not easily forgotten. She helped Frances with her lessons; shielded her from blame; dressed dolls for her through whole long summer afternoons; told her stories that aimed vaguely at having a good moral; answered her childish questions with infinite patience. The summer and autumn passed, and Christmas came and went; and after Christmas an event happened, the memory of which no lapse of years could ever efface from poor Kate's mind. A certain morning dawned, just like other mornings, bright and cold; lessons, house-work and play went on as usual, only, as the day was drawing to its close, some men came to the door, carrying a little prostrate figure; and Kate was standing in the doorway, and saw it all--saw her poor Frances lying unconscious in the men's arms, her head terribly bruised, and her pretty, fair curls all tossed over a deathly white face. She was fond of clambering about by herself, and had slipped from the roof of a little outhouse, and fallen on her head. She was put to bed in the sick ward, and the doctor sent for. For three days and three nights Mother Agnes and Kate watched beside her; on the fourth day the doctor told them that he could do no more. Frances wandered much through those last days, talking confusedly of green fields, and birds singing, and of flowers. Sometimes she would sing little snatches of the hymns they learnt in school; and she often spoke--as little dying children do speak of Christ. Mother Agnes' tenderness to poor Kate almost exceeded her tenderness to the dying child, but Kate made no response to it. She answered in monosyllables, and hung down her head with its mass of bushy hair, and dark eyes gleaming strangely under her overhanging brow. All was over very soon, and Kate was left with a memory, and with a tiny little grave to tend. Mother Agnes felt for her out of the depths of a womanly heart, but Kate either could not, or would not speak of her sorrow to any living being. She gave up all her odd ways, and became quiet, and very gentle; and as months passed on Mother Agnes began to think that Kate had really improved in character. She showed signs of talent in so many directions that the Mother thought of training her for a schoolmistress, and took real delight in planning for the child's future, except when now and then some curious little trait of character would raise an uncomfortable feeling which could not be dispelled. CHAPTER II. THE FLIGHT. A confirmation was to be held during the spring in the neighbouring village; and the clergyman who prepared the Orphanage children looked upon Kate as a most promising candidate; she was gentle, and attentive, and wrote her papers with so much care. The Confirmation day dawned as sweetly and as brightly as a Confirmation day should do. The birds were singing their hearts out in the Orphanage garden; primroses and wallflowers were blooming in every corner; the apple-trees were in festive array, and little pink and white petals floated on the breeze, and came in at the open windows. Then a troop of little girls in grey dresses with white caps assembled, prayer-book in hand, at the door, waiting for Mother Agnes. What could keep Mother Agnes so long? The bells have been ringing for nearly half-an-hour, and they would certainly be late! No, here she comes, but with a very grave face--much too grave--and oh, where is Kate? "Children, we must start," said the Mother sternly, "Kate is not coming." Naturally the children wondered, and questioned amongst themselves what had happened, but they little suspected the real facts. Mother Agnes had gone to look for Kate in the dormitory, feeling that she should like to take the child's hand in hers, and say something to comfort and to strengthen her. But Kate was not in the dormitory. Her grey Sunday dress lay, neatly folded on the bed, the Confirmation cap arranged on the top of it, and by its side a note, addressed in a bold, round hand to Mother Agnes. What on earth could this mean? Mother Agnes stared at the dress, fingered the note, and then unfastened it with a hand that trembled a little. The contents were these-- "DEAR MOTHER AGNES,--You have been good to me, so I will tell you that I am leaving, and not going to come back any more. And it is not because I do not like you, for I do, though I have never loved any one but Frances; but I cannot stay in this place any more. Oh! you do not know what the pain is that I bear. When the birds sing, I seem to hear Frances' voice singing with them as she did last spring, and I see her running amongst the flower-beds, and I cannot look at the apple-tree without seeing her little fair face peeping at me from between the blossoms. Perhaps you will not care whether I go or stay, but I hope you will not mind about me, for I shall go to London to find a place. There's many younger than me in places already. But if I do not find a place, perhaps I will drown myself in the river, for I am sick of life, and I hope you will not think about me, or mind.----KATE DANIELS." Mother Agnes' face grew very white as she read this letter--but no time was to be lost--she sat down and wrote a little note giving information to the police, and sent it by a servant; and then she went downstairs to join the waiting children. She tried to comfort herself by thinking that Kate could not have got very far in so short a time. At the most she could only have been gone an hour, and surely she would be quickly found? And yet, strange misgivings took possession of Mother Agnes' mind. * * * * * * Ten days later, a tall woman dressed in black was hastening at early dawn along the Thames embankment, near Westminster. Mother Agnes scarcely knew herself, her heart seemed bursting. It was the old story of the one lost sheep becoming all in all to the shepherd. The days had seemed months since poor Kate was missed, and this first news of a girl who might possibly turn out to be Kate, had made Mother Agnes hurry up to town by the night train, quite forgetting that she could not disturb St. Thomas' Hospital with inquiries at such an early hour. So she paced feverishly up and down by the river-side, thinking. It did seem just what she could imagine Kate doing, rushing across the road to save a little child about the age of Frances from being run over, and both children, whoever they might be, were knocked down by the passing omnibus. They were much injured, and were accordingly carried to St. Thomas' Hospital. The younger child was soon identified through her own statements, but the elder one remained long unconscious. Her dress was very ragged, but her underclothing bore the stamp of some institution. Mother Agnes went over in her mind every word of the short report she had received, again and again. How strange London looked at this early hour! She scarcely knew it in the dim grey light, with hardly a sound in the streets, and there floated into her mind lines of Wordsworth's, written from this very spot at this very hour, three-quarters of a century ago-- "Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep, And all that mighty heart is lying still!" But was it all so still? What of the sick in the hospitals, constrained to watch and bear the world's burdens through the long hours of darkness. Oh, if she could only pierce those great walls and stand by the bed-side of the poor girl of whom her thoughts were now so full! * * * * * * Even the children's ward in St. Thomas' Hospital looked strange and un-home-like in that dim grey light. It was nearly silent too, except for occasional little moans, coming from little beds. But from one bed there came something besides a moan: a childish voice half whispered the word "Kate." "Yes, dear," came from the next bed, in a low voice, "what is it?" "Do you feel better, dear Kate? and would my doll help you to bear the pain?" Kate smiled gently. "I do feel a little better; and I am getting rather big for a doll. But tell me, what is your name, dear? What am I to call you?" "My name is Frances," said the little girl. Kate shuddered, and tried to turn her head away. "Is anything the matter?" asked the little voice, as Kate did not speak. "No, nothing," said poor Kate, not very truthfully--and then to change the subject--"Where are your people? Where do you live?" "I have five, up in heaven, waiting for me," said Frances slowly, "and I live with my aunt. She keeps a baker's shop, and when I am not at school, I clean the floors, and mind the little ones, and I go to bed when the baby does, to keep her quiet. And when the stars come out, I lie there, thinking of my father and our own little ones, and thinking of Jesus Christ, thinking,--thinking,--longing to see His face." The great voice of the great Westminster clock at this moment told the hour. How solemn it sounded in the stillness; even more solemn than when it speaks out above the roar of London life in the day-time. [Illustration: The Westminster clock tower.] "I am going to sleep again now," said the little child. "Good-night, dear Kate; God bless you, and mind you wake me if the pain is bad." CHAPTER III. IN THE HOSPITAL. At last Mother Agnes stood by Kate's bed side. How pale the poor girl looked and her dark eyes seemed to have grown larger and more pathetic than they used to be. A real gleam of pleasure passed over her face as her eyes rested on Mother Agnes. "You are good to come to me," said Kate. "I did not think you would have cared. How did you know I was here?" "Because, dear child, I took every possible pains to find out what had become of you; and heard of you at last." "I was afraid you would send the police after me," said Kate, "and that is why I did not take the straight road to London, but went a long way round." "Then what did you do for food and shelter all that time?" "I had a shilling of my own," said Kate in a weary voice, "and that lasted me in bread for some days. And at nights I slept in barns and outhouses, and once under the open sky. But when I got near London, I was so weak for want of food that I thought I should have died; and I lay down by the roadside, and could not get any farther. And then some poor men who were tramping the country for work passed that way, and they took pity on me, and gave me some broken meat they had with them, and something out of a bottle,--it may have been brandy for aught I know,--but it set me on my feet again, and so I got to London. "And I tried to think of any one I knew there. I did not dare to go near our district lady who sent me to the Orphanage, for fear she should send me back. And I thought of old Sally Blackburn, who used to live next door to us in Westminster, and made a living with buying and selling cast-off clothing and she was good to us,--and when father came in very drunk, she would take us children into her little place to be out of the way. So I hunted her up; and then, Mother Agnes, I did a very wrong thing. She is old and stupid, and very poor, and I could not take food and lodging with her for nothing,--so I gave her my Orphanage dress. She was pleased with it, and said it was worth quite ten shillings, and gave me a ragged old dress in exchange,--and something to buy a bit of print with to run up a dress for going out in the mornings to look for a place. And oh, ma'am, it was such a wretched, dismal, dark place she lived in; I didn't know how to abide it after the Orphanage; and yet I wouldn't have gone back for worlds." She sighed deeply as she said this. Mother Agnes tried to turn her thoughts away by talking cheerfully on other subjects for a time, and made Kate tell all she knew of the little girl in the next bed. "I shall come up again to town in a day or two, to see you," Mother Agnes said. "Will you?" said Kate. "Thank you. I did not think you would have cared." "I do care for you," said Mother Agnes, with her eyes full of tears; "but Kate, there is someone who cares more." "I don't believe He cares," said Kate sadly. "I don't see why He should care for me. I know it's all in the Bible; but that was written many hundred years ago. Please forgive me, ma'am, for speaking so. I don't wish to be rude, but I really can't believe it." Just at that moment the patients' tea was carried in, so that no further talk was possible. Mother Agnes, with an aching heart, said good-bye to Kate, and hurried off to catch her train. Next day there was a consultation, for Kate was not doing well; and the doctors broke to her the news that she would have to lose her leg. It did not seem to distress her in the least. She took it quite quietly; but a passion of sobs broke from the next little bed. "O doctor! doctor!" said a child's voice; "don't go and hurt dear Kate so." "Don't be frightened about it," said Kate. "I shall be moved into another room, and you will know nothing about it till it is all over." "I am not frightened," said the child; "but oh, sirs, if somebody's leg must be cut off, please, please let it be my leg instead of Kate's." Frances in her eagerness had forgotten her own pain; and had raised herself in bed, and stretched out her arm towards the doctors. The elder of the two men came toward her, and bent over her. "My dear child," he said, "you are doing very well; there is no need to cut off your leg. And try not to distress yourself about your friend, for only what is wisest and best is being done for her." "I will try and be good, and not mind so much, please sir," said Frances; and then she hid her face in the pillow, and tried to choke down her sobs. The doctors moved away at last, and Kate turned a pair of wondering eyes upon Frances as she said: "What made you wish to lose your leg instead?" "Only Kate, because I love you more than I could tell any one. And if you must lose your leg, please God, I will comfort you for it as much as ever I can." "Thank you, dear," said Kate, very much touched,--and after that she relapsed into silence. Easter fell very late that year. Good Friday was kept in the hospital after Kate had lost her leg. There was a service in the ward, and moreover, the nurse came and sat by Kate's side, and read to her the fifty-third chapter of Isaiah. "She doesn't seem to take much notice of reading," the nurse said later to Mother Agnes, who had come up again to see Kate. They little knew that it was the first "notice" that Kate had ever taken of anything in the Bible. Kate would not talk to-day to Mother Agnes. She answered gently, but shortly, and could not be drawn into conversation. One of her old fits of reserve seemed to have taken hold of her. Mother Agnes was going away, deeply disappointed, when the nurse told her the story of little Frances wishing to lose her leg for Kate's sake. And also, how the children had grown to love each other; and what a dear child Frances was, and how she talked to Kate of everything that is good. And then Mother Agnes was comforted, for she saw that all she had to do was to stand aside, and let a little child do the work. And as she walked along the Thames Embankment in the glory of the setting sun, it came into her mind how Christ had taken all that was sweetest on earth, the love and trust of little children, the love of the father for the child, of the shepherd for the sheep, and made earthly love the stepping-stone to raise us into the thought of the possibility of that greater Love outside ourselves. [Illustration: St. Thomas' Hospital.] The next time she came to the hospital, Kate had much to ask her about the Orphanage. They talked pleasantly for a short time; and then, after a pause Kate said: "Mother Agnes, something is frightening me." "What is it, Kate?" Another pause--so long that it seemed as if Kate did not mean to speak again--and then she said: "The love of God frightens me." "But, Kate, _that_ was meant to be the greatest joy and comfort of our lives." "It is always there," said Kate, earnestly, "burning into me so that I cannot forget it. It is much worse to bear than the pain. Indeed, I cannot bear it, it is almost intolerable. Night and day, I can never, never forget it. And oh, Mother Agnes, if I had killed my own little Frances, it would not have given me the trouble it does to think of the things I have done against Jesus Christ." Kate's words, her face, and her whole manner awed Mother Agnes so much that she could not speak for some moments. And then she talked to Kate for long--gently and tenderly and more plainly than she had ever done before. Kate said good-bye to her with eyes that were full of tears. That night, before she went to sleep, Frances said: "Kate, does what you spoke of still burn into you?" Kate was startled, for she did not think that Frances had heard the half-whispered conversation. "Yes," she said, "it is there just the same. I can scarcely bear it! What can I do?" "I don't know what you can do," said Frances, "except that you are bound to speak to Him about it." Kate turned on her pillow with a half sob, and said no more. CHAPTER IV. IN A THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE. "Kate--I can't sing any more--I'm just tired out with happiness." "Cuddle up against me, darling, and try and go to sleep then." "Then, dear Kate," said Frances, earnestly, "will you _promise_ to tell me all about the next stations, and the green fields, and the sheep, and the cows, and the people hay-making, and the dear little white houses. And I will dream about the sea. Oh, I am so glad that you and I are going to the sea." So the little head with its mass of golden brown hair found a resting-place on Kate's shoulder, and silence reigned for a time. And Kate, her arm round the sleeping child, watched those green fields flooded with summer sunlight with thoughts so new and strange that often the tears would come into her eyes. She could not quite understand this new life yet, but somehow, since the day when the fast-closed door was unlocked, and the Friend admitted, she had found all her old restlessness and her hard thoughts of life vanish, and deep peace and love had come in their place. "Is it a station?" said a little dreamy voice at length, and the brown head moved uneasily. "Please tell me when there's something to be seen besides 'Colman's Mustard.'" "There _is_ something!" cried Kate, breathlessly, "there is, Oh, Frances, such a beautiful face!" Little Frances was on her feet in a moment, and rushed to the farther window. Before the train had quite stopped, her head was such a long way out that an old German from the next window shouted to her, "If you do not take care, Miss, some fine morning you vill get up vidout your head." "I see her," said Frances, turning round to Kate, "all in grey, with a very, very large bunch of roses in her hands. Now she is talking to three big brothers. Now the big brothers are carrying all her things; books, and a bag, and a basket, and a cloak, and a parasol, and a funny stick with wires in it." "Lawn-tennis racket," suggested Kate, who knew country ways. "There is a funny old woman with a hook nose walking with them, and now the big brothers are laughing and talking to her." "Maybe she's the old nurse," remarked Kate. "They are coming our way; oh, do you think she will get into our carriage?" "No, she'll travel first-class," said Kate, with a little sigh. "No, no, I can hear them speak of travelling third. Kate, put your old hat straight on your head. Tie my blue tie--quick, please!" The arrangements were scarcely completed when a young man's face appeared at the window, and soon after they heard a voice: "I say, Violet, if you really mean to travel third, you and Nanny had better get in there. There's only a poor girl with crutches and one other child." "All right, Dick; help Nanny up first, and give her a corner seat with my cloak behind her. Now Nanny, darling, lean on his arm." "Put Nanny facing the engine, or she'll think she's going the wrong way," shouted another voice, and a peal of laughter followed.. The old woman after some difficulty was safely landed inside the carriage. The brothers, carrying the things, followed. Violet with her great bunch of roses came last. It was quite new to poor Kate to hear brothers and sisters laughing and joking together. She could not half understand the little jokes that passed, but she liked to listen. The musical voices and the ringing laughter seemed to do her good. And Violet all the time was conscious of a great pair of wistful eyes fixed on hers. As soon as the final good-bye to the brothers had been said, and the train was really off, she whispered something to Nanny, and began unfastening her bunch of roses. Nanny, meanwhile, bent forward towards Kate: "You've been ill, my dears," she said. "We've both been run over," said Kate. "Eh, dearie me, now! to think of that!" said the old woman, sympathisingly. "And you were hurt a great deal, I daresay." "I lost my leg," said Kate. "Well, now, I can feel for you there,--not as I ever lost one of mine, as is as good as ever,--but I as good as lost one in Mr. Fred. You remember, Miss Violet, my dear, that summer when he fell from the apple tree, and the doctor said as he'd never seen such a leg. Dearie me, what a sight of trouble we had with him to be sure!" Violet had risen from her seat, and came towards the two poor girls. "I want you to let me pin some of these roses in your dresses," she said, brightly. "They are so sweet. Do you care for flowers?" "I do. Thank you, Miss, very much." Kate lifted her head, and for a moment the two girls looked each other full in the face. Such a contrast they were! Violet all glowing with life and happiness and beauty; and Kate with her old, sad face, and pathetic, dark eyes. "Nanny, dear," said Violet, turning to the old nurse; "don't you think my other cloak would make quite a nice soft cushion? Do reach it over," and in one moment more poor Kate, who, truth to say, was getting very weary with her journey, found something that she could lean her tired back against with comfort. Violet went back to her seat, and for some little time sat still, with a book in her hand but her eyes kept wandering off to the two poor girls in the farther corner. After old Nanny had fallen asleep, Violet at length came and sat next the girls. "Do you mind my asking,--are you sisters?" she asked, in her soft voice. "No, Miss," said Kate. "It pleased God to take my little sister. And this is a little girl He sent me instead, when my heart was pretty nigh broken." "You've had great trouble," said Violet. "It's not so long ago that I was near drowning myself," said Kate. A look of great compassion came into Violet's face as these words were said. She only answered quietly: "Shall I tell you a true story? A lady one evening who was walking over a bridge in London, saw a poor man leaning over a parapet, and he had such a sad look in his face that she felt sure he meant to drown himself. She didn't like to speak to him; but, as she passed by, she said these words out loud, 'There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God.' And long after they met, and he recognised her and said, 'You saved my life,' and told her that that night he had had the fullest intention of drowning himself. I think her words had made him suddenly remember another city besides London, and another river besides the dark, gloomy Thames rolling away beneath his feet." She waited a moment to see if Kate had taken in the little story, and what effect it was having upon her. Kate's head was bent down, and she had fast hold of little Frances' hand. "Like enough the city and the river made him think of Christ," she said. "I couldn't drown myself now, Miss,--not if it was ever so,--for His sake I couldn't. And if I had to be miserable all the rest of my life, it seems to me it would be worth while to have lived to have known the love of Christ even for five minutes." "And it isn't only for five minutes," said Violet, in a low voice, her eyes glowing, "but for ever and for ever. This is only the beginning." They were silent for some moments, and then Violet's gentle questions called out much of the history of Kate's sad life. They were learning from each other, those two girls. Kate learned what sympathy may do, and a deep desire to minister to others sprang up within her. Violet learned how dull and sad and surrounded with dangers the lives of many girls in our great cities are, and the knowledge gave rise to new prayers and plans and work in her future life. A cathedral town came in sight. Violet, starting up, woke old Nanny, and then began quickly putting together books and cloaks. Only a few minutes more, and she was standing with outstretched hand at the door of the railway carriage. "Good-bye, good-bye," she said. "Do write and tell me how you and little Frances like the sea-side. I hope it will do you good," and she was gone. Kate and Frances watched with eager eyes till the tall graceful figure of the girl and the bent figure of the old woman were lost to sight in the crowded station. "Do you think we shall ever see her again?" said little Frances. "Perhaps," said Kate, "we shall have to wait till we reach the Golden City." CHAPTER V. BY THE SEA. Two little girls were lying out, in two long chairs, by the sea-shore. The younger one was knitting, and, as she knitted, talking and laughing, and often looking up to rest her eyes lovingly on the sea. Her lap was covered with shells and sea-weed, brought to her by some pale-faced fellow-patients who were wandering about the shore. Mother Agnes had sent both Kate and Frances to a Convalescent Home by the sea, and their delight over this their first sea-side visit was untold. From early morning, when they woke to find themselves in a pink room, in beds with white dimity curtains printed with pink rose-buds, and the smell of the sea coming in at the open window, till the last light had faded away in the long summer evenings, their days were one continued dream of delight. Kate's face was growing sunburnt and warm in colouring. Her eyes had a soft, surprised look in them, as if she were suddenly waking up to a whole world of unsuspected wonders in heaven and on earth. There was a gladness about her, like the gladness of a little child who has been turned out of a dull, close room into a field of cowslips. She and Frances never tired of each other's company; and Kate, for the first time in her life, was guilty of laughing and talking nonsense from sheer lightheartedness. And so the days sped by, till Kate began to have a sort of wish to see the Orphanage again, and a feeling that after all the pain might be conquered, and life there be brightest and best. And, oddly enough, as she and Frances were talking about it one morning, who should make her appearance but Mother Agnes herself, who spoke about Kate's return as if it had been all settled long ago; and then told Frances to her great surprise that she too was to become an inmate of the Orphanage. The poor aunt had had losses, the little shop was given up, and she could no longer provide for Frances, and had entreated Mother Agnes to get the child admitted. And Frances' great love for Kate helped her over the trouble of changing her old home for a new one. When the two invalids arrived at the Orphanage, they found a great "Welcome" arranged in daisies over the door. Kate was feasted like the prodigal son on his return, and no one thought of reproaching her for having run away. And Kate returned the love and kindness she met with fully and joyously, for now she had entered into that mysterious rest and sweetness existing somewhere at the heart of things, of which so much is written, but which so few set themselves with earnest purpose to find. It was a surprise to every one, except perhaps to Mother Agnes, who understood the girl's mind, when Kate began to write little poems, and to receive sundry little sums of money from different magazines for them. Kate's first wish, of course, was to give back the value of the Orphanage dress in which she had run away; and then Mother Agnes started a money-box, into which all the earnings were put in the hope that some day enough would be found in it to buy Kate a cork leg. "That day, Kate," said she, "may yet be a long way off. But, meanwhile, dear child, you will remain here, and complete your education, and by-and-by I hope we shall see you mistress of a village school." The money-box was placed in the Orphanage schoolroom, and the children dropped their pennies in, and sometimes strangers who came to visit the Orphanage were told how Kate had lost her leg, and added something to the fund. And, in course of time, the box got so full that Mother Agnes, for prudence sake, would carry it to her own room to lock it up at night. * * * * * * Another frosty Christmas, but it was night now, and all the glories of a starlit sky could be seen from the corridor window, on the broad ledge of which Kate and Frances sat. The years that had passed had changed them much. Kate had a quiet power about her that could be more felt than expressed in words. Her face, quaint and clever, was lighted up by a singularly sweet smile; and nothing reminded one of the old Kate except the large, pathetic eyes. She was Mother Agnes's right hand with the little ones. Her way of managing them was so winning that she seldom or never caused vexation; and she brought sympathy, imagination, and judgment to bear in her work amongst them. Frances had grown very pretty; she had golden brown hair, and blue eyes that were always laughing; and her face was not only beautiful in form and colour, but sensitive and refined. She had quite recovered her accident; was fleet of foot as a little hare, and full of health and spirits. Frances was always laughing, and it was a laugh so utterly joyous and free from care, that it seemed to have no place in this weary, hard-working, grasping, eager, restless nineteenth century, but to belong to some early age, before the world had lost its freshness, or better still, to be an earnest, with all that is good and true, of the "Restoration of all things." [Illustration: Kate and Frances.] She was leaning her head against Kate's shoulder, and talking eagerly. "And then, dear Kate, as you have made up your mind to be a schoolmistress in Westminster, and to teach those poor little sickly children whom no one seems to care for, I have made up my mind to be an hospital nurse, and Mother Agnes has given her consent; and oh Kate, every spare minute they give me shall be spent with you. And you will have some dear little sitting-room looking on the river, I know. And there we shall sit together, and watch the rush of life on the river; and talk of a hundred things--of your school children and my patients, and the beautiful things that happen to us, and the comic ones. And, as we are talking, Mother Agnes will perhaps come in for a cup of tea (having come up to town on some errand), and you will give her the nicest tea possible, and then we three will sit there still when it is dark, and talk of everything in heaven and on earth. And when the girls from here are put out to places in London, they will come and see you, and have tea with you in your little sitting-room." Voices and rushings of feet were heard on the stairs. "Kate! where is Kate?" "Kate, you are wanted in the schoolroom!" "O Kate, here you are! Now, guess what has come for you from London!" Little hands seized hold of Kate, and the children's eagerness was so great that she was obliged to remind them that she had only a wooden leg, and couldn't get downstairs quickly. "Kate, we can't keep it back, we must tell you! It is your cork leg arrived. Mother Agnes has given the last five pounds herself, and ordered the leg to be here by Christmas." But when Kate was introduced to her new member, with injunctions to treat it with due respect, she was quite overcome. She leaned against the wall and sobbed. She had never cried when she lost her leg; and it was only the love and kindness shown her that made her cry now. But the tears were only for a moment,--and they were followed by a great rush of gladness. The little ones would not be satisfied without helping Kate upstairs and to bed that night, and placing the cork leg in a prominent position in the room, "so that you will be quite sure to see it, Kate, as soon as you wake up on Christmas morning." CHAPTER VI. CHRISTMAS DAY. "Why, my dear old Kate, you're only half awake yet, and the little ones have been up for hours already, and Christmas Day has broken upon the world once more. There; give me a kiss, and wish me a merry Christmas in a proper manner." "Another Christmas," said Kate, half dreamily, raising herself in bed. "Frances, what are you doing?" "Finishing a frock for poor Aunt's youngest; but oh, Kate, I have been watching the dawn too, such a lovely dawn; I shall never forget it. There, lean your head against me while I tell you about it. The light came creeping, creeping up, so slowly, and so shyly. Then suddenly the clouds parted, and a burst of glory came, making the dull snow, and even the icicles look warm in the red light. And was it stupid, do you think? I couldn't help thinking of you and the little children in Westminster, and how you would watch the sunshine coming into so many little desolate lives." Frances stopped suddenly, and neither spoke for some moments. Her big blue eyes were resting on the snow scene outside. A vision crossed Kate's mind of two little girls watching that same scene many years ago, in the cold moonlight with sorrowful hearts. She thought she knew well what Frances meant about sunshine coming into a desolate life. "Dear old Kate, how tired you will get sometimes with teaching those poor little things, who are sure to be tiresome and naughty. But then, you know, it will be all work for Him, and so of course you will be quite glad to be tired. And then He will not let you bear one tired feeling alone. It will be like those verses in your favourite poem:-- "But this it was that made me move, As light as carrier-birds in air; I loved the weight I had to bear, Because it needed help of Love. Nor could I weary, heart or limb, When mighty Love would cleave in twain, The lading of a single pain, And part it, giving half to Him." "O Kate, what a life! And then to think that all these little dawnings we see in people's lives are only pictures of the great dawn coming, when all things will be made new. Kate, doesn't it make you unutterably glad?" "Indeed, it does, Frances. And, please God, you and I will take our places side by side in the great army of watchers and workers." * * * * * * One glimpse more into the lives of two happy women. Only a few years later, and Frances had a love-story and a wedding. The story began in a summer holiday in the country, where she, not being very strong at the time, had gone for rest and change. He was the village doctor, and he first met her sitting by the bed-side of one of his poor patients, and her bright face haunted him. They met again in the Sunday school; and again at a great open-air parish tea, where Frances sat next him. She pitied him for being shy, and tried gently to draw him into talking about himself and his work; and her quick sympathy soon discovered a large intellect and large heart behind an uncouth manner. And then each found that the other was working out of love to an unseen Lord, and watching for the Daybreak, and the interest in each other deepened. They met again often during those bright summer days; and when the time came for Frances to go back to her work in London, the doctor found that he could not let her go without first asking her to become his wife; and she found that she could not refuse. And now the doctor's little wife trots with him over the snow, wherever he goes, carrying sunshine into poor cottages, and often things more substantial than sunshine, and more likely to be understood by hungry people. All his patients are her patients; and, with her nurse's experience, she is able to show them how to carry out his orders. She rejoices in showing kindnesses to the poor Aunt who once gave her a home. To Kate she writes that the country is looking lovely, and Kate must make haste to come and spend Christmas in the happiest home in England. And Kate herself? In some corner of the great world she still works, with patience and tenderest sympathy, amongst uncared-for children. She has seen the first rays of light come into many a sad little life. And together she and the children watch "until the Day break and the shadows flee away." 
21636	----	International Children's Digital Library (http://www.icdlbooks.org/) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original lovely illustrations. See 21635-h.htm or 21635-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/6/3/21635/21635-h/21635-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/6/3/21635/21635-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through the International Children's Digital Library. See http://www.childrenslibrary.org/icdl/BookPreview?bookid=cupbluf_00360203&summary=true&categories=false&route=advanced_0_0_cupples_English_0_all&lang=English&msg= BLUFF CRAG; Or, A Good Word Costs Nothing. A Tale for the Young. by MRS. GEORGE CUPPLES, Author of "The Story of Our Doll," "The Little Captain," Etc., Etc. London: T. Nelson and Sons, Paternoster Row; Edinburgh; and New York. 1872. [Illustration: A SCENE AT BLUFF CRAG.] BLUFF CRAG. "This is such a capital night for a story, papa," said Robert Lincoln to his father, who had laid away his newspaper and seemed inclined to take an extra forty winks. "Indeed, Robert," said Mr. Lincoln, smiling, "I wonder if you would ever tire of hearing stories. I don't think I have one left; you and Lily have managed to exhaust my store." "O papa, please don't say that," cried Lily, who was putting away her school-books on their proper shelf at the end of the room. "I am sure, if you shut your eyes and think very hard for a few minutes, you will be sure to find one." "Very well, then, I shall try," said Mr. Lincoln; "perhaps there may be one among the cobwebs in my brain." Covering his face over with his newspaper, Mr. Lincoln lay back in his chair, and the children, drawing their stools closer to the fire, waited in patience to see the result of his meditation. It soon became evident, however, by his breathing, which became louder and longer, that Mr. Lincoln was falling asleep, and when at last he gave a loud snore, Robert could stand it no longer, and springing up, pulled the newspaper away, exclaiming,-- "O papa, you were actually going to sleep! You'll never find the story if you do!" "I think, after all, I _must_ have dropped over," said Mr. Lincoln, rubbing his eyes; "but you are wrong in thinking I couldn't find a story in my sleep, for I was just in the middle of such a nice one, when you wakened me, and, lo and behold, I found it was a dream." "Oh, do tell us what you dreamed, papa," said Lily. "Your dreams are so funny sometimes. I think I like them better than the real stories." "But it was only a bit of a dream. Bob there in his impatience knocked off the end, and I think it was going to be a very entertaining one." "I'll tell you how you can manage, papa," said Lily earnestly, "you can make an end to it as you go along: you do tell us such nice stories out of your head." Mrs. Lincoln having come into the room with the two younger children, a chair was placed for her and baby beside Mr. Lincoln. Little Dick trotted off to Robert's knee, and the dog, Charley, hearing that a story was going to be told, laid himself down on the rug before the fire, at Lily's feet. [Illustration: WAITING FOR PAPA'S STORY.] "It's a very strange story, mamma," said Robert. "Papa fell asleep for two or three minutes, and dreamed the beginning of it. I am so sorry I wakened him; but he gave such a loud snore, I never thought he could be dreaming when he did that." "Ah, but you are wrong there," said Mr. Lincoln, laughing; "you will hear the reason of the snore very soon. Well, then, to begin--but how can I begin? Lily likes stories to set out with 'Once upon a time;' and you, Master Bob, like me to mention the hero's name, and tell you how old he is, and describe him particularly. Now, in this case, I can do neither." "You will require to say, Once upon a time, when I was taking 'forty winks,'" said Mrs. Lincoln, laughing. "I cannot see how you are to relate this strange story without a beginning." "Neither can I," said Mr. Lincoln. "You know everything depends upon a good beginning. Therefore I think I had better go to sleep again, and perhaps I shall dream one." "Oh, please, papa, don't; I am sure the one mamma suggested is first-rate," said Robert impatiently. "Very well, then, once upon a time I dreamed a dream--" "It's Joseph and his broders papa is going to tell us about," cried little Dick. "Oh, I like that." Every one laughed, while Robert explained that this was papa's dream, not Joseph's; which set the little fellow's mind wandering away still more into the favourite narrative, and it was only after a whispered threat from Robert that he would be taken up to the nursery if he did not sit quiet and listen, that he consented to leave Joseph and his brethren alone for the present. "It's no use," said Mr. Lincoln, laughing, "somehow the dream has fled. I'll tell you what we shall do,--we shall ask mamma to tell one of her stories about when she was a little girl." "I should like to have heard the dream, papa," said Lily, "but if it has fled away it won't be brought back. I know I never can get mine to do it till perhaps just when I am not thinking about it, then there, it is quite distinctly." "Well, that will be the way mine may do," said Mr. Lincoln. "Come, mamma, we are waiting for yours. A good story-teller should begin without delay, and we all know what a capital one you are." "Very well, then," said Mrs. Lincoln. "You must know that when I was a little girl I had been ill, and your grandmamma sent me to live with her brother, my Uncle John, who was the rector of the neighbouring parish. Uncle John had no children, and his wife had died just a few weeks before I went to pay him this visit. He had been very fond of my aunt, and he was still very sad about her death; so that it would have been rather a dull life but for Dolly, the housekeeper. Every morning after breakfast Dolly had to go for potatoes to a small field at a little distance from the rectory, and she usually took me with her if the day was fine. I ran about so much chasing butterflies and birds, that when the basket was filled I was quite tired out, and very glad to be placed upon the wheel-barrow and be taken home in this manner by the good-natured Dolly. "And had you no little girl to play with, mamma?" asked Robert. [Illustration: COMING FROM THE POTATO-FIELD.] "Not for some time," replied Mrs. Lincoln. "Every one knew how sad my uncle was, and did not intrude upon him; but I never wearied so long as I had Dolly beside me. She could not read herself, but she was very fond of hearing me read to her, and though I could not do it very well then, I managed to make out the stories. Then your grandmamma had taught me a number of hymns, and I used to repeat them, and sometimes to sing them, which pleased Dolly very much. I think it was overhearing me singing one of the hymns that made Uncle John take notice of me at last. He used to shut himself in his study, and I scarcely ever saw him from one week's end to the other; but one day as he was going up-stairs I had been singing, and he came into the parlour, and, taking me on his knee, asked me to sing the hymn over again. I was a little nervous at first, but grandmamma had always told me to do the best I could when asked to repeat or sing a hymn, and I did so now. I suppose the words of the hymn pleased him, for from that time he always had me to dine with him; and he had such a kind manner, that I soon recovered from my shyness, and used to sit on his knee and prattle away to him as if he had been your grandpapa, and I had known him all my life. It made Dolly so pleased, too, for she said her master was beginning to look quite like his old self; and she only hoped your grandmamma would allow me to stay ever so long with him. "One day Uncle John returned earlier than usual, and calling Dolly, said, 'Get Miss Lilian ready to go out. Mrs. Berkley wishes me to spend the afternoon there, and I think it will do the child good. I fear she has had but a dull time of it lately.' "'Oh, please don't say that, uncle!' I exclaimed. 'I would rather stay at home with Dolly;' for the thought of the grand Mrs. Berkley, who came into church with her powdered footman carrying her Bible behind her, frightened me. "'No, no, my child; you must go with me,' said Uncle John quietly. 'It isn't good for you to be so much alone. You will have a good romp with some young people who are staying with Mrs. Berkley at present.' "'But I shall be beside you, Uncle John, shall I not?' I asked, with trembling lip. "'Why! are you afraid, dear? Come, come, this will never do; what is there to make you afraid? I am quite sure you will be sorry to leave when the hour comes for returning here.' "Mrs. Berkley's house stood upon a rising ground having a beautiful view of the sea. The rectory was about a mile inland from it; but though I had been very anxious to go to the beach, Dolly had never been able to spare the time, and as for trusting Mary, the younger servant, to take me, that was quite out of the question. "'I wonder if you could walk to Mrs. Berkley's,' said Uncle John. 'If so, we could go by the field-path, and so have a fine view of the sea. Do you think she could manage it, Dolly?' "'Oh yes, sir,' said Dolly, catching a glimpse of my delighted expression. 'Miss Lily has been wishing to take that walk ever since she came; for she has never seen the sea, she tells me.' "'Has never seen the sea!' said Uncle John, smiling, 'then there is a great treat in store for you; so come away, my child, and we shall have a quiet half-hour before going to Mrs. Berkley's.' "I don't think I shall ever forget that walk with Uncle John. Seeing that I was interested in the birds and the butterflies, he told me all sorts of stories about them--how the former built their nests, and how the latter was first a caterpillar before changing into a bright butterfly. Then he pointed out many curious things about the flowers I plucked on the way. He seemed to my mind to know about everything; and, in consequence, my respect increased for him more and more, and I somehow became a little afraid of him. "But when, from the top of the hill, we caught the first glimpse of the blue sea lying below, with the fishing-boats in the distance, I quite forgot I was beginning to be shy of Uncle John, and screamed aloud, clapping my hands delightedly. He was so good to me, too. Fearing that in my rapture I might lose my footing and slip down the face of the rocks, Uncle John took me by the hand, and holding me fast, let me gaze upon the scene without interruption. [Illustration: THE FIRST WALK BY THE SEA-SIDE.] "'Now we must go, dear,' said Uncle John. 'Strange, that of all the works of creation none make such a wonderful impression as the first sight one gets of the sea.' "'Do you ever walk this way, uncle?' I inquired, as we turned into another path that led to Mrs. Berkley's mansion. "'Sometimes; indeed, it is a favourite walk of mine,' he replied. 'I like to come and sit just at that point where you stood. Your aunt used to be very fond of that walk also.' "'It will be such a nice place to see her in the clouds,' I said, but a little timidly, for this was the first time he had ever mentioned her name, and he had sighed heavily when he did so. "'Why, what do you mean, Lily?' he asked abruptly, and, as I fancied, a little sternly. "'When my sister Alice died, uncle, I was so sad and lonely without her,' I replied. 'Mamma was so busy nursing my brother William, that I had to amuse myself the best way I could; and so I used to sit by the window gazing up into the sky; and when the clouds came sailing past, I used to fancy I saw sister Alice in the very white ones. Nurse told me she is now clothed in white, and I knew Alice would weary to see me too; and I used to think God, who is so good and kind, would perhaps let her hide in the white clouds.' "Uncle John drew me closer to him, and instead of reproving me for my fancy, he kissed me, as he said, 'Poor child, poor little town-bred child, if you had had flowers, and birds, and butterflies to chase, it would have been better for you. I think we shall have to write and ask mamma to send us Willie here also.' "'Oh, that would be so nice!' I exclaimed. 'Willie would enjoy it so much! But see, uncle, there are some children with a donkey coming this way.' "'These are some of the young people I told you were living with Mrs. Berkley.--Hollo!' cried uncle, signalling to the children, who came running down the path as fast as they could the moment they heard the rector's voice. There was a little girl on the donkey's back, and two boys by the side of it, with a stable-lad to see that she did not tumble off. "'We were so glad when you called, sir,' said the oldest boy. 'Aunt Berkley said we might go and meet you, but we thought you would come by the highway.' "'Yes; but this little niece of mine had never seen the sea, and I wanted to let her have her first view from the Bluff Crag.' [Illustration: VEA ON HER DONKEY.] "'Then you have never been down to the beach?' said the little girl. 'We must get aunt to allow us to go there after dinner. It is such a delightful walk;--isn't it, sir? And you needn't be afraid to trust her with us, for we take Natilie when we go, and she is so careful.' "'And who is Natilie?' inquired Uncle John, lifting the little girl from the donkey at her request. "'Oh, Natilie is our French maid, and she is so nice; even the boys like Natilie.--But what is your name, please?' she continued, turning to me. 'Mine is Vivian Berkley, but the boys and all my friends call me Vea.' "'My name is Lilian, but I am called Lily at home--Lily Ashton,' I replied. "'Then I shall call you Lily too, may I not?' she said, looking up into my face with a kindly smile, and taking my hand, while her beautiful blue eyes sparkled. 'I am so glad you have come, dear Lily,' she continued. 'I do want a companion like you so much!' "'Do you find the boys unsocial, then, Miss Vea?' inquired Uncle John. "'Oh no, sir,' she replied; 'but they are boys, and you know girls are not allowed to do exactly what they do, so I am often alone.' "'And what do you do when you are alone?' said Uncle John, evidently amused with the precise though sweet tone of voice of little Vea. "'I play with my doll Edith, and I read my story-books, and I talk to Natilie. Do you know, sir,' she said, letting my hand loose and taking my uncle's as we mounted up the steep slope to the road above, while the donkey was led round by another way, followed by the boys, 'poor Natilie, when she came to stay with us, could not speak a word of English, and she was so sad. And the boys used to laugh at her, and so did I sometimes, till Aunt Mary, in whose house we were living, told us that if we only knew poor Natilie's sad story we would be so sorry for her, that, instead of laughing, we would be apt to cry.' "'And what was the story?' inquired the rector. "'Oh,' said Vea, laughing, 'Aunt Mary was so cunning about it, she wouldn't tell us a word, but said we must learn our French very fast, and that then Natilie would tell it for herself; and as Aunt Mary said it was far more interesting than any we could read in our story-books, we did try to understand what she said to us very hard indeed. But we haven't heard the story yet; only we never laugh at Natilie now, for we have made out little bits of it, and we know the chief reason why she is sad is this: her husband is a very bad man, and he ran away and left her, and carried off her two little children, and she cannot find them.--But will you please walk into the garden, sir?' she continued, opening a side gate. 'Aunt said we might show you the new rustic table as we came along.' [Illustration: THE NEW RUSTIC TABLE.] "Patrick, the eldest boy, who had run on before, joined us just as we came up to the arbour, where a neat round table stood, having curious feet made out of the rough branches of a tree; the top had been polished, and painted with varnish, and looked very splendid indeed. But the quick eyes of Vea soon detected an ugly scar on the bright surface, as if some boy had been attempting to cut out a letter upon it. "'Oh dear, who has done this?' cried little Vea, while Patrick turned away with blushing face. 'Patrick, this is a wicked action; do you know anything about it? Now be careful; think well before you answer.' "Uncle John could scarcely keep from smiling at the way Vea spoke, and the anxious manner shown towards her brother. 'O Patrick,' she exclaimed, 'if you did this, it is very wicked; you must go and tell aunt about it at once.' "Instead of answering, however, Patrick set off at a gallop, and disappeared behind some bushes, leaving Vea standing looking after him with glistening eyes. 'What is to be done now?' she said, as if to herself; 'it is so difficult to get Patrick to own a fault, and I fear he will lead Alfred into more mischief. O mamma, mamma, I wish you had never left us! I do try to keep the boys right, but they are so wild sometimes.' "'You cannot do more than your best, my child,' said my uncle, laying his hand tenderly on her bowed head. 'Would you like me to speak to your aunt for Patrick?' "'Oh no, sir, thank you very kindly,' she said, drying her eyes hastily; 'Patrick must confess the fault himself, if he has done it. Aunt Berkley is so good-natured, that I am sure she would excuse him if you asked; but that would not be safe for Patrick,--he forgets so soon, and will be at some other mischief directly. Aunt Mary warned me about this very sort of thing.' "'Well, I am sure he ought to be a good boy, having such a kind, good little sister to look after him.' "'Please, sir, don't say that,' said Vea, the tears coming to her eyes again; 'I don't deserve such praise; for the reason why Aunt Mary told me of Patrick's faults was, she wished to point out my own, and she knows I am so lazy, and don't like to check the boys, lest they should call me "Goody;" but Aunt Mary said I ought to look after them,--that a good word costs nothing; at anyrate, if I had only to bear being called a harmless name, it was but a very small cross, compared to the evil I might cause by allowing the boys to play mischievous tricks.' "'That is right, my dear child,' said Uncle John; 'we must do our duty, however hard it may be; and though a good word in one sense costs nothing, still we all know it sometimes costs a good deal, and is a difficult matter, to a great many people.' [Illustration: ON BOARD THE STEAMER.] "To Vea's astonishment, instead of her Aunt Berkley letting her brother off easily, when she found out about the mischief done to the table, she was so very angry that she would not allow him to join the party that afternoon in the excursion in the steamer. While she pointed out the various objects of interest to Vea and myself, seeing that poor Vea was depressed in spirits--her kind heart suffering extremely when her brothers fell into error--Aunt Berkley whispered, 'You are not vexed with me, dear child, for punishing Patrick? If he had owned the fault, I would have forgiven him; but he was so stubborn, and would not even speak when spoken to. Alfred is so different.' "'Oh no,' said Vea quickly; 'I am only sorry that he was so naughty and required the punishment;' but, as if afraid she was condemning her brother, she added, 'Patrick has a warm, affectionate nature, aunt; if he could only get over his love of mischief he would be a dear, good boy.' "'Well, my dear, we must try to help him to be good. Boys will be boys, however; though it is necessary to punish them sometimes, else they might get into serious disgrace. We must have another excursion soon, and perhaps the thought of it will keep Patrick from being naughty.' "On reaching home that afternoon they found the school-room empty; and though Patrick had been told he was to remain in the house till his aunt returned, he was nowhere to be found. Alfred sought for him in all their favourite haunts about the out-houses and garden, but without success. 'I'll tell you where he will be, Vea,' said Alfred, on his return to the school-room from a last hunt in the orchard,--'he has gone to the cave at the Bluff Crag.' "'Oh, surely not,' said Vea in distress. 'Aunt told us distinctly we were never to go there without leave from her, and then only with some person who knows the coast well. What makes you fancy such a thing, Alfred?' "'Because, I remember now, he muttered to himself about giving aunt something to be angry for; and he has often been wanting me to go there.' "'I hope this is not the case, Alfred,' said Vea. 'But perhaps aunt would allow us to go down to the beach with Natilie, to look for him.' "'I daresay she will,' said Alfred; 'but if you do ask her, don't mention Patrick's name; you needn't be getting him always into a scrape by your tale-telling.' "'O Alfred, how cruel you are,' said Vea, 'when you know I am always trying to get you boys out of scrapes!' and the tears rose to her eyes. "'Very well, then, I won't,' said Alfred; 'you are a dear, good little sister, and we do bother you tremendously sometimes. Stay you here, and I will ask aunt to let us go to the beach.' "Alfred soon returned, stating that his aunt had said Yes at once to his request; 'But,' he added, laughing, 'I think she did not know very well what she was saying, she was so busy talking to the rector.' "Natilie was quite willing to accompany us, and very soon we were down on the beach; but whichever way we looked we could not see any trace of the missing Patrick. All of a sudden Alfred gave a shout, and pointed in the direction of some great high rocks upon which stood a light-house. "'See, Vea, there is Wild Dick running upon the rocks!' cried Alfred excitedly. "'Where?' said Vea, standing on tip-toe, and straining her head forward towards the place Alfred was pointing out. "'I see von boy,' said Natilie, in her strange broken English. 'Him not be Master Patrick. I know him now for that same wicked boy Mrs. Berkley forbid you speak to.' "'But I tell you Patrick is with him,' said Alfred, showing he knew more about his brother's movements than he had owned at first. 'Dick offered to help him to find some sea-birds' eggs, and they have gone off to get them now.' "At this moment the boy called Dick observed us, and as soon as he did so he began to make signs in a most excited manner to us to hasten. [Illustration: WILD DICK.] "'There has been some accident to Master Patrick, I much fear,' said Natilie, beginning to run. 'Oh, when will that boy be good?' "On coming closer to Dick, it soon became evident that an accident had really happened; and in a few moments more they learned that the unfortunate Patrick, in climbing the rocks, had lost his footing, and had fallen down from a considerable height. "'I think he's broken his leg, miss,' said Dick to Vea. 'And how he is to be taken out of that 'ere hole he has fallen into, is what I'd like very much to know.' "'Do show us where he is, Dick,' said Vea. 'Oh, be quick; he may die if his leg is not attended to at once!' "It was no easy matter to scramble over the stony beach to the place where Patrick was lying; and rather a pitiable sight it was to see him with his leg doubled under him, and with a face so very pale that it was no wonder Vea cried out with pure horror, for she evidently thought he was going to faint, or die altogether, perhaps. "'Oh, what shall we do?' cried Vea. 'How are we to get him up? and how are we to get him carried home?' "'I would not have you distress yourself so, Miss Vea,' said Natilie. 'I think I can get him out of this difficulty, with very little patience, if we could get him carried home.' "'If you get him out of the hole he has fallen into,' said Dick, 'I will manage the rest.' "'But how can you carry him over such a rough beach?' asked Alfred. "'I will get the boat from my grandfather,' replied Dick, 'and we can row him round to the harbour, where the men can help us up to the house with him.' "'Oh yes, that will be the plan,' said Vea. 'Do run, like a good boy, and get the boat; I am sure your grandfather will be very glad to lend it to us, for Patrick was always a favourite with him.' "'And I know somebody who is a greater favourite than even Master Patrick,' replied Dick, smiling, before he hurried away towards his grandfather's house. "Very soon, though it seemed a long time to Vea, Dick was plainly seen shoving out the boat from the shore, with the assistance of two boys, who then jumped in and rowed it round as close to where Patrick lay as they possibly could. "Natilie had by this time managed to get Patrick up out of the sort of hole he had fallen into, and by our united efforts we at last succeeded in getting him into the boat, where we all helped to support him, as he had fainted away again. It was considered advisable to row to Dick's grandfather's house for the present; and accordingly the boat was steered for a cove, up which the tide carried us. [Illustration: FETCHING THE BOAT.] "The hut where Dick's grandfather lived was a very poor one, built mostly of turf, and thatched with rough bent or sea-grass. The chimney-can was made with an old barrel, which stood the blast and served better than an ordinary one would have done at such a stormy part of the coast. One or two fishing-boats lay at the rough pier or jetty old Dick had constructed, the men belonging to which were earnestly engaged preparing their nets for going to sea that evening; while a number of boys were busy sailing miniature boats in a small pool left by the last tide. No sooner, however, did they hear the shouts of their companions in our boat, than they left their sport, and hurried down to lend a hand in pulling in the boat to a place of security. "'Has grandfather come back from the town, Jack?' cried Dick to a rough-looking boy, the tallest of them all, and who had carried his model boat in his arms, instead of leaving it as the others had done theirs. "'No, he ha'n't,' replied Jack; 'and, what's more, it's likely he won't be for some time either; for I hears Tom Brown saying to Tim that my father would be late to-night, and I knows your grandfather is to keep him company.' "'Then what's to be done now, miss?' said Dick. 'I had been thinking grandfather, who knows all about sores, seeing as he was boatswain's mate aboard a man-o'-war, might have been able to put young master's leg to rights.' "'Oh no, Dick, that would never do,' said Vea; 'we must get him ashore and laid in your grandfather's bed, and somebody had better run up to tell aunt of the accident, and get her to send for the doctor at once.' [Illustration: WILD DICK'S HOME.] "While Natilie prepared the bed in the old fisherman's hut, Patrick was being carried by the men who had been summoned from the boats. The poor boy was still in a fainting state, and it was not till after he had been laid on the bed that he opened his eyes and showed signs of consciousness. 'Oh, where am I?' he uttered; but even this exertion was too much for him, and he became insensible once more. "'It's a bad break, this,' said one of the men to his fellow; 'I shouldn't wonder, now, if he had to lose his leg altogether!' "'Oh, please don't speak of it,' said Vea, her face becoming ghastly pale. 'Do look out again, Lily dear, and see if Alfred is coming with the doctor.' "Yes; there he was at last, running at a break-neck speed down the steep and rocky bank to the beach, while the doctor was distinctly seen high overhead on the regular path, coming very quickly too. Indeed, though he had taken the longest road, and did not seem to hasten like Alfred, he was only a few minutes behind him, and showed no signs of heat and over-exertion. "'Heyday, this is a pretty business,' said Dr. Blyth cheerily. 'What's this you've been about, Miss Vea? breaking your brother's leg, eh?' All this time he had been unrolling a case of formidable-looking instruments, taking off his coat, and getting fresh water brought, and bandages prepared with the help of Natilie. When these were ready, he turned to look at his patient, and bidding every one leave the hut but the two fishermen and Natilie, he shut the door against them himself, and secured it firmly. "'Oh, please, doctor, let me stay,' Vea had said pitifully. 'I'm sure Patrick would like me to stay.' "'I'm sure of that too,' said the doctor kindly; 'but you shall have plenty of nursing by-and-by: don't be afraid, I mean to engage you as my chief assistant. Meanwhile, my dear, trust me for knowing what is best for you and for your brother, and take yourself off to the beach there. Come, Miss Lily,' he continued, turning to me, 'you take your friend down to the beach, and keep her there till I call you. Remember, you are not to leave the rock there till I call you, Miss Vea.' "'Oh dear, dear, it does seem hard,' said Vea, when we were seated under the rook, 'to leave Patrick in the hands of strangers. And yet, Dr. Blyth is such a good, kind man, I'm sure he won't give him unnecessary pain.' "'Would you like me to read a story to you, dear Vea?' I inquired, opening a book I had brought out with me. 'It might help to pass the time away.' [Illustration: DOWN ON THE BEACH.] "'Thank you, Lily,' said Vea; 'but I feel as if I couldn't listen to anything; and yet, if I sit here I shall go mad with the suspense.' "'Come, then, take a walk along the beach,' I replied; 'we will be within reach of the doctor's voice quite as well. I know he will take some time to set the leg; for when our stable-boy, Reuben, got his leg broken, the doctor took a long time to set it.' "'And did Reuben's leg get well again--quite well, I mean?' inquired Vea earnestly; 'was he able to walk with it as he did before?' "'Oh yes; he could use it quite as well as before,' I replied. 'Indeed, papa used to say Reuben was quicker at going a message after the accident than before.' "'Oh, I am so glad to hear that,' said Vea, sighing. 'I do hope it will be the same with Patrick. Poor Patrick! Aunt Mary has so often said he would need to get some severe lessons to make him think. She was always telling him that he would find out the path of transgressors is hard, instead of pleasant, as he seemed to fancy. I don't think there is such a miserable girl as I am in the world?' And here Vea began to cry. "After comforting her as well as I could, she was at last prevailed upon to take a short walk along the beach in the direction where some children were playing. As we walked along I told her that my mother often said, when we fancied ourselves ill-used and very unhappy, if we looked about us we would generally find that there was somebody even more miserable than we were ourselves. By this time we had come up to the children, and found three of them in earnest conversation. We were not long in discovering that the youngest was in evident distress, and her companions were listening to her words with deep interest. "'I wouldn't stand it, if I were you, Polly,' said the eldest girl, who was standing in front of the group. "'But what can I do, Martha?' replied the girl, rocking herself to and fro, and weeping afresh. "'Do? I would run away,' replied the other. 'I would go into service, or beg my bread from door to door, rather than bear what you have to bear.' "'But don't you think you had better speak to teacher, Polly?' said the other girl softly, looking from under her sun-bonnet with great dreamy-looking blue eyes; 'I wouldn't do anything rash before speaking to teacher. You remember what she said to us last Sunday, that all our trials were sent from our Father in heaven.' [Illustration: POOR POLLY.] "'Yes, Rachel, I heard her say that,' replied Polly; 'and I try to think about it; but oh! my step-mother would make anybody angry; and then my temper rises, and I speak out, and then I am beaten. I wouldn't mind that, however, if she would only beat me; but when I see her raise her hand to strike little Willie, who never was angry in his life, but was always gentle and good--always, always.' "'Is there anything I can do for you, little girl?' said Vea, stepping forward, forgetting for the time her own trouble while witnessing the distress of another. 'Why does your companion want you to run away?' "'It's to escape from her step-mother, miss,' replied the girl called Martha. 'She uses her shameful, she do, and all for what? Because Polly's father made so much of her afore he was lost.' "'And was your father lost at sea, Polly? Oh, how dreadful!' said Vea, seating herself on the stones beside her. 'And have you no mother of your own?' "'No, miss; mother died when Willie was a year old,' said Polly. "'And do you remember her quite well?' asked Vea. "'Oh yes, quite well, miss. It was a terrible night that, just before she died. Father was away to the town for some tackle, and I was left all alone with her and Willie. She hadn't been very well for some weeks, but nobody thought she was going to die. Even the very doctor had said that morning so cheerily to father she would weather through. She had been lying sleeping with Willie in her arms, but a sudden squall shook the door, and made it and the window-frame rattle, and that startled her, and she wakened. Then I couldn't help seeing she was much worse; and I tried to keep from crying, for she seemed wild-like, and the doctor had said she was to be kept quiet. Then she looked up in a moment, and said, "Polly, promise me you'll look after Willie when I die. Never let any harm come to Willie, mind that; and take care of father, but look well after Willie." She never spoke again, not even to father, who came in soon after, and cried like a baby over her. She just opened her eyes once, and looked at him with a smile, and tried to push Willie over to him, and then she died. How good father was to us then! He used to take Willie down to the beach with him while I made the house tidy and got the dinner; and he made Willie a fine boat, and dug out a place for him to sail it in; and oh! but we were happy then!' "'I don't think your father would have been lost if it hadn't been that step-mother of yours,' said Martha angrily. 'I can't a-bear her, I can't.' "'Oh, don't say that, Martha. It was God who took father,' said Polly, in a low whisper. 'Didn't you hear the rector saying it was God's will to send the storm that night?' [Illustration: LITTLE WILLIE AND HIS FATHER.] "'Yes,' said Martha; but if your step-mother had only bade your father stay at home, as all the other men did, he never would have been lost. Didn't old Joe Gafler warn them there was a squall a-coming! but no, she is so grasping, she wanted the money for the fish, and she let him go. It was a shame!' "'But father often says the boat may be found yet,' said Rachel; 'and you know even old Dick says the thing is likely.' "'Well, if so be's it should happen that Will Dampier comes to land again, I hope he'll know how his Polly has been treated when he was away,' said Martha. "'Oh, I wouldn't mind for myself not one bit,' said Polly. 'It's when she strikes Willie that I can't bear it; and I somehow think Willie is not so well this last week.' "'Then you mustn't think of running away, Polly,' said Vea. 'Wasn't that what Martha was urging you to do? If you went away, who would take care of Willie? Do you know, I have a brother I am very anxious about too, Polly?' said Vea. 'He is lying in Dick's cottage, with his leg broken, and the doctor is setting it while we are waiting out here.' "'Oh, I am very sorry indeed, miss,' said Polly, forgetting her own troubles in turn. 'Is that the young gentleman who is living with Mrs. Berkley?' "'Yes, Polly,' said Vea. 'Mrs. Berkley is my aunt.' "'He's a very kind young gentleman, miss. Is there anything I could do for him, miss? I should like to do something so much, for he helped me more than once.' "Vea naturally looked a little surprised, for Patrick was so often in trouble, that it was rather astonishing to hear any one praising him. "'I don't think it could be my brother Patrick,' said Vea. "'Oh yes, miss, that was his name,' said Polly. 'He told me his name was Patrick.' "'And what did Patrick do for you?' said Vea, looking much pleased. [Illustration: THE ANCHOR.] "'I was playing with Willie one day at the harbour, and young Dick was showing me a great anchor some of the men had left on shore for a new boat they were going to build, when my step-mother called from the cottage door, and bade me take the ropes and carry home the drift-wood she had been gathering all the morning. Dick said as how he was sorry he couldn't go to help me, as he had to go out in his grandfather's boat that afternoon; and so, after leaving Willie beside old Dick, I took the ropes and went down on the beach. My step-mother had called after me I was to drag them in three bundles, but they were so heavy that I had to separate the first one into two; and for doing this she beat me. I was going back to the next one, crying a good deal, for I was wishing I could go to my own mother and to father, when a boy jumped up from behind a stone, and asked me why I was crying; and so I told him. And when he heard it, he called my step-mother some hard names; and then says he, "Are you the little girl young Dick helps when he has any spare time?" And when I answered "Yes," he says, "Well, then, give me the ropes and I'll help you, for Dick is away to-day." I couldn't help saying that dragging drift-wood wasn't fit work for a gentleman; but he just laughed, and said there were lots of people would be glad to know Patrick Berkley was so usefully employed.' "'And did he drag the wood for you?' said Vea, the tears standing in her eyes. "'That he did, miss. And whenever he sees me carrying a heavy load along the beach, he just slips up to me, and, without saying a word, takes it out of my hand. And then if he sees any of the boys frightening me, he won't let them. I was so sorry, miss, for the cut he got on his eye; that was from wild Joe throwing a stone at him when he was carrying my basket for me round the Bluff Crag.' "'You have no idea how happy you have made me, Polly,' said Vea. 'Aunt Mary always says there is a great deal of good in Patrick, only his love of mischief sometimes chokes the good seed. It is very strange he never lets us see him doing a kind or a generous action.' [Illustration: BY THE BEACH.] "At this moment Natilie opened the cottage door and called to her young mistress to come up. I waited by the beach, and taking off my shoes and stockings, waded into the cool water. The girls were much amused at my delight, and I may say terror also, as, looking down into the clear blue water, I saw various small fishes darting in and out among the stones; and even Polly forgot her angry step-mother at home, and screamed with laughter at my sudden fright when a small crab seized hold of my great toe, and hung tenaciously to it, even when I was far up on the sandy beach. "Then Natilie came and called to me to come up also; and there I found Patrick lying very quiet and still on the bed, and Vea sitting by the side of it holding his hand. It was arranged that I should return to the house with Natilie and Alfred, while Vea remained with her brother till Natilie returned; but just as we were setting out, my Uncle John came down to see after the patient, and I was told I might amuse myself for an hour outside till the maid returned with the articles required by the doctor. I would have liked to have stayed with Vea, but both the doctor and my uncle thought that as the cottage was so small, the fewer there were in it the better for Patrick. "'I would like to get home,' said poor Patrick in a faint voice. 'Couldn't I be carried home, sir?' he pleaded, turning to the doctor. [Illustration: DOWN AT THE COVE.] "'Not for some days, my boy,' replied the doctor kindly. 'If you lie very still, and attend to orders, we shall see what can be done for you then.' "But when the doctor had gone, Vea came slipping out, and bidding me follow her, went round to where some boats lay moored. A ladder was placed against the side of one of these, and up this Vea mounted before I knew what she was going to do. 'I feel sure,' she said, looking over the side of the boat to me, as I stood on the beach below, 'if we could only get Patrick hoisted up here, we might get him taken home quite safely.' "'Ah, but I don't think the doctor will allow you to do that,' I replied; 'I fear he must remain here for some weeks.' "'He seems very anxious to get home, poor boy. I cannot make it out,' said Vea. 'He says he will tell me the reason once he finds himself in his own bed at Aunt Berkley's. I wonder who this boat belongs to.' "'Polly said it belonged to Martha's father,' I replied; 'she told me so just before they left me to go home.' "'Polly, I hope, has quite made up her mind not to run away,' said Vea. "'Oh yes, I think she has given up that idea; indeed, I heard her say to Rachel she would try to bear it a little longer.' "'There is Dick returned already,' said Vea; and she scrambled out of the boat, and ran down to the beach to meet Dick, who was coming from the doctor's house with a basket containing medicines for the sick boy. [Illustration: DICK RETURNING WITH THE MEDICINE.] "'Oh, you are a good boy, Dick,' said Vea. 'How fast you must have gone!' "'Well, yes, miss, I did go fast,' said Dick, pleased with Vea's speech apparently. 'I went by the beach, the tide being out, and it is nigher that way by a good mile. I would go faster than most folks for the young master.' "'Why, has Patrick been kind to you too, Dick!' said Vea, in much surprise. "'That he has, miss,' said Dick gratefully. 'When I lost grandfather's knife, didn't he buy me a new one with the new half-crown his aunt gave him to spend at the fair! And didn't he let grandfather think he had broken the glass in the window, when all the time it was me, and nobody else! And hasn't he often and often brought me a bit of his own dinner tied up in his handkerchief, or a pie he would find lying handy in the pantry, when he knowed I'd had nothing for my dinner that day at all!' "Vea said nothing, but she evidently thought her brother was a very curious boy, and that she had not understood him at all. "When Natilie had returned with the things required by the sick boy and his attendants, Uncle John and I set off home, he promising that we would return the next afternoon to inquire after Patrick. The sun was just shedding its last rays of golden light over the sea, lighting it up with a strange lurid light, which, with the stillness of the scene, and the great rocks on the coast, left a strange impression on my mind. "'And you say you have enjoyed yourself, my dear!' said Uncle John, after we had walked on in silence for some time. [Illustration: GOING HOME WITH UNCLE JOHN.] "'Oh, very much indeed, uncle,' I replied. 'I like Vea so much, and Alfred is such a funny boy. Isn't it a pity that Patrick is so fond of mischief, when he seems to have such a kind heart?' "'I've always liked that boy Patrick,' said my uncle; 'and, what is more,' he continued, as if to himself, 'I never liked Alfred.' "'That is very strange, uncle,' I replied; 'he is such a polite boy, and so quiet in the drawing-room. He is so funny too; he nearly set me off laughing at the funny faces he made behind his aunt's back; and he can speak just like her, in that queer low drawling tone.' "'Exactly,' said my uncle; 'that is the very thing I dislike about him. He has the power of mimicry, and is also able to keep a grave face when others are forced to laugh--a thing poor Patrick is not able to do, and the consequence is he gets into sad disgrace for laughing, and, to save his brother, won't tell what he is laughing at. Alfred is a mean boy, for twice I have seen him allow his brother to be punished, when, by simply telling he was the cause of it, the punishment might have been avoided. Now, who do you think was the actual culprit who cut that nice table in the summer-house?' "'It must have been Patrick, uncle; he never denied it,' I replied. "'That is the strange thing, dear. Patrick is greatly to blame in this, that he will not tell upon his brother, but is so easy-minded, that, rather than exert himself to make his friends think well of him, he allows every one to suppose that he is the offender; and, as I said before, Alfred is so mean, that, knowing this, he plays the tricks and lets his brother take the blame. A tale-teller is to be despised; but a boy who is so lazy that he cannot say a good word for himself when his character is concerned, is almost as bad.' "'But how did you find all this out, uncle?' I inquired. "'Well, I overheard the two boys speaking about it in the shrubbery; and what struck me most was, even when Patrick had an opportunity to reprove his younger brother he did not do so, though a good word costs nothing, and might save his brother much misery in the end. I am half glad he has met with this accident; it will give him time to think.' "At this moment a boat sailed past, filled with gay company, who waved their handkerchiefs to us, and cheered most lustily. One little girl held up her doll, and made it wave its hat to Uncle John's polite bow, which made them all laugh very much. "Dolly was very glad to see me again, and said so kindly that she had never spent such a long, dull day, and that she hoped I would not go junketting in a hurry, else she would require to go with me herself. There was no time to tell her all the story of our visit to Mrs. Berkley that night, because a woman came in asking her to go down to the village to see a sick man who had wandered there that day, and had been found lying under a hedge by a field-worker. Then, as it was close to my bed-hour, and I was very tired, Dolly carried me off to my room at once, and when she had seen me safely in bed, went away. The next morning while at breakfast she told me the sick man was apparently a fisherman, but he was so weak he could not give an account of himself. Once or twice he had suddenly become uneasy in his sleep, and had moaned out a name some of the women thought was Polly, but so faintly, that they could not be sure even of that. "'Oh, it must be Polly's father come to life again,' I cried, starting up and knocking over my basin of milk upon the clean white table-cover. 'Oh, do let me run and tell uncle about it, Dolly; he will know what ought to be done.' [Illustration: OVERTAKEN BY THE STORM.] "Uncle John did not like to be disturbed in the morning, but this was an extra case, and after Dolly had heard of the sufferings poor Polly had to endure from her cruel step-mother, she allowed me to go to the study door and tap gently. Uncle John listened very attentively to the story about us meeting the three little girls on the beach, and at once agreed to set out to inquire for the sick man; and proposed, if he was still too weak to answer questions, to go on to the Bluff Crag, and get one of the fishermen from there to come up to look at him. Fortunately, when my uncle arrived the sick man was much better, and though only able to speak a word at a time, understood all the questions that were put to him. It soon became evident that this was indeed Polly's long-lost father. When he was a little stronger he told how the boat that fearful night had drifted away along the coast, and how it at last was dashed up on the rocky beach, and how he had been thrown out into a sort of cave, where there was barely standing room when the tide was full, and how he had lived for days on the shell-fish that he found sticking to the side of the cave, or the eggs he found on the shelves of rock; and at last, when even this scanty supply failed him, and he was nearly mad from the want of water, how he had dashed himself into the sea, determined to be done with his misery. Then he told how, when he came to himself, he found he was lying in a cottage, with a woman bending over him, and a man sitting smoking by the fire, stirring some stuff in a pan. It seemed that this man was a collector of birds' eggs, and, knowing about this cave, he had come down, with the help of a great strong rope tied round his waist, to gather eggs. Great was his surprise when he saw the body of a man floating in the water; but he lost no time in seizing him by the belt, and, with the help of his comrades up at the top, brought him safely to land. [Illustration: RESCUED.] "You can understand how glad Polly was when, that same evening, Uncle John took me with him to tell her of her father's safety. I kept fancying all the way that when she heard the news she would dance and shriek with joy, and clap her hands; but, instead of that, she just sat quietly down on a stool by the fire. What a white face she had, and how her lips trembled! Even Uncle John was struck by her appearance, and must have been afraid the sudden news had been too much for her. 'Come, come, Polly, this will never do,' he said kindly; 'you must set about getting some clothes put up in a bundle, and come away back with me. Father is very impatient to see his little Polly, I can tell you!' "'Polly again! it's always Polly!" said her step-mother. 'I don't believe he cares a pin about me and my children so long as these two are all right.' "Uncle John spoke to her very sensibly, as I thought, telling her that her husband's children ought to be as dear to her as her own, for his sake, and that a jealous disposition often led to much misery; but I don't think it made much impression upon her: and I was very glad when Polly appeared ready to start, with her clothes and some for her father also, tied up in a little bundle. "Some days after, uncle kindly took me to spend the day with Vea. I was delighted to find that Patrick had been removed to Mrs. Berkley's, and had stood the journey very well. He had been carried on a stretcher by some of the fishermen; and they had borne him along so gently that Patrick declared he had never felt the least motion, and thought he had been lying on his bed all the time. "'I should like to get some flowers so much,' said Vea, after I had arrived. 'Patrick is so fond of flowers; but he likes the wild ones best. He says the hot-house ones smell oppressively, but the wild ones make him comfortable.' "'Then why can't we get him some?' I inquired. "'Aunt doesn't like us to go to the wood by ourselves; and Natilie is engaged to-day,' replied Vea. "'I'll tell you how we will manage it,' I replied, laughing. 'We will ask uncle to go with us.' "'But do you think he will go with us?' said Vea eagerly. "'Oh yes, I think he will--I am sure of it, almost,' I said; 'because I heard your aunt telling him she had some important letters to write, and he said he would take a walk in the garden till she was done.' "Uncle John was very kind, and consented to go with us; and not only so, but took us to the best places, and while we filled our baskets sat reading beside us. Then, when we had picked enough, he told us stories while we rested; and we were very happy. Something he said about a boy he once knew made Vea think of Patrick, for she exclaimed, quite suddenly,--'Oh! do you know, sir, we have found Patrick out at last! When he was lying at the cottage, there were so many poor people came to ask for him, that even aunt became interested; and she made inquiries, and we found that Patrick was in the habit of helping them in some way or other. One old woman told us he actually drew all the stock of drift-wood she has at her cottage, and piled it up there for her.' "'But how did he manage to do it without you finding him out?' said Uncle John. "'Oh, he rose and went out very early in the morning,' replied Vea. 'The servants were often complaining of the state of his boots; so, in case they would find him out, he used to leave them in the garden and go without his stockings. And do you know, sir, he was telling me such a sad story about that poor woman, and the reason why he helped her. She has lost her husband and three sons; and then her only child, a little girl, was drowned one day looking for drift-wood on the sea-shore.' [Illustration: GATHERING WILD FLOWERS.] "'That will be Widow Martin then, I suppose!' said my uncle. 'Her story was indeed a sad one.--I am very glad to hear such good accounts of my young friend Patrick.' "'And I am glad about it too, sir,' said Vea. 'Aunt Mary will be so pleased; but do you know, I am afraid Alfred has been the bad boy all the time, for since Patrick has been ill he is never done falling into disgrace. Aunt was seriously angry with him; and I overheard Patrick saying, "You see, Alfred, I often told you, you would be found out in the end; I couldn't always take the blame to screen you, so you had better give it up." Isn't Patrick a strange boy, sir?' "It was a happy day for little Vea when her brother Patrick was able to be wheeled out, by his faithful friend Dick, in the chair his aunt got for the purpose; and I need not say that Patrick enjoyed it very much. I was invited to spend a week with them then, and as the weather was indeed beautiful, we were constantly in the open air. Patrick had always been fond of gardening, and it vexed him to see how his flowers had been neglected during his illness. 'Never mind,' said Dick; 'I bean't much of a gardener, but I'll do my best to set it all to rights, and I'm sure the young ladies there will lend a hand.' [Illustration: DICK TRYING HIS HAND AT GARDENING.] "While Dick dug the ground, Vea and Alfred and I arranged the flowers, much to the satisfaction of every one; and even Alfred, who was not very fond of work, said these busy days were the happiest he had ever spent. "The day before I left my kind friends, Uncle John came over with a letter from home, saying that I was to return there immediately. "'Oh dear; I am so sorry,' said Vea. 'I was hoping, sir, she might be allowed to stay for ever so long--at anyrate till all our gardens were finished.' "'Ah! but there is a pleasant surprise awaiting Miss Lily there,' said my uncle, laughing. 'I am almost certain that even the lovely gardens will be quite forgotten when she sees what it is.' "'A pleasant surprise, uncle!' I exclaimed. 'What is it?--do tell me, please!' "'You can't be told till you reach home,' said my uncle, laughing; 'I am bound over to secrecy.' And though I over and over again tried to get him to tell me, he only laughed, as he replied, 'All in good time, Lily; you wouldn't have me break my promise, surely.' "Dolly was so sorry to part with me, and I was so sorry to leave her, that while we were packing my clothes we cried over the trunk. "'I wouldn't mind your going, miss,' said Dolly, 'if I thought you would remember me sometimes; but I'm thinking, now that there is a new---- Oh dear, dear,' she cried; 'I was just about to let the cat out of the bag, and what would your uncle have said to that, I wonder!' "It was plain now that Dolly knew of the pleasant surprise that was waiting for me at home, and the thought of it helped me to be less sorry to part with her and kind Uncle John and all the pleasant things at the rectory. All the way home I kept thinking what it could be. A new doll, perhaps, that grandmamma was to send for my birth-day present; but then my birth-day did not come for weeks yet. A work-box lined with rose-pink, perhaps; but that was to arrive when my sampler was finished--and oh, what a large piece was still to be sewed. I tired myself trying to think, and at last gave it up in despair. "Of all the things I had thought of, it never came into my head to expect a new baby-sister; but so it was. When I entered the parlour, and was rushing up to fling myself into my mother's arms, what was my surprise to find a lovely baby--the very thing I had been wishing for--yes, actually a baby-sister. [Illustration: MY BABY-SISTER.] "I don't think I was ever so happy in my life as at that moment, when I was allowed to take the baby in my lap and examine her tiny fingers and toes; and when she smiled in my face, and seemed to be pleased with her big sister, I actually cried, I was so happy. While I was sitting holding baby in this way, my father returned home with Willie, my brother, and such fun and laughing we had, to be sure! But I must own I did feel a little vexed when papa one day said to me, a few weeks after I had returned home, 'Well, Lily, now that you have got such a fat baby sister to carry about, you will have to lay aside your dolls.' "I was very sorry, for I loved my dolls exceedingly; they had been my dear companions and friends for so long. But I knew papa scarcely approved of me playing so much with them, and fancied I might be more usefully employed. I took out my last new doll, Eva, for a walk that afternoon, feeling somehow that she must be laid away in a drawer till baby grew up, when she should have her to be her faithful companion. Stepping out at the side gate into the lane to look for Willie, who had gone to the post, I found an old woman sitting down to rest. After speaking to her for a minute or two, I discovered, to my great delight, that she was the mother of Will Dampier, and the grandmother of Polly. She had just come from the Bluff Crag that very day, where she had been to see her son; and she told me that the last thing she saw, in looking back from the bank above, before turning into the main road, was her son with his crab-basket on his back, and Master Patrick Berkley alongside of him. "'Oh, I am so glad to hear this,' I replied; 'that shows Patrick's leg must be quite well and strong again. And how are Miss Vea and Alfred? did you see them also?" [Illustration: MEETING POLLY'S GRANDMOTHER.] "'No, miss,' said the old woman, 'I didn't see them. The young lady and her brother have gone to stay with another aunt at some distance off; but Master Patrick is to remain with Mrs. Berkley all the winter. I'm sure there's more than my son and Polly were glad indeed to hear this, for he is a good friend to the poor, and does many a good action to help them when he thinks as they are frail.' "After resting for some time by the kitchen-fire, Polly's grandmother went away, not without promising to come in again if ever she was passing that way when going to see her son. * * * * * "That visit was the beginning of many, and very many pleasant days I afterwards spent at the Bluff Crag Rectory. But it is near your bedtime, my dears, and I must stop for the present, and send you to bed," said Mrs. Lincoln. "Oh! do tell us some more, mamma," pleaded Robert. "I want you to tell us again of those cousins of Vea Berkley's who came from India, and you haven't even mentioned their names." "All in good time, my dears," said Mrs. Lincoln, laughing; "that is only the beginning of the Bluff Crag stories. It would never do, you know, to have them all told at once. We shall have the story of Vea and her cousins another time, never fear;" and with this promise the children had to be content, and say "Good-night." [Illustration: THE END.] 
14488	----	ELSIE'S KITH AND KIN by MARTHA FINLEY 1886 CHAPTER I. "O married love! each heart shall own; Where two congenial souls unite, Thy golden chains inlaid with down, Thy lamp with heaven's own splendor bright." LANGHORNE. "There, there, little woman! light of my eyes, and core of my heart! if you don't stop this pretty soon, I very much fear I shall be compelled to join you," Edward Travilla said, between a laugh and a sigh, drawing Zoe closer to him, laying her head against his breast, and kissing her tenderly on lip and cheek and brow. "I shall begin to think you already regret having staid behind with me." "No, no, no!" she cried, dashing away her tears, then putting her arms about his neck, and returning his caresses with ardor of affection. "Dear Ned, you know you're more than all the rest of the world to your silly little wife. But it seems lonely just at first, to have them all gone at once, especially mamma; and to think we'll not see her again for months! I do believe you'd cry yourself, if you were a girl." "Altogether likely," he said, laughing, and giving her another hug; "but, being a man, it wouldn't do at all to allow my feelings to overcome me in that manner. Besides, with my darling little wife still left me, I'd be an ungrateful wretch to repine at the absence of other dear ones." "What a neat little speech, Ned!" she exclaimed, lifting her head to look up into his face, and laughing through her tears--for her eyes had filled again. "Well, you know I can't help feeling a little lonely and sad just at first; but, for all that, I wouldn't for the world be anywhere else than here in your arms:" and with a sigh of content and thankfulness, she let her pretty head drop upon his breast again. "My darling! may it ever be to you the happiest place on earth! God helping me, I shall always try to make it so," he said, with a sudden change to gravity, and in low, moved tones. "My dear, dear husband!" she murmured, clinging closer to him. Then, wiping her eyes, "I sha'n't cry any more; for, if I'm not the happiest woman in the world, I ought to be. And what a nice time we shall have together, dear Ned! each wholly devoted to the other all winter long. I have it all planned out: while you are out about the plantation in the mornings, I'll attend to my housekeeping and my studies; and in the afternoons and evenings,--after I've recited,--we can write our letters, or entertain ourselves and each other with music or books; you can read to me while I work, you know." "Yes: a book is twice as enjoyable read in that way--sharing the pleasure with you," he said, softly stroking her hair, and smiling down into her eyes. "Especially if it is a good story, or a bit of lovely poetry," she added. "Yes," he said: "we'll have both those in turn, and some solid reading besides." "I don't like solid reading," she returned, with a charming pout. "One may cultivate a taste for it, I think," he answered pleasantly. "But you can't cultivate what you haven't got," she objected. "True enough," he said, laughing. "Well, then, we'll try to get a little first, and cultivate it carefully afterward. I must go now, love," he added, releasing her: "the men need some directions from me, in regard to their work." "And the women some from me," said Zoe. "Oh! you needn't laugh, Ned," shaking her finger at him, as he turned in the doorway to give her an amused glance: "perhaps some of these days you'll find out that I am really an accomplished housewife, capable of giving orders and directions too." "No doubt, my dear; for I am already proud of you in that capacity," he said, throwing her a smiling kiss, then hurrying away. Zoe summoned Aunt Dicey, the housekeeper, gave her orders for the day, and the needed supplies from pantry and storeroom, they went to the sewing-room, to give some directions to Christine and Alma. She lingered there for a little, trying on a morning-dress they were making for her, then repaired to her boudoir, intent upon beginning her studies, which had been rather neglected of late, in the excitement of the preparations for the departure of the greater part of the family for a winter at Viamede. But she had scarcely taken out her books, when the sound of wheels on the avenue attracted her attention; and glancing from the window, she saw the Roselands carriage draw up at the front entrance, and Ella Conly alight from it, and run up the veranda steps. "There, I'll not do much studying to-day, I'm afraid," said Zoe, half aloud; "for, even if it's only a call she has come for, she'll not leave under an hour." She hastily replaced the books in the drawer from which she had taken them,--for she had a feeling, only half acknowledged even to herself, of repugnance to having Ella know of her studies,--Ella, who had graduated from boarding-school, and evidently felt herself thoroughly educated,--and hurried down to meet and welcome her guest. "I told Cal and Art, I thought you'd be sure to feel dreadfully lonely to-day, after seeing everybody but Ned start off on a long journey, and so I'd come and spend the day with you," said Ella, when the two had exchanged kisses, and inquiries after each other's health. "It was very kind and thoughtful in you," returned Zoe, leading the way into the parlor usually occupied by the family, where an open wood fire blazed cheerily on the hearth. "Take this easy-chair, won't you?" she said, wheeling it a little nearer the grate; "and Dinah shall carry away your wraps when it suits you to doff them. I wish cousins Cal and Art would invite themselves to dine with us too." "Art's very busy just now," said Ella: "there's a good deal of sickness, and I don't believe he's spent a whole night at home for the last week or more." "Dear me! I wouldn't be a doctor for any thing, nor a doctor's wife!" exclaimed Zoe. "Well, I don't know: there's something to be said on both sides of that question," laughed Ella. "I can tell you, Art would make a mighty good husband; and it's very handy, in ease of sickness, to have the doctor in the house." "Yes; but, according to your account, he's generally somewhere else than in his own house," returned Zoe playfully. Ella laughed. "Yes," she said, "doctors do have a hard life; but, if you say so to Art, he always says he has never regretted having chosen the medical profession, because it affords so many opportunities for doing good. It's plain he makes that the business of his life. I'm proud of Art. I don't believe there's a better man anywhere. I was sick last summer, and you wouldn't believe how kindly he nursed me." "You can't tell me any thing about him that I should think too good to believe," said Zoe. "He's our family doctor, you remember; and, of course, we are all attached to him on that account, as well as because of the relationship." "Yes, to be sure. There, Dinah, you may carry away my hat and cloak," Ella said, divesting herself of them as she spoke, "but leave the satchel. I brought my fancy-work, Zoe: one has to be industrious now, as Christmas is coming. I decided to embroider a pair of slippers for each of my three brothers. Walter does not expect to get home; so I made his first, as they had to travel so far. I'm nearly done with Art's, and then I have Cal's to do." "Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed Zoe, examining the work: "and that's a new stitch; won't you teach it to me?" "Yes, indeed, with pleasure. And I want you to teach me how to crochet that lace I saw you making the other day. I thought it so pretty." The two spent a pleasant morning chatting together over their fancy-work, saying nothing very wise, perhaps, but neither did they say any thing harmful: an innocent jest now and again, something--usually laudatory--about some member of the family connection, and remarks and directions about their work, formed the staple of their talk. "Oh! how did it come that you and Ned staid behind when all the rest went to Viamede for the winter?" asked Ella. "Business kept my husband, and love for him and his society kept me," returned Zoe, with a look and smile that altogether belied any suspicion Ella might have had that she was fretting over the disappointment. "Didn't you want to go?" "Yes, indeed, if Edward could have gone with me; but any place with him is better than any other without him." "Well, I don't believe I should have been willing to stay behind, even in your place. I've always had a longing to spend a winter there visiting my sister Isa, and my cousins Elsie and Molly. Cal and Art say, perhaps one or both of them may go on to spend two or three weeks this winter; and in that case I shall go along." "Perhaps we may go at the same time, and what a nice party we will make!" said Zoe. "There," glancing from the window, "I see my husband coming, and I want to run out and speak to him. Will you excuse me a moment?" and scarcely waiting for a reply, she ran gayly away. Meeting Edward on the threshold, "I have no lessons to recite this time," she said; "but you are not to scold, because I've been prevented from studying by company. Ella is spending the day with me." "Ah! I hope you have had a pleasant time together--not too much troubled by fear of a lecture from the old tyrant who bears your lessons," he said laughingly, as he bent his head to press a kiss of ardent affection upon the rosy lips she held up to him. "No," she laughed in return: "I'm not a bit afraid of him." Zoe had feared the hours when Edward was unavoidably absent from her side would be very lonely now while the other members of the Ion family were away; but she did not find it so; her studies, and the work of making various pretty things for Christmas gifts, keeping her very busy. And, when he was with her, time flew on very rapid wings. She had grown quite industrious, and generally plied her needle in the evenings while he read or talked to her. But occasionally he would take the embroidery, or whatever it was, out of her hands, and toss it aside, saying she was trying her eyes by such constant use; and, besides, he wanted her undivided attention. And she would resign herself to her fate, nothing loath to be drawn close to his side, or to a seat upon his knee, to be petted and caressed like a child, which, indeed, he persisted in calling her. This was when they were alone: but very frequently they had company to spend the day, afternoon, or evening; for Ion had always been noted for its hospitality; and scarcely a week passed in which they did not pay a visit to the Oaks, the Laurels, the Pines, or Roselands. Also a brisk correspondence was carried on with the absent members of the family. And Zoe's housekeeping cares and duties were just enough to be an agreeable variety in her occupations: every day, too, when the weather permitted, she walked or rode out with her husband. And so the time passed quite delightfully for the first two months after the departure of the Viamede party. It was a disappointment that Edward found himself too busy to make the hoped-for trip to Viamede at Christmas-time; yet Zoe did not fret over it, and really enjoyed the holidays extremely, giving and receiving numerous handsome presents, and, with Edward's assistance, making it a merry and happy time for the servants and other dependants, as well as for the relatives and friends still in the neighborhood. The necessary shopping, with Edward to help her, and the packing and sending off of the Christmas-boxes to Viamede, to the college-boys,--Herbert and Harold,--and numerous other relatives and friends far and near, Zoe thought altogether the most delightful business she had ever taken in hand. A very merry, happy little woman she was through all those weeks and months, Edward as devoted as any lover, and as gay and light-hearted as herself. "Zoe, darling," Edward said one day at dinner, "I must drive over into our little village of Union--by the way, do you know that we have more than a hundred towns of that name in these United States?" "No, I did not know, or suspect, that we had nearly so many," she interrupted, laughing: "no wonder letters go astray when people are not particular to give the names of both county and State. But what were you going to say about driving over there?" "I must see a gentleman on business, who will be there to meet the five-o'clock train, and leave on it; and, in order to be certain of seeing him, I must be there at least fifteen or twenty minutes before it is due. Shall I have the pleasure of my wife's company in the carriage? I have ordered it to be at the door by fifteen or twenty minutes past four, which will give us plenty of time, as it is an easy matter to drive from here to Union in ten minutes." "Thank you," she said. "I accept the invitation with pleasure, and promise to be ready at the minute." "You are the best little woman about that," he returned, with an appreciative look and smile. "I don't remember that you have ever yet kept me waiting, when told beforehand at what time I intended to start." "Of course not," she said, with a pleased laugh; "because I was afraid, if I did, I shouldn't be invited so often: and I'm always so glad to go with you." "Not gladder than I am to have you," he said, with a very lover-like glance and smile. "I always enjoy your society, and am always proud to show my friends and acquaintances what a dear little wife I have. I dare say I'm looked upon as a very fortunate fellow in that respect, and sometimes envied on account of having drawn such a prize in the matrimonial lottery." They had left the table while he spoke, and with the last words he passed his arm round her waist. "Dear me, Ned, what a gallant speech!" she said, flushing with delight; "you deserve a reward:" and she held up her face for a kiss. "I am overpaid," he said, when he had bestowed it. "In spite of the coin being such as you have a right to help yourself to whenever you will?" she returned with a merry laugh. "O Ned, my lover-husband!" she added, laying her head on his breast, "I am so happy in belonging to you, and I can never love you enough for all your goodness to me!" "Darling, are you not equally good and loving to me?" he asked in tender tones, and holding her close. "But I owe every thing to you," she responded with emotion. "If you had not come to my aid when my dear father was taken from me, what would have become of me, a mere child, without a near relative in the world, alone and destitute in a foreign land?" "But I loved you, dearest. I sought my own happiness, as well as yours, in asking you to be my wife. So you need never feel burdened by the idea that you are under any special obligation to me, to whom you are the very sunshine of life." "Dear Ned, how very kind in you to say so," she responded, gazing with ardent affection into his eyes; "but it isn't burdensome to be under obligation to you, any more than it is a trial to be ruled by you," she added, with playful tenderness; "and I love to think of all your goodness to me." It was five minutes past four by Zoe's watch, and she just about to go to her dressing-room to put on her hat and cloak, when visitors were announced,--some ladies who always made a lengthened call at Ion; so she at once resigned herself to the loss of her anticipated drive with her husband. "O Ned!" she whispered in a hasty, vexed aside, "you'll have to go alone." "Yes, dear," he returned; "but I'll try to get back in time to take you a drive in the other direction." They stepped forward, and greeted their guests with hospitable cordiality. They were friends whose visits were prized and enjoyed, though their coming just at this time was causing Zoe a real disappointment. However, Edward's promise of a drive with him at a later hour so far made amends for it, that she could truthfully express pleasure in seeing her guests. Edward chatted with them for a few moments, then, excusing himself on the plea of business that could not be deferred, left them to be entertained by Zoe, while he entered his waiting carriage, and went on his way to the village, where he expected to meet his business acquaintance. CHAPTER II. "The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness."--SHAKSPEARE. Edward had met and held his desired interview with his business acquaintance, seen him aboard his train, and was standing watching it as it steamed away and disappeared in the distance, when a feminine voice, close at hand, suddenly accosted him. "O Mr. Travilla! how are you? I consider myself very fortunate in finding you here." He turned toward the speaker, and was not too greatly pleased at sight of her. "Ah! good-evening, Miss Deane," he said, taking her offered hand, and speaking with gentlemanly courtesy. "In what can I be of service to you?" "By inviting me to Ion to spend the night," she returned laughingly. "I've missed my train, and was quite in despair at the thought of staying alone over night in one of the miserable little hotels of this miserable little village. So I was delighted to see your carriage standing there, and you yourself beside it; for, knowing you to be one of the most hospitable of men, I am sure you will be moved to pity, and take me home with you." Edward's heart sank at thought of Zoe, but, seeing no way out of the dilemma, "Certainly," he said, and helped his self-invited guest to a seat in his carriage, placed himself by her side, and bade the coachman drive on to Ion. "Now, really, this is very good in you, Mr. Travilla," remarked Miss Deane: "there is no place I like better to visit than Ion, and I begin to think it was rather a fortunate mishap--missing my train." "Very unfortunate for me, I fear," sighed Edward to himself. "The loss of her drive will be a great disappointment to Zoe, and the sight of such a guest far from making it up to her. I am thankful the visit is to be for only a night." Aloud he said, "I fear you will find it less pleasant than on former occasions,--in fact, rather lonely; as all the family are absent--spending the winter at Viamede, my mother's Louisiana plantation--except my wife and myself." "Ah! but your wife is a charming little girl,--I never can think of her as a woman, you know,--and you are a host in yourself," returned the lady laughingly. Zoe's callers had left; and she, having donned hat and cloak, not to keep her husband a single moment, was at the window watching for his coming, when the carriage came driving up the avenue, and drew up at the door. She hurried out, expecting to find no one there but himself, and to be at once handed to a seat in the vehicle, and the next minute be speeding away with him, enjoying her drive all the more for the little disappointment that had preceded it. What, then, was her chagrin to see a visitor handed out, and that visitor the woman for whom she had conceived the most violent antipathy! "Miss Deane, my dear," Edward said, with an entreating look at Zoe, which she did not see, her eyes being at that instant fixed upon the face of her uninvited and unwelcome guest. "How do you do, my dear Mrs. Travilla? I hope you are glad to see me?" laughed the intruder, holding out a delicately gloved hand, "your husband has played the Good Samaritan to me to-night--saving me from having to stay in one of those wretched little hotels in the village till two o'clock to-morrow morning." "I am in usual health, thank you. Will you walk in?" returned Zoe in a freezing tone, and utterly ignoring the offered hand. "Will you step into the parlor? or would you prefer being shown to your room first?" "The latter, if you please," Miss Deane answered sweetly, apparently quite unaware that Zoe's manner was in the least ungracious. "Dinah," said Zoe, to a maid-in-waiting, "show Miss Deane to the room she occupied on her last visit. Carry up her satchel, and see that she has every thing she wants." Having given the order, Zoe stepped out to the veranda where Edward still was, having staid behind to give directions in regard to the horses. "Zoe, love, I am very sorry," he said, as the man turned his horses' heads, and drove away toward the stables. "O Edward! how could you?" she exclaimed reproachfully, tears of disappointment and vexation springing to her eyes. "Darling, I really could not help it," he replied soothingly, drawing her to him with a caress, and went on to tell exactly what had occurred. "She is not a real lady," said Zoe, "or she never would have done a thing like that." "I agree with you, love," he said; "but I was sorry your reception of her was so extremely ungracious and cold." "Would you have had me play the hypocrite, Ned?" she asked indignantly. "No, Zoe, I should be very far from approving of that," he answered gravely: "but while it was right and truthful not to express pleasure which you did not feel, at her coming, you might, on the other hand, have avoided absolute rudeness; you might have shaken hands with her, and asked after her health and that of her father's family." "I treated her as well as she deserved; and it does not make her any the more welcome to me, that she has already been the means of drawing down upon me a reproof from my husband's lips," Zoe said in tremulous tones, and turning away from him with her eyes full of tears. "My words were hardly intended as that, little wife," Edward responded in a kindly tone, following her into the hall, catching her in his arms, and imprinting a kiss on her ruby lips. "And I wanted my drive with you so badly," she murmured, half hiding her face on his breast; "but she has robbed us of that, and--O Ned! is she to come between us again, and make us quarrel, and be so dreadfully unhappy?" Her voice was full of tears and sobs before she had ended. "No, no; I could not endure that any more than you," he said with emotion, and clasping her very close: "and it is only for to-night you will have to bear the annoyance of her presence; she is to leave in the morning." "Is she? that is some comfort. I hope somebody will come in for the evening, and share with us the infliction of her society," Zoe said, concluding with a forlorn attempt at a laugh. "Won't you take off that very becoming hat and cloak, Mrs. Travilla, and spend the evening?" asked Edward playfully. "Thank you. I believe I will, if you will accompany me to the dressing-room," she returned, with a smiling look up into his face. "That I will with pleasure," he said, "provided you will reward me with some assistance with my toilet." "Such as brushing your hair, and tying your cravat? Yes, sir, I will: it's a bargain." And so, laughing and chatting, they went up to their own private apartments. Halt an hour later they came down again together, to find Miss Deane in the parlor, seated by a window overlooking the avenue. "There's a carriage just drawing up before your front entrance," she remarked: "the Roselands family carriage, I think it is." Zoe gave her husband a bright, pleased look. It seemed her wish for an addition to their party for the evening had been granted. The next moment the room-door was thrown, open, and Dr. Conly and Miss Ella were announced. They were cordially welcomed, asked to tea, and staid the evening, greatly relieving Zoe in the matter of entertaining her unwelcome guest, who devoted herself to the doctor, and left Edward to his wife and cousin, a condition of things decidedly agreeable to Zoe. A little after nine the Roselands carriage was announced; and the doctor and Ella took their departure, Edward and Zoe accompanying them to the outer door. The sky was black with clouds, and the wind roaring through the trees on the lawn. "We are going to have a heavy storm. I think," remarked Arthur, glancing upward: "there is not a star to be seen, and the wind blows almost a gale. I hope no patient of mine will want the doctor very badly to-night," he added with a slight laugh. "Step in out of the wind, cousin Zoe, or you may be the very one to send for me." Doing as directed, "No, indeed," she said: "I'm sure I couldn't have the heart to call anybody up out of a warm bed to face such a cutting wind as this." "No, no; never hesitate when there is a real necessity," he returned, speaking from his seat in the carriage, where he had already taken his place beside his sister, whom Edward had handed in. "Good-night, and hurry in, both of you, for my sake if not for your own." But they lingered a moment till the carriage turned, and drove swiftly down the avenue. "I am so glad they came," remarked Zoe, as Edward shut the door and locked it for the night. "Yes," he said: "they added a good deal to the pleasure of the evening. As we couldn't be alone together, three guests were more acceptable than one." "Decidedly; and that one was delighted, I'm sure, to have an opportunity to exercise her conversational gifts for the benefit of a single man instead of a married one." "Zoe, love, don't allow yourself to grow bitter and sarcastic," Edward said, turning toward her, laying a hand lightly, affectionately, upon her shoulder, and gazing down into her eyes with a look of grave concern. She colored under it, and turned away with a pout that almost spoiled the beauty of her fair face. She was more than ever impatient to be rid of their self-invited guest. "She always sets Ned to scolding me," was the bitter thought in her heart as she went slowly back to the parlor, where they had left Miss Deane, Edward following, sighing inwardly at the change in his darling always wrought by that unwelcome presence in the house. "How the wind roars down the chimney!" Miss Deane remarked as her host and hostess re-entered the room, where she was comfortably seated in an easy-chair beside the glowing grate. "I fear to-morrow will prove a stormy day; but in that case I shall feel all the more delighted with my comfortable quarters here,--all the more grateful to you, Mr. Travilla, for saving me from a long detention in one of those miserable little country taverns, where I should have died of _ennui_." "You seem kindly disposed, my dear madam, to make a great deal of a small service," returned Edward gallantly. But Zoe said not a word. She stood gazing into the fire, apparently lost in thought; but the color deepened on her cheek, and a slight frown contracted her brows. Presently she turned to her guest, saying courteously, "You must be weary with your journey, Miss Deane: would you like to retire?" "Thank you, I should," was the reply; and thereupon the good-nights were said, and they sought their respective rooms. "You are not displeased with me, dear?" Zoe asked, lifting her eyes inquiringly to her husband's face as she stood before their dressing-room fire with his arm about her waist: "you are looking so very grave." "No, dearest, I am not disposed to find fault with you," he said, softly caressing her hair and cheek with his disengaged hand; "though I should be glad if you could be a trifle more cordial to our uninvited guest." "It's my nature to act just as I feel; and, if there's a creature on earth I thoroughly detest, it is she!" returned the child-wife with almost passionate vehemence. "I know she hates me,--for all her purring manner and sweet tones and words,--and that she likes nothing better than to make trouble between my husband and me." "My dear child, you really must try not to be so uncharitable and suspicious," Edward said in a slightly reproving tone. "I do not perceive any such designs or any hypocrisy in her conduct toward you." "No: men are as blind as a bat in their intercourse with such women; never can see through their designs; always take them to be as sweet and amiable as they pretend to be. It takes a woman to understand her own sex." "Maybe so," he said soothingly; "but we will leave the disagreeable subject for to-night at least, shall we not?" "Yes; and, oh, I do hope the weather to-morrow will not be such as to afford her an excuse for prolonging her stay!" "I hope not, indeed, love," he responded; "but let us resolve, that, if it does, we will try to bear the infliction patiently, and give our self-invited guest no right to accuse us of a lack of hospitality toward her. Let us not forget or disobey the Bible injunction, to 'use hospitality one to another without grudging.'" "I'll try not to. I'll be as good to her as I can, without feeling that I am acting insincerely." "And that is all I ask, love. Your perfect freedom from any thing approaching to deceit is one of your greatest charms, in your husband's eyes," he said, tenderly caressing her. "It would, I am sure, be quite impossible for me to love a wife in whose absolute truth and sincerity I had not entire confidence." "And you do love me, your foolish, faulty little wife?" she said, in a tone that was a mixture of assertion and inquiry, while her lovely eyes gazed searchingly into his. "Dearly, dearly, my sweet!" he said, smiling fondly down upon her. "And now to bed, lest these bright eyes and rosy cheeks should lose something of their brilliance and beauty." "Suppose they should," she said, turning slightly pale, as with sudden pain. "O Ned! if I live, I must some day grow old and gray and wrinkled, my eyes dim and sunken: shall you love me then, darling?" "Better than ever, love," he whispered, holding her closer to his heart; "for how long we shall have lived and loved together! We shall have come to be as one indeed, each with hardly a thought or feeling unshared by the other." CHAPTER III. "One woman reads another's character, without the tedious trouble of deciphering."--JONSON. Zoe's sleep that night was profound and refreshing, and she woke in perfect health and vigor of body and mind; but the first sound that smote upon her ear--the dashing of sleet against the window-pane--sent a pang of disappointment and dismay to her heart. She sprang from her bed, and, running to the window, drew aside the curtain, and looked out. "O Ned!" she groaned, "the ground is covered with sleet and snow,--about a foot deep, I should think,--and just hear how the wind shrieks and howls round the house!" "Well, love," he answered in a cheery tone, "we are well sheltered, and supplied with all needful things for comfort and enjoyment." "And one that will destroy every bit of my enjoyment in any or all the others," she sighed; "but," eagerly and half hopefully, "do you think it is quite certain to be too bad for her to go?" "Quite, I am afraid. If she should offer to go," he added mischievously, "we will not be more urgent against it than politeness demands, and, if she persists, will not refuse the use of the close carriage as far as the depot." "She offer to go!" exclaimed Zoe scornfully: "you may depend, she'll stay as long as she has the least vestige of an excuse for doing so." "Oh, now, little woman! don't begin the day with being quite so hard and uncharitable," Edward said, half seriously, half laughingly. Zoe was not far wrong in her estimate of her guest. Miss Deane was both insincere and a thoroughly selfish person, caring nothing for the comfort or happiness of others. She had perceived Zoe's antipathy from the first day of their acquaintance, and took a revengeful, malicious delight in tormenting her; and she had sufficient penetration to see that the most effectual way to accomplish her end was through Edward. The young wife's ardent and jealous affection for her husband was very evident; plainly, it was pain to her to see him show Miss Deane the slightest attention, or seem interested in any thing she did or said; therefore the intruder put forth every effort to interest him, and monopolize his attention, and at the same time contrived to draw out into exhibition the most unamiable traits in Zoe's character, doing it so adroitly that Edward did not perceive her agency in the matter, and thought Zoe alone to blame. To him Miss Deane's behavior appeared unexceptionable, her manner most polite and courteous, Zoe's just the reverse. It was so through all that day and week; for the storm continued, and the uninvited guest never so much as hinted at a wish to leave the shelter of their hospitable roof. Zoe began each day with heroic resolve to be patient and forbearing, sweet-tempered and polite, toward her tormentor, and ended it with a deep sense of humiliating failure, and of having lost something of the high esteem and admiration in which her almost idolized husband had been wont to hold her. Feeling that, more or less of change in her manner toward him was inevitable; less sure than formerly of his entire approval and ardent affection, a certain timidity and hesitation crept into her manner of approaching him, even when they were quite alone together; she grew sad, silent, and reserved: and he, thinking her sullen and jealous without reason, ceased to lavish endearments upon her, and, more than that, half unconsciously allowed both his looks and tones to express disapprobation and reproof. That almost broke Zoe's heart; but she strove to hide her wounds from him, and especially from her tormentor. The storm kept Edward in the house: at another time that would have been a joy to Zoe, but now it only added to her troubles, affording constant opportunity to the wily foe to carry out her evil designs. On the evening of the second day from the setting in of the storm, Miss Deane challenged Edward to a game of chess. He accepted at once, and with an air of quiet satisfaction brought out the board, and placed the men. He was fond of the game; but Zoe had never fancied it, and he had played but seldom since their marriage. Miss Deane was a more than ordinarily skilful player, and so was he; indeed, so well matched were they, that neither found it an easy matter to checkmate the other: and that first game proved a long one,--so long that Zoe, who had watched its progress with some interest in the beginning, eager to see Edward win, at length grew so weary as to find it difficult to keep her eyes open, or refrain from yawning. But Edward, usually so tenderly careful of her, took no notice,--indeed, as she said bitterly to herself, seemed to have forgotten her existence. Still, it was with a thrill of delight that she at length perceived that he had come off victorious. Miss Deane took her defeat with very good grace, and smilingly challenged him to another contest. "Rather late, isn't it?" he said with a glance at the clock, whose hands pointed to half-past eleven. "Suppose we sign a truce until to-morrow?" "Certainly: that will be decidedly best," she promptly replied, following the direction of his glance. "I feel so fresh, and have enjoyed myself so much, that I had no idea of the hour, and am quite ashamed of having kept my youthful hostess up so late," she added, looking sweetly at Zoe. "Very young people need a large amount of sleep, and can't keep up health and strength without it." "You are most kind," said Zoe, a touch of sarcasm in her tones: "it must be a very sympathetic nature that has enabled you to remember so long how young people feel." A twinkle of fun shone in Edward's eyes at that. Miss Deane colored furiously, bade a hasty good-night, and departed to her own room. "That was a rather hard thrust, my dear," remarked Edward, laughing, as he led the way into their dressing-room; "not quite polite, I'm afraid." "I don't care if it wasn't!" said Zoe. "She is always twitting me on my extreme youth." "Sour grapes," he said lightly: "she will never see twenty-five again, and would give a great deal for your youth. And since you are exactly the age to suit me, why should you care a fig for her sneers?" "I don't, when I seem to suit you in all respects," returned Zoe with tears in her voice. Her back was toward him; but he caught sight of her face in a mirror, and saw that tears were also glistening in her eyes. Putting his arm round her waist, and drawing her to him, "I don't want a piece of perfection for my wife," he said; "she would be decidedly too great a contrast to her husband: and I have never yet seen the woman or girl I should be willing to take in exchange for the one belonging to me. And I'm very sure such a one doesn't exist." "How good in you to say it!" she said, clinging about his neck, and lifting to his, eyes shining with joy and love. "O Ned! we were so happy by ourselves!" "So we were," he assented, "and so we may hope to be again very soon." "Not so very, I'm afraid," she answered with a rueful shake of the head; "for just hark how it is storming still!" "Yes; but it may be all over by morning. How weary you look, love! Get to bed as fast as you can. You should not have waited for the conclusion of that long game, that, I know, did not interest you." "I was interested for your sake," she said, "and so glad to see you win." "Wife-like," he returned with a smile, adding, "It was a very close game, and you needn't be surprised to see me beaten in the next battle." "I'm afraid she will stay for that, even if the storm is over," sighed Zoe. "Dear me! I don't see how anybody can have the face to stay where she is self-invited, and must know she isn't a welcome guest to the lady of the house. I'd go through any storm rather than prolong a visit under such circumstances." "You would never have put yourself in such a position," Edward said. "But I wish you could manage to treat her with a little more cordiality. I should feel more comfortable. I could not avoid bringing her here, as you know; nor can I send her away in such inclement weather, or, indeed, at all, till she offers to go; and your want of courtesy toward her--to put it mildly--is a constant mortification to me." "Why don't you say at once that you are ashamed of me?" she exclaimed, tears starting to her eyes again, as with a determined effort she freed herself from his grasp, and moved away to the farther side of the room. "I am usually very proud of you," he answered in a quiet tone; "but this woman seems to exert a strangely malign influence over you." To that, Zoe made no response; she could not trust herself to speak; so prepared for bed, and laid herself down there in silence, wiped away a tear or two, and presently fell asleep. Morning brought no abatement of the storm, and consequently no relief to Zoe from the annoyance of Miss Deane's presence in the house. On waking, she found that Edward had risen before her; she heard him moving about in the dressing-room; then he came to the door, looked in, and, seeing her eyes open, said, "Ah, so you are awake! I hope you slept well? I'm sorry for your sake that it is still storming." "Yes, I slept soundly, thank you; and as for the storm, I'll just have to try to bear with it and its consequences as patiently as possible," she sighed. "A wise resolve, my dear. I hope you will try to carry it out." he returned. "Now I must run away, and leave you to make your toilet, as I have some little matters to attend to before breakfast." She made no reply; and he passed out of the room, and down the stairs. "Poor little woman!" he said to himself: "she looks depressed, though usually she is so bright and cheery. I hope, from my heart, Miss Deane may never darken these doors again." Zoe was feeling quite out of spirits over the prospect of another day to be spent in society so distasteful: she lay for a moment contemplating it ruefully. "The worst of it is, that she manages to make me appear so unamiable and unattractive in my husband's eyes," she sighed to herself. "But I'll foil her efforts," she added, between her shut teeth, springing up, and beginning her toilet as she spoke: "he likes to have me bright and cheery, and well and becomingly dressed, and so I will be." She made haste to arrange her hair in the style he considered most becoming, and to don the morning-dress he most admired. As she put the finishing touches to her attire, she thought she heard his step on the stairs, and ran out eagerly to meet him, and claim a morning kiss. But the bright, joyous expression of her face suddenly changed to one of anger and chagrin as she caught the sound of his and Miss Deane's voices in the hall below, and, looking over the balustrade, saw them go into the library together. "She begins early! It's a pity if I can't have my own husband to myself even before breakfast," Zoe muttered, stepping back into the dressing-room. Her first impulse was to remain where she was; the second, to go down at once, and join them. She hastened to do so, but, before she reached the foot of the stairway, the breakfast-bell rang; and, instead of going into the library, she passed on directly to the dining-room, and, as the other two entered a moment later, gave Miss Deane a cold "Good-morning," and Edward a half reproachful, half pleading look, which he, however, returned with one so kind and re-assuring that she immediately recovered her spirits, and was able to do the honors of the table with ease and grace. Coming upon her in that room alone, an hour later, just as she had dismissed Aunt Dicey with her orders for the day, "Little wife," he said, bending down to give her the coveted caress, "I owe you an explanation." "No, Ned, dear, I don't ask it of you: I know it is all right," she answered, flushing with happiness, and her eyes smiling up into his. "Still, I think it best to explain," he said. "I had finished attending to the little matters I spoke of,--writing a note, and giving some directions to Uncle Ben,--and was on my way back to our apartments, when Miss Deane met me on the stairway, and asked if I would go into the library with her, and help her to look up a certain passage in one of Shakspeare's plays, which she wished to quote in a letter she was writing. She was anxious to have it perfectly correct, she said, and would be extremely obliged for my assistance in finding it." "And you could not in politeness refuse. I know that, Ned, and please don't think me jealous." "I know, dear, that you try not to be; and it shall be my care to avoid giving you the least occasion. And I do again earnestly assure you, you need have no fear that the first place in my heart will not always be yours." "I don't fear it," she said; "and yet,--O Ned! it is misery to me to have to share your society with that woman, even for a day or two!" "I don't know how I can help you out of it," he said, after a moment's consideration, "unless by shutting myself up alone,--to attend to correspondence or something,--and leaving you to entertain her by yourself. Shall I do that?" "Oh, no! unless you much prefer it. I think it would set me wild to have her whole attention concentrated upon me," Zoe answered with an uneasy laugh. So they went together to the parlor, where Miss Deane sat waiting for them, or rather for Edward. She had the chess-board out, the men placed, and at once challenged him to a renewal of last night's contest. He accepted, of course; and they played without intermission till lunch-time, Zoe sitting by, for the most part silent, and wishing Miss Deane miles away from Ion. This proved a worse day to her than either of the preceding ones. Miss Deane succeeded several times in rousing her to an exhibition of temper that very much mortified and displeased Edward; and his manner, when they retired that night to their private apartments, was many degrees colder than it had been in the morning. He considered himself forbearing in refraining from remark to Zoe on her behavior; while she said to herself, she would rather he would scold her, and have done with it, than keep on looking like a thunder-cloud, and not speaking at all. He was not more disgusted with her conduct than she was herself, and she would own it in a minute if he would but say a kind word to open the way. But he did not; and they made their preparations for the night and sought their pillows in uncomfortable silence, Zoe wetting hers with tears before she slept. CHAPTER IV. "Forbear sharp speeches to her. She's a lady So tender of rebukes, that words are strokes, And strokes death to her."--SHAKSPEARE. As we have said, the storm lasted for a week; and all that time Edward and Zoe were slowly drifting farther and farther apart. But at last the clouds broke and the sun shone out cheerily. It was about the middle of the forenoon when this occurred. "Oh," cried Miss Deane, "do see the sun! Now I shall no longer need to encroach upon your hospitality, my kind entertainers. I can go home by this afternoon's train, if you, Mr. Travilla, will be so very good as to take or send me to the depot." "The Ion carriage is quite at your service," he returned politely. "Thanks," she said; "then I'll just run up to my room, and do my bit of packing." She hurried out to the hall, then the front door was heard to open; and the next minute a piercing shriek brought master, mistress, and servants running out to the veranda to inquire the cause. Miss Deane lay there groaning, and crying out "that she had sprained her ankle terribly; she had slipped on a bit of ice, and fallen; and oh! when now would she be able to go home?" The question found an echo in Zoe's heart, and she groaned inwardly at the thought of having this most unwelcome guest fastened upon her for weeks longer. Yet she pitied her pain, and was anxious to do what she could for her relief. She hastened to the medicine-closet in search of remedies; while Edward and Uncle Ben gently lifted the sufferer, carried her in, and laid her on the sofa. Also a messenger was at once despatched for Dr. Conly. Zoe stationed herself at a front window of the drawing-room to watch for his coming. Presently Edward came to her side. "Zoe," he said, "can't you go to Miss Deane?" "What for?" she asked, without turning her head to look at him. "To show your kind feeling." "I'm not sure that I have any." "Zoe! I am shocked! She is in great pain." "She has plenty of helpers about her,--Christine, Aunt Dicey, and a servant-maid or two,--who will do all they can to relieve her. If I could do any thing more, I would; but I can't, and should only be in the way. You forget what a mere child you have always considered me, and that I have had no experience in nursing." "It isn't nursing, I am asking you to give her, but a little kindly sympathy." A carriage was coming swiftly up the avenue. "There's the doctor," said Zoe. "You'd better consult with him about his patient; and, if he thinks my presence in her room will hasten her recovery, she shall have all I can give her of it, that we may get her out of the house as soon as possible." "Zoe! I had no idea you could be so heartless," he said, with much displeasure, as he turned and left the room. Zoe remained where she was, shedding some tears of mingled anger and grief, then hastily endeavoring to remove their traces; for Arthur would be sure to step into the parlor, to see her before leaving, if it were but for a moment. She had barely recovered her composure when he came in, having found his patient not in need of a lengthened visit. His face was bright, his tone cheery and kind, as he bade her good-morning, and asked after her health. "I'm very well, thank you," she said, giving him her hand. "Is Miss Deane's accident a very bad one?" "It is a severe sprain," he said: "she will not be able to bear her weight upon that ankle for six weeks." Then seeing Zoe's look of dismay, shrewdly guessing at the cause, he hastened to add, "But she might be sent home in an ambulance a few days hence, without the least injury." Zoe looked greatly relieved, Edward scarcely less so. "I can't understand how she came to fall," remarked Arthur reflectively. "Nor I," said Zoe. "Wouldn't it be well for you to advise her never to set foot on that dangerous veranda again?" Arthur smiled. "That would be a waste of breath," he said, "while Ion is so delightful a place to visit." "How are they all at Viamede?" he asked, turning to Edward. "Quite well at last accounts, thank you," Edward replied, adding, with a slight sigh, "I wish they were here,--my mother at least, if none of the others." Zoe colored violently. "Cousin Arthur, do you think I am needed in your patient's room?" she asked. "Only to cheer and amuse her with your pleasant society," he answered. "She would find neither pleasure nor amusement in my society," said Zoe; "and hers is most distasteful to me." "That's a pity," said Arthur, with a look of concern. "Suppose I lend you Ella for a few days? She, I think, would rather enjoy taking the entertainment of your guest off your hands." "Oh, thank you!" said Zoe, brightening; "that would be a relief: and, besides, I should enjoy Ella myself, between times, and after Miss Deane goes home." "Please tell Ella we will both be greatly obliged if she will come," Edward said. "I'll do so," said Arthur, rising to go; "but I have a long drive to take, in another direction, before returning to Roselands. And you must remember," he added with a smile, "that I lend her for only a few days. Cal and I wouldn't know how to do without her very long." With that, he took his departure, leaving Edward and Zoe alone together. "I am sorry, Zoe, that you thought it necessary to let Arthur into the secret of the mutual dislike between Miss Deane and yourself," remarked Edward, in a grave, reproving tone. Zoe colored angrily. "I don't care who knows it," she retorted, with a little toss of her head. "I did not think it _necessary_ to let Arthur into the secret, as you call it (I don't consider it one), but neither did I see any objection to his knowing about it." "Then, let me request you to say no more on the subject to any one," he said, with vexation. "I sha'n't promise," she muttered, half under her breath. But he heard it. "Very well, then, I forbid it; and you have promised to obey me." "And you promised that it should always be love and coaxing," she said, in tones trembling with pain and passion. "I'll have to tell Ella something about it." "Then, say only what is quite necessary," he returned, his tones softening. Then, after a moment's silence, in which Zoe's face was turned from him so that he could not see its expression, "Won't you go now, and ask if Miss Deane is any easier? Surely, as her hostess, you should do so much." "No, I won't! I'll do all I can to make her comfortable; I'll provide her with society more agreeable to her than mine; I'll see that she has interesting reading-matter, if she wants it; I'll do any thing and every thing I can, except that; but you needn't ask that of me." "O Zoe! I had thought you would do a harder thing than that at my request," he said reproachfully. Ignoring his remark, she went on, "I just believe she fell and hurt herself purposely, that she might have an excuse for prolonging her visit, and continuing to torment me." "Zoe, Zoe, how shockingly uncharitable you are!" he exclaimed. "I could never have believed it of you! We are told, 'Charity thinketh no evil.' Do try not to judge so harshly." He left the room; and Zoe indulged in a hearty cry, but hastily dried her eyes, and turned her back toward the door, as she heard his step approaching again. He just looked in, saying, "Zoe, I am going to drive over to Roselands for Ella: will you go along?" "No. I've been lectured enough for one day," was her ungracious rejoinder; and he closed the door, and went away. He was dumb with astonishment and pain. "What has come over her?" he asked himself. "She has always before been so delighted to go any and every where with me. Have I been too ready to reprove her of late? I have thought myself rather forbearing, considering how much ill-temper she has shown. She has had provocation, to be sure; but it is high time she learned to exercise some self-control. Yet perhaps I should have been more sympathizing, more forbearing and affectionate." He had stepped into his carriage, and was driving down the avenue. He passed through the great gates, and turned into the road, still thinking of Zoe, and mentally reviewing their behavior toward each other since the unfortunate day in which Miss Deane had crossed their threshold. The conclusion he presently arrived at was, that he had not been altogether blameless; that, if his reproofs had been given in more loving fashion, they would have been received in a better spirit; that he had not been faithful to his promise always to try "love and coaxing" with the impulsive, sensitive child-wife, who, he doubted not, loved him with her whole heart; and, once convinced of that, he determined to say so on his return, and make it up with her. True, it seemed to him that she ought to make the first advances toward an adjustment of their slight differences (quarrels they could scarcely be called; a slight coldness, a cessation of accustomed manifestations of conjugal affection, a few sharp or impatient words on each side), but he would be too generous to wait for that; he loved her dearly enough to sacrifice his pride to some extent; he could better afford that than the sight of her unhappiness. In the mean time Zoe was bitterly repenting of the rebuff she had given him. He had hardly closed the door when she started up, and ran to it to call him back, apologize for her curt refusal to go with him, and ask if she might still accept his invitation. But it was too late: he was already beyond hearing. She could not refrain from another cry, and was very angry with herself for her petulance. She regretted the loss of the drive, too, which would have been a real treat after the week of confinement to the house. She had refused to comply with her husband's request that she would go to Miss Deane and ask how she was: now she repented, and went as soon as she had removed the traces of her tears. "Ah! you have come at last!" was the salutation she received on entering the room where Miss Deane lay on a sofa, with the injured limb propped upon pillows. "I began to fear," sweetly, "that your delicate nerves had given way under the sight of my sufferings." "My nerves are not delicate," returned Zoe coldly; "in fact, I never discovered that I had any; so please do not trouble yourself with anxiety on that account. I trust the applications have relieved you somewhat." "Very little, thank you. I suppose it was hardly to be expected that they would take effect so soon. Ah, me!" she added with a profound sigh, "I fear I am tied to this couch for weeks." "No; do not disturb yourself with that idea," said Zoe. "The doctor told me you could easily be taken home in a few days in an ambulance." "I shall certainly avail myself of the first opportunity to do so," said Miss Deane, her eyes flashing with anger, "for I plainly perceive that I have worn out my welcome." "No, not at all," said Zoe; "at least, not so far as I am concerned." Miss Deane looked her incredulity and surprise, and Zoe explained,--"I think I may as well be perfectly frank with you," she said. "You have not worn out your welcome with me, because I had none for you when you came. How could I, knowing that you invariably make trouble between my husband and myself?" "Truly, a polite speech to make to a guest!" sniffled Miss Deane. "I hope you pride yourself on your very polished manners." "I prefer truth and sincerity." said Zoe, "I shall do all I can to make you comfortable while you are here; and, if you choose to avoid the line of conduct I have objected to, we may learn to like each other. I very well know that you do not love me now." "Since frankness is in fashion at this moment," was the contemptuous retort, "I will own that there is no love lost between us. Stay," as Zoe was about to leave the room, "let me give you a piece of disinterested advice. Learn to control your quick temper, and show yourself more amiable, or you may find one of these days, when it is too late, that you have lost your husband's heart." At that, Zoe turned away, and went swiftly from the room. She was beyond speaking, her whole frame quivering from head to foot with the agitation of her feelings. Lose the love of her idolized husband? That would be worse than death. But it should never be: he loved her dearly now (it could not be possible that these last few wretched days had robbed her quite of the devoted affection she had known beyond a doubt to be hers before); and she would tell him, as soon as he came in, how sorry she was for the conduct that had vexed him, and never, no, never again, would she do or say any thing to displease him, or lower herself in his estimation. As she thought thus, hurrying down the hall, she caught the sound of wheels on the drive, and ran out, expecting to see him, as it was about time for his return from Roselands. It was the Ion carriage she had heard, but only Ella Conly alighted from it. They exchanged greetings, then Zoe asked half breathlessly, "Where's Edward?" "Gone," Ella responded, moving on into the hall. "Come, let's go into the parlor, and sit down, and I'll tell you all I know about it. Why, Zoe," as she turned and caught sight of her companion's face, "you are as pale as death, and look ready to faint! There's nothing to be scared about, and you mustn't mind my nonsense." "Oh, tell me! tell me quickly!" gasped Zoe, sinking into a chair, her hands clasped beseechingly, her eyes wild with terror: "what, what has happened?" "Nothing, child, nothing, except that we met cousin Horace on our way here, and he carried Ned off to Union. They had to hurry to catch a train, in order to be in time for some business matter in the city, I didn't understand what: so Ned couldn't wait to write the least bit of a note to tell you about it; and he told me to explain every thing to you, and say you were not to fret or worry, not even if he shouldn't get home to-night; for he might not be able to finish up the business in time for even the last train that would bring him." The color had come back to Zoe's cheek, but her countenance was still distressed; and as Ella concluded, two scalding tears rolled quickly down her face, and plashed upon the small white hands lying clasped in her lap. "Dear me!" said Ella, "how fond you are of him!" "Yes," said Zoe, with a not very successful effort to smile through her tears: "who wouldn't be, in my place? I owe every thing to Ned, and he pets and indulges me to the greatest extent. Besides, he is so good, noble, and true, that any woman might be proud to be his wife." "Yes: I admit every word of it; but all that doesn't explain your tears," returned Ella, half sympathizingly, half teasingly. "Now, I should have supposed that anybody who could boast of such a piece of perfection for a husband would be very happy." "But I--we've hardly ever been separated over night," stammered Zoe, blushing rosy red; "and--and--O Ella! I hadn't a chance to say good-by to him, and--and you know accidents so often happen"-- She broke down with a burst of tears and sobs that quite dismayed her cousin. "Why, Zoe, I'm afraid you cannot be well," she said. "Come, cheer up, and don't borrow trouble." "I'm afraid I'm very silly, and have been making you very uncomfortable," said Zoe, hastily wiping away her tears, "and it's a great shame; particularly, considering that you have kindly come on purpose to help me through with a disagreeable task. "I'll show you to your room now, if you like," she added, rising, "and try to behave myself better during the rest of your visit." "Apologies are quite uncalled for," returned Ella lightly, as they went up-stairs together. "I have always had a good time at Ion, and don't believe this is going to be an exception to the general rule. But do you know," lowering her voice a little, "I don't propose to spend nearly all my time with that hateful Miss Deane. I never could bear her." "Then, how good it was in you to come!" exclaimed Zoe gratefully. "But I should never have asked it of you, if I had thought you disliked her as well as I." They were now in the room Ella was to occupy, and she was taking off her hat and cloak. "Oh, never mind! I was delighted to come anyhow," she answered gayly, as she threw aside the latter garment, and took possession of an easy-chair beside the open fire. "To tell you a secret," she went on laughingly, "I like my cousins Ned and Zoe Travilla immensely, and am always glad of an excuse to pay them a visit. But that Miss Deane,--oh! she's just _too sweet_ for _any thing!_" making a grimace expressive of disgust and aversion, "and a consummate, incorrigible flirt: any one of the male sex can be made to serve her turn, from a boy of sixteen to a man of seventy-five." "I think you are correct about that," said Zoe. "And, do you know, she is forever making covert sneers at my youth; and it's perfectly exasperating to me." "Sour grapes," laughed Ella. "I wouldn't let it vex me in the least: it's all to hide her envy of you, because you are really young, and married too. I know very well she's dreadfully afraid of being called an old maid." "I suspected as much," Zoe remarked. "But don't you think gentlemen are more apt to be pleased with her than ladies?" "Yes: they don't see through her as her own sex do. And she is handsome, and certainly a brilliant talker. I'd give a good deal for conversational powers equal to hers." "So would I," Zoe said, with an involuntary sigh. Ella gave her a keen, inquiring look; and Zoe flushed hotly under it. "Shall we go down now?" she asked. "It is nearly dinner-time; and we shall have to dine alone unless some one drops in unexpectedly," she added, as they left the room together, and passed down the stairs, arm in arm. "If Arthur should, wouldn't it be a trial to Miss Deane to have to dine in her own room?" exclaimed Ella, with a gleeful laugh. "Why, what do you mean?" asked Zoe, opening her eyes wide with surprise. "That she would not have the slightest objection to becoming Mrs. Dr. Conly." "But you don't think there's any danger?" queried Zoe, by no means pleased with the idea of having the lady in question made a member of the family connection. "No, and I certainly hope not. It wouldn't be I that would want to call her sister," returned Ella emphatically. "I should think Art had sufficient penetration to see through her," said Zoe. "But no; on second thoughts, I'm not so sure; for Ned will have it that it's more than half my imagination when I say she sneers at me." "That's too bad," said Ella. "But Art is older than Ned by some years, and has probably had more opportunity to study character." "Yes," replied Zoe, speaking with some hesitation, not liking to admit that any one was wiser than her husband, little as she was inclined to own herself in the wrong when he differed from her. CHAPTER V. "Is there no constancy in earthly things? No happiness in us, but what must alter?" Zoe drove over to the village in good season to meet the last train for that day, coming from the direction in which Edward had gone, ardently hoping he might be on board. The carriage was brought to a stand-still near the depot; and she eagerly watched the arrival of the train, and scanned the little crowd of passengers who alighted from it. But Edward was not among them, and now it was quite certain that she could not see him before another day. Just as she reached that conclusion, a telegram was handed her:-- "Can't be home before to-morrow or next day. Will return as soon as possible. E. TRAVILLA." To the girl-wife the message seemed but cold and formal. "So different from the way he talks to me when he is not vexed or displeased, as he hardly ever is," she whispered to herself with starting tears during the solitary drive back to Ion. "I know it's silly--telegrams can't be loving and kind: it wouldn't do, of course--but I can't help feeling as if he is angry with me, because there's not a bit of love in what he says. And, oh, dear! to think he may be away two nights, and I'm longing so to tell him how sorry I am for being so cross this morning, and before that, too, and to have him take me in his arms and kiss me, and say all is right between us, that I don't know how to wait a single minute!" She reached home in a sad and tearful mood. Ella, however, proved so entertaining and mirth-provoking a companion, that the evening passed quickly, and by no means unpleasantly. But when the two had retired to their respective apartments, Zoe felt very lonely, and said to herself that she would rather have Edward there, even silent and displeased, as he had been for several days past, than be without him. Her last thought before falling asleep, and her first on awaking next morning, were of him. "Oh, dear!" she sighed half aloud, as she opened her eyes, and glanced round the room, "what shall I do if he doesn't come to-day? I'll have to stand it, of course; but what does a woman do who has no husband?" And for the first time she began to feel some sympathy for Miss Deane, as a lonely maiden lady. She thought a good deal about her unwelcome guest while attending to the duties of the toilet, and determined to treat her with all possible kindness during the remainder of her enforced stay at Ion. So, meeting, on her way to the breakfast-room, the old negress who had been given charge of Miss Deane through the night, she stopped her, and asked how her patient was. "Jes' pow'ful cross dis hyar mawnin', Miss Zoe," was the reply, in a tone of disgust. "Dar isn't one ob de fambly dat would be makin' half de fuss ef dey'd sprained bofe dey's ankles. Doan ye go nigh her, honey, fear she bite yo' head off." "Indeed I sha'n't, Aunt Phillis, if there's any danger of that," laughed Zoe. "But as she can't jump up and run after me, I think I shall be quite safe if I don't go within arm's-length of her sofa." "She's pow'ful cross," repeated Aunt Phillis: "she done gone call dis chile up time an' again fru de night; an' when I ax her, 'Whar yo' misery at?' she say, 'In my ankle, ob c'ose, yo' ole fool you! Cayn't yo' hab nuff sense to change de dressin'?'" "Who is that has been so polite and complimentary to you, Aunt Phillis?" cried a merry voice in their rear. Ella was descending the stairway at whose foot they stood, as they perceived, on turning at the sound of her voice. "Good-morning, cousin: how bright and well you are looking!" said Zoe. "Just as I feel. And how are you, Mrs. Travilla? I trust you did not spend the night in crying over Ned's absence?" was the gay rejoinder. "No, not nearly all of it," returned Zoe, catching her spirit of fun. "Mawnin', Miss Ella," said the old nurse, dropping a courtesy. "'Twas de lady what sprain her foot yisteday I was talkin' bout to Miss Zoe." "Ah! how is she?" "I doan' t'ink she gwine die dis day, Miss Ella," laughed the nurse, "she so pow'ful cross; and dey do say folks is dat way when dey's gittin' bettah." "Yes, I have always heard it was a hopeful sign, if not an agreeable one," Ella remarked, "Was that the breakfast-bell I heard just now?" "Yes," said Zoe. "I hope you feel ready to do justice to your meal?" As they seated themselves at the table, Zoe, glancing toward Edward's vacant chair, remarked, with a sigh, that it seemed very lonely to sit down without him. "Well, now," said Ella, "I think it's quite nice to take a meal occasionally without the presence of anybody of the masculine gender." "Perhaps that is because you have never been married," said Zoe. "Perhaps so," returned her cousin, laughing; "yet I don't think that can be all that ails me, for I have heard married women express the same opinion quite frequently. What shall we do with ourselves to-day, Zoe? I've no notion of devoting myself exclusively to Miss Deane's entertainment, especially if she is really as cross as reported." "No, indeed! I couldn't bear to let you, even if you were willing," replied Zoe with decision. "I consented to your taking my place in that, only because I supposed you found her agreeable; while to me she is any thing else." "Suppose we call on her together, after a little, and let the length of our stay depend upon the enjoyment our presence seems to afford her," suggested Ella. "Agreed," said Zoe. "Then I will supply her with plenty of reading-matter, which, as she professes to be so very intellectual, ought to entertain her far better than we can. Shall we ride after that?" "Yes, and take a promenade on the verandas. We'll have to take our exercise in those ways, as the roads are not yet fit for walking." "Yes," said Zoe; "but I hope that by afternoon they will be good enough for driving; as I mean to drive over to the depot to meet the late train, hoping to find Ned on it." "Don't expect him till to-morrow," said Ella. "Why not?" queried Zoe, looking as if she could hardly endure the thought. "Because, in that case, your disappointment, if you have one, will be agreeable." "Yes; but, on the other hand, I should lose all the enjoyment of looking forward through the whole day, to seeing him this evening. Following your plan, I shouldn't have half so happy a day as if I keep to my own." "Ah! that's an entirely new view of the case," Ella said in her merry, laughing tones. Miss Deane did not seem to enjoy their society, and they soon withdrew from her room; Zoe having done all in her power to provide her with every comfort and amusement available in her case. "I'm glad that's over," sighed Zoe, when they were alone again. "And now for our ride, if you are ready, Ella. I ordered my pony for myself, and mamma's for you; and I see they are at the door." "Then let us don our riding-habits, and be off at once," said Ella. "Where are we going?" she asked, as they cantered down the avenue. "To the village, if you like. I want to call at the post-office." "In hopes of finding a note from Ned, I suppose. I don't believe there can be one there that would bring you later news than yesterday's telegram. But I have no objection to making sure, and would as soon ride in that direction as any other." Nothing from Edward was found at the office; and the young wife seemed much disappointed, till Ella suggested that that looked as if he expected to be at home before night. It was a cheering idea to Zoe: she brightened up at once, and in the afternoon drove over the same road, feeling almost certain Edward would be on the incoming train, due about the time she would reach the village, or rather at the time she had planned to be there. Ella, who had asked to accompany her, was slow with her dressing, taxing Zoe's patience pretty severely by thus causing ten minutes' detention. "Come, now, don't be worried: it won't kill Ned to have to wait ten or fifteen minutes," she said laughingly, as she stepped into the carriage, and seated herself by Zoe's side. "No, I dare say not," returned the latter, trying to speak with perfect pleasantness of tone and manner; "and he isn't one of the impatient ones, who can never bear to be kept waiting a minute, like myself," she added with a smile. "Now, Uncle Ben, drive pretty fast, so that we won't be so very far behind time." "Fas' as I kin widout damagin' de hosses, Miss Zoe," answered the old coachman. "Marso Ed'ard allus tole me be keerful ob dem, and de roads am putty bad sence de big storm." Zoe glanced at her watch as they entered the village. "Drive directly to the depot, Uncle Ben," she said. "It's fully fifteen minutes past the time for the train to be in." "I ain't heard de whistle, Miss Zoe," he remarked, as he turned his horses' heads in the desired direction. "No, nor have I," said Ella; "and we ought to have heard it fully five minutes before it got in. There may have been a detention. That is nothing very unusual," she hastened to add, as she saw that Zoe had suddenly grown very pale. The carriage drew up before the door of the depot; and the girls leaned from its windows, sending eager, searching glances from side to side, and up and down the track. No train was in sight, and the depot seemed strangely silent and deserted. "Oh!" cried Zoe, "what can be the matter?" "I suppose the train must have got in some time ago,--perhaps before we left Ion," replied Ella, in a re-assuring tone; "and all the passengers have dispersed to their homes, or wherever they were going." "No, there could not have been time for all that," Zoe responded, in accents full of anxiety and alarm. "Our watches may be much too slow," suggested Ella, trying to re-assure both herself and her cousin, yet trembling with apprehension as she spoke. "No, it isn't possible that they and all the timepieces in the house could be so far from correct," said Zoe despairingly. "Dar doan' 'pear to be nobody 'bout dis hyar depot," remarked Uncle Ben reflectively; "but I reckon dar's somebody comin' to 'splain de mattah. Wha's de 'casion ob dis mos' onusual state ob t'ings?" he added, as a woman, who been watching the carriage and its occupants, the open door of a neighboring house, came miming in their direction. "What de mattah, Aunt Rhoda?" he queried, as she reached the side of the vehicle, almost breathless with excitement and exertion. "Why, Uncle Ben, dar--dar's been a accident to de kyars, dey say, an' dey's all broke up, and de folks roun' here is all"-- "Where? where?" exclaimed Ella, while Zoe sank back against the cushions, quite unable to speak for the moment. "Dunno, Miss," was the reply; "but," pointing up the road, "it's out dat way, 'bout a mile, I reckon. Yo see, de kyars was a comin' fas' dis way, and 'nudder ole injine whiskin' 'long dat way, and dey bofe comes togedder wid a big crash, breakin' de kyars, and de injines bofe of em, till dey's good for nuffin' but kin'lin' wood; and de folks what's ridin' in de kyars is all broke up too, dey says; and de doctahs and body"-- "Edward!" gasped Zoe. "Drive us there, Uncle Ben, drive with all your might! O Edward, my husband, my husband!" and she burst into hysterical weeping. Ella threw her arms about her. "Don't, dear Zoe, oh, don't cry so! He may not be hurt. He may not have been on that train at all." Ben had already turned and whipped up his horses, and now they dashed along the road at a furious rate. Zoe dropped her head on Ella's shoulder, answering only with tears and sobs and moans, till the carriage came to a sudden stand-still. "We's got dar, Miss Zoe," said Uncle Ben, in a subdued tone full of grief and sympathy. She lifted her head; and her eye instantly fell upon a little group, scarcely a yard distant, consisting of several men, among whom she recognized Dr. Conly, gathered about an apparently insensible form lying on the ground. Ella and Ben saw it too. She suddenly caught the reins from his hands: he sprang from the carriage, and, lifting Zoe in his strong arms as if she had been but a child, set her on her feet, and supported her to the side of the prostrate man; the little crowd respectfully making way for her, at the words spoken by Ben in a voice half choked with emotion, "Hit's Marse Ed'ard's wife, gen'lemen." It was Edward lying there motionless, and with a face like that of a corpse. With an agonized cry, Zoe dropped on her knees at his side, and pressed her lips passionately to his. There was no response, no movement, not the quiver of an eyelid; and she lifted her grief-stricken face to that of the doctor, with a look of anguished inquiry in the beautiful eyes fit to move a heart of stone. "I do not despair of him yet, dear cousin Zoe," Arthur said in a low, moved tone. "I lave found no external injury, and it may be that he is only stunned." The words had scarcely left his lips when Edward drew a sighing breath, and opened his eyes, glancing up into Zoe's face bending over Mm in deepest, tenderest solicitude. "Ah, love! is it you?" he murmured faintly, and with a smile. "Where am I? What has happened?" "O Ned! dear, _dear_ Ned! I thought you were killed!" she sobbed, covering his face with kisses and tears. "There has been an accident, and you got a blow that stunned you," answered the doctor; "but I think you are all right now, or will be soon." "An accident!" Edward repeated, with a bewildered look, and putting his hand to his head. "What was it?" "A collision on the railroad," Arthur said. "There is an ambulance here: I think I will put you in it, and have you taken home at once. 'Tis only a few miles, and not a rough road." "Yes, yes: home is much the best place," he sighed, again putting his hand to his head. "Are you in pain?" asked Arthur. "Not much, but I feel strangely confused. I should like to be taken home as soon as possible. But not to the neglect of any one who may have been more seriously hurt than I," he added, feebly raising his head to look about him. "There are none such," Arthur answered. "You perhaps remember that the cars were nearly empty of passengers: no lives were lost and no one, I think, worse hurt than yourself." "And I?" returned Edward, in a tone of inquiry. "Have escaped without any broken bones, and I trust will be all right in a few days." "O Ned! how glad I am it is no worse!" sobbed Zoe, clinging to his hand, while the tears rolled fast down her cheeks. "Yes, little wife," he said, gazing lovingly into her eyes. "There, I positively forbid any more talking," said Arthur, with a mixture of authority and playfulness. "Here is the ambulance. Help me to lift him in, men," to the by-standers. "And you, cousin Zoe, get into your carriage, and drive on behind it, or ahead if you choose." "Can't I ride in the ambulance beside him?" she asked, almost imploringly. "No, no: you will both be more comfortable In doing as I have directed." "Then, please go with him yourself," she entreated. "I shall do so, certainly," he answered, motioning her away, then stooping to assist the others in lifting the injured man. Zoe would not stir till she had seen Edward put into the ambulance, and made as comfortable for his ride home as circumstances would permit. Then, as the vehicle moved slowly off, she hurried to her carriage. Ben helped her in, sprang into his own seat, and, as he took the reins from Ella, Zoe gave the order, "Home now, Uncle Ben, keeping as close behind the ambulance as you can." "Oh, don't, Zoe! you oughtn't to!" expostulated Ella, perceiving that her cousin was crying violently behind her veil. "I don't think Ned is very badly hurt. Didn't you hear Arthur say so?" "He only expressed such a hope: he didn't say certainly," sobbed Zoe. "And when people are in danger, doctors always try to hide it from their friends." "Arthur is perfectly truthful," asserted Ella, with some warmth. "He may keep his opinions to himself at times, but he never builds people up with false hopes. So cheer up, coz," she added, squeezing Zoe's hand affectionately. "I know that what you say of cousin Arthur is all true," sobbed Zoe; "but I could see he had fears as well as hopes: and--and--Ned doesn't seem a bit like himself; he has such a dazed look, as if not quite in his right mind." "But he knew you and Art; and it is to be expected that a man would feel dazed after such a shock as he must have had." "Yes, of course. Oh, I'm afraid he's dreadfully, dreadfully hurt, and will never get over it!" "Still," returned Ella, "try to hope for the best. Don't you think that is the wiser plan always?" "I suppose so," said Zoe, laughing and crying hysterically; "but I can't be wise to-night; indeed, I never can." CHAPTER VI. "And, if division come, it soon is past, Too sharp, too strange an agony to last." MRS. NORTON. Christine and Aunt Phillis, who had been left in charge of Miss Deane, had had a sore trial of patience in waiting upon her, humoring her whims, listening to her fretting and complaints, and trying to soothe and entertain her. She was extremely irritable, and seemed determined not to be pleased with any thing they could do for her. "Where is your mistress?" she asked at length. "Pretty manners she has, to leave a suffering guest to the sole care of servants." "Yes, Miss, Ise alluz t'ought Miss Zoe hab pretty manners and a pretty face," replied Aunt Phillis; "but dere is ladies what habn't none, an' doan' git pleased wid nuffin' nor nobody, an eayn't stan' no misery nowhars 'bout deirselves, but jes' keep frettin' and concessantly displainin' 'bout dis t'ing and dat, like dey hasn't got nuffin' to be thankful for." "Impudence!" muttered Miss Deane, her eyes flashing angrily. Then bidding her attendants be quiet, she settled herself for a nap. She was waked by a slight bustle in the house, accompanied by sounds as if a number of men were carrying a heavy burden through the entrance-hall, and up the wide stairway leading to the second story. "What's the matter? What's going on? Has any thing happened?" she asked, starting up to a sitting posture. Christine had risen to her feet, pale and trembling, and stood listening intently. "I must go and see," she said, and hurried from the room, Aunt Phillis shambling after her in haste and trepidation. "Stay!" cried Miss Deane: "don't leave me alone. What are you thinking of?" But they were already out of hearing. "I was never so shamefully treated anywhere as I am here," muttered the angry lady, sinking back upon her pillows. "I'll leave this house to-morrow, if it is a possible thing, and never darken its doors again." Listening again, she thought she heard sounds of grief, sobbing and wailing, groans and sighs. She was by no means deficient in curiosity, and it was exceedingly trying to be compelled to lie there in doubt and suspense. The time seemed very much longer than it really was before Aunt Phillis came back, sobbing, and wiping her eyes on her apron. "What is the matter?" asked Miss Deane impatiently. "Dere's--dere's been a awful commission on de railroad," sobbed Aunt Phillis; "and Marse Ed'ard's 'most killed." "Oh, dreadful!" cried Miss Deane. "Have they sent for his mother?" Aunt Phillis only shook her head doubtfully, and burst into fresh and louder sobs. "Most killed! Dear me!" sighed the lady. "And he was so young and handsome! It will quite break his mother's heart, I suppose. But she'll get over it. It takes a vast deal of grief to kill." "P'raps Marse Ed'ard ain't gwine ter die," said the old nurse, checking her sobs. "Dey does say Doctah Arthur kin 'most raise de dead." "Well, I'm sure I hope Mr. Travilla won't die," responded Miss Deane, "or prove to be permanently injured in any way.--Ah, Christine!" as the latter re-entered the room: "what is all this story about a railroad accident? Is Mr. Travilla killed?" "No, no, he not killed," replied Christine, in her broken English. "How bad hurt, I not know to say; but not killed." Meantime Edward had been taken to his room, and put comfortably to bed; while Zoe, seated in her boudoir, waited anxiously for the doctor's report of his condition. Ella was with her, and now and then tried to speak a comforting word, which Zoe scarcely seemed to hear. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, listening intently to catch every sound from the room where her injured husband lay. She looked pale and anxious, and occasionally a tear would roll quickly down her cheek. At last the door opened, and Arthur stepped softly across the room to her side. "Cheer up, little cousin," he said kindly. "Edward seems to be doing very well; and if you will be a good, quiet little woman, you may go and sit by his side." "Oh, thank you! I'll try," she said, starting up at once. "But mayn't I talk to him at all?" "Not much to-night," was the reply; "not more than seems absolutely necessary; and you must be particularly careful not to say any thing that would have the least tendency to excite him." "Oh, then he must be very, very ill,--terribly injured!" she cried, with a burst of tears and sobs. "That does not necessarily follow," Arthur said, taking her hand, and holding it in a kindly pressure. "But you must be more composed, or," playfully, "I shall be compelled to exert my authority so far as to forbid you to go to him." "Oh, no, no! don't do that!" she cried pleadingly. "I'll be calm and quiet; indeed, indeed I will." "That's right," he said. "I think I may venture to try you." "But won't you please tell me just how much you think he is hurt?" she pleaded, clinging to his hand, and looking up beseechingly into his face. "My dear little cousin," he said in a tenderly sympathizing tone, "I wish to do all in my power to relieve your anxiety, but am as yet in some doubt myself as to the extent of his injuries. He is a good deal shaken and bruised; but, as I have said before, there are no broken bones; and, unless there should be some internal injury which I have not yet discovered, he is likely to recover entirely in a few days or weeks." "But you are not sure? Oh! how could I ever bear it if he should"--she broke off with a burst of violent weeping. He led her to a seat, for she seemed hardly able to stand: her whole frame was shaking with emotion. "Try not to meet trouble half way, little cousin," he said gently. "'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,' and 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' It is God's promise to all who put their trust in him, and cannot fail; all his promises are yea and amen in Christ Jesus." "Yes, I know," she said, making a strong effort to control herself. "And you do hope Ned will soon be well?" "I certainly do," he responded in cheerful accents. "And now, if you will wipe away your tears, and promise to be very good and quiet, I will take you to him. He was asking for you when I left the room." She gave the desired promise, and he led her to the bedside. "I have brought you your wife, Ned," he said in a quiet tone, "and mean to leave her with you for a while; but you are to be a good boy, and not indulge in much chatter with her." "We'll be good: I'll answer for her, and myself too," Edward returned, with a tenderly affectionate smile up into Zoe's face, as she bent over him, and touched her lips to his forehead. She dared not trust herself to speak, but silently put her hand in his, dropped on her knees by the bedside, and laid her pretty head on the pillow on which his rested. "My own darling!" he murmured, softly pressing the hand he held: "my own precious little wife!" Once more Arthur enjoined quiet, then went out, and left them alone together. He paid a professional visit to Miss Deane, satisfied her curiosity in regard to Edward's injuries, and learned with pleasure that she was quite resolved to go home the next morning. "Of course Mrs. Travilla should give all her attention to her husband now," she remarked; "and I shall be only in the way. One disabled person is quite enough to have in a house at one time. So if you, doctor, will be so kind as to have the ambulance sent out for me directly after breakfast, I'll be much obliged." "I will do so," he said. "The journey will do you no harm, and you will probably be better cared for and happier in your own home than here, under the circumstances." Zoe's poor heart was longing to pour itself out into her husband's ear in words of contrition, penitence, and love; and only the fear of injuring him enabled her to restrain her feelings, and remain calm and quiet, kneeling there close by his side, with her hand in his. She couldn't rest till she told him how very, very sorry she was for the petulance of the past few days, and especially for the cold rejection of his invitation to accompany him on his drive to Roselands, how firmly resolved never again to give him like cause to be displeased with her, and how dearly she loved him. But she must refrain, from fear of exciting him: she must wait till all danger from that was past. It was hard; yet there was strong consolation in the certainty that his dear love was still hers. She read it in his eyes, as they gazed fondly into hers; felt it in the tender pressure of his hand; heard it in the tones of his voice, as he called her his "darling, his own precious little wife." Yet she was tormented with the fear that his accident had affected his mind and memory for the time, so that he had forgotten the unkindness of the morning; and that, when returning health and vigor should recall the facts to his remembrance, he would again treat her with the coldness and displeasure merited by her behavior. "But," she comforted herself, "if he does, it will not last long: he is sure to forgive and love me as soon as I tell him how sorry I am." She did not want to leave him to take either food or rest; but Arthur insisted that she should go down to tea, and later to bed, leaving Edward in his care; and she finally yielded to his persuasions, and exertion of medical authority. She objected that it was quite useless to go to bed; she was positively sure she could not sleep a wink: but her head had scarcely touched the pillow before she fell into a profound slumber, for she was quite worn out with anxiety and grief. It was broad daylight when she woke. The events of yesterday flashed instantly upon her mind; and she sprang from her bed and began dressing in haste. She must learn as speedily as possible how Edward was; not worse, surely, for Arthur had promised faithfully to call her at once if there should be any unfavorable change during the night. Still, a light tap at the door made her start, and turn pale; and she opened it with a trembling hand. Ella stood there with a bright, smiling countenance. "Good-morning, coz," she said gayly. "I bring you good news,--two pieces of it. Ned is almost himself again; Arthur is entirely satisfied that there is no serious injury,--internal or otherwise; and Miss Deane has already set out for her home, leaving me to give you her adieus. Now are you not happy?" "Indeed, indeed I am!" cried Zoe, dancing about the room in ecstasy, her eyes shining, and her cheeks flushing with joy. "May I go to him at once?" she asked, stopping short, with an eager, questioning look. "Yes. Art says you may, and Ned is asking for you. How fond he is of you, Zoe! though, I think, no fonder than you are of him." "I don't deserve it," responded Zoe, with unwonted humility, answering the first part of the remark. "I don't see but you do," said Ella. "Can I help you with your dressing? I know you are in a hurry to get to him." "Thank you. I don't think you can, but I'll be done in five minutes." Edward lay watching for her coming, listening for the sound of her light footsteps, and, as she opened the door, looked up, and greeted her with a tenderly affectionate smile. "O Ned! dear, dear Ned!" she cried, hastening to the bedside; "how like yourself you look again!" "And feel, too, love," he said, drawing her down till their lips met in a long kiss. Arthur had stepped out on her entrance, and they were quite alone together. "God has been very good to us, darling, in sparing us to each other," Edward said, in low, moved tones. "Oh, yes, yes!" she sobbed. "And I didn't deserve it; for I was so cross to you day before yesterday, when you asked me to go with you: and I'd been cross for days before that. Can you, will you, forgive me, dear Ned?" "I have not been blameless, and we will exchange forgiveness," he said, drawing her closer, till her head rested against his breast. "It is so good in you to say that," she sobbed. "Oh, if you had been killed, as I thought for one minute you were, I could never have had an hour of peace or comfort in this world! Those unkind words would have been the last I ever spoke to you; and I should never have been able to forget them, or the sad look that your face must have worn as you turned away. I didn't see it, for I had rudely turned my back to you; but I could imagine it: for I knew you must have been hurt, and grieved too." "So I was, little wife," he said tenderly, and passing his hand caressingly over her hair and cheek: "but a few moments' honest retrospect showed me that I was not blameless, had not been as forbearing and affectionate in my treatment of my darling little wife, for the past few days, as I ought to have been; and I resolved to tell her so, on the first opportunity." "O Ned! I don't deserve such a kind, loving husband!" she sighed; "and you ought to have a great deal better wife." "I am entirely satisfied with the one I have," lifting her hand to his lips. "There isn't a woman in the world I would exchange her for." "But I often do and say things you don't approve," she murmured, with a regretful sigh. "Yes; but have I not told you more than once, that I do not want a piece of perfection for my wife, lest there should be far too strong a contrast between her and myself?" "But there wouldn't be," she asserted. "I don't believe there's another man in all the world quite so dear and good as my husband." "Sweet flattery from your lips," he returned laughingly. "Now, dearest, go and eat your breakfast. I have had mine." "Ned, do you know our tormentor is gone?" she asked, lifting her head, and looking into his eyes, with a glad light in her own. "Yes, and am much relieved to know it," he replied. "And, dearest, she shall never come again, if I can prevent it." CHAPTER VII. "Tell me the old, old story." "My dear Zoe! what a happy face!" was Ella's pleased exclamation, as the two met in the breakfast-room. "Very bright, indeed!" said Arthur, who had come in with Zoe, smiling kindly upon her as he spoke. "Because it reflects the light and joy in my heart," she returned. "Wouldn't it be strange if I were not happy in knowing that my husband is not seriously hurt? Oh, we have been so happy together, that I have often feared it could not last!" "There seems every reasonable prospect that it will," Arthur said, as they seated themselves at the table. "You are both young and healthy, your tastes are congenial, and you have enough of this world's goods to enable you to live free from carking cares and exhausting labors." Zoe was in so great haste to return to Edward, that she could scarce refrain from eating her breakfast more rapidly than was consistent with either politeness toward her guests or a due regard for her own health: but she tried to restrain her impatience; and Arthur, who perceived and sympathized with it, exerted himself for her entertainment, telling amusing anecdotes, and making mirth-provoking remarks. Ella, perceiving his designs, joined in, in the same strain. Zoe presently entered into their mood, and they seemed, as in fact they were, a light-hearted and happy little breakfast party; both Arthur and Ella feeling greatly relieved by the favorable change in their cousin, not for Zoe's sake alone, but also because of their own affection for him. Edward no longer needed Arthur as nurse: indeed, Zoe claimed the right to a monopoly of the, to her, sweet task of waiting upon him, and attending to all his wants. So Arthur resigned in that capacity, but was to continue his visits as physician. He and Ella returned to Roselands shortly after leaving the breakfast-table; and Zoe, in joyous, tender mood, took her place by her husband's bedside. He welcomed her with a loving smile, taking her hand in his, and carrying it to his lips. "Arthur has condemned me to lie here for a full week," he said. "It would seem a weary while in the prospect, but for the thought of having, through it all, the sweet companionship of my darling little wife." "Dear Ned, how good in you to say so!" she murmured, kneeling beside the bed, and laying her cheek to his. "I don't believe there's another creature in the world that thinks my society of much account." "If you are right in that, which I very much doubt," he said with a smile of incredulity, "it only shows their want of taste, and makes no difference to us, does it, love, since we are all the world to each other?" "I am sure it makes no difference to me," she responded: "if you love, and are pleased with, me, it's very little I care what anybody else may think or say about me. But, oh! isn't it nice to be alone together again?" "Very nice." "And remember, you are to make all possible use of me,--as nurse, reader,--when you feel that you would like to listen to book or news-paper,--as amanuensis, every thing." "Yes, dearest, I expect to employ you in all those capacities by and by; but at present, I want nothing but to have you sit by my side, and talk to me, while I hold your hand, and feast my eyes on the face that is to me the dearest in all the world." At that, the pretty face was suffused with blushes and smiles. "I'm so happy! so very happy!" she murmured, stealing an arm round his neck. "It is such a change from yesterday, when for a little while, I--I thought you--were gone, and--and without my having had a chance to ask your forgiveness." The sobs came thick and fast as she went on. "O Ned! dear, dear Ned! I--I don't mean ever to be cross to you again, especially when we are going to part even for an hour." "No," he said, with emotion, and drawing her closer to him; "we should not have parted so; we had promised each other we would not; and I should have gone to you and made it up with you before leaving the house." "It was all my fault," she sobbed; "and if--if you had been taken from me, I could never have had another happy moment." "Thank God that we are spared to each other!" he said with fervent gratitude. "And now, dear wife, let us try to forget that there has been ever any coldness or clashing between us. Let us enjoy the present, and be as happy in each other as if no cloud, even the slightest, had ever come over our intercourse as husband and wife." "Yes," she said. Then, lifting her face, and gazing earnestly into his, "How pale and exhausted you look!" she cried in alarm. "I have talked, and let you talk, too much and too excitingly. I'm afraid cousin Arthur will say I am but a poor sort of nurse. Now," withdrawing herself from his embrace, and gently re-arranging his pillows, and smoothing the bed-clothes, "shut your eyes, and try to sleep. I'll stay close beside you, and be as quiet as a mouse." With a faint smile, he did as he was bidden; and she fulfilled her promise to the letter, watching beside him with love and solicitude for two hours, till his eyes again unclosed, and met hers, gazing so tenderly upon him, with an answering look of ardent affection. "You have had a good nap, and look quite refreshed, dear," she said, bending over him, and softly stroking his hair with her little white hand. "Yes; I feel much better," he said. "And you, love,--have you been sitting there all this time?" "Of course I have," she answered gayly: "did you think I would break my word, or feel any desire to go away and leave you?" "I know you to be the most devoted of nurses, when it is I who require your services," he returned, with a tenderly appreciative smile. "You are the best of little wives. But you must be very weary, and I want you now to go and take some exercise in the open air." "Is that an order?" she asked playfully. "Not yet," he returned, in the same tone; "but, if not obeyed as a request, it may become--something stronger." "Well," she said laughing, "it won't hurt me if it does: you can't hurt me in that way any more; for do you know, Ned," and she bent lovingly over him, pressing a kiss upon his forehead, "I have become such a silly thing, that I actually enjoy obeying you,--when you don't order me as if you thought I wouldn't do as you wish, and you meant to force me to it." "Forgive me, love, that I have ever done it in that spirit," he said remorsefully, and coloring deeply. "Ned, I haven't any thing to forgive," she said, with sudden energy and warmth of affection. "Then you will obey about the air and exercise?" he asked, returning to his playful tone. "Presently, sir, when I have seen you eat something. It's time for that now, according to the doctor's directions." She rang for refreshment, saw him take it, then left him for a short time in the care of old Aunt Phillis, while she donned riding hat and habit, mounted her pony, and flew over several miles of road and back again. She seemed to bring a breath of fresh air with her when she returned to his side. "My darling," he said, smiling up at her, "how the roses glow on your cheeks, and how bright your eyes are! Give me a kiss, and then sit down close by my side." "I obey both orders most willingly," she said merrily, as she bent down and kissed him on lips and forehead and cheek, then took possession of the chair she had vacated on leaving the room. "Now, sir, what next?" "Move your chair round a trifle, so that I can have a better view of your face." She smilingly obeyed. "There! does that satisfy your lordship?" "Quite. Now talk to me." "About what?" "Any thing you please: the principal thing is to hear the music of your voice." "Suppose I sing, then." "Yes, yes!" eagerly; "that's just what I should enjoy. Let it be, 'I love to tell the story.'" Zoe had a beautiful voice. Soft and sweet and clear it rose,-- "'I love to tell the story Of unseen things above, Of Jesus and his glory, Of Jesus and his love. I love to tell the story, Because I know it's true: It satisfies my longings As nothing else can do. "I love to tell the story: 'Twill be my theme in glory, To tell the old, old story, Of Jesus and his love. "I love to tell the story: More wonderful it seems, Than all the golden fancies Of all our golden dreams. I love to tell the story, It did so much for me; And that is just the reason I tell it now to thee. "I love to tell the story; 'Tis pleasant to repeat What seems, each time I tell it, More wonderfully sweet. I love to tell the story, For some have never heard The message of salvation From God's own Holy Word. "I love to tell the story; For those who know it best, Seem hungering and thirsting To hear it like the rest. And when in scenes of glory, I sing the new, new song, 'Twill be the old, old story, That I have loved so long.'" The last note died away, and for a moment there was silence in the room. Edward lay gazing into his wife's eyes with a look of sad, yearning tenderness. "O Ned! why, why do you look so at me?" she asked, with a sudden burst of tears, and dropping her face on the pillow beside his. He had been holding her hand while she sang; he kept it still, and, laying his other one gently on her head, "Zoe, my darling," he said, in tones tremulous with emotion, "it is the one longing desire of my heart that you may learn the full sweetness of that old, old story. O love! sometimes the thought, 'What if my precious wife should miss heaven, and our union be only for time, and not for eternity,' sends so keen a pang to my heart, that I know not how to endure it." "O Ned! surely I shall not miss it," she said, with a sob: "my father and mother were such good Christians; and you, my own husband, are so good too." "Ah, my darling!" he sighed, "that hope is but as a spider's web. Do you not remember that passage in Ezekiel, 'Though these three men, Noah, Daniel, and Job, were in it, they should deliver but their own souls by their righteousness, saith the Lord God'? And it is repeated again and again, 'Though Noah, Daniel, and Job, were in it, as I live, saith the Lord God, they shall deliver neither son nor daughter; they shall but deliver their own souls by their righteousness.' Zoe, dear, no righteousness but the imputed righteousness of Christ can save the soul from death. He offers it to you, love; and will you continue to reject it?" "Ned," she sobbed, "I wish I had it: I often think I would be a Christian if I only knew how, but I don't." "Do you not?" he asked, in some surprise. "I will try to make it plain. Jesus offers you a full and free salvation, purchased by what he has done and suffered in your stead, that 'God might be just, and yet the justifier of him who believeth in Jesus.' "'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.' "He bids you come to him, and says, 'Him that cometh to me, I will in no wise cast out.'" "But how shall I come?" she asked. "Tell me just how." "How do you come to me, love, when you feel that you have displeased me, and want to be reconciled?" "Oh! you know I just come and acknowledge that I've been hateful and cross, and say how sorry I am, and that I don't mean to behave so any more, and ask you to forgive and love me; and, dear Ned, you are always so willing and ready to do that, you hardly wait till I've said my say, before you put your arms round me, and hug and kiss me, and it's all right between us." "Yes, dearest; and God, our heavenly Father, is far more ready to receive and forgive us when we turn to him with sorrow for our sins, confessing them and pleading for pardon in the name, and for the sake, of his dear Son, our Saviour," "I'm afraid I don't feel half so sorry as I ought." "Who of us does? but we are not to wait for that. We must come to him, to be shown the evil of our natures, the sinfulness of our lives. "'Him hath God exalted with his right hand to be a Prince and a Saviour, for to give repentance to Israel, and forgiveness of sins.'" "But how am I to make myself believe?" she asked. "'By grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God.' So you see, we have to go to Jesus for it all,--for repentance, for faith, for salvation from the guilt and love of sin, and from eternal death. "The plan of salvation is very simple,--its very simplicity seems to stumble many; they don't know how to believe that it is offered them as a free gift; they think they must do something to merit it; but it cannot be bought, it is 'without money and without price.' 'Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely,' Come to Jesus, dear one; come now, for only the present moment is yours; delay is most dangerous, for the invitation may be withdrawn at any time." "If I could only see him! If I could hear his voice!" she sighed. "That you cannot; yet you know I am not nearer to you, or more willing to hear a petition from you, than he is." At that moment a well-known step was heard in the hall without; and as Zoe rose hastily, wiping her eyes, Arthur tapped at the door. CHAPTER VIII. "I bless thee for kind looks and words Showered on my path like dew, For all the love in those deep eyes, A gladness ever new." --MRS. HEMANS. A week had passed since Edward's accident; and he now exchanged his bed, during the day, for an easy-chair. He and Zoe had just finished taking their breakfast together in her boudoir when a servant came in with the mail. There were letters from Viamede,--one for Edward from his mother, one for Zoe from Betty Johnson. Both brought the unwelcome tidings that little Grace Raymond and Violet's babe were very ill with scarlet-fever. Edward read aloud his mother's announcement of the fact. "Yes," said Zoe. "Betty tells me the same thing. O Ned! how sorry I am for poor Vi! It would be hard enough for her if she had the captain with her, to help bear the burden and responsibility, and to share in her grief if they should die." "Yes, it is hard for her; and I am glad she has mamma and grandpa and grandma with her. Mamma says Dick Percival is attending the children, and there is talk of telegraphing for Arthur. "Ah," glancing from the window, "here he comes! He will perhaps bring us later news." Arthur did so: the children were worse than at the date of the letters. He had just received his summons, and would obey it immediately, taking the next train; had called to tell them, and see how Edward was. "Almost entirely recovered, tell my mother," Edward said, in reply to the query; "and you needn't go feeling any anxiety in regard to this one of your patients," he added playfully. "I leave him in your care, Zoe," said Arthur; "and, if he does not do well, I shall hold you responsible." "Then you must lay your commands upon him to obey my orders," she said, with a merry glance from one to the other. "Would that be any thing new in his experience?" asked the doctor with mock gravity. "It won't do to question us too closely," returned Zoe, coloring and laughing. "She is a very good little wife, and tolerably obedient," laughed Edward. "Really, would you believe it? she told me once she actually enjoyed obeying--under certain circumstances; and so, I suppose, should I. Zoe, you mustn't be too hard on me." "Oh! I intend to be very strict in seeing the doctor's orders carried out," she said; "and I expect to enjoy my brief authority immensely." Dr. Conly took leave almost immediately, for he had no time to spare; and the reading of the letters was resumed. Betty's was a long one, giving a full account, from her point of view, of the contest between Mr. Dinsmore and Lulu Raymond in regard to her refusal to take music-lessons of Signor Foresti after he had struck her. None of the family had mentioned the affair in their letters, even Rosie feeling that she had no warrant to do so; and the story was both new and interesting to Zoe. Lulu had not yet submitted when Betty wrote, so the story as told in her letter left the little girl still in banishment at Oakdale Academy. Zoe read the letter aloud to Edward. "Lulu is certainly the most ungovernable child I have ever seen or heard of," he remarked, at its conclusion. "I often wonder at the patience and forbearance grandpa and mamma have shown toward her. In their place, I should have had her banished to a boarding-school long ago, one at a distance, too, so that she could not trouble me, even during holidays." "So should I," said Zoe: "she hasn't the least shadow of a claim upon them." "No: the captain feels that, and is duly grateful. It is evident, too, that Lulu's lack of gratitude, and her bad behavior, are extremely mortifying to him." "But don't you think, Ned, it was rather hard to insist on her going back to that ill-tempered, abusive old music-teacher?" "Yes," he acknowledged with some hesitation. "I rather wonder at grandpa." "I wonder how it is going to end," said Zoe: "they are both so very determined, I should not like to stand in Lulu's shoes, nor yet in his." A second letter from Betty, received a fort-night later, told how it had ended: though Betty, not being in Lulu's confidence as Evelyn was, knew nothing of Capt. Raymond's letter to his daughter, or of Lulu's confession in reply to it; so her story ended with the statement that Lulu had at last submitted, been restored to favor, and was at Magnolia Hall with Evelyn as a companion, all the children who were in health having been banished from Viamede to save them from the danger of catching the dreaded fever. But to go back to the morning when the first instalment of her story was received. "It must be a very anxious time for them,--the family at Viamede, I mean," remarked Edward musingly. "And poor, dear Vi is so young to have such burdens to bear. What a blessing that she has mamma with her!" "Yes," said Zoe. "And, oh! I hope the children will get well, they are such darlings, both Gracie and the baby. I feel very sorry they are so ill, and yet I can't help rejoicing that my dear husband is able to sit up again. "Is that quite heartless in me?" she asked, laying her hand on one of his, which rested on the arm of his easy-chair; for she was seated in a low rocker, close at his side. "I think not," he answered, smiling down into her eyes. "It will do them no good for us to make ourselves unhappy. We will sympathize with, and pray for, them, but at the same time be thankful and joyful because of all God's goodness to us and them. 'Rejoice in the Lord always: and again I say, Rejoice.' 'Rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation.'" "You have certainly obeyed that last injunction," remarked Zoe, looking at him with affectionate admiration; "so patient and cheerful as you have been ever since your injury! Many a man would have grumbled and growled from morning to night; while you have been so pleasant, it was a privilege to wait on you." "Thank you," he said, laughing: "it is uncommonly good in you to say that, but I'm afraid you are rather uncharitable in your judgment of 'many men.' "Mamma has not yet heard of my accident," he remarked presently, "and wonders over my long silence. I'll write to her now, if you will be so kind as to bring me my writing-desk." "I'm doubtful about allowing such exertion," she said: "you are left under my orders, you remember, and I'm to be held responsible for your continued improvement." "Nonsense! that wouldn't hurt me," he returned, with an amused smile; "and if you won't get the desk, I'll go after it myself." "No, you mustn't: I sha'n't allow it," she said, knitting her brows, and trying to look stern. "Then get it for me." "Well," she said reflectively, "I suppose there'll have to be a compromise. I'll get the desk, if you'll let me act as your amanuensis." "We'll consider that arrangement after you have brought it." "No: you must agree to my proposition first." "Why, what a little tyrant you are!" he laughed. "Well, I consent. Now will you please to bring the desk?" "Yes," she said, jumping up, and crossing the room to where it stood; "and if you are very good, you may write a postscript with your own hand." "I'll do it all with my own hand," he said as she returned to his side. "Why, Ned!" she exclaimed in surprise, "I thought you were a man of your word!" "And so I am, I trust," he said, smiling at her astonished look, then catching her right hand in his. "Is not this mine?" he asked: "did you not give it to me?--Let me see--nearly two years ago?" "Yes, I did," she answered, laughing and blushing with pleasure and happiness: "you are right; it is yours. So you have every right to use it, and must do so." "Ah!" he said, "'a wilful woman will have her way,' I see: there never was a truer saying. No, that won't do," as she seated herself with the desk on her lap: "put it on the table. I can't have you bending over to write on your lap, and so growing round-shouldered, especially in my service." "Any thing to please you," she returned gayly, doing as he directed. "I suppose my right hand is not all of me that you lay claim to?" "No, indeed! I claim you altogether, as my better and dearer half," he said, his tone changing from jest to earnest, and the light of love shining in his eyes. She ran to him at that, put her arms round his neck, and laid her cheek to his. "No, Ned, I can't have you say that," she murmured, "you who are so good and wise, while I am such a silly and faulty thing, not at all worthy to be your wife. Whatever made you marry me?" "Love," he answered, drawing her closer, and fondly caressing her hair and cheek,--"love that grows stronger and deeper with every day we live together, dearest." "Dear Ned, my own dear husband!" she said, hugging him tighter. "Words could never tell how much I love you, or how I rejoice in your love for me: you are truly my other, my best, half, and I don't know how I could live without you." "Our mutual love is a cause for great gratitude to God," he said reverently. "There are so many miserably unhappy couples, I feel that I can never be thankful enough for the little wife who suits me so entirely." "You are my very greatest earthly blessing," she replied, lifting her head, and gazing into his face with eyes shining with joy and love; "and your words make me very, very happy. Now," releasing herself from his embrace, "it's time to attend to business, isn't it? I am ready to write if you will dictate." And she seated herself before the desk, and took up her pen. It was not a lengthened epistle. He began with an acknowledgment of the receipt of his mother's letter, expressed his sympathy in the sorrow and suffering at Viamede, gave a brief account of his accident, consequent illness, and partial recovery, highly eulogizing Zoe as the best of wives and nurses. When he began that, her pen ceased its movement, and was held suspended over the paper, while, blushing deeply, she turned to him with a remonstrance. "Don't ask me to write that: I am ashamed to have mamma see it in my handwriting." "Go on," he said: "she will know they are my words, and not yours." "Well, I obey orders," she replied with a smile; "but I don't half like to do it." "Then let me," he said. "If you will hold the desk on the arm of my chair for five minutes, and give me the pen, I can finish up the thing easily, and without the least danger of hurting my precious self." She did as directed. "There, now lie back in your chair, and rest," she said, when he had finished his note, and signed his name. "You do look a little tired," she added, with an anxious glance at him as she returned the desk to the table. "Nonsense! tired with that slight exertion!" he responded gayly. "You may read that over, and see if it wants any correction." She did so, then, turning toward him with an arch smile, asked, "May I criticise?" "I should be happy to have the benefit of your criticism," he said, laughing; "but don't make it too severe, please." "Oh, no! I was only thinking that mamma, judging of her by myself, would not be half satisfied with such a bare statement of facts, and that I had better write a supplement, giving her more of the particulars." "I highly approve the suggestion," he answered, "only stipulating that you shall not spend too much time over it, and shall read it to me when finished." "I'm afraid it won't be worth your hearing." "Let me judge of that. If not worth my hearing, can it be worth mamma's reading?" "Perhaps so," she said with a blush; "because what I tell will be news to her, but not to you." "Ah! I hadn't thought of that. But I shall want to hear it all the same, and take my turn at criticism." "If you are not more severe than I was, I can stand it," she said. "And now please keep quiet till I am done." He complied, lying back at his ease, and amusing himself with watching her, admiring the graceful pose of her figure, the pretty face bending over the paper, and the small, white, shapely hand that was gliding swiftly back and forth. "Come," he said at last, "you are making quite too long a story of it." "Mamma won't think so," she retorted, without looking up; "and you know you are not obliged to hear it." "Ah! but that is not the objection; I want to hear every word of it: but I can't spare my companion and nurse so long." She turned to him with a bright smile. "What can I do for you, dear? Just tell me. The letter can be finished afterward, you know." "I want nothing but you," was the smiling rejoinder. "Finish your letter, and then come and sit close by my side. "But no; you must take your accustomed exercise in the open air." Considering a moment, "I think," he said, "I'll have you order the carriage for about the time you are likely to be done there, and we'll have a drive together." She shook her head gravely. "You are not fit for any such exertion." "Uncle Ben and Solon shall help me down the stairs and into the carriage, so there need be no exertion about it." "I won't consent," she said. "The doctor left you in my charge; and his orders were, that you should keep quiet for the next few days." "You prefer to go alone, do you?" "Yes, rather than have you injured by going with me." "Come here," he said; and, laying down her pen, she obeyed. He took both her hands in his, and, gazing with mock gravity up into her face as she stood over him, "What a little tyrant you are developing into!" he remarked, knitting his brows. "Will you order the carriage, and take a drive in my company?" "No." "Then what will you do?" "Go by myself, or stay at home with you, just as you bid me." "What a remarkable mixture of tyranny and submission," he exclaimed, laughing, as he pulled her down to put his arm round her, and kiss her first on one cheek, then on the other. "I'll tell you what we'll do: you finish that letter, read it to me, and take the benefit of my able criticisms; then I'll try to get a nap while you take your drive or walk, whichever you prefer." "That will do nicely," she said, returning his caresses; "if you will be pleased to let me go, I'll order the carriage, finish the letter in five minutes, hear the able criticisms, put my patient to bed, and be off for my drive." "Do so," he said, releasing her. From this time forward, till the children were considered out of danger, and Edward was able to go about and attend to his affairs as usual, there were daily letters and telegrams passing between Viamede and Ion. Then Dr. Conly came home, and almost immediately on his arrival drove over to Ion to see for himself if his patient there had entirely recovered, and to carry some messages and tokens of affection from the absent members of the family. It was late in the afternoon that he reached Ion, and he found Edward and Zoe sitting together in the parlor; she with a bit of embroidery in her hands, he reading aloud to her. Arthur was very warmly welcomed by both. "Cousin Arthur, I'm delighted to see you!" cried Zoe, giving him her hand. "And I no less so," added Edward, offering his. "How did you leave them all at Viamede?" "All in health, except, of course, the two little ones who have been so ill," he said, taking the chair Edward drew forward for him; "and them we consider out of danger, with the careful attention they are sure to have." "How have mamma and Vi stood the anxiety and nursing?" asked Edward. "Quite as well as could have been expected. They have lost a little in flesh and color, but will, I think, soon regain both, now that their anxiety is relieved. "And you, Ned, are quite yourself again, I should say, from appearances?" "Yes; and I desire to give all credit to the nurse in whose charge you left me," returned Edward, with a smiling glance at Zoe. "As is but fair," said Arthur. "I discovered her capabilities before I left." "She made the most of her delegated authority," remarked Edward gravely. "I was allowed no will of my own, till I had so entirely recovered from my injuries that she had no longer the shadow of an excuse for depriving me of my liberty." "I thought it was a good lesson for him," retorted Zoe. "I've read somewhere that nobody is fit to rule who hasn't first learned to obey." "Ah! but that I learned before I was a year old," said Edward, laughing. "Nobody would have thought it, seeing the trouble I had to make you obey," said Zoe. "Now, cousin Arthur, tell us all about Viamede, and what you did and saw there." "It is a lovely place," he said. "I expected to be disappointed after the glowing accounts I had heard, but I feel like saying, 'The half has not been told me;'" and he plunged into an enthusiastic description of the mansion, its grounds, and the surrounding country. "I was loath to leave it," he said in conclusion. "And you make me more desirous to see it than ever," said Zoe. "Oh, do tell us! had Capt. Raymond been heard from before you left? We have seen by the papers that the report of the loss of his vessel was untrue, and, of course, we were greatly relieved." "Yes: letters came from him the day before I started for home. Fortunately, they had been able to keep the report from Vi and little Gracie; but May and Lulu had heard it, and were terribly distressed, I was told." "They are very fond of their father," remarked Zoe. "Yes, as they have good reason to be," said Arthur: "he is a noble fellow, and one of the best of husbands and fathers." "Did you hear any thing in particular about Lulu?" Zoe asked. "No, I think not," he said reflectively; "nothing but that she, May, and Evelyn Leland were staying, by invitation, at Magnolia Hall. "Ah, yes! I remember now that Betty told me there had been some trouble between uncle Horace and Lulu in regard to her taking lessons of a music-teacher whom she greatly disliked; that, because of her obstinate refusal, he had banished her from Viamede, entering her as a boarder at the academy the children were all attending; but that her distress of mind over the illness of her little sisters, and the sad report about her father, had led her to submit." "Much to Vi's relief, no doubt," remarked Edward. "Poor Vi! She is devotedly attached to her husband, but Lulu is a sore thorn in her side." "I don't believe she has ever acknowledged as much, or could be induced to," said Zoe. "No," assented Edward; "but it is evident to those who know her well, nevertheless. She tries hard to conceal the fact, and has wonderful patience with the wilful passionate child, really loving her for her father's sake." "And for her own, too, if I mistake not," Arthur said. "There is something quite lovable about Lulu, in spite of her very serious faults." "There is," said Edward. "I have felt it strongly myself at times. She is warm-hearted, energetic, very generous, and remarkably straight-forward, truthful, and honest." Dr. Conly had risen, as if to take leave. "Now, cousin Arthur," said Zoe, "please sit down again; for we cannot let you leave us till after tea." Edward seconded the invitation. "Thank you both," Arthur said, "but"-- "But--no buts," interrupted Zoe gayly. "I know you were about to plead haste; but there is the tea-bell now, so you will not be delayed; for you have to take time for your meals." "Then I accept," he said, "rejoicing in the opportunity to spend a little longer time in your very pleasant society." CHAPTER IX. "Here are a few of the unpleasantest words that ever blotted paper." Edward and Zoe now began to look forward to the return of the family as a desirable event not very far in the future. They had been extremely happy in each other during almost the whole time of separation from the rest; but now they were hungering for a sight of "mamma's sweet face," and would by no means object to a glimpse of those of grandparents, sisters, and children. At length a letter was received, fixing the date of the intended departure from Viamede, and stating by what train the party would probably reach the neighboring village of Union, where carriages must be in readiness to receive and convey them to Ion. And now Edward and Zoe began counting the days: the little matron put on more housewifely airs than was her wont, and was in great glee over her preparations for a grand reception and welcoming feast to the loved travellers. She insisted on much cleaning and renovating, and on the day of the arrival robbed the green-houses and conservatories for the adornment of the house, the table, and her own person. Edward laughingly asserted that he was almost, if not quite, as much under her orders at that time as when left in her charge by the doctor, and could have no peace but in showing himself entirely submissive, and ready to carry out all her schemes and wishes. Fairview also was getting ready to receive its master and mistress; but the indoor preparations there were overseen by Mrs. Lacey of the Laurels,--Edward's aunt Rose. It was the last of April: lovely spring weather had come, and the head gardeners and their subordinates of both places found much to do in making all trim and neat against the expected arrival of the respective owners; and of these matters Edward took a general oversight. He and Zoe were up earlier than their wont on the morning of the long-looked-for day, wandering about the gardens before breakfast. "How lovely every thing looks!" exclaimed Zoe, in delight. "I am sure mamma will be greatly pleased, and praise you to your heart's content, Cuff," she added, turning to the gardener at work near by. "Ya'as, Miss Zoe," he answered, with a broad grin of satisfaction; "dat's what I'se been a workin' for, an' spects to hab sho', kase Miss Elsie, she doan' nebber grudge nuffin' in de way ob praise nor ob wages, when yo's done yo' bes', ob co'se; an' dis chile done do dat, sho's yo' bawn." "Yes, I'm sure you have, Cuff," said Edward kindly: "the flowers look very flourishing; there's not a dead leaf or a weed to be seen anywhere; the walks are clean and smooth as a floor; nothing amiss anywhere, so far as I can perceive." They moved on, walking slowly, and inspecting carefully as they went, yet finding nothing to mar their satisfaction. They had reached the front of the house, and were about to go in, when a boy on horseback came cantering up the avenue, and handed a telegram to Edward. Tearing it hastily open, "From grandpa," he said. "Ah! they will be here by the next train!" "Half a day sooner than they or we expected," cried Zoe, half joyfully, half in dismay, struck with a momentary fear that her preparations could not be quite complete in season. Edward hastened to re-assure her. "Altogether, good news, isn't it?" he said. "We can be quite ready, I am sure, and will escape some hours of waiting; while they will gain time for rest and refreshment before the arrival of the family party who are to gather here from the Oaks, Roselands, the Laurels, and the Pines." "Oh, yes, yes! it is ever so nice! and I'm as glad as I can be," she cried rapturously. "Now let us make haste to get our breakfast, and then attend to the finishing touches needed by the house and our own persons." "Stay," said Edward, detaining her as she was starting up the steps into the veranda. "We should send word to Fairview, but it will be time enough after breakfast. Suppose we ride over there immediately upon leaving the table, and carry the news ourselves? The air and exercise will do you good." "It would be very nice," she returned meditatively; "but I'm afraid I shall hardly have time." "Yes, you will," he said. "You can give your orders, and let Christine and Aunt Dicey see them carried out." "But I want my taste consulted in the arrangement of the flowers," she objected. "Plenty of time for that after we get back," he said. "And I want your help in deciding whether every thing is exactly as it should be in the grounds at Fairview. Shall I order the horses?" "Yes. I'll go, of course, if you wish it, and enjoy it greatly, I know." They were very gay over their breakfast and during their ride; for they were young, healthy, happy in each other; the morning air was delicious, and not a cloud was to be perceived in either the natural sky above their heads, or in that of their future; all was bright and joyous, and they seemed to have naught to do with sorrow or care, or any of the evils that oppressed the hearts and darkened the lives of many of their fellow-creatures. Their tidings were received with joy by the retainers at Fairview, nearly every thing being in readiness for the reception of its master and mistress. Edward and Zoe had agreed that it was not at all necessary to inform the expected guests of the evening of the change in the hour for the arrival of the home-coming party they intended to welcome. "The meeting will be quite as early as anticipated," remarked Edward; "and it will do no harm for mamma and the others to have a chance to rest a little before seeing so many." "They will enjoy themselves all the better, I'm sure," said Zoe. They were cantering homeward as they talked. Arrived there, Zoe set to work at the pleasant task of adorning the house--"mamma's" boudoir in particular--with beautiful and sweet-scented flowers, and contrived to be delightfully busy in their arrangement till some little time after Edward had gone with the carriages to meet and bring home the travellers. All came directly to Ion, except the Fairview family, who sought their own home first, but promised to be present at the evening festivities. The journey had been taken leisurely; and no one seemed fatigued but the little convalescents, who were glad to be put immediately to bed. "Mamma, dear, dearest mamma!" cried Zoe, as the two clasped each other in a close embrace. "I am so, so glad to see you!" "Tired of housekeeping, little woman?" Elsie asked, with an arch look and smile. "No, mamma, not that, though willing enough to resign my position to you," was the gay rejoinder. "But my delight is altogether because you are so dear and sweet, that everybody must be the happier for your presence." "Dear child, I prize and fully return your affection," Elsie said in reply. For each one, Zoe had a joyous and affectionate greeting, till it came to Lulu's turn. At her she glanced doubtfully for an instant, then gave her a hearty kiss, saying to herself, "Though she did behave so badly, I'm sure she had a good deal of provocation." Lulu had noted the momentary hesitation, and flushed hotly under it; but the kiss set all right, and she returned it as warmly as it was given. "It seems nice to see you and uncle Edward again, aunt Zoe!" she said, "and nice to get back to Ion, though Viamede is so lovely." "Yes," chimed in Rosie. "Viamede is almost an earthly paradise, but Ion is the homiest home of the two." Lulu had been on her very best behavior ever since the termination of the controversy between Mr. Dinsmore and herself in regard to her tuition by Signor Foresti; and she had returned to Ion full of good resolutions, promising herself, that, if permitted to continue to live at Ion, she would henceforward be submissive, obedient, and very determined in her efforts to control her unruly temper. But was she to be allowed to stay there? No objection had been raised by any of the family; but remembering her father's repeated warning, that, if she proved troublesome to these kind friends, he would feel compelled to take her away from Ion, and send her to a boarding-school, she awaited his decision with much secret apprehension. It was quite too soon to look for a response to her confession, written from Magnolia Hall, or a letter from him to her mamma, grandma Elsie, or grandpa Dinsmore, giving his verdict in regard to her; and, at times, she found the suspense very hard to bear. Thus far, Evelyn Leland had been the sole confidant of her doubts, fears, and anxieties on the subject; not even Max having been made acquainted with the contents of either her father's letter to her, or her reply to it. She had managed to conceal her uneasiness from him, and also from grandma Elsie and Violet; the time and attention of both ladies being much occupied with the care of the little invalids. But, on the evening of this day, Grace and baby Elsie were fast asleep, the one in bed, the other in her dainty crib, at an early hour; and Violet bethought her of Lulu in connection with the expected assembling of a large family party. "I must see that the child is suitably attired," she said to herself, and, deferring her own toilet, went at once to the little girl's room. She found her already dressed,--suitably and tastefully too,--and sitting by a window in an attitude of dejection, her elbow on the sill, her head on her hand; but she was not looking out; her eyes were downcast, and her countenance was sad. "What is the matter, Lulu, dear?" Violet asked in gentle tones, as she drew near, and laid her soft white hand caressingly on the bowed head: "are you sorry to be at home again?" "Ok, no, no, mamma Vi! it's not that. I should be very glad to get back, if I were only sure of being allowed to stay," Lulu answered, lifting her head, and hastily wiping a tear out of the corner of her eye. "But I--I'm dreadfully afraid papa will say I can't; that I must be sent away somewhere, because of having been so disobedient and obstinate." "I hope not, dear," Violet said: "you have been so good ever since you gave up, and consented to do as grandpa wished." "Thank you for saying that, mamma Vi. I have been trying with all my might,--asking God to help me too," she added low and reverentially; "but papa doesn't know that, and he has been very near banishing me two or three times before. Oh, I don't know how to wait to hear from him! I wish a letter would come!" "It is almost too soon to hope for it yet, dear child; but I trust we may hear before very long," said Violet. At that moment there came a little tap at the door; and the sweetest of voices asked, "Shall I come in?" "Oh, yes, mamma!" "Yes, grandma Elsie!" answered the two addressed. "I thought our little girl might like some help with her toilet for the evening," Elsie said, advancing into the room. "But--is any thing wrong? I think you are looking troubled and unhappy, Lulu." Violet explained the cause; and Elsie said, very kindly, "I don't want you sent away, Lulu, dear. No one could desire a better behaved child than you have been of late; and I have written to your father to tell him so, and ask that you may stay with us still. So cheer up, and hope for the best, little girl," she added, with a smile and an affectionate kiss. Lulu had risen, and was standing by Elsie's side. As the latter bent down to bestow the caress, her arms were thrown impulsively about her neck with a glad, grateful exclamation, "O grandma Elsie! how good you are to me! I don't know how you could want to keep me here, when I've been so bad and troublesome so many times." "I trust you have been so for the very last time, dear child," Elsie responded. "Think how it will rejoice your father's heart if he learns that you have at length conquered in the fight with your naturally quick, wilful temper, which has been the cause of so much distress to both him and yourself." "I do think of it very often, grandma Elsie," Lulu returned, with a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her heart. "And I do want to please papa, and make him happy: but,--oh, dear! when something happens to make me angry, I forget all about it and my good resolutions till it's too late; the first thing I know, I've been acting like a fury, and disgracing myself and him." "Yet don't be discouraged, or ever give up the fight," Elsie said. "Persevere, using all your own strength, and asking help from on high, and you will come off conqueror at last." About the same time that this little scene was enacting at Ion, Elsie Leland, passing the door of Evelyn's room, thought she heard a low sob coming from within. She paused and listened. The sound was repeated, and she tapped lightly on the door. There was no answer; and opening it, she stole softly in. Evelyn sat in an easy-chair at the farther side of the room, her face hidden in her hands, an open letter lying in her lap. "My poor child! Is it bad news?" Elsie asked, going up to the little girl, and touching her hair caressingly. "It is heart-breaking to me, aunt Elsie; but read and judge for yourself," Evelyn replied, in a voice choking with sobs; and taking up the letter, she put it into her aunt's hand. Elsie gave it a hasty perusal, then, tossing it indignantly aside, took the young weeper in her arms, bestowing upon her tender caresses and soothing words. "It is hard, very hard for you, dear, I know; it would be for me in your place; but we must just try to make the best of it." "Yes," sobbed Evelyn; "but I could hardly feel more fully orphaned if my mother were dead. And papa has not been gone a year. Oh, how could she! how could she! You see, aunt Elsie, she talks of my joining her as soon as I am my own mistress; but how can I ever think of it now?" "We--your uncle and I--would be very loath to give you up, darling; and, if you can only be content, I think you may always have a happy home here, with us," Elsie said, with another tender caress. "Dear auntie, you and uncle have made it a very happy home to me," returned Evelyn gratefully, wiping away her tears as she spoke, and forcing a rather sad sort of smile. "I should be as sorry to leave it as you could possibly be to have me do so." Evelyn was of a very quiet temperament, rarely indulging in bursts of emotion of any kind; and Elsie soon succeeded in restoring her to calmness, though her eyes still showed traces of tears; and her expressive features again wore the look of gentle sadness that was their wont in the first weeks of her sojourn at Fairview, but which had gradually changed to one of cheerfulness and content. "Now, Eva, dear, it is time we were getting ready for our drive to Ion," Elsie said. "Shall I help you change your dress?" "I--I think, if you will excuse me, auntie," Evelyn returned, with hesitation, "I should prefer to stay at home. I'm scarcely in the mood for merry-making." "Of course, you shall do just as you like, dear child," was the kindly response; "but it is only to be a family party, and you need not be mixed up with any fun or frolic,--I don't suppose there will be any thing of the kind going on,--and you will probably enjoy a private chat with your bosom-friend, Lulu. You know, there are plenty of corners where you can get together by yourselves. I think you would find it lonely staying here, and Lulu would not half enjoy her evening without you." "You are right, auntie: I will go," Evelyn answered, more cheerfully than she had spoken since reading her letter. "I will dress at once, but shall not need any help except advice about what I shall wear." Elsie gave it, and, saying the carriage would be at the door in half an hour, went back to her own apartments, to attend to the proper adornment of her own pretty person. Soon after her little talk with grandma Elsie and mamma Vi, Lulu, still unable to banish the anxiety which made her restless and uneasy, wandered out into the shrubbery, where she presently met Max. "I've been all round the place," he said; "and I tell you, Lu, it's in prime order: every thing's as neat as a pin. Don't the grounds look lovely, even after Viamede?" "Yes," she sighed, glancing round from side to side with a melancholy expression of countenance quite unusual with her. "What's the matter, sis?" he asked with some surprise: "I hope you're not sick?" "No, I'm perfectly well," she answered; "but, the prettier the place looks, the sorrier I feel to think I may have to go away and leave it." "Who says you are to go away?" he demanded,--"not grandma Elsie, or mamma Vi either, I am sure, for they're both too kind; and, in fact, I don't believe anybody here wants to send you off." "Maybe not," she said, "but I'll have to go if papa says so; and, O Max! I'm so afraid he will, because of--all that--all the trouble between grandpa Dinsmore and me about the music-lessons." "I didn't suppose papa had been told about it?" he remarked, half inquiringly. "Yes," she said: "I confessed every bit of it to him in that letter I wrote at Magnolia Hall." "Bully for you!" cried Max heartily. "I knew you'd own up at last, like a brick, as you are." "O Max! you forget that mamma Vi does not approve of slang," she said. "But I don't deserve a bit of praise for confessing, because I had to. Papa wrote to me that he was sure I'd been misbehaving,--though nobody had told him a single word about it,--and that I must write at once, and tell him every thing." "Well, I'm glad you did; and I hope he won't be hard on you, Lu. Still, I wouldn't like to be in your place, for papa can be quite severe when he thinks it necessary. I wouldn't fret, though," he added in a consolatory tone, "because there's no use trying to cross the bridge before you come to it, 'specially when you mayn't come at all." "That's quite true, but it's a great deal easier to preach than to practise," she said. "Maxie, would you be sorry to have me sent away?" she asked, her voice taking on a beseeching tone. "Why, of course I should," he said. "We've gone through a good deal together, and you know we've always been rather fond of each other, considering that we're brother and sister," he added laughingly. "Ah, here comes Eva!" and he lifted his hat with a profound bow as a turn in the walk brought them face to face with her. "O Eva! I'm so glad you've come early!" exclaimed Lulu. "I too," said Max; "but, if you have any secrets for each other's private ear, I'll be off." "Your company is always agreeable, Max," Evelyn said with a faint smile, "and I should be sorry to drive you away." "Thanks," he said; "but I'll have to go, for I hear grandpa Dinsmore calling me." He hastened to obey the call; and the two girls, each putting an arm about the other's waist, paced to and fro along the gravel-walk. "How is Fairview looking?" asked Lulu. "Lovely: it couldn't be in better order, and there are a great many flowers in bloom. One might say just the same of Ion." "Yes: it is even prettier than Fairview, I have always thought. But that's a sweet place too and aunt Elsie and uncle Lester are delightful to live with. I only wish I was as sure as you are of such a sweet home." "Don't worry, Lu. I hope your father will let you stay on here," Evelyn said in an affectionate tone; "but, indeed, I don't think you have any reason to envy me." She ended with so profound a sigh, that Lulu turned a surprised, inquiring look upon her, asking, "Have you had any bad news, Eva? I know you have been looking anxiously for a letter from your mother." "Yes, it has come: I found it waiting for me at Fairview, and"--She paused for a moment, her heart too full for speech. "And it was bad news? Oh, I am so sorry!" said Lulu. "I hope it wasn't that she wants you to go away from here--unless I have to go too, and we can be together somewhere." "No, it was not that--not now. Mamma knows that, because of the way papa made his will, I must stay with uncle Lester till I come of age. She talks of my going to her then; but I cannot,--oh, I never can! for,--Lulu, she's married again, to an Italian count; and it is not a year since my dear, dear father was taken from us." Evelyn's voice was tremulous with pain, and she ended with a burst of bitter weeping. "Oh, how could she!" exclaimed Lulu. "I don't wonder you feel so about it, Eva. A horrid Italian too!" she added, thinking of Signor Foresti. "I'd never call him father!" "Indeed, I've no idea of doing that," Eva said indignantly. "I only hope he may never cross my path; and so I--feel as if my mother is lost to me. You are far better off than I, Lulu: you have your own dear father still living, and aunt Vi is so lovely and sweet." "Yes, I am better off than you," Lulu acknowledged emphatically; "and if I hadn't such a bad temper, always getting me into trouble, I'd be a girl to be envied." CHAPTER X. LULU'S SENTENCE. Pending Capt. Raymond's verdict in regard to Lulu, life at Ion fell into the old grooves, for her as well as the other members of the family. Studies were taken up again by all the children, including Evelyn Leland, where they had been dropped; Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter giving instruction, and hearing recitations, as formerly. This interval of waiting lasted for over two months, a longer period of silence on the part of the husband and father than usual; but, as they learned afterward, letters had been delayed in both going and coming. Capt. Raymond, in his good ship, far out on the ocean, was wearying for news from home, when his pressing want was most opportunely supplied by a passing vessel. She had a heavy mail for the man-of-war, and a generous share of it fell to her commander. He was soon seated in the privacy of his own cabin, with Violet's letter open in his hand. It was sure to receive his attention before that of any other correspondent. With a swelling heart he read of the sore trial she had been passing through, in the severe illness of Gracie and the babe. Deeply he regretted not having been there to lighten her burdens with his sympathy and help in the nursing; and though, at the time of writing, she was able to report that the little sufferers were considered out of danger, he could not repress a fear, amid his thankfulness, that there might be a relapse, or the dread disease might leave behind it, as it so often does, some lasting ill effect. He lingered over the letter, re-reading passages here and there, but at length laid it aside, and gave his attention to others bearing the same post-mark. There was a short one from Max, which stirred his heart with fatherly love and pride in his boy; that came next after Violet's: then he opened Lulu's bulky packet. He sighed deeply as he laid it down after a careful perusal, during which his face had grown stern and troubled, and, rising, paced the cabin to and fro, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed on his breast, which again and again heaved with a deep-drawn sigh. "What I am to do with that child, I do not know," he groaned within himself. "If I could make a home for her, and have her constantly with me, I might perhaps be able to train her up aright, and help her to learn the hard lesson how to rule her own spirit. "I could not do that, however, without resigning from the service; and that would be giving up my only means of earning a livelihood for her as well as the others and myself. That is not to be thought of: nor could I forsake the service without heartfelt regret, were I a millionnaire." The captain was a man of prayer. Some moments were spent on his knees, asking guidance and help for himself, and a change of heart for his wayward little daughter; then, again seating himself at his writing-table, he opened yet another letter, one whose superscription he recognized as that of a business agent in one of our far Western States. His face lighted up as he read, and a text flashed across his mind: "And it shall come to pass, that before they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will hear." That sheet of paper was the bearer of most strange, unlooked-for tidings: a tract of wild land, bought by him for a trifle years before, and long considered of little or no value, had suddenly become--by the discovery that it contained rich mineral deposits, and the consequent opening of mines, and laying out of a town upon it--worth many thousands, perhaps millions of money. And he--Capt. Raymond--was the undisputed owner of it all,--of wealth beyond his wildest dreams. He could scarce believe it: it seemed impossible. Yet it was undoubtedly true; and a bright vision of a lovely home, with wife and children about him, rose up before his mind's eye, and filled him with joy and gratitude to the Giver of all good. He would send in his resignation, and realize the vision at the earliest possible moment. But stay! could he now, in the prime of life, forsake the service for which he had been educated, and to which he had already given many of his best years? Could he be content to bid a final farewell to the glorious old ocean so long his home, so beautiful and lovable in its varied moods, and settle down upon the unchanging land, quite reconciled to its sameness? Would he not find in himself an insatiable longing to be again upon the ever restless sea, treading once more the deck of his gallant ship, monarch of her little world, director of all her movements? It was not a question to be decided in a moment; it required time for thought; a careful consideration of seemingly conflicting duties; a careful balancing of inclinations and interests, and for seeking counsel of his best, his almighty and all-wise, Friend. At Ion, as the summer heats approached, the question was mooted, "Where shall we spend the next two or three months?" After some discussion, it was decided that all should go North to Cape May for a time: afterward they would break up into smaller parties, and scatter to different points of interest, as they might fancy. Lester and Elsie Leland would spend a portion of the season at Cliff Cottage,--Evelyn's old home,--taking her and Lulu with them. Edward and Zoe, too, and probably some of the others, would visit there. All necessary arrangements had been made, and they were to start the next day, when at last letters were received from Capt. Raymond. Lulu's heart beat very fast at sight of them. She had been full of delight at the prospect of her Northern trip, especially the visit to be paid with Evelyn to her former home; the latter having in their private talks dwelt much upon its many attractions, and the life she had led there in the sweet companionship of her beloved father. "Would there be any thing in papa's letter to prevent the carrying out of the cherished plans?" Lulu asked herself as, in fear and trembling, she watched Violet opening with eager fingers the packet handed her at the breakfast-table. Max and Gracie, too, looked on with interest quite equal to Lulu's; but in their case there was only joyous expectancy unmingled with dread. "There is something for each of us, as usual," Violet said presently, with a smiling glance from one to another,--"Max, Lulu, Gracie, and myself." Lulu received hers,--only a folded slip of paper,--and, asking to be excused, stole away to the privacy of her own room to read it. "MY DEAR LITTLE DAUGHTER [it ran],--The story of your misconduct has given a very sad heart to the father who loves you so dearly. I forgive you, my child, but can no longer let you remain at Ion to be a trouble and torment to our kind friends there. I shall remove you elsewhere as soon as I can settle upon a suitable place. In the mean time, if you are truly sorry for the past, you will, I am sure, earnestly strive to be patient, submissive and obedient to those who have you in charge. "Your loving father, "L. RAYMOND." The paper fell from Lulu's hand, and fluttered to the floor, as she folded her arms upon the sill of the window beside which she had seated herself, and rested her head upon them. "And that's all; just that I am to go away, nobody knows where; to be separated from Max and Gracie and every one else that I care for: and when papa comes home, maybe he won't visit me at all; or, if he does, it will be for only a little bit, because, of course, he will want to spend most of his leave where the others are. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I wish I'd been good! I wish I'd been born sweet-tempered and patient, like Gracie. I wonder if papa will ever, _ever_ let me come back! "But perhaps grandpa Dinsmore and grandma Elsie will never invite me again. I wouldn't in their place, I'm sure." The captain's letter to his wife made the same announcement of his intentions in regard to Lulu; adding, that, for the present he would have her disposed of as should seem best to them--Mr. Dinsmore, his daughter, and Violet herself--upon consultation together; he had entire confidence, he said, in their wisdom and their kind feeling toward his wayward, troublesome, yet still beloved child; so that he could trust her to their tender mercies without hesitation. He went on to say (and, ah, with what a smile of exultation and delight those words were penned!), that "there was a possibility that he might be with them again in the fall, long enough to find a suitable home for Lulu; and, in the mean time, would they kindly seize any opportunity that presented itself, to make inquiries in regard to such a place?" Violet read that portion of his letter aloud to her mother and grandfather, then asked if they saw in it any thing necessitating a change in their plans for the summer. They did not, and were glad for Lulu's sake that it was so. Lulu, in the solitude of her room, was anxiously considering the same question, and presently went with it to her mamma, taking her father's note in her hand. Finding Violet alone in her dressing-room, giving the captain's missive another perusal, "Mamma Vi," she said, "what--what does papa tell you about me?" She spoke hesitatingly, her head drooping, her cheeks hot with blushes. "I mean, what does he say is to be done with me?" Violet pitied the child from the bottom of her heart. "I wish, dear," she said, "that I could tell you he consented to mamma's request to let us try you here a little longer; but--doesn't he say something about it in his note to you?" "Yes, mamma Vi," Lulu answered chokingly: "he says he can't let me stay here any longer, to be such a trouble and torment to you all, and will put me somewhere else as soon as he can find a suitable place; but he doesn't say what is to be done with me just now." "No, dear: he leaves that to us,--grandpa, mamma, and me,--and we have decided that no change in the arrangements for the summer need be made." "O mamma Vi! how good and kind you all are!" cried Lulu, in a burst of irrestrainable gratitude; and her tears began to fall. Violet was quite moved by the child's emotion. "You have been a dear good girl of late, and we feel glad to take you with us," she said, drawing her to her side, and giving her an affectionate kiss. "Your father says there is a possibility that he may be at home with us again for a while, in the fall; he expects to settle you somewhere then: but if you continue to be so good, perhaps he may relent, and allow you still to have a home with us. I am quite sure that such a child as you have been for the last two or three months, would be heartily welcome to us all." "It's ever so good in you to say that, mamma Vi," returned the little girl, furtively wiping her eyes; "and I'm determined to try with all my might. I'd want to do it to please papa, even if I knew there wasn't one bit of hope of his letting me stay. I don't think there is much, because, if he decides a thing positively, he's very apt to stick to it." "Yes, I know; but he will doubtless take into account that circumstances alter cases," Violet answered lightly, and with a pleasant smile. "And at all events, you may be quite sure that whatever small influence I may possess will be exerted in your behalf." "I am sure you have a great deal, mamma Vi; and I thank you very much for that promise," Lulu said, turning to go. But at that instant a quick, boyish step sounded in the hall without; and Max's voice at the door asked, "Mamma Vi, may I come in?" "Yes," she said; and in he rushed, with a face full of excitement. "Lu, I've been looking everywhere for you!" he cried. "What do you think? just see that!" and he held up a bit of paper, waving it triumphantly in the air, while he capered round the room in an ecstasy of delight. "What is it?" asked Lulu. "Nothing but a strip of paper, as far as I can see." "That's because you haven't had a chance to examine it," he said, laughing with pleasure. "It's a check with papa's name to it, and it's good for fifty dollars. Now, do you wonder I'm delighted?" "No, not if it's yours. Did he give it to you?" "Half of it; the other half's to be divided between you and Gracie; and it's just for pocket-money for this summer." "Oh, that is nice!" exclaimed Violet. "I am very glad for you all." Lulu looked astounded for an instant; then the tears welled up into her eyes as she said falteringly, "I--don't deserve it; and--I thought papa was so vexed with me, I should never have expected he'd give me a single cent." "He's just a splendid father, that's what he is!" cried Max, with another bound of exultant delight. "He says that if we go to the mountains, and grandpa thinks I can be trusted with a gun, I'm to have one of the best that can be bought; and, if I'm a splendid boy all the time, when he comes home I shall have a fine pony of my own." Then sobering down, "I'm afraid, though, that he can't afford all that; and I shall tell him so, and that I don't want him to spend too much of his hard-earned pay on his only son." "Good boy!" Violet said with an approving smile; "but I know it gives your father far more pleasure to lay out money for his children than to spend it on himself." Still, she wondered within herself, for a moment, if her husband had in some way become a little richer than he was when last he described his circumstances to her. Had he had a legacy from some lately deceased relative or friend? (surely no one could be more deserving of such remembrance) or an increase of pay? But no, he would surely have told her if either of those things had happened; and with that thought, the subject was dismissed from her mind. He had not told her of his good fortune--the sudden, unexpected change in his circumstances: he wanted to keep it secret till he could see the shining of her eyes, the lighting up of her face, as she learned that their long separations were a thing of the past; that in future they would have a home of their own, and be as constantly together as Lester and Elsie, Edward and Zoe. But his mind was full of plans for making her and his children happy by means of his newly acquired wealth, and he had not been able to refrain from some attempt to do so at once. "I don't want papa to waste his money on me, either," Lulu said. "I'd rather never have any pocket-money than have him do without a single thing to give it to me." "Dear child, I know you would," Violet said. "But take what he has sent, and be happy with it; that is what he desires you to do; and I think you need have no fear that he will want for any thing because of having sent it to you." "Let me see that, won't you, Maxie?" Lulu asked, following her brother from the room. He handed her the check, and she examined it curiously. "It has your name on it," she remarked. "Yes: it is drawn payable to me," returned Max, assuming an air of importance. "But," said Lulu, still examining it critically, "how can you turn it into money?" "Oh! I know all about that," laughed Max. "Papa explained it to me the last time he was at home: I just write my name on the back of that, and take it to a bank, and they'll give me the fifty dollars." "And then you'll keep half, and divide the other half between Gracie and me. That will be twelve dollars and fifty cents for each of us, won't it?" "No, it isn't to be divided equally: papa says you are to have fifteen dollars, and Gracie ten,--because you are older than she is, you know." "But she's better, and deserves more than I," said Lulu. "Anyway, she shall have half, if she wants it." "No, she doesn't," said Max. "I told her about it; and she thinks ten dollars, to do just what she pleases with, is a great fortune." "When will you get it, Max?" "What,--the money? Not till after we go North. Grandpa Dinsmore says it will be best to wait till then, as we won't care to spend any of it here. O Lu!--you are going along, I suppose?--what does papa say about--about what you told him in your last letter?" "You may read for yourself, Max," replied Lulu, putting the note into his hand. She watched his face while he read, and knew by its expression that he was sorry for her, even before he said so, as he handed it back. "But perhaps papa may change his mind, if you keep on being as good as you have been ever since you left that school," he added. "But you haven't told me yet whether you are still to go North with us, or not." "Yes: mamma Vi says I am. She says papa says in his letter to her, that they may do what they think best with me for the present: and they will take me along. It's good in them, isn't it?" To that Max gave a hearty assent. "They are the kindest people in the world," he said. CHAPTER XI. "How terrible is passion!" The summer passed quickly and pleasantly to our friends of Ion and Fairview. The plans they had made for themselves before leaving home were carried out, with, perhaps, some slight variations. Lulu had her greatly desired visit to Cliff Cottage, and enjoyed it nearly as much as she had hoped to; a good deal less than she would if she could have quite forgotten her past misconduct, and its impending consequences. As matters stood, she could seldom entirely banish the thought that the time was daily drawing nearer when her father's sentence would be carried out, to her sad exclusion from the pleasant family circle of which she had now been so long a member. She experienced the truth of the saying, that blessings brighten as they take their flight, and would have given much to undo the past, so that she might prove herself worthy of a continuance of those she had rated so far below their real value, that, in spite of her father's repeated warnings, she had wantonly thrown them away. She kept her promise to Violet, and strove earnestly to deserve a repeal of her sentence, though her hope of gaining it was very faint. All summer long she had exercised sufficient control over her temper to avoid any outbursts of passion, and generally had behaved quite amiably. By the 1st of October the two families were again at home at Ion and Fairview, pursuing the even tenor of their way, Lulu with them, as of old, no new home having yet been found for her. No one had cared to make much effort in that direction. It was just as well, Mr. Dinsmore, Elsie his daughter, and Violet thought, simply to let things take their course till her father should return, and take matters into his own hands. There was no certainty when that would be: his letters still alluded to his coming that fall as merely a possibility. But Lulu had been so amiable and docile for months past, that no one was in haste to be rid of her presence. Even Rosie was quite friendly with her, had ceased to tease and vex her; and mutual forbearance had given each a better opinion of the other than she had formerly entertained. But Lulu grew self-confident, and began to relax her vigilance: it was so long since her temper had got decidedly the better of her, that she thought it conquered, or so nearly so that she need not be continually on the watch against it. Rosie had brought home with her a new pet,--a beautiful puppy as mischievous as he was handsome. Unfortunately it happened again and again that something belonging to Lulu attracted his attention, and was seriously damaged or totally destroyed by his teeth and claws. He chewed up a pair of kid gloves belonging to her; and it did not mend matters that Rosie laughed as though it were a good joke, and then told her it was her own fault for not putting them in their proper place when she took them off: he tore her garden-hat into shreds; he upset her inkstand; tumbled over her work-basket, tangling the spools of sewing-silk and cotton; jumped upon her with muddy paws, soiling a new dress and handsome sash; and at last capped the climax by defacing a book of engravings, belonging to Mr. Dinsmore, which she had carelessly left in his way. Then her anger burst forth, and she kicked the dog till his howls brought Rosie running to the rescue. "How dare you, Lulu Raymond!" she exclaimed, with flashing eyes, as she gathered Trip in her arms, and soothed him with caresses. "I'll not allow my pet to be so ill used in my own mother's house!" "He deserves a great deal more than I gave him," retorted Lulu, quivering with passion; "and if you don't want him hurt, you'll have to keep him out of mischief. Just look what he has done to this book!" "One of grandpa's handsome volumes of engravings!" cried Rosie, aghast. "But who left it lying there?" "I did." "Then you are the one to blame, and not my poor little Trip, who, of course, knew no better. How is he to tell that books are not meant for gnawing quite as much as bones?" "What is the matter, children?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, stepping out upon the veranda where the little scene was enacting. "It surprises me to hear such loud and angry tones." For a moment each girlish head drooped in silence, hot blushes dyeing their cheeks; then Lulu, lifting hers, said, "I'm very sorry, grandpa Dinsmore. I oughtn't to have brought this book out here; but it wouldn't have come to any harm if it hadn't been for that troublesome dog, that's as full of mischief as he can be. I don't believe it was more than five minutes that I left the book lying there on the settee; and when I ran back to get it, and put it away in its place, he had torn out a leaf, and nibbled and soiled the cover, as you see. "But if you'll please not be angry, I'll save up all my pocket-money till I can buy you another copy." "That would take a good while, child," Mr. Dinsmore answered. "It is a great pity you were so careless. But I'll not scold you, since you are so penitent, and so ready to make all the amends in your power. Rosie, you really must try to restrain the mischievous propensities of your pet." "I do, grandpa," she said, flashing an angry glance at Lulu; "but I can't keep him in sight every minute; and, if people will leave things in his way, I think they are more to blame than he is if he spoils them." "Tut, tut! don't speak to me in that manner," said her grandfather. "If your dog continues to damage valuable property, he shall be sent away." Rosie made no reply, but colored deeply as she turned and walked away with her pet in her arms. "Now, Lulu," said Mr. Dinsmore, not unkindly, "remember that in future you are not to bring a valuable book such as this, out here. If you want to look at them, do so in the library." "Yes, sir, I will. I'm very sorry about that; but if you'll tell me, please, how much it would cost to buy another just like it, I'll write to papa, and I know he will pay for it." "I thought you proposed to pay for it yourself," remarked Mr. Dinsmore grimly. "Yes, sir; but I don't wish to keep you waiting; papa wouldn't wish it. He sends his children pocket-money every once in a while, and I'd ask him to keep back what he considered my share till it would count up to as much as the price of the book." "Well, child, that is honorable and right," Mr. Dinsmore said in a pleasanter tone; "but I think we will let the matter rest now till your father comes, which I trust will be before a very great while." Rosie, knowing that her grandfather was quite capable of carrying out his threat, lacking neither the ability nor the will to do so, curtailed the liberty of her pet, and exerted herself to keep him out of mischief. Still, he occasionally came in Lulu's way, and when he did was very apt to receive a blow or kick. He had a fashion of catching at her skirts with his teeth, and giving them a jerk, which was very exasperating to her--all the more so, that Rosie evidently enjoyed seeing him do it. A stop would have been put to the "fun" if the older people of the family had happened to be aware of what was going on; but the dog always seemed to seize the opportunity when none of them were by, and Lulu scorned to tell tales. One morning, about a week after the accident to the book, Lulu, coming down a little before the ringing of the breakfast-bell, found Max on the veranda. "Don't you want to take a ride with me after breakfast, Lu?" he asked. "Mamma Vi says I can have her pony; and, as Rosie doesn't care to go, of course you can ride hers." "How do you know Rosie doesn't want to ride?" asked Lulu. "Because I heard her tell her mother she didn't; that she meant to drive over to Roselands with grandpa Dinsmore instead; that he had told her he expected to go there to see Cal about some business matter, and would take her with him. So you see, her pony won't be wanted; and grandma Elsie has often said we could have it whenever it wasn't in use or tired, and of course it must be quite fresh this morning." "Then I'll go," said Lulu with satisfaction; for she was extremely fond of riding, especially when her steed was Rosie's pretty, easy-going pony, Gyp. So Max ordered the two ponies to be in readiness; and, as soon as breakfast was over, Lulu hastened to her room to prepare for her ride. But in the mean time Mr. Dinsmore had told Rosie he had, for some reason, changed his plans, and should wait till afternoon to make his call at Roselands. Then Rosie, glancing from the window, and seeing her pony at the door, ready saddled and bridled, suddenly decided to take a ride, ran to her room, donned riding hat and habit, and was down again a little in advance of Lulu. Max, who was on the veranda, waiting for his sister, felt rather dismayed at sight of Rosie, as she came tripping out in riding-attire. "O Rosie! excuse me," he said. "I heard you say you were going to drive to Roselands with your grandpa, and so, as I was sure you wouldn't be wanting your pony, I ordered him saddled for Lu." "That happened very well, because he is here now all ready for me," returned Rosie, laughing, as she vaulted into the saddle, hardly giving Max a chance to help her. "Lu can have him another time. Come, will you go with me?" For an instant Max hesitated. He did not like to refuse Rosie's request, as she was not allowed to go alone outside the grounds, yet was equally averse to seem to desert Lu. "But," he thought, "she's sure to be in a passion when she finds this out, and I can't bear to see it." So he sprang upon his waiting steed; and as Lulu, ready dressed for her ride, and eager to take it, stepped out upon the veranda, she just caught a glimpse of the two horses and their riders disappearing down the avenue. She turned white with anger at the sight, and stamped her foot in fury, exclaiming between her clinched teeth, "It's the meanest trick I ever saw!" There were several servants standing near, one of them little Elsie's nurse, an old negress, Aunt Dinah, who, having lived in the family for more than twenty years, felt herself privileged to speak her mind upon occasion, particularly to its younger members. "Now, Miss Lu," she said, "dat's not de propah way fo' you to talk 'bout dis t'ing; kase dat pony b'longs to Miss Rosie, an' co'se she hab de right to ride him befo' anybody else." "You've no call to put in your word, and I'm not going to be lectured and reproved by a servant!" retorted Lulu passionately; and turning quickly away, she strode to the head of the short flight of steps leading down into the avenue, and stood there leaning against a pillar, with her back toward the other occupants of the veranda. Her left arm was round the pillar, and in her right hand she held her little riding-whip. She was angry at Dinah, furiously angry at Rosie; and when the next minute something--Rosie's dog, she supposed--tugged at her skirts, she gave a vicious backward kick without turning her head. Instantly a sound of something falling, accompanied by a faint, frightened little cry, and chorus of shrieks of dismay from older voices flashed upon her the terrible knowledge that she had sent her baby sister rolling down the steps to the hard gravel-walk below. She clutched at her pillar, almost losing consciousness for one brief moment, in her dreadful fright. Violet's agonized cry, as she came rushing from the open doorway, "My baby! oh, my baby! she's killed!" roused her: and she saw Dinah pick up the little creature from the ground, and place it in its mother's arms, where it lay limp and white, like a dead thing, without sense or motion; the whole household, young and old, black and white, gathering round in wild excitement and grief. No one so much as glanced at her, or seemed to think of her at all: their attention was wholly occupied with the injured little one. She shuddered as she caught a glimpse of its deathlike face, then put her hand over her eyes to shut out the fearful sight. She felt as if she were turning to stone with a sense of the awful thing she had done in her mad passion; then suddenly seized with an overwhelming desire to hide herself from all these eyes, that would presently be gazing accusingly and threateningly at her, she hurried away to her own room, and shut and locked herself in. Her riding-whip was still in her hand. She tossed it on to the window-sill, tore off her gloves, hat, and habit, and threw them aside, then, dropping on her knees beside the bed, buried her face in the clothes, sobbing wildly, "Oh, I've killed my little sister! my own dear little baby sister! What shall I do? what shall I do?" Moments passed that seemed like hours: faint sounds came up from below. She heard steps and voices, and, "Was that mamma Vi crying,--crying as if her heart would break? saying over and over again, 'My baby's dead! my baby's dead! killed by her sister, her cruel, passionate sister!' Would they come and take her (Lulu) to jail? Would they try her for murder, and hang her? Oh! then papa's heart would break, losing two of his children in such dreadful ways. "Oh! wouldn't it break anyhow when he heard what she had done,--when he knew the baby was dead, and that she had killed it, even if she should not be sent to prison, and tried for murder?" At length some one tried the door; and a little, sobbing voice said, "Lulu, please let me in." She rose, staggered to the door, and unlocked it. "Is it only you, Gracie?" she asked in a terrified whisper, opening it just far enough to admit the little slender figure. "Yes: there's nobody else here," said the child. "I came to tell you the baby isn't dead; but the doctor has come, and, I believe, he doesn't feel sure she won't die. O Lu! how could you?" she asked with a burst of sobs. "O Gracie! I didn't do it on purpose! how could you think so? I mean, I didn't know it was the baby: I thought it was that hateful dog." "Oh, I'm glad! I couldn't b'lieve it, though some of them do!" exclaimed Gracie in a tone of relief. Then, with a fresh burst of tears and sobs, "But she's dreadfully hurt, the dear little thing! I heard the doctor tell grandpa Dinsmore he was afraid she'd never get over it; but he mustn't let mamma know yet, 'cause maybe she might." Lulu paced the room, wringing her hands and sobbing like one distracted. "O Gracie!" she cried, "I'd like to beat myself black and blue! I just hope papa will come home and do it, because I ought to be made to suffer ever so much for hurting the baby so." "O Lu, no!" cried Gracie, aghast at the very idea. "It wouldn't do the baby any good. Oh, I hope papa won't whip you!" "But he will! I know he will; and he ought to," returned Lulu vehemently. "Oh, hark!" She stood still, listening intently, Grace doing the same. They had seemed to hear a familiar step that they had not heard for many a long month; yes, there it was again: and with a low cry of joy, Grace bounded to the door, threw it open, but closed it quickly behind her, and sprang into her father's arms. "My darling, my precious little daughter!" he said, clasping her close, and showering kisses on her face. "Where is every one? you are the first I have seen, and--why, how you have been crying! What is wrong?" "O papa! the baby--the baby's most killed," she sobbed. "Come, I'll take you to her and mamma!" Fairly stunned by the sudden dreadful announcement, he silently submitted himself to her guidance, and suffered her to lead him into the nursery, where Violet sat in a low chair with the apparently dying babe on her lap, her mother, grandfather and his wife, and the doctor, grouped about her. No one noticed his entrance, so intent were they all upon the little sufferer; but just as he gained her side, Violet looked up, and recognized him with a low cry of mingled joy and grief. "O Levis, my husband! Thank God that you have come in time--to see her alive." He bent down and kissed the sweet, tremulous lips, his features working with emotion, "My wife, my dear love, what--what is this? what ails our little one?" he asked in anguished accents, turning his eyes upon the waxen baby face; and, bending still lower, he softly touched his lips to its forehead. No one replied to his question; and gazing with close scrutiny at the child, "She has been hurt?" he said, half in assertion, half inquiringly. "Yes, captain," said Dr. Conly: "she has had a fall,--a very severe one for so young and tender a creature." "How did it happen?" he asked, in tones of mingled grief and sternness. No one answered; and after waiting a moment, he repeated the question, addressing it directly to his wife. "Oh, do not ask me, love!" she said entreatingly, and he reluctantly yielded to her request; but light began to dawn upon him, sending an added pang to his heart; suddenly he remembered Lulu's former jealousy of the baby, her displeasure at its birth; and with a thrill of horror, he asked himself if this could be her work. He glanced about the room in search of her and Max. Neither was there. He passed noiselessly into the next room, then into the one beyond,--his wife's boudoir,--and there found his son. Max sat gazing abstractedly from a window, his eyes showing traces of tears. Turning his head as the captain entered, he started up with a joyful but subdued cry, "Papa!" then threw himself with bitter sobbing into the arms outstretched to receive him. "My boy, my dear boy!" the captain said, in moved tones. "What is this dreadful thing that has happened? Can you tell me how your baby sister came to get so sad a fall?" "I didn't see it, papa: I was out riding at the time." "But you have heard about it from those who did see it?" "Yes, sir," the lad answered reluctantly; "but--please, papa, don't ask me what they said." "Was Lulu at home at the time?" "Yes, sir." "Would she be able to tell me all about it, do you think?" "I haven't seen her, papa, since I came in," Max answered evasively. The captain sighed. His suspicions had deepened to almost certainty. "Where is she?" he asked, releasing Max from his embrace, and turning to leave the room. "I do not know, papa," answered Max. "Where was the baby when she fell? can you tell me that?" asked his father. "On the veranda, sir: so the servants told me." "Which of them saw it?" "Aunt Dinah, Agnes, Aunt Dicey,--nearly all the women, I believe, sir." The captain mused a moment. "Was Lulu there?" he asked. "Yes, sir; and papa,--if you _must_ know just how it happened,--I think she could tell you all about it as well as anybody else, or maybe better. And you know she always speaks the truth." "Yes," the captain said, as if considering the suggestion: "however, I prefer to hear the story first from some one else." He passed on through the upper hall and down the stairs, then on out to the veranda, where he found a group of servants--of whom Aunt Dicey was one--excitedly discussing the very occurrence he wished to inquire about. They did not share the reluctance of Violet and Max, but answered his questions promptly, with a very full and detailed account of the affair. They gave a graphic description of the rage Lulu was thrown into at the sight of Rosie galloping away on the pony she had expected to ride, repeated her angry retort in reply to Aunt Dinah's reproof, and told, without any extenuation of the hard facts, how the baby girl, escaping from her nurse's watchful care for a moment, had toddled along to her sister, caught at her skirts for support, and received a savage kick, that sent her down the steps to the gravel-walk below. The captain heard the story with ever increasing, burning indignation. Lulu's act seemed the very wantonness of cruelty,--a most cowardly attack of a big, strong girl upon a tiny, helpless creature, who had an indisputable claim upon her tenderest protecting care. By the time the story had come to an end, he was exceedingly angry with Lulu; he felt that in this instance it would be no painful task to him to chastise her with extreme severity; in fact, he dared not go to her at once, lest he should do her some injury; he had never yet punished a child in anger; he had often resolved that he never would, but would always wait till the feeling of love for the delinquent was uppermost in his heart, so that he could be entirely sure his motive was a desire for the reformation of the offender, and not the gratification of his own passion. Feeling that he had a battle to fight with himself ere he dared venture to discipline his child, and that he must have solitude for it, he strode away down the avenue, turned into a part of the grounds but little frequented, and there paced back and forth, his arms folded on his breast, his head bent, his heart going up in silent prayer for strength to rule his own spirit, for patience and wisdom according to his need. Then he strove to recall all that was lovable about his wayward little daughter, and to think of every possible excuse for the dreadful deed she had done, yet without being able to find any that deserved the name. At length, feeling that the victory was at least partially won, and filled with anxiety about the baby, he began to retrace his steps toward the house. In the avenue, he met Edward and Zoe, who greeted him with joyful surprise, not having before known of his arrival. The expression of his countenance told them that he was already informed of the sad occurrence of the morning; and Edward said with heartfelt sympathy, "It is but a sad home-coming for you, captain, but let us try to hope for the best: it is possible the little darling has not received any lasting injury." A silent pressure of the hand was the captain's only reply for the moment. He seemed too much overcome for speech. "Such a darling as she is!" said Zoe; "the pet of the whole house, and just the loveliest little creature I ever saw." "Did you--either of you--see her fall?" asked the captain huskily. "Yes," said Zoe, "I did. Violet and I happened to be at the window of the little reception-room overlooking the veranda, and were watching the little creature as she toddled along, and"--But Zoe paused, suddenly remembering that her listener was the father of Lulu as well as of her poor little victim. "Please go on," he said with emotion. "What was it that sent her down the steps?" "Lulu was standing there," Zoe went on, hesitating, and coloring with embarrassment, "and I saw the baby-hands clutch at her skirts"-- Again she paused. "And Lulu, giving the tender, toddling thing a savage kick, caused the dreadful catastrophe?" he groaned, turning away his face. "You need not have feared to tell me. I had already heard it from the servants who were eye-witnesses, and I only wanted further and undoubtedly reliable testimony." "I think," said Edward, "that Lulu really had no idea what it was she was kicking at. I happened to be out in the grounds, and coming round the corner of the house just in time to catch her look of horror and despair as she half turned her head and saw the baby fall." "Thank you," the captain said feelingly. "It is some relief to her unhappy father to learn of the least extenuating circumstance." CHAPTER XII. "Anger resteth in the bosom of fools."--ECCLES. vii. 9. "Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him."--PROV. xxii. 15. "He seems to feel terribly about it, poor man!" remarked Zoe with a backward glance at the retreating form of Capt. Raymond, as he left them and pursued his way to the house. "Yes, and no wonder," said Edward. "Not for worlds would I be the father of such a child as Lulu!" "Nor I her mother," said Zoe. "So I'm glad it was you I got for a husband instead of Capt. Raymond." "Only for that reason?" he queried, facing round upon her in mock astonishment and wrath. "Oh, of course!" she returned, laughing, then sobering down with a sudden recollection of the sorrow in the house. "But, O Ned! how heartless we are to be joking and laughing when poor Vi and the captain are in such distress!" "I'm afraid you are right," he assented with a sigh. "Yet I am quite sure we both feel deeply for them, and are personally grieved for the injury to our darling little niece." "Yes, indeed! the pretty pet that she is!" returned Zoe, wiping her eyes. Gracie was on the veranda looking for her father, and, catching sight of him in the avenue, ran to meet him. "How is baby now? Can you tell me?" he asked, taking her hand, and stooping to give her a kiss. "Just the same, I suppose, papa," she said. "Oh, it's very hard to see it suffer so! isn't it, papa?" He nodded a silent assent. "Papa," she asked, lifting her tearful eyes to his face with a pleading look, "have you seen Lulu yet?" "No." "O papa! do go now! It must be so hard for her to wait so long to see you, when you've just come home." "I doubt if she wants to see me," he said, with some sternness of look and tone. "O dear papa! don't punish her very hard. She didn't hurt the baby on purpose." "I shall try to do what is best for her, my little girl, though I very much doubt if that is exemption from punishment," he said with an involuntary sigh. "But if she is in haste to see me," he added, "there is nothing, so far as I am aware, to prevent her from coming to me." "But she's afraid, papa, because she has been so very, very naughty." "In that case, is it not kinder for me to keep away from her?" "O papa! you know she always wants things--bad things--over." "The bad thing she has brought upon the poor baby will not be over very soon," he said sternly. "I must go now to it and your mamma." He did so; and sharing Violet's deep grief and anxiety, and perceiving that his very presence was a comfort and support to her, he remained at her side for hours. Hours, that to Lulu seemed like weeks or months. Alone in her room, in an agony of remorse and fear, she waited and watched and listened for her father's coming, longing for, and yet dreading it, more than words could express. "What would his anger be like?" she asked herself. "What terrible punishment would he inflict? Would he ever love her again, especially if the baby should die? "Perhaps he would send her away to some very far-off place, and never, never come near her any more." Naturally of a very impatient temperament, suspense and passive waiting were well-nigh intolerable to her. By turns she walked the floor, fell on her knees by the bedside, and buried her face in a pillow, or threw herself into a chair by table or window, and hid it on her folded arms. "Oh! would this long day, this dreadful, _dreadful_ waiting for--_what_? ever come to an end?" she asked herself over and over again. Yet, when at last the expected step drew near, she shuddered, trembled, and turned pale with affright, and, starting to her feet, looked this way and that with a wild impulse to flee: then, as the door opened, she dropped into her chair again, and covered her face with her shaking hands. She heard the door close: the step drew nearer, nearer, and stopped close at her side. She dared not look up, but felt her father's eyes gazing sternly upon her. "Miserable child!" he said at length, "do you know what your terrible temper has wrought?--that in your mad passion you have nearly or quite killed your little sister? that, even should she live, she may be a life-long sufferer, in consequence of your fiendish act?" "O papa, don't!" she pleaded in broken accents, cowering and shrinking as if he had struck her a deadly blow. "You deserve it," he said: "indeed, I could not possibly inflict a worse punishment than your conduct merits. But what is the use of punishing you? nothing reforms you! I am in despair of you! You seem determined to make yourself a curse to me instead of the blessing I once esteemed you. What am I to do with you? Will you compel me to cage or chain you up like a wild beast, lest you do some one a fatal injury?" A cry of pain was her only answer, and he turned and left the room. "Oh!" she moaned, "it's worse than if he had beaten me half to death! he thinks I'm too bad, even to be punished; because nothing will make me good: he says I'm a curse to him, so he must hate me; though he used to love me dearly, and I loved him so too! I suppose everybody hates me now, and always will. I wish I was dead and out of their way. But, oh! no, I don't; for I'm not fit to die. Oh! what shall I do? I wish it was I that was hurt instead of the baby. I'd like to go away and hide from everybody that knows me; then I shouldn't be a curse and trouble to papa or any of them." She lifted her head, and looked about her. It was growing dusk. Quick as a flash came the thought that now was her time; now, while almost everybody was so taken up with the critical condition of the injured little one; now, before the servants had lighted the lamps in rooms and halls. She would slip down a back stairway, out into the grounds, and away, she cared not whither. Always impulsive, and now full of mental distress, she did not pause a moment to consider, but, snatching up a hat and coat lying conveniently at hand, stole noiselessly from the room, putting them on as she went. She gained a side-door without meeting any one; and the grounds seemed deserted as she passed round the house and entered the avenue, down which she ran with swift footsteps, after one hasty glance around to make sure that she was not seen. She reached the great gates, pushed them open, stepped out, letting them swing to after her, and started on a run down the road. But the next instant some one had caught her: a hand was on her shoulder, and a stern, astonished voice cried, "Lulu! is it possible this can be you? What are you doing out here in the public road alone, and in the darkness of evening? Where were you going?" "I--I--don't want--to tell you, papa," she faltered. "_Where_ were you going?" he repeated, in a tone that said an answer he would have, and that at once. "Nowhere--anywhere to get away from this place, where everybody hates me!" she replied sullenly, trying to wrench herself free. "Please let me go, and I'll never come back to trouble you any more." He made no reply to that, but simply took her band in a firm grasp, and led her back to the house, back to her own room, where he shut himself in with her, locking the door on the inside. Then he dropped her hand, and began pacing the floor to and fro, seemingly in deep and troubled thought, his arms folded, his head bowed upon his breast. A servant had brought in a light during Lulu's absence; and now, looking timidly up at her father, she saw his face for the first time since they had bidden each other farewell a year before. It struck her as not only very pale, stern, and grief-stricken, but very much older and more deeply lined than she remembered it: she did not know that the change had been wrought almost entirely in the last few hours, yet recognized it with a pang nevertheless. "Papa is growing old," she thought: "are there gray hairs in his head, I wonder?" Then there came dimly to her recollection some Bible words about bringing a father's gray hairs down with sorrow to the grave. "Was her misconduct killing her father?" She burst into an agony of sobs and tears at the thought. He lifted his head, and looked at her gravely, and with mingled sternness and compassion. "Take off that hat and coat, get your night-dress, and make yourself ready for bed," he commanded, then, stepping to the table, sat down, drew the lamp nearer, opened her Bible, lying there, and slowly turned over the leaves as if in search of some particular passage, while she moved slowly about the room, tremblingly and tearfully obeying his order. "Shall I get into bed, papa?" she asked tremulously, when she had finished. "No, not yet. Come here." She went and stood at his side, with drooping head and fast-beating heart, her eyes on the carpet, for she dared not look in his face. He seemed to have found the passage he sought; and, keeping the book open with his left hand, he turned to her as she stood at his right. "Lucilla," he said, and his accents were not stern, though very grave and sad, "you cannot have forgotten that I have repeatedly and positively forbidden you to go wandering alone about unfrequented streets and roads, even in broad daylight; yet you attempted to do that very thing to-night in the darkness, which, of course, makes it much worse." "Yes, papa; but I--I didn't mean ever to come back." "You were running away?" "Yes, sir: I--I thought you would be glad to get rid of me," she sobbed. He did not speak again for a moment; and when he did, it was in moved tones. "Supposing I did desire to be rid of you,--which is very far from being the case,--I should have no right to let you go; for you are my own child, whom God has given to me to take care of, provide for, and train up for his service. You and I belong to each other as parent and child: you have no right to run away from my care and authority, and I have none to let you do so. In fact, I feel compelled to punish the attempt quite severely, lest there should be a repetition of it." "Oh, don't, papa!" she sobbed. "I'll never do it again." "It was an act of daring, wilful disobedience," he said, "and I must punish you for it. Also, for the fury of passion indulged in this morning. Read this, and this, aloud," he added, pointing to the open page; and she obeyed, reading faltering, sobbingly,-- "'Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him.' ... 'Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die. Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell.'" "You see, my child, that my orders are too plain to be misunderstood," he said, when she had finished; "and they must be obeyed, however unwelcome to me or to you." "Yes, papa; and--and I--I--'most want you to whip me for hurting the baby so. I suppose nobody believes I'm sorry, but I am. I could beat myself for it, though I didn't know it was the baby pulling at my skirt. I thought it was Rosie's dog." "It is not exactly for hurting the baby," he said; "if you had done that by accident, I should never think of punishing you for it: but for the fury of passion that betrayed you into doing it, I must punish you very severely. "I shudder to think what you may come to, if I let you go on indulging your fiery, ungovernable temper: yes, and to think what it has already brought you to," he added, with a heavy sigh. "You can never enter heaven unless you gain the victory over that, as well as every other sin: and, my daughter, there are but two places to choose from as our eternal home,--heaven and hell; and I must use every effort to deliver your soul from going to that last--dreadful place!" He rose, stepped to the window where her little riding-whip still lay, came back to her; and for the next few minutes she forgot mental distress in sharp, physical pain, as the stinging, though not heavy, blows fell thick and fast on her thinly covered back and shoulders. She writhed and sobbed under them, but neither screamed, nor pleaded for mercy. When he had finished, he sat down again, and drew the weeping, writhing child in between his knees, put his arm about her in tender, fatherly fashion, and made her lay her head on his shoulder; but he said not a word. Perhaps his heart was too full for speech. Presently Lulu's arm crept round his neck. "Papa," she sobbed, "I--I do love you, and I--I'm glad you wouldn't let me run away,--and that you try to save me from losing my soul. But oh, I _can't_ be good! I wish, I _wish_ I _could!_" she ended, with a bitter, despairing cry. He was much moved. "We will kneel down, and ask God to help you, my poor, dear child," he said. He did so, making her kneel beside him, while, with his arm still about her, he poured out a prayer so earnest and tender, so exactly describing her feelings and her needs, that she could join in it with all her heart. He prayed like one talking to his Father and Friend, who he knew was both able and willing to do great things for him and his. When they had risen from their knees, she lifted her eyes to his face with a timid, pleading look. He understood the mute petition, and, sitting down again, drew her to his knee, and kissed her several times with grave tenderness. "I wanted a kiss so badly, papa," she said. "You know, it is a whole year since I had one; and you never came home before without giving me one just as soon as we met." "No; but I never before had so little reason to bestow a caress on you," he said. "When I heard of your deed of this morning, I felt that I ought not to show you any mark of favor, at least not until I had given you the punishment you so richly deserved. Do you not think I was right?" "Yes, sir," she answered, hanging her head, and blushing deeply. "I will put you in your bed now, and leave you for to-night," he said. "I must go back to my little suffering baby and her almost heart-broken mother." He led her to the bed, and lifted her into it as he spoke. "Papa, can't I have a piece of bread?" she asked humbly. "I'm _so_ hungry!" "Hungry!" he exclaimed in surprise. "Had you no supper?" "No, sir, nor dinner either. I haven't had a bite to eat since breakfast." "Strange!" he said; "but I suppose you were forgotten in the excitement and anxiety every one in the house has felt ever since the baby's sad fall. And they may have felt it unnecessary to bring any thing to you, as you were quite able to go to the dining-room for it." "I couldn't bear to, papa," she said, with tears of shame and grief; "and, indeed, I wasn't hungry till a little while ago; but now I feel faint and sick for something to eat." "You shall have it," he replied, and went hastily from the room, to return in a few minutes, bringing a bowl of milk and a plentiful supply of bread and butter. He set them on the table, and bade her come and eat. "Papa, you are very kind to me, ever so much kinder than I deserve," she said tremulously, as she made haste to obey the order. "I think some fathers would say I must go hungry for to-night." "I have already punished you in what I consider a better way, because it could not injure your health," he said; "while going a long time without food would be almost sure to do so. It is not my intention ever to punish my children in a way to do them injury. Present pain is all I am at all willing to inflict, and that only for their good." "Yes, papa, I know that," she said with a sob, setting down her bowl of milk to wipe her eyes; "so, when you punish me, it doesn't make me quit loving you." "If I did not love you, if you were not my own dear child," he said, laying his hand on her head as he stood by her side, "I don't think I could be at the trouble and pain of disciplining you as I have to-night. But eat your supper: I can't stay with you much longer, and I want to see you in bed before I go." As she laid her head on her pillow again, there was a flash of lightning, followed instantly by a .crash of thunder and a heavy downpour of rain. "Do you hear that?" he asked. "Now, suppose I had let you go when I caught you trying to run away, how would you feel, alone out of doors, in the darkness and storm, no shelter, no home, no friends, no father to take care of you, and provide for your wants?" "O papa! it would be very, very dreadful!" she sobbed, putting her arm round his neck as he bent over her. "I'm very glad you brought me back, even to punish me so severely; and I don't think I'll ever want to run away again." "I trust not," he said, kissing her good-night; "and you must not leave this room till I give you permission. I intend that you shall spend some days in solitude,--except when I see fit to come to you,--that you may have plenty of time and opportunity to think over your sinful conduct and its dire consequences." CHAPTER XIII. "I'm on the rack; For sure, the greatest evil man can know, Bears no proportion to the dread suspense." "Is there any change, doctor?" asked Capt. Raymond, meeting Arthur Conly in the hall. "Hardly," was the reply: "certainly none for the worse." "Will she get over it, do you think?" The father's tones were unsteady as he asked the question. "My dear captain, it is impossible to tell yet," Arthur said feelingly; "but we must try to hope for the best." Their hands met in a warm clasp. "I shall certainly do so," the captain said. "But you are not going to leave us,--especially not in this storm?" "No: I expect to pass the night in the house, ready to be summoned at a moment's notice, should any change take place." "Thank you: it will be a great satisfaction to us to know we have you close at hand." And the captain turned and entered the nursery, which Arthur had just left. Violet, seated by the side of the crib where her baby lay, looked up on her husband's entrance, greeting him with a smile of mingled love and sadness. "Your dear presence is such a comfort and support!" she murmured as he drew near. "I don't like to lose sight of you for a single moment." "Nor I of you, dearest," he answered, bending down to kiss her pale cheek, then taking a seat close beside her; "but I had to seek solitude for a time while fighting a battle with myself. Since that I have been with Lulu." He concluded with a heavy sigh, and for a moment both were silent; then he said with grave tenderness,-- "I fear you will find it hard to forgive her: it has been no easy thing for me to do so." "I cannot yet," returned Violet, a hard look that he had never seen there before stealing over her face; "and that is an added distress, for 'if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.' I think I can if my baby recovers; but should it--be taken away--or--or, worse by far, live to be a constant sufferer--oh, how can I ever forgive the author of that suffering! Pray for me, my dear husband," she sobbed, laying her head on his shoulder. "I will, I do, my darling," he whispered, passing his arm about her, and drawing her closer; "and I know the help you need will be given. "'Ask, and it shall be given you.' "Perhaps it may aid the effort, if I tell you Lulu did not intentionally harm her little sister, and is greatly distressed at her state. She thought it was Rosie's dog pulling at her skirts; and I own that that explanation makes the sad affair a little less heart-rending to me, though I could not accept it as any excuse for an act done in a fury of passion, and have punished her very severely for it; that is, for her passion. I think it is right, under the circumstances, that you should know that I have, and that it is my fixed purpose to keep her in solitary confinement, at least so long as the baby continues in a critical condition." "Oh! I am glad to know it was not done purposely," Violet exclaimed,--though in a tone hardly raised above a whisper,--lifting her tearful eyes to his face with a look of something like relief: "knowing that, I begin to feel that it may be possible to forgive and forget, especially if the consequences do not prove lasting," she added with a sob, and turning her eyes to the little wan face on the pillow. "But I certainly take no delight in the severity of her punishment: in fact, I fear it may destroy any little affection she has had for her baby sister." "No," he said, "I am not at all apprehensive of that. When she found I was about to punish her, she said she almost wanted me to; that she felt like beating herself for hurting the baby, then went on to explain her mistake,--thinking it was the dog tugging at her dress,--and I then gave her fully to understand, that the chastisement was not for hurting the baby, but for indulging in such a fury of passion, a fault that I have punished her for on more than one former occasion; telling her, too, that I intended to chastise her every time I knew of her being guilty of it." The sound of a low sob caused the captain to turn his head, to find his little Grace standing at the back of his chair, and crying bitterly, though without much noise. He took her hand, and drew her to his side. "What is the matter, daughter?" he asked tenderly. "O papa! I'm so sorry for Lulu," she sobbed; "please, mayn't I go to her for a little while?" "No, Gracie. I cannot allow her the pleasure of seeing you, either to-night, or for some days." "But, papa, you said--you told mamma just now--that you had already punished her very severely; and must you keep on?" "Yes, my child, so far as to keep her in solitude, that she may have plenty of time to think about what she has brought upon herself and others by the indulgence of an ungovernable temper. She needs to have the lesson impressed upon her as deeply as possible." "I'm so sorry for her, papa!" repeated the gentle little pleader. "So am I, daughter," he said; "but I think, that to see that she has the full benefit of this sad lesson, will be the greatest kindness I can do her. And my little Grace must try to believe that papa knows best. "Now, give me a good-night kiss, and go to your bed, for it is quite time you were there." As he spoke, he took her in his arms, and held her for a moment in a close embrace. "Papa's dear little girl!" he said softly: "_you_ have never given me a pang, except by your feeble health." "I don't want to, papa: I hope I never, never shall!" she returned, hugging him tight. Leaving him, she went to Violet, put her arms about her neck, and said in her sweet, childish treble, "Dear mamma, don't feel so dreadfully about baby: I've been asking God to make her quite, quite well; and I do believe he will." When she had left the room, the captain found himself alone with his young wife and their little one. Again her head was on his shoulder, his arm about her waist. "My husband, my dear, dear husband," she murmured, "I am so glad to have you here! I cannot tell you how I longed for you when the children were so ill. Oh, if we could only be together always, as Lester and Elsie, Edward and Zoe, are!" "My love, my life," he said in low tones, tremulous with feeling, "what if I should tell you that your wish is already accomplished?" She gave him a glance of astonishment and incredulity. "It is even so: I mean all I have said," he answered to the look. "I have sent in my resignation: it has been accepted, and I have come home--no, I have come _here_ to _make_ a home for you and my children, hoping to live in it with you and them for the rest of my days." Her face had grown radiant. "Oh! can it be true?" she cried, half under her breath; for even in her glad surprise, the thought of her suffering babe and its critical condition was present with her: "are we not to be forced apart again in a few days or weeks? not to go on spending more than half our lives at a distance from each other?" "It is quite true, my darling," he answered, then went on to tell, in a few brief sentences, how it had come about. "It cost me a struggle to give up the service," he said in conclusion; "and perhaps I might not have decided as I did, but for the thought that, if I should be needed by my country at some future day, I could offer her my services; and the thought that, at present, wife and children needed me more, probably, than she. I felt that Lulu, in particular, needed my oversight and training; that the task of bringing her up was too difficult, too trying, to be left to other hands than those of her father; and I feel that still more sensibly since hearing of this day's doings," he added in a tone of heartfelt sorrow. "I think you are right," Violet said. "She is more willing to submit to your authority than to that of anybody else; as, indeed, she ought to be: and in a home that she will feel is really her own, her father's house, and with him constantly at hand, to watch over, and help her to correct her faults, there is hope, I think, that she may grow to be all you desire." "Thank you, love, for saying it," he responded with emotion. "I could not blame you if now you thought her utterly irreclaimable." "No, oh, no!" she answered earnestly. "I have great hopes of her, with her father at hand to help her in the struggle with her temper; for I am sure she does struggle against it; and I must acknowledge, that, for months past, she has been as good and lovable a child as one could desire. I don't know a more lovable one than she is when her temper does not get the better of her; and, as Gracie says, whenever it does, 'she gets sorry very soon.'" "My darling," he said, pressing the hand he held, "you are most kind to be so ready to see what is commendable in my wayward child. I cannot reasonably expect even you to look at her with her father's partial eyes. And dearly as I certainly do love her, I have been exceedingly angry with her to-day; so angry, that, for a time, I dared not trust myself to go near her, I, who ought to have unlimited patience with her, knowing, as I do, that she inherits her temper from me." "I don't know how to believe that, my dear, good husband," Violet said, gazing up into his face with fond, admiring eyes; "for I have never seen any evidence of it. If you have such a temper, you have certainly gained complete mastery of it. And that may well give us hope for Lulu." "I do not despair of her," he said; "though I was near doing so to-day--for a time--after hearing a full account of her passionate behavior--her savage assault, as it seemed to be, upon her baby sister." "Oh!" moaned Violet, bending over the little one with fast-falling tears,--for it was moaning as if in pain,--"my baby, my poor, precious baby! how gladly mamma would bear all your suffering for you, if she could! O Levis! what shall we do if she is taken from us?" "Dear wife, I hope we may not be called to endure that trial," he said; "but, in any case, we have the gracious promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' And that blessed assurance, for our consolation, in regard to her, 'He shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom.'" "'Tis a very sweet promise; but, oh! I don't know how to resign her, even to Him," she said, weeping bitterly. "Nor I; but we will try to leave it all with Him. We will rejoice if she is spared to us; and, if not, we will be glad to know that she is so safe, so happy with Him--gathered with His arm, carried in His bosom." "Yes, yes," she sobbed: "it would be only for ourselves we would need to grieve, not for her, sweet pet." Elsie, Violet's mother, came into the room at that moment. "My dear Vi," she said tenderly, "you are looking sadly worn and weary. I want you and the captain to take your rest to-night, while Arthur and I will care for baby." "Thank you, dearest mamma," Violet replied; "but rest and sleep are quite as necessary to you as to me; and, besides, I could not bear to leave her." "I took a nap on purpose to be able to sit up to-night," Elsie said; "also, I am less exhausted by mental distress than her mother is, dearly as I love her. Can you not trust her to me, with the doctor sharing my vigil?" "I could trust your nursing sooner than my own, mother," Violet answered; "it is not that; but I cannot tear myself away from my darling, while she is in so critical a state." "And I," said the captain, "while warmly thanking you and the doctor, cannot consent to leave either wife or baby to-night." So, finding they were not to be persuaded to rest, the others left them to watch over the little one through that night. The morning brought a slight change for the better, yet no certainty of recovery; but even that barely perceptible improvement, joined to the delightful prospect of always having her husband at home, cheered Violet greatly. They had talked much of that through the night, beguiling the long hours of their tedium with many a bright plan for the future, always hoping that "baby" would be a sharer in their realization. The captain hoped to buy or build in the near neighborhood of Ion, that Violet need not be separated from her mother,--a separation he was most desirous to avoid on his own account, also; for he entertained a very high regard and warm affection for his mother-in-law, averring that it would be scarcely possible for him to love her better were he her own son. He had resigned to Violet the pleasure of telling the joyful news to her mother and the whole family, except his children; reserving to himself the right to communicate the glad tidings to them when, and in what way, he should deem best. Lulu, he said, was to be kept in ignorance of it till the time of her imprisonment expired. At a very early hour in the morning, Elsie and the doctor came to the relief of the watchers. Arthur noted and announced the improvement, thus reviving hope in the anxious hearts of the parents; and before retiring for a few hours' rest and sleep, Violet whispered to them the news that had gladdened her heart in spite of its heavy load of grief and fear. They both rejoiced with her, and bade her hope for the best in regard to her babe. Pain, mental and physical, kept Lulu awake a good while after her father left her; but at length she fell into a deep sleep, which lasted far beyond her customary hour for rising, the house being very still, because of the baby's illness, and the blinds down in her room, so that there was neither light nor noise to rouse her. Her first thoughts on awaking were a little confused: then, as with a flash, all the events of yesterday came to her remembrance, bringing with them bitter upbraidings of conscience, and torturing anxieties and fears. Would the baby die? oh! perhaps it was already dead, and she a murderess! the murderess of her own little sister--her father's child! If that were so, how could she ever look him, or anybody else, in the face again? And what would be done to her? was there any danger that she would be put in prison? oh! that would be far worse than being sent to a boarding-school, even where the people were as strict and as disagreeable as possible! And she would be sorry, oh, so sorry! to lose the baby sister, or to have her a sufferer from what she had done, for life, or for years, even could she herself escape all evil consequences. All the time she was attending to the duties of the toilet, these thoughts and feelings were in her mind and heart; and her fingers trembled so that it was with difficulty she could manage buttons and hooks and eyes, or stick in a pin. She started at every sound, longing, yet dreading,--as she had done the previous day,--to see her father; for who could tell what news he might bring her from the nursery? Glancing at the little clock on the mantel, when at last she was quite dressed, and ready for her breakfast, she saw that it was more than an hour past the usual time for that meal; yet no one had been near her, and she was very hungry; but, even if her father had not forbidden her to leave the room, she would have preferred the pangs of hunger to showing her face in the dining-room. Presently, however, footsteps--not those of her father--approached her door. "Miss Lu," said a voice she recognized as that of her mamma's maid, "please open de doah: hyar's yo' breakfus." The request was promptly complied with; and Agnes entered, carrying a waiter laden with a bountiful supply of savory and toothsome viands. "Dar it am," she remarked, when she had set it on the table. "I s'pose mos' likely yo' kin eat ef de precious little darlin' is mos' killed by means ob yo' bein' in a passion an' kickin' ob her--de sweet honey!--down de steps." And turning swiftly about, her head in the air, the girl swept from the room, leaving Lulu standing in the middle of the floor, fairly struck dumb with indignation, astonishment, and dismay. "How dared Agnes--a mulatto servant-girl,--talk so to her! But was the baby really dying? Would papa never come to tell her the truth about it? She wouldn't believe any thing so dreadful till she heard it from him: very likely Agnes was only trying to torment her, and make her as miserable as possible." She had sunk, trembling, into a chair, feeling as if she should never want to eat again; but with that last thought, her hopes revived, hunger once more asserted its sway, and she ate her breakfast with a good deal of appetite and relish. But, when hunger was appeased, fears and anxieties renewed their assault: she grew half distracted with them, as hour after hour passed on, and no one came near her except another maid, to take away the breakfast-dishes and tidy the room. On her, Lulu turned her back, holding an open book in her hand, and pretending to be deeply absorbed in its contents, though not a word of the sense was she taking in; for, intense as was her desire to learn the baby's condition, she would not risk any more such stabs to her sensitiveness and pride as had been given by Agnes. This one came, did her work, and went away again in silence; but all the time she was in the room, Lulu felt that she was casting glances of disgust and disfavor at her. She could not breathe freely till the girl had left the room. She thought surely the dinner-hour would bring her father; but it did not: her wants were again supplied by a servant. CHAPTER XIV. "The dread of evil is the worst of ill." On leaving the breakfast-room, Violet hastened back to the nursery; but the captain, calling Max and Grace into her boudoir, said, as he took the little girl on his knee, and motioned Max to sit by his side,-- "I have some news for you, my children: can you guess what it is?" "Something good, I hope, papa," said Max: "you look as if it was." "I am very much pleased with my share of it," the captain said, smiling; "and I shall know presently, I presume, what you two think of yours. What would you like it to be, Gracie?" "That my papa was never, never going away any more," she answered promptly, lifting loving eyes to his face. "There couldn't be better news than that," remarked Max; "but," with a profound sigh, "of course it can't be that." "Ah! don't be quite so sure, young man," laughed his father. "Papa, you don't mean to say that that is it?" queried Max breathlessly. "I do: I have resigned from the navy, and hope soon to have a home ready for my wife and children, and to live in it with them as long as it shall please God to spare our lives." Tears of joy actually came into the boy's eyes; while Gracie threw her arms round their father's neck, and half smothered him with kisses. "O papa, papa!" she cried, "I'm so glad, I don't know what to do! I'm the happiest girl in the world!--or should be, if only the dear baby was well," she added, with springing tears. "Yes," he sighed: "we cannot feel other than sad, while she is suffering and in danger. But she is a trifle better this morning, and we will hope the improvement may continue till she is entirely restored." "She's such a darling!" said Max; "just the brightest, cutest baby that ever was seen! Mamma Vi has taught her to know your photograph; and, whenever she sees it, she says, 'Papa,' as plainly as I can. She calls me too, and Lu. Oh! I don't know how Lulu could"--He broke off, without finishing his sentence. "Lu didn't do it on purpose," sobbed Gracie, pulling out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes. "No," sighed the captain: "I am quite sure she had no intention of harming her little sister, yet she is responsible for it as the consequence of indulging in a fit of rage; she feels that: and I hope the distress of mind she is now suffering because of the dreadful deed she has done in her passion, will be such a lesson to her, that she will learn to rule her own spirit in future." "Oh, I do hope so!" said Grace. "Papa, does Lulu know your good news?" "No. I have not told her yet; and I intend to keep her in ignorance of it for some days, as part of her deserved punishment. I do not want her to have any thing to divert her mind from the consideration of the great sin and danger of such indulgence of temper." "You haven't quit loving her, papa? you won't?" Grace said, half entreatingly, half inquiringly. "No, daughter, oh, no!" he replied with emotion. "I don't know what would ever make me quit loving any one of my dear children." He drew her closer, and kissed her fondly as he spoke. "I am very glad of that, papa," said Max feelingly; "for though I do mean to be always a good son to you, if I ever should do any thing very, very bad, I'd not be afraid to confess it to you. I could stand punishment, you know; but I don't think I could bear to have you give up being fond of me." A warm pressure of the lad's hand was the captain's only reply at first; but presently he said, "I trust you will always be perfectly open with me, my dear boy. You don't think, do you, that you could have a better--more disinterested--earthly friend than your father?" "No, sir! oh, no, indeed!" "Then make me your confidant," his father said, with a smile and look that spoke volumes of fatherly pride and affection; "let me into all your secrets. Now that I am to be with you constantly, I shall take a deeper interest than ever in all that concerns you,--if that be possible,--in your studies, your sports, your thoughts and feelings. You may always be sure of my sympathy, and such help as I can give in every right and wise undertaking." "I'll do that, papa!" Max exclaimed with a sudden, glad, lighting-up of the face. "Why, it'll be as good as having the brother I've often wished for!" he added with a pleased laugh; "better, in some ways, anyhow; for you'll be so much wiser than any boy, and keep me out of scrapes with your good advice." "Papa," queried Grace, with a little bashful hesitation, "mayn't I have you for my friend too?" "Yes, indeed, my darling little girl!" he answered with a hug and kiss. "I should like to be quite as intimate with you as I hope to be with Max." "With Lulu too?" she asked. "Yes; with every one of my children." Max had averted his face to hide his amusement at his little sister's question in regard to her father's friendship for herself, for the timid, sensitive little girl could hardly bear to be laughed at; but now he turned to his father again with the query,-- "Papa, where are we going to live?" "I don't know yet, Max," the captain answered; "but I hope to be able to buy or build somewhere in this neighborhood, as I should be loath to take your mamma far away from her mother,--myself either, for that matter; and I presume you would all prefer to live near these kind friends?" "I am sure I should," said Max. "But, papa,"--he paused, coloring, and casting down his eyes. "Well, my boy, what is it? don't be afraid to talk freely to your intimate friend," his father said in a kindly tone, and laying a hand affectionately on the lad's shoulder. "Please don't think me impertinent, papa," Max said, coloring still more, "but I was just going to ask how you could live without your pay; as I have heard you say it was nearly all you had." "I am not at all offended at the inquiry," was the kindly reply. "The intimacy and confidences are not to be all on one side, my boy. "I am quite willing you should know that am able now to do without the pay, some land belonging to me in the Far West having so risen in value as to afford me sufficient means for the proper support of my family, and education of my children." "Oh, that is good!" cried Max, clapping his hands in delight. "And if it is used up by the time I'm grown and educated, I hope I'll be able to take care of you, and provide for you as you do now for me." "Thank you, my dear boy," the captain said with feeling; "the day may come when you will be the stay and staff of my old age; but, however that may be, you may be sure that nothing can add more to your father's happiness than seeing you growing up to honorable and Christian manhood." "Yes, sir: it's what I want to do." Then, a little anxiously, after a moment's thought, "Am I to be sent away to school, sir?" "I have not quite decided that question, and your wishes will have great weight with me in making the decision. I shall keep Lulu at home, and educate her myself,--act as her tutor, I mean,--and if my boy would like to become my pupil also"-- "O papa! indeed, indeed I should!" exclaimed Max joyfully, as his father paused, looking smilingly at him; "and I'll try hard to do you credit as my teacher as well as my father." "Then we will make the trial," said the captain. "If it should not prove a success, there will be time enough after that to try a school." "What about me, papa?" asked Grace wistfully, feeling as if she were being overlooked in the arrangements. "You, too, shall say lessons to papa," he answered with tender look and tone. "Shall you like that?" "Ever so much!" she exclaimed, lifting glad, shining eyes to his face. "Now you may go back to your play," he said, gently putting her off his knee. "I must go to your mamma and our poor, suffering baby." He went; but the children lingered a while where they were, talking over this wonderfully good news. "Now," said Max, "if Lu had only controlled her temper yesterday, what a happy family we'd be!" "Yes," sighed Grace; "how I do wish she had! Oh, I'm so sorry for her, that she doesn't know this about papa going to stay with us all the time! 'Sides, she's 'specting to be sent away somewhere; and how dreadfully she must feel! Papa's punishing her very hard, and very long; but of course he knows best, and he loves her." "Yes, I'm sure he does," assented Max: "so he won't give her any more punishment than he thinks she needs. It'll be a fine thing for her, and all the rest of us too, if this hard lesson teaches her never to get into a passion again." Capt. Raymond had intended going to Lulu early in the day; but anxiety about the babe, and sympathy with Violet, kept him with them till late in the afternoon. When at last he did go to his prisoner, he found her feverish with anxiety and fear for the consequences of her mad act of the day before. She had been longing for his coming, moving restlessly about the room, feeling that she could not endure the suspense another moment; had at length thrown herself into a chair beside the window, and, as was her wont in times of over-wrought feeling, buried her face on her folded arms, laid on the window-sill. She started up wildly at the sound of his step and the opening of the door. "Papa," she cried breathlessly, "O papa! what--what have you come to tell me? Is--is the baby"-- "She is living, but far from out of danger," he said, regarding her with a very grave, stern expression; but it softened as he marked the anguish in her face. He sat down, and drew her to his knee, putting his arm about her waist, and with the other hand clasping one of hers. He was startled to feel how hot and dry it was. "My child!" he exclaimed, "you are not well." She dropped her head on his shoulder, and burst into a passion of tears and sobs. "Papa, papa! what shall I do if baby dies? Oh! I would do or bear any thing in the world to make her well." "I don't doubt it, daughter," he said; "but a bitter lesson we all have to learn is, that we cannot undo the evil deeds we have done. Oh! let this dreadful occurrence be a warning to you to keep a tight rein upon your quick temper." "Oh! I do mean to, indeed I do," she sobbed; "but that won't cure the dear baby's hurt. Papa, all day long I have been asking God to forgive me. Do you think he will?" "I am sure that he has already done so, if you have asked with your heart, and for Jesus' sake. But we will ask him again for that, and to give you strength to fight against your evil nature as you never have fought, and to conquer." "And to make the baby well, papa," she added sobbingly, as he knelt with her. "Yes," he said. When they had risen from their knees, he bade her get her hat and coat, saying, "You need fresh air and exercise. I will take you for a walk." "I'd like to go, papa," she said; "but"-- "But what?" "I--I'm afraid of--of meeting some of the family; and--and I don't want to see any of them." "Perhaps we shall not meet them," he said; "and, if we do, you need not look toward them; and they will not speak to you. Put on your hat and coat at once: we have no time to lose." She obeyed; and presently they were walking down the avenue, not having met any one on their way out of the house. The captain moved on in silence, seemingly absorbed in sad thought, and hardly conscious that Lulu was by his side. She glanced wistfully up into his grave, stern face two or three times, then said humbly, pleadingly, "Papa, please may I put my hand in yours?" "Certainly," he said, looking down at her very kindly, as he took her hand, and held it in a warm, affectionate clasp. "Child, you have not lost your father's love. You are very dear to me, in spite of all your naughtiness." He slackened his pace, for he saw she was finding it difficult to keep up with him; and his attention was again attracted to the heat of her hand. "You are not well, perhaps not able to walk?" he said inquiringly, and in tenderly solicitous accents. "It is pleasant to be out in the air, papa," she answered; "but it tires me a good deal more than usual." "We will not go far, then," he said; "and, if your strength gives out before we get back to the house, I will carry you." They were in the road now, some distance beyond the avenue-gates; and at this moment a number of horsemen came in sight, approaching from the direction opposite to that they were taking. Perceiving them, Lulu uttered a sharp cry of terror, and shrank behind her father, though still clinging to his hand. "What is it, daughter?" he asked in surprise: "what do you fear?" "O papa, papa!" she sobbed, "are they coming to take me and put me in prison? Oh, don't let them have me!" "Don't be frightened," he said soothingly. "Don't you see it is only some men who have been out hunting, and are going home with their game?" "Oh! is that all?" she gasped, the color coming back to her face, which had grown deadly pale. "I thought it was the sheriff coming to put me in jail for hurting the baby. Will they do it, papa? Oh! you won't let them, will you?" she cried entreatingly. "I could not protect you from the law," he said, in a moved tone; "but I think there is no danger that it will interfere. You did not hurt your sister intentionally, and she is still living. You are very young too; and, doubtless, everybody will think your punishment should be left to me, your father." She was trembling like a leaf. He turned aside to a fallen tree, sat down on it, and took her in his arms. She dropped her head on his shoulder, panting like a hunted thing. "These two days have been too much for you," he said pityingly. "And that fear has tormented you all the time?" "Yes, papa: oh, I thought I might have to be hung if baby died, and--it was--so--dreadful--to think I'd killed her--even if they didn't do any thing to me for it," she sobbed. "Yes; very, very dreadful; perhaps more so to me--the father of you both--than to any one else," he groaned. "Papa, I'm heart-broken about it," she sobbed "Oh, if I only could undo it!" He was silent for a moment; then he said, "I know you are suffering very much from remorse; this is a bitter lesson to you; let it be a lasting one. I can relieve you of the fear of punishment from the law of the land; there is no danger of that now: but, if you do not lay this lesson to heart, there may come a time when that danger will be real; for there is no knowing what awful deed such an ungovernable temper as yours may lead you to commit. "But don't despair: you can conquer it by determination, constant watchfulness, and the help from on high which will be given in answer to earnest prayer." "Then it shall be conquered!" she cried vehemently. "I will fight it with all my might. And you will help me, papa, all you can, won't you, by watching me, and warning me when you see I'm beginning to get angry, and punishing me for the least little bit of a passion? But oh, I forget that you can't stay with me, or take me with you!" she cried with a fresh burst of sobs and tears. "Must you go back to your ship soon?" "Not very soon," he said; "and I gladly promise to help you all I can in every way. I can do it with my prayers, even when not close beside you. But, my child, the struggle must be your own; all I can do will be of no avail unless you fight the battle yourself with all your strength. "We will go home now," he added, rising, and taking her hand in his. But they had gone only a few steps when he stooped, and took her in his arms, saying. "You are not able to walk. I shall carry you." "But I am so heavy, papa," she objected. "No, darling: I can carry you very easily," he said. "There, put your arm round my neck, and lay your head on my shoulder." The pet name from his lips sent a thrill of joy to her heart; and it was very pleasant, very restful, to feel herself infolded in his strong arms. He carried her carefully, tenderly along, holding her close, as something precious that he began to fear might slip from his grasp. She had always been a strong, healthy child, and heretofore he had scarcely thought of sickness in connection with her; but now he was alarmed at her state. "Are you in pain, daughter?" he asked. "Only a headache, papa; I suppose because I've cried so much." "I think I must have the doctor see you." "Oh, no, no, papa! please don't," she sobbed. "I don't want to see him or anybody." "Then we will wait a little; perhaps you will be all right again by to-morrow." He did not set her down till they had almost reached the house; and he took her in his arms again at the foot of the stairway, and carried her to her room, where he sat down with her on his knee. "Papa, aren't you very tired, carrying such a big, heavy girl?" she asked, looking regretfully into his face. "No; very little," he answered, taking off her hat, and laying his cool hand on her forehead. "Your head is very hot. I'll take off your coat, and lay you on the bed; and I want you to stay there for the rest of the day; go to sleep if you can." "I will, papa," she answered submissively; then as he laid her down, and turned to leave her, "Oh, I wish you could stay with me!" she cried, clinging to him. "I cannot now, daughter," he said, smoothing her hair caressingly. "I must go back to your mamma and the baby. But I will come in again to bid you good-night, and see that you are as comfortable as I can make you. Can you eat some supper?" "I don't know, papa," she answered doubtfully. "Well, I will send you some; and you can eat it, or not, as you feel inclined." CHAPTER XV. "After the storm, a calm; after the rain, sunlight." As Capt. Raymond passed through the hall on which Lulu's room opened, a little girl, dressed in deep mourning, rose from the broad, low sill of the front window, where she had been sitting waiting for the last few minutes, and came forward to meet him. She was a rather delicate-looking, sweet-faced child, with large dark eyes, full of intelligence. "Capt. Raymond?" she said inquiringly, and with a timid look up into his face. "Yes," he said, holding out his hand to her with a fatherly smile: "and you, I suppose, are my Lulu's little friend, Evelyn Leland?" "Yes, sir: we--uncle Lester, aunt Elsie, little Ned, and I--have been away visiting at some distance, and did not hear of--of the baby's bad fall till we came home this afternoon. We are all so sorry, so very sorry! Aunt Elsie is with aunt Vi now; and I--oh! please, sir, may I go to Lulu?" "My dear little girl, I should like to say yes, for your sake,--and Lulu's too,--but for the present I think best not to allow her to see any one," he said in a kindly tone, and affectionately pressing the little hand she had put into his. "But," seeing the disappointment in her face, "I entirely approve of the intimacy, and hope it will be kept up; for I think it has been of benefit to Lulu." "Thank you, sir," she returned, coloring with pleasure. "But Lulu told me you had quite determined to send her away from here: I hope you will reconsider, and--let her stay," with a very coaxing look up into his face. He smiled. "Can you keep a secret?" he asked,--"one from Lulu only, and that for but a few days?" "Try me, sir," she answered brightly. "I will. I have left the navy, and expect to settle down in this neighborhood. In that case, you and Lulu will not be separated; for my strongest reason for the change was, that I might have her constantly with me, and train her up as I think she should be trained; as perhaps no one but her father can train her." Evelyn's face had grown very bright. "Oh, how delighted, how happy Lu will be when she hears it!" she exclaimed; "for, do you know, sir, she thinks there is nobody in the world to compare to her father?" Those words brought a glad look into his face for the moment. "Yes," he said, "she is a warm-hearted, affectionate child; a dear child, in spite of her quick temper." A door had opened and closed: a step was coming down the hall, and a cheerful voice in his rear said, "Captain, I have good news for you: there has been a great, a really wonderful change for the better in the last hour; the child will live, and I hope, I believe, entirely recover from the injuries caused by her fall." Before the doctor's sentence was finished, the captain had turned, and caught his hand in a vice-like grasp: his eyes filled, his breast heaved with emotions too big for utterance; he shook the hand warmly, dropped it, and, without a word, hurried into the nursery. He found nearly the whole family gathered there, every face full of a great gladness. The doctor, however, following him in, speedily cleared the room of all but two or three: only the two Elsies, besides himself and the parents, were left. Violet looked up at her husband as he entered, with a face so bright and joyous that it recalled the days of their honeymoon. "Oh, how happy I am! how good God has been to us!" she whispered, as he bent down to kiss her: "our darling is spared to us! See how sweetly she is sleeping!" "Yes," he returned, in the same low tone, his features working with emotion: "and what double reason for joy and gratitude have I--the father of both the injurer and the injured!" "Forgive me that I have felt a little hard to Lulu. I can and do forgive her now," she said, her sweet eyes looking penitently into his. "Darling," he returned with emotion, "I have nothing to forgive, but shall be very glad if you can find any love in your heart, after this, for my wayward child, little as she merits it." Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned to Mrs. Leland with a brotherly greeting, not having seen her before since his arrival at Ion. "Vi has told me the glad tidings you brought her yesterday," she said, as he held her hand in his; "and I can't tell you how delighted we all are to know that you have come to stay among us." "And now I can rejoice in that to the full, my dear, dear husband," Violet said, dropping her head on his shoulder as he sat down by her side, and put his arm about her. For a little while they all sat silently watching the sleeping babe; then Arthur glanced at the clock, and, with a low-toned promise to be back in an hour, rose, and left the room. "Excuse me for a little, dear," the captain said to Violet, and softly followed Arthur out to the hall. "Can you spare me a moment?" he asked. "Yes, full five of them, if necessary," was the jovial reply. Arthur's heart was so light in consequence of the improvement in his young patient, that a jest came readily to his lips. "Thank you," returned the captain warmly, then went on to describe Lulu's condition, and ask what should be done for her. "Relieve her mind as speedily as possible with the good news of the certainty of the baby's recovery, and, if you choose, the other glad tidings you brought us yesterday," Arthur answered. "The mental strain of the past two days has evidently been too much for her: she must have suffered greatly from grief, remorse, and terror. Relief from those will be the best medicine she could have, and probably work a speedy cure. Good-evening." He hurried away, and the captain went at once to Lulu. She was on the bed where he had left her, but, at the opening of the door, started up, and turned to him with a look of wild affright. "Papa!" she cried breathlessly, "is--is the baby?--Oh, no! for how glad your face is!" "Yes, baby is very much better; in fact, quite out of danger, the doctor thinks. And you? have you not slept?" he asked, bending over her in tender solicitude; for she had fallen back on her pillow, and was sobbing as if her heart would break, weeping for joy as she had before wept with sorrow, remorse, and penitence. He lifted her from the bed, and sat down with her in his arms. "Don't cry so, daughter, dear," he said soothingly, softly caressing her hair and cheek: "it will make your head ache still more." "I can't help it, papa: I'm so glad, so very, very glad!" she sobbed; "so glad the dear baby will get well, and that I--I'm not a murderess. Papa, won't you thank God for me?" "Yes," he said with emotion,--"for you and myself and all of us." When they had risen from their knees, "Now I hope you can sleep a while, and afterward eat some supper," he said, lifting her, and gently laying her on the bed again. "O papa! I wish you could stay with me a little longer," she cried, clinging to his hand. "I cannot stay now, daughter," he said; "but I will come in again to bid you good-night." He leaned over her, and kissed her several times. She threw her arm round his neck, and drew him down closer. "Dear, dear papa!" she sobbed: "you are the best father in the world! and oh, I wish I was a better girl! Do you think I--I'm a curse to you now?" "I think--I believe you are going to be a very great blessing to me, my own darling," he answered in tones tremulous with emotion. "I fear I was hard and cruel in what I said when I came to you that first time last night." "No, papa, I deserved it every bit; but it 'most broke my heart, because I love you so. Oh, I do want to be a blessing to you, and I mean to try with all my might!" "My dear little girl, my own little daughter, that is all I can ask," he said, repeating his caresses. Then he covered her up with tender care, and left her, weary and exhausted with the mental suffering of the last two days, but with a heart singing for joy over his restored affection and the assurance of the baby's final recovery. She expected to stay awake till he came again, but in less than five minutes was fast asleep. The captain found Max and Gracie hovering near as he passed out into the hall. "Papa," they said, coming hastily forward, "may we go in to see Lulu now?" Max adding, "I was too angry with her at first to want to see her, but I've got over that now." Grace: "And mayn't she know now that we're going to keep you always at home?" taking his hand in both of hers, and looking up coaxingly into his face. "No, my dears, not to-night," he said: "she has cried herself sick--has a bad headache, and I want her to try to sleep it off." "Poor Lu! she must have been feeling awfully all this time," Max said. "I wish I hadn't been so very angry with her." "You look very happy--you two," their father said, smiling down at them. "So do you, sir," returned Max; "and I'm so glad, for you've been looking heart-broken ever since you came home." "Pretty much as I have felt," he sighed, patting Gracie's cheek as he spoke. "We are just as happy as we can be, papa," she said; "only I"-- "Well?" he said inquiringly as she paused, leaving her sentence unfinished. "I'm just hungry to sit on your knee a little while; but," ruefully, "I s'pose you haven't time." "Come into the nursery with me, and you shall sit there as long as you like, and are willing to keep perfectly quiet, so as not to disturb baby." "Oh! thank you, papa," she returned joyously, slipping her hand into his. "I'll be as quiet as a mouse." "I hope my turn will come to-morrow," remarked Max. "I've a hundred questions I want to ask." "As many as you like, my boy, when I have time to listen; though I don't promise to answer them all to your entire satisfaction," his father replied, as he passed on into the nursery, taking Grace with him. Max went down-stairs, where he found Evelyn Leland sitting alone in one of the parlors, waiting till her aunt Elsie should be ready to go back to Fairview. "Max," she said, as he came in, and took a seat at her side, "you have just the nicest kind of a father!" "Yes, that's so!" he returned heartily: "there couldn't be a better one." "I wish he would let me see Lu," Evelyn went on: "I was in hopes he would after the doctor had told him the baby was sure to get well." "I think he would, but that Lu has cried herself sick, and he wants her to sleep off her headache. He refused to let Gracie and me in for that reason." "Poor thing!" Evelyn exclaimed, tears springing to her eyes. "I should think it must have been almost enough to set her crazy. But how happy she will be when she hears that your father isn't going away again, and means to keep her at home with him." "Yes, indeed; she'll go wild with joy; it's what all three of us have wanted to have happen more than any thing else we could think of. "I've often envied boys that could live at home with their fathers; though," he added with a happy laugh, "I've said to myself many a time, that mine was enough nicer than theirs to make up for having to do without him so much of the time; at least, I'd never have been willing to swap fathers with one of 'em. No, indeed!" "Of course not," said Evelyn. "And I'm so delighted that Lu and I are not to be separated! I can hardly wait to talk with her about it, and the good times we'll have together." A nap and a nice supper had refreshed Lulu a good deal; but she felt weak and languid, and was lying on the bed again when her father returned to her room. She looked up at him wistfully as he came and stood beside her, then her eyes filled with tears. "What is it?" he asked, lifting her from the bed, seating himself, and drawing her into his arms: "what is your petition? for I read in your eyes that you have one to make." "Papa, you won't send me away--very--soon, will you?" she pleaded in tremulous tones, her arm round his neck, her face hidden on his shoulder. "Not till I go myself; then I shall take you with me." "To a boarding-school?" she faltered. "No: I'm going to put you in a private family." Her face was still hidden, and she did not see the smile in his eyes. "What kind of people are they, papa?" she asked with a deep-drawn sigh. "Very nice people, I think: the wife and mother is a very lovely woman, and the four children--a boy and three girls--are, I presume, neither better nor worse than my own four. The gentleman, who will teach you himself, along with the others, and have the particular care and oversight of you, is perhaps rather stern and severe with any one who ventures to disobey his orders; but I am quite certain, that, if you are good and obedient, he will be very kind and indulgent, possibly a trifle more indulgent than he ought to be." Lulu began to cry again. "I don't like men-teachers!" she sobbed. "I don't like a man to have any thing to do with me. Please, please don't send me there, papa!" "You want me to relent, and let you stay on here if they will have you?" "No, no, papa! I don't want to stay here! I don't want to see anybody here again, except Max and Gracie; because I'm so ashamed of--of what I've done. I couldn't look any of them in the face, for I know they must despise me." "I am sure you are mistaken in that, my child," he said gravely. "But what is it you do desire?" "To be with you, papa. Oh, if I could only go with you!" "And leave Max and Gracie?" "I'll have to leave them, anyhow, if you take me away from here; and, though I love them very much, I love you a great deal better." "I'm afraid you would have a doleful time on shipboard, with no young companions, nobody to see or speak to but your father and the other officers." "I wouldn't care for that, or any thing, if I could only be with you. Papa, you don't _know_ how I love you!" "Then, I'll take you with me when I leave here; and you need never live away from me any more, unless you choose." "Papa," she cried, lifting her head to look up into his face, with glad, astonished eyes, "do you really mean it? _May_ I go with you?" He held her close, with a joyous laugh. "Why, I understood you to say, a moment since, that you didn't want to be in the care of a man,--_any_ man." "But you know I didn't mean you, papa." "But I am the gentleman I spoke of a little while ago, as the one in whose care I intended to put you." "Papa," she said, with a bewildered look, "I don't understand." Then he told her; and she was, as Max had foreseen, almost wild with delight. "Oh!" she cried, "how nice, _nice_ it will be to have a home of our very own, and our father with us all the time! Papa, I think I sha'n't sleep a wink to-night, I'm so glad." "I trust it will not have that effect," he said, "I hesitated a little about telling you to-night, lest it might interfere with your rest; but you seemed so unhappy about your future prospects, that I felt I must relieve you of the fear of being sent away among strangers." "You are so very good and kind to me, papa," she returned gratefully. "Where is our dear home to be?" "I don't know, yet," he said. "I have not had time to look about in search of house or land; but I hope to be able to buy or build a house somewhere in this region, as near Ion as a pleasant location can be found." "I hope you'll find a house ready built, papa," she said. "I shouldn't know how to wait for one to be built." "Not if, by waiting, we should, in the end, have a much nicer, pleasanter one?" She considered a moment. "Couldn't we rent a house to live in while we get our own built?" "I think that plan might answer quite well," he said with a smile. "I had no idea you were such a business woman. Probably that is what we will do, for I am as anxious to get to housekeeping as even you can be." "But, papa," she exclaimed, with a look as if struck by a sudden and not very pleasant thought, "may I--will you be vexed if I ask you something?" "Suppose you find out by asking?" "I--I hope you won't think it's impertinence, papa, I don't mean it for that," she said with hesitation, hanging her head, and blushing; "but--but--I hope it isn't mamma Vi's money we're to live on?" He put his hand under her chin, and lifted her face, so that he could look down into her eyes; and she drew a long breath of relief as she perceived that he was smiling at her. "No," he said. "You come honestly by your pride of independence. I would no more live on mamma Vi's money than you would." "Oh, I'm so glad! But--then, how can you do without your pay, papa?" "Because my heavenly Father has prospered me, and given me money enough of my own (or, rather, lent it to me; for all we have belongs to him, and is only lent to us for a time) to provide all that is necessary for my family, and educate my children. "Now we have had a long talk, which has, I trust, made my dear little girl much happier; and it is time for you to go to your bed for the night." "I don't like to have you leave me," she said, clinging about his neck; "but you were very kind to stay so long. Won't you come soon in the morning?" "You are not a prisoner any longer," he said, caressing her: "you are free to leave this room, and go where you choose about the house and grounds to-morrow." "But I don't want to. O papa! I can't face them! Mayn't I stay in my room till you are ready to take me to our own home?" "You will have to face them sometime," he said; "but we will see what can be done about it. Would you like to see Max and Gracie to-night?" "Gracie, ever so much; but Max--I--I don't know how he feels toward me, papa." "Very kindly. He has been asking permission to come in to see you; and Gracie has pleaded quite hard for it, and to have you forgiven, and told the good news." "Gracie always is so dear and kind," she said tremulously; "and Maxie isn't often cross with me. Yes, papa, I should like to see them both." "Your friend Evelyn was here this afternoon, asking permission to come in to see you, but is gone now. You may see her to-morrow, if you want to. Ah! I hear your brother and sister in the hall." He opened the door, and called to them. They came bounding in, so full of delight over the pleasant prospect opening before them, as hardly to remember that Lulu had been in such dreadful disgrace. "O Lu! has papa told you the good news?" they cried. "Yes." "And aren't you glad?" "Yes; glad as glad can be. But, oh, I wish the home was ready to go into to-night!" Her father laughed. "I think you were born in a hurry, Lulu," he said. "You are never willing to wait a minute for any thing. "Well, I suppose you children would prefer to be left to yourselves for a while; so I will leave you. You may talk fifteen minutes together, but no longer; as it is your bedtime now, Gracie's at least." "O papa! don't go!" they all exclaimed in a breath. "Please stay with us: we'd rather have you, a great deal rather!" He could not resist their entreaties, so sat down, and drew his two little girls into his arms, while Max stationed himself close at his side. "My dear children," he said, "you can hardly be happier in the prospect before us than your father is." "Is mamma Vi glad?" asked Lulu. "Yes; quite as much rejoiced, I think, as any of the rest of us." "But doesn't she want me sent away to school or somewhere?" with a wistful, anxious gaze into his face. "Is she willing to have me in the new home, papa?" "Yes, daughter, more than willing: she wants you to be under your father's constant care and watchfulness, hoping that so he may succeed in teaching you to control your temper." "She's very good and forgiving," was Lulu's comment in a low and not unmoved tone. "Papa, when will you begin to look for the new home?" asked Grace, affectionately stroking his cheek and whiskers with her small white hand. "I have been looking at advertisements," he said; "and, now that baby is out of danger, I shall begin the search in earnest." "Can we afford a big house, and handsome furniture, papa?" queried Lulu. "And to keep carriage and riding horses?" asked Max. "I hope my children have not been so thoroughly spoiled by living in the midst of wealth and luxury, that they could not content themselves with a moderately large house, and plain furniture?" he said gravely. "I'd rather live that way with you, than have all the fine things, and you not with us, dear papa," Lulu said, putting her arm round his neck, and laying her cheek to his. "I too." "And I," said Max and Grace. "And I," he responded, smiling affectionately upon them, "would prefer such a home with my children about me, to earth's grandest palace without them. Millions of money could not buy one of my treasures!" "Not me, papa?" whispered Lulu tremulously, with her lips close to his ear. "No, dear child, not even you," he answered, pressing her closer to his side. "You are no less dear than the others." "I deserve to be," she said with tears in her voice. "It would be just and right, papa, if you did not love me half so well as any of your other children." She spoke aloud this time, as her father had. "We all have our faults, Lu," remarked Max, "but papa loves us in spite of them." "'God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us,'" quoted the captain. "If God so loved me, while yet his enemy, a rebel against his rightful authority, I may well love my own children in spite of all their faults, even were those faults more and greater by far than they are." "Then, papa, I think we should love you well enough to try very hard to get rid of them," returned Max. "And the wonderful love of God for us should constrain us to hate and forsake all sin," said his father. "The Bible bids us to 'be followers of God as dear children.' And oh, how we should hate sin when we remember that it crucified our Lord!" There was a momentary silence: then the children began talking joyfully again of the new home in prospect for them, and their hopes and wishes in regard to it. Their father entered heartily into their pleasure, and encouraged them to express themselves freely, until the clock, striking nine, reminded him that more than the allotted time for the interview had passed. Then he bade them say good-night, and go to their beds, promising that they should have other opportunities for saying all they wished on the subject. CHAPTER XVI. "'Tis easier for the generous to forgive Than for offence to ask it." In passing through the hall on his way from Lulu's room to the nursery, Capt. Raymond met "grandma Elsie." She stopped him, and asked, in a tone of kindly concern, if Lulu was ill, adding, that something she had accidentally overheard him saying to the doctor had made her fear the child was not well. "Thank you, mother," he said: "you are very kind to take any interest in Lulu after what has occurred. No, she is not quite well: the mental distress of the last two days has been very great, and has exhausted her physically. It could not, of course, be otherwise, unless she were quite heartless. She is full of remorse for her passion and its consequences, and my only consolation is the hope that this terrible lesson may prove a lasting one to her." "I hope so, indeed," Elsie said, with emotion. "Yes, she must have suffered greatly; for she is a warm-hearted, affectionate child, and would not, I am sure, have intentionally done her baby sister an injury." "No, it was not intentional; yet, as the result of allowing herself to get into a passion, she is responsible for it, as she feels and acknowledges. "And so deeply ashamed is she, that she knows not how to face the family, or any one of them, and therefore entreats me to allow her to seclude herself in her own room till I can take her to the home I hope to make for my wife and children ere long." "Poor child!" sighed Elsie. "Tell her, Levis, that she need not shrink from us as if we were not sinners, as well as herself. Shall I go in to-morrow morning, and have a talk with her before breakfast?" "It will be a great kindness," he said, flushing with pleasure, "and make it much easier for her to show herself afterwards at the table. But I ought to ask if you are willing to see her there in her accustomed seat?" "I shall be glad to do so," Elsie answered, with earnest kindliness of look and tone. "She was not banished by any edict of mine or papa's." "No: I forbade her to leave her room while the baby was in a critical condition. Yet I think she had no disposition to leave it,--shame and remorse causing a desire to hide herself from everybody." "It strikes me as a hopeful sign," Elsie said; "and I do not despair of one day seeing Lulu a noble woman, the joy and pride of her father's heart." She held out her hand as she spoke. The captain grasped it warmly. "Thank you, mother, for those kind and hopeful words," he said with emotion. "For the last year or two, she has been alternately my joy and my despair; and I am resolved to leave no effort untried to rescue her from the dominion of her fierce temper. "The task would doubtless have been far easier could I have undertaken it years ago, in her early infancy. But I trust it is not yet too late to accomplish it, with the help and the wisdom I may have in answer to prayer. "No, I am sure it is by no means a hopeless undertaking, looking where you do for needed strength and wisdom; and I rejoice almost as much for Lulu's sake as for Vi's, that you have now come among us to stay. I will try to see her in the morning, and do what I can to make it easy for her to join the family circle again. "And now good-night. I must not keep you longer from the wife who grudges every moment that you are absent from her side," she concluded, with a smile as sweet and beautiful as that of her girlhood's days. While the captain and his mother-in-law held this little conversation in the upper hall, Zoe and Rosie were promenading the veranda, arm in arm. They had been talking of Violet and her baby, rejoicing together over its improved condition. "How dreadful the last two days have been to poor Vi!" exclaimed Rosie, "even in spite of the home-coming of her husband, which has always before this made her so happy. In fact, it has been a dreadful time to all of us; and nobody to blame except that bad-tempered Lulu. "At least, so _I_ think," she added, conscience giving her a twinge; "though mamma says I ought to have let her have my pony, and taken my own ride later in the day, if I wanted one." "It would have been more polite and unselfish, wouldn't it?" queried Zoe, in a teasing tone. "I dare say it is what mamma herself would have done under the same circumstances." "I have no doubt of that," returned Rosie; "but mamma and I are two very different people. I can never hope to be as good and unselfish as she is, and always has been so far as I can learn." "Ah! but there's nothing like trying," laughed Zoe. "Suppose you tell Lulu that, advising her to undertake the task of controlling her temper." "She was quite a good while without an outbreak," said Zoe; "and really, Rosie, that dog of yours is extremely trying at times." "It's quite trying to me, that I've had to send him away, and can't have him about any more till Lulu's gone. I'll be sorry to have Vi leave Ion, but rejoiced to be rid of Lulu. I wonder if the captain still intends to send her away? I sincerely hope so, for Vi's sake. Poor little Elsie may be killed outright the next time Lulu has an opportunity to vent her spite upon her." "O Rosie! how can you talk so?" exclaimed Zoe. "haven't you heard that Lulu says she thought it was your dog she was kicking at? and that she has been really sick with distress about the baby? As to sending her away to be trained and taught by strangers--her father has no idea of doing it: in fact,--so Vi told Ned,--the conviction that Lulu needed his constant oversight and control had a great deal to do in leading him to resign from the service and come home to live." "Then, he's a very good father,--a great deal better one than she deserves. But I'm sorry for Vi and her baby." "You needn't be: surely the captain should be able to protect them from Lulu," laughed Zoe. Rosie laughed too, remarked that it must be getting late; and they went into the house. * * * * * "I do wish papa would come for me. I can't bear to go down alone to breakfast," Lulu was saying to herself the next morning, when a light step in the hall without caught her ear: then there was a tap at the door; and, opening it, she found the lady of the house standing on the threshold. "Good-morning, my child," she said in pleasant, cheery tones, and smiling sweetly as she spoke; then, bending clown, she gave the little girl a kiss. "Good-morning, grandma Elsie," murmured Lulu, blushing deeply, and casting down her eyes: "you are very kind to come to see me, and to kiss me too, when I have been so bad. Please take a chair," she added, drawing one forward. "Thank you, dear; but I would rather sit on the sofa yonder, with you by my side," Elsie said, taking Lulu's hand, and leading her to it, then, when they had seated themselves, putting the other arm about the child's waist, and drawing her close to her side. "I feel that I have been neglecting you," she went on; "but my thoughts have been much taken up with other things, and"-- "O grandma Elsie!" cried Lulu, bursting into tears. "I didn't deserve that you should show me the least kindness, or think of me at all except as a very bad, disagreeable girl. I should think you'd want to turn me out of your house, and say I should never come into it again." "No, dear child, I have no such feeling toward you: if I had, should I not be very much like that wicked servant to whom his lord had forgiven a debt of ten thousand talents, yet who refused to have compassion on his fellow-servant who owed him a hundred pence? I should, indeed; for my sins against God have been far greater, and more heinous, than yours against me or mine." "But you were always such a good child when you were a little girl, and I am such a bad one." "No, my dear; that is quite a mistake; I was not always good as a child, and I am very far from being perfect as a woman." "You seem so to me, grandma Elsie: I never know of your doing and saying any thing the least bit wrong." "But you, my child, see only the outward appearance, while God looks at the heart; and he knows that, though I am truly his servant, trying earnestly to do his will, I fall lamentably short of it." "Grandma Elsie, I didn't know it was the baby: I didn't mean to hurt her." "No, my dear, I know you didn't." "But papa said he must punish me all the same, because it was being in a passion that made me do it. Grandma Elsie, if you had such a dreadful temper as mine, wouldn't you be discouraged about ever conquering it?" "No, my child, not while I could find such words as these in the Bible: 'O Israel, thou hast destroyed thyself: but in Me is thine help.' 'Thou shalt call his name Jesus; for he shall save his people from their sins.' 'He is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him.' 'God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.'" "'His people,'" repeated Lulu; then with a sigh, "But I am not one of them, grandma Elsie; so those promises are not for me." "He invites you to become one of his people, and then they will be for you. "'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden,' Jesus says, 'and I will give you rest.' "You feel yourself heavy laden with that unconquerable temper, do you not?" "Yes, ma'am." "Then, that invitation is for you; and it will not be unconquerable with the Lord to help you. "'The God of Israel is he that giveth strength and power unto his people.' 'And they that stumbled are girded with strength.' You cannot doubt that you are included in the invitation, for it is, 'Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.' And the time to come is now: 'Now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation.'" The breakfast-bell rang at that moment; and grandma Elsie, rising, took Lulu's hand, saying, "Come, my dear, you need not shrink from joining us at the table: no one will be disposed to treat you unkindly." As she spoke, the door opened, and Capt. Raymond and Violet came in. They exchanged morning greetings with their mother; while Lulu, with eyes cast down, and cheeks aflame, half shrank behind her, ashamed and afraid to meet Violet's gaze. But Violet bent down and kissed her affectionately, saying in a kindly tone, "I hope you are feeling better than you did yesterday?" "O mamma Vi!" Lulu cried, throwing her arm round her young step-mother's neck, and bursting into tears, "is baby still getting better? and will you forgive me? I am, oh, so sorry!" "Yes, dear, baby is improving fast; and it is all forgiven, so far as I am concerned," was the gentle reply. Then the captain kissed his little girl good-morning, and they all went down to the breakfast-room together. The worst was over to Lulu in having seen Violet, yet it was quite an ordeal to her to face the rest of the large family; but each one spoke pleasantly to her. Rosie alone bestowed so much an unkind look upon her, and that was wasted; for Lulu, expecting it from that quarter more than any other, constantly averted her gaze from Rosie, keeping her eyes down, or turned in another direction. Dr. Conly had joined them as they sat down, and presently he addressed the captain:-- "I hear, Raymond, that you would like to buy in this neighborhood." "Yes, if I can find a suitable place,--one that will satisfy my wife as well as myself," the captain answered with a smiling glance at Violet. "Well, Vi, how would Woodburn answer, so far as you are concerned?" queried Arthur. "Woodburn! is it for sale?" she cried delightedly. "O Levis!" turning to her husband, "it is a lovely old place! A visit there was always a great treat to me as a child." "And it is really for sale?" exclaimed several voices in chorus, all eyes turning inquiringly upon Dr. Conly. "Yes, so Miss Elliott told me yesterday," replied Arthur. "She was slightly indisposed, and sent for me, and, while telling of her ailments, remarked that she was very lonely since her sister Margaret had married and gone, leaving her sole occupant--not taking servants into account--of that large house, with its extensive grounds. So she had at last decided, she said, to comply with her sister's urgent request to sell the place, and take up her abode with them. "She had thought of advertising, and asked my advice about it. Of course, I thought at once of you and Vi, captain, told her I knew of a gentleman who might like to become a purchaser, and that I would promise her a call from him to-day to look at the place. Will you redeem my promise?" "Gladly," responded the captain, "especially as Vi expresses so strong a liking for the place. Will you go with me, my dear?" "I hardly like to leave my baby yet," she answered dubiously. "But if you should feel entirely satisfied with the house, the grounds, and the price asked for them, you could not please me better than by making the purchase." "There! if Miss Elliott only knew it, she might consider the estate as good as sold," remarked Zoe. "If she is willing to take a reasonable price, I presume she might," said Arthur. "Captain, I will go there directly from here: will you drive over with me, and take a look at the place?" "Yes, thank you; and have a talk with the lady, if you will give me an introduction." Max and Lulu, sitting side by side at the table, exchanged glances,--Lulu's full of delight, Max's only interested. He shook his head in response to her's. "What do you mean? wouldn't you like it?" she asked in an undertone. "Yes, indeed! but I'm pretty sure papa couldn't afford such a place as that: it must be worth a good many thousands." Lulu's look lost much of its brightness; still, she did not quite give up hope, as the conversation went on among their elders, Woodburn and the Elliotts continuing to be the theme. "Will it be near enough to Ion?" Capt. Raymond asked, addressing Violet more particularly. "What is the distance?" "Something over a mile, they call it," said Mr. Dinsmore. "That is as near as we can expect to be, I suppose," said Violet. "And with carriages and horses, bicycles, tricycles, and telephones, we may feel ourselves very near neighbors indeed," remarked Edward. "When the weather is too inclement for mamma or Vi to venture out, they can talk together by the hour through the telephone, if they wish." "And it won't often be too inclement to go back and forth," said Zoe; "almost always good enough for a close carriage, if for nothing else." "We are talking as if the place were already secured," remarked Violet, with a smiling glance at her husband. "I think you may feel pretty sure of it if you want it, love; unless Miss Elliott should change her mind about selling," he responded, in a tone too low to reach any ear but hers. She gave him a bright, glad look, that quite settled the matter so far as he was concerned; he would, if necessary, give even an exorbitant price for the place, to please her. "Have you never seen Woodburn, captain?" asked Mrs. Dinsmore. "I have some recollection of driving past it," he replied meditatively; "but--is not the house nearly concealed from view from the road, by a thick growth of trees and shrubbery?" "Yes: you will thin them out a little, I hope, for the mansion is well worth looking at; it is a very aristocratic-looking dwelling,--large, substantial, and handsome architecturally." "Papa, are you going to buy it?" asked Grace. "It is too soon to answer that question, daughter," he said pleasantly; and Max and Lulu again exchanged glances, which said this time, "Maybe he will, after all." Both ardently wished their father would propose taking them along; he did not: but when Dr. Conly said, with a kindly glance at Grace, "There will be room in my carriage for a little friend of mine, if papa is willing to let her go with us," he at once said,-- "Certainly, Gracie may go, if she will be ready in season, and not keep the doctor waiting." "Indeed I will, papa," she cried delightedly, and ran away to don hat and coat; for the meal was concluded, and everybody leaving the table. Lulu followed her father, till, in the hall, she found an opportunity to speak to him without being overheard. "Papa," she asked, "what am I to do with myself to-day?" "Stay in your room, and learn your lessons, beginning just where you left off the other day. You will recite to me after I come back; then we will consider what you shall do for the rest of the day." "Yes, sir: may I see Evelyn when she comes?" "If she chooses to go to you in your room." "Must I stay in my room all the time?" she asked dejectedly. "While I am away. I will take you out after I return." Then, noticing her downcast look, "You shall have more liberty when we get into our own home," he said kindly. At that she looked up with a bright, glad smile. "Papa, it will be _so nice_!" Max had drawn near. "Papa," he said, "won't you let Lu take a walk with me? Mayn't we run over to Fairview, and bring Evelyn back with us? I know she'd be glad to have company coming over to school." "Yes, you may go, both of you, if you like. But, Lulu, when you get home, go at once to your room: don't stop in the grounds or on the veranda." "I won't, papa," she said: "I'll go straight to my room, and, oh, thank you for letting me go!" CHAPTER XVII. "Home, sweet home!" "How large is the estate, doctor?" asked Capt. Raymond, as they were on their way to Woodburn. "I cannot say exactly," replied Arthur. "There is a bit of woodland comprising several acres; and lawn, gardens, and shrubbery cover several more. I believe that is all." "About as much as I care for," returned the captain. "The estate was formerly very large," Arthur went on,--"some thousands of acres,--and the family was a very wealthy one; but, like many others, they lost heavily by the war, and were compelled to part with one portion of the estate after another, till little more than the homestead was left; and now it seems that it, too, must go." "Are they so reduced?" the captain asked in a tone of deep sympathy. "I think Miss Elliott does not feel compelled to part with it, and would still live on there, if it were not for the loneliness of the situation, and a natural desire to be with her sister, the only remaining member of their once large family, besides herself." "Yes, yes: I see. I understand, and shall feel much more comfortable in buying it, than if I knew that poverty compelled her to part with it against her will." "That shows your kindness of heart," Arthur said, turning toward his friend with an appreciative smile. The next moment they had entered the Woodburn grounds, and Capt. Raymond and Grace were glancing from side to side in a very interested manner. "The place is a good deal run down," remarked Arthur. "They have not had the means to keep it up, I suppose; but if it comes into your hands, captain, you can soon set matters right in regard to that; and I, for one, shall greatly enjoy seeing the improvement." "And I making it," was the cheery rejoinder; "more, I think, than taking possession of a place that was too perfect to be improved." "Papa, I'd just love to have this for our home!" cried Gracie, flushing with pleasure as she glanced here and there, and then up into his face with an eager, questioning look, "Won't you buy it, papa?" coaxingly. "It is still too soon for that question, my child," he said, smiling down at her. "But I hope to be able to answer it before very long." They had reached the house, and were presently ushered into the presence of its owner. She was desirous to sell, the captain to buy,--willing also to give not only a fair, but a liberal, price; so it took but a short time for them to come to an agreement. He bought the land, house, furniture, every thing just as it stood; was promised possession in two weeks, and accorded the privilege of at once beginning any repairs or alterations he might deem desirable. Before making the agreement, he had inspected the whole house. He found it large, conveniently arranged, and in very tolerable repair. The furniture had evidently been very handsome in its day, and would do quite well, he thought, to begin with: much of it might, with re-upholstering and varnishing, please Violet as well as any that could be bought elsewhere. He was eager to bring her to look at it, the house and the grounds. These last delighted both himself and Grace, although lawn and gardens were far from being as trim and neat as those of Ion and Fairview: there was an air of neglect about the whole place, but that could soon be remedied. The bit of woodland was beautiful; and through it, and across lawn and gardens, ran a little stream of clear, sparkling water,--a pretty feature in the landscape, without being deep enough to be dangerous to the little ones. Grace went everywhere with her father, up-stairs and down, indoors and out, quietly looking and listening, but seldom speaking, unless addressed. Once or twice she said, in a low aside, "Papa, I'd like to live here, if you can 'ford to buy it. "Papa, this is such a pretty room, and the view from that window is so nice!" He would reply only by a kind smile, or a word or two of assent. She did not understand all the talk in the library after they had finished their round, and when they left was still in some doubt as to her father's intentions. "Papa," she asked eagerly, as soon as they were fairly on their homeward way, "have you bought it?" "We have come to an agreement," he answered. "Then, is it ours?" "It will be, as soon as I have got the deed, and handed over the money." "Oh, I'm so glad!" she cried, clapping her hands with delight. "And we're to be 'lowed to go there to stay in two weeks, aren't we? I thought that was what Miss Elliott said." "Yes: can you get all your possessions packed up by that time?" "Yes, indeed, papa: one day would be enough time for that." "And if you should happen to forget one of the dollies, you could go back for her," remarked the doctor. "Or replace it with a new one," said the captain. "But I love all my dollies, papa," she returned, with a wistful look up into his face: "they're my children, you know. Would you be satisfied with another new little girl 'stead of me?" "No, indeed!" he replied, bending down to kiss her cheek. "If I had another new little girl given me, I should want to hold fast to my little Gracie too; and you shall keep all your dollies as long as you please." Lulu and Max started on their walk to Fairview about the same time that Dr. Conly drove away with their father and Grace. Their talk was principally of the new home in prospect. Lulu had only driven past Woodburn several times; but Max had been taken there once by Dr. Conly, with whom he was almost as great a favorite as his sister Grace, and had seen not only the grounds, but one or two rooms of the mansion. Lulu was eager to hear all he had to tell about the place, and he not at all averse to describing what he had seen. So interested were they in the topic, that they reached the entrance to the Fairview grounds almost ere they were aware of it. "Oh, we're here!" exclaimed Lulu, in some surprise. "Max, I'll stay outside, while you go up to the house, for--I--I can't bear to see aunt Elsie and the others." Her eyes were downcast, her cheeks burning with blushes as she spoke. "But you may as well get it over," said Max: "you'll have to see them all sometime." "You don't care a bit, _do_ you?" she said, in a hurt tone. "Yes, I do; I'm right sorry for you; but I can't help your having to meet them sooner or later." "But I'm afraid I won't be welcome to aunt Elsie. What if she should tell me to go out of the house, she didn't want such a bad girl there?" "She isn't that kind of person," said Max. "But here comes Eva," as the little girl came tripping down the avenue to meet them. She shook hands with Max, then threw her arms round Lulu, and kissed her. "O Eva! I'm 'most ashamed to look at you," murmured Lulu, half averting her blushing face. "I shouldn't think you'd want me for your friend any more." "I do, though: I love you dearly, and should have gone to your room yesterday if your papa had not refused to allow it," responded Evelyn, repeating her caress. "Come in and rest, both of you: aunt Elsie told me to ask you." "I'm not sure that papa meant to give me permission to go into the house," said Lulu, hanging back. "No,--come to think of it,--I don't believe he did," said Max. "Besides, it must be pretty near school-time; so if you are ready, Eva, and want to walk, we'll start back directly, and be glad to take you with us." "Yes, I prefer to walk," she said: "I'll be ready in five minutes, and glad to have your company." Mrs. Leland was on the veranda. "Won't they come in?" she asked of Evelyn, as the child came hurrying up the steps. "No, auntie: Lu is not quite certain that her papa gave her permission." "Then, I'll go to them." Lulu's eyes were on the ground, her cheeks hot with blushes, as Mrs. Leland drew near the rustic bench on which she and Max had seated themselves. "Good-morning, my dears: I am sorry you cannot come in and sit a while," was her pleasant greeting. Then she shook hands with Max and kissed Lulu. "I heard you were not well yesterday, Lulu: I hope you feel quite so this morning?" "Yes, ma'am, thank you." "I heard from Ion before breakfast, and am delighted that baby is still improving, as, no doubt, you are, both of you." "Yes, indeed!" exclaimed Max. "And I am gladder than words can tell," said Lulu, a tear rolling quickly down her cheek. "Aunt Elsie, I do love her! I think she is the nicest, sweetest baby I ever saw." "Yes, my dear; and I have no doubt you intend to be the best of sisters to her." "Oh, I do! I can't ever make up to her for--for hurting her so, though I did not mean to do it." "Of course not: you couldn't be so cruel toward any baby, but especially your own sweet little sister," was the gentle, sweet-toned reply. "I am rejoiced, especially for you, my dears, and for your mamma, that your father is going to settle down here; for I know it will add greatly to your happiness, he is such a good husband and father, and you will so enjoy having a home of your own." "Yes, aunt Elsie: we think it is the best thing that could have happened to us," replied Max. Evelyn joined them at that moment; so they said good-by, and started on their way back to Ion. "Eva," said Max, "have you heard about Woodburn?" "No; what about it?" "It's for sale, and perhaps papa will buy it." "Oh, how nice that would be!" she exclaimed. "I've been there with aunt Elsie, and it's just a lovely place! It has a rather neglected look now; but it wouldn't take long to remedy that, and then it would be quite as handsome as Ion or Fairview, or any other place about here. Aren't you happy, Lu?" "I shall be if papa gets it; but the best thing of all is, that he is to be with us all the time." "Yes, of course," sighed Evelyn, thinking of the happy days when she had her father with her. "Lu," she said presently, "I know you are not to be sent away; but where are you to go to school?" "To papa," replied Lulu, with a glad look and smile. Evelyn sighed again. "The only part I regret," she remarked, "is that we have to give up being together in our studies,--you and I. Unless," she added the next moment, as if struck by a sudden thought, "your father would take me as a pupil too. But I wouldn't dare to ask it." "I would," said Max: "I dare ask papa almost any thing,--unless it was leave to do something wrong,--and I'll undertake to sound him on the subject." "I'm not afraid to ask him, either," said Lulu; "and he's so kind, I do believe he'll say yes, or at least that he'll do it if everybody else is agreed. Have you seen him, Eva?" "Yes; and he had such a kind, fatherly manner toward me, that I fell in love with him at once. I believe I'd be glad to have him adopt me if he was badly in want of another daughter about my age," she added, with a merry look and smile. "I believe he'd be the gainer if he could swap me off for you," said Lulu, catching her friend's tone; "but I'm very happy in feeling quite sure he would rather have me, bad as I am, just because I am his own." "That makes all the difference in the world," said Evelyn; "and perhaps, on becoming acquainted with my faults, he might think them worse than yours." It was not quite school-time when they reached Ion, and Evelyn proposed that they should spend the few intervening minutes in the grounds. "I'd like to, ever so much," said Lulu; "but papa bade me go directly to my own room on getting home. So good-by," and she moved on resolutely in the direction of the house. "Good-by. I'll see you again when school is out, if I can," Evelyn called after her. Lulu's thoughts were so full of other things, she found great difficulty in fixing them upon her lessons. But saying to herself that it would be much too bad to fail in her first recitations to her father, she exerted her strong will to the utmost, and succeeded. She was quite ready for him when, at length, he came in. But looking up eagerly from her book, "Papa," she asked, "have you, oh! have you, bought it?" "Bought what?" he asked smilingly, as he sat down and drew her to his side. "O papa! you know! Woodburn, I mean." "I think I have secured it," he said, "and that it will make a very delightful home for us all." "Oh, I am so glad!" she cried, throwing her arms round his neck, and giving him a vigorous hug. "When can we move in, papa?" "In about two weeks, probably: can you stand having to wait for that length of time?" "I s'pose I'll have to," she said, laughing a little ruefully. "It'll help very much that I'll have you here, and see you every day. Are you going to keep me shut up in this room all the time?" "No: did I not tell you, you were no longer a prisoner?" "Oh, yes, sir! but I--I don't care very much to--to be with Rosie and the rest." "I prefer that you should not be, except when I am present," he returned gravely. "I want to keep you with me as much as possible; and would rather have you alone, or with Evelyn, Max, and Gracie only, when I am not with you." "I like that best, too, papa," she replied humbly; "for I can't trust myself not to get into a passion with Rosie and her dog, and I suppose you can't trust me either." "Not yet, daughter," he said gently; "but I hope the time will come when I can. Now we will attend to the lessons." When the recitations were finished, "Papa," she said, with an affectionate, admiring look up into his face, "I think you are a _very_ nice teacher: you make every thing so clear and plain, and so interesting. I'm so glad you're the gentleman who is to have charge of me," she added with a happy laugh. "So am I," he said, caressing her. "I am very glad, very thankful, to be able to take charge of all my own children; and whatever I may lack in experience and ability as a teacher, I hope to make up in the deep interest I shall always feel in the welfare and progress of my pupils." She then told him of Evelyn's wish, concluding With, "Won't you, dear papa? I'd like it so much, and Eva is such a good girl you wouldn't have a bit of trouble managing her. She's just as different from me as possible." "Quite a recommendation; and if I were as sure of proving a competent teacher, I should not hesitate to grant your request. But it is a new business to me, and perhaps it would not be wise for me to undertake the tuition of more than my own three at present. However," he added, seeing her look of disappointment, "I will take the matter into consideration." "Oh, thank you, sir! Papa, I've just thought of two things I want to talk to you about." "Very well; let me hear them." "The first is about my being so naughty at Viamede," she went on, hanging her head, and blushing deeply; "in such a passion at Signor Foresti, and so obstinate and disobedient to grandpa Dinsmore." "I was very sorry to hear of it all," he said gravely: "but what about it?" "Don't you have to punish me for it?" she asked, half under her breath. "No: the punishment I gave you the other night settled all accounts up to that date." She breathed more freely. "Papa, would you have made me go back to that horrid man after he struck me?" "It is not worth while to consider that question at this late day. Now, what else?" he asked. "Papa, I spoiled one of those valuable books of engravings belonging to grandpa Dinsmore; no, I didn't exactly spoil it myself, but I took it out on the veranda without leave, and carelessly left it where Rosie's dog could get at it; and he scratched and gnawed and tore it, till it is almost ruined." "I shall replace it at once," he said. "I am sorry you were so careless, and particularly that you took the book out there without permission; but that was not half so bad as flying into a passion, even if you hurt nothing or no one but yourself." "But I did get into a passion, papa, at the dog and at Rosie," she acknowledged, in a frightened tone, and blushing more deeply than before. "I am deeply grieved to hear it," he said. "And won't you have to punish me for that, and for getting the book spoiled?" "No: didn't I tell you just now that all accounts were settled up to the other night?" "Papa, you're very, very kind," she said, putting her arm round his neck, and laying her head on his shoulder. "I am very glad, that, with all her faults, my dear little daughter is so truthful and so open with me," he said, smoothing her hair. "Papa, I'm ever so sorry you'll have to pay so much money to replace that book," she said. "But--you often give me some pocket-money, and--won't you please keep all you would give me till it counts up enough to pay for the book?" "It is a right feeling, a feeling that pleases me, which prompts you to make that request," he said in a kind tone, and pressing his lips to her cheek; "and probably another time I may let you pay for such a piece of carelessness, but you need not in this instance. I feel rich enough to spare the money quite easily for that and an increase in my children's weekly allowance. What is yours now?" "Fifty cents, papa." "Where is your purse?" She took it from her pocket, and put it into his hand. "Only five cents in it," he remarked, with a smile, when he had examined. Then, taking a handful of loose change from his pocket, he counted out four bright quarters and ten dimes, and poured them into her purse. "O papa! so much!" she cried delightedly, "I feel ever so rich!" He laughed at that. "Now," he said, "you shall have a dollar every week, unless I should have to withdraw it on account of some sort of bad behavior on your part. Max is to have the same; Gracie half a dollar till she is a little older: and you are all to keep an account of your spendings." He took from another pocket, three little blank-books. "One of these is for you: the others are for your brother and sister," he said. "See, there is a blank space for every day in the week; and, Whenever you lay out any money, you must write down in the proper place what it was that you bought, and how much it cost." "And show it to you, papa?" "Once in a while: probably, whenever I hand you your allowance, I shall look over your account for the week that is just past, and tell you what I think of the way you have laid out your money, in order to help you to learn to spend it judiciously." CHAPTER XVIII. "Fortune is merry, And in this mood will give us any thing." There was a sound of small, hurrying feet in the hall without, a tap at the door; and Max's voice asked, "May we come in?" "Yes," said his father; and instantly the door was thrown wide. Evelyn came in with a quiet, lady-like step, and Max and Grace more boisterously. The captain rose, shook hands with Eva, set her a chair, and sat down again, drawing Gracie to his arms, while Max stood at his side. "Oh! what are those for?" he asked, catching sight of the blank-books. "This is for you, this for Grace," the captain answered, bestowing them as he spoke, then went on to repeat substantially what he had just been saying to Lulu, and to replenish their purses as he had hers. They were both delighted, both grateful. Evelyn looked on, well pleased. "Now your allowance is just the same as mine, and I am so glad," she said to Lulu. "I have never kept an account; but I think it must be a good plan, and I mean to after this." "There is another thing, children," said the captain: "any money that we have, is only lent to us by our heavenly Father; and it is our duty to set aside a certain portion for giving to his cause." "How much, papa?" asked Max. "People have different ideas about that," was the reply. "In Old-Testament times, the rule was one-tenth of all; and I think most people should not give less now: many are able to give a great deal more. I hope each of you will be glad to give as much as that." He opened Lulu's Bible, lying on the table, and read aloud, "'He who soweth sparingly, shall reap also sparingly; and he who soweth bountifully, shall reap also bountifully. Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give; not grudgingly, or of necessity; for God loveth a cheerful giver.'" "I'll give a tenth of all," said Lulu. "I mean to buy a little purse on purpose to keep my tenth in, and I'll put two of these dimes in it. That will be the tenth of the two dollars you've given me, won't it, papa?" "Yes," he said. "And I'll do the same," said Max. "I too," added Gracie. "It is just what my papa taught me to do," remarked Evelyn modestly. "Would you children all like to take a drive with me this afternoon?" asked the captain. There was a simultaneous and joyful assent from his own three: then Evelyn said, "Thank you, sir. I should like it extremely, if I can get permission. Aunt Elsie expects me home to dinner; but I will go now to the telephone, and ask if I may stay and accept your invitation." "And while you are doing that, I will go to my wife, and try to persuade her to join our party," the captain said, leaving the room. Evelyn had no difficulty in gaining permission to stay at Ion for the rest of the day, or go anywhere Capt. Raymond might propose to take her; and he found but little difficulty in persuading Violet to accompany him in a drive that would take her from her baby for an hour or two, the little one being so much better that she did not fear to leave it in charge of her mother and the nurse, thinking it might die before her return. "The carriage will be at the door in ten or fifteen minutes after we leave the dinner-table," the captain told them all; and each one promised to be ready to start at once. The children all came down the stairs and out upon the veranda together, and only a little in advance of the captain and Violet. There was a simultaneous exclamation of surprise as they saw, not the Ion family carriage, but a new and very handsome one, with a pair of fine match-horses, which none of them had ever seen before, drawn up at the foot of the veranda-steps, while, a few feet beyond, a servant held the bridle of a beautiful, spirited pony, whose long mane, gracefully arched neck, and glossy coat, struck them all with admiration. The carriage-horses were no less handsome or spirited: they were tossing their manes, and pawing the ground, with impatience to be off. Violet turned a bright, inquiring look upon her husband, while all three of his children were asking in eager, excited tones, "Papa, papa, whose carriage and horses are these?" "Ours," he said, handing Violet to a seat in the vehicle; then, as he helped Evelyn in, "Max, my son, if you will ride that pony, there will be more room here for the rest of us." "O papa! may I?" cried the boy in tones of delight. "Did you hire it for me?" "No: I only bought it for you. Mount, and let me see how well you can manage him--how well you have improved your opportunities for learning to ride." Max needed no second invitation, but had vaulted into the saddle before his father was done speaking. "Now put him through his paces," was the next order. Max wheeled about, dashed down the avenue at a rapid gallop, turned, and came back at an easy canter; his father and sisters, Violet also, watching him in proud delight, he was so handsome, and sat his pony so well. "Ah! that will do," his father said when the lad was within easy hearing-distance: "these fellows," glancing at the horses attached to the carriage, "are getting too restless to stand any longer; so you may finish your exhibition at another time. I have seen enough to feel that you are quite equal to the management of your pony." "O papa! he's just splendid!" Max burst out, bending down to pat and stroke the neck of his steed; "and I can never thank you enough for such a gift." "Enjoy him, and use him kindly: that is all I ask," the captain said, entering the carriage, where he had already placed his two little girls. "Drive on, Scipio. Max, you may ride along-side." "I 'spect I know where we're going," remarked Grace gleefully, and with an arch smile up into her father's face, as she noticed the direction they were taking on turning out of the avenue into the high-road. "Do you?" he said. "Well, wait a little, and you will find out how good a guess you have made." "To Woodburn, papa?" queried Lulu eagerly. "Have patience, and you will see presently," he answered with a smile. "Mamma Vi, do you know?" she asked. "It is your father's secret," said Violet. "I should not presume to tell you when he declines doing so." "We shall know in a very few minutes, Lu," said Evelyn: "it is only a short drive to Woodburn." "I was thinking about that name," said Grace. "Papa, why do they call it Woodburn? There's woods,--do they burn them sometimes? They don't look as if they'd ever been burned." "I don't think they have," he said, "except such parts of them as dry twigs and fallen branches, that could be picked up from the ground, or now and then a tree that it was thought best to cut down, or that fell of itself. But you know, there is a pretty little brook running across the estate, and in Scotland such a stream is called a burn; so, having a wood and a burn, Woodburn is a very appropriate name." "Yes, papa, I think it is, and a pretty name too. Thank you for explaining it, and not laughing at my mistake." "Even papa doesn't know nearly every thing, little daughter," he said, stroking and patting the small hand she had laid on his knee, "so it would be quite out of place for him to laugh at you for asking a sensible question. We should never be ashamed to ask for information that we need. It is much wiser than to remain in ignorance for fear of being laughed at." "And her father always gives information so kindly and patiently," remarked Violet. "And I think he knows '_most_ every thing," said Grace. "Oh, I did guess right! for here we are at Woodburn." They drove and walked about the grounds, admiring, criticising, planning improvements; then called on Miss Elliott, and, with her readily accorded permission, went over the house. Violet and the captain selected a suite of rooms for their own occupation, and he decided which the children should use. A bedroom opening from their own was selected for Grace, the adjoining room beyond for Lulu; and another, into which both these latter opened, they were told should be their own little sitting-room. Besides these, a tiny apartment in a tower, communicating with Lulu's bedroom, was given to her. The sitting-room opened into the hall also, so that it was not necessary to pass through one bedroom to reach the other. They were all bright, cheerful rooms, with a pleasant outlook from every window: in the sitting-room there were French windows opening upon a balcony. The little girls were almost speechless with delight when told by their father that these four apartments were to be appropriated solely to their use. Lulu caught his hand, and kissed it, tears of mingled joy and penitence springing to her eyes. He smiled down at her, and laid his other hand tenderly on her head for an instant. Then turning to Max, "Now, my boy," he said, "we must settle where you are to lodge. Have you any choice?" "Is it to be more than one room for me, papa?" he asked, with an arch smile. "I believe boys don't usually fare quite so well as girls in such things." "My boy does," returned his father: "you shall have two or three rooms if you want them, and quite as well furnished as those of your sisters." "Then, if you please, papa, I'll take those over Lu's, and thank you very much. But as you have already given me several things that my sisters haven't got,--a gun, a watch, and that splendid pony,--I think it would be quite fair that they should have better and prettier furniture in their rooms than I in mine." "That makes no difference, Max," his father answered with a pleased laugh. "I should hardly want the girls to have guns, but watches and ponies they shall have by the time they are as old as you are now." At that the two little girls, standing near, exchanged glances of delight. They had been unselfishly glad for Max, and now they rejoiced each for herself and for the other. Though, in common with all the rest, deeply interested in the new home, Max was not sorry when his father and Violet decided that it was time to return to Ion; for he was eager to show his pony to grandma Elsie, Zoe, and Rosie, who had not yet seen it. "Papa, do you require me to keep along-side of the carriage?" he asked, as he remounted. "No: if you wish, you may act as our _avant-courier_," was the smiling reply. "I quite understand that you are in haste to display your new treasure." "Yes, sir: that was why I asked. Thank you, sir;" and away the lad flew, urging his pony to a rapid gallop. He reached Ion some minutes in advance of the carriage, found nearly all of the family who had remained at home on the veranda, and greatly enjoyed their exclamations of surprise and admiration at sight of his steed. As he drew rein at the foot of the steps, and lifted his hat to the ladies, Zoe and Rosie came hurriedly forward to get a nearer view. The first exclaimed,-- "What a beautiful pony! Where did he come from, Max?" Rosie asking, "Whose is he?" "Mine; a present from papa," replied Max, sitting proudly erect, and patting the pony's neck; "but I don't know where he came from, aunt Zoe. You'll have to ask papa if you want to know." "You're in luck, Maxie," she said lightly. "Yes, indeed. I was born in luck when I was born my father's son." "Of course you were," she returned, laughing. "Where are the others? Oh, here they come!" as she caught sight of the captain's new carriage just turning in at the avenue-gates. Those who were in it were a gay and happy party, who, all the way as they came, had been discussing plans for making the new home more convenient, comfortable, and beautiful, and for the life they were to live in it. Woodburn was the principal theme of conversation in the evening also, the entire family being gathered together in the parlor, and no visitors present. "Tell us about your nursery, Vi," said her mother: "where is it to be?" "Next to our sleeping-room, mamma, on the other side from Gracie's: you may be sure we want our little ones near us." "But is it a pleasant room?" "None brighter or cheerier in the house, mamma; it is of good size too; and we mean to have it furnished with every comfort, and in a way to make it as attractive as possible." "Pleasantly suggestive pictures among other things?" "Yes, mamma. I know, from my own happy experience, that they have a great deal to do with educating a child." "In both morals and art?" said the captain, looking smilingly at her. "I should think so, judging from what my wife is; and surely, it is reasonable to expect a child to be, to some extent, a reflection of its surroundings; refined or vulgar, according to the style of faces--living or pictured--it is constantly gazing upon, etc. But, however that may be, we will try to keep upon the safe side, furnishing only what must have a good influence, so far as it has any at all." Lulu was there, sitting as close to her father as she could well get. She had a feeling that it was the only safe place for her. "Shall I have some pictures on my walls, papa?" she asked in a low aside. "Yes: we will go some day soon to the city, and choose some fine engravings for your rooms, Max's and Gracie's; furniture, too, carpets, curtains, and new paper for the walls." "Oh, but that will be delightful!" she exclaimed. "Papa, you are just too good and kind for any thing." Max, who was near at hand, had overheard. "That's so!" he said. "I suppose you mean that I am to go too, papa?" "Yes; Gracie also. My dear," to Violet, "when will it suit you to accompany us?--to-morrow?" "To-morrow is Saturday," she said reflectively. "Suppose we say Monday? I hope baby will be so much better by that time, that I shall feel easy in leaving her for a long day's shopping." "Very well," he said: "we will go Monday morning if nothing happens to prevent." "Lulu looks as if she did not know how to wait so long," Violet said, smiling kindly on the little girl. "Can't you take her and Max and Gracie to-morrow, and again on Monday? Surely, they can select some things for their own rooms, with you to help them." "No. I want your taste as well as my own and theirs, and Lulu must learn to wait: it is a lesson she needs," he added, looking down at her with grave kindliness, and pressing affectionately the hand she had slipped into his. She flushed, and cast down her eyes. "Yes, papa," she murmured, "I will try to be good and patient. I'm sure I ought to be when you are so very good to me." "Now, captain, if my taste and judgment were considered equal to Vi's, and Lulu might be spared that lesson," remarked Zoe laughingly, "I'd offer to go in her place,--Vi's, I mean. I think it would be great fun to help choose pictures, carpets, and furniture." "Thank you, Zoe; that is a kind offer," said Violet: "and if mamma thinks it an enjoyable errand, and will consent to supplement your taste and judgment with hers, they will be a good deal more than equal to mine," she concluded, with a smiling glance at her mother. "I am quite of Zoe's opinion as to the pleasantness of the object of the expedition, Vi," Elsie said, "and quite at the service of the captain and yourself, to go, or to take your place in watching over baby while you go; and I think you will find it necessary to spend more than one or two days in the work of selecting what you will want for the furnishing of your home." "I dare say you are right about that, mother," said the captain; "and as it seems to be the desire of all parties that the work should be begun to-morrow, I think I will take the children and as many of you ladies as may like to accompany us." "Papa, mayn't we drive to the city in the new carriage?" pleaded Lulu. "I'd like it ever so much better than going in the cars; and then we can drive from one store to another, without having to take the street-cars or a hack." "It shall be as the ladies who decide to go with us may wish," he said. "I think Lulu's plan a very good one," said grandma Elsie, kindly desirous to see the child gratified. "And I would greatly prefer it, if I should be one of the party," added Zoe. "As I trust you will," returned the captain gallantly. "Gracie, daughter, it is time little ones like you were in their nests. Bid good-night, and go." The child obeyed instantly and cheerfully. "And I must go back to my baby," Violet remarked, as she rose and left the room along with the little girl. "You may go to your room, Lulu," the captain said, in a quiet aside; "but you need not say good-night to me now: I shall step in to look at you before I go to mine." "Yes, papa," she returned, with a glad look, and followed Grace's example. "Max, what do you say to a promenade on the veranda with your father?" Capt. Raymond asked, with a smiling glance at his son. Max jumped up with alacrity. "That I'd like nothing better, sir," he said; and they went out together. "You are pleased with your pony, Max?" the captain said inquiringly, striking a match and lighting a cigar as he spoke. "Yes, indeed, papa!" was the enthusiastic reply. "I feel very rich owning him." "And mean to be a kind master to him, I trust?" "Yes, sir; oh, yes, indeed! I don't intend ever to speak a cross word to him, much less give him a blow." "He has always been used to kind treatment, I was told, and has nothing vicious in his disposition," the captain continued, puffing at his cigar, and pacing the veranda with measured tread, Max keeping close at his side: "so I think he will always give you satisfaction, if you are gentle and kind, never ill-treating him in any way." "I mean to make quite a pet of him, sir," Max said. Then, with an arch look up into his father's face,--a full moon making it light enough for each to see the other's countenance quite distinctly,--"Papa, you are very generous to me, but you never offer me a cigar." The captain stopped short in his walk, and faced his son with some sternness of look and tone. "Max, you haven't learned to smoke? tell me: have you ever smoked a cigar? or tobacco in any shape?" "Yes, sir; but"-- "Don't do it again: I utterly and positively forbid it." "Yes, sir: I'll obey; and, in fact, I have no desire to smoke again: it was just one cigar I tried; and it made me so deathly sick, that I've never wanted another. I wouldn't have done it, papa, if you had ever forbidden me; but--but you had never said any thing to me on the subject, and I'd seen"--Max hesitated, and left his sentence unfinished. "You had seen your father smoke, and naturally thought you might follow his example?" "Yes, sir." "Well, my son, I can hardly blame you for that; but there are some things a man may do with impunity, that a boy may not. Tobacco is said to be far more injurious to one who has not attained his growth, than to an adult. But it is not seldom injurious to the latter also: some seem to use it with no bad effect, but it has wrought horrible suffering for many. I am sorry I ever formed the habit, and I would save you from the same regret, or something worse: indeed, so anxious am I to do so, that I would much rather hand you a thousand dollars than a cigar, if I thought you would smoke it." "Papa, I promise you I will never try the thing again; never touch tobacco in any shape," Max said earnestly. "Thank you, my son; and I will give up the habit for your sake," returned his father, grasping the lad's hand with one of his, and, with the other, flinging his cigar far down the avenue. "Oh, no, papa! don't do it for my sake," said Max. "Cousin Arthur told me that when a man had smoked for years, it cost him a good deal of suffering to give it up; and I couldn't bear to see you suffer so. I'll refrain all the same, without your stopping." "I don't doubt that you would, my dear boy; and I fully appreciate the affection for me that prompts you to talk in that way," the captain said: "but I have set a bad example quite long enough, not to my own son alone, but to other people's; and whatever I may have to endure in breaking off from the bad habit, will be no more than I deserve for contracting it. I should be very sorry, Max, to have you feel that you have a coward for a father,--a man who would shrink from the course he felt to be right, rather than endure pain, mental or physical." "A coward! O papa! I could never think that of you!" cried the boy, flushing hotly; "and if ever any fellow should dare to hint such a thing in my hearing, I'd knock him down as quick as a flash." The corners of the captain's lips twitched; but his tones were grave enough as he said, "I don't want you to do any fighting on my account, Max; and if anybody slanders me, I shall try to live it down. "There is another thing I want to talk to you about," he went on presently, "and that is the danger of tampering with intoxicating drinks. The only safe plan is to let them entirely alone. I am thankful to be able to say that I have not set you a bad example in that direction. My good mother taught me to 'touch not, taste not, handle not;' and I have never taken so much as a glass of wine; though there have been times, my boy, when it required some moral courage to stand out against the persuasions, and especially the ridicule, of my companions." Max's eyes sparkled. "I know it must, papa," he said; "and when I am tried in the same way, I'll remember my father's example, and try to act as bravely as he did." CHAPTER XIX. "Train up a child in the way he should go."--PROV. xxii. 6. "Papa, I want to ask you for something," was Lulu's eager salutation, as, in accordance with his promise, he stepped into her room, on the way to his own, to bid her good-night. "Well, daughter," he said, sitting down, and drawing her into his arms, "there is scarcely any thing that gives me more pleasure than gratifying any reasonable request from you. What is it you want?" "Leave to invite Evelyn to go with us to-morrow, if you don't think it will make too many, papa." "I suppose it would add greatly to your enjoyment to have her with you," he said reflectively. "Yes, you may ask her; or I will do so, early in the morning, through the telephone, if the weather is such that we can go." "Thank you, you dear papa." she said, giving him a hug and kiss. "I ought to be a very good girl, for you are always so kind to me." She was up betimes the next morning, eagerly scanning the sky, which, to her great delight, gave every indication of fair weather for the day. She hastened to array herself in suitable attire for her trip to the city,--having consulted grandma Elsie on the subject the night before,--and had just finished when she heard her father's step in the hall. She ran to open the door. "Good-morning, little daughter," he said with a smile, and stooping to give her a caress. "I have just been to the telephone. Evelyn will go with us, and I trust you will both enjoy your day." "Oh, I know I shall!" she cried: "it will be just delightful! Are we all to go in the carriage, papa?" "All but Max: he prefers to ride his pony." "I should think he would. I'm so glad you gave it to him, papa!" There was not a trace of envy or jealousy in her look or tone. "Wouldn't you like to have one?" he asked. "Oh, yes, indeed, papa! but," hanging her head, and blushing deeply, "I don't deserve it." "I intend to give you one as soon as you have learned to have patience under provocation, so that I shall be able to trust you to treat him kindly," he said. "How soon do you think that will be?" "I don't know, papa. It will be a good while before I can feel at all sure of myself," she answered humbly. "I hope it will," he said; then, as she looked up in surprise, "The apostle says, 'When I am weak, then am I strong.' When we feel our own weakness, and look to God for help, then we are strong with a strength far greater than our own; but when we grow self-confident, and trust in our own strength, we are very apt to find it but weakness. "And now I must caution you to be on your guard to-day against any exhibition of self-will and ill temper, if your wishes are overruled by those older and wiser than yourself." "Why, papa, am I not to be allowed to choose the things for my own rooms?" she asked, in a tone of deep disappointment. "I intend that your taste shall be consulted, my child," he said; "but I cannot promise that you shall have, in every case, exactly what you most prefer. You might select carpets, curtains, and upholstery of material and colors that would wear poorly, or fade very soon. Therefore we must take grandma Elsie into our counsels, and get her help in deciding what to take; for I am sure you would like neither to have your rooms disfigured with faded, worn-out furnishings, or to put your father to the expense of refurnishing for you very soon." "Oh, no, papa! No, indeed," she said. "Besides," he went on, "don't you wish to consult _my_ taste too? Would you not have your rooms pleasing to my eyes when I pay a visit to them, as I shall every day?" "Oh, yes, papa! Yes, indeed! I think I shall care more for that than to have them look pretty to myself," she answered, with a look of eager delight, the cloud having entirely cleared from her brow. "Then, I think we are not likely to have any trouble," he said, smoothing her hair caressingly, and smiling approvingly upon her. "Now we will go down to breakfast, and we are to set out very soon after the meal is over." He rose, and took her hand in his, to lead her down to the breakfast-room. "Papa," she said, looking up at him with eyes shining with filial love, "how kind you were to reason with me in that nice way, instead of saying sternly, as you might have done, 'Now, Lulu, if you are naughty about the choice of things for furnishing your rooms, you sha'n't have any thing pretty for them, and when we get home I'll punish you severely!'" "Certainly, I might have done that, and probably with the effect of securing your good behavior," he said; "but I think neither of us would have felt quite so happy as we do now." "I am sure I should not," she said, lifting his hand to her lips. That little talk had a most happy effect upon Lulu, so that throughout the entire day she showed herself as docile and amiable as any one could have desired. Her father, on his part, was extremely indulgent toward all three of his children, in every case in which he felt that it was right and wise to be so, sparing no reasonable expense to gratify their tastes and wishes. But in several matters they yielded readily to his or grandma Elsie's better judgment; indeed, always, when asked to do so, seeming, too, well satisfied with the final decision. They returned home, a very happy set of children, except, in Lulu's case, when memory recalled the passionate outburst of the early part of the week with its dire consequences: that remembrance would be a sore spot in her heart, and a bitter humiliation, for many a day, probably for the rest of her life. Rosie was on the veranda awaiting their arrival. "Well, have you had a good time, and bought great quantities of pretty things?" she asked, addressing the company in general. It was Zoe who answered first. "Yes: if these young Raymonds are not satisfied with the furnishing of their apartments, I, for one, shall deem them the most unreasonable and ungrateful of human kind." "She won't have a chance to, though," said Max; "for we're delighted with every thing papa has got us. Aren't we, Lu and Gracie?" "Yes, indeed!" they both replied. "Oh, we have ever so many beautiful things! Papa and grandma Elsie helped us to choose them; so, of course, they are all just right," added Lulu, looking gratefully from one to the other. "She takes no account of _my_ very valuable assistance," laughed Zoe. "Never mind: you are sure to be appreciated in one quarter," said Edward, coming up at that moment, catching her round the waist, and bestowing a hearty kiss upon each cheek. "I have been lost without my wife all day." "How good of you!" she returned merrily. "I doubt if it isn't a very good plan to run away occasionally, that I may be the more highly appreciated on my return." "Would you advise me to do likewise, and for the same reason, lady mine?" he asked, drawing her caressingly aside from the little group now busily occupied in telling and hearing about the day's purchases. "No, sir," she said, tossing back her curls, and looking up into his face with a bewitchingly saucy smile: "you'd better not attempt it, lest there should be mutiny in the camp. When you go, I go too." "Turn about, fair play," he said, knitting his brows. "I claim the privilege of being quite as independent as you are--when you can't plead delegated authority from the doctor;" and, drawing her hand within his arm, he led her away to their private apartments. Violet, hurrying down to welcome her husband home, passed them on the stairway. "You two happy children!" she said, glancing smilingly back at them. "Children!" echoed Edward. "Mrs. Raymond, how can you be so disrespectful to your elder brother?--your senior by some two years." "Ah! but your united ages are much less than Levis's and mine; and husband and wife make but one, don't they?" she returned gayly, as she tripped away. Baby was almost herself again, and the young mother's heart was full of gladness. She joined the group on the veranda, her husband receiving her with a glad smile and tender caress, and standing by his side, her hand on his shoulder, his arm half supporting her slight, girlish form, listened with lively interest to the story his children were telling so eagerly, of papa's kindness and generosity to them, and the many lovely things bought to make beautiful and attractive the rooms in the new home that were to be especially theirs. He let them talk without restraint for some moments, then said pleasantly, "Now, my dears, it is time for you to go and make yourselves neat for the tea-table. Any thing more you think of that would be likely to interest Rosie and Walter, you can tell them afterwards." The order was obeyed promptly and cheerfully, even by Lulu. When the excitement of telling about their purchases, and all the day's experiences, was over, the children found themselves very weary,--the two little girls at least: Max wouldn't acknowledge that he was at all fatigued, but was quite willing to comply with his father's suggestion that it would be wise for him, as well as for his sisters, to go early to bed. While Lulu was making ready for hers, her thoughts turned upon the morrow, bringing with them a new source of disquiet. "Papa," she said pleadingly, when he came in to bid her good-night, "mayn't I stay at home to-morrow?" "Stay at home from church? Not unless you are sick, or the weather quite too bad for you to go out. Why should you wish it?" "Because--because--I--I'm afraid people have heard about--about how bad I was the other day; and--so I--I can't bear to go where I'll--be seen by strangers. No, I mean by folks out of the house that know who I am, and what happened the other day." "My child, I am sorry for you," he said, taking her on his knee; "but it is a part of the punishment you have brought upon yourself, and will have to bear." "But let me stay at home to-morrow, won't you?" "No: it is a duty to go to church, as well as a privilege to be allowed to do so. "'Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is,' the Bible says; so I cannot allow you to absent yourself from the services of the sanctuary when you are able to attend. "As I have told you before, I must obey the directions I find in God's Word, and, as far as lies in my power, see that my children obey them too." "I'd rather take a whipping than go to-morrow," she muttered, half under her breath. "I hope you are not going to be so naughty that you will have to do both," he said very gravely. "You have been a very good girl to-day, and I want you to end it as such." "I mean to, papa; I'd be ashamed to be naughty after all you have done for me, and given me to-day: and I mean to be pleasant about going to church to-morrow; though it'll be ever so hard, and I'm sure you wouldn't want to go if you were me." "If you were I," he corrected. "No: if I were you, I suppose I should feel just as you do; but the question is not what we want to do, but what God bids us do. "Jesus said, 'If ye love me, keep my commandments.' 'He that hath my commandments, and keepeth them, he it is that loveth me.' "It is the dearest wish of my heart to see my children his followers, showing their love to him by an earnest endeavor to keep all his commandments." "Papa, you always want to do right, don't you?" she asked. "I mean, you like it; and so it's never hard for you as it is for me?" "No, daughter, it is sometimes very far from being easy and pleasant for me to do what I feel to be my duty; for instance, when it is to inflict pain upon you, or another of my dear children, or deny you some indulgence that you crave. I should like to grant your request of to-night, if I could feel that it would be right; but I cannot, and therefore must deny it." Lulu acquiesced in the decision with a deep sigh, and half hoped that something--a storm, or even a fit of sickness--might come to prevent her from having to go to church. But Sunday morning was as bright and clear as the one before it, and she in perfect health; so there was no escape from the dreaded ordeal. She ventured upon no further entreaty, knowing it would be altogether useless, and quite as much from love to her father, and a real desire to please him, as from fear of punishment, behaved herself as well as possible. But she kept as entirely in the background as she could, not looking at or speaking to any one unless directly addressed. No one, however, gave her any reason to suppose her agency in the baby's accident was known; and she returned to Ion with a lighter heart than she had carried with her when she went. She had not seen the baby yet, since its fall, and though longing to do so, having an ardent affection for the winsome little creature, did not dare to ask that she might. But as she was about to go into her own room, on reaching home, her father said, "Would you like to go with me to the nursery, Lulu, and see your little sister?" "Oh, so much, papa, if I may!" she cried eagerly. "But," half drawing back, "perhaps she--will be afraid of me." "I trust not," he said, with emotion. "I hope she does not know that you had any thing to do with her fall. Come and see." He took her hand, and led her to the nursery. The baby was awake, sitting in its nurse's lap, and looking bright, but so much thinner and paler than before her fall, that tears sprang to Lulu's eyes, and she could scarce refrain from sobbing aloud. But the little one, catching sight of her, held out its arms, with a joyful cry, "Lu!" At that, Lulu's tears fell fast. "May I take her, papa?" she asked sobbingly, and with an entreating look up into his face. "I won't hurt her, I wouldn't for all the world!" "You may take her," he said, his tones a trifle tremulous: "I am quite sure you would never hurt her intentionally." Lulu gladly availed herself of the permission, took the baby in her arms, and sat down with it on her lap. "Lu, Lu!" the little one repeated in her sweet baby voice; and Lulu hugged her close, kissing her again and again, and saying softly, "You dear, sweet darling; sister loves you, indeed, indeed she does!" The captain looked on, his heart swelling with joy and thankfulness over the evident mutual affection of the two; for there had been a time when he feared Lulu would never love the child of her step-mother as she did Max and Grace. Violet entered the room at that moment, and the little scene caused her eyes to fill with tears of gladness. She was ready for the shopping expedition the next day: the children were allowed to go too, and again had a most enjoyable time. After that they were told lessons must be taken up again: and Lulu passed most of her time in her own room, generally engaged in preparing her tasks for her father to hear in the evening; for he was now so busy with the improvements being carried forward at Woodburn, that very often he could not attend to her recitations till after tea. She continued to think him the kindest and most interesting teacher she had ever had; while he found, to his surprise, that he had a liking for the occupation, aside from his fatherly interest in his pupil: and Max and Grace, listening to Lulu's report, grew anxious for the time when they could share her privileges. But their waiting-time would not be very long. As soon as Miss Elliott's stipulated two weeks had expired, she would leave Woodburn, and they would take possession immediately. Their father and his young wife were quite as eager as they to begin the new order of things. CHAPTER XX. IN THE NEW HOME. The moving to Woodburn was not a formidable affair, there being little to carry from Ion besides the personal belongings of parents and children; and, indeed, nearly every thing, even of that kind, had been sent over beforehand. Miss Elliott went one morning; and the Raymonds drove over scarcely an hour later, to find the greater part of the house in perfect order, a full staff of competent servants, and an excellent dinner in course of preparation. Max and his sisters had been directed to stay away from the place ever since the day when their rooms were assigned them, and now a glad surprise awaited them. "Come up-stairs," their father said, when they had made the circuit of the lower rooms. "My dear," to Violet, "will you please come too?" "With all my heart," she returned gayly, and tripped lightly after him up the broad stairway, the children following. He led them first to her apartments, and on through them into those of the little girls, greatly enjoying the exclamations of wonder and delight from her and the children. They had all supposed the work of renovation and improvement was not to be begun till after the departure of Miss Elliott; but they found it not only begun, but finished; the new papers they had chosen were already on the walls, the carpets down, the curtains up, mirrors and pictures hung, and furniture in place. Max's rooms, visited last, were found to be in like condition,--not at all inferior to those of his sisters in any respect. Violet was greatly pleased; the children were wild with delight; every thing was so dainty and fresh, there was such an air of elegance and refinement about the appointments of each room, that all were charmed with the effect. They were hardly yet satisfied with gazing and commenting, when the summons to dinner came. They trooped down to the dining-room, the captain and Violet leading the way, and seated themselves at the table. Here, too, all was new and handsome; the napery, china, glass and silver ware, such as would not have suffered by comparison with what they had been accustomed to at Ion and Viamede. Lulu was beginning to express that opinion, when her father silenced her by a gesture. All quieted down at once, while he reverently gave thanks for their food, and asked God's blessing upon it. "May I talk now, papa?" she asked, a moment after he had finished. "Yes, if you have any thing to say worth our hearing." "I'm not sure about that," she said; "but I wanted to tell you how beautiful I think the china and glass and silver are." "Ah!" he said, smiling, "I am glad they meet your approval." "O papa! such a nice, _nice_ home as you have made for us!" exclaimed Grace in her turn. "Isn't it, Maxie?" turning to her brother. "Yes, indeed! and we'll have to be nice, nice children to fit the home, won't we, Gracie?" "Yes, and to fit papa and mamma," she responded, sending a merry glance from one to the other. Both smiled upon her in return. "We are going to have a house-warming this evening, Gracie," said her father: "do you know what that is?" "No, papa; but I think it's very nice and warm now in all the rooms. Don't you?" "It is quite comfortable, I think; but the house-warming will be an assembling of our relatives and friends to celebrate our coming into it, by having a pleasant, social time with us." "Oh, that will be nice!" she exclaimed. "How many are coming, papa? I s'pose you've 'vited grandma Elsie and all the rest of the folks from Ion, and all the folks at Fairview?" "Yes, and from the Oaks, the Pines, the Laurels, Roselands, and Ashlands; and we hope they will all come." She gave him a wistful look. "Well," he said with a smile, "what is it?" "Papa, you know I 'most always have to go to bed at eight o'clock. I'd like ever so much to stay up till nine to-night, if you are willing." "If you will take a nap after dinner, you may," he replied in an indulgent tone. "Max and Lulu may stay up later than usual if they will do likewise." They all accepted the condition with thanks, and at the conclusion of the meal retired to their respective rooms to fulfil it. Violet also, having not yet entirely recovered from the ill effects of anxiety and nursing, consequent upon the baby's injury, retired to her apartments to rest and sleep. Capt. Raymond went to the library to busy himself with some correspondence first, afterwards with books and papers. He had one of these last in his hand, a pile of them on the table before him, when, from the open doorway into the hall, Lulu's voice asked,-- "Papa, may I come in? are you very busy?" "Not too busy to be glad of my little girl's company," he said, glancing up from his paper with a pleasant smile. "Come and sit on my knee." She availed herself of the invitation with joyful haste. "I thought you were taking a nap," he remarked, as he put his arm round her, and kissed the ruby lips she held up in mute request. "So I was, papa; but you didn't intend me to sleep all the afternoon, did you?" she asked, with a gleeful laugh, and nestling closer to him. "No, hardly," he returned, joining in her mirth: "so much sleep in the daytime would be apt to interfere with your night's rest. I want you all to have sufficient sleep in the twenty-four hours to keep you in health of body and mind, but should be very sorry to have you become sluggards,--so fond of your beds as to waste time in drowsing there, that should be spent in the exercise and training of body or mind. What have you been doing besides napping?" "Enjoying my lovely, lovely rooms, papa, and examining the closets and wardrobe and bureau, to find out just where all my things have been put." "That was well. Do you know any thing about housework,--sweeping, dusting, and keeping things neat and tidy?" "Not very much, papa." "That is to be a part of your education," he said. "I want my daughters to become thorough housekeepers, conversant with all the details of every branch of the business. Gracie is not old enough or strong enough to begin that part of her training yet, but you are; so you must take care of your rooms yourself, except when something more than sweeping, dusting, and bed-making is needed." "I'd like well enough to do it sometimes, papa," she said, looking a little crestfallen; "but I don't like to be tied down to doing it every day, because some days I shall want to be busy at something else; and besides, it is so much like being a servant." "My little girl, that isn't a right kind of pride; honest labor is no disgrace; and 'Six days shalt thou labor, and do all thy work,' is as much a command of God as the 'In it (the sabbath) thou shalt not do any work.'" "Yes, papa: and I don't think I'm lazy; I like to be busy, and sometimes work for hours together at my fret-sawing." "No, I have never thought you an indolent child," he said, smoothing her hair caressingly; "but I am afraid you are wilful, and inclined to think yourself wiser than your elders, even your father." "Please, papa, don't think that," she said, blushing, and hanging her head: "I know you are much wiser than I am." "Is it, then, that you doubt my affection for you?" he asked seriously. "Why, papa, how could I, when you are so good to me, and often tell me that you love me dearly?" "What, then, is the trouble? if you believe your father to be both wise and loving, and if you love him, and want to please him, how can you object to his plans and wishes for you?" "But, papa, who is to teach me how to take care of my rooms? Not mamma Vi, I suppose? I never saw her do any such work; and--would you want me taught by one of the servants?" she queried, blushing vividly. "No," he said: "I have a better plan than that. I have engaged Christine to be housekeeper here, and she will instruct you in all housewifely arts. She is a lady in education and manners, and you need feel it no degradation to be instructed by her." "Oh, that will be nice! and I'll try to learn to do the work well, and to like it, too, to please you, my own, dear papa," she said, looking up lovingly into his face, her own growing very bright again. "That is right, my dear little daughter," he returned, smiling kindly upon her. "You asked just now," he went on, "if your mamma Vi would teach you these things. When I asked her to become my wife, I promised that she should have no care or responsibility in the matter of training and looking after the welfare of the three children I then had; because her mother objected, that she was too young for such a burden: so now that I can live at home with my children, and have no business that need interfere, I shall do my best to be father and mother both to them." "How nice, papa!" she exclaimed joyfully. "Oh, I do think we ought to be the happiest children in the world, with such a dear, kind father, and such a lovely home! But"--her face clouded, and she sighed deeply. "But what, my child?" "I was thinking of that dreadful temper that is always getting the better of me. But you will help me to conquer it, papa?" she added, half inquiringly, half in assertion. "I fully intend to do all in my power to that end," he said in a tender tone; "but, my beloved child, the hardest part of the battle must inevitably be your own. You must watch and pray against that, your besetting sin, never allowing yourself to be a moment off your guard." "I mean to, papa; and you will watch me, and warn me when you see that I am forgetting?" "I shall be constantly endeavoring to do so," he answered,--"trying to guard and guide all my children, looking carefully after their welfare, physical, mental, moral, and spiritual. "To that end, I have just been examining some of the reading-matter which has been provided for them in my absence; and, so far as I have made myself acquainted with it, I decidedly approve it, as I expected I should; having all confidence in those who chose it for you,--grandpa Dinsmore and grandma Elsie. "This little paper, 'The Youth's Companion,' strikes me as very entertaining and instructive, also of excellent moral tone. Do you like it?" "Oh, yes, indeed, papa! we are all very fond of it, and find a great deal of useful information in it. I wouldn't be without it for a great deal, nor Max wouldn't either; and Gracie likes the part for the little folks ever so much." "Then, we will continue to take it," he said; "also this magazine, 'St. Nicholas,' if you like it, as I can hardly doubt that you do." "Indeed we do!" she exclaimed: "we wouldn't any of us like to do without that, either. Oh, I am glad you will let us go on with both that and the paper! "Papa, where is the schoolroom? You haven't shown us that yet." "No; and here come Max and Gracie," he said, as the two came hurrying in together. "I will show it to you now." "What, papa?" asked Max. "Oh! is there something more to see?" exclaimed Grace, running to her father, and putting her hand in his. "Oh, it's ever so nice to have such a beautiful home, and so many beautiful new things to look at!" "It is only your schoolroom this time," her father said, closing his fingers lovingly over the little hand, and smiling down into the sweet blue eyes upraised so gratefully to his. "Oh, yes, I want to see that! I'd 'most forgotten 'bout it," she said, skipping along by his side as he led the way, Max and Lulu following. The room he had selected for the purpose was in a wing attached to the main building at the end farthest removed from Violet's apartments; for he did not want her to be disturbed by any noise the children might make, or them to feel constrained to keep very quiet when not engaged in study or recitation. There was a simultaneous burst of delight from the three, as he threw open the door, and ushered them in. Every thing had been done to render that as attractive as any other part of the mansion: the windows reached almost from floor to ceiling, some opening on to the veranda, one looking directly out upon lawn and flower-garden, with a glimpse of the wood and the brook beyond; a handsome rug covered the centre of the stained and polished floor. In an open fireplace a bright wood fire was blazing, an easy-chair on each side of it; and a sofa on the farther side of the room seemed to invite to repose: but the handsome writing-table, and three pretty rosewood desks, were suggestive of work to be done ere the occupants of the room might feel entitled to rest. The walls were tinted a delicate gray, an excellent background for the pictures that adorned them here and there: most of these were marine views,--that over the fireplace, a very large and fine one, of a storm at sea. On the mantel-shelf were heaped sea-mosses, shells, and coral; but the tiles below it represented Scripture scenes. Blinds and curtains shaded the windows; and the broad, low sills were cushioned, making pleasant places to sit in. "It will be just a pleasure to study in such a place as this," cried Max, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, and smiling all over his face. "Indeed it will! especially with such a teacher as we are to have," chimed in Lulu. "Oh, I'm just in ever such a hurry to begin!" said Grace. "Papa, which is my desk?" "They are exactly alike," he said. "I thought of having yours made a trifle lower than the others, but concluded to give you a foot-rest instead, as you will soon grow tall enough to want it the height it now is. Max and Lulu, shall we give your little sister the first choice, as she is the youngest?" "Yes, indeed, papa! yes, indeed!" they both answered with hearty good will, Max adding, "And Lu must have the next, if you please, papa." That matter being speedily settled, the next question was when school was to begin. They were all three asking it. "You may have your choice--we will put it to vote--whether we will begin to-morrow morning, or not till Monday," replied their father; "to-morrow, you will remember, is Thursday: we will begin school regularly at nine o'clock each morning; and it is to last four hours, not including five or ten minutes at the end of every hour for rest." "That'll be ever so nice!" was Lulu's comment. "That's so," said Max. "I see you are not going to be hard on a fellow, papa." "Wait till you are sure," said his father: "there's to be no idling, no half attention to study, in those hours; you are to give your whole minds to your lessons, and I shall be very strict in exacting perfect recitations." "Do you mean, sir, that we are to repeat the answers in the book, word for word?" "No, not at all. I shall very much prefer to have you give the sense in your own words: then I shall know that you understand the meaning of the text, and are not repeating sounds merely like a parrot; that you have not been going over the words without trying to take in the ideas they are meant to express." "But suppose we can't catch the writer's meaning?" "If you fail to do so, after giving your best efforts to the task, your teacher will always be ready to explain to the best of his ability," was the smiling rejoinder. "But remember, all of you, that I intend you to use your own brains with as little assistance from other people's as possible. Mind as well as body grows strong by exercise." "But we haven't decided when we are to begin," said Lulu. "I vote for to-morrow," said Max: "afternoons will give us time enough to do any thing else we want to." "Yes: I second the motion," she said. "And I third it," added Grace. "Now, papa, you are laughing at me, and so is Max. Wasn't that the right way to say it?" "It was 'most as right as Lu's," said Max. "And both will do well enough," said their father. "I was going to ask if I might have Eva here to visit me to-morrow, papa," said Lulu; "but she'll be busy with lessons in the morning too. May I ask her to come in the afternoon?" "Yes: you can ask her this evening; she will be here with the rest. "Now I have something else to show you. Come with me." He took Gracie's hand again, and led them to a small, detached building, only a few yards distant,--a one-story frame, so prettily designed that it was quite an ornament to the grounds. The children exclaimed in surprise; for, though it had been there on their former visit to Woodburn, it was so greatly changed that they failed to recognize it. "It wasn't here before, papa, was it?" asked Grace. "I'm sure I didn't see it." "Yes, it was here," he said, as he ushered them in, "but I have had it altered and fitted up expressly for my children's use: you see, it is a little away from the house, so that the noise of saws and hammers will not be likely to prove an annoyance to your mamma and visitors. See, this is a workroom furnished with fret and scroll saws, and every sort of tool that I know of which would be likely to prove useful to you, Max and Lulu." "Papa, thank you! how good and kind you are to us!" they both exclaimed, glancing about them, then up into his face, with sparkling eyes. "You must have spent a great deal of money on us, sir," added Max thoughtfully. "Yes, indeed," chimed in Lulu with a slight look of uneasiness. "Papa, I do hope you won't have to go without any thing you want, because you've used up so much on these and other things for us." "No, my dears; and if you are only good and obedient, and make the best use of what I have provided, I shall never regret any thing of what I have done for you. "See here, Gracie." He opened an inner door as he spoke, and showed a playroom as completely fitted up for its intended use as the room they were in. It was about the same size as the workroom, the two occupying the whole of the small building. A pretty carpet covered the floor, a few pictures hung on the delicately tinted walls; there were chairs and a sofa of suitable size for the comfort of the intended occupants, and smaller ones on which Gracie's numerous dolls were seated; a cupboard with glass doors showed sets of toy china dishes, and all the accessories for dinner and tea table; there were also a bureau, wash-stand, and table corresponding in size with the rest of the furniture; and the captain, pulling open the drawers of the first named, showed them well stocked with material of various kinds, suitable for making into new garments for the dolls, and with all the necessary implements,--needles, thread, thimbles, scissors, etc. The two little girls were almost breathless with astonishment and delight. "Papa!" cried Gracie, "you haven't left one single thing for Santa Claus to bring us on Christmas!" "Haven't I?" he returned, laughing, and pinching her round, rosy cheek. "Ah, well wouldn't you as soon have them as presents from your own papa?" "Oh, yes, papa! I know he's just pretend, and it would be you or some of the folks that love me," she said, laying her cheek against his hand; "but I like to pretend it, 'cause it's such fun." "There are a good many weeks yet to Christmas-time," remarked Lulu; "and perhaps our Santa Claus folks will think up something else for you, Gracie." "Perhaps they may," said the captain, "if she is good: good children are not apt to be forgotten or neglected, and I hope mine are all going to be such." "I'm quite sure we all intend to try hard, papa," Max said, "not hoping to gain more presents by it, but because you've been so good to us already." "Indeed we do!" added his sisters. CHAPTER XXI. "Then all was jollity, Feasting and mirth, light wantonness and laughter." "It seems nice and warm here," remarked Lulu; "but," glancing about, "I don't see any fire." Her father pointed to a register. "There is a cellar underneath, and a furnace in it," he said. "I thought that the safest way to heat these rooms for the use of very little people. I do not want to expose you to any danger of setting yourselves on fire." "It's getting a little dark," remarked Grace. "Yes," he said. "We will go in now. It is time for you to be dressed for the evening." "Papa, who is to tell us what to wear,--you, or mamma Vi?" asked Lulu, as they pursued their way back to the house. "You may wear your cream-colored cashmere with the cherry trimmings; Gracie, hers with the blue," he replied. "That's just what I wanted you to say, papa! I like those dresses," remarked Lulu with satisfaction. "That is well: and Gracie, of course, is pleased; for she never objects to any thing papa or mamma wishes her to do," he said, with a loving glance down into the little girl's face. "'Course not, papa; 'cause I know you and mamma always know best," she said, her blue eyes smiling up into his. "And I mean to try to be like her in that, papa," Lulu said with unwonted humility. "I hope so: I have no fault to find with your behavior of late," he returned kindly. They passed into the house, and in the hall met Christine and Alma. "Ah! you have come, my good girls?" the captain said to them with a pleased look. "Jane," to the girl who had admitted them, "show them to their rooms." Christine had come to assume her duties as housekeeper at Woodburn; Alma was to make her home there while still continuing to sew for the families at Ion and Fairview--an arrangement which suited the sisters admirably. "Thanks, sir: it ees one grand place you haf here," said Christine. "We shall be very pleased to haf so nice a home." "I hope it will prove a happy one to you both," he returned kindly. Then, as they followed Jane to the rear of the mansion,-- "Now, children," he said, "make haste with your dressing." "Yes, sir," they replied, hurrying up the broad stairway with willing feet. At its head they met Agnes, their mamma's maid. "I'se to help yo' dress, Miss Lu and Miss Gracie," she said. "Miss Wi'let tole me so, and I'se laid out yo' things on yo' beds." "What things? What dress for me?" asked Lulu sharply. "De cream-colored cashmere, what Miss Wi'let corrected me to." Lulu laughed. "Directed, you mean, Agnes. You may tie my sash when I'm ready. I can do all the rest myself," she said, passing on into her bedroom, while Grace skipped gayly into hers. "Mamma's very good to send you, Agnes," she said; "and you may please dress me as fast as you can, 'cause papa told us to make haste." Grace was a favorite with Agnes as with all the servants at Ion. "Ya'as, I'll dress yo' up fine, Miss Gracie, and make yo' look putty as a pink," she said, beginning her task. "Lots ob folks comin' to-night, honey, and grand doin's gwine on in de kitchen and de dinin'-room. Dere's a long table sot out in de bigges' dinin'-room, and heaps and heaps ob splendiferous china dishes, wid fruits and flowahs painted onto 'em, and silverware bright as de sun, and glass dishes dat sparkle like Miss Elsie's di'mon's; and in de kitchen dey's cookin' turkeys and chickens, and wild game ob warious kinds, and oysters in warious styles; 'sides all de pastry and cakes and fruits and ices, and--oh, I cayn't begin to tell yo' all de good things the captain has perwided! dere wasn't never nuffin' grander at Ion or Wiamede or de Oaks, or any ob de grand places belongin' to our fam'lies." Grace was a highly interested listener. "Oh," she said, "I want to see the table when it's all set and the good things on it! I wonder if papa will let me eat any of them." "Maybe," said Agnes; "but you know, Miss Grace, yo's sickly,--leastways, not bery strong,--and de doctah doan' let you eat rich things." "No," returned the little girl, sighing slightly, "but I do have a good many nice things; and I'd rather eat plain victuals than be weak and sick. Wouldn't you, Agnes?" "Yaas, I reckon. Dere, you's done finished, Miss Gracie, and looks sweet as a rosebud." "So she does," said Lulu, coming hurrying in from her room, arrayed in her pretty cashmere, and with a wide, rich sash-ribbon in her hand. "Now, Agnes, if you will please tie my sash, I'll be 'done finished' too." "O Lu!" exclaimed Grace in loving admiration, "I'm sure you must look twice as sweet and pretty as I do." Their father opened the door, and stepped in just in time to hear her words, and, glancing smilingly from one to the other, said, "To papa's eyes, both his dear little girls look sweet and lovable. Agnes, their appearance does you credit. Now, my darlings, we will go down to tea, for there is the bell." "Have the folks come, papa?" asked Grace, putting her hand into his. "No, daughter: they will probably not begin to come for an hour or so." "Then, are we going to have two suppers?" "Yes, one for ourselves--the children especially--at the usual hour, and a later one for the company. That last will be too late, and too heavy, for your weak digestion." "But not for Max's and mine, will it, papa?" questioned Lulu. "Yes, I fear so." "But we are strong and healthy." "And I wish to keep you so," he said pleasantly; "but you may rest assured that I shall not deny you any enjoyment I think it safe to grant you. Now sit down and be quiet till the blessing has been asked,"--for they had reached the dining-room, and found Violet and Max there waiting for them. Lulu had overheard a good deal of the glowing account of the coming feast to which Agnes had treated Grace, and, when at liberty to speak again, asked, in a rather discontented tone, if she and Max were not to have any share in the good supper being prepared for the expected guests. Instead of answering directly, the captain turned to his son, and asked, "Max, what do you think of this supper?" "It's good enough for a king, sir," returned the lad heartily, glancing over the table as he spoke,--"the nicest of bread and butter, plenty of rich milk and cream, canned peaches and plums, and splendid gingerbread. Why, Lu, what more could you ask?" Lulu only blushed and hung her head in reply. "I think it is a meal to be thankful for," remarked Violet cheerily; "but, my dear, you will let them share in some of the lighter refreshments provided for the guests, won't you?" "Yes, I intend they shall," replied her husband. "Even Gracie can, I think, eat some ice-cream with safety." "Thank you, papa: I'll be satisfied with that, if you don't think it is best for me to have any thing else," Lulu said, recovering her spirits. They had scarcely left the table when the guests began to arrive, those from Ion and Fairview coming first. "Mamma, dearest mamma! welcome, a thousand times welcome, to our home!" exclaimed Violet, embracing her mother with ardent affection. "I wish it were yours also, mother," the captain said: "there could be no more welcome inmate." There were cordial, affectionate greetings for each of the others also: then, when outdoor garments had been laid aside, all were conducted over the house, to be shown the improvements already made, and told of those still in contemplation. It was a great delight to Lulu and Grace to exhibit their pretty rooms to Evelyn and Rosie, and hear their expressions of surprise and admiration; and the pleasure was repeated several times, as the little folks from the Laurels, the Oaks, and the Pines arrived, and in succession went the same round. "I am pleased with all I have seen, Vi; but this room is especially charming to me," grandma Elsie said, when Violet led her a second time into the nursery, the rest of the Ion party having passed on down to the parlors. "Baby should be a merry, happy child, if pleasant, cheerful surroundings can make her so." "I trust she will, mamma," returned the young mother, leading the way to the dainty crib where the little one lay sweetly sleeping. Elsie bent over the little form, gazing at the sweet baby face with eyes brimful of motherly love and tenderness. "The lovely, precious darling!" she murmured softly. "I am so rejoiced, so thankful, to see her looking almost herself again!" "As we are," said Violet, in low, tremulous tones. "Her father is extremely fond of her, mamma, as he is of all his children. I think he has no favorite among them, but loves each one devotedly." "As I do mine," Elsie responded, a bright, sweet smile lighting up her face. "I love you, my Vi, and all your brothers and sisters, very dearly,--each with a love differing somewhat in kind from that given to the others, but not at all in intensity." They lingered a moment longer, watching the young sleeper: then with a parting injunction to the nurse to be very careful of her, not leaving her alone for an instant, they went down-stairs again, and rejoined the rest of the company. Everybody had come, the last party of children just descended from the inspection of the rooms of Max and his sisters. "Now, have we seen positively every thing?" asked Rosie Travilla. "Why, no!" cried Max, as with sudden recollection. Then hurrying to his father, who was talking on the other side of the room to Dr. Conly, and Mr. Horace Dinsmore of the Oaks, he stood waiting respectfully for an opportunity to speak. The gentlemen paused in their conversations and the captain asked, "What is it, my son?" "We haven't shown the workroom or the playroom, papa." "Ah, sure enough! We must have them lighted first. Send Scipio out to put a lamp in each. Then the ladies' wraps will have to be brought down, for they would be in danger of taking cold going even that short distance without." "I'll attend to it all, sir," Max rejoined with cheerful alacrity, and hastened away to do so. In a few minutes all was in readiness. Max, announcing the fact to his father, and the company in general, said dubiously, "I'm afraid we can't go all at once: the rooms aren't big enough to take in so many." "So we will go in divisions," said Mr. Dinsmore. "There are thirty of us--not counting the Woodburn family proper: we will make five divisions, six in each, in addition to the guide and exhibiter. Does everybody consent?" "Yes, yes," was heard on every side. Then ensued a merry time forming the divisions, and deciding the order of precedence; for every one was in mirthful mood. It was all settled at last. The visits of inspection were made: everybody agreed in praising all they saw, and congratulating Max and his sisters on the good fortune that had befallen them. The rest of the evening passed off very pleasantly. The feast was enjoyed, every dish being pronounced a success: the Woodburn children were satisfied with the share of it allowed them,--all the more, perhaps, that a like care was exercised by the parents and guardians of the other young folks in respect to their indulgence of appetite. Grace bade good-night, and went to her nest at nine o'clock, a cheerful, happy child; but, as the party broke up at ten, Max and Lulu were allowed to remain up to see them off. Lulu had taken an early opportunity to give the invitation for the next day to Evelyn, and it was joyfully accepted, "uncle Lester" giving ready permission. "You'll come as soon as lessons are over at Ion, won't you?" asked Lulu in parting. "Yes, you may be sure I'll come the first minute I can," Eva answered gayly. "I expect to have a lovely time with you in those beautiful rooms, and I've had a lovely time to-night. Good-by," giving her friend a hearty embrace. "Well, children," the captain said at breakfast the next morning, "remember, I expect every one of you to be in the schoolroom at five minutes before nine, and to begin studying exactly at the hour." "Every thing to be done with naval precision, I suppose," remarked Violet, giving him a bright half-saucy smile; "that being, I understand, about on a par with military." "Yes," he said, smiling in return, "that is to be the rule in this house for every one but my wife: she is to follow her own sweet will in all things." "Ah!" she responded gayly, "I fear you do not realize what a rash promise you are making; or, rather, how rash you are in according such a privilege." "It is hardly that," he answered: "acknowledging a right, would be my way of expressing it." They had left the table and the breakfast-room, and were alone at the moment, the children having scattered to their work or play. "How good you are to me, my dear husband!" she said, looking up fondly into his face as they stood together before the parlor fire. "Not a whit better than I ought to be, my darling," he responded, bending to kiss the sweet, upturned face. "I have taken you from a tender mother and a most luxurious home, and it must be my care to see that you lose nothing by the transplantation--sweet and delicate flower that you are!" "In my place, Zoe would call you an old flatterer," she returned with a light laugh, but a tell-tale moisture gathering in her eyes. "And what do you call me, my Violet?" he asked, putting his arm about her, and drawing her close to his side. "The kindest, best, dearest of husbands, the noblest of men!" "Ah, my dear! who is the flatterer now?" he laughed. "I'm afraid you and I might be accused of forming a mutual admiration society." "Well, what if we do? isn't it the very best sort of a society for husband and wife to form? Levis, am I to have no duties in this house? none of the cares and labors that the mistress of an establishment is usually expected to assume?" "You shall have no care of housekeeping that I can save you from," he said. "I undertake that, with Christine as my head assistant; though you, of course, are mistress, with the right to give orders and directions whenever you will--to housekeeper, servants, children, even to your husband if you see fit," he concluded with a humorous look and smile. "The idea of my ordering you whom I have promised to obey," she returned merrily. "But I'm afraid you are going to spoil me. Am I to have nothing to do?" "You are to do exactly what you please," he said: "the care and training of our little one, aside from all the assistance to be had from servants, will furnish you with no small amount of employment." "But you will help me with that?" "Certainly, love; I intend to be as good and faithful a father to her as I know how to be: but you are her mother, and will do a mother's part by her, I know. Then, there are wifely duties which you would not wish to delegate to any one else." "No, never!" she cried. "O my dear husband! it is the greatest pleasure in life to do any thing I can to add to your comfort and happiness." "I know it, sweet wife. Ah!" glancing at his watch, "I must tear myself away now from your dear society, and attend to the duties of employer and teacher. I have some directions to give both _employees_ and children." Grace ran and opened the schoolroom door at the sound of her father's approaching footsteps. "See, papa," she said, "we are all here, waiting for you to come, and tell us what lessons to learn." "Yes, you are good, punctual children," he replied, glancing at the pretty little clock on the mantel; "for it still wants five minutes to nine." "Papa, I know what lessons to learn, of course," remarked Lulu; "but the others are waiting for you to tell them." "Yes. I shall examine Max first," the captain said, seating himself at his writing-table. "Bring your books here, my son." "Are you dreadfully frightened, Maxie? very afraid of your new teacher?" Lulu asked laughingly as her brother obeyed the order. "I don't expect to faint with fright," he returned; "for I've a notion he's pretty fond of me." "Of you and of all his pupils," the captain said. "Lulu, you may take out your books, and begin to study." When the tasks had been assigned to each, "Now children," he said, "I am going to leave you for a while. I can do so without fear that you will take advantage of my absence to idle away your time; for I know that you are honorable and trustworthy, also obedient. I have seldom known any one of you to disobey an order from me." "Thank you, papa," Max said, answering for both himself and sisters, and coloring with pleasure as he spoke. "We'll try to deserve your praise and your confidence. But are we to consider ourselves forbidden to speak at all to each other while you are gone?" "No, not entirely; but do not engage in unnecessary talk, to the neglect of your studies." So saying, he went out and left them. Returning exactly at the expiration of the first hour for study, he found them all busily at work. He commended their industry, and gave permission for five minutes' rest. They were prompt to avail themselves of it, and gathered about him full of gleeful chat, the girls seating themselves one on each knee, Max standing close at his side. School was a decided success that day, and neither teacher nor pupils saw any reason to regret the establishment of the new order of things. Evelyn came soon after they were dismissed, spent the afternoon and evening, and, when she left, averred that it had been the most delightful visit she had ever paid. CHAPTER XXII. LIFE AT WOODBURN. Lulu's temper was not conquered, but she was more successful than formerly in combating it. The terrible lesson she had had in the injury to her baby sister, consequent upon her outburst of passion, could not easily be forgotten: the bitter recollection was often a great restraint upon her, and her father's loving watchfulness saved her many a time, when, without it, she would have fallen; he kept her with him almost constantly when at home,--and he was rarely absent,--scarcely allowed her to go anywhere off the estate without him, and seemed never for a moment to forget her and her special temptation: the slightest elevation in the tones of her voice was sure to catch his ear; and a warning look generally proved sufficient to put her on her guard, and check the rising storm of anger. There were several reasons why it was--as she often asserted--easier to be good with him than with Mr. Dinsmore: he was more patient and sympathizing, less ready to speak with stern authority, though he could be stern enough when he deemed it necessary. Besides, he was her father, whom she greatly reverenced and dearly loved, and who had, as she expressed it, a right to rule her and to punish her when she deserved it. One morning, after several very happy weeks at Woodburn, the quiet of the schoolroom, which had been profound for many minutes, was broken by a slight exclamation of impatience from Lulu. Her father, glancing up from the letter he was writing, saw an ominous frown on her brow, as she bent over her slate, setting down figures upon it, and quickly erasing them again, with a sort of feverish haste, shrugging her shoulders fretfully, and pushing her arithmetic peevishly aside with the free hand. "Lulu, my daughter," he said, in a quiet tone, "put on your hat and coat, and take a five-minutes' run on the driveway." "Just now, papa?" she asked, looking up in surprise. "Yes, just now. When you think you have been out the specified number of minutes, you may come back; but I shall not find fault with you if you are not quite punctual, as you will not have a timepiece with you." "Thank you, sir," she said, obeying with alacrity. She came in again presently, with cheeks glowing and eyes sparkling, not a cloud on her brow. "Ah! I see you feel better," her father remarked, smiling kindly upon her; "and I have finished my letter, so have time to talk with you. Max and Gracie, you may take your turn at a run in the fresh air now." Donning their outdoor garments, while Lulu took hers off, and put them in their proper place, they hurried away. "Bring your slate and book here, daughter," was the next order, in the kindest of tones, "and let me see what was troubling you so." "It's these vulgar fractions, papa," she said, giving herself an impatient shake. "I don't wonder they call them vulgar, for they're so hateful! I can't understand the rule, and I can't get the examples right. I wish you wouldn't make me learn them." "Daughter, daughter!" he said, in grave, reproving accents, "don't give way to an impatient temper. It will only make matters worse." "But, papa," she said, bringing the book and slate as directed, "won't you please let me skip these vulgar fractions?" "I thought," he said, "that my Lulu was a brave, persevering little girl, not ready to be overcome by a slight difficulty." "Oh! but it isn't a slight one, papa: it's big and hard," she pleaded. "I will go over the rule with you, and try to make it clear," he returned, still speaking in a pleasant tone; "and then we will see what we can do with these troublesome examples." She sighed almost hopelessly, but gave her attention fully to his explanation, and presently cried out joyfully, "Oh, I do understand it now, papa! and I believe I can get the sums right." "I think you can," he said. "Stand here by my side, and let me see you try." She succeeded, and was full of joy. "There is nothing like trying, my little girl," he said, smiling at her exultation and delight. She came to him again after lessons were done, and Max and Grace had left the room once more. "May I talk a little to you, papa?" she asked. "Yes, more than a little, if you wish," he replied, laying aside the book he had taken up. "What is it?" "Papa, I want to thank you for sending me out to take that run, and then helping me so nicely and kindly with my arithmetic." "You are very welcome, my darling," he said, drawing her to a seat upon his knee. "If you hadn't done it, papa, or if you had spoken sternly to me, as grandpa Dinsmore would have done in your place, I'd have been in a great passion in a minute. I was feeling like just picking up my slate, and dashing it to pieces against the corner of the desk." "How grieved I should have been had you done so!" he said; "very, very sorry for your wrong-doing, and that I should have to keep my word in regard to the punishment to be meted out for such conduct." "Yes, papa," she murmured, hanging her head, and blushing deeply. "Would breaking the slate have helped you?" he asked with grave seriousness. "Oh, no, papa! you cannot suppose I'm so foolish as to think it would." "Was it the fault of the slate that you had such difficulty with your examples?" "Why, no, papa, of course not." "Then, was it not extremely foolish, as well as wrong, to want to break it just because of your want of success with your ciphering?" "Yes, sir," she reluctantly admitted. He went on, "Anger is great folly. The Bible says, 'Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry; for anger resteth in the bosom of fools.' It seems to be the sort of foolishness that, more than any other, is bound in the heart of this child of mine. It seems, too, that nothing but 'the rod of correction' will drive it out." She gave him a frightened look. "No," he said, "you need not be alarmed: as you did not indulge your passionate impulse, I have no punishment to inflict. "My dear, dear child, try, _try_ to conquer the propensity! Watch and pray against this besetting sin." "I will, papa," she murmured with a half despairing sigh. Some weeks later--it was on an afternoon early in December--Lulu and Grace were in their own little sitting-room, busied in the manufacture of some small gifts for "papa and Maxie," who were, of course, to be kept in profound ignorance on the subject till the time for presentation; therefore, the young workers sat with locked doors; and when presently Maxie's boyish footsteps were heard rapidly approaching, their materials were hastily gathered up, thrust into a closet close at hand, and the key turned upon them. Then Lulu ran and opened the door. "Hollo!" cried Max, in a perfectly good-humored tone, "what do you lock a fellow out for? It looks as if you're up to some mischief. I just came to tell you there's company in the parlor, and they've asked for you, both of you." "Who are they?" asked Lulu, glancing at her reflection in a pier-glass opposite, to make sure that dress and hair were in order. She was neat and orderly by nature, and her father very particular about the appearance of his children; not caring to have them expensively attired, but always neat and tidy. "The Oaks young folks," replied Max,--"Horace and Frank and their two sisters, Maud and Sydney." "Come, Gracie," said Lulu, turning to her little sister: "we both look nice, and we'll go right down." The children all felt rather flattered by the call, because the Oaks young people were older than themselves. Horace, Frank, and Maud were all older than Max, and Sydney was between him and Lulu in age. With the Dinsmore girls, the Raymonds were quite well acquainted, having seen them frequently at Ion, and sometimes met them elsewhere; but the boys, who had been away at school, were comparative strangers. Violet was in the parlor chatting pleasantly with her young cousins, the call being intended for her also; and her cheerful presence set her little step-daughters more at their ease than they would otherwise have been. They had not been long in the room ere they learned that the special object of the visit was to invite them and Max to the Oaks, to spend the greater part of Christmas week. "It is to be a young people's party, you must all understand," said Maud, who seemed to be the chief speaker, "and so the captain and cousin Vi are not invited: not that cousin Vi is not young, you know, for she is that; but there are to be no married folks asked. "There is to be the usual Christmas-eve party at Ion for all the family connection, Christmas-tree and all that, and the grand dinner-party on Christmas Day; then all the boys and girls of the connection are invited to the Oaks to stay till the next Saturday evening. "We hope, cousin Vi, that Max and his sisters may come?" "If it depended upon me," returned Violet pleasantly, "I presume I should say yes; but of course it will have to be as their father says." "Oh, yes! certainly. Is he in?" "No, and I fear he will not be for an hour or two; but if you will stay to tea, you will be pretty sure to see him." The invitation was declined with thanks; "they had other calls to make, and must be going presently:" but they sat for some minutes longer, the whole four joining in an animated description of various diversions planned for the entertainment of their expected guests, and repeating again and again that they hoped Max and his sisters would be permitted to come. "I do wish papa may let us go!" cried Lulu, the moment the visitors had departed. "I'm sure it will be perfectly delightful!" "So do I," said Max. "Mamma Vi, do you think papa will consent?" "I really cannot say, Max," she answered doubtfully. "Do you want to go, too, Gracie?" drawing the child to her side, and softly smoothing her hair. "Yes, mamma, if--if I could have you or papa there with me. I don't want to go very much 'less one of you goes too." "And you are such a delicate little darling, that I hardly think your papa will feel willing to have you go, without either of us along to take care of you." "I can take perfectly good care of Gracie, mamma Vi," asserted Lulu with dignity. "Here comes papa," cried Max, as a step was heard in the hall. Then the door opened, and the captain came in. "We've had an invitation, papa, and hope you will let us accept it," Max said, coming eagerly forward. "O papa! please, please do!" cried Lulu, running to him, and taking hold of his hand. "Let me hear about it," he said, sitting down, and allowing Lulu to take possession of one knee, Gracie of the other; "but speak one at a time. Max, you are the eldest: we will let you have the first turn." Violet sat quietly listening, and watching her husband's face, while the eager children told their tale, and expressed their wishes. He looked grave and thoughtful; and before he spoke, she had a tolerably correct idea what he was about to say. "I am glad my little Gracie does not care to go," he said, caressing the child as he spoke, "because she is too feeble and too young to be so long among comparative strangers, without papa or mamma to take care of her. I am sorry Lulu does want to accept the invitation, as there is an insuperable objection to letting her do so." Lulu's countenance had assumed an expression of woful disappointment not unmingled with anger and wilfulness. "I want to go, papa, and I do think you might let me," she said with an ominous frown. "I'm not sickly, and I'm a good deal older than Gracie." "You cannot go, Lucilla," he said gravely, and with some sternness of tone. "Max," in answer to the eagerly questioning look in the lad's eyes, "if you are particularly desirous to go, you have my permission." "Thank you, sir," said the boy heartily. "Papa, why can't I go?" grumbled Lulu. "I think a moment's reflection will tell you why," he answered. "I will talk with you about it at another time. And now not another word on the subject till I mention it to you first." Lulu was silenced for the time; but after tea, going into the library, and finding her father sitting there alone, she went up to him, and in her most coaxing tones said, "O papa! won't you _please_ let me go? I'll be"-- "Lulu," he interrupted sternly, "go immediately to your room and your bed." "Papa, it isn't my bedtime for two hours yet," she said, in a half pleading tone, "and I want to read this new 'Companion' that has just come." "Don't let me have to repeat my order," was the stern rejoinder; and she obeyed, trembling and in haste. She felt sorely disappointed, angry, and rebellious; but, as her father had said, a few moments' reflection showed her the reason of his refusal to allow her to accept the invitation to the Oaks: and, as she glanced round her rooms at the many pretty things his indulgent kindness had supplied, her anger changed to penitence and love. "Of course, papa was right," she sighed to herself, as she moved about, getting ready for bed; "and it wasn't because he doesn't love to see me happy; and I wish, oh, _how_ I wish, I'd been good about it!" She was not at all drowsy; and it seemed a long, long time that she had been lying there awake, when at last she heard her father's step in the hall: then he opened the door, and came in. He had a lighted lamp in his hand. He set it on the mantel, and drew near the bed. "You are awake, I see," he said. "Yes, papa; and I'm sorry I was naughty." "You understand why I sent you to bed? and why I refused to grant your request?" "Yes, sir; you can't trust me to pay that visit, because of my bad temper; and you sent me to bed for disobeying you, by asking again, after you had told me to say no more about it." "Yes: you must learn to be more obedient, less wilful. Did you obey me about going immediately to bed?" he asked, drawing up a chair, and seating himself close beside her. "Yes, papa,--just as quickly as I could get ready." "I hope you did not neglect to kneel down and ask forgiveness of God?" he said inquiringly, in a gentle, tender tone, bending over her, and smoothing her hair as he spoke. "You do not need to be told, that, when you are rebellious and disobedient to your earthly father, you are so toward your heavenly Father also; because he bids you 'honor thy father and thy mother.'" "Yes, papa, I know; I did ask him; and won't you forgive me too?" "Yes," he said, giving her a kiss. "I am sorry to have to deprive you of the pleasure of accepting that invitation, but I cannot yet trust you anywhere away from me; and it was to spare your feelings that I did not state my reason before your mamma and brother and sister." "Oh! I'm sorry I was naughty about it, papa," he said, again putting her hand into his. He held it in a kindly pressure, while he went on talking to her. "I intend you shall go to Ion to the Christmas-eve party, and the dinner-party the next day, as I shall be there too." "Thank you, dear papa: I'd like to go ever so much, but I don't deserve to," she said humbly, "or to have any Christmas gifts. If I were you, and had such a bad child, I wouldn't give her a single thing." "I hope she is going to be a better girl, in future," he said, kissing her good-night. It was a joyful surprise to Lulu when, at the breakfast-table the next morning, her father said, "Children, your mamma and I are going to drive into the city, and will take you all along: and, as I suppose you would like to do some Christmas shopping, I shall advance your next week's allowance,--perhaps furnish something over," he added, with a kindly smile. All three young faces had grown very bright, and there was a chorus of thanks. "We expect to start in a few minutes after prayers," the captain went on, "and so there will be no school to-day." "We like school, papa," said Grace. "I never liked it half so well before." "Nor I." "Nor I," cried the other two. "But you are glad of a holiday once in a while, nevertheless?" their father said, with a pleased look. "Oh, yes, indeed, papa! 'specially when it is to go somewhere with you," replied Grace; and again the others gave a hearty assent. When family worship was over, the captain handed a little roll of bank-notes to each, saying, "Now run away, and get yourselves ready for your ride. Put on your warmest clothing, for the wind is sharp." They flurried out into the hall; then Lulu hesitated, turned about, and ran back. "Papa," she said, rushing up to him, where he sat beside a table, with some papers before him, and throwing her arm round his neck, "dear papa! you are just too good and kind to me! Oh, I don't mean to be disobedient, wilful, or passionate ever again!" "I am rejoiced to hear you say that, my dear little daughter," he replied, putting his arm round her, hugging her close, and kissing her tenderly; "and I do not think I shall ever regret any thing I have done for you or either of the others. It is, to me, the greatest pleasure in life to do whatever I can to make my children happy." "I am so, _so_ sorry I was naughty and disobedient last night," she murmured, laying her cheek to his. "Dear child," he said, "it is fully and freely forgiven. Now run up to your room and dress." Grace called to Lulu as she came up the stairs, "O Lu! come in here a minute, into my room. Look, look, on the bed! see how many papa has given me,--ten nice new one dollars." Lulu counted them as they lay spread out in a row. "Yes, ten," she said. "O Gracie! isn't it nice? isn't papa kind?" "'Course he is; kindest man ever was made," said Grace. "Now see how many you have." Lulu hastily spread out her roll, and counted the bills. "Nine ones, and one two," she announced. "Just as many as mine," said Grace; "and I've got this besides," holding up a bright new silver half-dollar. "So mine's the most this time, isn't it?" "No, because one of my bills counts two: that makes mine fifty cents the most. Papa has given us each ten dollars besides our regular allowance." CHAPTER XXIII. "At Christmas play, and make good cheer, For Christmas comes but once a year." --TUSSER. The morning of the twenty-fourth found Grace almost too ill, with a heavy cold, to be out of bed; and it was quite evident that she would not be able to go to the Christmas-eve party at Ion, or the dinner on Christmas Day. The captain was just finishing his morning toilet when Lulu knocked at his dressing-room door. She had come with the news of Grace's illness, and he followed her at once to the bedside of the sick child. "My poor darling," he said, bending over her in tender concern, "you seem quite feverish. I think you must stay in bed, and we will send for your doctor." "And can't I go to-night, papa?" she asked, the tears starting to her eyes. "I'm afraid not, darling; but don't fret; papa will try to find some way to make it up to you." "I'll stay with her, papa, and read her stories, and do every thing I can to help her enjoy herself," cried Lulu eagerly. "I may, mayn't I?" "You may, if you choose," he said; "but I thought you were very anxious to go." "I was, but I'm not now," she said. "I'd rather stay with Gracie. I shouldn't be one bit happy there without her." "O Lu! I'd love to have you! but I don't want you to lose all that fun just for me," Grace said, with a wistful, loving look into her sister's eyes. "It wouldn't be fun without you, my Gracie," was the quick rejoinder. "I am glad indeed that my little daughters love each other so dearly," the captain said, kissing first one and then the other. "Well, we will see what can be done. If it were not for the disappointment to your mamma, I should stay at home with you, my darlings; as it is, I shall spend at least a part of the evening with you." He left them, and sought Violet in her dressing-room. "My dear, what has happened? I am sure you look anxious and troubled!" she exclaimed, the instant she caught sight of his face. "I confess that I am a little troubled about Gracie," he replied: "she seems to have taken a very heavy cold. I shall send at once for the doctor. And, of course, she has to be disappointed in her expectations for this evening." "Then, let us all stay at home," returned Violet promptly. "I could not enjoy myself, leaving the poor darling at home, sick. Besides," glancing from the window, "do you see? it is snowing fast, and I should not like to expose baby to the storm. So I propose that we change our plans entirely, and have a private Christmas of our own," she went on in a lively tone. "What do you say to it, my dear?" They discussed the idea for some minutes, presently growing quite enthusiastic over it. Their plans were nearly matured when the breakfast-bell rang; and, shortly after leaving the table, they began carrying them out. Max was taken into their confidence, and allowed to assist; and a proud and happy boy was he, going about with an air of mystery, as one to whom secret and important business is intrusted. The little girls, shut up in their own apartments,--Grace reclining on a couch, Lulu with her as constant companion, and making every exertion for her entertainment, while papa, mamma, and Maxie came running in now and then to ask how she was,--knew nothing of messages sent back and forth through the telephone, of packages of various shapes and sizes brought into the house, of mysterious goings and comings, and much time spent by papa, mamma, Maxie, Christine, and others in a certain large room, hitherto but little used. Grace frequently fell asleep: then Lulu would darken the room, go into the adjoining one, leaving the door ajar, so that she could hear the slightest movement her little sick sister might make on waking, and amuse herself with a book or her own thoughts. Their meals were brought to them, and set out in their sitting-room upon a little round table, covered with a snowy damask cloth, whereon were arranged a set of dainty china dishes of a size just suited to the occasion, and toothsome viands such as "papa" deemed they might eat and enjoy without danger to health. It was very nice, they thought; almost nicer, just for a change, than going to the larger table down-stairs with the rest of the family. Soon after they had had their supper, their father came in, bringing the doctor with him, for his second visit that day. "Ah! she is a good deal better," Dr. Conly said, when he had examined his little patient. "Hardly well enough yet to go to Ion," he added with a humorous look and smile; "but I think, if well wrapped up, she may venture a trip down-stairs in papa's arms, and even stay a little while, if she finds the change to the parlor a pleasant one." "Should you like it, papa's dear pet?" the captain asked, leaning over her. "Yes, sir, if you and my doctor think it will be good for me," was the reply, in a submissive and rather languid tone, "and if my Lulu is to come too," she added, with a loving look at her sister. "Oh, yes, indeed! we would not think of going without Lulu!" their father said, smiling affectionately upon her also. So a large shawl was brought, and carefully wrapped about Gracie's little slender figure; and she made the short journey in her father's strong arms, the doctor and Lulu going on before, hand in hand, chatting and laughing merrily. Max heard them, and threw open the parlor-door just as they reached it. Then what a surprise for the little girls! A large, handsome Christmas-tree, loaded with beautiful things, burst upon their astonished sight, and was greeted by them with exclamations of wonder and delight. "Oh! oh! oh! it's the very prettiest Christmas-tree we ever saw! And we didn't know we were to have any at all! And how many, _many_ lovely things are on it! Papa, papa, how good and kind you are to us!" He looked as if he enjoyed their surprise and delight quite as much as they did the tree. "Other folks have been kind to you, too, my darlings," he said, seating himself, with Gracie still in his arms, "as you will see presently, when the gifts are distributed." "Who, papa?" asked Gracie, laying her head on his shoulder, and gazing with delighted eyes, beginning to single out one beautiful object from another as she sent her glances up and down, here and there. "Grandma Elsie, and everybody else in the Ion family, I believe; the Oaks and Laurels and Fairview friends; and Roselands people too; to say nothing of mamma and Maxie." "They're ever so good and kind! they always are," she said in grateful tones. "Oh!" for the first time perceiving that Violet stood near her with the baby in her arms, "mamma and baby too! and how pleased baby looks at the tree!" for the little one was stretching her arms toward it, and cooing and smiling, her pretty blue eyes shining with delight. When all, children and servants,--for the latter had been called in to enjoy the sight also,--had looked to their full, the gifts were distributed. They were very numerous,--nearly everybody having given to nearly everybody else,--and many of those received by the parents and children were very handsome. But their father's gift--a tiny watch to each, to help them to be punctual with all their duties, he said--was what gave the greatest amount of pleasure to Lulu and Grace. Both they and their brother went to bed that night, and woke the next morning, very happy children. The weather being still too severe for the little ones to be taken out, the captain and Violet went to Ion only for a call, and returned early in the day, bringing a portion of the party that usually gathered there, to dine with them at Woodburn. Among these, to Lulu's extreme satisfaction, was Evelyn. She staid till after tea; and all the afternoon, there was much passing to and fro of the different members of the large family connection. Evelyn was to be at the Oaks for the next few days, with the other young people, and regretted greatly that Lulu was not to go too. But Lulu's rebellious feeling about it was a thing of the past. She told Evelyn frankly her father's reason for refusing his consent, adding that she felt that he was right, and that he was so dear, so kind and indulgent in every thing that he thought best to allow, that she was now entirely satisfied to stay at home; particularly as Gracie was not well, and needed her nursing. Grace went early to bed and to sleep. Max and Evelyn had gone to the Oaks: there were only grown people in the parlors now; and Lulu did not care to be there, even if she had not wanted to be near her sleeping sister. There was an open, glowing fire in their little sitting-room, a high fender of polished brass obviating all danger from it to the children's skirts. Lulu seated herself in an easy-chair beside it, and fell into a reverie, unusually deep and prolonged for her. She called to mind all the Christmases she could remember,--not very many,--the last two spent very pleasantly with her new mamma's relatives; the two previous ones passed not half so agreeably, in the poor apology for a home that had been hers and Grade's before their father's second marriage. But what a change for the better that had brought! What forlorn little things she and Gracie were then! and what favored children now! What a sweet, sweet home of their very own, with their father in it!--as she had said to Eva that afternoon, "such a dear, kind father; interested in every thing that concerned his children; so thoughtful about providing pleasures for them, as well as needful food, shelter, and clothing; about their health, too, and the improvement of their minds; reading with them, even in other than school-hours; talking with them of what they read, and explaining so clearly and patiently any thing they did not quite understand; but, above all, striving to lead them to Christ, and train them for his service in this world and the next." He had read with them that morning the story of our Saviour's birth, and spoken feelingly to them of God's wonderful love shown in the "unspeakable gift" of his dear Son. "Certainly, there could not be in all the world a better, dearer father, than theirs. How strange that she could ever grieve him by being naughty, rebellious, passionate! Oh, if she could only be good! always a comfort and blessing to him! she would try, she _would_, with all her might!" Just then the door opened softly; and he came in, came noiselessly to her side, lifted her in his arms, and sat down with her on his knee. "What has my little girl been thinking of sitting here all by herself?" he asked, pressing his lips to her cheek. She told him in a few words, finishing with her longing desire to be to him a better child, a comfort and blessing. "Indeed I ought to be, papa," she said; "and you are such a dear, kind father! you have given me--and all of us--such a lovely home, and such a happy, happy Christmas,--the very happiest we have ever known!" "And it is God our heavenly Father who has put it in my power to do all that I have done for you, and for all my darlings," he said with emotion, drawing her closer, and holding her tenderly to his heart; "and, O my dear child! if I could know that you had begun this day to truly love and serve him, it would be to _me_ the happiest Christmas that _I_ have ever known." 
22944	----	Little Peter, the Ship Boy, by W.H.G. Kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ Peter's mother lies dying in the first chapter, and gives him her own Bible. Peter's father had already died at sea, and the only family income had been what Peter earned looking after a farmer's sheep. After the death the little house had to be sold to settle debts, leaving virtually nothing. Peter decides to go to sea, and makes his way to a nearby port, where, against advice, he takes a place as a ship's boy in a coasting brig carrying cargoes of coals. The Captain is very unkind to him, as are most of the rest of the crew, but Peter is buoyed up only by his Bible which he contrives to carry with him at all times. In a gale the brig starts to sink and the Captain and crew abandon her in the ship's boat, leaving Peter on board as he had been sent below to get food for the crew, and was forgotten. However, the sinking brig grounds inside the tail of a bank, where she is sheltered from the gale. After a couple of days he is seen and rescued by the crew of the "Primrose", where he is taken on, again as a ship's boy. One of the crew is a grumpy old man called Simon Hixon. After a long time Peter and Simon become more friendly. There is an accident and the vessel is cast up on a rock fairly near an island. The Captain is injured as he had been the last to leave the sinking vessel. Eventually there is a rescue by a passing ship, and life begins to go uphill for Peter after that. We won't spoil the story for you, but it is a very well told tale, written not long before Kingston's death, at the very height of his powers. ________________________________________________________________________ LITTLE PETER, THE SHIP BOY, BY W.H.G. KINGSTON. CHAPTER ONE. PETER'S HOME AND FRIENDS. "Are you better, mother, to-day?" asked little Peter, as he went up to the bed on which Widow Gray lay, in a small chamber of their humble abode. "I trust so, my boy," she answered, in a doubtful tone, as she gazed fondly on the ruddy, broad, honest face of her only child, and put aside the mass of light hair which clustered curling over his brow, to imprint on it a loving kiss. "I tried to get up to help Betsy when she came to tidy the house, but did not feel strong enough; and the doctor, who looked in soon after, said I had better stay quiet, and gave me some stuff which I trust may do me good. Betsy kindly stopped and put everything to rights, but since she went I have felt lonely, and have been longing for you to come home." Betsy was an old woman who lived nearly half a mile off, on the hill-side. She had known Mary Gray from her childhood, and came every day, without fee or reward, to assist her during the grievous illness from which she had long been suffering, while little Peter was away tending Farmer Ashton's sheep on the neighbouring downs. Widow Gray's cottage stood towards the bottom on the sloping side of some lofty downs, which extended far away east and west, as well as a considerable distance southward towards the ocean, which was, as the crow flies, about ten miles off from the highest point above it. The hill formed one side of a valley, through which flowed a sparkling stream bordered by trees, with here and there scattered about the cottages of the hamlet of Springvale. Far away at the lower end rose amid the trees the slender spire of the little church. On the other side of the valley was a further succession of open downs, crossed only by a single road a considerable distance, off, so that a more secluded nook than Springvale could not be found for many a mile round. The widow's cottage gave signs of decay, though it was evident that such attempts as required no expense had been made to keep it in repair. The holes in the roof had been stuffed full of furze and grass, kept down by heavy stones from being blown off by the wind; the broken panes in the windows were replaced by pieces of board or stout paper; and rough stakes filled up the spaces where the once neat palings had given way. Each foot of the small garden was cultivated, though clearly by an unscientific hand. Indeed, little Peter was the sole labourer, he devoting to it every moment he could spare from attendance on his sick parent after his return from his daily work, patching up many a rent in the cottage produced by weather and time. Peter, indeed, did his very utmost to support his mother, by working early and late--not a moment was he idle; but do all he could he often was unable to gain enough to find food for her and for himself, though he was content with a dry crust and a draught from the bright spring which bubbled out of the hill-side. The little cottage and garden was her own, left to her by her father, Simon Field, a hard-working man, who by temperate habits and industry had been enabled to purchase the ground and to build the cottage, though that, to be sure, was put up chiefly by his own hands. Simon Field, however, was more than an industrious man, he was a pious and enlightened Christian, and had brought up his children in the truth as it is in Christ Jesus. Mary, the youngest daughter, had gone to service, and had obtained a situation in the house of a lately married couple, of whom Simon had heard a good report, and felt confident that she would be treated with Christian kindness and consideration. One by one, Simon Field's wife and children were taken from him, and when Mary's kind mistress also died, she returned home to live with her father. Just at that time Jack Gray, a fine, open-hearted and open-handed sailor, came to the hamlet, where his widowed mother lived. He made love to Mary Field, and won her heart, unhappily before she had ascertained his principles and character. To her simple mind, ignorant as she was of the world, he appeared all that she could desire. As he attended church with her, and behaved with propriety and apparent devotion, she supposed him to be religious, and before he went away to rejoin his ship she promised, with her father's permission, to be his wife on his return. Soon afterwards Simon Field, who had for some time been ailing, followed his wife and children to the grave, and Mary became the owner of the little cottage with its acre of ground. Though she had many suitors, she remained faithful to Jack Gray. Nearly three years had passed away before he returned. She then fulfilled her promise and married him, but before long she could not help confessing to herself that he had changed for the worse. Instead of being the quiet, well-behaved young seaman he had before appeared, he was noisy and boisterous, and more than once got into a broil at the public-house in the hamlet; still, as he was kind and affectionate to her, her love in no way diminished. He laughingly replied to her when she entreated him to be more circumspect in his conduct: "Why, old girl, I am quiet as a lamb compared to what I am afloat. They call me on board `roaring Jack Gray,' and roar I can, I tell you, when I am doing duty as boatswain's mate." Jack Gray, who would not look for employment on shore, in spite of Mary's entreaties that he would do so, determined when the greater part of his pay and his prize-money had been expended, again to go afloat. Mary's home was certainly quieter when he was gone, though she would willingly have detained him. She had, however, enough to occupy her in looking after her new-born child, little Peter, who, when his father next came home from sea, had grown into a fine, sturdy boy. The navy was at this time reduced, and "roaring Jack Gray," who soon grew tired of a life on shore, had to seek for employment in the merchant service. All Mary could hear of him was that he had gone away on a long voyage to foreign parts. The news at length came that the ship he had sailed in had been lost, and that all the crew had perished. For some time she lived on in hopes that her husband had escaped, and might some day return. Not without difficulty was she at length persuaded by her friends that she was really a widow. While her husband was in the navy, she had received a portion of his pay--now she had to depend entirely on her own exertions for the support of herself and little Peter. On her child she devoted all her care and attention, and brought him up faithfully in the nurture and admonition of the Lord, and when he did wrong corrected him carefully and wisely. She had taught him especially to love the Book of books, and at an early age little Peter could read fluently and well. When she fell ill he repaid her loving care with the most tender devotion. "Mother, shall I read to you?" he asked, as he took his accustomed seat by her side. "Do, my boy," she answered, taking a small strongly-bound Bible, carefully secured in a leathern case, from under her pillow. "I have been trying to do so, but my eyes are dim, and I could not see the print; but, praised be God, I can remember parts, and I have been repeating to myself our merciful Father's blessed promises to us His children." "That's true, mother," said Peter, opening the book at the third chapter of Saint John's Gospel. "`God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God sent not His Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through Him might be saved;'" and Peter read on to the end of the chapter. "Shall I read more, mother?" he asked. "Read, read," she whispered, "for it will soon be too dark." At length Peter could see to read no more, and closing the book, he put it carefully back into the case. "Keep it, my child," said his mother, solemnly; "cherish it, and never part with it while you live. Put it in your breast-pocket now; I would like to see it there, next to your heart, where I pray its truths may find a firm lodgment. It was a gift to me from my dear young mistress on her deathbed. She had intended it for her own child, and she charged me, should I ever have one, to instruct him from his earliest days in its glorious truths. Peter, I have done so, not trusting in my own strength and knowledge, but with earnest prayer that those truths may be imparted to you. And oh, Peter, while you take care of the book, make it a lamp to your feet and a light to your path. Read it with prayer, seeking the aid of God's Holy Spirit to instruct you in its truths, and you will not read in vain." Mrs Gray spoke with solemn earnestness, and Peter promised to follow her counsels, uttering a petition to Heaven at the same time that he might have grace to do so. "Peter," she continued, "I am soon to be taken from you, but I die in peace, for I know that God has heard my prayers, and will watch over you and guard you from evil, and support and comfort you, but do you yourself seek comfort and guidance from Him, and you will not be left destitute." She was silent for some minutes. "Peter," she said, drawing him closer to her and speaking in a low voice, "I grieve to part from you, but I grieve more when I think of your poor father. God knows how earnestly I have prayed for him, and I cannot even now believe that he was taken out of the world still ignorant of God's love and free pardon to all who believe in His Son. I have often dreamed that he has come to me, looking just as he was when he went away, only paler and more careworn; he seemed to ask me to fetch him from some far-off land whence he could not escape. It may have been but an empty dream working on my fancy, and yet I cannot believe that it was so. Oh, what joy it would bring to my heart could I know that he loved the Saviour, and that he is yet alive and the door of mercy still open." Peter's heart was too full of sorrow to let him speak. The waning light prevented him from clearly distinguishing his mother's countenance, but there seemed to be a strange brightness in her eye as she spoke with failing voice, and the hopes her dying words expressed were imparted to him. "Bless you, my boy, bless you!" she murmured, in a scarcely audible voice. His hand was in hers, she pressed it as she spoke, and tried to draw him nearer to her heart. He leant over her, and put his other arm under her head; gradually he felt her hand relax its loving grasp, but many minutes passed before the fear came over him that her spirit had fled. "Mother, mother!" he earnestly cried; "speak to me." There was no answer. He had never been with death before, but he knew too well that she was indeed gone from him. He sat there long with his face on the bedclothes, too much overwhelmed with grief to move. He longed to go and call Betsy, yet he could not bear to leave his mother's body. Soon, however, a step was heard, and the old woman herself entered the room. There was still light sufficient to enable her to see at a glance what had occurred. She stepped up, and closing her dead friend's eyes, gently led little Peter into the outer room. She had brought a couple of candles with her, purposing to spend the night at the cottage if she was required, and lighting them, she left one with Peter, bidding him sit down while she took up the other. "When you feel sleepy, my boy, go to bed; the rest will do you good. I'll stay with your mother; it will be nothing strange to me. I have had so many I loved taken from me, that I am accustomed to watch by the bodies of those who, I hope, went where I am sure she is gone. It's a blessed thing to know that she is happy in heaven; let that comfort you, Peter, and don't take on so, boy." Saying this, she returned to Mrs Gray's room. Peter's head sunk on the table--he wept sorely and long. As he bent down, he felt the book his mother had just given him, which he had placed in his bosom. He took it out and began to read it. Promise after promise beamed forth from its sacred pages on his young soul, lighted by God's Holy Spirit, for he took God at His word, and was comforted. After awhile he crept up the ladder to his little attic room, as Betsy had desired him, and was soon fast asleep. He awoke at daybreak, not forgetting his duty to Farmer Ashton's sheep, and when he got down-stairs he found his kind old friend waiting for him with a crust of bread and a bit of cheese. "You must not disappoint the farmer," she said; "I'll do all that's wanted for your poor mother." "I hadn't forgot the sheep," said Peter; "but, Betsy, may I see her? I could not go without!" Betsy led him into the room. His mother's face looked so calm and peaceable, just like an angel, he thought; he almost fancied she was asleep. "Now go," said Betsy, after he had gazed at her for some moments. "The red streaks are already in the sky." Peter lingered for a moment, then recollecting his duty, hurried down the hill to Mr Ashton's farm. His mother's funeral took place a few days afterwards, he and Betsy and two or three other friends being the mourners. He found to his dismay that he could not return to live at the cottage. He had had thoughts of taking up his abode there all by himself. During Mrs Gray's illness debts had accumulated, and creditors claimed the little property, which had to be sold, and when his mother's funeral expenses had been paid, four or five pounds only remained as the young orphan's inheritance. Betsy took him to her cottage, where he shared the bed of one of her grandchildren, and he continued as before to tend Farmer Ashton's sheep. Often, as the motherless boy sat watching his flock on the sunny downs, he cast his eyes towards the distant blue sea, and wondered what strange lands might be beyond. The thought of his father would then come across his mind. His imagination pictured him still living in those far away unknown regions. What if he could find him and tell him the glorious gospel news! He should be obeying his mother's most earnest wishes. He knew but little of geography; he had read of Palestine and Egypt, and other distant countries, but he had a very indefinite idea as to where they were situated, and as to the rest of the globe, it was, although not quite a blank, yet filled up by his own vivid imagination with strange lands, in which wonders of all sorts existed. Day after day, as he gazed in the same direction, his desire to visit those wondrous regions increased, till he resolved to go on board a ship, and sail forth over the ocean to visit them. Little Peter was in earnest in all things; his faith was earnest, his speech was earnest; truthfulness beamed from his eyes, he was in earnest in whatever he was about. Farmer Ashton discovered this by the way he looked after his sheep. Peter knew every one of them, and reported the least sign of disease--not a sore foot escaped his vigilant eye. The farmer offered to increase his wages if he would stop, when Peter told him he wished to leave his service and go to sea, and was very angry when, though thanking him kindly, he said that he had made up his mind on the matter and meant to go. The farmer warned him that he would have to endure all sorts of dangers and disasters, and was a fool for his pains. Betsy also had used every argument to dissuade him from his purpose, but nothing could change it. When she found that all she could say had no effect, she gave him the money she had charge of, and assisted him in getting ready some clothes that he might set forth in a respectable manner to the neighbouring port to which the carrier, who passed through the hamlet once a week, undertook to convey him. CHAPTER TWO. A START IN LIFE. The carrier's cart stopped on a height above the little town of Oldport. Peter gazed with wonder and admiration on the wide ocean spread out before him, now bright and shining under a blue sky and light summer breeze. It surpassed his utmost expectations--a beautiful highway it seemed to those distant regions he had longed to visit, and he fancied that there could be no impediment in his course till he could reach them. As soon as the carrier had deposited him and his bundle at the inn close to the harbour, he set out to walk along the quay, and looked at the vessels whose tall masts rose in a long row above it. As he had never before seen a vessel, he was unable to judge of their size; to his eyes they seemed mighty ships, capable of battling with the wildest waves which could ever rage across the bosom of the deep. They were in reality colliers or other small coasters, as no vessels of any size could enter the harbour. He was ready to go on board the first which would receive him. Peter had never had any playmates or young companions. He had lived alone with his mother, who had taught him to read, and trained him in the love and fear of God. The Bible was almost the only book he knew. He was, in consequence, grave beyond his years. The few neighbours used to laugh at him as "an odd, old-fashioned little fellow," as, indeed, he was; but everybody respected and trusted him. He walked up and down the quay once or twice before he could make up his mind what to do. At last he determined to address a sailor-looking man who was leaning against a stout post round which two or three hawsers from the neighbouring vessels were secured. "Is one of those ships there yours?" asked Peter, in a hesitating tone. "Why do you want to know, my lad?" inquired the seaman. "Because I want to go and be a sailor in one of them," said Peter. "Then take my advice, and give up wanting," said the seaman. "Better by half remain on shore, and tend sheep and cattle, as I have a notion you have been doing. None of the vessels are mine; I am only mate in the _John and Mary_, yonder," pointing to a schooner which lay alongside the quay. "We have got a boy, and I would not have a hand in taking any youngster away from home unless he knew more about what he would have to go through than I suspect you do. Now go back, lad, whence you came," continued the mate, folding his arms and puffing away at the pipe he had in his mouth. One or two other sailors laughed at him or roughly turned aside without deigning to answer. At last he reached a two-masted vessel, in reality a brig, somewhat larger than the rest, but her deck was black with coal-dust, and everything about her had a dark, grimy look. A rough, black-bearded, strongly-built man, better dressed than some of those he had spoken to, was stepping on shore by the plank which formed a communication between the vessel and the quay. Peter guessed rightly that he was the captain. Beginning to feel that his hope of going to sea was less likely to be accomplished than he had expected, he determined, with a feeling somewhat akin to desperation, to address him, though the expression of his countenance was far from encouraging. "Do you want a boy on board your ship, sir?" he said, touching his hat, as his mother had taught him to do when addressing his betters. "What, run away from home?" asked the man, stopping, and looking down upon him. "I have no home, sir," answered Peter. "What, no father and mother?" "No, sir," said Peter. "Mother is dead, and father, they say, is dead, too." "Then you will do for me. As it happens, I do want a boy. Here, Jim," he said, turning round, and addressing a sailor as rough-looking as he was himself, but much dirtier, who appeared at the companion-hatch; "here's a lad for you. You had better keep an eye on him, as maybe he will change his mind, and run off again. Go aboard, boy," he added, turning to Peter, "Jim will look after you, and show you what you have got to do." The captain went into the town, and old Jim, who proved to be the mate, took charge of Peter. Old Jim asked him several questions. The answers which Peter gave appeared to satisfy him. Peter inquired the captain's name. "Captain Hawkes; and our brig is the _Polly_," answered Jim. "You won't find a finer craft between this and `No man's land,' if you know where that is." Peter saw that she was the largest vessel in the harbour, and so readily believed what the mate said. The old man asked him if he was hungry, and Peter acknowledging; that such was the case, he took him down into the cabin, and after giving him some bread and ham, offered him a tumbler of rum and water. Peter, who had never tasted spirits, said he would rather not take the rum, whereon old Jim laughed at him and drank it himself. "We shall all get under weigh with the evening tide if the wind holds fair, for it's off the land you see, and will take us out of the harbour," he observed. "You had better lie down till then on the locker and get some sleep, for may be you will find your first night at sea rather strange to you." "Where is the vessel going to?" asked Peter, who fully expected to be told that it was to the Holy Land, or India, or some of the few other distant countries of which he had heard. "We are bound to Newcastle first to take in coals, and it's more than I can tell you where we shall go after that." "Is Newcastle in a far-off country?" asked Peter. "It's a good bit from here," said old Jim; "and if you want to be a sailor, you will have a fair chance of learning before the voyage is out, and so take my advice and don't trouble yourself about the matter. Do as I tell you, just lie down--you would have slept all the sounder if you had taken the grog, though." Old Jim was afraid, perhaps, that Peter would get talking to the rest of the crew, and hear something about Captain Hawkes which might induce him to go on shore again, the last boy having run from the ship, though shoeless and penniless, rather than endure the treatment he had received. Peter, not suspecting old Jim's motive, sat down on the locker in the cabin. Not feeling disposed to sleep he took up his Bible, as he had been accustomed to do when tending sheep on the Springvale downs, and began to read. Old Jim gazed at him with open eyes. To see a ship's-boy reading a book, and that book the Bible, as he guessed it to be, was entirely out of his experience. "He must be a curious chap," he said to himself; "I don't know that he will suit us, after all; but then he will soon get all that knocked out of him I have a notion." Peter, who never failed to pray that God's Holy Spirit would enlighten his mind when he read the Bible, was so completely absorbed in perusing the sacred page, that he did not observe old Jim's glances, nor hear his muttered words. At length, feeling his eyes heavy, he closed the book and replaced it in his bosom. Then he lay down, as he had been advised, on the locker, and was soon fast asleep. The fatigue he had gone through, and the heat of the cabin, made him sleep soundly, and he did not hear the noise of the men's feet on deck as the warps were cast off, or their "yeo! yeo! yeos!" as they hoisted the sails. The captain, who came into the cabin to deposit his papers and several articles he had brought on board, did not rouse him up, and the _Polly_ gliding smoothly out of the harbour, was some distance from the land before he awoke. The sun, a bright ball of fire setting the heavens all ablaze, was sinking into the ocean astern when Peter made his way on deck; the coast with its sandy bays, rocky cliffs, and lofty headlands, their western sides tinged with a ruddy glow appearing on the left, while the calm ocean of an almost purple tint with a golden hue cast across it, stretched away to the right. Peter felt its beauty and majestic tranquillity far more than he could have found words to express. The dark sails, the dirty deck, the begrimed countenances and slovenly dress of the crew contrasted with the purity of the sky and ocean all around. The captain and old Jim his mate were standing aft, speaking to each other. They were apparently talking about him, for they cast their glances towards where he stood looking round and uncertain what to do. He was aroused by the captain shouting to him: "You are one of the sleeping order, youngster, I see; you have had a long snooze; you will have to keep your eyes open in future. What is your name?" "Peter Gray, sir," answered the boy. "Peter is enough for us," said the captain. "Now go forward; your berth is in the forepeak, you will understand; and Jim and the cook will find you work enough. You don't expect to be idle?" "No, sir," said Peter, "I came to learn to be a sailor." "They will teach you, and fast enough, too, with a rope's-end if you don't look sharp about you," said the captain, with a laugh, "and soon make you dip your hands in the tar-bucket and swash-tub. Have you got any working duds with you?" "I don't know what duds mean, sir," answered Peter. "Not know what duds mean, and you a sailor's son, as you tell me? Clothes, to be sure," cried the captain, laughing again. "I have got another suit for Sundays, when I go to church, sir," answered Peter. The captain and old Jim laughed in chorus at the reply. "We have no Sundays aboard here, and don't carry church steeples at our mast-heads," cried the former, again laughing at his own wit as he considered it. He and his mate were in a merry mood, for they had just had one successful voyage, and as the weather was fine they hoped to make another. The captain himself had taken a parting-glass or two with his friends on shore. So little Peter found him and his mate in their best humour. "Do you hear, boy?" cried the captain, seeing that Peter did not move; "go forward and see what they have got for you to do." Peter did not know where forward was, but observing the direction in which the captain was looking, supposed it to be at the other end of the ship. "I left my bundle down-stairs there, sir; shall I take it with me?" he asked. Again the captain and mate laughed. Of course they felt their superiority to the poor ignorant little shepherd-boy. "We have no down-stairs here, no more than we have Sundays; but your bundle is not to stop in my cabin, I should think. Get it and take it with you." Peter, having got his bundle from below, went forward, accompanied by old Jim. "Now, lads," said the latter to the four unkempt beings who formed the crew of the _Polly_, "here is a boy for you, and just see he don't go overboard or run away; the skipper is tired of getting lads to do your work." The men looked at little Peter and grinned. "Now, boy," said old Jim, turning to Peter, "come below and I'll show you your berth. You must keep your eyes wide open, or may be you will not see it." The mate descended through a small hatchway by an upright ladder into a dark place, where Peter, as he was bid, followed him. He could hear the mate's voice, but could not distinguish him in the gloom, which at first appeared impenetrable. "Come here," cried the mate. "What, are you blind?" Peter was stretching out his hands trying to grope his way. By degrees a glimmer of light which came down the hatchway enabled him to distinguish old Jim, and as his eyes became more accustomed to the gloom, he discovered that he was in a triangular-shaped place, with shelves on either side which formed the bunks or standing bed-places of the crew, the heel of the bowsprit making a division in the fore part. Some chests were on the floor, and thick coats, sou'-westers, with numerous other articles, were hung up against the bulk-heads, which formed the third side of the forepeak. "That's your berth," said old Jim, pointing to the foremost sleeping-place in the bow of the vessel. "The boy who has gone has left his blankets, so you will have the use of them. And mind when you are called you turn out pretty quick; we cannot have laggards aboard the _Polly_." "Thank you, sir," said Peter, depositing his bundle in the dark, close-smelling bunk. "I am accustomed to be afoot by daybreak, to look after Farmer Ashton's sheep." "You will have something different from sheep to look after; and night and day at sea are the same. All hands don't turn in and sleep till the sun is up, or the ship would be apt to lose her way." A laugh at the mate's wit from some of the other men who had followed them into the forepeak, was heard out of the darkness. When the mate was gone, they gathered round Peter and began to amuse themselves at his expense. He, however, took their jeers quietly, not attempting to reply; indeed, as he did not clearly understand their meaning, the jokes generally fell harmless. Finding at length that they could not irritate him, they told him to go on deck to help Bill. Bill was the man who did duty as cook. Peter found him in the caboose; he was as black and grimy as a negro, with grease and coal-dust. "They told me you wanted me, Bill," said Peter. "Yes," growled Bill, "clean out those pots and wash up the dishes and plates in that tub. Here is some hot water for you." Peter performed the work to the cook's satisfaction. He gave him some bread and a piece of bacon for his supper, as he had eaten nothing since the afternoon. Peter was standing watching the moon, whose full orb as it rose in the sky shed a silvery light over the ocean, a spectacle novel and beautiful to him, when old Jim, in a gruff voice, told him to go and turn in. Though he would infinitely have preferred remaining on deck, he did as he was bid. He did not omit, before he took off his clothes, to kneel down and pray for protection for himself and all on board. No one saw the young boy in the attitude of prayer, or he would not have escaped interruption, but Peter knew that God saw him and heard him. Young and humble as he was, and unpromising as were the manners of those among whom he had been thrown, he felt no fear. His mind was at rest. He climbed into his berth and was soon asleep. CHAPTER THREE. PERILS AT SEA. The _Polly_ had made good progress on her voyage, the North Foreland had been rounded, and with a fair breeze under all sail she was running to the north. There were numerous other colliers, brigs and schooners and vessels of all sizes, scattered far and wide over the sea, some close at hand, others mere specks, their loftier canvas just rising above the clearly-defined horizon. Poor Peter had had a hard life of it, ordered about by every one on board, often receiving an undeserved cuff and kick, or finding the end of a rope laid sharply across his shoulders when he did not understand an order which he had never before heard issued. His clothes and face and hands were now almost as dirty as those of his companions, although he did his best to keep them clean, but he had received a rope's-ending from the cook for taking fresh water for the purpose of washing himself, and he found that the salt water had little effect on his skin. But he did not complain. He had a source of comfort within him of which those around knew nothing. What grieved him most was the fearful language he heard hourly uttered, God's holy name profaned, foul oaths, and obscene conversation. Whenever he could he endeavoured to escape from it. He either tried to get on deck when his shipmates were below, or below when they were on deck--to get anywhere where they were not. Still, so persistent are depraved human beings under the influence of Satan, in showing their enmity to those who love God, and to God Himself, that they often followed him with their ribald shouts, and kept him forcibly down among them. Alas! this is no uncommon scene on board, not only many a collier, but many a proud ship that sails over the ocean. Still, Peter had not read his Bible in vain. Influenced by God's Holy Spirit, he knew that he must return good for evil. Now and then, when a retort rose to his lips, he sought for grace to repress it, and he either remained silent or gave a mild reply. He persevered, too, in reading his Bible. Often when the lantern was lit in the forepeak, and the watch below were asleep, he would rise from his berth, and by its pale light sit on a chest beneath it and read from the sacred page, although he could with difficulty make out the words. At other times he would stow himself away forward, and opening his beloved book, draw comfort and consolation from it till he was summoned to some duty by one of his task-masters. Two or three times he had stolen aloft unnoticed by those on deck, and read uninterruptedly for an hour or more, but the mate at length discovering him, called him down. "I told you we don't allow idlers aboard," exclaimed old Jim, bestowing several cuts with a rope's-end on his shoulders. "Don't let me ever catch you again with your book aloft doing nothing, or overboard it goes; we don't want psalm-singers or Bible-readers among us. Remember my words." Peter trembled with alarm for the safety of his book. The mate might put his threat into execution, and what could he do to prevent it? Yet he would fight hard before he would give it up, of that he was determined. At the same time he knew that he must obey orders, and he dare not again venture aloft to read. Even if he read on deck, he might run the risk of losing his book. Yet read he must. He asked for guidance and direction from above. The fear which had thus been aroused of losing his Bible made him consider how he could still better secure it. Hitherto he had carried it inside his shirt, with his waistcoat buttoned over it. He now determined to make a canvas case and sling it round his neck. One of the men had some canvas for mending his clothes. Peter purchased a piece, together with some twine, with one of the few shillings he had in his pocket, and borrowed a sail needle from the mate, who lent it, not knowing the object it was for. Peter had watched the men at work, and by perseverance manufactured a case to his satisfaction, with a canvas strap to go round his neck. He could now carry his Bible night and day, and if summoned suddenly on deck, he would still have it with him, and should it enter the head of one of his shipmates to try and take it from his bunk while he was on deck, he would be disappointed. Peter now felt far more content than heretofore about the safety of his Bible. He had frequently to go into the captain's cabin to carry his meals from the caboose and to clean it out. Generally Captain Hawkes took no notice of him, but one day, being in a facetious humour, he exclaimed, "Well, boy, have you got through your book yet?" "No, sir," said Peter, "I don't expect to do so for a long time to come." "Look sharp, then," said the captain; "you will never be a sailor till you have." "I am afraid, sir, then, I never will become a sailor," said Peter, quietly. "How so?" asked Captain Hawkes. "Because I shall wish to read the book till the last day of my life. I want to read it to know how to live, and just as much to know how to die." "We can live very well without it, I have a notion," said the captain; "but as to dying, that may be a different matter." "Beg pardon, sir," said Peter, "but I have been taught that it is one and the same thing. If you like, sir, I'll read to you all about it from the book." "No, no; I want none of your Bible reading," answered the captain. "But, sir," said Peter, feeling a bold spirit rise within him, "if the ship was to go down, and we all were drowned, and had to stand before God, how those who had the words, `Depart, ye accursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels,' spoken to them would wish that they had listened to God's word, and been prepared to meet Him as their Judge." "Get out of the cabin, you little canting hypocrite," exclaimed the captain, fiercely, for God's words uttered by the young boy had struck home to his conscience; but he "loved darkness rather than light, because his deeds were evil," and he sought to avoid the light. Peter went on deck with a feeling of deep sorrow at his heart that the captain would not listen. He wished, however, that he had spoken to him rather of God's love to sinners than of his threatenings. "The mention of that great love might have touched his heart," he thought; "I will tell him of it another time." He often tried when he could speak alone to any of the men to get them to allow him to read from his book; but he was told to keep it to himself, no one on board wanted it. He hoped, however, to succeed by perseverance; and perhaps when they found that he was becoming a smart and active sailor, and could lay out on the yards and reef and steer as well as any of them, they would be more ready to listen. He did his utmost, therefore, to learn his duty as a seaman. Old Jim began to treat him with less harshness than at first, and in his rough way gave him instruction in the art he wished to acquire; he taught him to box the compass and to steer, and even explained why various manoeuvres were performed. Still, when Peter began to speak about the Bible, or anything contained in it, he either turned a deaf ear or angrily told him to mind his own business. The Tyne was at last reached, and Peter's wonder was excited by the large city he saw stretching up the hill, and the numerous other towns and villages which lined the banks of that important river, but still more by the numberless vessels taking in their cargoes of coal, shot down into their holds from the cliffs above them. Much as he wished it he was not allowed to go on shore, the captain suspecting that, like his predecessors, he might not return. Though he had harder work than ever, yet, having fewer task-masters, he was less ill-treated than before. The _Polly_ having received her cargo, again put to sea, bound, Peter heard, for the Thames. Hitherto the weather had been fine, and he had escaped sea-sickness and wet clothes. A few nights after leaving the Tyne it came on to blow hard, with the wind right ahead, and the _Polly_ began to tumble about in a way which made Peter feel very miserable. Sometimes, though under close-reefed topsails, she heeled down so much that he could scarcely stand on the wet slippery deck, and he fancied that she would go over altogether. The dark green seas, with their foaming crests, rolled up on either hand, and frequently broke on board in showers of spray, as the brig ploughed her way amid them: now she rose to the top of a mountain billow; now she plunged down on the opposite side, with her bowsprit almost under water, and now the sea struck her and made her frame quiver fore and aft. The scene was a terrible one to look at--how different from that Peter had witnessed the first day he had been at sea!--still he did not fear; he knew that the same Almighty hand who guarded him then protected him now, but he did feel that he might at any moment be summoned into the presence of One he had loved on earth, and who would, he knew, welcome him in heaven, not on account of any merit of his own, but because he took Him at His word and trusted His Son, whom He had sent to save sinners. The men, and even the captain and mate, were more silent than usual, though when they did speak they gave utterance to the same oaths which had so often issued out of their mouths. It was trying work on deck, and when Peter's watch was over, wet and weary he was glad to go below; but when he lay down in his narrow berth, the fearful blows which struck again and again on the bows of the ship prevented him from sleeping. When he did at last drop off he was quickly aroused by another blow, heavier than the former, which made him fancy that the brig must have struck a rock; but on she again went, battling her way across the stormy ocean. The gale was increasing. At night, when he had again to go on deck, the seas, though not so clearly visible as during the day, appeared much higher, and threatened every instant to roll down upon the deck and sweep every one off it. The fore-hatch was battened down, the crew collected aft. When day dawned their faces looked pale and anxious, and even Captain Hawkes and old Jim seemed to wish that the gale was over. Peter heard the mate report to the captain that he had sounded the well, and feared that the brig had sprung a leak. The pumps were rigged, and the crew set to work on them. The quantity of clear water which came up left no doubt about the matter. The men grumbled and swore, but worked away. Peter was ordered to take his spell, and even old Jim and the captain took theirs. All day long they worked away, and at night also. No fire could be lighted in the caboose, for the seas broke so heavily over the bows of the ship that they dashed in upon the fore-hatchway. Such provisions as could be eaten without cooking were their only fare. Peter wished to read the Bible to his shipmates, but the spray broke over them in such dense showers that the leaves would have been wetted through in an instant. He could recollect, however, many portions, and great was the comfort they gave him. When he ventured to repeat them aloud to those crouched down under the bulwarks near him, they told him to be silent; it was not the time, with a gale blowing, to trouble them with his notions. "But where should we be if the brig does go down?" he asked, for he saw the too great probability of that event occurring to make him hesitate about speaking. The men told him to hold his tongue and not trouble them. Numbers do the same when warned of danger not more imminent than that which threatened the brig's crew. "Spell ho!" was the cry, and Peter and those he had spoken to took their places at the pumps. Another day came to an end. During the next night the water gained so much on the pumps that Captain Hawkes resolved to head the brig in for the land in the hopes of making some sheltering port. Whereabouts he was he could not exactly tell. Again and again the well was sounded. The night was pitchy dark, the wind blew harder than ever, and the foam-topped seas raged round the hapless brig. The men laboured at the pumps, the captain and mate working as hard as the rest, for they all knew that their lives depended on their exertions. Hour after hour passed by. Day was approaching. The captain thought that they must be nearing the land. The men at length cried out that they could work no more without food. Peter was sent down to get it. He crept about in the dark searching in the lockers for what could be found. He felt the water above his knees, but he was so wet that he did not heed it; it was his duty to get the food, he would not return without it. He fancied that he heard loud cries and shouting on deck, though the howling and whistling of the wind and the roar of the sea almost drowned all other sounds. Presently he was sensible that the vessel had received a heavy blow. Another and another followed. He had found the food he was sent for, and was making his way with a heavy load up the companion ladder, when a sudden heave of the vessel threw it over him, and he fell to the bottom. He was stunned with the fall and lay insensible for awhile--how long he could not tell--but he recovered after some time, and the ladder being jerked back into its place, he scrambled up on deck. He saw no one. On looking over the side he discovered the boat, with the captain and crew, pulling away a few fathoms off. He shouted to them, entreating to be taken in. Old Jim cried out in return: "We will come for you." But either they found it impossible to return, or feared that the boat would be stove in in making the attempt. Peter supposed truly that they had quitted the brig, believing that she would immediately sink. At that moment another sea struck her, and lifting her up, she once more glided on. Fearing that she would again ground, and that the next sea might sweep over her deck, he sprang to the main rigging and climbed up into the top. Scarcely had he left the deck when the water rushed completely over it. The brig, pressed by the sails still set, glided slowly on. Lower and lower she sank; as she did so, Peter climbed up to the topmast-head, and there he clung. He did his utmost to escape death, though he was prepared to meet it. He caught sight for a moment of the boat tossing amid the mass of foaming waters; when he again looked in the direction he had last seen her, she was nowhere visible. In a little while he became conscious that the brig had ceased to sink. In the east, towards where the faint streaks of returning day appeared in the sky, the sea tumbled and tossed as wildly as before, but where the masts of the brig rose above the surface the water was comparatively calm. The vessel had indeed driven first on the tail or extreme point of a bank, and then being forced over it, had drifted inside it some little distance before she had gone down, being then protected from the fury of the waves by the bank itself. All Peter knew, however, was that he was clinging to the mast-head of a sunken vessel, that a storm raged around him, and no human aid was at hand. He had no food, for he had lost that when thrown from the ladder, and it was some time since he had eaten; but he had saved his Bible, and he knew that his Father in heaven would take care of him. CHAPTER FOUR. ON BOARD THE PRIMROSE. As day dawned Peter looked out for the boat, earnestly hoping that the captain and crew had escaped destruction. It was nowhere to be seen. Here and there he caught sight of a dark sail just rising above the horizon, while in the west he could just distinguish a line of low coast. How solitary and wretched he would have felt, how ready to give way to despair, had he not known that, all alone as he was, God his Father was watching over him. He had thus clung on for some time to the mast, when he became aware that the wind had greatly moderated; the waves no longer clashed so savagely over the sand-bank as before. Gradually the sea became calmer and calmer; the clouds cleared away; the bright sun shone forth and dried his wet clothes. He felt hungry, but his strength did not desert him. He descended to the cross-trees, now above water, and seating himself, searched in his pocket and discovered two biscuits which he had put into them when in the cabin and had forgotten. He ate one of the biscuits and felt revived, and then finding that there was no danger of falling off, he drew forth his beloved Bible and read. How full of comfort and assurance it was to him who read with an eye of faith! There was no one to disturb him now. Alas! where were those who had been wont to interrupt him? What would they now have given to have trusted to that book, and obeyed its precepts? Peter did not, however, allow such a thought to enter his mind. He only hoped that they had escaped, and were making their way to the land; not a particle of bad feeling was in his heart against those who had so ill-treated him. He read and read on till, feeling a drowsiness come over him, he restored the book to its case, and then once more climbed up the mast to look round in the hopes of seeing some vessel or boat approaching. The sun had completely dried his clothes, and warmed him. A soft air blew off the land. He knew well that vessels would generally give the sands a wide berth. "Still, if God thinks fit to send me help He will direct some craft this way," he said to himself. "Perhaps some fishing-boats will be passing, or Captain Hawkes may send out to learn what has become of the brig." As he looked northward, he saw afar off a large ship under all sail standing to the south. Whether or not she was inside or outside the shoals he could not tell. She came on but slowly, for the wind was light. He judged, however, that she would not pass at any great distance from where he was. How beautiful she looked, with her spread of white canvas shining in the sun. Nearer and nearer she came. He was convinced at last that she was outside the shoals. "Those on board will scarcely notice the thin masts of the brig above the water," he thought; "still God will turn their eyes this way if He thinks fit." Let no one suppose, that little Peter placed a presumptuous confidence in God's protecting care of a young boy like himself. He had read that not a sparrow falls to the ground but He knows it; that the hairs of our heads are all numbered, and he well knew that he should be offending his kind Father if he doubted His words. What strength and fearlessness did this simple faith give him. The proud ship glided on, her canvas swelling to the breeze; it seemed that she would quickly run past him. He could almost distinguish the people on her deck. He shouted, fancying that his feeble voice would be borne over the water towards her. Presently he saw the hitherto full canvas flap against the masts; her courses, and her topsails, and topgallant sails hung down uselessly; the breeze which had hitherto fanned his cheeks died away. The ship was almost abreast of him, but rather to the southward, so that those on her deck saw the rays of the sun striking directly on the brig's masts. Without thinking of this, however, he took off his hat and waved it again and again. The ship appeared to be drifting in towards the bank. How eagerly he watched her. Presently he saw a boat lowered from her quarter; several people jumped in, and with rapid strokes pulled towards him. The tide had again risen, and scarcely a ripple was observed on the bank. The boat crossed it, and an encouraging cheer reached his ears; he waved his hat in return, and descending the rigging stood ready to step into the boat as soon as she came. "Glad to rescue you, my lad," said the officer, who was steering. "How long have you been on the mast? What's become of your shipmates?" "Since last night," answered Peter; "and I hope they have reached the shore in the boat." "I should think if they have deserted you, you would wish rather that they had gone to the bottom as they deserve," said the officer. "We should wish harm to no one, and do good to our enemies," answered Peter. "Very good," said the officer, "though the other is most natural. But how were you left behind?" "I was in the cabin getting up provisions for them, when, as the brig appeared to be going down, they, I suppose, shoved off in the boat and forgot me." "Scoundrels! I can only hope their boat was swamped," exclaimed the officer. "But give way, lads; the ship is closer in to the bank than is altogether pleasant, and we shall have to tow her head off if the breeze does not spring up again." The boat was quickly alongside, and Peter soon found himself on the deck of a ship larger than he had ever before seen. He looked round with astonishment and admiration. Every one was busy in lowering the boats to tow the ship away from the dangerous proximity to the bank. Peter was, therefore, for some time left alone. The breeze, however, soon again returning, filled the sails, and the boats were hoisted in. The captain, a fine-looking young man, with a frank countenance, then called Peter aft, and put to him nearly the same questions the mate had asked. "How came you to escape, my lad? You don't even look much the worse for your adventure." "God took care of me, sir," answered Peter, simply. The captain smiled. "Well, I suppose it's something to fancy that," he observed. "But I know it, sir," said Peter firmly. The captain cast a somewhat astonished glance at him. "Well, lad, you must be hungry and sleepy; the steward will give you some food, and find you a berth forward. If we have an opportunity, we will put you on shore, that you may return to your friends." "I have no friends on shore, sir," answered Peter, "and I want to go to sea." "Then do you wish to remain on board?" asked the captain. "Yes, sir, please; I wish to visit foreign lands." "Very well, you will have the chance with us, and I'll enter you as one of the ship's boys," said the captain. "Below there!" he shouted, and the steward, a black man, appeared. "Give this lad some food, and find him a berth, Emery," said the captain, in a good-natured tone. Turning aft he said to himself, "There is stuff in that lad, though he has evidently been brought up among the Methodists." The black steward took Peter into his pantry, and having given him a good meal, pressing him to eat as much as he wanted, led him forward. On the way he told him the ship was the _Primrose_, of 600 tons, bound out to the Mauritius, and that afterwards she was to visit other places in the Eastern Seas. Entering the seamen's berth, he pointed to one of the standing bed-places on the side, and told him he might turn in and go to sleep as long as he liked. Little Peter, who had never before seen a black man, and fancied that all such were savages, was much surprised to hear him speak English and address him in so kind a manner. "Thank you," said Peter, "I do feel very sleepy, and am glad to go to bed." Before Peter took off his clothes, however, he knelt down, and from the bottom of his heart returned thanks to God for having preserved his life and brought him on board so fine a ship. If Peter was surprised at the appearance of a black man, much more astonished was the latter at seeing the boy in the attitude of prayer. He stood a moment at the door gazing at him. "What! the little chap pray and not afraid of being seen!" he muttered to himself; "that beats anything I ever heard; I can't make it out." Yet Emery did not feel angry at what he had seen; but as he went aft to attend to his duties, he kept muttering, "Dat is strange; he not afraid; can't make it out." He was soon afterwards sound asleep, when the men, with a fellow-feeling for what he had gone through, took care not to arouse him, and he slept till breakfast time the next day. Peter found a considerable difference between the crew of the _Primrose_ and that of the _Polly_. They were generally a hearty, merry set; but, alas! he soon heard oaths and curses coming out of the lips of most of them. Some, too, were morose and ill-tempered and discontented with their lot, and all seemed utterly indifferent about their souls. Peter, however, was treated kindly, though of course he had to perform the usual duties of a ship's-boy, shared by the two other lads somewhat older than himself, apprentices on board. The first day he got into the berth when no one was there, and was able to read his Bible without interruption for nearly an hour. He was thinking that it was time to go out lest he should be wanted, when a tall handsome lad entered the berth. "What! young chap!" exclaimed the latter, "are you a book-worm? I used to be fond of reading tales and adventures; let us have a look at the story you have got hold of." "It's no story, it's all true," answered Peter; "it is God's word." "Is that your style of reading? I have no fancy for it, though each man to his taste, I say," observed the youth. "You would find it a very interesting book, though, Owen Bell," said Peter, who had heard the youth's name. "I never get tired of it, but I read it whenever I can; for it's only by reading it that we can know how to obey Christ, and be prepared to live with Him in heaven." "Oh, but I have to live down here and knock about at sea," answered Owen Bell, with a careless laugh. "It will be time enough when I become an old chap, like Simon Hixon, to think about matters of that sort." "Who is Simon Hixon?" asked Peter. "The oldest man on board. You might have heard him growling away and swearing at the cook, after dinner to-day, because the soup was not thick enough," answered Bell. "Does Simon Hixon read the Bible?" asked Peter. "Not he. You had better just try and persuade him to do so, or to listen to you, for I doubt if he can spell his own name," said Bell. "Perhaps when he was young he might have said that he would begin to read the Bible when he was old, and you see he has not begun yet," observed Peter. "No, because he is such a sulky, swearing old ruffian. If he had been a decent sort of fellow, I dare say he would have begun, if he had intended to do so, just like my father, who used to read the Bible to the day of his death," remarked the lad. "But if Simon had begun to read the Bible when he was young, he would not have become such as you say he now is," observed Peter. "Jesus Christ would have changed Simon Hixon's heart, and then he could not have become a sulky, swearing old ruffian." "You are too deep for me," said Bell, with a forced laugh. "I never quarrel with anybody, and don't want to quarrel with you; but let me advise you not to go on talking in that sort of way to the other chaps aboard; you won't hear the end of it if you do. The cook was shouting for you as I came along the deck; just hide away your Bible and go and see what he wants." Peter put his Bible into its case. "You will let me read it to you sometimes, Owen?" he said, as he went out of the berth. "Well, I don't mind if I have a spell of it some Sunday," said Bell, with apparent carelessness. "It would put me in mind of old times at home; but I should not like to be seen reading it on a week-day. I have no fancy to be called a Methodist, as you will be if you are found out." Peter, going to the caboose, asked the cook what he wanted, and was told to clean the pots and pans. He set to work with right good will. "You have done it handsomely, boy," observed the cook, when he had finished. "I have not had my pans so bright for many a day." The _Primrose_ had a fine run down Channel. On her passage a sudden squall struck her; the watch on deck flew aloft to shorten sail. Peter, who was aft, lay out on the mizen top-gallant-sail yard, and taking the weather earring, succeeded, with Owen Bell and two others, in handling the fluttering sail. As he reached the deck the captain called to him. "You did that smartly, youngster; it's not the first time I have observed you. I'll keep my eye on you. Go on as you have begun, and you will make a famous seaman." "I thank you, sir," said Peter, touching his hat as he went forward. "I didn't expect it from a psalm-singer," observed the captain to the first-mate with his usual good-natured laugh. "There is no harm in the lad for all that," was the answer. Peter, however, had his trials. Being placed in a watch, he had to turn in and out with his watch-mates. The first night, as usual, he knelt down to say his prayers. He hadn't been long on his knees, before he was interrupted by a suppressed titter, which soon broke into a peal of laughter from all hands, and several shoes came flying about him. He knelt on, however, trying to keep his thoughts calm, and his heart lifted up to God. "Well, that young chap does sleep soundly," cried one; "wake him up, Bill." "Hilloa, Peter! are you acting parson?" cried Bill, one of the wildest of the crew. Peter made no reply, and endeavoured, though it was a hard task, to continue his prayers. Similar jeers and questions were now showered on him from all sides. "Oh, my Father in heaven," he mentally ejaculated, "help me to continue to pray and soften the hearts of my shipmates towards me and towards themselves. May they see what a fearful state they are in when thus obeying Satan, and strangers to Thee." The men and boys, who, prompted by them, had been the worst, were silent for some minutes, and Peter had nearly finished his prayers, when a fresh volley of all sorts of articles was hove at him. Still he persevered. Now his tormentors burst forth afresh with ribald jests and shouts of laughter. "If he stands all that he will stand anything," growled out old Simon Hixon, who, though not taking so active a part as the rest, had encouraged them in their conduct. Peter at length rose from his knees without saying a word, took off his clothes, and turned into his berth. Although he never lay down without commending himself to God, he did not kneel down before turning in after the middle watch was over, and it was not till the second night he again went to bed during the first watch. The same conduct as before was pursued towards him, but although he received two or three severe blows he persevered. "Well, for my part, I shall be ashamed to try him any more," he heard Owen Bell exclaim as he rose from his knees. "Peter, you are a brave little chap, and if you had followed my advice this would not have come upon you," said Owen, addressing him. "You meant it kindly," answered Peter; "but as God gives me everything, and takes care of me, I am sure it is my duty to thank Him night and morning for all His benefits, and to ask Him to continue them to me. I would rather not have the things hove at my head, but you know it would not be right for me to put God aside for fear of what any of you may choose to do." When on another night two or three began the same sort of work, the rest cried out and told them to let the little psalm-singer alone; even old Hixon held his tongue, and from that time forward Peter was allowed to say his prayers in peace. CHAPTER FIVE. STRENGTH IN WEAKNESS. When little Peter read his Bible on a Sunday while other men were mending their clothes, or sleeping, or amusing themselves with old newspapers or story books, he was generally allowed to do so in peace, but he wished to study it on week-days, as well, convinced that it was intended to guide him in every affair of life. On each occasion that he was found doing so, however, he was sure to be interrupted. The other boys would play him all sorts of tricks, and the men would send him to perform some work or other, and if they could think of nothing else, would despatch him with a pretended message to the man at the helm. Simon Hixon was his greatest foe, and frequently as Peter passed gave him a blow with a rope's-end. One day as Peter was quietly reading his Bible in the berth, Hixon swore that if he found him again at it, he would throw the book overboard. "It would be a great shame to do that," answered Peter, "and I hope you won't try. God would, I am sure, not allow you to go unpunished." "You see, youngster, if I am not as good as my word," growled Hixon. Peter prayed that the old seaman's hard heart might be softened, and that he might be prevented committing such a crime. "I don't think if you read the book you would wish to destroy it," said Peter. "It is full of such beautiful things, that you would like to read them over and over again if you were once to begin." "I can't read, so there's little chance of that," said Hixon. "But will you let me read them to you?" asked Peter. "I shall be very glad to do that." "What! when I have told you that I would heave the book overboard if I found you reading it?" said the old man. "That makes no difference," said Peter, "only just listen to one or two." "Not I. I don't want to hear your yarns," said Hixon, turning away. Peter went on reading, and the old man did not further interfere with him. The ship sailed on. When she was crossing the line the usual ceremonies were performed. Peter heard what was to take place, and, fearing that his Bible would get wet, hid it away carefully. He felt very anxious, however, lest any one should suspect what he had done, and look for it. He and the other young seamen who had not before crossed the line, were ducked, and had all sorts of tricks played on them by Neptune and his attendants. Peter took everything in good part, though he was nearly drowning in a sail triced up on deck and filled with water, when Owen Bell jumped in and pulled him out. He made his escape as soon as the amusements were over, and hurried to the berth to look for his book. To his great joy he found it safe, and immediately hung it again round his neck. Some more weeks passed away. Hitherto Owen Bell, even on a Sunday, had always made some excuse for not reading with Peter. At length one hot Sunday, when the ship was becalmed in the tropics, and even Owen felt no inclination for sky-larking, Peter got him to sit down while most of the crew were asleep, or occupied in some of the few shady spots they could find. Peter, opening the book, read the account of the visit of Nicodemus to the Lord. "He was a learned and important man, and yet you see he wanted to be taught, and the Lord did teach him. He showed him he was a sinner by nature, as all of us are, and that he must become a new creature." "I cannot understand how he could become that of his own accord," said Bell. "It's hard to tell a man to do what he cannot." "The Lord never did that," said Peter, "when He told him that he `must be born again.' He showed him clearly how it must be brought about. You remember what He said about the Israelites when bitten by serpents in the wilderness, and how they were cured immediately they looked on the brazen serpent, taking Moses at his word when he told them to do so. So if we only take God at His word, and look to Jesus on the cross suffering for and bearing our sins, we shall be forgiven, and through the power of the Holy Spirit be born again. What I am sure God wants us to do is to take Him at His word, to believe that He will do whatever He says; and Jesus Himself tells us that he that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life." "What an old-fashioned little chap you are," said Owen, laughing. "You talk like a book." "It seems all very clear to me, and I wish that it did to you, Bell." "Well, the truth is, that I have been such a bad fellow, and have so many sins to answer for, that I don't fancy when God comes to count them up He can pardon me. Even when I seemed most careless and full of jokes, I have often had my heart pressed down with the recollection of all the bad things I have done." "But Jesus tells us in another place that `He came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance,' and when He says, `God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life,' He means by `whosoever,' everybody, good people and bad people." "But do you think if I was to try and please God and serve Him He would pardon me?" asked Bell. "He doesn't say that," said Peter. "He promises to forgive only those who trust in Jesus Christ, because Jesus was punished instead of them, and if one person was punished instead of another He will not punish that other; it would be unjust to do that. Oh, Bell, why don't you take God at His word, and believe on Jesus, and then you would be able to obey Him and serve Him, because He will send you the Holy Spirit to help you as He has promised?" Much more to the same effect the young boy urged on his friend, while he read numerous portions of Scripture to him to prove his words. The boys were now called off to their duty on board, and the conversation was interrupted. Owen seemed very quiet and serious; but he had no opportunity of speaking to Peter for some days. At last, when they were alone together again he said to him: "I am sure you are right, Peter; I never before understood that Jesus died instead of me on account of my sins, and therefore if I believe on Him I shall be helped to overcome my sins, and shall not be punished for them, but shall go to heaven, and live with Him in happiness; I see it, and believe it now. The Bible is no new book to me, Peter, I have heard it read often and often at home, and have read it myself too, though I could not understand its meaning." After this, Owen Bell took every opportunity of reading with Peter, and as he was as strong as a man, and respected by the crew, no one interrupted them. One evening they had been reading together, when Owen turned suddenly to Peter, and said: "Do you think if I was to die to-night I should go to be with Jesus?" "I know you would, for I am sure you believe on Him." "That I do, with all my heart and soul," exclaimed Owen Bell. "And I wish that I could serve Him and make known His love to others. I feel it myself, and I have been trying to speak to Emery about it, and though he is little better than a heathen, he said he should like to know more about one so good and kind as Jesus must be who died to save others; and Bill, the cook, was ready to listen. I think, Peter, if you offered to read to them they would let you, and tell them all about the love of Jesus, as you told me, and I cannot but fancy that they would trust to Him as I have done. It will be a hard matter to get at the captain and mates; but I should not despair of them if they were to hear of the glorious things which the Gospel contains." Peter often afterwards recollected this conversation with Owen Bell. That night he was aroused from his sleep by the cry of "All hands shorten sail!" The men rushed on deck half-clothed, for they knew the summons admitted of no delay. In an instant they were flying aloft. A heavy squall had struck the ship, and she was heeling over, her masts bending like willow wands and threatening to go every instant. The sheets were let fly, but before the sails could be furled there came a crash, and the fore-topmast with its yard, to which several of the crew were clinging, was carried away. Their cries were heard as they struggled in the foaming waters under the lee, but no help could be rendered them. Away the ship flew. Every effort was made to clear the wreck and to furl the sails. Some time passed before it could be done. The gale continued to increase. The captain stood back over the spot in the hopes of picking up some who might have clung to the spars. The names were called over. Among those who did not answer was Owen Bell. "Poor fellow," said several. "A fine young lad," said the captain, "I hope we may pick him up." Peter hoped so too; but he did not mourn for his friend as his shipmates did, for he was sure that if Owen Bell was drowned he had gone to be with the Master, who, though lately found, he had been brought truly to love. The search was vain, the ship wore round and continued her course. Peter missed Owen Bell greatly. The rest of the men treated him, for his friend's sake, perhaps, with less unkindness than before, and a more subdued tone was perceptible among them; even the captain and mates seemed to feel for the loss of the men, and fewer oaths were heard than usual. Peter found an opportunity of speaking to Emery, the negro. "That just what Owen Bell say," answered the steward; "If Jesus die for me, and love me, I ought to love Him." "Yes," observed Peter, "but not only that; you must believe that He died to take away your sins, and that your sins are taken away; that God looks upon you as free from sin, and will receive you into heaven when you die." "How can that be?" asked the black. "Because God says it," answered Peter; "what He says must be true." "In that book you read?" asked the black. "Yes, that book contains God's messages and promises to man. It is through this alone, and the leading of the Holy Spirit, that we know anything about God. Without that we should be worshipping blocks of stone, just as Owen Bell was telling me the other day your countrymen do." "Yes, and many other people in the world, and in the countries we are going to," observed Emery. "But I can't stop to listen longer; another day you tell me more of this." Peter gladly promised that he would do so. To his surprise one evening, after he had cleaned up the pots and pans, the cook asked him to come and sit in the caboose, and begged him to read a chapter or two in the Bible. Peter did so, and explained it to the best of his power, and frequently after that he spent an hour in the evening in the same way. The ship had now rounded the Cape of Good Hope. The wind was fair, the weather continued fine. Peter had determined to try again to get Hixon to let him read to him. It seemed so sad that an old man should continue to refuse listening to God's message of love. One Sunday he found him sitting by himself, as he usually did, stitching away on the sleeve of a jacket. Peter sat down near him and began to read to himself. Hixon eyed him, but not with that angry look which he generally cast when Peter was reading. "Would you like to hear some of it while you are at your work?" asked Peter at length. "Well, boy, as you are a good sort of chap after all, and axes me so often, I don't mind hearing one of your yarns out of your book; though I don't see how it can do me much good," he replied, after a little time. This was all Peter wanted. He read the parable of the "Pharisee and Publican." "Which of them do you like the best?" asked Peter. "Can't say I care for that proud chap who thought himself better than anybody else. I like t'other more, a good deal." "Because he says, `Lord, be merciful to me a sinner'?" asked Peter. "Ay," said Hixon, bending down his head. He had for some time ceased to ply his needle. "Then do you know how God says He alone will be merciful?" Peter asked. "No, 'cept to them as be sorry for what they have done bad, and try to do better." "Oh, no, no! God does not say that; Satan is always trying to make people believe it, because he well knows that if people try to make themselves better, trusting only in their own strength, they will fail. God says that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. By faith ye are saved." And Peter, in his own simple way, went on to explain that Jesus Christ, by dying on the cross for our sins, has become our Saviour, and that if men will lovingly trust to Him, God will not punish them, but, on the contrary, will look on them as possessed of the righteousness of Christ. "That's wonderful," exclaimed old Hixon, after Peter had explained the truth in several ways to make him understand it. "I can hardly believe it; and yet I suppose if one chap deserved a thrashing from me, and a bigger one said, `Thrash me instead,' and I did thrash him, and well too, I could not thrash the little one also." Hixon continued silent for awhile and said nothing. He was evidently in deep thought, as though perplexed with something he was trying to make out, but could not understand. "But I suppose a chap must not go and do what he likes after that?" said old Hixon at length, eagerly fixing his eyes on Peter. "No. If he really loves Jesus, which he must do when he knows that Jesus suffered so much for his sake, and saved him from hell, he will try and be like Him and serve Him, and turn away from and hate his sins," was Peter's answer. "For my part, I don't feel as how I could ever be good, and give up swearing, and getting in a rage, or drunk, too, if the liquor came in my way. I could only cry out--loud enough, too, like the man you were reading about--`Lord, be merciful to me a sinner!' and I don't think God would hear such a wicked chap as I have been," muttered the old man. "The Bible says that Jesus Christ came into the world to save the worst of people as well as the best; `I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.' These are the words of Jesus Himself. God promises to hear all who come to Him. He says, `Knock, and it shall be opened unto you; seek, and ye shall find.'" "I will try and ask Him for what He knows I want," said the old man. "And, Peter, just do you pray for me, and if you see me growing sulky, come and speak to me those words you spoke just now, `Jesus loves you.' I don't think I could stand hearing that and go on fighting against Him as I have been so long doing--though it's wonderful! very wonderful!" Peter did not fail to do as Hixon asked him. He seldom had occasion to repeat the blessed announcement. The old man got into the habit of saying to himself whenever he found his anger rising, "Jesus loves me, Jesus loves me," and his ill-feelings were subdued. How blessed would be the result if all who read this, and many more, too, were to act like that rough old sailor. CHAPTER SIX. SAVED FROM THE WRECK. With the exception of the gale spoken of in the last chapter, the _Primrose_ had enjoyed fine weather for the greater part of the passage. But dark, heavy clouds now rolled across the sky; the wind blew fiercely, and the seas rose up in mountainous billows, such as Peter had never before beheld. The wind, however, was fair, and with her after-sails furled, and closely-reefed topsails only set, the ship flew on before it. As Peter stood on deck he watched sea after sea rolling up astern and threatening to break on board, but with a loud roar, just as they reached her, their foaming summits came hissing down, and she glided up the side of a huge billow ahead. For an instant she seemed to hang on the top of the watery ridge, and then slid down into another valley, up the opposite side of which she climbed as before. She had thus run for some distance when the wind dropped, and she lay rolling in the trough of the still heavy sea. The sky overhead was dark and lowering, a drizzling rain fell, and the air was oppressive. The captain and officers looked anxious. They had cause to be so, for suddenly the wind again rose, now blowing from one quarter, now from another, and all hands were kept on deck ready to brace round the yards as might be required. For several days no observation had been taken, and old Hixon told Peter that he feared the ship had been driven considerably out of her course. "Will the captain soon be able to get an observation to steer the right way?" asked Peter. "If the sky clears he may, but I have known it to remain like this for days and weeks together, and though Captain Hauslar is as good a seamen as I should wish to sail with, he may be out in his reckoning, and there are some ugly rocks and shoals to the eastward, which on a dark night it is a hard matter to see till one is right upon them," answered old Hixon. After the ship had been knocking about for some days, the wind again came fair, though somewhat strong, and the captain, anxious to make up for the long delay, and hoping to escape all dangers, with the ship under moderate canvas steered to the eastward, ordering a bright look-out to be kept. The middle watch had been called, and the fresh look-outs, rubbing their eyes, had just gone to their posts. It was Hixon's turn at the wheel. Peter, who was in the same watch, followed him aft, for the old man had undertaken to give him lessons in steering. As he stood by his side he frequently quoted passages of Scripture from his Bible, and sometimes, by the light of the binnacle lamp, he referred to the book, and read long portions. Hixon having just received the course from the man he relieved had taken hold of the spokes, when there came a sharp cry from the look-out forward, of "Breakers ahead!" followed quickly by "Land! land!" "Down with the helm!" shouted the officer of the watch. "All hands on deck; brace up the yards!" Almost before the ship's course could be altered, a fearful blow was felt, which made the masts quiver and the ship tremble from stem to stern--another and another followed. The sea dashed up wildly over her, throwing her on her beam ends; then came a fearful crash, and the tall masts fell over her side towards the dark rocks which rose close to her. The captain and all below had rushed on deck. Awakened suddenly out of their sleep they stood aghast, expecting instant death. Some seemed to have lost their senses and cried wildly for help. The captain took his post by the companion-hatch, gazing around and considering what orders to issue. Hixon, when he found that all hope of the ship moving off the rock was gone, quitted the helm, and seizing Peter dragged him to the weather bulwarks. The next instant loud shrieks were heard. A tremendous sea washing across the deck had carried several of the crew overboard, sweeping some away as it receded, and dashing others against the rocks. The stern, which had been driven furthest in, afforded the most secure place. The captain shouted to the crew to come aft; some heard him, but the roaring of the breakers drowned his voice. Sea after sea struck the devoted ship, and the crashing sound which followed each blow showed that she was breaking up. Still the darkness was so great, and so fiercely did the waters rage between the ship and the shore, that destruction appeared to await any who might attempt to reach it. Already the stern of the ship was quivering under the blows of the fierce seas. "Hold on where you are, Peter," said Hixon; "I will try if there's any way of getting on shore." "But you may be washed off," said Peter. "My life is worth little," said the old man, "I am not afraid to die now, and I may, if I succeed, help to save others." Fastening a rope round his waist which he secured to a ring-bolt in the deck, he struggled to the side of the ship nearest the shore. Peter could no longer distinguish him. The captain was standing still, undecided what to do, with the third-mate and five or six seamen who had succeeded in getting aft, when old Hixon was seen making his way along the deck from amid the mass of wreck which cumbered it. "The foot of the mainmast still hangs to the ship and the head rests on a rock," he said; "what is beyond I cannot tell, it may be water or it may be land, but the sea does not break over it; it is our only chance if we can manage to reach it." "Well, lads, we had better follow old Hixon's advice," said the captain. "Those who wish it can go." The mate and the other men hung back. "Come, Peter," said Hixon, "you and I will set the example then. To my mind the ship won't hold together many minutes longer; and if we succeed, as I think we shall, they will follow if there's time. I'll go sir," he cried to the captain, and grasping Peter, he led him along, holding on to the rope. They reached the mast, when Peter, keeping close to his companion, scrambled up it. Alone he felt that he might have been unable to succeed, but supported by his old friend he made his way along the mast, which all the time was swayed up and down by the movement of the ship. He feared lest it should be hurled from its position, and the rest might be unable to escape by it. They gained a rugged rock of some extent, but the water washed round them and the spray occasionally flew over their heads. They were still at a distance from the mainland, but for the moment safer than on board the ship. They shouted as loud as they could to induce the rest to follow them. Every instant they feared that the mast would give way. Again and again they shouted. At last they caught sight of some one moving along the mast. He reached them, and it proved to be Emery, the black steward. "Are the rest coming?" asked Peter eagerly. "Hope so; captain tell us to come first," was the answer; and soon afterwards Bill the cook made his way to the rock. They all shouted together to give notice of their safe passage. At length several seamen were seen creeping along the mast, one after the other, as fast as they could move. "The ship is breaking up fast!" said one of them; "and if the skipper don't make haste he will be lost." "Oh, I wish you had all come at once!" cried Peter. "I'll go back and hasten him." "No, no, boy; you will lose your life if you do!" said Hixon. "It's his own fault if he delays." "That is no reason why we should not try to get him to come," said Peter. "You are right, boy," cried Hixon, "but if any one goes, I'll go." Hixon was just getting on the mast, when he exclaimed that the skipper and mate were coming along it. At that moment the end of the mast began to rise. Hixon threw himself off it. "Stand clear of the rigging," cried several voices. The mast moved more rapidly, the end lifting up in the air, then with a crash came down on the rock, against which it was at once violently dashed by a sea which broke over the wreck. One of the poor fellows who had escaped was dragged off into the seething waters. "The captain is gone," cried several voices. "I see a man close at hand," said Peter. "Will any one pass a rope round my waist? I am sure I could clutch him." There were several ropes scattered about the rock. Old Hixon did not hear Peter, but two or three of the other men did. One of them fastened a rope as he requested. While they held on, Peter sprung off from the rock into the water close to where the person he saw was floating. He clutched him tightly. The next sea which came roaring up would have clashed him against the rock, and his burden must have been torn from him had not his companions, roused by the example set by the young boy, whom they had been in the habit of laughing at, rushed forward and dragged them both up together. "It is the captain," cried one. "But I am afraid he is gone," exclaimed another. "No! I trust he is still alive," said Peter, sitting down by the captain's side, and taking his head on his lap. "He is breathing; he will come to, I hope." Peter rubbed the captain's chest while the steward and Bill moved his arms gently up and down. He uttered a groan; it showed that he was in pain, and had been injured against the rocks, but it was an encouraging sign. They persevered, and at length the captain spoke in a low voice, asking where he was. "You are safe on a rock," answered Emery. "We shall know better when sun rise." Just then a voice was heard at no great distance, shouting. Hixon hailed in return, "Where are you?" "On an island of some sort," was the answer. "Many more saved?" Hixon replied that the captain and ten men had escaped. Although the channel between the rock and the land might be deep, with the help of a man on the latter, if a rope could be passed to him, they might all cross in safety. They waited anxiously till daylight. The wind had gone down by that time, and the sea was much calmer. A rocky island of some height rose before them, but as the sea rushed in and out in the intervening space, even a good swimmer might have hesitated to cross. The larger portion of their gallant ship had disappeared, but the afterpart still remained entire. Several lengths of rope were cut from the rigging of the mainmast, which had been thrown back on the rock. They were eager to get across, for they had no food and no water on the rock. Several attempts were made to heave a rope to the man on the island, but in vain, the distance was too great. At length a short piece of a spar was fastened to the end of the signal halyards. How eagerly it was watched, as it floated now in one direction, now in another; gradually it drew out the line; it was hoped that it might be drifted by some surge towards the man, who was eagerly on the watch to catch it. "We must not despair," said Peter to Hixon, who had come to see how the captain was getting on. "If we pray that God will send the spar to shore He is certain to hear us, and He will do it if He thinks fit." "What you say is true, I know," observed the old man; and together they knelt and prayed that a way to serve them might be found. The captain, who had returned to consciousness, looked at them with astonishment, but said nothing. In a short time a shout came from the men who held the line on the inner side of the rock that the spar had reached the shore, and that Tom had hold of it. A stronger rope was soon hauled across, and then one which could bear the weight of two or three people at a time, if necessary. That was secured between the rock and the mainland. First one man made his way along it, then another and another, and all were going, with the exception of Emery and Bill, who, with Peter and old Hixon, stayed by the captain. The latter, seeing this, cried out, "Shame, lads; would you desert the captain when he is unable to help himself?" The men, however, did not heed him: they were eager to get hold of a cask of provisions which, with another of water, Tom told them had been thrown up on the island. The news made even Emery and Bill inclined to go. "Go, if you wish it," said the captain; "only come back and bring me some water, for I am fearfully thirsty." This made the men no longer hesitate. Peter sat still. "Are you not going?" asked the captain. "I could not leave you, sir, while you are suffering," said Peter. "But you want food and water as much as they do," said the captain. "They will bring it to me, sir," answered Peter. Notwithstanding what the captain said, neither Peter nor old Hixon would leave him. The latter was busily hauling pieces of planking and rope. Having collected enough for his purpose, he set to work to manufacture a cradle sufficiently large to contain the captain. Having arranged his plan he shouted to the other men to come and assist him. Two only, however, responded, Bill and the black; the remainder were wandering along the shore, looking out for whatever might be washed up. The black set the example. Bill followed him back to the rock, but they brought only a small piece of salted tongue and some biscuits, almost soaked through, but no water. The captain could only taste a very little, but there was enough to satisfy Hixon's and Peter's appetites. In vain the poor captain cried out for water--nothing had been found to carry it in. "The more reason we should make haste with the cradle," observed Hixon. It was at length placed on the rope, with a line attached, which Bill carried across. Peter volunteered to go in it, and safely passed over. It was then hauled back, and the captain was drawn across. Hixon and the black followed. By this time the rest of the men had disappeared. The captain was soon sufficiently revived by the water which had been obtained to look about him. He told his companions that he believed they were on one of the many wild rocky islets which exist in that part of the ocean, and that they must carefully husband the water, as possibly no spring might be found. As the captain wished to ascertain whether his surmises were correct, Peter volunteered to climb to the summit of the height above them. It was fatiguing and very dangerous work, but he succeeded at length. On looking around him, he found that they were nearly at one end of a rocky island, which extended for three or four miles to the eastward. Not a tree, or scarcely a shrub, was to be seen. In every direction all was desolation and barrenness. He returned, not without difficulty. "I thought I was right," said the captain. "You must do your best, my men, to collect all you can from the wreck; we shall need it; and, Gray, I have a word to say to you. You saved my life, I am told; if we ever get away from this, I will prove your friend." "I only did my duty, sir," said Peter. "I thought I could save you, and God helped me." "You seem to have great trust in God." "Yes, sir," said Peter. "He is a very present help in time of trouble, and we all have reason to trust Him." "I have never done so before," whispered the captain; "but I will try in future." In the meantime the other three men were collecting fragments of sails and spars, pieces of rope, and several things which formed part of the cargo, a bale of cloth and another of clothing--the latter was especially acceptable to all the party, who, with the exception of Hixon and Peter, had little on when they left the ship; but of still greater value was a cask of biscuits, another of herrings, and a few pieces of pork. What the rest of the crew might have discovered they could not tell. As the captain could not move, a hut was built of the pieces of sail and spars, and a bed having been made up beneath it with some dry grass and a piece of canvas for the captain to lie on, he and his companions prepared to pass the first night of their sojourn on the desolate rock. CHAPTER SEVEN. LIFE ON THE ROCK. When morning broke the gale had entirely ceased, but no part of the ship hung together, and all hope of obtaining any provisions from her, except such as might be washed up on the shore, was lost. The captain's condition also caused his companions much anxiety; he was suffering greatly, and appeared to be weaker than on the previous day. They had breakfasted on a small portion of biscuit and tongue, but their scanty supply of water was almost exhausted at their first meal. Peter gave the captain the larger part of his share, and having drunk a little himself, entreated that the remainder might be reserved for him, as he complained greatly of thirst. None of the rest of the crew had returned. Peter offered to stay by the captain if the three other men would go in search of them, and ascertain whether any water was to be found. "If we are to live we must do so," said Hixon; "come along, mates; I know Peter will look after the captain," and they set off. After Peter had moistened the captain's lips, and made his bed as comfortable as he could, he said, "Shall I read to you, sir?" "What have you got to read? How can you have any books here?" asked the captain. Peter drew his Bible out of the canvas slung round his neck, and showed it to the captain. The cover, of course, was drenched with sea-water, but the inside was quite dry. "Yes, you may," was the answer; "when a man is sick as I am it is a good book to listen to, and I am fit for nothing else." Peter made no reply, but began to read. He came to the account of Lazarus and the rich man. "What does Abraham's bosom mean?" asked the captain. "Heaven, sir," answered Peter; "it must be a glorious place, for Christ has gone before to prepare it for those who love Him." "I hope when I die I shall go there," murmured the captain, more to himself than Peter; "I have not been a bad man, or done much harm to any one, and have tried to do my duty, and have never got drunk at sea; and I hope I have done some good in my time, so I should think God would let me into heaven." Peter prayed that he might give a right answer. "God says, sir, in His book, that `there is none that doeth good, no, not one,' and that `He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' The rich man we have been reading about does not seem to have done much harm, and very likely he thought himself pretty good, and yet he went to hell." "Then how is a man ever to get to heaven?" asked the captain, somewhat petulantly. "God says, `Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.' He wants us to take Him at His word. He tells us that our own good deeds are as filthy rags, and that we must trust to the sacrifice of Christ, to His blood shed for us; and thus we shall be clothed with His righteousness, with His pure and spotless robe; and so God will not look upon our iniquities, because He has accepted Christ's punishment instead of what we deserved, and we shall therefore not be punished." Thus Peter continued to place the loving Gospel before his captain. The latter listened, often asking some more questions. At last he put his hands before his eyes, and murmured, "It's wonderful that a mere boy should know all this, and be able to explain it so clearly. It's true; yes, I am sure of that." "Let us pray, sir, that God's Holy Spirit will bring it home to your heart," said Peter, as if the remark had been made to him. "God has said we shall not ask in vain." The captain's eye brightened; a new hope, new thoughts and feelings, rose in his bosom. Peter again turned to his book. He read many portions, the captain appearing in no way wearied. He was so employed when a shout reached their ears, and Peter, going out of the tent, saw old Hixon making his way down the rocks. He brought his sou'-wester full of water. "Praised be God, we have found a spring two miles off. There was nothing else to bring it in but this," he said, offering the water to the captain and Peter. "The rest of the men collected near it, but when I told them that they ought to come and help to carry you up the hill, captain, they said they were free now, and didn't acknowledge any man's authority." "I should have thought, Hixon, from what I know of you, that you would have been among them," observed the captain. "So I should, sir, a few weeks ago, but Peter there, out of his Bible, showed me what a sinner I was, and how I must love Jesus Christ and obey Him, and I know He would not have left any man to perish, and so, sir, as long as you live--and I hope we shall escape from this rock--I will not leave you." "Thank you, Hixon," said the captain; "I am sure you speak the truth. But what has become of Emery and Bill?" "They said they would stop and have some food, and then come back and try and get you up to the spring, which is a warmer and pleasanter place than this." In a short time the other men appeared, but the captain felt so much pain when they attempted to move him, that he begged them to let him remain where he was. "I am afraid, sir, they will soon have eaten up all their provisions, and then they will be coming down to get what we have collected," observed Bill. "Perhaps, if you are among them, you might persuade them to put themselves on an allowance." The captain sent a message by Hixon, but the men only laughed at him, and replied that a ship was sure soon to appear, and take them off, though they took no pains to make their situation known. The captain, however, told Hixon and the rest to form a flag-staff out of the spars which had been cast ashore, and to erect it on the highest point with a piece of the cloth which they had found, as a flag. They did so. Day after day passed by, and though one or the other was constantly on the look-out, no distant sail met their anxious gaze. Peter was thankful that the captain appeared to be slowly recovering his strength, though still unable to move. By husbanding their provisions, the little party on the shore hoped to support existence for some weeks to come. When Hixon arrived one day with their usual supply of water, he brought word that the rest of the crew had deserted the spring and were nowhere to be seen. He thought probably that they had gone down to the shore to try and catch fish, or collect mussels, or anything that might have been thrown up. He and his companions were searching about for the same object, that they might eke out the diminishing store of their more nutritive food, and give the captain a larger supply. Peter, when not thus employed, read to the captain, as also to the other men, and Bill and the black were well pleased to listen, as were the captain and Hixon. Indeed, the light of God's blessed truth shone on the small shipwrecked party, and shed on them its warmth and healing influence. It never occurred to young Peter to pride himself that the light shone from the lamp he carried within him. The weather had again changed, and instead of a balmy breeze and sunshine, a fierce gale was blowing, and heavy showers came down upon their heads. They were sitting beneath the shelter of their tent, while Peter was reading to them, when voices were heard, and several of the crew appeared. They looked wretched, and nearly starved. "Hilloa!" cried one of them, seeing the cask of provisions near the entrance of the hut. "What, have you still got food? We thought that you must be as badly off as we are." The rest came up, and though the captain, with his friends, expostulated, and promised to give the men a small portion, they took possession of more than half of the remaining provisions. With the supply of food they had thus obtained, they returned to their former camp near the spring. The captain was deeply grieved. "It would have killed me with rage a short time ago, but I feel more sorry for them now; and I am afraid the food will only prolong their lives a day or two, while the want of it may shorten ours." As was to be expected, in a couple of days they returned for more. Bill proposed fighting as he saw them coming, rather than give it up. "It would only make matters worse," observed the captain, "as they would be sure to overpower us. We must trust that God will find some way for our escape." The captain told Bill to give to each of them the same rations which they allowed for themselves, though it was not more than just sufficient to support life. Each day they came for their allowance, but still did not offer to assist in removing the captain. Hixon and the rest were very indignant. The captain, however, quieted them, and insisted upon the provisions being equally shared amongst all the survivors from the shipwrecked crew. At length, although their allowance had been still further reduced, no biscuits nor meat remained. A few herrings and some cabbages which had been washed up, and were wellnigh rotten, were the only articles of food they still had. Bill, however, came back with some birds' eggs and he thought that soon more might be obtained should the weather clear, and the birds visit the island in greater numbers. Peter had, with the rest, taken his turn in watching by the flag-staff. He was casting his eyes around when they fell on the sails of a vessel just rising above the horizon. He watched her eagerly--she was drawing near. He ran down the hill to give the joyful intelligence to his friends. They quickly returned with him, the captain telling them to leave him alone, as he felt quite well enough to remain by himself. Each man carried a bundle of drift-wood, some dry grass, or branches from the numerous low bushes they found in sheltered spots, to assist in lighting a beacon, should the vessel not draw near till nightfall. A tinder-box had enabled the other party to obtain a light. Bill went for it. When he told them of the ship being seen, they would not believe him. "Get up and have a look at her," he answered. One of them did so. On being convinced, some showed their satisfaction by leaping about and shouting, others growled out that she would not come near the land, but none thought of praying that she might be directed towards them, or showed any gratitude at the prospect of deliverance. On came the ship, but as she neared the island the shades of evening concealed her from sight. The beacon was immediately lighted, but they had to remain all night in the uncertainty whether it had been seen. How anxiously they waited for the return of morning, and how eagerly they cast their straining eyes in the direction she had last appeared as daylight broke on the world of waters. As the light increased, she was seen standing for the island. A shout rose from their throats, but they themselves were startled by the hollowness of the sound. The wind had been increasing. As she drew near, it raged furiously, and a heavy surf beat everywhere on the shore. With sinking hearts, they saw the ship haul her wind, and again stand off the dangerous rock. "We are deserted," cried several voices, and loud complaints were made of the stranger's indifference to their sufferings. They watched till she was lost to sight, and most of them declared she would not return. "If he is a Christian man I am sure he will," said Peter, who had been sent up by the captain to ascertain how things stood. He returned with his report. "Don't be down-hearted, sir; God, you know, will take care of us. And even if that ship sails away, He can send another," said Peter. The flag was kept flying all day, and the beacon fire lighted again at night. A few herrings and some almost rotten cabbages now alone remained; starvation threatened to overtake the shipwrecked mariners. Most of the crew gave way to despair. One or two had become almost delirious from hunger and talked of rushing into the sea and drowning themselves. "If you do, mates, you will go into the presence of God Almighty with another great sin unrepented of on your heads, besides those you have already committed," said old Hixon. "Let us pray to God to help and deliver us; we have no other hope." His words had great effect among his late shipmates; for some time they were far more orderly and quiet than they had been hitherto. Another day passed and the gale continued blowing furiously, and the stranger did not re-appear. Again they were on the look-out. At daybreak she was not to be seen; the wind, however, had abated. As the day drew on, Peter, who was on the look-out, caught sight of a small speck in the south-east; it grew larger and larger. "The ship; the ship!" he shouted out. The cry was taken up by those scattered about on the rock, and passed on from one to the other. They hurried away along the island in the direction she was seen. Peter waited till he was sure there could be no mistake, and then hastened down to the captain, feeling that the good news would cheer him up. Bill and the black steward were on the opposite shore collecting mussels. Hixon stood gazing at the stranger for some minutes, and then said to himself, "I had better go too, or maybe they will not tell of the captain and the rest." As he neared the further end of the rock he found the ship hove-to and a boat approaching the shore. On reaching the little bay into which the boat had put, he found that the starving people had tumbled into her, and that she had already shoved off. He shouted loudly. The boat put back. The captain of the ship, who had himself come in the boat with provisions and water, having heard his account, expressed his indignation at the men who would have allowed their shipmates to be left behind. They replied that they were afraid it would come on to blow again, and that the ship might be driven off and they left behind. "I would not desert them if I had to remain a week or a month more," answered the captain, ordering two of his crew to accompany him, and to bring a boat-sail with two spars. "It's some miles from here, sir," observed Hixon. "Never mind; if it were ten miles we will bring your sick captain with us," was the reply. The men told Hixon that their ship was the _Myrtle_, bound out to New South Wales, and their captain's name was Barrow. It was nearly dark when Captain Barrow reached the hut, and was thankfully welcomed by poor Captain Hauslar. "I am afraid that for my sake you will expose your ship to risk," observed the latter during their conversation. "Do not trouble yourself about that, my friend; my first-mate is an excellent seamen, and my crew obedient and trustworthy. It's too dark to go aboard to-night; we will start to-morrow, if, as I trust, you can bear the journey after a night's rest and some food." The fire was quickly lighted, and a meal prepared such as the shipwrecked party had not partaken of for many a day. "I will join you and your people in offering thanksgiving to God for His many mercies," said Captain Barrow. "You, I trust, acknowledge Him in all your ways?" "I did not till lately," was the answer. And then Captain Hauslar told him that he was indebted to young Peter for being brought to the truth. "I should like to have that boy with me, then," observed Captain Barrow. "One youngster like that can exert a wonderful influence for good among a crew. I frequently get rough characters, and it takes long before they can be brought into order. Every assistance is of value." The journey to the boat was performed the next morning, Captain Barrow assisting in carrying his brother commander. Although the wind blew heavily, the ship was reached in safety, and she was once more put on her course. CHAPTER EIGHT. PETER RISES IN THE WORLD. Captain Hauslar expressed his astonishment at the good order which prevailed on board the _Myrtle_. "I have several old hands who have sailed with me for years," observed her captain; "but many of the rest were rough enough when they joined. However, by firmness and gentleness, and treating them as fellow-beings with immortal souls, they now cheerfully do their duty, and many have been brought to know Christ and serve Him." Every morning and evening, when the weather permitted it, prayers were read; the men were allowed certain hours in the week for mending their clothes, and no work was permitted on Sundays except what was absolutely necessary; Captain Barrow, however, took care it should not be spent in idleness. Those who could not read were taught, and books were provided for those who could make use of them. "Every ship that sails on the ocean might be like mine," observed Captain Barrow. "Yes," was Captain Hauslar's answer, "if every master was a Christian. Missionaries may benefit the men partially, but until the masters and officers set them a good example I fear that they will remain much as they are." Captain Barrow spoke frequently to Peter and old Hixon, and when the ship reached Sydney he invited them to remain on board and return with him. Both Bill and Emery also gladly entered among her crew, while Captain Hauslar took a passage back in her to England. After this Peter made several voyages in the _Myrtle_; Captain Barrow gave him instruction in navigation, for which he showed so much aptitude, that after one or two voyages he was appointed third-mate, and on the next he was raised a step higher. He had not got over his idea that his father was still alive, but where to seek for him was the question. He earnestly prayed that he might be led to find his father if he were yet alive, and he told Captain Barrow what he was so anxious about. "There are few coasts from which a man cannot escape, except perhaps from some of the rocks in the Indian seas, or from the islands in the Pacific, which are rarely visited," observed Captain Barrow. "I would help you if I could, though I should be sorry to part from you. I would advise you, if you still hold to your idea, to get a berth on board a ship making a roving voyage among the islands in those seas, and you might make inquiries at every place you touch at. You can but do your best, and if it is God's will you should find him, He, depend on it, will lead you." However, Peter made another voyage with Captain Barrow. His first-mate having got the command of a ship, Peter obtained his berth. His Bible had ever been his constant companion, and he had not failed to make good use of it. The _Myrtle_ had just returned home. She required extensive repairs, and as many months would pass before she would be ready for sea, Captain Barrow told Peter that he could obtain for him the command of a vessel bound out to the Mediterranean. He was about to accept the offer when he heard that a ship, the _Edgar_, was to sail to the Pacific, with the master of which Captain Barrow was acquainted. The master, Captain Sandford, having no first-mate, gladly agreed, when he heard Peter Gray's character, to give him the berth. "I am thankful to have my first-officer a Christian," he said; "for I have too often been defeated in my attempts to bring my crew to the truth by the indifference or hostility of my mates. Three of my men have sailed with me for years, and I can trust them; but the rest are of the ordinary stamp, though I have hopes that by our example and exhortations they may be brought in the way they should go. Ah, Mr Gray, Christians enjoy a happiness and freedom from anxiety which no others possess. I leave my family, knowing that, as His dear children, they are under God's protection, and they, while I am tossing about on the ocean, are supported by the same faith, being sure that if I am called hence we shall meet again in heaven. When I part from my beloved wife and daughter I can always remind them of that, and the truth cheers all our hearts." The _Edgar_ had a fine run down Channel, and there was so much to do in getting things in order, that there was little time for conversation. The second-mate, Tom Berge, had never sailed with Captain Sandford before. He was a bold, hardy seaman of the rough-and-ready school, and seemed much astonished at the customs of his new captain. "Our skipper is a good sort of man," he observed to Peter one day, "but I don't like so much praying and preaching. I cannot help fancying something is going to happen." "We want a great many things, and it seems reasonable to me that we should pray for them to God, who gives us everything." "But you don't mean to say that He hears such prayers as rough chaps like me and others aboard here could say?" "I am sure He hears the prayers of the youngest as well as the oldest of sailors as well as of landsmen," said Peter. "Jesus Christ says He came `not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance;' and also God says, `The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin;' so of course He will listen to the roughest sinner who turns to Him." "Would He hear my prayers now?" asked the second-mate. "If you turn from your sins and seek Him, certainly," answered Peter; "for He has said, `Seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you,' and that was said to all." At length Berge not only consented to let Peter read the Bible to him, but gladly accepted a copy of which the captain made him a present, and, becoming a diligent reader himself, before the _Edgar_ rounded Cape Horn, could say, "I rejoice in the blood of my risen Saviour." There is no part of the ocean in which storms are more frequent or more terrible than off Cape Horn. Just as the _Edgar_ sighted the Cape, she encountered a heavy gale, the seas rising in mountain billows around her. There was on board a young lad in whom Berge had from the first taken great interest, and who had lately been brought to know Christ. As the gale was seen approaching, the order was given to close reef the topsails, and the lad, with others, flew aloft. He was on the lee yard-arm. The wind struck the ship with unexpected fury. As she heeled over, he lost his hold and fell into the foaming waters. He was a good swimmer, and struck out boldly. "He must be saved!" cried Berge. "Who will go with me?" and, running to the falls, prepared to lower a boat. Captain Sandford, though seeing the danger, was unwilling to stop him. While the rest hung back, the four Christian men who have been spoken of sprang to the assistance of the mate, and the ship being brought to the wind, the boat was lowered. Now she rose to the top of a foaming billow, and now she was lost to sight. Boldly she made her way towards where the youth was struggling in the waves. Just then a dark squall with tremendous force struck the ship, and a heavy sea washed over her. She escaped damage; but when the squall cleared away, the boat was nowhere to be seen! In vain those on board waited her return. "They have been summoned hence," said the captain; "God's will be done, they were all prepared to meet Him. For that let us be thankful." For several days the ship heeled to and fro, till the wind, coming fair, she once more stood on her course, and entered the bright waters of the Pacific. Peter observed that the captain felt greatly the loss of the brave mate and his companions. His health had been for some time failing. One morning, when the lofty Andes had just appeared in sight, he summoned his first-mate to his bedside. "Gray," he said, "I feel that I shall not live out the day. I should first wish to see all the crew, and then I would have a word with you." The men came, one after the other, and the captain spoke affectionately and earnestly to each, urging them to seek the Saviour while He might be found, and recommending them to listen to the first-mate, who would explain the truth to them. "Gray," he said, when they had left him, "I must ask you to visit my wife and daughter when you get home, and bear my last message of love to them. Take this letter and deliver it, if you can, with your own hands. Send them the property I leave on board; I know that I can trust you; with things of this world I have nothing more to do. And now read some of God's word and pray with me." Peter remained with the captain till the last, and with sincere sorrow closed his eyes. Next day the ship entered the harbour of Valparaiso, where the captain was attended to his grave by most of his own crew and those of several other English merchantmen in harbour. Peter had much felt the want of Christian sympathy in his sorrow. Among those who had attended the funeral of his late captain, he observed a tall fine-looking man with grey hair. A second glance convinced him that he was his old captain, Mr Hauslar. "What, Gray?" exclaimed the latter, when Peter spoke to him. "I remember you now. Come on board with me; my ship lies close to yours." Peter had the satisfaction of finding that his former friend continued a faithful believer. Delightful to both was the conversation they had together. The next day Captain Hauslar accompanied Peter to the agents, and from his recommendation they directed him to take command of the _Edgar_. A young Christian man, whose ship had been lost, but the crew rescued by Captain Hauslar, was appointed to serve as second-mate, and came accompanied by four South Sea Islanders, who were considered good seamen. While the _Edgar_ was getting in her stores Peter enjoyed the company of his friend, and with renewed spirits and hopes he sailed on his voyage. The beautiful island of Otaheite and several others were visited. He then, according to his order, sailed northward, to call at the Sandwich Islands, thence to proceed to Japan and through the Indian Seas round the Cape of Good Hope homewards. Calm as the Pacific is at times, fearful gales sweep across it. To one of these the _Edgar_ was exposed for several days, and Peter had to exert all his skill and seamanship to preserve his ship. He did his best, and putting his trust in God, sought His protection. The gale had driven the ship considerably out of her course. For some days no observation could be taken; an anxious look-out was kept, for coral reefs and islands were near at hand, and with little warning the ship might be driven on one of them. The night was unusually dark. Peter and his mates had never left the deck. Just as morning was about to break a cry was heard of "Land! on the lee bow!" The ship was put about, and scarcely had she come round when breakers were seen rising in a foaming wall astern. CHAPTER NINE. A STRANGE DISCOVERY. As the day dawned an island, covered with the richest vegetation, appeared rising to a considerable height, with a calm lagoon between it and the circling reef. A tempting passage was also seen leading from the stormy ocean into the lagoon. One of the natives coming aft said that he knew it well. It was his native island, and he offered to pilot in the ship. Should the gale increase, the danger of attempting to beat off that lee shore would be great. Peter therefore at once accepted the offer. The _Edgar_ was headed in for the lagoon. The foaming breakers roared upon either side as she shot between them, and in another minute she was gliding calmly over the smooth water of the lagoon. Piloted by the native in a short time she brought up in a beautiful bay, where she might ride securely. Scarcely had she dropped her anchor when several canoes paddled alongside. The native hailed one of them, and the people in her came on board. They were soon affectionately greeting him, while the rest of the crew were engaged in buying fruits and vegetables and various articles which the others had brought. In a short time he came aft to Captain Gray. The information he gave was satisfactory. When he had left the island the people had been heathens, and he had expected to find them in the same condition. Two native catechists had, however, been for some time among them, and an English missionary had a few months before arrived, whose house was situated on the shores of another bay at a little distance; he had been sent for, and would probably, ere long, be on board. Peter, knowing the treacherous character borne by many of the South Sea Islanders, had resolved not to allow his crew to go on shore, or permit more than a few natives at a time on board; he had now, however, no fears for the safety of his ship. Peter was in his cabin, when a message was brought him that a canoe was coming off, with a white man in her. "He must be the missionary," he said, and hurried on deck to welcome him. The canoe came alongside, and an old man in a seaman's dress, with white hair streaming from under his hat, stepped on board. Peter, shaking him by the hand, inquired whether he was the missionary he was led to expect would pay him a visit. "Oh, no, sir! he is a very different sort of man to me; I only wish I was him," was the answer. "He will be here soon, I doubt not. I came aboard to ask whether the ship was homeward bound, and you would let me work my passage in her; I have got some strength left in my old arms yet." "I'll gladly give you a passage, my man," said Peter, "if you desire to return to England. Have you been long out in these parts?" "Ay, sir, many a year--I forget how many, for I lost all count of time when I lived among the savages, but I reckon it carefully now since I have been brought to my right mind by Mr Wilson, the missionary you have heard tell of." "I should have thought that at your age you would have been content to remain with him and lend him a helping hand," answered Peter, trying to restrain hopes and feelings rising in his breast which he feared might be disappointed. "The assistance of a Christian white man would be of great value to him." "That maybe, sir," answered the old man, "but there are those at home I long to see again. I left them years ago, and was shipwrecked upon these islands. For some time I had no chance of escaping. Living among the savages here, I grew to live as they lived, and forgot my home and friends. Since I have learned to love God I have been longing to see my family again, but I have not been able to get back, for I have been away on the other side of the island each time a ship has touched here. If you had left a wife and a little boy at home as I have, you would wish to get back to set your eyes again on them, and hold them in your arms." "A wife and a little boy!" exclaimed Peter, unable longer to restrain his eagerness to learn who the old man was. "Tell me their names, and where they lived." "It was at a place, maybe, you have not been to nor heard of either, seeing it's of no great size," answered the old man; "it's called Springvale, and is not far from the little town of Oldport; and my name is Gray, sir, at your service." "Gray!" exclaimed Peter, taking the old man's hand, and scarcely able to speak. "Come into my cabin, I wish to tell you more about your wife and son." Peter had no longer any doubt that his long-lost father stood before him, but he was unwilling to make himself known in sight of his crew, fearing also the effect the announcement would have on the old man. Conducting the old sailor, whose countenance wore an expression of astonishment, down into the cabin, he closed the door, and placing him respectfully on a sofa, still holding his hand, sat himself down by his side. "You were telling me," he said, "that you have learned the truth, and you know, therefore, God's love and mercy, and that He orders all things for the best. You have been very many years from home, and must be aware that though your son when you saw him last was a little boy, he must now be a grown man; your wife, too, would be an old woman. Have you ever thought of the hardships and trials to which she would probably have been exposed, left all alone to struggle with the hard world, and still having to go through them? But suppose God in His mercy had taken her to Himself, and you knew that she had been spending all these years in happiness unspeakable, would you not have cause to rejoice?" The old sailor gazed at the young captain, scarcely able to comprehend him clearly. "God is very merciful; He loves me, though I am a sinner, and orders all for the best. I know that is what Mr Wilson says, and he speaks the truth, for he turned me from little better than a savage into a Christian man," answered the old sailor. As he spoke his eyes fell on Peter's Bible, which lay on the table with the leathern case beside it. "What are you driving at, sir?" he exclaimed in an agitated tone. "I remember that book, as if I had seen it but yesterday; it was my wife's. Do you know her? tell me, tell me." Peter placed his arm so that the old man's head might rest on it. "My name is Gray, sir," he said. "That book was indeed your wife's, my mother's, and I am very sure that I am your son." "You Peter, my little boy?" exclaimed the old man, gazing in his countenance. "You captain of this ship, and I have found you after these long years! God be praised! And your mother, tell me about her." "I tried to prepare you, sir, for what I have to say," said Peter. "She has been among the blessed for many years, and her last prayer on earth was that I might find you that you might be brought to know the Saviour in whom she trusted." "God's will be done! God's will be done!" murmured the old man, letting his head fall on his son's shoulder. "He knows what is best. In His mercy He took her; and I all the time living like a savage, but He found me--He found me; and He has sent you, and all through His love, to tell me about her. I began to fear that she might be poor and suffering, and you living a hard life, or sent maybe to the workhouse, but He orders all things for the best. Praise His name!" The old man could say no more. His feelings overcoming him, he bent his head and wept like a child. No one would have recognised the once "roaring Jack Gray," and for some time the wild, half-clad savage, in the now venerable-looking old Christian man, who sat at supper with the young captain and the missionary who had now arrived. "I fear that I shall lose your assistance, friend Gray," said Mr Wilson, "though I rejoice that you have found your son." "I have been casting the matter in my mind, sir," answered the old sailor, "and asking God to direct me, and, now she has gone whom I longed to see, and my son in His mercy has been sent to me, I am very sure that He does not want me to go away from this place. I should be a stranger in England, of no use to any one, and a burden to my son, and here you tell me that I am of help to you among the natives, and I think I am, as I can speak their language, and tell them about the love and mercy of God, who found them out as He found me out, and has sent His blessed Gospel of peace to them." "I am very sure Captain Gray will agree with me that, although he may wish to have you with him to look after you in your old age, you are more certain to enjoy happiness here, knowing that you are of use to your fellow-creatures, than you would be in returning to the land you have so long left." "I do not wish to bias my father," said Peter, "and I am very sure that, seeking direction from God, he will be directed aright." "It is settled then, my son," said the old sailor, looking up, "I'll remain with Mr Wilson, and help him. I can say with old Israel, about whom he was reading to me the other day, when he saw Joseph, `Now let me die since I have seen thy face, because thou art yet alive.'" Peter agreed that his father was right in the resolution he had come to. The first-mate, and several of the crew who had visited old Mr Gray in his hut, begged that they might be allowed to put up a more comfortable dwelling for him. Peter thankfully accepted their offer, and several of the natives, finding what they proposed doing, gave their assistance. In a short time a neat cottage was erected in the shelter of a cocoanut grove, with a verandah in front and a garden fenced in on one side. Peter had also the satisfaction of taking on shore some clothing and a number of articles which he thought might be of use to his father, as well as a store of provisions such as were likely to keep in that climate. "Peter, you are over-generous to me," said the old man, when the gifts arrived, "I never did anything for you." "You must consider them as God's gifts; if He had not bestowed them on me I could not have offered them to you," answered Peter. "I see, I see," said the old man; "He orders all for the best, praise His name." Peter paid several visits to Mr Wilson, who, with his wife, had now been nearly a year on the island. He disclaimed any part in the conversion of the old sailor, that having been brought about by the instrumentality of the two native catechists who had preceded him. By that time a large number of the inhabitants of that part of the island had burned their idols, and become nominal Christians, while a very considerable portion were communicants, and evidently endeavouring to walk in the footsteps of the Master they professed to serve. "There is still, however, a wide field for our labours," observed Mr Wilson, "for which I trust your father will be spared many years with me." Stormy weather, and the necessity of refitting and making certain repairs which the _Edgar_ required, and for which the sheltered harbour afforded peculiar facilities, kept her there for upwards of a fortnight; when parting from his father, Peter proceeded on his voyage to England. The _Edgar_ arrived in safety in England. Peter had made a successful voyage, and found himself the possessor of more money than he had ever expected to receive. As soon as the ship was safe in dock, and he had performed all the duties required of him, he left her in charge of the first-mate and proceeded to pay the promised visit to his late captain's widow and daughter. He found them living in a neat little cottage near London. Mrs Sandford had heard of her husband's death, and cordially welcomed Captain Gray. She was anxious to receive an account of the last days of his life, which he alone could afford. "He died as he lived, trusting to the all-sufficient merits of Jesus Christ his Saviour," said Peter; "it is a blessed thing, Mrs Sandford, that God's promises are sure, and that those who thus die are taken to be with Him." "Indeed it is, Captain Gray; I know that I shall meet my dear husband in His glorious presence, and my daughter enjoys the same certain hope. That confidence has taken away the sting of grief which we should otherwise have felt. It was he who led us to the truth, and constantly charged us to be prepared for what has occurred: he, indeed, seemed to be aware that he should be taken during one of his voyages, yet none the less did he trust in God that all would be well." Mrs Sandford, after some further conversation, asked whether he intended going home or taking up his residence in London while he remained on shore, "because," she added, "as our means are limited, I purpose taking lodgers, if such offer as I should be willing to receive." "I have no home," said Peter, and he gave her an outline of his history; "if, therefore, you can accommodate me I shall be very glad to remain here." Soon after this, Mrs Sandford's daughter Susan entered the room. She was a pleasing, quiet, gentle girl, and appeared fully to share her mother's faith; and when Peter had talked with her for some time, he felt sure from the remarks she made that she was a true and earnest Christian. Peter had thought and read a good deal. Captain Sandford had left a well-selected library on board. His knowledge had become greatly enlarged, without in any way having his simple faith weakened. The little shepherd-boy was now the thoughtful, intelligent, and gentlemanly man, not possessed, perhaps, of the polish which mixing in the great world gives, but that far more enduring refinement which constant communion with Christ affords. Worldly people, though acknowledging the benefit of Christianity, know not its true source, and are surprised to find Christ's humble disciples so free from coarseness, and so gentle and courteous in their manners. Susan had been taught in the same school. Several weeks passed away. Peter came to the conclusion that he should wish to marry no other woman than Susan Sandford. Perhaps Susan had discovered this, for he was not a person who could well hide his feelings; at all events he ventured to tell her so, and she promised to become his wife. He would gladly have married before going to sea, but Mrs Sandford, who was a prudent woman, insisted on his waiting till he had returned from his next voyage. That voyage was a long one, for the owners again sent the _Edgar_ into the Pacific. Peter was able to pay a visit to his father, whom he found labouring with devoted zeal as a catechist among the natives, and submitting humbly to the directions he received from Mr Wilson, the missionary. The old man was delighted to hear of his son's intended marriage, and begged him if he could to bring out his wife to see him. "The utmost desire of my heart will then be fulfilled," he exclaimed; "and, oh! how loving has God been to me by bringing me in His great mercy out of darkness into His glorious light! Every day I live I wonder more and more; and, Peter, it is my belief I shall go on wondering through all eternity, because I am sure we shall never understand the love and mercy of Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, in all its fulness." Peter willingly promised to do as the old man wished. Had he still been the rough ignorant sailor Jack Gray once was, he might have felt an unwillingness to introduce his wife to him, even though he was his father; but now how different was the case when he was to bring her to the venerable Christian, patriarchal in appearance, and mild in manners, so gentle and loving to all around! It was a pleasure to see the natives come up and speak to him, they all evidently holding him in great respect. Again the _Edgar_ had a prosperous voyage, and Peter having yet further increased his means of supporting a wife, Mrs Sandford no longer hesitated to allow her daughter to marry. She had a further reason; her own health was failing, and before the _Edgar_ was ready for sea Susan lost her mother. When Peter proposed that his wife should accompany him, she gladly consented, and as the natives among whom his father lived had promised to collect a large quantity of cocoanut oil to ship on board the _Edgar_, Peter was once more able to visit the island. He was told on his arrival that his father was ill. The old man's eyes brightened up at the sight of his sweet-looking daughter-in-law and son. He blessed them both, and entreated that they would spend the evening at his house. He spoke cheerfully, and with great thankfulness, of the progress of the Gospel in the island. Peter hoped that he might yet be spared to spend many more years in his useful labours among the dark-skinned natives. The following day, however, a relapse occurred, and holding his daughter with one hand, his head resting on his son's arm, and his faithful friend Mr Wilson and the two catechists standing by, the old sailor breathed his last--a heavenly smile resting on the face of the once "roaring Jack Gray." Peter made many voyages accompanied by his loving wife, and by foresight and prudence having realised a little independence, added to what her father had left Susan, he was able to purchase the plot of ground on which his mother's cottage stood with several acres around. Here having built a neat house, he settled down, and making his Bible a light to his path and a lamp to his feet, his abode was truly as a light set on a hill, he and his family proving a blessing to all around. 
16472	----	[Illustration: Book Cover] _WILD-WOODS SERIES--No. 1._ * * * * * [Illustration: "Heavenly Father! please take care of me," prayed Nellie.] THROUGH FOREST AND FIRE BY EDWARD S. ELLIS, AUTHOR OF "YOUNG PIONEER SERIES," "LOG CABIN SERIES," "DEERFOOT SERIES," "WYOMING SERIES," ETC., ETC. [Illustration] PHILADELPHIA: PORTER & COATES. COPYRIGHT, 1891, BY PORTER & COATES. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I.--NICK, 5 II.--SCHOOL DAYS, 14 III.--A MATHEMATICAL DISCUSSION, 21 IV.--LOST, 29 V.--THE PARTY OF SEARCH, 37 VI.--GROPING IN DARKNESS, 47 VII.--AN ALARMING DISCOVERY, 55 VIII.--STARTLING FOOTPRINTS, 63 IX.--THE LITTLE WANDERER, 69 X.--IN GREAT DANGER, 79 XI.--"GOTT SEI DANK!" 88 XII.--OMINOUS PREPARATIONS, 96 XIII.--THE BEAR HUNTERS, 103 XIV.--A RECRUIT, 113 XV.--A SURPRISE, 119 XVI.--THE DINNER IN THE WOODS, 126 XVII.--A TEST OF MARKSMANSHIP, 132 XVIII.--A QUAIL, 139 XIX.--AN UNEXPECTED LESSON, 145 XX.--BOWSER PROVES HIMSELF OF SOME USE, 152 XXI.--FACE TO FACE, 158 XXII.--THE "VACANT CHAIR," 165 XXIII.--HUNTING A BUCK, 171 XXIV.--HUNTED BY A BUCK, 176 XXV.--THE CAMP FIRE, 183 XXVI.--AN UNEXPECTED ATTACK, 190 XXVII.--WAS IT A JOKE? 196 XXVIII.--THE TRAIL OF THE BEAR, 205 XXIX.--"HELP! HELP!" 209 XXX.--A FRIEND IN NEED, 216 XXXI.--THE "DARK DAY" OF SEPTEMBER, 1881, 222 XXXII.--THE BURNING FOREST, 231 XXXIII.--THROUGH THE FIRE, 246 XXXIV.--CALLING IN VAIN, 248 XXXV.--WHAT FRIGHTENED NELLIE, 257 XXXVI.--AN UNWELCOME PASSENGER, 266 XXXVII.--A BRAVE STRUGGLE, 275 XXXVIII.--BEAR AND FORBEAR, 283 XXXIX.--CONCLUSION, 292 THROUGH FOREST AND FIRE; OR, "God Helps Them that Help Themselves." CHAPTER I. NICK. Nicholas Ribsam was a comical fellow from his earliest babyhood, and had an original way of doing almost everything he undertook. When he became big enough to sit on the porch of the humble little home, where he was born, and stare with his great round eyes at the world as it went by, that world, whether on horseback, in carriage, or on foot, was sure to smile at the funny-looking baby. Nick, although born in western Pennsylvania, was as thoroughly Dutch as if he had first opened his eyes on the banks of the Zuyder Zee, in the lowlands of Holland. His parents had come from that part of the world which has produced so many fine scholars and done so much for science and literature. They talked the language of the Fatherland, although they occasionally ventured on very broken English for the instruction of the boy and girl which heaven had given them. When Nick was a year old, he seemed as broad as he was long, and his round, red cheeks, big, honest eyes, and scanty hair, which stood out in every direction, always brought a smile to whomsoever looked at him. "That's the Dutchest baby I ever saw!" exclaimed a young man, who, as he threw back his head and laughed, expressed the opinion of about every one that stopped to admire the youngster. When we add that Nick was remarkably good natured, his popularity will be understood. Days and weeks passed without so much as a whimper being heard from him. If his mother forgot she was the owner of such a prize, and allowed him to remain on the porch until he was chilled through or half famished, she was pretty sure to find him smiling, when she suddenly awakened to her duties respecting the little fellow. Several times he tipped over and rolled off the porch, bumping his head against the stones. A hoarse cry instantly made known the calamity but by the time he was snatched up (often head downward) his face was illumined again by his enormous grin, even though the big teardrops stood on his cheeks. When he grew so as to be able to stand with the help of something which he could grasp, a board about a foot and a half high was placed across the lower part of the open door to prevent him getting outside. The first day fat little Nick was confronted with this obstruction he fell over it, out upon the porch. How he managed to do such a wonderful thing puzzled father and mother, who half believed some person or animal must have "boosted" him over; but, as there was no other person in sight and they did not own a dog, the explanation was not satisfactory. True, they had a big Maltese cat, but he was hardly strong enough, even if he had the disposition, to hoist a plump baby over such a gate, out of pure mischief. But the most remarkable thing took place the next week, when Nick not only fell out of the door and over the obstruction, but a few minutes later fell in again. In fact, it looked as if from that time forward Nick Ribsam's position was inverted almost as often as it was upright. "There's one thing I want my little boy to learn," said the father, as he took him on his knee and talked in the language of his Fatherland "and that is, 'God helps them that help themselves.' Don't ever forget it!" "Yaw, I ish not forgots him," replied the youngster, staring in the broad face of his parent, and essaying to make use of the little English he had picked up. The good father and mother acted on this principle from the beginning. When Nick lost his balance he was left to help himself up again; when he went bumping all the way down the front steps, halting a moment on each one, his father complacently smoked his long pipe and waited to see how the boy was going to get back, while the mother did not think it worth while to leave her household duties to look at the misfortunes of the lad. "God helps them that help themselves." There is a great deal in this expression, and the father of Master Nicholas Ribsam seemed to take in the whole far-reaching truth. "You must do everything you possibly can," he said, many a time; "you must use your teeth, your hands, and your feet to hang on; you must never let go; you must hammer away; you must always keep your powder dry; you must fight to the last breath, and all the time ask God to help you pull through, and _He'll do it!_" This was the creed of Gustav Ribsam and his wife, and it was the creed which the children drew in with their breath, as may be said; it was such a grand faith that caused Nick to develop into a sturdy, self-reliant, brave lad, who expected to take his own part in the battle of life without asking odds from any one. The parents of our hero and heroine proved their faith by their works. By hard, honest toil and economy, they had laid up a competence which was regularly invested each year, and of which the children were not allowed to know anything, lest it might make them lazy and unambitious. The little house and fifty acres were paid for, and the property was more than sufficient to meet the wants of the family, even after the youngsters became large enough to go to school. The morning on which young Nick Ribsam started for the country school, a half mile away, was one which he can never forget. He was six years old, and had picked up enough of the English language to make himself understood, though his accent was of that nature that it was sure to excite ridicule on the part of the thoughtless. As Nick had a large head, he wore of necessity a large cap, with a long frontispiece and with a button on the top. His coat was what is called a "roundabout," scarcely reaching to his waist, but it abounded with pockets, as did the vest which it partly inclosed. His trousers were coarse, thick, and comfortable, and his large boots were never touched by blacking, Nick's father having no belief in such nonsense, but sticking to tallow all the time. Nick carried a spelling book and slate under his arm, and, as he started off, any one looking at him would have been struck by his bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and generally clean appearance. As he was so very good natured, he was certain to become quite an acquisition to the school. There are no more cruel, or perhaps thoughtless people in the world than a number of school-boys, under certain conditions. The peculiar dress and the broken language of little Nick excited laughter at once, and this soon turned into ridicule. Nick was beset continually at recess and at noon by the boys, who immediately christened him "Dutchy." He laughed and did not seem to mind it, for his philosophy was that no words applied to him could injure him, and so long as the boys kept their hands off he did not care. Among the pupils was Herbert Watrous, a spruce young gentleman from the city, who dressed better than the others, and who threw out hints about the sparring lessons he had taken at home, and his wish that he might soon have a chance to show his playmates how easily he could vanquish an opponent, much larger than himself, by reason of his "science." He was fully four years older than Nick, and much taller--a fact which Herbert regretted as the Pennsylvania Hollander was too insignificant for him to pick a quarrel with. But that was no reason, as he looked at his privileges in this life, why he should not play the tyrant and bully over the honest little fellow and he proceeded at once to make life unbearable to Nicholas. He began the cry of "Dutchy," and, finding that it did not disturb the serenity of the lad, he resorted to more active measures on the way home from school. He began by knocking off his hat, and when Nick looked at him in a surprised way and asked why he did it, the city youth assumed a pugilistic attitude and answered, "Greens; what are you going to do about it, Dutchy?" "Be careful of him," whispered one of the boys, who felt some sympathy for Nick in his persecutions; "he's _science_." "I don't care vat he ain't," replied Nick, beginning to lose his temper; "if he don't lets me be, he'll got into trouble." Just then Nick started to overtake a lad, who tapped him on the back and invited him to play a game of tag. As he passed close to Herbert, that boy threw out his foot and Nick went sprawling headlong, his book and slate flying from under his arm, while his cap shot a dozen-feet in another direction. The other boys broke into laughter, while several of the girls cried out that it was a shame. Nick picked himself up, and putting on his cap, turned about to ask Herbert what he meant by such cruelty, when he was confronted by the bully, who had thrown himself into his fancy pugilistic posture, and with one eye shut and his tongue thrust out, said: "What are you going to do about it, Dutchy?" "I'll show you vot I do!" CHAPTER II. SCHOOL DAYS. Nicholas Ribsam proceeded to show Master Herbert Watrous what he meant to do about it. Paying no heed to the formidable attitude of the city youth, Nick rushed straight upon him, and embracing him about the waist so as to pinion his arms, he threw him flat upon the ground with great emphasis. Then, while Herbert lay on his face, vainly struggling to rise, Nick sat down heavily on his back. Although he could have used his fists with great effect, Nick declined to do so; but, rising some six or eight inches, he sat down on him again, and then repeated the performance very fast, bounding up and down as a man is sometimes seen to do when a horse is trotting; descending each time on the back of Herbert with such vigor that the breath was almost forced from his body. "Let me up!" shouted the victim, in a jerky, spasmodic manner, as the words were helped out; "that ain't the right way to fight: that isn't fair." "It suits me better as nefer vas," replied the grinning Nick, banging himself down on the back of the struggling Herbert, until the latter began to cry and ask the boys to pull Nick off. No one interfered, however, and when the conqueror thought he had flattened out the city youth to that extent that he would never acquire any plumpness again, he rose from his seat and allowed Herbert to climb upon his feet. Never was a boy more completely cowed than was this vaunting youth, on whom all the others had looked with such admiration and awe. He meekly picked up his hat, brushed off the dirt, and looking reproachfully at Nick said: "Do you know you broke two of my ribs?" "I dinks I brokes dem _all_: dat's what I meant to do; I will try him agin." "No, you won't!" exclaimed Herbert, darting off in a run too rapid for the short legs of Nick to equal. Nick Ribsam had conquered a peace, and from that time forth he suffered no persecution at school. Master Herbert soon after went back to his city home, wondering how it was that a small, dumpy lad, four years younger than he, was able to vanquish him so completely when all the science was on the side of the elder youth. Young as was Nick Ribsam, there was not a boy in the school who dared attempt to play the bully over him. The display he had given of his prowess won the respect of all. Besides this he proved to be an unusually bright scholar. He dropped his faulty accent with astonishing rapidity, and gained knowledge with great facility. His teacher liked him, as did all the boys and girls, and when he was occasionally absent he was missed more than half a dozen other lads would have been. The next year Nick brought his sister Nellie to school. He came down the road, holding her fat little hand in his, while her bright eyes peered out from under her plain but odd-looking hat in a timid way, which showed at the same time how great her confidence was in her big brother. Nellie looked as much like Nick as a sister can look like a brother. There were the same ruddy cheeks, bright eyes, sturdy health, and cleanly appearance. Her gingham pantalettes came a little nearer the tops of her shoes, perhaps than was necessary, but the dress, with the waist directly under the arms, would have been considered in the height of fashion in late years. One daring lad ventured to laugh at Nellie, and ask her whether she had on her father's or mother's shoes, but when Nick heard of it he told the boy that he would "sit down" on any one that said anything wrong to Nellie. Nothing of the kind was ever hinted to the girl again. No one wished to be "sat down" on by the Pennsylvania Hollander who banged the breath so utterly from the body of the city youth who had aroused his wrath. The common sense, sturdy frame, sound health, and mental strength of the parents were inherited in as marked a degree by the daughter Nellie as by Nick. She showed a quickness of perception greater than that of her brother; but, as is generally the case, the boy was more profound and far-reaching in his thoughts. After Nick had done his chores in the evening and Nellie was through helping her mother, Gustav, the father, was accustomed to light his long-handled pipe, and, as he slowly puffed it while sitting in his chair by the hearth, he looked across to his boy, who sat with his slate and pencil in hand, preparing for the morrow. Carefully watching the studious lad for a few minutes, he generally asked a series of questions: "Nicholas, did you knowed your lessons to-day?" "Yes, sir." "Did you know efery one dot you knowed?" "Yes, sir,--every one," answered Nick respectfully, with a quiet smile over his father's odd questions and sentences. The old gentleman could never correct or improve his accent, while Nick, at the age of ten, spoke so accurately that his looks were all that showed he was the child of German parents. "Did nopody gif you helps on der lessons?" "Nobody at all." "Dot is right; did you help anypodies?" "Yes, sir,--three or four of the girls and some of the boys asked me to give them a lift--" "Gif dem _vat_?" "A lift--that is, I helped them." "Dot ish all right, but don't let me hears dot nopody vos efer helping _you_; if I does--" And taking his pipe from his mouth, Mr. Ribsam shook his head in a way which threatened dreadful things. Then the old gentleman would continue smoking a while longer, and more than likely, just as Nick was in the midst of some intricate problem, he would suddenly pronounce his name. The boy would look up instantly, all attention. "Hef you been into any fights mit nopodies to-day?" "I have not, sir; I have not had any trouble like that for a long while." "Dot is right--dot is right; but, Nick, if you does get into such bad tings as fightin', don't ax nopodies to help you; _takes care mit yorself!_" The lad modestly answered that he did not remember when he had failed to take care of himself under such circumstances, and the father resumed his pipe and brown study. The honest German may not have been right in every point of his creed, but in the main he was correct, his purpose being to implant in his children a sturdy self-reliance. They could not hope to get along at all times without leaning upon others, but that boy who never forgets that God has given him a mind, a body, certain faculties and infinite powers, with the intention that he should cultivate and use them to the highest point, is the one who is sure to win in the great battle of life. Then, too, every person is liable to be overtaken by some great emergency which calls out all the capacities of his nature, and it is then that false teaching and training prove fatal, while he who has learned to develop the divine capacities within him comes off more than conqueror. CHAPTER III. A MATHEMATICAL DISCUSSION. The elder Ribsam took several puffs from his pipe, his eyes fixed dreamily on the fire, as though in deep meditation. His wife sat in her chair on the other side, and was busy with her knitting, while perhaps her thoughts were wandering away to that loved Fatherland which she had left so many years before, never to see again. Nellie had grown sleepy and gone to bed. Mr. Ribsam turned his head and looked at Nick. The boy was seated close to the lamp on the table, and the scratching of his pencil on his slate and his glances at the slip of paper lying on the stand, with the problems written upon it, told plainly enough what occupied his thoughts. "Nicholas," said the father. "Just one minute, please," replied the lad, glancing hastily up: "I am on the last of the problems that Mr. Layton gave us for this week, and I have it almost finished." The protest of the boy was so respectful that the father resumed his smoking and waited until Nick laid his slate on the table and wheeled his chair around. "There, father, I am through." "Read owed loud dot sum von you shoost don't do." "Mr. Layton gave a dozen original problems as he called them, to our class to-day, and we have a week in which to solve them. I like that kind of work, and so I kept at it this evening until I finished them all." "You vos sure dot you ain't right, Nicholas, eh?" "I have proved every one of them. Oh, you asked me to read the last one! When Mr. Layton read that we all laughed because it was so simple, but when you come to study it it isn't so simple as you would think. It is this: If New York has fifty per cent. more population than Philadelphia, what per cent. has Philadelphia less than New York?" Mr. Ribsam's shoulders went up and down, and he shook like a bowl of jelly. He seemed to be overcome by the simplicity of the problem over which his son had been racking his brains. "Dot makes me laughs. Yaw, yaw, yaw!" "If you will sit down and figure on it you won't laugh quite so hard," said Nick, amused by the jollity of his father, which brought a smile to his mother; "what is your answer?" "If I hafs feefty tollar more don you hafs, how mooch less tollar don't you hafs don I hafs? Yaw, yaw, yaw!" "_That_ is plain enough," said Nick sturdily "but if you mean to say that the answer to the problem I gave you is fifty per cent., you are wrong." "Oxplains how dot ain't," said Mr. Ribsam, suddenly becoming serious. The mother was also interested, and looked smilingly toward her bright son. Like every mother, her sympathies went out to him. When Nick told his father that he was in error, the mother felt a thrill of delight; she wanted Nick to get the better of her husband, much as she loved both, and you and I can't blame her. Nick leaned back in his chair, shoved his hands into his pockets, and looked smilingly at his father and his pipe as he said: "Suppose, to illustrate, that Philadelphia has just one hundred people. Then, if New York has fifty per cent. more, it must have one hundred and fifty people as its population; that is correct, is it not, father?" Mr. Ribsam took another puff or two, as if to make sure that his boy was not leading him into a trap, and then he solemnly nodded his head. "Dot ish so,--dot am,--yaw." "Then if Philadelphia has one hundred people for its population, New York has one hundred and fifty?" "Yaw, and Pheelatelphy has feefty per cent. less--yaw, yaw, yaw!" "Hold on, father,--not so fast. I'm teacher just now, and you mustn't run ahead of me. If you will notice in this problem the per cent. in the first part is based on Philadelphia's population, while in the second part it is based on the population of New York, and since the population of the two cities is different, the per cent. cannot be the same." "How dot is?" asked Mr. Ribsam, showing eager interest in the reasoning of the boy. "We have agreed, to begin with, that the population of Philadelphia is one hundred and of New York one hundred and fifty. Now, how many people will have to be subtracted from New York's population to make it the same as Philadelphia?" "Feefty,--vot I says." "And fifty is what part of one hundred and fifty,--that is, what part of the population of New York?" "It vos one thirds." "And one third of anything is thirty-three and one third per cent. of it, which is the correct answer to the problem." Mr. Ribsam held his pipe suspended in one hand while he stared with open mouth into the smiling face of his son, as though he did not quite grasp his reasoning. "Vot you don't laughs at?" he said, turning sharply toward his wife, who had resumed her knitting and was dropping many a stitch because of the mirth, which shook her as vigorously as it stirred her husband a few minutes before. "I laughs ven some folks dinks dey ain't shmarter don dey vosn't all te vile, don't it?" And stopping her knitting she threw back her head and laughed unrestrainedly. Her husband hastily shoved the stem of his pipe between his lips, sunk lower down in the chair, and smoked so hard that his head soon became almost invisible in the vapor. By-and-by he roused himself and asked Nick to begin with the first problem and reason out the result he obtained with each one in turn. Nick did so, and on the last but one his parent tripped him. A few pointed questions showed the boy that he was wrong. Then the hearty "Yaw, yaw, yaw!" of the father rang out, and looking at the solemn visage of his wife, he asked: "Vy you don't laughs now, eh? Yaw, yaw, yaw!" The wife meekly answered that she did not see anything to cause mirth, though Nick proved that he did. Not only that, but the son became satisfied from the quickness with which his father detected his error, and the keen reasoning he gave, that he purposely went wrong on the first problem read to him with the object of testing the youngster. Finally, he asked him whether such was not the case. Many persons in the place of Mr. Ribsam would have been tempted to fib, because almost every one will admit any charge sooner than that of ignorance; but the Dutchman considered lying one of the meanest vices of which a man can be guilty. Like all of his countrymen, he had received a good school education at home, besides which his mind possessed a natural mathematical bent. He said he caught the answer to the question the minute it was asked him, and, although Mr. Layton may not have seen it before, Mr. Ribsam had met and conquered similar ones when he was a boy. While he persistently refused to show Nick how to solve some of the intricate problems brought home, yet when the son, after hours of labor, was still all abroad, his father would ask him a question or two so skillfully framed that the bright boy was quick to detect their bearing on the subject over which he was puzzling his brain. The parent's query was like the lantern's flash which shows the ladder for which a man is groping. The task of the evening being finished, Mr. Ribsam tested his boy with a number of problems that were new to him. Most of them were in the nature of puzzles, with a "catch" hidden somewhere. Nick could not give the right answer in every instance, but he did so in a majority of cases; so often, indeed, that his father did a rare thing,--he complimented his skill and ability. CHAPTER IV. LOST. It was two miles from the home of Mr. Ribsam to the little stone school-house where his children were receiving their education. A short distance from the dwelling a branch road turned off to the left, which, being followed nine miles or so, mostly through woods, brought one to the little country town of Dunbarton. Between the home of Gustav Ribsam and the school-house were only two dwellings. The first, on the left, belonged to Mr. Marston, whose land adjoined that of the Hollander, while the second was beyond the fork of the roads and was owned by Mr. Kilgore, who lived a long distance back from the highway. Nick Ribsam, as he grew in years and strength, became more valuable to his father, who found it necessary, now and then, to keep him home from school. This, however, did not happen frequently, for the parents were anxious that their children should receive a good school education, and Nick's readiness enabled him to recover, very quickly, the ground thus lost. There was not so much need of Nellie, and, when at the age of six she began her attendance, she rarely missed a day. If it was stormy she was bundled up warmly, and, occasionally, she was taken in the carriage when the weather was too severe for walking. The summer was gone when Nick helped harness the roan mare to the carriage, and, driving down to the forks, let Nellie out, and kept on toward Dunbarton, while the little girl continued ahead in the direction of the school-house. "I've got to stay there so long," said Nick, in bidding his sister good-by, "that I won't be here much before four o'clock, so I will look out for you and you can look out for me and I'll take you home." Nellie said she would not forget, and walked cheerfully up the road, singing a school song to herself. The little girl, when early enough, stopped at the house of Mr. Marston, whose girl Lizzie attended school. This morning, however, when Nick called from the road, he was told that Lizzie had been gone some time, so he drove on without her. The dwelling of Mr. Kilgore stood so far back that Nellie never could spare the time to walk up the long lane and back again, but she contented herself with peering up the tree-lined avenue in quest of Sallie and Bobby Kilgore. However, they were also invisible, and so it was that Nellie made the rest of the journey alone. The distance being so considerable, Nellie and Nick always carried their dinners with them, so that, after their departure in the morning, the parents did not expect to see them again until between four and five in the afternoon. The roan mare was young and spirited, but not vicious, and the boy had no trouble in controlling her. When half way through the stretch of woods they crossed a bridge, whose planks rattled so loudly under the wheels and hoofs that the animal showed a disposition to rear and plunge over the narrow railing at the side. But the boy used his whip so vigorously that he quickly tamed the beast, which was not slow to understand that her master was holding the reins. When Nick was on such journeys as these, he generally carried his father's watch, so as to "make his connections" better. The timepiece was of great size and thickness, having been made somewhere in England a good many years before. It ticked so loudly that it sounded like a cricket, and would have betrayed any person in an ordinary sized room, when there was no unusual noise. Nick's own handsome watch was too valuable for him to carry. The former was so heavy that it seemed to Nick, when walking with it, that he went in a one-sided fashion. However, the lad was quite proud of it, and perhaps took it out oftener than was necessary, especially when he saw the eyes of others upon him. Nick was kept in Dunbarton so long by the many errands he had to perform, that he was fully an hour late in starting. The mare was spirited enough to make up this time, if urged, but there was no need of doing so, and the boy knew his father would prefer him not to push the animal when no urgency existed. Thus it came about that when Nick re-entered the main highway that afternoon, and looked in the direction of the school-house, he saw nothing of Nellie, nor indeed of any one coming from the school. "She has gone home long ago," was his conclusion, as he allowed the mare to drop into a brisk trot, which speedily took him to his house. When Nick had put away the horse and rendered up his account of the errands done, he was surprised to learn that Nellie had not yet appeared. "I cannot understand what keeps her," said the father, in his native tongue; "she was never so late before." It was plain from the mother's face and manner that she also was anxious, for she frequently went to the gate, and, shading her eyes, looked long and anxiously down the road, hoping that the figure of the little girl would come to view, with some explanation of the cause for her delay. But the sun was low in the west, and its slanting rays brought to light the figure of no child hurrying homeward. The single object that was mistaken for the loved one proved to be a man on horseback, who turned off at the forks and vanished. "Nick, go look for your sister," said his mother, as she came back from one of these visits to the gate; "something has happened." The boy was glad of the order, for he was on the point of asking permission to hunt for Nellie. "I'll stay till I find out something," said Nick, as he donned his hat and took a general look over himself to see that he was in shape, "so don't worry about _me_." "But you ought not to be gone so long," said the father, whose anxious face showed that he was debating whether he should not join his boy in the search, "for it won't take long to find out where Nellie is." "I think she has been taken sick and has stopped with some of the neighbors," ventured the mother, "but it is strange they do not send me word." And it was the very fact that such word was not sent that prevented the husband and son from believing in the theory of the distressed mother. But Nick did not let the grass grow under his feet. His worriment was as great as that of his parents, and as soon as he was in the road he broke into a trot, which he kept up until beyond sight, both father and mother standing at the gate and watching him until he faded from view in the gathering twilight. The point where he disappeared was beyond the house of Mr. Marston, so it was safe to conclude he had learned nothing of his sister there, where he was seen to halt. There is nothing more wearisome than waiting in such suspense as came to the hearts of the father and mother, while they sat watching and listening for the sound of the childish footsteps and voices whose music would have been the sweetest on earth to them. The supper on the table remained untasted, and the only sounds heard were the solemn ticking of the old clock, the soft rustling of the kettle on the stove, and now and then a long drawn sigh from father or mother, as one strove to utter a comforting word to the other. All at once the gate was opened and shut hastily. Then a hurried step sounded along the short walk and upon the porch. "There they are! there they are!" exclaimed the mother, starting to her feet, as did the father. Almost on the same instant the door was thrown open, and, panting and excited, Nick Ribsam entered. But he was alone, and the expression of his face showed that he had brought bad news. CHAPTER V. THE PARTY OF SEARCH. When Nick Ribsam set out to find his missing sister Nellie, he made the search as thorough as possible. The first house at which he stopped was that of Mr. Marston, which, it will be remembered, was only a short distance away from his own home. There, to his disappointment, he learned that their little girl had not been at school that day, and consequently they could tell him nothing. Without waiting longer than to give a few words of explanation he resumed his trot, and soon after turned into the lane leading to the home of Mr. Kilgore. He found that both Bobby and Sallie had been to school, but they had nothing to tell. When we are more than usually anxious to learn something, it seems that every one whom we meet is stupid beyond endurance. If we are in a strange place and apply for information, the ignorance of nearly every person is exasperating. Bobby and Sallie remembered seeing Nellie in school during the forenoon and afternoon, but, while the boy insisted that she came along the road with them after dismissal, Sallie was just as positive that the missing girl was not with them. The party of school children which usually went over the highway was so small in number that it is hard to understand how such a mistake could be made, but the difference between Bobby and Sallie was irreconcilable. "I _know_ she didn't come home with us," said Sallie, stamping her foot to give emphasis to the words. "And I _know_ she did," declared Bobby, equally emphatically, "for me and her played tag." "Why don't you say she and I played tag?" asked Nick, impatient with both the children. "'Cause it was me and her," insisted Bobby. "What a dunce-head!" exclaimed his sister; "that was _last_ night when you played tag, and you tumbled over into the ditch and bellered like the big baby you are." "I remember that he did that last night," said Nick, hoping to help the two to settle the dispute. "I know I done that last night, but this afternoon I done it too. I fall into the ditch every night and beller; I do it on purpose to fool them that are chasing me." Nick found he could gain nothing; but he believed the sister was right and the brother wrong, as afterward proved to be the case. There were no more houses between his own home and the school building, and Nick resumed his dog trot, never halting until he came in front of a little whitewashed cottage just beyond the stone school-house. The latter stood at the cross roads, and the cottage to the left was where the teacher, Mr. Layton, an old bachelor, lived with his two maiden sisters. Mr. Layton, although strict to severity in the school-room, was a kind-hearted man and was fond of the Ribsam children, for they were bright, cheerful, and obedient, and never gave him any trouble, as did some of his other pupils. He listened to Nick's story, and his sympathy was aroused at once. "I am very sorry," said he, "that your good father and mother, not to mention yourself, should be so sorely troubled; but I hope this is not serious. Nellie came to me about three o'clock and asked whether I would let her go home." "Was she sick?" asked the distressed brother. "Not at all; but she said you had gone to Dunbarton in your carriage and she wanted to meet you coming back. She knew her lessons perfectly, and Nellie is such a good girl that I felt that I could not refuse so simple a request. So I told her she could go. I saw her start homeward with her lunch-basket in one hand and her two school-books in the other. She stepped off so briskly and was in such cheerful spirits that I stood at the window and watched her until she passed around the bend in the road." Nick felt his heart sink within him, for the words of the teacher had let in a great deal of alarming truth upon him. Nellie had reached the forks two hours ahead of him, and then, not wishing to sit down and wait, she had started up the road in the direction of Dunbarton to meet him. She must have entered the eight mile stretch of woods from the south about the same time Nick himself drove into it on his return from Dunbarton. The two should have met near Shark Creek, but neither had seen the other. Nick, as a matter of course, had kept to the road, but what had become of Nellie? This was the question the lad put to himself, and which caused him to feel so faint that he sank down in a chair unable to speak for a minute or two. Then, when he tried to do so, he had to stop, and was kept busy swallowing the lump that would rise in his throat, until finally the tears suddenly appeared, and, putting his hands to his eyes, he gave way to his grief. "There, there," said Mr. Layton soothingly, "don't cry, Nick, for it will do no good. Nellie has strayed off in the woods to gather flowers or perhaps wild grapes and has missed her way." "She--is--lost--poor--Nellie!" said the lad as best he could between his sobs; "we'll never see her again." "Oh, it isn't as bad as that! I suppose she has grown weary, and, sitting down to rest, has fallen asleep." If the good teacher meant this to soothe the lad, it had the contrary effect, for the picture of his little sister wandering alone in the woods was one of the most dreadful that could be imagined, and it took all the manhood of his nature to keep from breaking down again. While the interview was under way, Mr. Layton was busy changing his slippers for his boots, his wrapper for his coat, and his hat was donned just as he spoke the last words. His sympathy did not expend itself in talk, but the instant he saw what the trouble was he was eager to do all he could to help his suffering friends. He even reproached himself for having given Nellie permission to meet her brother, though no matter what harm may have befallen her, no one could blame her instructor therefor. "We must hunt for her," said Mr. Layton, when he was ready to go out; "I will tell my sisters they need not be alarmed over my absence, and I guess I will take the lantern with me." Nick passed out to the front gate, where he waited a minute for the teacher, until he should speak with his friends and get the lantern ready. When he came forth, the boy felt much like the patient who sees the surgeon take out his instruments and try their edge to make sure they are in condition before using upon him. The sight of the lantern in the hand of Mr. Layton gave such emphasis to the danger that it caused another quick throb of Nick's heart, but he forced it down as the two started back over the road, toward the school-house. "There is no need of lighting the lantern until we get to the woods," said the teacher, "for we don't need it, and I hope we won't need it after we reach the forest. Poor Nellie! she will feel dreadfully frightened, when she wakes up in the dark forest." He regretted the words, for the two or three sobs that escaped the brother, before he could master himself, showed that his heart was swelled nigh to bursting. The night was mild and pleasant, although a little too chilly for any one to sleep out of doors. The moon was gibbous, and only a few white, feathery clouds now and then drifted across its face. Where there was no shadow, one could see for a hundred yards or so with considerable distinctness--that is, enough to recognize the figure of a man in motion. Opposite the lane leading to the house of Mr. Kilgore, the teacher stopped. "I will go in and get him to join us," said Mr. Layton; "and you had better hurry home for your father. On your way back, stop for Mr. Marston; that will give us a pretty large party. If when you reach the forks you do not find us there, don't wait, but hurry on toward Dunbarton; you will meet us before you reach the bridge over Shark Creek." Nick did as told, and, still on a rapid trot, reached home panting and excited, with the story which the reader has just learned. Mr. Ribsam threw down his pipe, donned his hat and coat, and started out the door. With his hand on the latch, he paused, and, looking back, commanded his voice so as to say: "Katrina, you and Nick needn't wait up for me." "Oh, father," pleaded the lad, moving toward him: "would you make me stay at home when Nellie is lost?" "No, no--I did not think," answered the parent, in a confused way; "I feel so bad I do not know what I do and say. Katrina, don't feel too bad; we will come back as soon as we can." Again the half distracted father placed his hand on the latch, and he had drawn the door partly open, when his wife, pale and trembling, called out in a voice of touching pathos: "Gustav, my heart would break should I try to stay here, when no one but God knows where my darling Nellie is; but, wherever she may be, no sorrow or pain or suffering can come to her that her mother will not share, and may our Heavenly Father let her mother take it all upon her own shoulders!" "Come on, Katrina; come on and bring the lantern with you." CHAPTER VI. GROPING IN DARKNESS. When the parents and brother of Nellie Ribsam reached the forks a few minutes later, they saw nothing of the three parties whom they expected to meet there. "They have gone on to the woods to look for Nellie," said the father. "They cannot be far off," suggested Nick, turning to the left. All were too anxious to lose a minute, and they started after their friends on a rapid walk, Nick taking the lead, and now and then dropping into a loping trot, which he would have increased had he been alone. A chill seemed to settle over all as they reached the deep shadow of the woods, which was one of the largest tracts of forest in that section of the country. The road which bisected them was fully eight miles in length, as has already been stated, while the forest was much greater in extent in the other direction. Being of such large area, there were necessarily many portions which rarely if ever were visited by hunters. Years before an occasional deer had been shot, and a few of the old settlers told of the thrilling bear hunts they had enjoyed when they were not so very much younger than now. Those who were capable of judging were certain that if the gloomy depths were explored these dreaded animals would be met; but if such were the fact, the beasts were so few in number that no one gave them a thought. It was now four miles to Shark Creek, and, by common consent, it was agreed that the missing Nellie must be found, if found at all, before reaching the stream. As this creek was deep enough to drown any person who could not swim, not to mention the large pond into which it emptied, every one of the searchers felt a vague, awful dread that poor Nellie had fallen into the water. No one spoke of it, but the thought was there all the same. Shortly after entering the wood, Nick called attention to two star-like points of light twinkling ahead of them. "They are the lanterns of Mr. Layton and Kilgore," said Nick, who immediately added, "we forgot to stop and get Mr. Marston." "That is too bad, but it isn't worth while to go back now," replied his father, hardly slackening his gait. As the lantern which Mrs. Ribsam had handed to her husband was lighted before leaving home, the men in advance detected it immediately after they were seen themselves, and the halloo of the teacher was answered by Nick. "Have you found anything of Nellie?" asked the mother, in broken English, as soon as the parties came together. "It could scarcely be expected," answered the instructor, in a kindly voice; "we have just got here, and have only looked along the road. I have little doubt that she is soundly sleeping somewhere not far off." While all stood still, the father lifted up his voice, and in clear, penetrating tones called the name of his missing child: "Nellie!" The ticking of the big watch in the pocket of Nick was plainly heard as the little company awaited the answering call of the child. But it came not, and three times more was the name of the missing girl repeated by the father, who broke down completely the last time. Nick now joined his thumb and finger against the end of his tongue, and emitted a blast like that of a steam whistle. It resounded among the trees, and then followed the same oppressive stillness as before. It was useless to remain where they were any longer, and, without a word, the five moved on. The three lamps were swung above their heads, and they peered into the gloomy depths on the right and left. Nick, as might have been expected, kept the advance, and his father allowed him to carry the lantern. As the other lights were behind the lad, the latter saw his huge shadow continually dancing in front and taking all manner of grotesque shapes, while, if the others had looked to the rear, they would have seen the same spectacle, as it affected their own figures. "Wait!" suddenly called out the father, who was now obliged to use his broken English, "mebbe my Nellie she does hears me." Thereupon he called to her as before, Nick ending the appeal with an ear-splitting whistle, which must have been heard several miles on such a still night. Not the slightest result followed, and with heavy hearts the little company moved on again. "I think," said Mr. Layton, "that she has turned aside, where, possibly, some faint path has caught her eye, and it may be that we may discover the spot." "Let's look here!" It was the mother who spoke this time, and, as they turned toward her, she was seen bending over the ground at the side of the highway, where something had arrested her attention. Instantly all the lanterns were clustered about the spot, and it was seen that the eyes of affection had detected just such a place as that named by the teacher. Persons who walked along the road were accustomed to turn aside into the woods, and the five now did the same, moving slowly, with the lanterns held close to the earth, and then swung aloft, while all eyes were peering into the portions penetrated by the yellow rays. The path was followed some fifty yards, when, to the disappointment of all, it came back to the road: it was one of those whimsical footways often met in the country, the person who started it having left the highway without any real reason for doing so. Again the name of the missing Nellie was repeated, and again the woods sent back nothing but the echo. "Hark!" It was the quick-eared Nick who spoke, just as the hum of conversation began, and all listened. As they did so the rattle of wheels was heard coming from the direction of Dunbarton. The peculiar noise enabled the friends to recognize it as made by a heavy, lumbering farmer's wagon. The team was proceeding on a walk. A few minutes later some one shouted: "Halloo, there! what's the matter?" The voice was recognized as that of Mr. Marston, whom they intended to ask to join them. Instantly a hope was aroused that he might be able to tell them something of Nellie. Mr. Layton called back, saying they were friends, and asking whether the farmer had seen anything of Nellie Ribsam. At this Mr. Marston whipped up his horses, which were showing some fear of the twinkling lanterns, and halted when opposite to the party of searchers. "My gracious! is she lost?" asked the good man, forgetting the anguish of his friends in his own curiosity. "Yes, she started up this road this afternoon toward Dunbarton to meet her brother, who was returning, but, somehow or other, missed him, and we are all anxious about her." "My gracious alive! I should think you would be: it would drive my wife and me crazy if our Lizzie should be lost in the woods." "I suppose, from the way you talk," continued the teacher, "that you have seen nothing of her?" "No, I wish I had, for I tell you these woods are a bad place for a little girl to get lost in. Last March, when we had an inch of snow on the ground, I seen tracks that I knowed was made by a bear, and a mighty big one, too, and--" But just then a half-smothered moan from the mother warned the thoughtless neighbor that he was giving anything but comfort to the afflicted parents. "I beg pardon," he hastened to say, in an awkward attempt to apologize; "come to think, I am sure that it wasn't a bear, but some big dog; you know a large dog makes tracks which can be mistook very easy for those of a bear. I'll hurry on home and put up my team and git the lantern and come back and help you." And Mr. Marston, who meant well, whipped up his horses, and his wagon rattled down the road as he hastened homeward. CHAPTER VII. AN ALARMING DISCOVERY. By this time the searching party began to realize the difficulties in the path of their success. If, as was believed, or rather hoped, Nellie had fallen asleep in the woods, they were liable to pass within a dozen feet of where she lay without discovering the fact. Should they call to her, or should Nick emit his resounding signal whistle, she might be awakened, provided only such a brief space separated them, but the chances were scarcely one in a thousand that they would be so fortunate. This view, at the worst, was a favorable one, and behind it rose the phantoms that caused all to shudder with a dread which they dared not utter. Only a short distance farther they came upon another path which diverged from the side of the road, returning a little ways beyond. There, an unusually careful search was made, and Nick almost split his cheeks in his efforts to send his penetrating whistle throughout the surrounding country. The three men also called out the name of Nellie in their loudest tones, but nothing except the hollow echoes came back to them. Nick examined the face of his father's watch by the light of the lantern he carried, and saw that it lacked but a few minutes of nine. They had been searching for the lost child, as this proved, for nearly two hours. "It seems to me," said Mr. Layton, as the party came to a halt, "that we are not likely to accomplish anything by hunting in this aimless fashion." "What better can we do?" asked Mr. Kilgore. "Thus far we have been forced to confine ourselves to the road, excepting when we diverge a few feet: this renders our work about the same as if done by a single person. What I propose, therefore, is that we separate." "How will that help us?" "It may not, but we shall cover three or four times the amount of space (I judge Mrs. Ribsam would prefer to remain with her husband and son on account of the single lantern), and it follows that some one of us must pass closer to the spot where Nellie is lying." This seemed a sensible suggestion, and the two men turned to the afflicted father to learn what he thought of it. He shook his head. "Not yet,--not yet; we goes a leetle furder." Nothing was added by way of explanation, and yet even little Nick knew why he had protested: he wished that all might keep together until they reached the creek. If nothing was learned of his child there, then he would follow the plan of the teacher. But something seemed to whisper to the parent that the place where they would gain tidings of little Nellie was near that dark, flowing water, which, like such streams, seemed to be always reaching out for some one to strangle in its depths. "Perhaps Mr. Ribsam is right," said the teacher, after a silence which was oppressive even though brief; "we will keep each other's company, for it is lonely work tramping through the woods, where there is no beaten path to follow." Thereupon the strange procession resumed its march toward the distant town of Dunbarton, pausing at short intervals to call and signal to the missing one. It was a vast relief to all that the weather continued so mild and pleasant. In the earlier part of the day there were some signs of an approaching storm, but the signs had vanished and the night was one of the most pleasant seen in September. Had the rain begun to fall, or had the temperature lowered, the mother would have been distracted, for nothing could have lessened the pangs caused by her knowledge that her darling one was suffering. The true mother lives for her children, and their joys and sorrows are hers. Whenever the wind rustled among the branches around them she shuddered and instinctively drew her own shawl closer about her shoulder; she would have given a year's toil could she have wrapped the thick woolen garment about the tiny form of her loved one, who never seemed so dear to her as then. "Gustav," she whispered, twitching his elbow, "I want to speak one word to you." "Speak out; they cannot understand us," he answered, alluding to the fact that they were using their own language. "Yes, but I don't want Nick to know what I say." The husband thereupon fell back beside her, and in a tremulous voice she said: "Do you remember when Nellie was three years old?" "Of course I remember further back than that: why do you ask?" "When she had the fever and was getting well?" "Yes, I cannot forget it; poor girl, her cheeks were so hot I could almost light a match by them; but, thank God, she got over it." "You remember, Gustav, how cross she was and how hard it was to please her?" "But that was because she was sick; when she was well, then she laughed all the time, just like Nick when he don't feel bad." "But--but," and there was an unmistakable tremor in the voice, "one day when she was cross she asked for a drink of water; Nick was sitting in the room and jumped up and brought it to her, but she was so out of humor she shook her head and would not take it from him; she was determined I should hand it to her. I thought she was unreasonable and I told Nick to set it on the bureau, and I let Nellie know she shouldn't have it unless she took it from him; I meant that I wouldn't hand it to her and thereby humor her impatience. She cried, but she was too stubborn to give in, and I refused to hand her the water. Nick felt so bad he left the room, and I was sorry; but Nellie was getting well, and I was resolved to be firm with her. She was very thirsty, for her fever was a terrible one. I was tired and dropped into a doze. By-and-by I heard Nellie's bare feet pattering on the floor, and softly opening my eyes, without stirring I saw her walk hastily to the bureau, catch hold of the tumbler and she drank every drop of water in it. She was so weak and dizzy that she staggered back and threw herself on the bed like one almost dead. The next day she was worse, and we thought we were going to lose her. You saw how hard I cried, but most of my tears were caused by the remembrance of my cruelty to her the night before." "But, Katrina, you did right," said the father, who heard the affecting incident for the first time. "It won't do to humor children so much: it will spoil them." "That may be, but I cannot help thinking of that all the time; it would have done no harm to humor Nellie that time, for she was a good girl." "You speak truth, but--" The poor father, who tried so bravely to keep up, broke down and was unable to speak. The story touched him as much as it did the mother. "Never mind, Katrina--" At that moment Nick called out: "Here's the bridge!" The structure loomed through the gloom as it was dimly lighted by the lanterns, and all walked rapidly forward until they stood upon the rough planking. Suddenly the mother uttered a cry, and stooping down snatched up something from the ground close to the planks. The startled friends looked affrightedly toward her, and saw that she held the lunch basket of her little daughter in her hand. CHAPTER VIII. STARTLING FOOTPRINTS. On the very edge of the bridge over Shark Creek, the mother of Nellie Ribsam picked up the lunch basket which her daughter had taken to school that morning. It lay on its side, with the snowy napkin partly out, and within it was a piece of brown bread which the parent had spread with golden butter, and which was partly eaten. No wonder the afflicted woman uttered a half-suppressed scream when she picked up what seemed a memento of her dead child. While the lanterns were held in a circle around the basket, which the father took from his wife, Mr. Ribsam lifted the piece of bread in his hand. There were the prints made by the strong white teeth of little Nellie, and there was not a dry eye when all gazed upon the food, which the father softly returned to the basket and reverently covered with the napkin. No one ventured to speak, but the thoughts of all were the same. Stepping to the railing at the side of the bridge Mr. Layton held his lantern over, Nick and Mr. Kilgore immediately doing the same. The rays extended right and left and far enough downward to reach the stream, which could be seen, dark and quiet, flowing beneath and away through the woods to the big pond, a quarter of a mile below. In the oppressive stillness the soft rustling of the water was heard as it eddied about a small root which grew out from the shore, and a tiny fish, which may have been attracted by the yellow rays, leaped a few inches above the surface and fell back with a splash which startled those who were peering over the railing of the structure. The trees grew close to the water's edge, and as the trunks were dimly revealed they looked as if they were keeping watch over the deep creek that flowed between. The five were now searching for that which they did not wish to find; they dreaded, with an unspeakable dread, the sight of the white face turned upward, with the abundant hair floating about the dimpled shoulders. Thank heaven, that sight was spared them; nothing of the kind was seen, and a sigh escaped from each. "We are all tortured by the thought that Nellie has fallen into the creek and been drowned," said the teacher; "but I cannot see any grounds for such fear." The yearning looks of the parents and brother caused the teacher to explain more fully. "No child, unless a very stupid one, would stumble from this bridge, and there could have been no circumstances which in my judgment would have brought such a mishap to Nellie." This sounded reasonable enough, but: "De basket,--vot of dot?" asked the father. "She has dropped that from some cause; but that of itself is a favorable sign, for had she fallen accidentally into the water she would have taken it with her." This sounded as if true, but it did not remove the fears of any one. Even he who uttered the words could not bring himself fully to believe in their truth, for none knew better than he that the evil one himself seems to conspire with guns and pistols that appear to be unloaded, and with water which is thought to be harmless. All wanted to place faith in the declaration, and no protest was uttered. As nothing was to be seen or learned where they stood, they crossed the bridge and descended the wooded slope until they reached the edge of the stream, which wound its way through the woods to the big pond. Every heart was throbbing painfully and no one spoke: there was no need of it, for no comfort could be gained therefrom. Mr. Layton and Kilgore moved carefully up the creek, while Nick and his parents walked toward the pond, which lay to the left. The two wished to be apart from the others that they might consult without danger of being overheard by those whose hearts were suffering so much anguish. "It's very strange," said Mr. Kilgore, "that the basket should be found on the bridge: what do you make of it, Mr. Layton?" The teacher shook his head. "It is strange, indeed; had there been no water in the creek you could have set it down as certain that the child had not fallen from it, but, as she could not have done so without drowning, I am inclined to think--" The instructor hesitated, as if afraid to pronounce the dreadful words. "You think she is drowned?" said his friend, supplying the answer with his own question. Mr. Layton nodded his head by way of reply, and, holding the lanterns in front, they began groping their way along the margin of the creek. By raising the lights above their heads the rays reached the opposite bank, lighting up the water between. This was unusually clear, and they could see the bottom some distance from shore. Both felt that if the body was floating anywhere they could not fail to see it, though the probabilities were that it was already far below them, and would be first discovered by the parents and brother. "Halloa!" suddenly exclaimed Mr. Layton, lowering his lantern close to the ground, "I don't like _that_." By way of explanation, he pointed to the damp soil where no vegetation grew: it was directly in front and close to the water, being that portion which was frequently swept by the creek when above its present level. Parallel to the stream, for a distance of several rods or so, were a number of imprints in the yielding earth, which the first glance showed were made by some large animal. "It must have been a dog," ventured the teacher, who had little practical knowledge of the animals of the wood. Mr. Kilgore shook his head. "It was a bear; there can be no mistake about it. Mr. Marston was right; it was the track of a similar animal which he saw last March." "You are not mistaken, Mr. Kilgore?" The farmer answered impatiently: "I have hunted bears too often to be mistaken; I can tell their trail among a hundred others, and the one which went along here a little while ago was one of the largest of his kind." CHAPTER IX. THE LITTLE WANDERER. Although Nellie Ribsam was only eight years old at the time she was lost in the big woods, yet the results of the training received from her sensible father and mother showed themselves in a marked degree on that memorable occasion. She had been taught, as was her brother, that under heaven she must rely upon herself to get forward in the world. Nick was rarely if ever allowed to extend her a helping hand in her lessons, and she was given to understand that whatever was possible for her to do must be done without the aid of any one. As for sitting down and crying when in trouble, without making any effort to help herself, she knew better than to try that when either her father or mother were likely to find it out. Her intention, when she left school that afternoon before the session closed, was to keep on in the direction of Dunbarton until she met Nick returning. She turned off at the forks, and did not lessen her gait until she reached the woods. Her rapid walking caused her to feel quite warm, and the cool shade of the woods was refreshing. She began wandering aimlessly forward, swinging her hat in her hand, singing snatches of school songs, and feeling just as happy as a little girl can feel who is in bounding health, high spirits, and without an accusing conscience. It was not the time of year for flowers, and Nellie knew better than to look for any. They had drooped and died long ago; but some of the leaves were turning on the trees, and they gave a peculiar beauty to the autumnal forest. At intervals she caught sight of the cleanly, symmetrical maple, with some of its leaves turning a fiery red and looking like flecks of flame through the intervening vegetation. At the least rustling of the wind some of the leaves came fluttering downward as lightly as flakes of snow; the little brown squirrel scampered up the shaggy trunks and out upon the limbs, where, perching on his hind legs, he peeped mischievously down at the girl, as if inviting her to play hide-and-seek with him; now and then a rabbit, fat and awkward from his gluttony on the richness around him, jumped softly a few steps, then munched rapidly with his jaws, flapped his long silken ears, looked slyly around with his big, pretty eyes, and, as the girl made a rush toward him, he was off like a shot. The woods were fragrant with ripening grapes and decaying vegetation, and were putting on a garb whose flaming splendor surpassed the hues of spring. Indeed, everything conspired to win a boy or girl away from study or work, and to cause the wish on the part of both that they might be a bird or squirrel, with no thought of the responsibilities of life. Nellie Ribsam forgot for the time everything else except her own enjoyment; but by-and-by the woods took on such tempting looks that she turned off from the highway she had been following, with the intention of taking a stroll, which she meant should not lead her out of sight of the road. The first view which stopped her was that of a large vine of wild grapes. Some of them were green, some turning, while others were a dark purple, showing they were fully ripe: the last, as a matter of course, were at the top. These wild grapes were small and tart, inferior to those which grew in the yard of Nellie at home; but they seemed to be trying to hide in the woods, and they were hard to get, therefore they were more to be desired than the choicest Catawba, Isabella, or Concord. The main vine, where it started from the ground, was as thick as a man's wrist, and it twisted and wound about an oak sapling as if it were a great African constrictor seeking to strangle the young tree. Other vines branched out from the sides until not only was the particular sapling enfolded and smothered, but the greedy vine reached out and grasped others growing near it. Nellie felt like the fox who found the grapes more tempting the longer he looked at them. "I'm going to have some of them," she said, and straightway proceeded to help herself. She climbed as readily as Nick himself could have done, and never stopped until she was so high that the sapling bent far over with her weight. Then she reached out her chubby hand and plucked a cluster of the wild fruit. They were about the size of buckshot, and when her sound teeth shut down on them, the juice was so sour that she shut both eyes and felt a twinge at the crown of her head as though she had taken a sniff of the spirits of ammonia. But the grapes were none the less delicious for all that; the fact that there seemed to be something forbidden about them added a flavor that nothing else could give. Nellie had managed to crush a handful of the vinegar-like globules, when she caught sight of another vine deeper in the woods. It was much larger and climbed fully a dozen yards from the ground, winding in and out among the limbs of a ridgy beech, which seemed to be forever struggling upward to get away from the smothering embrace of the vegetable python. Five minutes later, Nellie was clambering upward like a monkey, never pausing until the bending tree-top warned her that if she went any higher it would yield to her weight. Nellie disposed of one bunch and that was enough: she concluded that she was not very hungry for grapes and, without eating or even gathering more, she devoted herself to another kind of enjoyment. Standing with one foot on a limb and the other on one near it, she grasped a branch above her and began swaying back and forth, with the vim and abandon of a child in a patent swing. The tree bent far over as she swung outward, then straightened up and inclined the other way as her weight passed over to that side. Any one looking at the picture would have said that a general smash and giving away were certain, in which case the girl was sure to go spinning through the limbs and branches, as though driven forth by the springs within the big gun which fling the young lady outward just as the showman touches off some powder. But a green sapling is very elastic, and, although the one climbed by Nellie bent back and forth like a bow, it did not give way. Her hair streamed from her head, and there was a thrilling feeling as the wind whistled by her ears, and she seemed to be shooting like a bird through space. All this was well enough, and it was no more than natural that Nellie should have forgotten several important facts: she was so far from the highway that she could not see any one passing over it; the rush of the wind in her ears shut out sounds that otherwise would have been noticed, and she had gone so far and had lingered so long by the way that it was time to look for Nick on his return from Dunbarton, even though he was later than he expected to be. It was while she was swinging in this wild fashion that her brother drove by on his way home, without either suspecting how close they were to each other. Nellie displayed a natural, childish thoughtlessness by keeping up this sport for a half hour longer, when she came down to the ground, simply because she was tired of the amusement. Although out of sight of the road she managed to find her way back to it without trouble. With her lunch basket in hand, she continued in the direction of Dunbarton, taking several mouthfuls of the bread which had been left over at noon. In this aimless manner she strolled forward, stopping now and then to look at the squirrel or rabbit or the yellow-hued warbler, the noisy and swift-flying finch, the russet-coated thrush, or dark brown and mottled woodpecker, as his head rattled against the bark of the tree trunks, into which he bored in quest of worms. The first real surprise of the girl came when she reached the bridge. This proved that she was more than four miles from home, a distance much greater than she had suspected. "Where can Nick be?" she asked herself, never once thinking that they might have missed each other when she was swinging in the tree-top. It struck her that the day was nearly gone, for she noticed the gathering twilight diffusing itself through the forest. "I don't think I will go any farther," she said; "Nick will be along pretty soon, and I'll wait here for him." Standing on the bridge and looking down the road and listening for the sound of the carriage wheels were tiresome to one of Nellie's active habits, and it was not long before she broke off some of the bread, set down her lunch basket, and then dropped some crumbs into the water. As they struck the surface, sending out little rings toward the shore, several tiny fish came up after the food. Nellie laughed outright, and, in her eagerness, was careless of how she threw the crumbs, most of which fell upon the bank. It occurred to her that she could do better by going down to the edge of the stream, where she would not mistake her aim. Childlike, she did not pause to think of the wrong of so doing, for she ought to have known that her parents never would have consented to such an act. Just there, Nellie, like many another little girl, made a great mistake. CHAPTER X. IN GREAT DANGER. A little child is like a butterfly, thinking only of the pleasures of the moment. Nellie Ribsam came down close to the edge of the creek and threw some crumbs out upon the surface. In the clear water she could see the shadowy figures of the minnows, as they glided upward and snapped at the morsels. She became so interested in the sport that she kept walking down the bank of the stream, flinging out the crumbs until there was none left in her hand; then she debated whether she should go back after her lunch basket or wait where she was until Nick appeared on the bridge. "It's a bother to carry the basket with me," she said to herself; "I had to leave it on the ground when I was after grapes, so I'll wait till Nick comes, and then I'll call to him. Won't he be scared when he sees me down here!" From where she stood, she observed the bridge above her head, and consequently Nick could look directly down upon her whenever he should reach the structure. Nellie felt that she would like to go on down the creek to the big pond into which it emptied; but she knew better than to do that, for she would be certain to miss her big brother, and it was already beginning to grow dark around her. "I wonder what makes Nick so long," she said to herself, as she sat down on a fallen tree; "I'm so tired that I never can walk the four miles home." She had sat thus only a brief while, when her head began to droop; her bright eyes grew dull, then closed, and leaning against a limb which put out from the fallen tree, on which she was sitting, she sank into the sweet, dreamless sleep of childhood and health. Had she not been disturbed she would not have wakened until the sun rose, but at the end of an hour, an involuntary movement of the head caused it to slip off the limb against which it was resting with such a shock that instantly she was as wide awake as though it was mid-day. Ah, but when she sprang to her feet and stared about her in the gloom she was dreadfully alarmed! She was quick-witted enough to understand where she was and how it had all come about. The gibbous moon was directly overhead, and shone down upon her with unobstructed fullness. "Nick has gone over the bridge while I was asleep," was her instant conclusion; "and father and mother will be worried about me." Her decision as to what she should do could not but be the one thing--that was to climb back up the bank to the bridge, cross it, and hurry homeward. There was a little throbbing of the heart, when she reflected that she had several miles to travel, most of which was through the gloomy woods; but there was no hesitation on the part of Nellie, who, but for the sturdy teaching of her parents, would have crouched down beside the log and sobbed in terror until she sank into slumber through sheer exhaustion. "I have been a bad girl," she said to herself, as she reflected on her thoughtlessness; "and mother will whip me, for I know she ought to; and mother always does what she ought to do." There was no room for doubt in the mind of the child, for she understood the nature of her parents as well as any child could understand that of its guardian. Nellie was some distance below the point where the bridge spanned the creek, but she could see the dim outlines of the structure as she started toward it. It seemed higher than usual, but that was because the circumstances were different from any in which she had ever been placed. The little one was making her way as best she could along the stream in the direction of the bridge, when she was frightened almost out of her senses by hearing a loud, sniffing growl from some point just ahead of her. It was a sound that would have startled the bravest man, and Nellie was transfixed for the moment. She did not turn and run, nor did she sink in a swoon to the ground, but she stood just where she had stopped, until she could find out what it meant. She was not kept long in waiting, for in less than a minute the noise was repeated, and at the same moment she caught the outlines of a huge black bear swinging along toward her. He was coming down the bed of the creek, with his awkward, ponderous tread, and when seen by Nellie was within fifty feet of her. When it is remembered that he was of unusual size and proceeding straight toward the child, it seems impossible that she should have done anything at all to help herself. The sight was enough to deprive her of the power of motion and speech. But it was in such a crisis as this that little Nellie Ribsam showed that she had not forgotten the teaching of her parents: "God helps them that help themselves." With scarcely a second's pause, she whirled on her heel and dashed down the stream with the utmost speed at her command. The bear could not have failed to see her, though it is not to be supposed that he was looking for the little girl when he first came that way. Furthermore, had the chase lasted several minutes Nellie must have fallen a victim to the savage animal. It required no instruction to teach her that there was but one way in which she could escape, and that was by climbing a tree. Had there been a large one near at hand she would have ascended that as quickly as possible; but, fortunately, the first one to which she fled was a sapling, no larger than those she had climbed during the afternoon, and no one could have clambered to the highest point attainable quicker than did the frightened little girl. Had she been a veteran hunter, Nellie could not have made a better selection, for she was fully twenty feet from the ground, and as much beyond the reach of the bear as though she were in her trundle-bed at home. But the position was a frightful one to her, and for several minutes she believed the animal would tear the tree down and destroy her. "I have done all I can for myself," she murmured, recalling the instruction of her parents, "and now God will do the rest." Beautiful, trusting faith of childhood! Of such, indeed, is the kingdom of heaven. The huge bear, which from some cause or other had ventured from the recesses of the wood, was but a short distance behind the little wanderer when she climbed so hastily beyond his reach. He acted as though he was somewhat bewildered by the unusual scene of a small child fleeing from him, but nothing is so tempting to pursuit as the sight of some one running from us, and the brute galloped after Nellie with an evident determination to capture her, if the thing could be done. When he found the child had eluded him for the time, he sat down on his haunches and looked upward, as though he intended to wait till she would be compelled to descend and surrender herself. The small tree in which Nellie had taken refuge was several yards from the edge of the stream, the bank sloping so steeply that the water never reached the base, excepting during a freshet. It was a chestnut, whose smooth bark rendered it all the more difficult to climb, but Nellie went up it as rapidly as a man ascends telegraph poles with the spikes strapped to his boots. The bear clawed the bark a little while, as a cat is sometimes seen to do when "stretching" herself, and it was during these few minutes that the girl thought nothing could save her from falling into his clutches. When he ceased, she peered downward through the branches, and could just see the massy animal near the base of the tree, as if asking himself what was the next best thing to do. It will be admitted that the situation of Nellie Ribsam was one in which few children of her tender years are ever placed. Happy it is, indeed, that it is so, for what one in a thousand would have retained her self-possession? In explanation, it may be doubted indeed whether Nellie fully comprehended her peril. Had she been older, her consternation, doubtless, would have been greater, as the emotion she showed some years later, when placed in great danger, would seem to prove. But there was one fact of which she was firmly convinced: she had complied with her father's instructions, for, as has been shown, she put forth every possible exertion to save herself, and now she called on Heaven to assist her. Perched in the top of the tree, with the enormous bear sitting beneath and looking hungrily upward, she prayed: "Heavenly Father, please take care of me and don't let that big bear catch me; don't let papa and mamma feel too bad, and please make the bad bear go away and let me alone." CHAPTER XI. "GOTT SEI DANK!" The prayer of little Nellie Ribsam--so far as it related to herself--was answered. She secured her seat, as best she could, in the branches of the chestnut sapling, and, by arranging her dress and the yielding limbs with considerable skill, she made herself quite comfortable. The trying situation in which she was placed, it would be thought, was enough to drive away all disposition to sleep, but at the end of less than half an hour the little head was nodding again, and, forgetful of her peril, her senses soon left her. It will be understood that the danger of the young wanderer was rendered all the greater by this loss of consciousness, for her muscles would relax in slumber, and, unless her position was unusually secure, she was certain to fall. But that gracious Father in whom she so implicitly trusted watched over the little one, and she remained as though seated in the broad rocking-chair at home. When at last she moved slightly and was on the point of losing her balance, she awoke so quickly that she saved herself just in the nick of time. She was shocked and startled, but regaining her breath she held fast with one hand while she parted the branches with the other and carefully peered down among the limbs. "He is gone!" was her joyous exclamation; "I knew the Lord would make him go away, because I asked him to." She was right: the bear had vanished, and all danger from that source for the time had passed. The brute probably found enough to eat without waiting for little girls to fall into his clutches. As he had never been known to trouble any one in the neighborhood, it was reasonable to believe that he got all he wanted without venturing away from the depths of the woods, and rousing an ill-will against himself that would speedily result in his destruction. Nellie did not feel surprised at all, for, as I have shown, she had the faith to believe that her prayer would be answered. "Now I will go down to the ground and start for home. I guess the bear isn't far off, but the Lord will not let him hurt me." She carefully descended the tree and stood on the ground a minute later. She found that her dress was torn and she had lost part of the ribbon from her hat. This troubled her more than anything else, for her frugal mother had told her many a time that she must take the best care of her clothing. "I was so scared that I forgot to look out," she said to herself, after taking an inventory of the damages; "but I guess mother will excuse me for losing the ribbon, though I know she won't for coming so far into the woods without permission." She now set out resolutely for the bridge, determined to lose no more time in reaching home. As is the rule, the brief space she had passed in sleep seemed three times as long as was actually the case, and she thought it must be near morning. She had gone but a short distance when she stopped with another shock of affright. "My gracious! what can that be?" A point of light appeared between her and the bridge, flickering about like an _ignis-fatuus_ or jack-o'-lantern. Nellie felt like taking to the tree again, but she bravely stood her ground until she could satisfy her curiosity as to its nature. Watching it closely she observed shadowy figures flitting around the light in a curious and grotesque way. She was in greater doubt than ever, when she heard voices. "I think I saw her tracks, but I couldn't be sure; Nellie knows too much to walk or fall into the deep water." "I hope so, but my heart misgives me sorely. God be merciful, for if she is lost I can never recover!" The first speaker was Nick Ribsam, and the second was the father, the mother immediately adding: "Why the poor child came here is more than I can understand, but He doeth all things well." _"Oh, mother! Oh, father! Oh, Nick! It is I, Nellie! I am so glad to see you!"_ And the little wanderer flew like the wind along the bank of the creek. The mother was the first to recognize the voice, and rushing forward she caught her child in her arms, murmuring in her own language: "Mein Kind! Mein Kind! Gott sei Dank!" (My child! My child! God be thanked!) "Mein lieber Nellie! Komm an mein Herz! Kannst du es sein?" (My dear Nellie! Come to my heart! Can it be you?) exclaimed the overjoyed father. "O meine abtrünnige Schwester! Wie du uns erschreckt hast! Wie es mich freut dich zu finden!" (Oh, my truant sister! What a scare you have given us! How glad I am to find you!) shouted Nick. And the child that was lost and was found was hugged first by mother, then by father, and then by Nick, and then all strove to get hold of her at the same time, till the brother ceased, through fear that she would be torn apart. Nellie was laughing and crying, and wondering why it was such commotion was caused by her return to her folks. Mr. Layton and Kilgore heard the tumult, and knew what it meant. A few minutes brought them to the spot, and, though their greeting was less demonstrative, their eyes filled with tears over the exceeding joy of the reunited family. When the excitement had subsided somewhat, the group listened to the story of Nellie. She told it in her childish, straightforward manner, and it was all the more impressive on that account. The listeners were greatly touched; but the probability that a large bear was in the neighborhood hastened their footsteps and they lost no time in hurrying away. When they reached the highway above, crossed the bridge, and had gone some distance on their way home, they began to feel there was nothing to be feared from the animal. Mr. Layton referred to the tracks of the beast which they had noticed when hunting for Nellie, but said he would never have mentioned it until the fate of the girl became known; for the suggestions which must have followed were too dreadful. Nothing was seen of the animal, however, and, as the distance from the bridge was increased the party finally gave up all thought and conversation respecting it. There was a grateful household that night, when, at a late hour, they gathered about the family altar and the head returned thanks to Him who had been so merciful to them and theirs. The happy mother held the daughter in her arms all night, while they both slept; and when the parent awoke, now and then, through the darkness, she shuddered, pressed the little one closer to her and kissed the chubby cheek, on which her former tears had not yet dried. But Katrina Ribsam was none the less an affectionate mother when, several days later, she called Nellie to her knee and told her how wrongly she had acted in venturing on such a dangerous tramp without asking permission from her parents. Nellie said she knew it, and wondered why it was her mother delayed the punishment so long. She was ready, and loved and respected her mother the more for administering it. But truth compels me to say that the chastisement was given with such a gentle hand that it was hardly worth the name, and the mother herself suffered far more than did the child, who to this day is not conscious that she received anything like physical pain. CHAPTER XII. OMINOUS PREPARATIONS. Happily there are few little girls in this favored land who are called upon to go through such trials as fell to the lot of little Nellie Ribsam when she was but eight years old. It created much talk in the neighborhood, and she was complimented on the bravery she had shown, while the glad father became more confirmed than ever in his favorite belief that God helps them that help themselves. "'Spose dot she didn't try to helps herself some," he said, in talking the matter over with Mr. Marston, "don't you not sees dot she would get eat up doo, dree times by dot bear dot vos bigger as nefer vos?" "It is a good thing for one, even though he be a child, to be able to do his utmost when overtaken by danger--there can be no question about _that_; but it would require a great deal of training to bring some children to that point, even when they are double the years of your little girl." "Dot's becos dere folks don't not begins right; we starts mit Nick and Nellie when dey was so small dot dey didn't know nuffin, which is why it happens dey knows so much now." Great as was the interest excited by the adventure of Nellie, it was not long before it was thrown in the shade by another fact which was brought to light by that same experience: that was the existence of a large bear in the woods which lay to the east and west of the road leading to Dunbarton. This forest, as has already been intimated, covered a large tract of country, in which, a few years previous, bears, deer, and wolves had been hunted by many of those dwelling on the outskirts. Large inroads had been made on the woodland, and here and there the cabin of a settler or squatter was found by those who penetrated any distance. There were clearings extending over several acres, while, again, a man might wander for hours without emerging from the timber, which included the common varieties found in the Middle States--oak, beech, maple, birch, hickory, hemlock, black walnut, American poplar or whitewood, gum, elm, persimmon, and others less important. The pine resembled the famous white pine of the Allegheny mountains, and predominated. Where there was such a large area covered with timber, about every variety of surface was known. In some places were rocks, ravines, hollows, and gulches; in others there were marshy swamps through which a hunter would find it hard work to force his way. Shark Creek entered from the east and was of considerable volume. In many places it was deep, while elsewhere it widened into broad and shallow expansions. It wound its way through the woods in the sinuous course always taken by such streams, and, crossing the road, where it was spanned by a bridge, it continued onward a quarter of a mile, when it reached Shark Pond, the overflow of which ultimately found its way into the Susquehanna and so to the Atlantic. Why the waters were called Shark Creek and Pond was more than any one could explain. Most likely it was because no such fish as the shark had ever been seen near them, the circumstances of the case rendering it impossible that such a voracious creature ever should have sported in their depths. From what has been said, it will be seen that the woods offered a most inviting home for a few wild bears, and there was the best reason for the belief of many of the neighbors that if the tract was well hunted over several of the animals would be found. The universal opinion was that they should be exterminated, for so long as they were in the woods, so long were they a standing menace to all the men, women, and children who dwelt in the section. The children, especially, were considered in great peril, and several timid mothers refused to let their girls and boys go to school, which stood at no great distance from the woods. There was more than one farmer who contended that, if the few bears were left alone they would multiply to that degree that they would sally forth from the forest, like the Delaware Indians of the last century, and carry death and destruction before them. A few individuals, like Gustav Ribsam, said there was nothing to fear, for when the bears showed any marked increase they would be killed, and it would be no very difficult job, either. But no one could dispute the desirability of ridding the country of the brute which came so near eating little Nellie Ribsam; and, where there was so much talk, something was done, or at least attempted. A hunting party of six men was organized in the month of October, and they tramped through the woods for days, with a couple of dogs, but the trail of the animal could not be found. They finally gave up the hunt, the most tired and disgusted not hesitating to declare they did not believe a bear had been seen in the forest for half a century. The opinion of those best qualified to judge, was that bruin obtained all the food he wanted with such little trouble that he did not care to molest any persons, and therefore kept out of the way of the hunters. Nick Ribsam, like all boys, was fond of a gun and dog, and he did not own either. His father had brought from Holland an old musket, used before the country was erected into a kingdom for Louis Bonaparte, more than eighty years ago; but when Nick rammed a charge down its dusty throat one day, forgetful that one had been resting there for months, and pulled trigger, it hung fire a long time; but, when it did go off, it did so in an overwhelming fashion, bursting into a dozen pieces and narrowly missing killing the astounded lad who discharged it. But Nick was so anxious to own a gun, that his father bought him one on the day he reached the age of ten years, which was shortly after Nellie's adventure with the bear. Although the farmer was frugal in all things, he believed it was the cheapest to buy the best, and the gun which was placed in the hands of Nick was a breech-loader with double barrels. It was a shot-gun, as a matter of course, for little use could be found for a rifle in that neighborhood. But Nick had practiced with this piece only a few weeks, when his ambition was turned in another direction by a large, strong boy, who hired himself out upon the farm of Mr. Marston. He was sixteen years of age, and was named Sam Harper. His father had been a soldier in the late war, and gave to Sam a fine breech-loading rifle, which he brought with him when he hired out to Mr. Marston. The lad had owned it two years, and, under the tutelage of his father, who was wounded and living upon a pension, he became very skillful for one of his age. Beside this, Mr. Marston himself, as I have shown, was fond of hunting in his early manhood, and was the owner of an excellent muzzle-loading rifle, which was as good as when his keen eye glanced along the brown barrel and the bullet was buried in the unsuspicious deer, so far away as to be scarcely visible to the ordinary vision. "If you and Sam want to hunt the bear," said the kind owner, "you are welcome to my rifle, for you know a shot-gun ain't exactly the thing to go hunting bears with." "That's just what I want it for," said Nick, with sparkling eyes. CHAPTER XIII. THE BEAR HUNTERS. Nothing is impossible to pluck and perseverance. That boy who is determined to become brilliant in his studies, no matter what their nature, or to master a difficult profession, or to attain any point possible of attainment, is sure to win, if he will but _stick to it_. Nick Ribsam was resolved to become skillful with the rifle, and he gave all the time he could spare to practice with the gun which belonged to Mr. Marston. He was desirous of starting after the bear with Sam, as soon as he could use the gun, but his sensible father shook his head. "No, Nicholas, that would be doing wrong, for you do not know how to handle the rifle; God does not step in and help the lazy and careless; first learn how to use the weapon, so you will never miss; then you may go hunt bears." Although a lusty lad, Nick found the heavy gun was quite a burden, and he preferred to rest the barrel on the fence, or in the crotch of a tree, when aiming, but Sam Harper told him he could never amount to anything unless he used his weapon off-hand, and was ready to do so effectively, no matter how sudden the call. Nick applied all his energies, and in the course of a few weeks won the praise of Sam, who had become very fond of the bright and good-natured "Pennsylvania Dutchman," who, in return, helped him in his efforts to improve his knowledge in arithmetic, which he studied in a desultory way on the long autumn evenings, having promised his father to do so. Mr. Marston owned a dog which was not of much account, but the boys trained him with rare patience, and were confident he would prove valuable when they took him on the hunt. By the time they were ready to start autumn was advanced, and Nick, who had carefully studied up the peculiarities of the animal, said he was afraid the bear had gone into some hollow tree or cave to take his winter's sleep. "I don't think they do that till the weather gets colder," said Sam, who had once helped hunt bruin in the wilds of Tennessee, "and even in very cold weather I have seen their tracks in the snow; but if we can only find the tree or cave where he is hiding, why, that will just be splendid." "Why so?" "He is fat, lazy, and so sleepy that he don't fight much; but in the spring-time he is lean, hungry, and fierce, and then everybody must look out. There are so many chestnuts and hickory nuts in the woods now that he can get all he wants to eat without scaring the farmers by visiting them." "The bear eats almost everything," said Nick, "but I don't believe he can make much of a meal off hickory nuts." "Well, he has got a good thing of it anyway, here, there is so much food around him, and if he had only been smart enough to keep out of sight and never show himself he might have died of old age without being once disturbed by hunters." "I ain't sure he won't die of old age as it is," said Nick, with a laugh; "for every one who went after him came back without the first glimpse. I guess they have all given up hope of shooting him, and I shouldn't wonder if we had to do the same." But whether such was to be the result or not remained to be seen, and the boys were sure of plenty of sport in an all-day ramble through the woods. During all this time Nick and Nellie were attending school, and they maintained their places in their studies, and were surpassed by none in the excellence of their deportment. Nick rose early and helped his father with his work, and at night did his chores. With all this, he found opportunity to practice with the rifle and to prepare his lessons for the morrow, so that it need not be said he had little idle time on his hands. On a bright Saturday morning in November, when the smoky haze of the delicious Indian summer overspread forest, stream, and country, Sam Harper came to the house of Nick Ribsam according to appointment. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, and the dog, which they had christened Bowser, was at his heels. There was no school that day, and Mr. Ribsam, having satisfied himself of the ability of Nick to handle the rifle of his neighbor, had given him permission to go on a hunt for the bear which had so frightened Nellie a couple of months before. The mother and daughter were a little anxious when the rosy-cheeked boy donned his heavy boots, pushed his trousers down the legs, and taking the long-barreled rifle from where it rested in the corner turned to kiss them good-by. Mr. Ribsam seemed as cool and stolid as ever; but any one looking closely at him would have observed that he puffed his pipe a little oftener than was his wont, while his eye beamed more kindly upon his brave little boy. "Look out, Nick, and don't be too venturesome," said the mother, as she pressed her lips to those of her only son. "And remember that the bear is an awful big animal," said Nellie, "for I _seen_ him." The brother, who was in the act of leaning over his sister to kiss her, drew back with a reproving look. "Why is it a girl can't talk without saying 'awful' in every sentence? I wish for variety's sake, Nellie, you and the rest of the girls would leave 'awful' out of one sentence in a hundred, and don't say 'I _seen_ him,' for you know better than that, sister." She hung her head and her eyes were growing misty, when Nick took the kiss with a laugh and moved to the door. "There, there, good-by; you all act as if I was going to Africa to hunt lions and tigers." Nellie snapped him up in a flash: "There ain't any tigers in Africa, smarty!" "You got me that time," laughed Nick; "where is father?" "He went out of the door a minute ago; he is standing by the gate," said the mother, after a quick glance through the window. Mr. Ribsam was leaning on the gate-post, as was a favorite custom of his, and the tobacco smoke ascended in clouds and rings, as though he was a locomotive tugging hard at a train, with the wheels continually slipping. He looked at the boys without stirring or speaking, as they passed out the gate and gently closed it, so as not to jar the old gentleman leaning upon it. When they had gone a rod or so, Mr. Ribsam called out: "Nicholas!" "Yes, sir!" answered the son, wheeling instantly. The father took the long stem of his pipe from his mouth, emitted a blast of vapor, and then shut his eyes and flung his head backward with a quick flirt, which meant that his boy should come to him. Nick obeyed with his usual promptness, and paused immediately in front of his parent, while Sam Harper stopped short and looked backward at the two, with the purpose of waiting until the interview ended. The old gentleman meant his words for both, and he therefore used the English tongue as best he could, and spoke loud: "Nicholas, bears ish shtrong amimals as nefer vos: they can squeeze in der ribs of a ox of dey tried, I dinks, so looks out dot de bears don't not squeeze mit you." "I will take good care, you may depend." "His claws am sharp and he has big jaws; look outs for dem, Nicholas!" "You may be sure I will." "And, Nicholas, ven you goes for to hunt bears _you must helps one anoder; you hears_?" This was the all-important sentence the father had prepared himself to utter. It will be observed that it was in violation of his oft repeated creed, for it clearly called upon the boys to render mutual support should danger arise; and they would have been zanies had they not done so. The father expected them to show that much sense, but he was impelled to impress the necessity of it: he meant them to understand that his declarations were subject to amendment under certain conditions. Nick gave the pledge and stepped briskly up the road with Sam, while Bowser frolicked in the fields and road until they were fairly in the woods, when he frisked among the trees, sometimes starting up a squirrel or rabbit, which had no trouble in skurrying out of his reach. As the bear when seen by Nellie was near Shark Creek, the boys agreed to follow the road to the bridge, descend into the bed of the stream, and then go downward toward the pond and finally off into the woods, where they intended to pass that day and probably the night and following day. They had reached and passed the tree in which Nellie Ribsam took refuge two months before, when Nick suddenly exclaimed: "Hallo, there is some one ahead of us!" "It's the season for game and we shall find plenty of hunters in the wood," said Sam Harper, who, nevertheless, scanned the person with much interest. The fact that the boys were following precisely in his footsteps raised the suggestion that perhaps he was engaged on the same business or sport, as it might be termed. Our friends hastened their pace so as to overtake him, for his company might be desirable, or possibly it might be otherwise. "Hallo, there!" called out Nick; "wait a minute!" The individual thus hailed turned about, and looked back to see who it was that called. As he did so his face was seen, and Nick Ribsam gave utterance to an expression of astonishment. CHAPTER XIV. A RECRUIT. The stranger ahead of the two boys was Herbert Watrous, the city youth upon whom Nick had sat down so hard three years before. He was unusually tall when visiting the country school, and during the intervening time he had continued to grow upward, until his height equaled that of an ordinary man. He was scarce fourteen years old, but he lacked very little of six feet in altitude. He was correspondingly slim, so that he looked as if a smart blow on the back would snap him in two. He was arrayed in a most gorgeous hunting suit of green, with all the paraphernalia which the hunter from the city thinks necessary when he honors the country with a tramp for game. Herbert, beyond question, was fitted out in fine style, and there was nothing lacking, except perhaps skill. He carried one of the finest of breech-loading rifles, which would have been very effective in the hands of a party who knew how to use it. The face of the lad had not changed in expression to any extent since Nick Ribsam drove him into the earth, but there was some downy furze on his upper lip and chin, while his voice was of that squeaky and uncertain tone heard when "changing." "Hallo! is that you?" was the rather superfluous question of Herbert, as he waited for the two boys to come up. He recognized Nick, but of course was a stranger to Sam Harper, to whom Nick introduced him, and there was a general shaking of hands all around. Young Watrous glanced rather askance at his old school-mate, but there was such a cordial welcome on the part of the young "American of Dutch descent" that all reserve vanished. A certain loftiness of manner and conceit of expression, however, were natural to Herbert, and he did not fail to look down, in a literal and figurative sense, upon the two hunters. "That's a fine gun you have there, Herbert," said Nick, venturing to reach out his hand for it. "Yes," answered Herbert, passing it to him rather gingerly, "be careful not to drop it." The gun was a beautiful weapon, known as the long range "Creedmoor." It was a Remington, highly finished, and cost $125. It had a front sight, known as the wind-gauge, with the spirit-level, and with the vernier sight on the stock, which is raised from its flat position when the hunter wishes to shoot a long distance, and is graduated up to a thousand yards, carrying a 44 cartridge. "That isn't of much account in this part of the world," said Sam Harper, passing the weapon back; "it's light enough, for I don't suppose it weighs more than six or seven pounds." "It's just the thing for these woods," said Herbert, in his important manner, "for I calculate to bring down game a half mile away, if I happen to see it." "And provided it will stand still and you can know the exact distance." "I can tell that by my eye easily enough." "You can't guess within two hundred yards of it, if your life depended on it." "That remains to be seen." "The first time you try it will prove it. I have seen them shoot with the telescopes, globe, and peep sights and all the new fangled notions, and they're good only for fancy shooting. You've got to use that breech-loader off-hand, just as I do, or it won't be worth a cent to you." "I understand that a big black bear has been seen in the woods," said Herbert, in his loftiest style; "I've come to kill him." Nick and Sam looked significantly at each other, and Nick said: "That is what we are after; won't you join us?" Instead of responding promptly, Herbert said: "Well, I don't know as I have any objection to letting you go with me, though you must promise to do as I say." Without giving this pledge, the two said they would render all the help they could, and the party moved on down the creek toward the pond. "Have you a dog?" asked Nick of their new recruit. "No, what do I want of a dog? He would only be a bother; you ought to send back that pumpkin of yours." "We don't expect him to be of much help, except to find the track of the bear, if he is anywhere in the neighborhood--_there!_ do you hear that?" At that moment Bowser, who had trotted into the woods ahead, gave utterance to a hoarse, resounding bay, which sounded as though his voice had also changed, for it ended in a dismal squeaking howl that made all laugh. "He is on the track of something," said Nick in some excitement. "A rabbit, I am sure," remarked Herbert, with a sneer. The three started off at a rapid walk, which occasionally broke into a trot, and following the baying of the hound they turned to the right before reaching the big pond, and struck into the very heart of the woods. Herbert was so much taller and lighter than his companions that he drew away from them once or twice, but was obliging enough to stop and wait. Hurrying along in this headlong fashion they soon stopped, all pretty well out of breath. Although Herbert had laughed at their tardiness, he was the most exhausted and the first one to wish to rest. CHAPTER XV. A SURPRISE. All this time the baying of the hound continued, the sounds showing that he had circled and was approaching the boys, who were not a little astonished at the unexpected turn of affairs. "That's a pretty dog," laughed Herbert; "he is making fools of us all." "There isn't any need of that so far as _you_ are concerned," retorted Nick, losing patience with the slurs of their companion. "You had better wait till you find out what it means before you condemn Bowser." Herbert made no answer, for the dog was now so close that the interest of all was centered on his actions. "My gracious, what a terrible racket he makes!" exclaimed Nick; "there must be something unusual to excite Bowser like that." The dog was not heard for several minutes, but the crashing through the undergrowth sounded nearer and nearer, and, as Sam declared, showed that Bowser had steam up and was going for something. Suddenly the bushes parted only a short ways from where the three wondering lads stood, and, instead of the hound, some kind of a wild animal came toward them on a dead run. The group were too amazed to think of the guns they held, and only stared in mute wonder. The game did not see them until within a hundred feet, when he whirled at right angles and plunged away with arrowy speed. As he did so, he exposed his flank to the young hunters, who could not have been given a better opportunity to bring him down, for the throwing forward of the foreleg, opened his most vulnerable part to the bullet. But none was sent after him; at that instant he was recognized as a fine buck deer, with branching antlers thrown back so that they seemed to rest on his spine, while his legs were flung straight in front and then backward, as he took his long graceful leaps. The boys had set out to hunt a bear, and were astounded that, when they dared not hope they were anywhere in his vicinity, a splendid deer should spring up and dash by them. Before they could give utterance to their amazement, Bowser came along with his nose to the ground and baying hoarsely. Just as he turned to follow the deer, Herbert Watrous raised his breech-loader to his shoulder and fired point blank at him. "What did you do that for?" demanded Sam Harper, striding threateningly toward him with his fist raised. "Why--why--I declare! I thought it was the bear!" exclaimed the abashed Herbert; "I never dreamed it was the dog." Sam was not disposed to believe this story, and he stood irresolute, strongly inclined to punish the city youth who had fired at his hound; but Nick compelled his angry friend to laugh by saying: "You shouldn't be mad, Sam, for Bowser is safe so long as Herbert aims at him. I don't think he came within twenty feet. If he should hit him you can make up your mind it is an accident." Herbert hardly knew how to answer this remark, for he saw that he had not done a very creditable thing, view it as he might, so he made a radical turn in the conversation. "Who would have thought it, boys? We've got not only a bear, but a deer to hunt, and I say, may the best fellow win!" And with this manly sentiment on his lips he broke into a rapid run after the buck and hound, the others following, forgetful of the little flurry a few minutes before. It was not in the order of things that the lads should be able to make their way through the woods and undergrowth with anything like the speed of the fallow deer or dog. Hunters don't expect to overtake their game in anything like a fair chase when all are on foot, but resort to stratagem. By stationing themselves so as to head off a deer, they secure the one shot which is all-sufficient. It would be counted an extremely good piece of fortune could they obtain such a fair target as has already been given the young hunters; and, having let it pass unimproved, they scarcely would have expected to be so favored again. It was natural, therefore, that they should make a pell-mell rush after the deer and hound, and that they should keep going until, once more, they were forced to stop from exhaustion. By this time the baying of Bowser came to them so faintly that it was plain he was a mile distant at the least, while there could be little doubt that the buck was much farther off. "Well!" exclaimed the panting Herbert Watrous, "I can't say I see much fun in this; it's too much like chasing a railroad train." "No," added Nick, "I don't see that there is any hope of running down the deer, who is more used to traveling than we are." "Maybe he'll come round in a circle again," said Sam, "and we may have another chance to see him sail by, while not one of us raises his gun." "I suppose we ought to understand something more about the habits of the deer, so that we would know what course he would be likely to take. We could then get there ahead of him and fire as soon as he gave us a chance." "Well," added Sam, with a sigh, "he seems to have taken the route we were going to follow to hunt the bear, so we may as well tramp along. We may get a glimpse of a buffalo or elephant next." The baying of the hound had ceased, and, though the boys often stopped and listened, they heard nothing more of it. "I guess he has caught the deer," said Herbert, who showed a desire to speak well of Bowser since he had failed to shoot him, "and is waiting for us." But Sam shook his head; he knew the canine too well to believe him capable of such an exploit as that. "I don't think he ever ran down anything yet, unless it was a chicken or cat--hallo!" At that moment the subject of their conversation appeared on the scene, approaching as quietly as though the boys were sheep that he wished to surprise. He slouched along with a lazy, tired gait, his tongue out, and dripping with perspiration, while he panted as though he had been on the severest chase of his life, which most likely was the fact. He lay down at the feet of Sam Harper, and, stretching out his paws, rested his head between them as much as to say, "Gentlemen, I have had enough of this sport, and resign; you will now carry it on without my assistance." "He is tired out, and I don't wonder," said Sam, stooping over and patting the head of the hound; "he ain't used to deer hunting, and don't know much more about it than do we." "Then he don't know anything," was the truthful observation of Nick Ribsam. "It's my opinion that it's best to give up hunting that particular deer until we learn a little more about the right way to do it." CHAPTER XVI. THE DINNER IN THE WOODS. By this time it was close to the hour of noon, and the young hunters were hungry. They had brought no lunch with them, for that would have been an admission that they doubted their own ability to provide food for themselves in a country abounding with game. Nick Ribsam had a paper of salt and pepper mixed, with which to season their dinner as soon as it should be secured. The common red squirrels, or chickarees, were so plentiful that they were nearly always in sight, and, without moving from where they stood, the lads descried several running along the limbs of the trees. "Let each of us shoot one," said Sam, walking forth to get a better aim at a fellow perched high on the branch of a large oak. Slowly bringing his gun to his shoulder, he took careful aim, and the game came tumbling through the leaves to the ground, his head punctured by the cruel bullet. Bowser started at a lazy walk to bring the body in, but Sam stopped him and picked it up himself. "I think I will take _that_ one," said Herbert, indicating a squirrel which was nearer than the others. It was sitting in the crotch of a tree, nigh enough to be struck with a stone flung by a skillful thrower. The other two watched his actions with some interest as he raised the handsome breech-loader. He took a long and deliberate aim, and gave a grunt the instant he pulled the trigger, and the sharp report broke the stillness of the woods. Nick and Sam laughed, for the frightened rodent scampered up the tree and ran out upon a heavy branch, where he whisked from sight and then back again, chattering in such a lively fashion that it was plain he had suffered no inconvenience from the bullet sent after him. "Well, I'll be hanged!" exclaimed the chagrined Herbert, "I don't understand how that came about." "The squirrel doesn't seem to understand it, either," said Sam; "let's see whether you can do any worse, Nick." "I'm going to try and bark him," remarked Nick, cocking his rifle and sighting at the little animal. Before he could make his aim sure, the chickaree started to run along the limb, which was large and covered with thick, shaggy bark; but the muzzle of the weapon swerved slowly in a corresponding direction, and just as the game gathered itself to make a leap, the explosion came. The others, who were watching the squirrel to note the result, saw several pieces of bark suddenly fly upward with such force that the rodent was hurled fully a foot above the limb, dropping like a wet rag at the feet of the lad, killed, without its skin being broken. "That was a good shot!" exclaimed Sam Harper admiringly; "no hunter in the land could have barked him better than did you." "What do you mean by barking a squirrel?" asked Herbert, who had never seen anything of the kind before. "It is easy enough; all you have to do is to cut the bark right under the squirrel's body, so that the pieces fly upward with such force as to knock the life from him." "That's the way I'm going to kill them after this." "It is best to practice hitting them with the ball first," Nick suggested. Herbert solemnly removed the shell of the cartridge from his breech-loader and replaced it with a fresh one, pretending not to hear the remark of Nick. As the two squirrels were large and in excellent condition, it was thought they would afford enough dinner for the boys, who went some distance farther until they reached a small stream of clear, icy water, where they decided to make their fire. While Nick and Herbert busied themselves gathering some dry twigs and sticks, Sam Harper, with his keen knife, skillfully skinned the chickarees, dressed them, and then holding them over the flame on green, forked sticks, they were soon cooked to a turn. For a few minutes before they were ready, the odor of the broiling game so sharpened the appetites of the boys that Nick sprang up, and, hurrying out in the woods, shot another for Sam to dress and cook. "Two ain't enough," he said in explanation, as he threw the last to his friend; "I can eat a couple myself, and Bowser looks sort of faint." "The waste parts ought to be enough for him," said Sam, glancing at the hound, who had gulped down everything thrown him and was gazing wistfully for the next tid-bits that should fall to his share. The clear, pure air, the vigorous exercise, and the rugged health of the boys gave them appetites scarcely less forceful than that of Bowser; and when Nick had carefully sprinkled the seasoning over the juicy, crisp flesh, and each, taking one of the squirrels in hand, began wrenching off the tender meat, he was sure he had never tasted such a delicious dinner in all his life. Even Herbert Watrous, accustomed as he was to the delicacies and refinements of a city home, admitted that there was something about the meal which, washed down with clear, pure water, had a flavor surpassing anything of the kind he had ever known. The causes why it tasted thus I have already stated. CHAPTER XVII. A TEST OF MARKSMANSHIP. The boys were so tired from their severe tramp, and the rest was so grateful after finishing their dinner, that they stayed where they were an hour longer. Then, realizing that nothing could be done by idleness, they slung their reloaded rifles over their shoulders, took another drink of water, and lazily made their way to higher ground. "I have been thinking," said Nick, when they paused again, "that we will be more likely to learn something of the bear if we separate." "For how long?" Herbert asked. "Until night, or until we find him." "But how can we find each other at night?" "That can be fixed easily enough; if necessary, we can signal to each other, or we can pick out some landmark that can be seen a long ways off and gradually approach that as the sun goes down." There was nothing brilliant in this proposition, but after some discussion it was agreed to by the others, and they began looking around for something which might serve them as a guide. Directly to the north, the woods rose in a series of hills of no great elevation, but among them were numerous large rocks of limestone formation, some of them of such a light color that they could be seen a long distance. "Right yonder," said Nick, pointing toward the largest, "is one which we cannot mistake; let's agree to meet there at nightfall and go into camp. If either one of us loses his reckoning he will fire his gun and the others will answer him, so there need be no danger at all." "I don't see as there would be any danger if we failed to find each other before morning," said Sam; "we are not in a wild country where Indians will hunt for us." "There ain't any danger," said Herbert, "only it will be a great deal more pleasant to spend the night together; you will feel safer by knowing that I am with you with my patent breech-loader." "Yes," said Nick, "for by keeping close to you there won't be half as much likelihood of being hit when you fire at something else." "I haven't tried yet," said Herbert; "my gun is a long-distance shooter: there's where I get my work in. Show me a mark a good long distance off and you'll open your eyes." "Well, I declare, if that doesn't beat all!" It was Sam Harper who uttered this exclamation. He had been gazing steadily at a broad, flat rock about a quarter of a mile distant to the northwest of them, and his words announced that he had made some important discovery. The peculiar tone in which he spoke caused the others to turn toward him and ask the cause. "Look at that yellowish white rock," he answered, pointing toward it, "and tell me whether that isn't a little ahead of anything yet." One brief searching glance showed that the young man had sufficient cause for his excitement. [Illustration: "Now I'll show you what my Creedmoor will do," said Herbert Watrous.] Standing on the top of the rock, so that his figure was thrown in clear relief against the tinted sky behind him, was the very buck they had been vainly chasing. He seemed to be looking back at the young hunters as though he disdained their prowess and defied them to renew their attempt to bring him down. "_That's my chance!_" exclaimed Herbert, in excitement; "that's just my distance; get out of my way! give me room! now I'll show you what my Creedmoor will do, when aimed by a master of the art." With great display and ceremony the youth prepared to give an exhibition of shooting like that shown at the international matches. The others stepped back, so as not to impede his movements, and he deliberately threw off his cap, got down on his back, raised the rear sight, crossed his feet and drew them half way up to his body, then rested the barrel of his gun on the support thus furnished between the knees, and with his left hand beneath his head, and turned so as to rest against the stock of his gun, while his right was crooked around with the finger lightly pressing the trigger, he was in the proper position to make a "crack shot." The others watched his actions with the closest attention, only fearful that the deer would not keep his position long enough for Herbert to obtain the aim he wished. The conditions could not have been more favorable; the buck being to the northwest, while the sun was high in the heavens, there was no confusion of vision from that cause. The smokiness of the atmosphere was so slight that it was scarcely perceptible at so brief a distance, while there was not the least breath of air stirring. "I am afraid he will lose his chance if he waits too long," said Nick impatiently, in an undertone to Sam, who whispered back: "The buck understands him and will wait." It was evident that Mr. Herbert Watrous did not mean to spoil his aim by haste. Shutting one eye, he squinted carefully through his sights, lowering or raising the stock or barrel so as to shift the aim, until at last he had it elevated and pointed to suit him. Sam watched the buck, while Nick kept his eye on the marksman, who was holding his breath, with his finger crowding the trigger harder and harder until the explosion came. As before, Herbert uttered a grunt the instant the piece was discharged, and then, hastily clambering to his feet, he put on his cap and said with the utmost assurance: "That bullet struck him in the chest and will be found buried in his body." "He doesn't know you fired at him," said Sam Harper, as the buck, a moment later, turned about and walked out of sight. "The deer doesn't fall at once, even if you drive the bullet through his heart. That buck may go a hundred yards or so, but he will then drop as if struck by lightning." The confidence with which these words were uttered puzzled Nick and caused him to think that possibly the boaster was right after all, and he had made the shot he claimed. The truth would probably be learned during the afternoon, for Nick meant to learn it for himself. Now that they agreed to separate, it was decided that Herbert should keep straight along the route they had been following. Sam should diverge to the right, while Nick would swerve far enough to the left to pass the rock whereupon the buck stood at the time he was shot or rather shot at. "I am bound to find out the truth," said Nick, with a shake of the head. And so he did; but little did he dream of what was to happen to him during this search for the truth. CHAPTER XVIII. A QUAIL. As the hound belonged to Sam Harper and showed a disposition to go with him, he was allowed to do so, the lad moving off to the right and Nick Ribsam to the left, as was agreed upon. Nick had not his father's watch with him, but Herbert Watrous carried a handsome gold hunting-piece, which was now consulted and showed it was nearly two o'clock. "The days are getting short," said Sam Harper, with a doubtful shake of the head; "that doesn't leave us more than three hours of daylight, and it is hardly worth while to part company." "What's the odds?" laughed Nick, who was anxious to look for the deer; "we won't be far apart, as we may be to-morrow." And, without waiting to discuss the question, he struck to the left with his strong step, the others following the courses already mentioned. No afternoon could have been more charming, with the summer lingering and mellowing the approaching winter. The faint, smoky haze of the atmosphere, the clear sky, the warm sun, the brilliant-hued vegetation in the woods, the faint cawing of crows in the distance, and the flight of birds overhead, looking like mathematical figures in India-ink gliding across the blue heavens, the delicious languor everywhere: all these were at their best, and he who was wandering through the rainbow-tinted forest, where the sleepy waters flowed, could well understand why it was the pioneers, like Daniel Boone, Simon Kenton, and others, turned their backs on civilization, and, plunging into the wilderness, buried themselves for months from the sight of their fellow-men. Sam Harper was moving quietly toward the north, when it seemed to him that a large leaf suddenly blew forward from beneath his feet and was carried swiftly over the ground, straight ahead and away from him. Looking closely, he discovered that it was a plump quail which he had startled, and which was speeding from him. Although the bird has short legs it runs very swiftly, and it was gone almost before Sam identified it. "Ah, if I could only get a shot at you," said the lad, his mouth fairly watering, "what a splendid supper you would make!" The words were yet in his mouth, when a sudden whirring sound broke the air, and he caught a glimpse of a second quail flying like an arrow below the principal limbs. Sam raised his rifle as quick as a flash, took aim as best he could, and fired. Even the great Dr. Carver would have missed under such circumstances, and the lad came nowhere near hitting the game. So swift was the flight of the bird, that as soon as the trigger was pulled and Sam looked for it it had vanished. That man who handles the rifle must be wonderfully skillful to bring down one of those birds on the wing. It is curious how the name of the common quail is disputed and varied. There are plenty who will insist that I should have called this bird a partridge, when, in point of fact, there is no true representative of the partridge in America. The spruce partridge is the Canada grouse; the partridge of New England is the ruffed grouse; the partridge of the Middle and Southern States is the quail, of which several varieties are called partridges; while in Europe the birds which are called quails are in reality partridges. Without tiring my readers by attempting anything like a scientific discussion of the question, I may say there are a dozen species of quails found in North and Central America and the West Indies, and Mr. Baird proposes that, as neither the name quail, partridge, nor pheasant is properly given to any American bird, the species to which I refer should be called the Bob White. If this should be done, the smallest urchin will be able to recognize the species from its peculiar call. Sam Harper would have been glad indeed if he could have secured one of these delicious birds for supper, but there was little prospect of doing so. The game looks so much like the brown and mottled leaves among which it searches for food, that a hunter would almost place his foot upon one without observing it, while the nest of the quail or partridge is almost as impossible to find as the remains of an elephant in Ceylon, where it is said no such remains have ever been discovered. One of the lessons Sam had learned from his father was to reload his gun immediately after firing it, so as to be ready for any emergency. Accordingly, before stirring from his place, he threw out the shell from his breech-loader and replaced it with a new cartridge. Just as he did so, he heard the report of a gun only a short distance to the left, at a point where Herbert Watrous should have been. "He's scared up something," was the natural conclusion of Sam, who smiled as he added; "I wonder whether he could hit a bear a dozen feet off with that wonderful Remington of his. It's a good weapon, and I wish I owned one; but I wouldn't start out to hunt big game until I learned something about it." The boy waited a minute, listening for some signal from his companion, but none was heard and he moved on again. Sam, like many an amateur hunter, began to appreciate the value of a trained hunting dog. Bowser was not a pure-blooded hound; he was fat and he was faultily trained. He had stumbled upon the trail of the buck by accident and had plunged ahead in pursuit, until "pumped," when he seemed to lose all interest in the sport. He now stayed close to Sam, continually looking up in his face as if to ask him when he was going to stop the nonsense and go back home. He scarcely pricked his ears when the quail ran ahead of him, and paid no attention to the whirring made by the other. He had had all he wanted of that kind of amusement and showed no disposition to tire himself any further. CHAPTER XIX. AN UNEXPECTED LESSON. As it was the height of the hunting season, the reports of guns were heard at varying distances through the woods, so that Sam could only judge when they were fired by his friends from their nearness to him. He was well satisfied that the last shot was from the Remington of Herbert, while the one that preceded it a few minutes, he was convinced came from the muzzle-loader of Nick Ribsam, owned by Mr. Marston. "The boys seem to have found something too do, but I don't believe they have seen anything of the bear--hallo!" His last exclamation was caused by his unexpected arrival at a clearing, in the center of which stood a log cabin, while the half acre surrounding it showed that it had been cultivated during the season to the highest extent. There was that air of thrift and cleanliness about the place which told the lad that whoever lived within was industrious, frugal, and neat. "That's a queer place to build a house," said Sam, as he surveyed the scene; "no one can earn a living there, and it must make a long walk to reach the neighborhood where work is to be had." Prompted by a natural curiosity, Sam walked over the faintly marked path until he stepped upon the piece of hewed log, which answered for a porch, directly in front of the door. Although the latch string hung invitingly out, he did not pull it, but knocked rather gently. "Come in!" was called out in a female voice, and the boy immediately opened the door. A pleasing, neatly-clad young woman was working with her dishes at a table, while a fat chub of a boy, about two years old, was playing on the floor with a couple of kittens. The mother, as she evidently was, turned her head so as to face the visitor, nodded cheerily, bade him good afternoon, and told him to help himself to one of the chairs, whose bottoms were made of white mountain ash, as fine and pliable as silken ribbons. Sam was naturally courteous, and, thanking the lady for her invitation, he sat down, placing his cap on his knee. He said he was out on a hunt with some friends, and coming upon the cabin thought he would make a call, and learn whether he could be of any service to the lady and her child. The mother thanked him, and said that fortunately she was not in need of any help, as her husband was well and able to provide her with all she needed. Without giving the conversation in detail, it may be said that Sam Harper learned a lesson, during his brief stay in that humble cabin, which will go with him through life: it was a lesson of cheerfulness and contentment, to which he often refers, and which makes him thankful that he was led to turn aside from his sport even for a short while. The husband of the woman worked for a farmer who lived fully four miles away, on the northern edge of the woods, and who paid only scant wages. The employee walked the four miles out so as to reach the farm by seven o'clock in the morning, and he did not leave until six in the evening. He did this summer and winter, through storm and sunshine, and was happy. He lived in the lonely log cabin, because his employer owned it and gave him the rent free. It had been erected by some wood-choppers several years before, and was left by them when through with their contract, so that it was nothing to any one who did not occupy it. The young man, although now the embodiment of rugged health and strength, had lain on a bed of sickness for six months, during which he hovered between life and death. His wife never left his side during that time for more than a few minutes, and the physician was scarcely less faithful. At last the wasting fever vanished, and the husband and father came back to health and strength again. But he was in debt to the extent of $200, and he and his wife determined on the most rigid economy until the last penny should be paid. "If Fred keeps his health," said the cheery woman, "we shall be out of debt at the end of two years more. Won't you bring your friends and stay with us to-night?" This invitation was given with great cordiality, and Sam would have been glad to accept it, but he declined, through consideration for the brave couple, who would certainly be put to inconvenience by entertaining three visitors. Sam thanked her for her kindness, and, rising to go, drew back the door and remarked: "I notice you have a good rifle over the mantle; I don't see how your husband can get much time to use it." "He doesn't; it is I who shoot the game, which saves half the cost of food; but," added the plucky little woman, "there is one game which I am very anxious to bring down." "What is that?" "_A bear._" "Do you know whether there are any in the woods?" "There is one, and I think more. My husband has seen it twice, and he took the gun with him when going to work, in the hope of gaining a chance to shoot it; but, when I caught sight of it on the edge of the clearing, he thought it best to leave the rifle for me to use." "Why are you so anxious to shoot the bear?" asked Sam. "Well, it isn't a very pleasant neighbor, and I have to keep little Tommy in the house all the time for fear the brute will seize him. Then, beside that, the bear has carried off some of Mr. Bailey's (that's the man my husband works for) pigs, and has so frightened his family that Mr. Bailey said he would give us twenty dollars for the hide of every bear we brought him." "I hope it may be your fortune to shoot all in the woods," said Sam, as he bade her good-day again, and passed out and across the clearing into the forest. "That's about the bravest woman I ever saw," said the lad to himself, as he moved thoughtfully in the direction of the limestone-rock, where it was agreed the three should meet to spend the night; "she ought to win, and if this crowd of bear hunters succeed in bagging the old fellow we will present him to her." The thought was a pleasing one to Sam, who walked a short way farther, when he added, with a grim smile, "But I don't think that bear will lose any night's sleep on account of being disturbed by _this_ crowd." CHAPTER XX. BOWSER PROVES HIMSELF OF SOME USE. Sam Harper saw, from the position of the sun in the heavens, that he had stayed longer than he intended to in the cabin, and the short afternoon was drawing to a close. He therefore moved at a brisk walk for a quarter of a mile, Bowser trotting at his heels as though he thought such a laborious gait uncalled for; but, as the lad then observed that the large limestone was not far away, he slackened his pace, and sat down on a fallen tree to rest. "This is a queer sort of a hunt," he said to himself, "and I don't see what chance there is of any one of us three doing anything at all. Bowser isn't worth a copper to hunt with; all there was in him expended itself when he chased the buck and let it get away from him--hallo, Bowser, what's the matter with you?" The hound just then began acting as though he felt the slighting remarks of his master, and meant to make him sorry therefor. He uttered several sharp yelps and began circling around the fallen tree on which Sam was sitting. He went with what might be called a nervous gallop, frequently turning about and circumnavigating the lad and the log in the opposite direction. All the time he kept up his barking and demonstrations, now and then running up to Sam, galloping several paces away, and then looking toward him and barking again with great vigor. Sam watched his antics with amusement and interest. "He acts as though he wanted me to follow him from this spot, though I cannot understand why he wants me to do that, since he is so lazy he would be glad to lie down and stay here till morning." Studying the maneuvers of the hound, Sam became satisfied that the brute was seeking to draw him away from the fallen tree on which he was sitting. The dog became more excited every minute. He trotted back and forth, running up to his young master and then darting off again, looking appealingly toward Sam, who finally saw that his actions meant something serious. "I don't know why he wishes me to leave, but he has some reason for it, and I will try to find out." Sam slowly rose from the fallen oak tree on which he was sitting, and as he did so his cap fairly lifted from his head with terror. He caught the glint and scintillation in the sunlight of something on the ground on the other side of the trunk, and separated from him only by the breadth thereof, at the same instant that his ear detected the whirring rattle which told the fact that an immense rattlesnake had coiled itself therefor, and had just given its warning signal that it meant to strike. Sam Harper never made such a quick leap in all his life as he did, when he bounded several feet from the log, with a yell as if the ground beneath him had become suddenly red-hot. There is nothing on the broad earth which is held in such universal abhorrence as a snake, the sight of which sends a shiver of disgust and dread over nearly every one that looks upon it. When Sam sat down on the fallen tree, he was probably almost near enough for the coiled _crotalus_ to bury its fangs in him. It reared its head, and, without uttering its customary warning, most likely measured the intervening space with the purpose of striking. The instinct of Bowser at this juncture told him of the peril of his master, and he began his demonstrations, intended to draw him away from the spot. At the same time, his barking, and trotting back and forth, diverted the attention of the rattlesnake to the hound, and thereby prevented him striking the unsuspicious boy. It must have been, also, that during these few minutes the serpent vibrated his tail more than once, for the nature of the reptile leads him to do so; but the sound could not have been very loud, as it failed to attract the attention of Sam until he rose from the log and turned partly about. The boy moved around the head of the fallen tree, so as to place himself on the same side with the rattlesnake, and then he spent a minute or two in contemplating him at that safe distance. He was a large one, with sixteen rattles and a button. He lay coiled in several perfect rings, with his tail softly vibrating and his head thrown back, as if he expected his enemy to come nigh enough for him to bury his curved needle-like fangs in some portion of his body, injecting his poison, so deadly that nothing could have saved the boy from dying within a few minutes. The first natural feeling which comes over one when he sees a crawling snake is to kill it, and Sam Harper did not wait long before yielding to his inclination. Standing less than a rod distant, he brought his gun to his shoulder, and sighted at the head of the venomous reptile, which was held almost stationary, while the crimson tongue darted in and out as if it were a tiny spray of blood. The aim was true, and the head was shattered as though the cartridge had exploded within it. The body made a few furious writhings and struggles, and then became still. Sam viewed the ruin he had wrought for a minute or so, and then, appreciating the service his dog had wrought him, he turned and patted the animal. "You're a fine dog, Bowser, and I forgive you for being good for nothing." CHAPTER XXI. FACE TO FACE. Herbert Watrous, when he separated from his companions on that balmy afternoon in Indian summer, assumed a loftiness of bearing which was far from genuine. The fact was, he felt dissatisfied with himself, or rather with the rifle which his indulgent father had presented to him only a few weeks before. "I don't like the way the thing behaves," he said, as he stopped to examine it; "father paid one hundred and twenty-five dollars for it, and it was warranted the best. It's pretty hard to hit a deer a quarter of a mile off, but I ought to have brought down that squirrel which was only a hundred feet distant." He turned the weapon over and over in his hand, looked down the barrel, tried the hammer and trigger, carefully examined the wind-gauge and vernier rear-sights, but could not see that anything was out of order. "I'm afraid it was my fault," he said, with a sigh, "but it will never do to let the boys know it. I'll insist that I struck the buck, though I'm afraid I didn't." After going a little ways he noticed he was walking over a path which was not marked very distinctly; it was, in fact, the route which Mr. Fred Fowler, the industrious dweller in the log cabin, had worn for himself in going to and from his work. "That's lucky," said the lad, "for it's much easier traveling over a path like that than tramping among the trees, where you have to walk twice as far as there is any need of--confound it!" This impatient remark was caused by a protruding branch, which just then caught Herbert under the chin and almost lifted him off his feet. The boy was sensible enough to understand that his failure to display any good marksmanship was due to his own want of practice rather than to any fault of his piece. "That Nick Ribsam can beat me out of my boots; I never heard of such a thing as 'barking' a squirrel till he showed me how it is done, and he used a gun that is older than himself. Well, Nick was always smarter than other boys; he is younger than I, and I have taken sparring lessons of the best teachers in the country, while he never heard of such a thing as science in using his fists; but he just sailed into me that day, and the first thing I knew he had me down, and was banging himself on me so hard that I have never got over the flattening out--hallo!" A gray squirrel, flirting its bushy tail, whisked across the path in front of him that moment, scampered up a hickory and perched itself near the top, where it offered the best chance for a shot that one could wish. "Now I'll see what I can do," muttered Herbert, sighting at the saucy little fellow, who seemed to be ridiculing his purpose of reaching it with a bullet at such a height. The young hunter aimed with great care, pressed the trigger, and, as the sharp report rang through the woods, the squirrel came tumbling to the ground, with its skull shattered. Herbert Watrous was surprised and delighted, scarcely believing in his own success. He picked up the slain rodent and saw that its destruction had been caused by the bullet he fired. "That's business," he exclaimed, with a thrill of pride; "but why couldn't I shoot that way when Nick and Sam were looking at me? I know how the thing is done now, and when we get together I'll give them some lessons in marksmanship." He left the squirrel on the ground, but had not gone far when a new idea struck him and he came back, picked it up, and put it in his game-bag. "If I show them a squirrel, they can't help believing that I shot him." The serious question which Herbert had been discussing with himself, ever since being alone, was what he would do if he should happen to come upon the bear. He had not quite so much confidence in his gun as he had when he started out, though the shooting of the squirrel brought back considerable of his natural assurance. The conclusion he reached was that it would be just as well if he and bruin did not meet. Excellent as was his Remington, it was not a repeating rifle, and he was afraid that one shot, even if well aimed, would not be enough. "If I had a Henry, which shoots sixteen shots in sixteen seconds, I could fill him so full of lead that he couldn't run fast enough to overtake me if I didn't happen to kill him." But the Henry, which he desired so much, was beyond his reach, and it was idle to wish for it. Accordingly, he slung his gun over his shoulder in true sportsman style, and strode along the path until the greater part of the distance was passed, when, like his friends, he found a fallen tree at a convenient spot and sat down for a rest. Herbert, in his luxurious home in the city, had become accustomed to irregular hours, so that it was now the most natural thing in the world for him to fall asleep and not open his eyes until he shivered with cold and it was growing dark around him. He started up in no little surprise, and, recalling where he was, hastened along the path toward the camp. "They'll be worried almost to death about me," was his thought, "and I shouldn't wonder if they start out to hunt me up. Ah!" The reverberating report of a rifle came from the direction of the limestone rock, and he felt no doubt that it was meant as a signal to direct him. Herbert replied by firing his own gun in the air and shouting that he was coming. He did not forget to place another cartridge in his rifle, for, truth to tell, he was a little nervous over this lonely tramp through the woods at such a late hour. He listened, and heard the answering shout of Sam Harper, and, communication being thus established, Herbert held his peace and hastened forward as best he could in the faint moonlight. "I hope I won't meet any sort of game now," was the wish of the lad, "for I am in a hurry to join the boys--" Could he believe his eyes! He had hardly given expression to the wish, when a dark mass loomed up to sight directly ahead of him, and he plainly saw the gleam and glow of a pair of frightful eyes fixed upon him. He was sure, too, that he had heard the threatening growl of the monster, which might well believe he had the youngster in his power. "It's the bear, as sure as I'm alive!" gasped Herbert. "There's no getting away from him! Heaven save me from missing, for if my gun fails me now, it is all over! He won't give me time to climb a tree, and I _must_ shoot!" CHAPTER XXII. THE "VACANT CHAIR." It is hard to imagine a more trying situation than that of Master Herbert Watrous, who, while walking along a path in the woods, saw by the faint moonlight what he believed to be the figure of an enormous black bear, sitting on its haunches, and waiting for him to move either forward or backward before springing upon him. He shuddered with fear, but, with a courage hardly to be expected in his case, he drew up his rifle, sighted as best he could, and fired point-blank at the brute, when no more than a rod separated the two. It was impossible to miss, even with such an unsteady aim, and the lad had not a particle of doubt that he had hit him; but had he inflicted a mortal wound? Without waiting an unnecessary second, Herbert flung out the shell of the cartridge and placed a new one in the breech. His hands trembled so that he could hardly keep from dropping it, but he succeeded better than would have been supposed. Once more the gun was raised, and the leaden missile was buried in the dark object. But it did not stir, and the amazed lad was transfixed. What did it mean? "I'll give him another, and if that don't answer--" From out the gloom in front he discerned a figure advancing upon him, but a second glance showed that it was a man instead of a wild animal. "Hallo, my friend? what are you firing at?" The voice was such a cheery one that the courage of Herbert instantly came back, and it may be said that he was never gladder in all his life to see a person. "Why, I thought that was a wild animal--that is, a bear, in the path in front of me; what is it?" The man laughed heartily. "The path makes a little bend right there, so it is not in, but beside the path; it is an oak stump on which you have been wasting your lead." "But those glaring eyes--" "That is fox-fire, which does look odd in the night-time." "But I heard it growling." "Be assured it was all imagination, my young friend; there is no bear or wild animal near us--at least he hasn't shown himself yet." "Well, I'm blamed glad to hear it, for there isn't much fun in hunting wild beasts when it is too dark to aim well: may I ask how it is you happen along here without a gun?" "I live only a little ways off, and, if you will go back with me, I will be glad to entertain you over night." "I'm obliged to you, but I have two friends who are expecting me, up by the rock yonder." "I judged you belonged to the party, but there is only one of them there, unless the other has come since I left. The one named Harper, who called at my house this afternoon, is there, and has started his camp fire. He is impatient for the others to come in, and asked me to tell you, if we met, that he particularly wished you to 'hurry up your cakes'--I suppose you know what that means." "I do, and will bid you good-night." They exchanged pleasant greetings, and separated, each to pursue his own way. Herbert was anxious to join his friends; for the fact that he had fired into a stump, under the belief that it was a bear, was no proof that the dreaded quadruped was not somewhere in the neighborhood. As the path, which he was able to keep without difficulty, led by the rock where the three lads were to meet, he had not gone far when he caught the starlike twinkle of a point of light, which told him he was not far from camp. "Hallo, Sam, are you there?" called out Herbert, while yet a considerable distance off. "Yes. What makes you so late?" was the impatient response and question. Without pausing to reply, Herbert hurried forward and a few minutes later joined Sam Harper, who had a large fire going, and had broiled a squirrel and a rabbit, both of which were in fine condition. "Where's Nick?" asked Sam, as soon as he saw the youth was alone. "How should I know anything about him? I haven't seen him since we parted." "It's mighty queer, any way you may look at it; Nick is always the most prompt to keep any bargain he made, and I haven't seen anything of him for hours. He ought to have been here the very first." "Have you signaled to him?" "I have fired off my gun, and shouted and whistled till my cheeks ache, and I haven't had the first show of an answer." The manner in which these disheartening words were uttered showed that Sam Harper was ill at ease, not so much over the continued absence of Nick, as from his utter silence. It was fully understood by all, that, if anything happened to either one, he was to signal immediately to the others. Neither Herbert nor Sam had heard Nick's rifle, though it might have been discharged without recognition by them. Herbert had been asleep so long that he could have missed the report very readily, while Sam was so far from Nick that the sound of his gun could have been mistaken for that fired by some wandering hunter, unknown to either. Every few minutes, Sam halloed or whistled, after Nick's favorite manner of signaling, and then the two bent their heads and listened for the answer, which came not. The broiled game remained untasted, for Sam's appetite was suspended, and Herbert refused to eat while his companion was in such mental trouble. "There's no use of talking," finally exclaimed Sam, unable to repress his uneasiness, "something has gone wrong with Nick, and I'm bound to find out what it is." CHAPTER XXIII. HUNTING A BUCK. It will be remembered that when Nick Ribsam left his companions, early in the afternoon, it was with the resolution to find out whether the showy shot made by Herbert Watrous at the buck, had done the execution he claimed for it. This forced him to make a much longer detour than did Sam Harper, and, as he was obliged to move with great caution, he found no time to sit down and rest or sleep. The more he reflected on the exploit which Herbert attempted, the more did he doubt it. "I suppose they hit a target a mile off, as Sam told me; but that is when they know the exact distance. No person can hit a deer a quarter of a mile away, unless he does it by chance. Herbert proved he can't shoot anything close to him, and it isn't likely he hit the deer by accident, for such accidents don't happen unless it's a person that you don't want to hurt." But he had started out to find the truth of the matter, and it was in accordance with his disposition to do so, if it was possible. Nick knew that if the buck which they had seen was anywhere in the neighborhood, it was necessary to proceed with extreme caution to avoid giving alarm. The wonder was that it had shown itself after the fright caused by the dog. The drowsy autumn afternoon was well advanced when the boy saw, from his surroundings, that he was close to the spot where the deer stood when Herbert fired at it with his long-range rifle. There was the rock, but the animal was invisible. Just beyond was an oak which had been upturned by some wrenching tornado or storm. The roots protruded upward and from the sides, the dirt still clinging to them, so that the bottom spread out like a fan. The base of the trunk lay flat on the ground, but the branching limbs supported the top to that extent that it was raised five or six feet from the earth. Consequently, it sloped away in an incline from the crested summit to the base. Such a sight is not unusual in any forest, for it is the general fashion of trees to fall that way; but Nick was struck by the evident fact that, although the oak was uprooted, as it is termed, yet enough connection with the ground remained to afford nourishment, and to keep life within it. He started toward it, but had moved only a few steps when a slight rustling in the undergrowth arrested his attention. Stopping short he looked about him, and, with an amazement which can hardly be imagined, saw the buck within fifty feet of him. He was in a clump of undergrowth, and was browsing on some tender shoots. His position was such that his side was toward Nick, who first caught sight of his antlers above the bushes: and it was a remarkable thing that he did not detect the approach of the young hunter, despite the caution he used. The sight was so unexpected that Nick was taken aback, and had a spasm of that nervous affection which sometimes seizes the inexperienced hunter, and is known as "buck fever." Knowing that the game would bound away with the speed of the wind the instant he scented danger, the lad brought up his rifle and pointed at him. Poor Nick shook as if he had a chill; it was impossible to control his nerves; but, aiming as best he could, he fired. The deer was "hit hard," though not so hard as young Ribsam meant and most ardently desired. Dropping the breech of his gun, Nick looked to see the result of his shot, and found it amazing to a startling degree. The buck, which was a noble fellow, stopped browsing, and, with his head thrown high in air, looked around to learn where his assailant was. Catching sight of the staring lad, the animal emitted a furious sniff and charged upon him at full speed. This is a most unusual thing for a deer to do, though many a hunter has been killed by a wounded buck or moose, who has turned upon and attacked him with the fury of a tiger. [Illustration: "He turned on his heel and ran with might and main for the fallen tree."] Nick Ribsam thought it very singular, but he thought it very alarming as well, and, without waiting to watch matters further, he turned on his heel and ran with might and main for the fallen tree. The lusty youngster was a good runner, but the buck made three times as much speed as he "went for him," with head lowered like a charging bull. Nick had to think fast, but fast as he thought he couldn't see how the fallen oak was to offer him refuge against the fury of the animal, and, unless it did so, he was in a bad predicament. It was impossible to reach any tree in time to climb out of reach, as Nellie did when pursued by the bear, and the highest portion of the prostrate trunk would not protect him from the antlers of the savage buck. There was no use for the empty rifle as it seemed, and Nick was on the point of throwing it away, when it occurred to him that it might still serve as a weapon of defense. "I will club it and see what can be done." CHAPTER XXIV. HUNTED BY A BUCK. Glancing over his shoulder, Nick Ribsam kept informed of the movements of his fierce foe, who was certainly carrying things with a hurricane rush. Finding there was no getting away from him, Nick, just as he reached the fallen tree, whirled around and, grasping his rifle by the barrel, swung the stock back over his shoulder and poised himself for the blow, which he believed must decide his own fate. The boy made a formidable-looking picture; but it was all lost on the buck, which did not halt nor slacken his pace. It was a terrifying sight as he plunged toward the lad with lowered head and glowering front, for the deer was an exceptionally large and powerful one, and he meant to kill the individual that had sent the bullet into his side, and from which the red blood was already streaming. It may be said just here, that Nick Ribsam no longer doubted the failure of the long-range shot of Herbert Watrous. The imperiled lad drew a deep respiration, poised himself on his advanced foot, and, swinging to one side, with a view of avoiding the full force of the charge, he brought down the stock of his gun with the utmost strength he could command. It descended with great power--so far as a ten-year-old boy is concerned--but it was not sufficient to throw the buck off his base nor to interfere with his plan of procedure. He struck the lad with tremendous force, sending the gun flying from his grasp and knocking Nick fully a dozen feet. Never in all his life had the boy received such a terrific shock, which drove the breath from his body and sent him spinning, as it seemed, through twenty yards of space. Poor Nick believed half his bones were broken and that he was mortally hurt; but the result of the charge was most extraordinary. As the antlers of the buck struck him he was thrown like a limp dummy toward the fallen tree, and, in reality, his greatest peril was therefrom. Had he been driven with full momentum against the solid trunk, he would have been killed as if smitten by a lightning stroke. But his feet were entangled in some way and he fell headlong, his forehead within a few inches of the bark, and his head itself was driven under the trunk, which at that point was perhaps a foot above the ground. Instinctively the nearly senseless lad did the only thing that could save him. He crawled under the trunk, so that it stood like a roof over him. His head was toward the base, and he pushed along until the lessening space would not permit him to go further. Thus he lay parallel with the uprooted tree, his feet at a point where the bark almost touched his heels, the space growing less and less toward his shoulders, until the back of his head rested against the shaggy bark and his nose touched the leaves. He had scarcely done this when he heard a thud at his elbow: it was made by the knife-like hoofs of the buck, who, rearing on his hind legs, gathered his two front ones close together and brought them down with such force that, had they fallen on the body of the lad, as was intended, they would have cut into him like the edge of a powerfully driven ax. As it was, the shielding tree trunk prevented it, and, grazing the bark, they were driven into the yielding earth half a foot deep. The buck immediately reared and repeated the terrible blow several times, missing the body of the lad by what may be called a hair's breadth. The animal was in a fury, and, believing his foe was at his mercy, he showed him none. Nick heard the first thump of the sharp hoofs as they cut their way into the earth, and then his head seemed to spin, as though he had been whirled around with inconceivable velocity; innumerable stars danced before his eyes, he felt as if shooting through space, and then consciousness left him. The buck could know nothing of this, and, had he known it, his actions would not have been affected. He continued his rearing and plunging until he saw he was inflicting no injury. Then he stopped, backed off several paces, and, lowering his head, tried to dislodge the lad from his place of refuge. But the breadth of his antlers prevented success, which would have placed Nick just where he could finish him. The oak barred his progress, stopping the head and horns when they were almost against the body. Then the buck reared and struck again, trying all manner of maneuvers which his instinct suggested, but providentially none of them succeeded. All this time Nick Ribsam, who had been so badly bruised, was oblivious of the efforts against his life. Had he possessed his faculties, he could not have done anything more for his protection than he did, by lying motionless, extended along and below the trunk of the oak. But the lusty, rugged nature of the lad soon asserted itself, and he began rallying from the shock. A reaction gradually set in, and slowly his senses returned. It was a considerable time, however, before he realized where he was and what had befallen him. His head was still ringing, as though the clangor of a hundred anvils were sounding in his ears, and, when he drew a deep breath, a pain, as if made by a knife, was in his side. He listened, but heard nothing of his enemy. Then, with a great labor and more suffering, he pushed himself a few inches backward, so as to give some freedom to his body and to enable him to move his head. Turning his face, he peered out on his right: the buck was not visible in that direction. Then he did the same toward the left: his enemy was invisible on that side also. "He is gone," said the lad to himself, still afraid to venture from the shielding trunk that had been the means of saving him from the fury of the enraged deer. Nick believed he was close at hand, waiting for him to make a move that would give another chance to assault him. After several more minutes, the lad hitched farther backward, so that he was able to raise his head a few inches. This extended his field of observation, and, with a feeling of inexpressible relief, he still failed to catch sight of the game. "I guess he got discouraged and left," said Nick, startled at the evidences of the buck's wrath so near him. Finally the lad backed clear out from under the tree, and climbed to his feet; it was climbing in every sense, for he nearly cried with pain several times, and, still fearful that he had been seriously injured, he examined himself as best he could. A few minutes convinced him that none of his bones was broken, although he afterward declared that he suspected his head had been fractured. He now looked about for his gun and found it within a short distance, much scratched by the hard treatment it had received, but without any real injury. Throwing the weapon over his shoulder, he started in the direction of the appointed rendezvous, and, as he did so, observed that it was already grown dark in the woods. Night had come, and he had quite a long distance to walk. CHAPTER XXV. THE CAMP FIRE. But Nick Ribsam was full of grit, and, though every step he took caused him pain, he persevered with that grim resolution that was a part of his nature from his very birth. After walking some distance he found the soreness and stiffness leaving him, and he straightened up with something of his natural vim and elasticity of spirits. "There's one thing certain," he added, recalling his encounter with the buck, "I didn't have any one to help me out of that scrape, except the One who always helps him that helps himself; but I never wanted a friend more than then, and, if it hadn't been for that oak, it would have been the last of Nicholas Ribsam." "There is another thing I have learned," he added, with that glimmer of humor which was sure to show itself, "I know considerable more than I did yesterday; I have a good idea of how it feels when a wounded buck _raises_ you, and, after this, I won't shoot one of the creatures unless I'm sure of making a better shot than I did a while ago--hallo!" Well might he utter the last exclamation, for at that moment he came upon the dead body of the buck, lying as he had fallen on the earth, when at last he succumbed to the wound received at the hands of Nick himself. The boy stopped to examine it, for he was much impressed by the discovery. "That came very near ending in the death of us both: nothing but the oak saved me. I wonder whether I am going right." He raised his head from his examination, and looked about him, but he was without the means of judging whether he was following the proper direction or not. When leaving the scene of his encounter with the deer, he had taken the course that seemed to be right, without pausing until he could make himself certain in the matter. This is pretty sure, in a majority of cases, to lead one astray, but it so happened with Nick that he headed in a bee-line for the camp, where the impatient Sam Harper was awaiting him. But the error came afterward: he toiled forward without any guide, and soon began to turn to the left, so that he was in reality moving on the circumference of a large circle, without suspecting how much he wandered from the true course. This peculiar mistake is made by many who are lost in the wilderness, and is supposed to be due to the fact that everybody is either right or left handed, instead of being ambidextrous as we all ought to be. One side of the body being stronger than the other, we unconsciously exert the limb on that side the most, and swerve from a straight line, unless we have something to direct in the shape of a landmark or guiding-post. It was not until Nick had gone a long ways out of the right course that he suspected his error: the appearance of the camp fire which Sam Harper had kindled, was what led him to stop and make the best investigation he could. There was little else he could appeal to, and he was in doubt as to whether that had not been kindled by some other party; but fortunately, while he was debating the matter, he caught the faint but distinct signal of his friend, who was on the point of starting out to look for him. Nick replied, and in the course of half an hour had joined Sam and Herbert by the fire. They were relieved beyond expression to see the figure of the sturdy little fellow, as he emerged from the gloom, and took his seat around the camp fire. They noticed that he limped, and knew something unusual must have taken place to delay him. He had the most attentive of listeners when he related his dangerous encounter with the buck, which came so nigh ending his life. But, happily, he had come out without any serious injury, and the lads attacked their supper with the keenest of appetites. "The reason the buck did not kill you," said Herbert, "was because he was disabled by the wound I gave him." "He was struck by one bullet only, and that one was mine," said Nick, who saw no sense in deferring to the absurd claims of the youth. "Possibly not, but we shall have to examine his carcass to make sure of that." "I don't believe we shall have much time to look after dead deer," said Sam, "for I believe we are in the neighborhood of the very bear we're looking for." His friends turned toward him for an explanation of this remark, which was uttered with all seriousness. "Bowser has been acting very queer for the last half-hour." "I think he has acted queer all day," observed Nick. "I did not consider him of much account until he saved me from the rattlesnake this afternoon; after that, I'm ready to believe he's got a good deal more sense than you are willing to think." Then Sam told his story, and added that the hound had left the vicinity of the fire several times, and, going some distance in the woods, had come back, giving utterance to a peculiar whine. At the same time he looked up in the face of his master with much the same expression as he did when seeking to warn him of his danger from the poisonous serpent. "There he goes now!" suddenly exclaimed Sam; "just watch him!" Bowser had been stretched out near enough to the fire to receive much of its warmth, and appeared to be asleep. All at once he threw up his head and sniffed the air, as though he scented something; then he rose, with a low whine, and trotted straight out in the gloom. The lads listened attentively for some sound from him, but all remained still. At the end of ten minutes he came trotting to view again, and walked straight up to his master, looked up in his face, wagging his tail, and whined again. "You can depend on it," said Sam, "he has made some discovery, though I have no idea what it is." "Let's follow him and find out." It was Nick Ribsam who made the proposal; the others were inclined to hold back, but the plucky little fellow insisted, and it was agreed that Bowser's secret should be learned by keeping him company to the spot which he visited. CHAPTER XXVI. AN UNEXPECTED ATTACK. The three boys had scarcely agreed to the proposition to follow the hound, when Bowser, as if he understood their intention, rose from the ground where he had been lying, close to the camp fire, looked sharply out in the gloom of the surrounding woods, and then moved along the same course he had taken several times before. He did not trot, but walked with a deliberate gait, as if he felt the importance of being the leader of such a party. "It must be a wild animal," said Sam, in an undertone, "or Bowser wouldn't act that way." "It's the bear, of course; see that your guns are ready, and when you fire be sure you don't miss," warned Herbert. An idea suddenly occurred to Nick Ribsam. "All wild animals are afraid of fire: let's each take a torch to keep him off." The others eagerly caught up a blazing brand and strode forward with more confidence than ever. Herbert Watrous, who was sensible that he had not made such an exhibition before the others as he desired, placed himself at the head of the little company. He hardly would have done this, had he not been certain that the flaming brands would act as a shield to keep away the wild animal, whatever its nature. Each lad found it a little awkward to carry his loaded and cocked rifle in one hand and the flaming stick of wood in the other. It cannot be said there was any special difficulty in the task itself, but if a crisis came the boy would have to surrender one of his weapons. The young hunters formed a picturesque group as they moved forward in Indian file, each holding a burning torch above his head and swinging it so as to keep the blaze going, while his gun was trailed in the other hand. The hound Bowser was at the head, Herbert Watrous next, Sam Harper followed, and Nick Ribsam, who still limped slightly, brought up the rear. The hound showed an intelligence which would have been surprising but for his action respecting the rattlesnake. He kept on a slow walk, so as not to leave his friends, and now and then looked at them, as if to make sure they were not trying to shrink from an important duty. "Keep your torches going," called out Herbert, in a husky whisper, as he swung his own so vigorously that a large piece dropped off, and, falling on his foot, caused him to leap up with an exclamation of affright. The fact was, they had gone no more than a hundred feet from the camp fire when Herbert began to feel that he had not shown enough care in picking out his torch, for the blaze was feeble, and, in spite of continued nursing, showed a tendency to collapse altogether. "Keep close to me, boys," he said, waiting for Sam to come still nearer, "for I don't like the way this torch is behaving; I believe it is going out altogether, and I think I'll get a better--" "_Look out! there he is now!_" exclaimed Sam, in no little excitement. As he uttered the warning words, Bowser turned squarely about and ran back to where his master had halted with the smoking torch, and crouched at his feet, whining and appealing for protection against some enemy. Just then a savage sniff was heard, followed instantly by the sound of hoofs, as the unknown animal charged upon Herbert Watrous, who was whirling his half-expired torch around his head with such swiftness that it made a ring of fire, similar to those which all boys delight to look upon during the pyrotechnic displays on the Fourth of July. Herbert was so impressed with the importance of this action, that he threw all his energy in it, stooping down and rising on his tip-toes with the motion of the torch, and grunting hard and with much regularity, as he always did when exerting himself with unusual vigor. He caught the warning cry of Sam and the rattle of the hoofs at the same instant. "_Shoot him! Shoot him!_" he shouted to his friends, who could not gain the view of the beast necessary to make the shot safe for Herbert himself. The savage creature, from some reason, probably because the torch was less formidable, made for the city youth, who was not aware of his danger until too late. The brute went directly between his outspread feet, and, lifting him on his back, carried him several paces, when Herbert, his gun, torch, and himself, mixed up in great confusion, rolled off backward, turning a partial somersault and landing solidly on his head, his gun going off in the confusion and adding to it. Sam Harper threw down his torch, so as to use his rifle, but he saw Herbert's dilemma and waited the chance to shoot without danger of harming him; but the partial extinguishment of his own torch, and the total blotting out of Herbert's, rendered the risk still greater. While he stood, with gun partly raised and hand on the trigger, Herbert rolled off, but Sam had not time to catch the fact when the beast shot between his legs, and he felt himself lifted off his feet and fairly whizzing through the air. Nick Ribsam's torch was burning brightly and illuminated the whole scene. He was in a stooping position, holding his flaming brand so he could see everything, and he was laughing so hard that he could hardly keep from falling to the ground from weakness. He had recognized the animal, which they had held in such terror, as a large hog that had doubtless wandered in the woods so long with his mates, eating the acorns and nuts fallen from the trees, that he was half wild and ready to attack any one who came near him. The hog was a lank, bony fellow, with great strength and swiftness of gait, and, like his fiercer brother the wild boar of Europe, he possessed undoubted courage. "Well, if that ain't the funniest sight I ever saw!" roared Nick, bending himself almost double with laughter; "we thought it was a bear, and I guess Herbert and Sam are sure it is a royal Bengal tiger or mad elephant--" CHAPTER XXVII. WAS IT A JOKE? At that instant, Nick Ribsam felt himself suddenly lifted in air and spinning forward with great speed on the back of the vigorous hog, which plunged between his rather short legs. The astounded lad instantly stopped laughing, and, dropping his gun and torch, grasped at something to sustain himself against the peril, the nature of which he could hardly guess. The hog had struck him from the front, so that Nick was seated in reverse position on his back. The object which he grasped was the spiral tail of the animal, but, before he could make his grip certain, the porker swerved so suddenly to one side that Nick rolled off and bumped against a tree. His body was not hurt to one half the extent that his feelings were, for he heard Sam Harper roaring with mirth, loud enough to be heard half a mile; and as Nick hastily clambered upon his feet, he was certain Herbert's cracked laugh was also rending the night air. The porker, having made the round and paid his tribute to each member of the company in turn, whisked off into the woods, with a triumphant grunt, as if to say, "I guess you folks and your dog will let me alone now." As soon as the boys found their guns, and restored two of the torches to a blaze, they looked at each other and gave way to their unrestrained mirth for several minutes before they could speak so as to be understood. Never had a pompous expedition ended more ignobly: they had started out to attack a fierce black bear, and unexpectedly were overturned by a large-sized pig, which resented the interference with his slumber. Some naturalists maintain that many animals possess a sense of the humorous, and it looked as though the sluggish Bowser enjoyed the joke as much as did the victims; for, when the latter made their way back to the camp fire, they saw the hound stretched out close to the warm blaze with his head between his paws and apparently asleep; but, watching him closely, he was seen to open one of his eyes, just a little ways, and, surveying them a minute, he closed it to open again a minute later. No animal could have said more plainly: "I've got the joke on you this time, boys, and I'm laughing so hard that I can't keep my eyes open." "I tell you there is a good deal more in the heads of brutes than many of us think," said Nick Ribsam, after he had studied the actions of the hound; "I believe he wanted to make us believe there was some sort of game out there so as to play the fool with us." "Do you think he foresaw the trick of the hog?" asked Herbert, who was rubbing his bruised elbows and knees. "That would have been impossible, for we could not have foreseen it ourselves if we had arranged the joke; he simply meant to mislead us, and then we acted the fool for _his_ amusement." It looked very much as if Nick Ribsam was correct in his supposition, and that Bowser enjoyed even more than they the shrewd trick he had played on them. "I suppose there are several hundred hogs wandering through the woods," said Nick, "picking up acorns and nuts that have fallen off the trees, and making a good living at it." "Yes, lots of them have been running wild for weeks and months," added Sam, "and when their owners try to gather them in, there will be trouble, for it doesn't take hogs long to become savage." "It didn't take that hog very long, I'm sure," observed Herbert, sitting down with care upon the ground. "But how was it there was but _one_?" asked Sam. "There wasn't need of any more than one," said Nick; "he had no trouble in doing as he pleased with us." "But hogs go in droves, and you wouldn't be apt to find one of them by himself in the woods." "There were others close by, for I am sure I heard them; but it is a little curious that they didn't attack us, for hogs don't know as much as dogs, and they had no reason to feel that one of their number was more than enough for us." "I don't see the use in talking about it," remarked Herbert, who gently tipped his body to the other side, so as to rest differently on the ground; "I am sure I never was so upset in all my life." "Nor were we," added Nick; "hogs are queer creatures; if a drove finds it is going to be attacked by an enemy, the boars will place themselves on the outside, with the sows and younger ones within, so as to offer the best resistance to the bear or whatever it is, and they will fight with great fury. In a wild state, they can run fast, and when the tusks of the boars get to be six or eight inches long, as they do in time, they are afraid of no animal in the woods." "How is that?" asked Herbert, again shifting his position with great care, but feeling interested in what the lad was telling. "I suppose because they haven't any reason to be afraid. With those frightful tusks curving upward from the lower jaw, and with a strength like Sampson in their necks, they can rip up a bear, a tiger, or any animal that dare attack them." "I s'pose they're very strong, Nick?" continued Herbert. "So strong, indeed, that one of the wild boars in Germany has run under the horse of a hunter, and, lifting both clear from the ground, trotted fifty yards with them, before the struggling animal could get himself loose." Herbert looked fixedly at the narrator for a moment, then solemnly reached out his hand to Sam, for him to shake over the last astounding statement, which was altogether too much for him to credit. Sam Harper grasped the hand and wabbled it once or twice, but said: "It's as true as gospel, Herbert; I don't know anything about it myself, but when Nick Ribsam tells you anything for truth, you can make up your mind it is the truth and nothing else." The friends lay for a long time by the camp fire, talking over the events of the day, while Nick Ribsam gave them many wonderful facts concerning the various wild animals found in different parts of the world. The lad read everything he could obtain relating to natural history, and his strong memory retained nearly all the facts. But, as the night wore on, all three began to feel drowsy, and they made ready to sleep. The arrangements for doing this were not so perfect as they could wish. Not one of them had anything like a blanket, and, though it was the time of the balmy Indian summer, the nights were quite cold. There was an abundance of wood around them, and they gathered all they could possibly need. Then they heaped up a big lot of leaves and lay down as close to each other as possible. This was the best that could be done; but it gave a great advantage to the one who lay in the middle, as the warmth of the others kept him comfortable, while they were forced to turn one side to the cold air. By changing about, however, they got along quite well until past midnight, when the pile of leaves caught fire and caused them to leap to their feet with so much vigor that the outside ones got sufficiently warm to last till daylight. The friends were glad enough when it began growing red in the east. They rose early, washed their hands and faces in the clear brook, which flowed near at hand, using their handkerchiefs for towels. Then a rabbit and couple of squirrels were shot, and, with the same wolf-like appetites, they made a nourishing and substantial meal. The brook, from which they took a draught of clear, strengthening water, lay a short distance to the south of their camp, that is, between it and Shark Pond, which they passed the day before. The three were standing by this stream, considering the best thing to be done to get on the track of the bear, when Sam Harper suddenly stopped talking and looked fixedly at a point a few yards away. Then he walked slowly to it, without removing his gaze, stooped down, and attentively scrutinized the ground. Without speaking, he turned and beckoned to the others to approach. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE TRAIL OF THE BEAR. The boys did as directed, and, also stooping down, saw in the soft earth near the water the prints of the feet of a large animal, such tracks indeed as could have been made only by the bear. All agreed that it was that much desired and yet dreaded animal, and that it was more than likely he had moved to the southward, so that in point of fact the hunters and hunted had exchanged relative positions. Sam sternly directed the attention of Bowser to the trail, and ordered him to "look into the matter." The hound sniffed the ground, ran back and forth several times, and then gazed up at his master, as if awaiting further orders. "I won't stand any such nonsense as that," said his impatient master, grasping him by the baggy skin at the back of the neck and giving him several sharp blows with a switch. Bowser yelped and kicked lustily, and, when released, placed his nose to the ground, emitted several more cries, and then trotted off, taking a direction leading almost directly back over the path Herbert had followed the day before. "He's on the trail _this_ time," said Sam, with restored admiration for the hound, "and if he does well, I'll consider him a great deal better hunting dog than he has shown himself yet." In fact, Bowser acted as if anxious to redeem his tainted reputation, and, trotting quite briskly, was soon out of sight among the trees, the lads hurrying after him. A few minutes later, the yelping of the hound ceased, but the young hunters kept up their pursuit, the fresh trail made by the dog being easily followed, as he turned over and rumpled the abundant leaves on the ground, so that it was plainly discernible. "I wonder why he has stopped barking," said Sam. "I guess he has got tired," was the rather original reply of Herbert, who was ready to give information, whether reliable or not. "Bowser seems to have a way of doing things which is different from other dogs--hallo! there he goes again." The resounding cries of the hound echoed through the woods, seemingly at a distance of a half mile, and a little to the east of south. "I guess he has treed him!" said Herbert, striking into a trot, the others doing the same, and very much doubting whether the odd dog had ever treed anything in his life. A short run only was necessary, when, by stopping and listening, they learned that the hound was standing instead of running. If he had been a regular hunting dog, this fact would have proven that he had brought the game to bay. As respecting Bowser, it was uncertain what it signified. It did not take the lads long to hurry over the intervening space, when they came upon the hound, who was standing under a large red oak, looking up and barking with all the vigor he possessed. "He has treed the bear, I do believe!" exclaimed Sam Harper, breaking ahead of the others in his excitement. Nick Ribsam also thought the indications pointed that way. CHAPTER XXIX. "HELP! HELP!" The belief that they were close upon the bear threw the boys into a flutter of excitement, and they walked slowly as they approached the tree, up which the hound was barking. As has been stated, it was what was known as the red oak, very large, with branching limbs at no great distance from the ground. "_I see him!--I see him!_" whispered Herbert, just as he caught his foot in a root and pitched forward. "Where?" Herbert picked up his hat, muttered something impatient, and then looked upward again, and found he was mistaken. "I thought that big knot up there was the bear," replied the city youth, in meeker tones. The boys slowly circled about the tree again and again, back and forth, scrutinizing trunk, limbs, and twigs so closely that a cat could not have concealed itself from view. The result was disheartening: there was no bear in sight. "May be the trunk is hollow," suggested Sam, "and he has gone into a hole." They struck against the bark, but the sound showed that the wood beneath was solid. Besides, an examination of the bark itself failed to bring to view the scratching and abrasion that would have been made by a bear in going up, and especially in coming down, the trunk. Bowser, beyond all question, had been "barking up the wrong tree." "You're a pretty hunting dog, ain't you?" sneered Sam Harper, addressing the canine; "come here, that I may give you another switching." But Bowser wheeled about, and, taking the trail again, trotted to the southward, his nose close to the ground, while he bayed at intervals of a few seconds. "The bear ain't far off, you can make up your mind to that," said Herbert, still all excitement; "if we keep close to the dog, we'll run upon the other pretty soon." In fact, the youthful Watrous showed such an interest in the sport that he forgot the danger which always accompanies it. Had he stopped a minute or so to reflect, he would have seen that now was the time for the three to stick together, for never was there likely to be an occasion which would demonstrate more certainly that in union there is strength. Forgetful of this, Herbert sped forward so fast that in a brief while he vanished from view. Nick shouted to him not to hasten so fast, but the young gentleman was not to be checked in that style, and he kept up his flight with undiminished speed. "Let him go, then," said Nick, dropping down to a rapid walk, in which Sam joined him; "his legs are so long that he can outrun us both." "Which is a good thing." "Why so?" "As soon as he catches sight of the bear, he will turn about and run with might and main." "I'm not so sure of that," remarked Nick, who began to think there was more in Herbert than they had suspected. "He is so anxious to get the animal that he doesn't know the risk he is running. The fight you had with the buck yesterday shows what a more harmless animal will do when he turns to fight the hunter." "But Herbert will be likely to wait till we come up to him if he sees the bear." "There's no telling what such a fellow will do when he loses his head; the only chance for him is that we may be so close that we can turn in and help him." "Then we had better hurry." Thereupon the two broke into a run again, which they kept up till pretty well tired out. They could hear Bowser baying at no great distance, and, consequently, were sure that Herbert himself was not far off. "If we three come upon him we ought to be able to kill him without much risk to ourselves--that is, if we use any sort of care in taking aim." "We must try and do that--hark!" At that instant they were startled by the sharp report of a rifle, the distance and direction leaving no doubt that it was fired by Herbert Watrous. Sam and Nick fairly turned pale, and something like a feeling of envy came over them at the belief that Herbert, after all his boasting, had succeeded in bringing down the royal game without their help. The shot was fired so close that, as they hastened forward again, they expected to come upon the hunter and his game every minute. "Hallo! what does that mean?" The question was caused by the sudden appearance of Bowser, who was limping toward them in a panic of terror. At every leap he uttered a yelp, which was of pain and fear. The boys stopped, and the hound, running up, crouched down at their feet, whining and moaning. "He is hurt!" said Sam, who noticed that he was bleeding from a wound in the shoulder, where the claws of some animal had struck him with great force. "It was done by the bear," said Nick, "and he hit Bowser a hard blow; I shouldn't wonder if it kills him." Sam stooped over the dog and tried to soothe him by patting and speaking kind words. "He is badly hurt, but I hope he isn't going to die. Poor fellow! we have been unjust to him; he's a good deal braver dog than we gave him credit for." They were still patting and soothing the wounded hound, when the report of Herbert's rifle was heard again. Sam and Nick started up and stared in the direction whence the sound came. "He has got the bear--" Just then the voice of Herbert was heard ringing through the forest arches: "Quick! quick! help! help! the bear has got me! Hurry up, boys, or I'm a goner!" The lads dashed forward, excited and fearful they would be too late. The voice of the imperiled hunter rang out again. "Quick! quick! the bear has got me sure! Hurry boys, hurry, for pity's sake!" The next instant Sam and Nick came upon an extraordinary scene. CHAPTER XXX. A FRIEND IN NEED. Herbert Watrous had been set upon by a huge bear, and, throwing aside his Creedmoor, had run with might and main for a large stump, behind which he took refuge. Had he climbed a sapling, he would have been safe, but he was too flustered to think of that. Dodging behind this shelter he squatted down, hoping that his enemy did not notice where he had gone; but, when he heard the brute lumbering after him, he hastily shifted his quarters to the other side of the stump. While doing so, he emitted the ringing cries for help which brought his friends in such haste to his rescue. The situation would have been laughable but for its element of peril. Darting to the side of the stump opposite to that of the bear, Herbert would drop his head, and then instantly pop up again, like a jack-in-the-box, to see what the brute was doing. The latter, it may be said, kept things moving. When Herbert lowered his head and yelled, his voice had a muffled sound, as though it came from a distance, but when he shot up in sight, his cries were clear and distinct. The beast, although heavy and awkward of movement, managed to move around the stump and to reverse his course with such facility that there can be little doubt that he would have caught the lad, had not his friends been so prompt to rush to his help. Sam and Nick felt no disposition to laugh; indeed, they were so impressed by the danger that, without exercising the care they would have done any other time, and which they meant to show when talking of the matter a few minutes before, they raised their guns together and fired. Although the aim was not as deliberate as it should have been, yet both bullets struck the bear, though neither inflicted a mortal wound. The brute stopped short in his circular pursuit, looked confusedly about him for a second or two, and then made straight for the lads who had fired upon him, just as the buck did in the case of Nick Ribsam. "Scatter and climb a tree!" called out Nick, who saw they had no chance to reload. Now was the time for Herbert to recover, and reload his gun and to take another shot at the brute, so as to draw him off from his hot pursuit of the others; but the panic-stricken youth could not realize that the danger was removed, and that his terrible foe was bestowing his attention elsewhere. He continued calling for help in a louder voice than before, believing that every minute would be his last. Sam Harper whirled about to make for a sapling, but caught his foot in an obstruction and fell violently to the ground. Nick was so alarmed that he stopped to help him up. "I'm all right," said Sam, "look out for yourself!" But Nick could not desert him, until assured he was not mangled by the fall, and by that time the bear was too close for them to escape by climbing a tree. It looked as if it would go ill with one at least (for no gun in the party was loaded, and the brute was almost upon them), when most providentially, but unexpectedly, the report of another rifle broke upon their ear, and the bullet reached the heart of the monstrous beast, who reared himself on his haunches and used his paws as though trying to draw out the splinters which he imagined were thrust into his body. Then he swerved to one side, sagged heavily to the ground, and then it was plain that all was over. "Are any of you hurt?" It was the voice of the plucky Mrs. Fowler, who hurried forward with anxious face, the smoking rifle in her hands. Herbert was still peering from behind the stump and shouting himself hoarse, with no thought of what had taken place within the last few minutes. By and by, however, after he had been called to, he comprehended the facts and came forth, when a general explanation followed. Although Herbert would not admit it, there was no doubt that of the two shots which he fired at the bear only one touched him, and that only to a sufficient extent to graze his body and to draw his attention to the young hunter. Herbert then dropped his gun and made for the stump, which was not a secure refuge. This took place so near the cabin-home of Mrs. Fowler that she heard the cries for help, and, taking down her rifle, hurried to the spot, arriving just in time to save the other lads from serious danger, if not from death. The boys overwhelmed the brave woman with thanks, and though she modestly disclaimed her right to the bear--expressing her belief that the two shots they had fired were fatal--they would not listen to it, but they turned to, skinned the animal, and presented the hide to her, regretting that they had not several others, that her husband might collect twenty dollars apiece from Mr. Bailey, his employer. "This isn't the only bear in the woods," said she, thanking them for their kindness; "and some of you will see another before long. But this will do for to-day." They thought so, too; and, swinging their hats in the air, bade her good-by and started homeward. Sam Harper proposed that they should go out of their path to examine the carcass of the deer, so as to learn whether the shot of Herbert took effect; but that young gentleman was frank enough to admit, after his experience, that it was impossible he had come anywhere near hitting the buck. Accordingly, they continued homeward, Herbert going back to the city a few days afterward to find out, if he could, why his gun so often failed to hit the object he aimed at. CHAPTER XXXI. THE "DARK DAY" OF SEPTEMBER, 1881. The summer during which Nicholas Ribsam attained the age of twelve years was viewed with dismal forebodings by many people, for the reason that a celebrated weather prophet had foretold that it would be unusually rainy, cold, and wet. As a consequence, it proved to be the driest known in years. Days, weeks, and even months passed without a drop of rain falling from the brassy sky, and the fine powdery dust permeated everywhere. The weather prophet lost caste, but he persisted in announcing rain, knowing that he had only to stick to it long enough to hit it in the course of time. As the autumn approached and the drought continued over a vast extent of territory, the forest fires raged in different parts of the country. All day and night immense volumes of smoke and vapor hung over the land, and the appearance of the sun was so peculiar as to cause alarm on the part of those who were superstitious. There came a "dark day," like that of the 19th of May, 1780, which overspread New England, and was most marked in Massachusetts. The Connecticut Legislature was in session, and the belief was so universal that the last awful day had come that the motion was made to adjourn. Then, as the graphic Quaker poet says: All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport. He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice The intolerable hush. "This well may be The Day of Judgment which the world awaits; But be it so or not, I only know My present duty, and my Lord's command To occupy till He come. So at the post Where He has set me in His providence, I choose, for one, to meet Him face to face-- No faithless servant frightened from my task, But ready when the Lord of the harvest calls; And, therefore, with all reverence, I would say, Let God do His work, we will see to ours. Bring in the candles." And they brought them in. Tuesday, September 7, 1881, was a day very similar to the memorable one of a century ago. A strange, greenish-yellow pall overspread the heavens, and so darkened the light of the sun that lamps and gas were lighted, schools and factories closed, and multitudes of the ignorant and superstitious believed that the Day of Judgment had come. Everything looked changed and unnatural. The faces of people on the streets were ghastly, the gas jets in the stores, instead of showing yellow, were as white and clear as the electric lights, and thousands of the sect known as Second Adventists gathered in their places of worship and confidently awaited the appearing of the Lord. The "dark day" was more wonderful in the country. The leaves and withering foliage assumed a most singular tint of green, changing, like that of the grass, to a brownish hue; fowls went to roost, and the animal creation must have been greatly mystified by a phenomenon such as they had never witnessed before. A curious feature of this luminous haze was that it cast no shadow. It was as light under the trees as away from them, the whole unnatural appearance of things most likely being due to the immense forest fires which were raging in many parts of the country. It was during the summer, I repeat, in which Nick Ribsam reached the age of twelve years, that so many forest fires raged, and it was in the autumn of the same year that he saw the famous dark day, so similar to that of September, 1881; in fact, it could not have resembled it more closely, for I may as well state it was that very day to which I refer. "Nick," said his father, on that September morning, addressing his boy in Dutch, "I promised to pay James Bradley one hundred dollars to-day before three o'clock." "Yes, sir," responded the boy, who knew that the debt would be paid on time. "He was to come here to our house to get it, but he sent me word last night that he would be much obliged if I would send it to him at Martin's store in Dunbarton, as he is obliged to be there all day. I like to accommodate any one, and I will therefore send you to take it to him." "Yes, sir; I am ready to go whenever you want me to do so." Dunbarton, as has been stated, was a village nine miles away, and the principal grocery store in the place was kept by Jacob Martin. It was there that Nick was to take the one hundred dollars which was to be handed to James Bradley, to whom his father owed it. It was like a holiday for Nick to take such a drive, and he was glad when his father made known his wishes. "Harness up the mare to the fall-top and drive over; you ought to be back early in the afternoon." "I will, if nothing happens to prevent." Just then rosy-faced Nellie came out to feed the chickens. As the fowls flocked toward her, some perching on her shoulders, head, and wherever they could find a resting-place, she scattered the golden grains of corn with a deft and lavish hand. Her father looked at the cheeks as red as apples and the eyes glowing with health, and, dropping into English, said with a sigh and shake of the head: "I dinks dot Nellie looks some bale." He meant to say pale, and Nick laughed. "I don't think she is very sick; she ate more breakfast than I did this morning." "Dot ish so, but I dinks dot I leafes her go mit you to Dunbarton, if she can shpare her moder." Mr. Ribsam meant all right, and when his wishes were made known to Nellie she was delighted; her mother was glad to give her the privilege of an excursion, for she was an industrious little girl, and, furthermore, there were some purchases to be made both for the mother and daughter, which Nellie could attend to better than could any boy, no matter how intelligent. The famous "dark day" of 1881 prevailed principally in New England and the State of New York; but it was noticed further south, especially in some of the wooded portions of Pennsylvania, though in the larger part of the commonwealth it attracted no great attention. It was between seven and eight o'clock when the four-wheeled carriage with the single seat, and which vehicle is known as a "fall top" in some sections of the country, was driven from the humble home of the Ribsams, with the brother and sister seated in it. As they approached the scene of Nellie's adventure with the bear, they naturally talked about it, while Nick again related his own thrilling experience, when the animal was shot by Mrs. Fowler, just in the nick of time. Shark Creek had suffered so much from the long continued drought that it was no more than one fourth its usual volume; but the pond below was not much diminished in size, as it did not flow off except when at a certain height. The brother and sister did not speak of the peculiar appearance of the atmosphere until nearly to the bridge. There had been a great deal of smoke floating over the country for several days, but there was nothing to cause any fear on the part of those who lived near the large stretches of timber. As the darkness increased, however, Nick said: "It must be caused by the thick smoke; but I don't think it will last, and when we reach Dunbarton that will be the end of it." "It won't make any difference," said Nellie, "unless it gets so dark we can't see the way." "No fear of that." But when at last they emerged from the woods, and shortly after entered the village, the impressive gloom was deeper than ever. The villagers were awed by the unnatural appearance of nature, and were standing in groups looking at the sky and talking in undertones. Many were frightened, and not a few hurried to their homes, terrified with the belief that the last awful day, when the heavens shall be burned up as a scroll and the elements shall melt with fervent heat, was at hand. Ah, had it been the final Judgment Day, how many of us would have had our houses in order for the coming of the angel of the Lord? Nick Ribsam sprang out of the carriage, helped Nellie to alight, and went into the store of Mr. Martin, where James Bradley was found awaiting him. The money was handed over, a receipt taken, the horse fed, during which Nellie attended to the errand on which she was sent, and, an hour later, the mare was given water, and brother and sister started homeward, little dreaming of what awaited them. CHAPTER XXXII. THE BURNING FOREST. "It is growing darker all the time." "So it seems; I never saw anything like it." "Maybe it is really night, Nick, and we have lost our reckoning. Isn't there any way by which the world might swing out of its--what do you call it?" "Orbit, I suppose, you mean; there may be such a way, but from what I have studied, when it does do that there will be more of a disturbance than simple darkness like this." These words were exchanged between brother and sister after they had penetrated the woods a considerable distance on their return home. It had become like night around them, except that, as has been shown, the gloom was of that peculiar lurid nature which can hardly be described, and can never be forgotten by those who saw it. Even Nick Ribsam was impressed. It could not have been otherwise, for any one would have been lacking in natural sensibility had he failed to be awed by the singular sight. It can scarcely be said that the lad was frightened, although there came over him a yearning feeling that he might hurry home so the family could all be together, if the awful calamity--whatever it might be--should descend. It was different with the sister Nellie; her nature was more impressible, and it was only by a strong effort that she kept her self-control so long. As she peeped furtively out from the carriage, she looked at the woods, penetrated by the strange haze, which perhaps took on a more striking appearance in an autumnal forest like that, than anywhere else. "Nick, I believe it's the Last Day that has come." The lad turned toward his sister, who was sitting far back in her seat, as though trying to shut out the scene which had such a fascination for her. The face of the girl wore such a ghastly color, that Nick could not wonder at her fright, but he shook his head. He felt he was the man now, and it would not do for him to show any weakness. "It isn't the Judgment Day, Nellie; for, according to the Bible, it will come in a different way than this. There are a good many things which are not understood by folks, and I suppose this must be one of them." "I can smell burning wood," broke in the sister, leaning forward and snuffing the smoky air. "I am sure I do, and that's what is making all this trouble." "But suppose, Nick, these woods are on fire? How far is it back to where we entered them?" "About three miles, and it is five to the open country ahead, where we leave them; but there is the creek, less than a mile ahead, so if we should find the woods burning, we can stop there till it is over." The sister, however, had suggested a danger to the brother which alarmed him. The mare had been walking slowly, for it seemed more in harmony with the scene that she should do so. The driver now jerked the lines so sharply that she pricked up her ears and started off at a rapid gait, that is as the mare herself doubtless looked upon traveling. The first real thrill of alarm came to the lad, when he recalled that if a fire should appear, he and his sister were in the worst possible position: there were three miles of forest behind and five in front. The mare seemed to awaken to a sense of danger, for she threw up her head with unusual sprightliness, struck into a trot so rapid that Nick was a little frightened, lest in the gloom the carriage should come in contact with some obstruction which he could not detect in time. "See there!" As Nellie uttered the exclamation, she caught the arm of her brother and pointed ahead, but there was no need of her doing so, for he had seen the peril. The road immediately in front was filled with heavy smoke, which, as it rolled forward, caused them to cough almost to the strangulation point. At the same time, a crimson streak of flame shot in and out of the murky vapor, like the flashing of lightning: the fire was burning immediately in front and it would not do to go further. Nick stopped the horse, and, half rising and bending forward, peered into the suffocating vapor. Then he turned and looked behind him, in which direction Nellie was also gazing. "How is it there?" he asked. "There is plenty of smoke, but I see no fire." "Then we must go back." The road was quite narrow, though there was room for two teams to pass each other, and Nick turned the frightened mare as quickly as he could; she was so nervous and fidgety that it was hard work to control her, but she was headed toward Dunbarton, after some difficulty, and as soon as the rein was given her, away she went at a spanking trot. But neither the brother nor sister was relieved of fear, for the smoke grew denser every minute, and Nick might well ask himself whether he would be able to pass the three miles before he could reach the safety of the open country. The question was answered much sooner than he anticipated. The sharp crackling was heard, and they caught glimpses of the fiery tongues leaping in and out among the dried leaves and vegetation on either hand. Suddenly the flames seemed to meet in front in such a rushing, roaring volume that it was vain to think of pushing any further in the face of it. "Oh, Nick," moaned Nellie, shrinking close to him, "we are going to be burned alive!" "It does look bad, Nellie, but we mustn't give up yet; one thing is certain, it won't do to try to reach Dunbarton to-day." "But we can't go homeward." "It doesn't look so bad that way as it does toward Dunbarton: we must try one of the roads, and I would rather work toward home than away from it." Nick was busy while talking; he saw that the mare was becoming panic-stricken, and it required all his strength and firmness to keep her from breaking away from him. [Illustration: "O Nick," moaned Nellie, "we are going to be burned alive."] By using the whip, he managed to turn her again in the road, and then he struck her sharply with the lash. "Nellie, catch hold of my arm," he said to her, feeling that even if everything came out in the best form, a severe struggle was before them. The mare sniffed, and, glancing to her right and left, gave a whinny of terror as she dropped into her swiftest trot, which, a minute after, she changed to a gallop; but Nick brought her down instantly to her more natural gait. Nellie slipped her arm under the elbow of her brother, and then clasped her two hands, so as to hold fast for the shock which she believed would soon come. A large branch had fallen across the road, and Nick did not catch sight of it until too late to check the flying mare. The carriage seemed to bound fully a foot into the air, and an ominous wrench told the driver that it had suffered material damage. But there was no time to stop and examine; the terrified horse sprang into a gallop again, and this time Nick did not restrain her. There was smoke all around them; the air was hot and suffocating; they could hear the crackling of flames, and now and then the crimson flash through the murky vapor showed that a frightful forest fire was raging on every hand. Still the mare kept forward at the same swift gallop, and Nick knew that more than once she felt the blistering heat on her haunches. It is a strange peculiarity of the horse, which often shows a wonderful degree of intelligence, that he generally loses his wits when caught in a conflagration. Instead of running away from the flames he often charges among them, and there remains, fighting those who are trying to save him. Very probably the mare would have acted similarly in the instance of which I am speaking had the circumstances permitted it; but there was fire all about her, and the temptation was as strong, therefore, in one direction as another. Nick kept his self-possession. He knew by the desperate energy with which Nellie clung to his arm that she was helpless, and that every minute they were likely to plunge headlong into and among the roaring flames. He could not guide the mare, which was now controlled by her own instinctive desire to escape a danger which was on every hand. He merely sought to direct her, so far as possible, in the hope that he might save the carriage from being dashed to pieces. When he saw the flames meeting across the road he shouted to Nellie to hold her breath, and he did the same, until they had swept through the fiery, strangling ring, and were able to catch a mouthful of the smoky and scorching atmosphere beyond. CHAPTER XXXIII. THROUGH THE FIRE. It was hard to remain cool when surrounded by such peril as were Nick and Nellie Ribsam but the sturdy lad acquitted himself like a hero. His belief was that all the woods were not on fire--that is, the entire tract was not burning at once, and that, as a consequence, if he could break through the flaming circle in which he was caught, he could place himself and sister in front of the danger, so to speak, and then they would be able to run away from it altogether. If such were the case, it followed that just then speed was the most important of all things, and for that reason he kept the mare on her sweeping gallop, at the imminent risk of dashing the carriage to pieces every minute. He was glad that he did not meet any vehicles, for it not only showed that no one else in the neighborhood was placed in the same extremity as were he and his sister, but it lessened the danger of collision. Nick thought it was all over with them, when a fiery serpent, as it seemed, darted across from one side of the road to the other, directly in front. It was at the height of five or six feet, and coiling itself about a dry pine it shot horizontally toward another pine, wrapped with a flaming girdle, which sent out a line of fire to meet it, like the intense blaze seen when a blow-pipe is used. It was a curious manifestation, and it would be hard to explain it, for, though a strong wind was blowing, that would not account for the fact that the two tongues of fire, as they really were, met each other in this fashion across the road, for of a necessity they extended themselves in opposite directions. They did not burn steadily, but whisked back and forth, just as it may be imagined two serpents would have done who saw the fugitives coming, and, making ready, said by their actions, "Thus far, but no farther." To Nick Ribsam it looked like the flaming sword of Hazael, sweeping across the highway; but it would never do to hesitate, and the mare galloped straight on. The fiery serpents darted angrily at each other, but the head of the horse glided beneath and the boy caught a hot blast as he shot by. "Where is the bridge?" shouted Nellie, who could see nothing, and who clung more desperately than ever to the supporting arm of her brother. "It must be close at hand--there it is!" So it was, indeed, but the fire was ahead of them; the whole structure was one mass of flames, roaring and crackling with fury. The scene that followed was a dreadful one: the sight of the furnace-like structure set the mare wild, and she broke into a dead run toward the blazing mass of kindling wood, determined to plunge headlong into it. Nick Ribsam rose to his feet, and bent back with might and main, but he might as well have tried to check a runaway locomotive: the mare took the bit in her teeth and was beyond control. With a presence of mind which did him credit, Nick wrenched her to one side, while she was at the height of this mad flight, so that the hub of the fore wheel struck a tree at the side of the road, checking the vehicle so abruptly that both traces snapped as if they were ribbons, and the mare continued her gallop in the direction of the bridge. The momentum of Nellie threw her violently against the dashboard, while Nick, before he could let go the reins, was jerked out the carriage, and, lighting on his feet, ran a dozen steps ere he could check himself and free his hands from the reins. He stopped almost on the edge of the creek, and caught one glimpse of the mare as she bounded out of sight into the smoke and flames, and was gone forever. The lad felt a pang of sorrow for the foolish beast, who stood as good a chance of saving herself as he, had she but used a tithe of common sense; but there was no time for mourning, and he ran back to the vehicle, where Nellie was crouching, and crying violently. "Why, Nellie, I am ashamed of you!" said her brother, reprovingly. "Is it going to mend matters to sit down and cry?" "But how can I help it, Nick?" she asked, rubbing her red eyes with her apron and trying to check herself; "I don't see how you can keep from crying yourself!" "I'm glad I ain't such a ninny as you, and when I get home I am going to tell father and mother." "You needn't be so smart," said Nellie, beginning to fire up under the reproof of her brother; "you haven't got home yet." "And mighty little chance I would stand of ever getting there if I should sit down like you and begin to blubber. Come out of the carriage and go with me." Nellie's face was very red and there were tears on her cheeks, her countenance wearing a strange appearance in the lurid haze around them. The girl did not make any objection, for she could not do otherwise than lean on the strong arm of her brother, who never seemed to lose his head over anything. Every minute or so a distressing feeling came over them--such a feeling as we can imagine would be ours were we suddenly to find ourselves shut in a room where the air was so impure we could not breathe it. There was a gasping, hurried inhalation of the strangling hot smoke--a coughing and filling of the eyes with tears, and then a frantic rush of several steps, during which the breath was held until a chance to get a mouthful of fresh air was gained. It was useless to turn back. The children were in the very heart of the wood, and the conflagration was raging so furiously on both sides, and in front and rear, that it was impossible to escape in either direction. But for the timely arrival at the edge of the creek they must have perished a few minutes later, and they could not feel certain as yet that even water would save them. The creek was so low, that when they hurriedly picked their way down the bank to it, Nick could have taken Nellie on his back and carried her across without wetting her feet; but there was nothing to be gained by doing so, as the fire was burning as fiercely on one side as on the other. The conflagration must stop when it should reach the margin of the stream, and Nick drew a sigh of relief, feeling that they were safe. "We will wait here till the fire is done burning," said he, standing with the hand of his sister in his own, while he gazed about him on the extraordinary scene. The day had been quite warm, and Nick and Nellie, pausing on the bank of the shrunken creek, began to find themselves exceedingly uncomfortable; for not only was there a great increase of heat, but the smoke was too heavy to be breathed without great pain and irritation to the lungs. "It looks as if we are to be strangled to death, after all," Nick said, "for it is hard to breathe now, and it is growing worse every minute." "Let's go up by the pond: it isn't far away." "It must be as bad there as anywhere else, but we shall die if we stay here." There seemed little choice in the matter, but one of the impossibilities is for a boy or girl to stand still when suffering, and the suggestion of Nellie was acted upon at once. She had released the arm of Nick, who started up the right bank, she following close behind him. The walking was easy, for the creek had receded from the greater portion of the bed it usually occupied, and that had become hardened by long exposure to the heat of the sun. It was not far to the pond of which I have spoken, and which occupied an extent of an acre, or perhaps more. The place was a favorite with the boys of the neighborhood, and some of the most delightful swims Nick Ribsam had ever enjoyed were in that sheet of water. The water was cold, clear, and deep in many places. What more tempting resort for a tired, thirsty and overheated lad can be imagined especially when he knows that it will be a piece of disobedience for him to go there? "That's the place," he exclaimed, hastening his footsteps; "when we get there, we'll have a chance to breathe." "Hurry up, then, Nick, for I can't stand this much longer." CHAPTER XXXIV. CALLING IN VAIN. The distress of the brother and sister became greater every minute. They walked hurriedly along the bank of the creek, their path through the gloom illuminated now and then by the flashes of fire which shot through the strangling volumes of vapor. Nick, more than likely, would have gone astray but for his familiarity with the neighborhood. It seemed to him as if the smoke, heavy, dense, sulphurous and suffocating, caused by the burning forest, was driven toward the bed of the stream, where it was pressed down by the weight from above, until it was the utmost he and Nellie could do to inhale enough of the contaminated air to sustain life. They hurried and struggled forward as best they could, and at last caught the glimmer of the broad expanse of water, which presented itself in the light of a haven of refuge to them. It was a most welcome relief indeed, for they were now assured of one thing--they could not die the frightful death that overtook the poor mare. This broad expanse of cool, refreshing water could not burn up, no matter how fervent the heat that might envelop its shores. Its cool depths offered a refreshing refuge, such as can hardly be understood by one who is not suffering similarly. But it was rather curious that the boy and girl had endured more from the suffocating vapor than from the fire itself. Looking down at their garments, they were surprised to find them scorched in several places, and Nellie gave just the faintest scream when a pungent odor directed her gaze to a large hole burning in her dress. Nick glanced around, and, understanding what the matter was, called rather sharply: "Pinch it out!" She was already doing so, and she asked: "Why don't you pinch out that fire on your coat?" Just then her brother jumped into the air and shouted, "Oh--ouch!" for the burning sleeve had gone through the shirt and reached the bare skin. He whipped off his coat in a twinkling, dipped it hastily into the water, doing the same with his right elbow, the element which extinguished the smoking garment being very grateful to the scorched limb. "Nellie," said he, "just cast your eye over me, and let me know whether there are any more fires going." He made up his mind that if she reported other conflagrations breaking out, he would subdue them in a lump by taking a header in the pond, whose shore they reached at that moment. But Nellie said he was in no danger so far as she could see, of immediate combustion and when she came to examine her own garments they were also free from the same peril. "Now, what shall we do that we have got here?" she asked, as, after walking a few steps, he came to a stop. "Wait, and see how things are coming out," he answered. "I begin to feel tired, so suppose we sit down and rest ourselves." The moment this was done, both uttered an exclamation of pleasure; for the relief from the distressing smoke was so great that it was as if they had emerged into the open country, where there was none of it at all. "Why did we not think of this before?" said Nick; "we ought to have known that smoke doesn't keep close to the ground." The atmosphere was not clear by any means, but the change was so marked that it appeared more than pure, and they sat several minutes gratefully inhaling that from which it seemed they had been shut off for many hours. But their rejoicing was too soon; for, though it may be true that in a burning building the surest place in which to gain enough air to support life is close to the floor, yet there can be so much of the strangling vapor that it will penetrate everywhere. Less than five minutes had passed, when a volume of smoke swept over and enveloped them, so dense that it was like the darkness of Egypt, that could be felt, and the suffering of the brother and sister was pitiful. "Put your face close to the water," called out Nick, as well as he could do from coughing and strangling. At the same moment, their fevered cheeks touched the cold, refreshing surface, and something of relief was experienced. "It won't do to stay here," said Nick, a moment later. "But where can we go?" "Out in the pond; there's a better chance to breathe there than along shore." "But I can't swim, Nick." "What of that? I can, and I'll take care of you; but there is plenty of wood and we can make a raft. That reminds me that there _was_ a raft here last week, when Sam Harper and I had a swim: I wonder where it can be. Help me to look for it." They moved slowly along the margin of the pond, peering through the gloom as best they could, but seeing nothing of the support on which they now placed so much hope. Nick Ribsam, however, did not fail to notice one thing--it was becoming hotter every minute and they could not wait much longer before entering the water in very self-defense. They pushed bravely on, and when the circuit of Shark Pond was half completed, reached a point where the thick vapor lifted, or, more properly, it had not yet descended, and they stopped to rest themselves again. "Well," exclaimed Nick, with a sigh, "some folks would call this fun, but I don't see where it comes in." "I don't see how any one could find fun in such suffering; but, Nick, you will have to make a raft." "I believe you are right; there isn't much chance to fasten these dry logs together, and I haven't time to build one that will hold us both." "What will you do?" "I will place you on it, and I'll swim along-side----" "There's the raft! I see it! I see it!" Nellie sprang to her feet and pointed out on the pond where, through the smoky gloom, the outlines of the half dozen logs, which Nick and several of his playmates had bound together with withes, when frolicking in the water, were seen. The lad threw off his hat, vest, shoes, and stockings, so that only his shirt and trousers remained, and then took a header, his whole being thrilling with pleasure as the cold water closed around him. "Take care of my clothes!" he called to Nellie, "and I'll bring the raft over to you." As there was no immediate hurry, the situation of his sister being quite comfortable, the lad could not resist the temptation to disport himself awhile in the cool, refreshing element. He sank until his bare feet touched the pebbly bottom, and then shot upward with a bound; then he went over backward, floundered, and tumbled about like a porpoise. "Nick," called his sister, "you had better hurry and get that raft, for I cannot see it now." This startled the lad, but when he found he could not see Nellie either, he understood that it was on account of the overshadowing gloom that had fallen still lower; at the same time the disturbance of the atmosphere had caused a strong wind to blow across the pond, and it was doubtless this which had started the mass of pine logs from the land, and was now bearing it away from where it lay when discovered by the girl. "Are you comfortable there?" called out Nick to his sister. "Yes, but don't wait too long, for it is growing warm, and I think the fire is close to me." The lad felt he had done wrong in idling his time, and he bent all his energies toward swimming to the raft, which, under any circumstances could not be far off. As it was, Nick was amazed to find it necessary to go a considerable ways before he caught sight of the familiar pile of logs floating buoyantly on the water, but he speedily reached them, and, drawing himself on top, hunted for the long pole that he had used so many times in navigating the pond. But it was not there, and he sank back into the water, and, holding on with his hands, used his feet vigorously to propel the raft toward the bank, where he had left his loved sister but a short time before. "I'll soon be there, Nellie," he called; "are you all right?" This was a curious question to ask, though it was natural, perhaps, for any boy, under similar circumstances, but Nick felt a pang of fear when he repeated the call and did not receive any answer. He put forth all the energy at his command, and steadily pushed the float toward land. Now and then, while doing so, he shouted to his sister, without hearing any reply. "Can it be anything has happened to her?" he asked himself several times as he peered through the gloom, unable to catch the outlines of brave little Nellie. CHAPTER XXXV. WHAT FRIGHTENED NELLIE. Nick Ribsam thought not of himself, in his anxiety for his sister. He had left her but a few brief minutes before, sitting on the shore of the lake, and now when he returned she was missing. He had called to her repeatedly without receiving any answer, and when he looked about him in the smoke and gloom, he could see nothing of her loved figure. He noticed that it was very hot where he stood, and there could be no doubt that the flames were advancing in that direction. His dread was that Nellie had lost her wits in the presence of the new danger, and had run blindly into the burning woods where there could be no escape for her. "Nellie! Nellie!" he shouted in agonized tones; "Where are you? Why don't you answer me?" He thought he heard something like a faint response, but it was not repeated, and poor Nick was half distracted. For the first time since entering the burning forest he lost his self-control, and not doubting that his sister was somewhere close at hand, he dashed among the trees, still calling to her at the height of his voice. He had gone but a short distance when he was brought face to face with such a fierce blast of flame that he was forced to turn and run back to the water's edge, where he stopped for a minute or two gasping for breath. This repulse served to give him time to collect his wits, and he tried hard to decide what was best to do, for he was resolved never to leave that place until he learned the fate of Nellie. "She had good sense," he added to himself, "and she would not have done such a foolish thing. She has gone to some other spot along the shore and is waiting for me." Possibly this was so, but it did not explain the curious fact that all the calls of Nick remained unanswered. The space inclosing the pond was so slight that his voice must have penetrated every portion of it, and it did seem that if she were in any place safe for her to be, she could not fail to hear him. Nick found a long branch, which answered for a pole with which to guide the raft, and stepping on it he began pushing it along shore as rapidly as he could, looking into the gloom about him and often pronouncing the name of his sister. His heart sank within him when this continued several minutes, and half the circuit of the pond was completed without bringing him the first evidence of the whereabouts of Nellie. Finally he paused, wearied and distressed beyond description. The darkness of night rested on Shark Pond and the surrounding woods. The murky volumes of smoke seemed to shut out all light, excepting when the tongues of fire shot through them. The wind blew a gale, stirring the water into tiny waves, and the roaring of the fire through the woods, the sound of trees crashing to the earth, and the millions of sparks, with blazing bits of wood, were carried a great distance through the air. Some of these flaming brands fell on the raft on which Nick Ribsam stood, and they continually dropped hissing into the water around him. The problem was, how the children had escaped thus far; and as the sturdy lad stood out on the pond with the long limb grasped in his hand, staring around him, he could not but wonder how it was he had been preserved after driving directly into the forest when it was literally aflame from one end to the other. But these thoughts were only for the moment; he had left Nellie, not expecting to be out of her sight, much less beyond her hearing, and she had vanished as mysteriously as if the earth had opened and swallowed her up. And yet he could not believe she was lost. She had proven that she was not the weak girl to do anything rashly, or to sit down and fold her hands and make no attempt to save herself. Something more than the general danger which impended over both must have arisen, during that brief period, to drive her from her post. "Nellie! Nellie!" he called again, shoving the pole vigorously against the bottom of the pond. He was sure he heard the faint response this time, and so distinctly that he caught the direction; it was from a point on the shore very nearly opposite where he had left her. "I hear you," he called back, working the unwieldy float toward the spot; "I'll soon be there." The distance was not great and it took but a few minutes to approach quite close to the land, where, with a delight which can scarcely be imagined, he saw Nellie standing close to the water's edge, beckoning him to make all haste. "Are you hurt?" he asked, as he forced the craft close to her. "No," she answered, with a strange laugh, "but I thought my last moment had come." "Didn't you hear me call you?" "Of course I did; any one within a mile could hear you." "Why then didn't you answer me?" "I was afraid to." "Afraid of what?" "Didn't you see him?" was the puzzling question of Nellie in return, as she stepped carefully upon the raft, helped by the extended hand of her brother. "Nellie, stop talking in puzzles," said Nick; "I was so scared about you that I won't get over it for a week; I called to, and hunted for you, and you say you heard me; you must have known how frightened I was, and yet you stood still and never made any answer, except a minute ago, when I just managed to hear you. If you think it is right, I don't--that's all." He turned away offended, when she said: "Forgive me, Nick; but I was afraid to answer you." "Afraid of _what_?" "Of that _bear_--you must have seen him," was the astonishing answer of the girl. Nellie then told her story: she was standing on the shore awaiting the return of her brother, when she was terrified almost out of senses by the appearance of a large black bear, which was evidently driven out of the burning forest by the flames. He did not seem to notice the girl, but when he began lumbering toward her, as if seeking a good spot where he might enter the pond, Nellie did not stay on the order of her going, but fled from the new peril, hardly conscious of what direction she took. She knew better than to venture among the blazing trees from which she and her brother had had such a narrow escape, and she sped forward around the lake until she reached a point nearly opposite. On the way she never looked behind her once, certain as she was that the creature was ready to seize and devour her. She was sure she heard him crashing almost upon her heels; but when she paused, and finally turned her frightened looks backward, nothing of the brute was to be seen, and she did not know what had become of him. "That's the other bear which Mrs. Fowler saw, and which she told Sam Harper, Herbert Watrous, and me, we would see some time or other." "But that was almost two years ago." "I know that; don't you suppose a bear will keep that long? This one has known enough to stay out of sight until the fire has forced him from his hiding-place." After Nellie had heard her brother call to her, she was fearful that if she answered she would betray herself to the brute, who would instantly make for her; so she held her peace, even though she saw nothing of the bear, and venturing on a rather feeble answer when the tones of Nick told how much apprehension he was suffering over his failure to find her. Now that the two were on the raft, which was shoved out in the deep water, something like confidence came back to her, and she was willing to talk about the beast. "I can't imagine what has become of him," said the brother, after her story was told; "from what I have heard and read, the bear is not afraid of water, and they often go in to bathe, just like us boys, for the fun of the thing. I don't see why he should have waited when he had the fire to urge him on." "Maybe he is swimming around the lake now," whispered Nellie, looking over as much of the surface as was visible through the hot smoke. "I shouldn't be surprised, though it is odd that I did not see him," said Nick, pressing his pole against the bottom; "he is not far off, you may depend." "There! didn't you hear him?" asked Nellie, a moment later, as something like the grunt of a huge hog alarmed both brother and sister. CHAPTER XXXVI. AN UNWELCOME PASSENGER. A second time a loud snort was heard, as though some large animal were blowing the water from his nostrils, and at the same instant Nick and Nellie caught sight of the huge snout of the bear coming through the water toward them. He was making directly for the raft beyond all question. "By jingo, this raft wasn't built to carry bears!" exclaimed the startled lad, who used the pole with all the strength of which he was master; but, unfortunately, the bottom of the pond was composed of slippery rocks in many places, and the blunt end of the crooked limb slid along the upper surface of one of these so quickly that Nick dropped on his side and came within a hair's breadth of rolling overboard. But he was up again like a flash, and toiling with might and main. Rafts as generally constructed, are not capable of much speed, and though Nick Ribsam got out all there was in the one which he had managed, it was not to be expected that he could compare with the velocity of a strong, healthy bear. "He's coming, Nick! Oh, he will catch us sure!" exclaimed the sorely frightened Nellie, edging so far away that she, too, was in danger of going over. "I know he is," replied the sturdy lad, working hard with the guiding pole, "and I think he can beat us. Do you stay where you are, and don't try to get any further off or you will be drowned. I'll bang him over the head if he tries to climb on here and ride with us." Such was the purpose of the beast, beyond question; and, approaching fast, only a brief time elapsed ere his huge snout was shoved against the logs, his big paws, dripping with wet, flapped out from below the surface and both rested on the raft, which sank so low that Nellie screamed and Nick turned pale. Determined to keep off such an undesirable passenger, the lad raised the stick in his hand and brought it down with all his strength on the head of the bear, which acted as though unaware that he was struck. Nick repeated the blows, that would have settled the business for a less formidable animal but it was plain that brain did not consider the matter a serious one. Having secured a rest for his paws, his whole body was supported in the water, and the beast, which was no doubt very tired, simply ceased all effort, and floated with the wind. "Why don't you knock him off?" asked Nellie, impatiently. "Because I ain't strong enough, I suppose; he's the toughest customer I ever got hold of, or seemed to have a good chance to get hold of me." "I've a great notion to dig out his eyes myself." "If you try it, it will be the last bear you ever scratch; look at those paws! did you ever see such nails? didn't you hear them rattle against the logs when he struck them?" "Suppose he tries to climb upon the raft," ventured Nellie, trying to edge still further away, "what will become of us?" "The raft won't hold him; he'll sink it, and we'll have to get along as best we can; but, Nellie, he acts to me as though he is satisfied with being where he is, and he won't disturb us so long as we let him alone." "But you struck him several hard blows." "He's forgotten all about it, if he ever knew it. I guess he has had a pretty lively run to reach the pond in time to save his hide, and now that he is in the water, he will stay there a good while." There was a likelihood that Nick was right, and that the bear wanted nothing more than a rest; and yet the possibility that he would soon try to draw his entire body upon the raft prevented the brother and sister from having any peace of mind. When this singular tableau had lasted several minutes, it was discovered that the wind was carrying the raft, with its incubus, toward the western shore again, and Nick, afraid that if they all landed together, the bear might seize the occasion to make a supper off of them, reached the pole over the side, and began working the logs to the middle of the pond. During this performance the brute never stirred. His head, shoulders and paws were out of the water, the principal bulk of his body being beneath, and he seemed contented to be navigated about the small lake in any fashion the proprietor of the raft deemed best. When considerable time had passed without his offering to destroy them, the boy and girl were able to view the beast with feelings of less alarm. They looked at the large head, pig-like snout, round, dark eyes, and could well understand the terror which an unarmed person feels on meeting one of them in the woods. But so long as bruin remained there, so long was he a threat; and Nick was trying hard to think of some plan by which to get rid of him. He had tested beating him, but with no success, while he ran the risk of exciting him to a dangerous degree of savagery if he should persist in it. The boy had no weapon about him, unless his jack-knife should be counted as such, and nothing could be accomplished with that. He asked himself whether it were possible to dive under the raft and give him two or three vigorous thrusts with the implement; but, fortunately, the lad had too much sense to undertake anything of that sort, which, more than likely, would have resulted in the destruction of himself and sister. There really seemed no way open for the young hero to do anything at all, except to follow the advice of his father: "Do all you can for yourself and then leave the rest to Providence." "If I could think of anything," said he to Nellie, "I would do it, but we shall have to wait." "Maybe when he is rested he will swim off and go ashore." "I wish he would; but it seems to me that he has got a look in his eye, which says that pretty soon he will try to enjoy a little more of the raft than he now does: and when he undertakes it, you can make up your mind, Nellie, that there will be a row." "Why not let the raft drift close to land, so as to give him a chance to get off?" she asked. "Suppose he doesn't take the chance, which he has now; no, we'll wait awhile and see what he thinks about it." So soon as they could feel anything like relief from watching the passenger, the brother and sister looked at the scene around them, which was enough to strike any one with awe. The murky vapor was pouring across the water; burning leaves, sticks, and large branches of wood seemed to be carried almost horizontally on the wind, while the blazing forest roared like the ocean when swept by the monsoon. Whether the memorable dark day of 1881 still overspread the earth beyond, the two had no means of knowing; but they did know and feel that they were enveloped in an awful night, illumined only by the burning forests about them. Should the bear fail to harm them, they might well ask themselves the question, when would they be able to leave the water, in which they had taken refuge. It was not likely they would be forced to keep to the raft itself very long, but, after stepping foot on shore, they would be surrounded, if not by the burning forest itself, by its embers, which would render traveling perilous for days to come. Altogether, it will be seen that the situation of the two was as unpleasant--if, not absolutely dangerous--as it could well be. Nick was on the point, more than once, of following the advice of his sister,--to allow the raft to be carried by the wind against the shore, with the hope that the bear, when his hind legs should touch bottom, would take himself off; but he was afraid to do so, for it seemed to him that when the brute should be relieved of the necessity of looking after himself, he would turn and look after the boy and girl too closely for their safety. The very danger, however, that was dreaded more than all others, came when least expected. Nick had worked the unwieldy craft out in the pond again and had sat down beside Nellie, when, with one of his startling sniffs, the bear made a plunge, which heaved half of his body out of the water and lifted it upon the raft. As Nick Ribsam had previously remarked, the structure was not built for the accommodation of such passengers, and it began sinking, as the unwonted weight bore it down. "Don't be scared," said he to his sister; "maybe it's the best thing that could happen; put your hands on my shoulders and keep cool, and we'll swim out yet." CHAPTER XXXVII. A BRAVE STRUGGLE. It was a trying ordeal for little Nellie Ribsam; but she met it with the courage and coolness of her brother. She could not swim a stroke, and, under heaven, everything depended on him. If she should lose her self-control, as would be the case with nine tenths of the girls of her age placed in a similar situation she was likely to drown both herself and her brother. But so long as she obeyed instructions, and the bear did not interfere, they were safe. She placed her hands on the shoulders of Nick, as he told her to do, and he struck out with his powerful stroke, which he could keep up for an hour if need be. The difficulty of the situation was deepened tenfold by the anxiety to know what the bear meant to do. He had it in his power to overtake both, and it would have been a trifling matter for him to "dispose" of them in a twinkling: one or two strokes of his immense paw were sufficient. It was the aim of Nick, therefore, to get away as speedily as possible; and he exerted himself to the utmost, glancing continually over his shoulder, as did the sorely frightened Nellie, who could not avoid a half gasping scream as the waters closed about her to her chin. But bruin seemed to be absorbed in the management of the raft, which, in fact, was more than he could manage. It was all well enough, so long as it only half supported him; but when he came to lift his huge bulk out of the water the buoyancy of the float was overcome, and it went down. The bear did not seem to understand it: a moment before he was resting upon a mass of logs, and now, when he looked around, they were invisible, and he was compelled to swim to support himself. He therefore struck out with a loud splash, and had scarcely done so when the light pine logs popped up again like so much cork. The brute turned around and dropped both paws upon them. Finding they kept afloat, he was too foolish to be content, but repeated his performance, and, as a consequence, speedily found himself pawing the water again to keep his own head above the surface. This second failure seemed to disgust him, and he paid no further attention to the logs, but headed for the shore, which was so close at hand that he reached it in a minute or two. This proceeding on the part of the bear, it will be understood, was of great benefit to the brother and sister, who improved it to the utmost. It occupied a brief time, during which Nick swam strongly and steadily, and before the brute was master of the situation Nick's feet touched bottom, and, taking the hand of Nellie in his own, they walked ashore. "Where is he?" asked the girl, the moment their feet rested on dry land. "He isn't far off," replied Nick, "and I don't think he cares to disturb us, but I would rather keep him at a distance." It may be set down as certain that Nick and Nellie were never in such serious peril from the beast as they believed. The bear was of the ordinary black kind, found in the Middle States, which is not particularly savage, and often passes a person without offering him harm. It is only when the hunter and his dogs assail the brute, or when he is driven by hunger, that he will boldly attack a person. Besides this, the animal of which I am speaking, had, no doubt, been routed out of his lair in the woods by the approach of the fire, and it was the most he could do to reach the pond in time to save himself. This accounted for his excessive fatigue, which made him loth to enter the water, where he knew he must swim, and which caused him, after entering it, immediately to make for the raft, that he might avail himself of its support. He had no purpose of molesting the children, and was too indolent to resent the insignificant attack made upon him by Nick with the stick. But it was not to be supposed that the boy and girl could feel any assurance on this point, and their fright was such as would have come to any older person placed as they were. It was only through the protection of a wonderful Providence that they had escaped thus far from the fate of hundreds who, in different parts of the country, fell victims to the innumerable forest fires. When the two emerged from the water, they saw nothing of the bear that had caused them so much disquietude. He had probably headed for the other side of the pond, and was now shut out from view by the volume of smoke which intervened. "He'll be here after us," said the alarmed Nellie, whose nervousness was excusable; "and I wish you would hurry away." "I don't think there is any need to be scared, after all," replied her brother; "the bear has all he can do to look after himself, without bothering us." The fugitives were in a pitiable plight. Nellie's garments were soaked by the water through which she had passed, but the heavy heat of the air prevented her suffering from cold, though the clinging garments caused her to feel ill at ease; and, like her tidy mother, she longed to be at home, that she might change them for clean, dry ones. When Nick found they had to leave the raft, he caught up his shoes, with the stockings stuffed in them, and, hastily tying the strings together, slung them around his neck. He did not forget, in the excitement of the moment, that they were indispensable. But there was no way of saving coat, vest and hat, without running more risk than any one ought to run, and the lad let them go, hoping that, possibly, he might recover them after a time. He had scarcely set his feet upon the ground, when he took them off again. The earth was baking hot to the water's edge, and a live ember, which the ashes concealed from sight, was revealed when the bare foot was placed upon it. Nick cooled his blistering toes, and then, as quick as possible, drew on his wet shoes and stockings. "I would be in a pretty fix if barefoot," said he, "I wouldn't have been able to walk home through these woods for a week or less." It was plain to be seen that the fury of the conflagration had spent itself, so far as it affected this portion of the wood. That tornado of the flame, which swept everything before it, had leaped across the pond, and was speeding onward until it should die out from want of fuel. In its path was the blackness of desolation. The trees were still burning, but it was in a smoldering, smoking way, with blazing branches here and there, dropping piecemeal to the ground. The flames, which charged forward as they do through the dry prairie grass, had passed by, and the brother and sister had now the opportunity to attempt to reach home. But it would be hard to overestimate the distress caused by the atmosphere which the forest fires left behind them. There are many gases and vapors which we cannot breathe; but the trouble about smoke is that although we can manage to get along with it when it is not too dense, it is excessively irritating to the lungs. Several minutes passed, during which little trouble was experienced, and then the two were forced to cough and gasp until they almost sank to the ground from exhaustion. Occasionally the vapor would lift, and, floating away, leave the air below comparatively pure, and then the black and blue atmosphere, heavy with impurities, would descend and wrap them about as with a garment. "There's one thing sure," said Nick, when he found himself able to speak with some degree of comfort. "What is that?" asked his sister. "This will gradually get better and better." "I don't see how it can get any worse," was the truthful answer of Nellie, who felt as though she had stood all she could bear. Since the danger of being caught in the flames was gone, the two were at liberty to venture in any direction they chose. "We'll make the start, any way!" said Nick, with his old resolution of manner; "keep close to me, and, if you see any new bears, don't run into the woods to hide without saying something to me." CHAPTER XXXVIII. BEAR AND FORBEAR. "See here," said Nick Ribsam, stopping suddenly, after taking only a few steps, "I don't like this idea of going home and leaving so many of my clothes behind. That's a good coat and vest, and the hat is my Sunday one." "You ain't going back to get them, Nick, when the bear is waiting for you!" exclaimed the sister; "if you do, I just think you haven't got any sense at all--now there! that's all there is about _that_." This was a severe denunciation, but it did not deter the lad from turning directly about and hurrying to the spot where he had landed, when forced to help Nellie ashore. A strong breeze was still blowing, so that the craft, whether the bear was clinging to it or not, would be sure to come to land again. Nick did not know that the animal had left it, and he was not foolish enough to invite the beast to assail him. The logs, relieved from their burden, were floating over the surface, and the lad caught sight of them but a short distance off, steadily approaching the shore. "The raft must have gone under with the coat, vest, and hat," he said, watching the floating mass, "and I should think my clothes would have been lost; but there is something on the logs that looks like my coat and vest. It would be odd if they had kept their place." Naturally, the whole attention of Nick was absorbed in this matter; and, when he found that the wind was carrying the raft and its freight toward another point, he moved along the margin so as to anticipate its arrival. As he did so, like the renowned Captain John Smith when pursued by Powhatan's warriors, he paid no attention to where his feet led him. He was studying the raft, as best he could through the smoky darkness, and, knowing the shore as well as he did, he saw no need of looking downward. All at once his feet struck a large, soft mass, and, before he could check himself, he pitched headlong over it, as though it were a bale of cloth in his path. The nimble boy was on his feet like a flash, and, quick as he was, he was not a moment too soon. He had caught the ominous growl, and he knew the bear had got in his way again, as it had persisted in doing before. It did seem singular that the boy and bruin should meet so often, and it may be that the animal, that was resting himself, lost patience over such persecution, for he raised his huge body and made for the frightened boy. It was an alarming situation for the latter, who did not lose his presence of mind. He knew much of the nature of the animal, though he had never before been brought face to face in this fashion with a wild one. Desperate as was the haste with which Nick Ribsam fled, he did not forget to run directly away from his sister, so as to prevent her becoming involved in this new danger. Nor did the lad make any outcry, that could only have resulted in frightening her, but he simply devoted all his energy to getting away from his pursuer, whose whole savage nature seemed to have been aroused by the last disturbance. Who shall not say that bruin did not identify the youngster as the one that had rapped him so smartly over the snout when he was seeking a resting-place on the raft? If such were the fact, it cannot be wondered that the beast pursued the fellow with such persistency. Nick Ribsam was considered a rapid runner by his playmates, but it took only a minute or two for him to find out he was no match for his pursuer, who, starting only a short distance to the rear, was overhauling him "hand-over-hand." The boy hoped that the scorching earth would keep the beast from chasing him with too much ardor, but it did not; and, as there was no other recourse, he ran to a sapling, up which he climbed with the celerity of a monkey. Even as it was, it was within a second of being too late. The bear was so close that, rising on his haunches, he reached his paws and grasped the lowermost foot of Nick, whose hair fairly rose on end, as he thought for the moment that he was going to be dragged down into the crushing embrace of the dreaded animal. But, fortunately, the shoe pulled off, and, before the bear could understand it, the supple lad was perched above his reach and looking down upon him. "Well," said Nick, with a sigh, "this is considerably more than I counted on. I didn't think, from the way you acted in the water, that you were anything but a big coward; but I'm thankful enough you didn't get your claws on me." The huge creature examined the shoe carefully and, finding there was no boy in it, dropped it to the ground, and, sitting on his haunches, again looked longingly upward at the fellow perched just above his reach, as though he understood what a choice dinner he would afford a bruin of his size. When he ran out his red tongue and licked his inky snout, Nick could not help laughing. "Not just yet, old fellow; I'd rather stay here two or three days than come down to you." When some minutes had passed, Nick began to feel that the situation had nothing funny in it at all. What more likely than that the beast, having made up his mind to take the next meal off a plump boy, would stay there until that same boy would be unable to keep his perch any longer, and would drop of his own accord, like a ripe apple. The question was a serious one indeed, and while the lad was trying hard to determine what was best to do, he heard Nellie calling to him. She, too, was becoming impatient over the long separation and was coming to find out what it meant. Nick shouted back for her not to approach, explaining that he was up a tree with a bear watching him, and that if she came any nearer the animal would be sure to change his attention to her. This was enough to keep any one at a respectful distance, but, when Nellie Ribsam heard the alarming announcement, she was determined on one thing: she would see for herself what sort of a picture was made by a boy up a tree with a black bear watching him as the one watched her two years before. Nick having warned her against coming any nigher, it followed that the temptation to do so was irresistible. The lifting of the smoke had let in some sunlight, and it did not take her long to reach a position from which she could look on the interesting scene. "Nick! Nick!" she called, in a guarded voice, not intended for the ears of the bear. The boy, alarmed for his sister's safety, turned toward the quarter whence it came, and saw the white face peering from behind the trunk of a tree no more than a hundred feet distant. He instantly gesticulated for her to keep out of sight. "You have done a silly thing, Nellie," said he, impatiently; "the bear is sure to see you, and if he does, it will be the last of you." "But I don't mean he shall see me," said the brave but not very prudent girl; "if he looks around, why I'll dodge my head back--My gracious! he's looking now!" And Nellie threw her head so far from the side around which she was peeping, that, if the bear had looked sharp, he would have detected the somewhat bedraggled hat on the other side of the charred trunk. Nick called to her to be more careful, as he plainly discerned her hat, and the head-gear vanished. The lad's fear was now on account of his sister, for he knew that so long as he himself could maintain his position in the tree, so long was he safe. The bear species cannot climb trees whose trunks are so small that their claws meet around them, and although this brute scratched at the sapling as though he meditated an attempt, yet he made none, but sat still, looking wistfully upward, and probably hopeful that the boy perched there would soon come down. "Keep yourself out of sight!" called Nick to Nellie, "for you can't do anything to help me." The girl understood this, and she began to believe, with Nick, that she had done an exceedingly foolish thing in venturing into the bear's field of vision in this fashion. And what was to be the end of this singular and most uncomfortable condition of affairs? CHAPTER XXXIX. CONCLUSION. For a half hour the situation remained unchanged. Nick Ribsam kept his perch in the branches of the sapling, and, before the end of the time named, he found the seat becoming so uncomfortable that he was sure he could not bear it much longer. The narrow limb on which he rested, while he held himself in place by grasping the sapling itself, seemed to grow narrower and sharper, while his own weight increased, until he believed it would be preferable to let go and hang on with his hands. It was not much better with Nellie, who had awakened to such a sense of her position that she did not dare to do more than peep out from where she stood, at rare intervals, quickly drawing back her head lest the savage animal should see her. The bear himself showed a patience which was astonishing, and was like that of the Esquimau, who never stirs a muscle for hour after hour, while sitting beside the air-hole in the ice, waiting for the seal to show his nose above the surface. Bruin moved more slightly now and then, but went no more than a dozen yards from the tree, and seemed never to take his eyes from his victim for more than a second or two. During these trying minutes, the smoke sometimes filled the air scarcely less than before and the eyes of the brother and sister smarted and stung and shed tears, and their lungs became sore from continual coughing, rendered the more distressing in the case of Nellie, who was obliged to suppress the noise by cramming her handkerchief in her mouth. But during the same period, the wits of Nick Ribsam were not idle. He had thought of sending Nellie home to bring her father to his assistance, but he was restrained by the fear that the bear would detect her, and, even if she should get away, he doubted whether she would be able to find her way through the woods to the open country beyond. Here and there the trees were burning, and the dry limbs lay on the ground, giving out the red glow of smoldering embers, or sending out little twists of smoke to join the enormous mass of vapor which hung like a pall over so many square miles of country. Nellie, for the twentieth time, leaned her head forward and looked out from behind the tree trunk that sheltered her. She saw the bear sitting on his haunches some twenty feet away, looking steadily upward, as though he were a charred stump, which could never change its posture or position. Nick rested uneasily on the narrow limb, when he made a movement which the quick-witted girl knew at once meant that he had resolved on trying to do something for himself. Carefully freeing his legs from the branch, he lowered himself so that he hung by his hands, within ten feet of the ground. Hanging only a second or two, he let go and dropped lightly upon his feet. The whole thing took less than a minute, but the bear had observed it almost as quickly as did Nellie, and the minute the lad struck the ground the beast was lumbering toward him. Poor, terrified Nellie screamed and ran from behind the tree, certain that it was all over with her brave brother; but the latter did not despair by any means. With astonishing celerity, he dashed to where a large pine branch lay on the ground, burned in two; and catching up one of the pieces, which was so hot that it scorched his fingers, he whirled it about with such quickness that the glowing end made one steady, even wheel of fire about his head. He recalled his experience in the woods two years before when hunting the other bear. While doing this, bruin was advancing rapidly on the boy, who kept circling the torch until the beast was within ten feet, by which time the stick was blazing as though it were a pine knot. Then, with a boyish shout, Nick extended his arm at full length, pointing the flaming torch straight at the head of his foe, as though he held a Damascus sword of needle-like sharpness which he meant to drive through the iron skull, and he strode directly at the beast with the step of a conqueror. Every animal, wild or domestic, dreads fire, and this strange attack was more than the bear could stand. Without the least attention to dignity, he turned about and swung off toward the lake, doubtless of the opinion that there alone he could find safety from the element that drove him thither in the first place. Nick shouted and broke into a run, and the bear did the same! Just under the tree, the lad stopped and put on his shoe, which had been somewhat damaged by the claws of the brute. Then, being well shod and in no further danger from the animal, on which he had turned the tables so unexpectedly, Nick joined his sister, still carrying his torch as a precaution in the event of bruin's changing his mind and making after him. But there was no danger of anything of the kind, and the bear was not seen to look behind him, even to learn whether the pursuit was kept up. "I guess I will give over my hunt for the rest of my clothes till some better time," said Nick, once more taking the hand of Nellie and starting up the bank of the stream which fed the pond, toward the bridge that had burned some time before. By carefully picking their path they reached it without mishap, being on the southern side, so that it was not necessary to ford it in order to continue the road homeward. The structure was an ordinary one, consisting of a single uncovered span, so that its loss was not serious, except on account of the inconvenience it would cause. The two stood several minutes looking upon the ruins, that were not very extensive, but their chief interest centered around the carcass of the mare lying at the bottom of the creek, where it had floated against the shore. The children were naturally attached to the animal, and there were tears in their eyes, when, with a deep sigh, they turned away and climbed up the steep bank to the level of the road and started for home. They had reason to doubt their ability to force their way through the several miles of forest remaining between them and the open country beyond, but they were resolved to do their utmost, for they dreaded staying any longer in the section where they had suffered and escaped so much. As has been stated, the fury of the conflagration had expended itself, and there was nothing to be feared from the scorching flames, which had confronted and endangered them shortly after they entered the woods, on their return. The road was strewn with burning debris, and many a time they were forced to stop, in doubt whether they could get by the obstruction but some way always opened: they would find a point where it could be leaped, or they would flank it by a little circuit through the woods themselves. In this manner they toiled on until half the distance was passed, when they were brought to a stand-still by a discovery which took away their breath for the time. They saw the ruins of something which they did not recognize until they drew near, when they discovered that an ordinary farmer's wagon, with its two horses, had been burned. Little more than the iron work of the body was left, and the animals seemed to have gone down side by side, where they lay burned and burst open by the flames, that were less merciful to them than to the brother and sister who had made such a gallant fight for life. The sight was sad enough, but it was rendered tenfold more so by the figure of the driver, only a few rods distant. When his team gave out he had probably leaped to the ground and started to run from the fire, but was overtaken and perished miserably. "How thankful we ought to be!" said Nellie, in a subdued voice, as they moved forward again. "So I am," was the fervent response of Nick, whose heart was melted with pity for the unfortunate stranger, and with thankfulness that he and Nellie had been selected by Heaven for such a signal display of mercy. They were in constant dread of coming upon similar scenes, but they were spared the sight, and, at the end of about an hour from the time of leaving the bridge, they emerged into the open country, where they were near their own home. The afternoon was pretty well gone, and the sky still wore that impressive appearance which we all remember well; but it was not so marked as a short time before, and was rapidly passing away. There was a great deal of smoke drifting and floating through the air, but it caused less inconvenience and annoyance than it did when they fled to the pond for safety. The children gave another expression of their gratitude, and then hastened toward the humble home, which was, indeed, the dearest spot on earth to them. The parents were full of anxiety, though they hoped that Nick had seen the danger, and had stayed in Dunbarton with horse and carriage. But the couple stood at the gate, shading their eyes, and looking yearningly down the road, in the hope of catching sight of the loved forms of the brave children. When they saw and recognized the figures, they rushed forth to meet them, with swelling hearts. Father and mother pressed them to their breasts, and the eyes of all were streaming with tears, for of Nick and Nellie might it not be said--"For these, my children, were dead, and are alive again: they were lost, and they are found?" When Nick had told the whole wonderful story, the father took his hand and said in his native tongue: "My boy, I have taught you that God helps them that help themselves. I am glad that at no time, so far as I can gather, did you despair. You and Nellie have been tried by fire, and have come out as pure gold. Heaven be praised for its mercies. The lesson you have learned will go with you through life. Never despair, but press onward and upward, and the reward shall be yours at last." And what did the good man say but that which our own beloved and mourned poet has so beautifully limned in lines that shall be as immortal as his own fragrant deeds and revered memory? Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate, Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. THE END. _The second volume of the Wild-Woods Series will be_ "On the Trail of the Moose." ==THE FAMOUS CASTLEMON BOOKS.== ==BY== ==HARRY CASTLEMON.== [Illustration: Specimen Cover of the Gunboat Series.] No author of the present day has become a greater favorite with boys than "Harry Castlemon:" every book by him is sure to meet with hearty reception by young readers generally. His naturalness and vivacity lead his readers from page to page with breathless interest, and when one volume is finished the fascinated reader, like Oliver Twist, asks "for more." *** Any volume sold separately. * * * * * ==GUNBOAT SERIES.== By Harry Castlemon. 6 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$7 50== ==Frank, the Young Naturalist== ==1 25== ==Frank in the Woods== ==1 25== ==Frank on the Prairie== ==1 25== ==Frank on a Gunboat== ==1 25== ==Frank before Vicksburg== ==1 25== ==Frank on the Lower Mississippi== ==1 25== ==GO AHEAD SERIES.== By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$3 75== ==Go Ahead;== or, The Fisher Boy's Motto ==1 25== ==No Moss;== or, The Career of a Rolling Stone ==1 25== ==Tom Newcombe;== or, The Boy of Bad Habits ==1 25== ==ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES.== By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$3 75== ==Frank at Don Carlos' Rancho== ==1 25== ==Frank among the Rancheros== ==1 25== ==Frank in the Mountains== ==1 25== ==SPORTSMAN'S CLUB SERIES.== By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$3 75== ==The Sportsman's Club in the Saddle== ==1 25== ==The Sportsman's Club Afloat== ==1 25== ==The Sportsman's Club among the Trappers== ==1 25== ==FRANK NELSON SERIES.== By Harry Castlemon 3 vols. 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$3 75== ==Snowed Up;== or, The Sportsman's Club in the Mts. ==1 25== ==Frank Nelson in the Forecastle;== or, The Sportsman's Club among the Whalers ==1 25== ==The Boy Traders;== or, The Sportsman's Club among the Boers ==1 25== ==BOY TRAPPER SERIES.== By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$3 75== ==The Buried Treasure;== or, Old Jordan's "Haunt" ==1 25== ==The Boy Trapper;== or, How Dave Filled the Order ==1 25== ==The Mail Carrier== ==1 25== ==ROUGHING IT SERIES.== By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$3 75== ==George in Camp;== or, Life on the Plains ==1 25== ==George at the Wheel;== or, Life in a Pilot House. ==1 25== ==George at the Fort;== or, Life Among the Soldiers. ==1 25== ==ROD AND GUN SERIES.== By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$3 75== ==Don Gordon's Shooting Box== ==1 25== ==Rod and Gun== ==1 25== ==The Young Wild Fowlers== ==1 25== ==FOREST AND STREAM SERIES.== By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$3 75== ==Joe Wayring at Home;== or, Story of a Fly Rod ==1 25== ==Snagged and Sunk;== or, The Adventures of a Canvas Canoe ==1 25== ==Steel Horse;== or, The Rambles of a Bicycle ==1 25== ==WAR SERIES.== By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$3 75== ==True to his Colors== ==1 25== ==Rodney, the Partisan== ==1 25== ==OUR FELLOWS;== or, Skirmishes with the Swamp Dragoons. By Harry Castlemon. 16mo. Fully illustrated Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==1 25== ==Marcy, the Blockade Runner== ==1 25== ==Alger's Renowned Books.== ==BY== ==Horatio Alger, Jr.== [Illustration: Specimen Cover of the Ragged Dick Series.] Horatio Alger, Jr., has attained distinction as one of the most popular writers of books for boys, and the following list comprises all of his best books. *** Any volume sold separately. * * * * * ==RAGGED DICK SERIES.== By Horatio Alger, Jr. 6 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$7 50== ==Ragged Dick;== or, Street Life in New York ==1 25== ==Fame and Fortune;== or, The Progress of Richard Hunter ==1 25== ==Mark, the Match Boy;== or, Richard Hunter's Ward ==1 25== ==Rough and Ready;== or, Life among the New York Newsboys ==1 25== ==Ben, the Luggage Boy;== or, Among the Wharves ==1 25== ==Rufus and Rose;== or, the Fortunes of Rough and Ready ==1 25== ==TATTERED TOM SERIES.== (FIRST SERIES.) By Horatio Alger, Jr. 4 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==5 00== ==Tattered Tom;== or, The Story of a Street Arab ==1 25== ==Paul, the Peddler;== or, The Adventures of a Young Street Merchant ==1 25== ==Phil, the Fiddler;== or, The Young Street Musician ==1 25== ==Slow and Sure;== or, From the Sidewalk to the Shop ==1 25== ==TATTERED TOM SERIES.== (SECOND SERIES.) 4 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$5 00== ==Julius;== or the Street Boy Out West ==1 25== ==The Young Outlaw;== or, Adrift in the World ==1 25== ==Sam's Chance and How He Improved It== ==1 25== ==The Telegraph Boy== ==1 25== ==LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES.== (FIRST SERIES.) By Horatio Alger, Jr. 4 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$5 00== ==Luck and Pluck;== or John Oakley's Inheritance ==1 25== ==Sink or Swim;== or, Harry Raymond's Resolve ==1 25== ==Strong and Steady;== or, Paddle Your Own Canoe. ==1 25== ==Strive and Succeed;== or, The Progress of Walter Conrad ==1 25== ==LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES.== (Second Series.) By Horatio Alger, Jr. 3 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$5 00== ==Try and Trust;== or, The Story of a Bound Boy ==1 25== ==Bound to Rise;== or Harry Walton's Motto ==1 25== ==Risen from the Ranks;== or, Harry Walton's Success ==1 25== ==Herbert Carter's Legacy;== or, The Inventor's Son. ==1 25== ==CAMPAIGN SERIES.== By Horatio Alger, Jr. 3 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$3 75== ==Frank's Campaign;== or, The Farm and the Camp ==1 25== ==Paul Prescott's Charge== ==1 25== ==Charlie Codman's Cruise== ==1 25== ==BRAVE AND BOLD SERIES.== By Horatio Alger, Jr. 4 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$5 00== ==Brave and Bold;== or, The Story of a Factory Boy ==1 25== ==Jack's Ward;== or, The Boy Guardian ==1 25== ==Shifting for Himself;== or, Gilbert Greyson's Fortunes ==1 25== ==Wait and Hope;== or, Ben Bradford's Motto ==1 25== ==PACIFIC SERIES.== By Horatio Alger, Jr. 4 vols. 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$5 00== ==The Young Adventurer;== or, Tom's Trip Across the Plains ==1 25== ==The Young Miner;== or, Tom Nelson in California ==1 25== ==The Young Explorer;== or, Among the Sierras ==1 25== ==Ben's Nugget;== or, A Boy's Search for Fortune. A Story of the Pacific Coast ==1 25== ==ATLANTIC SERIES.== By Horatio Alger, Jr. 4 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$5 00== ==The Young Circus Rider;== or, The Mystery of Robert Rudd ==1 25== ==Do and Dare;== or, A Brave Boy's Fight for Fortune ==1 25== ==Hector's Inheritance;== or, Boys of Smith Institute ==1 25== ==Helping Himself;== or, Grant Thornton's Ambition ==1 25== ==WAY TO SUCCESS SERIES.== By Horatio Alger, Jr. 4 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$5 00== ==Bob Burton== ==1 25== ==The Store Boy== ==1 25== ==Luke Walton== ==1 25== ==Struggling Upward== ==1 25== ==Five Hundred Dollars Legacy.== By Horatio Alger, Jr. 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors ==1 25== ==A New Series of Books.== * * * * * ==Indian Life and Character Founded on Historical Facts.== [Illustration: Specimen Cover of the Wyoming Series.] ==By Edward T. Ellis.== *** Any volume sold separately. * * * * * ==BOY PIONEER SERIES.== By Edward S. Ellis. 3 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$3 75== ==Ned in the Block House;== or, Life on the Frontier ==1 25== ==Ned in the Woods.== A Tale of the Early Days in the West ==1 25== ==Ned on the River== ==1 25== ==DEERFOOT SERIES.== By Edward S. Ellis. In box containing the following. 3 vols., 12mo. Illustrated ==$3 75== ==Hunters of the Ozark== ==1 25== ==Camp in the Mountains== ==1 25== ==The Last War Trail== ==1 25== ==LOG CABIN SERIES.== By Edward S. Ellis. 3 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$3 75== ==Lost Trail== ==$1 25== ==Camp-Fire and Wigwam== ==1 25== ==Footprints in the Forest== ==1 25== ==WYOMING SERIES.== By Edward S. Ellis. 3 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$3 75== ==Wyoming== ==1 25== ==Storm Mountain== ==1 25== ==Cabin in the Clearing== ==1 25== ==Through Forest and Fire.== By Edward S. Ellis. 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors ==1 25== * * * * * ==By C.A. Stephens.== * * * * * ==Rare books for boys--bright, breezy, wholesome and instructive; full of adventure and incident, and information upon natural history. They blend instruction with amusement--contain much useful and valuable information upon the habits of animals, and plenty of adventure, fun and jollity.== ==CAMPING OUT SERIES.== By C.A. Stephens. 6 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$7 50== ==Camping Out.== As recorded by "Kit" ==1 25== ==Left on Labrador==; or The Cruise of the Schooner Yacht "Curfew." As recorded by "Wash" ==1 25== ==Off to the Geysers==; or, The Young Yachters in Iceland As recorded by "Wade" ==1 25== ==Lynx Hunting.== From Notes by the author of "Camping Out" ==1 25== ==Fox Hunting.== As recorded by "Raed" ==1 25== ==On the Amazon==; or, The Cruise of the "Rambler." As recorded by "Wash" ==1 25== * * * * * ==By J.T. Trowbridge.== * * * * * ==These stories will rank among the best of Mr. Trowbridge's books for the young--and he has written some of the best of our juvenile literature.== ==JACK HAZARD SERIES.== By J.T. Trowbridge. 6 vols., 12mo. Fully Illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box ==$7 50== ==Jack Hazard and His Fortunes== ==$1 25== ==A Chance for Himself;== or, Jack Hazard and his Treasure ==1 25== =Doing His Best== ==1 25== ==Fast Friends== ==1 25== ==The Young Surveyor;== or, Jack on the Prairies ==1 25== ==Lawrence's Adventures Among the Ice Cutters== Glass Makers, Coal Miners, Iron Men and Ship Builders ==1 25== * * * * * ==--GOOD BOOKS--== ==Suitable for Girls between the Ages of 12 and 15.== ==Ways and Means.== A Story for girls. By Margaret Vandegrift. With four illustrations. 12mo. Cloth, extra ==1 50== ==The Queen's Body-Guard.== A Story for Girls. By Margaret Vandegrift. With four illustrations. 12mo. Cloth, extra ==1 50== ==Rose Raymond's Wards.== A Story for Girls. By Margaret Vandegrift. Illustrated with four engravings on wood. 12mo. Cloth, extra ==1 50== ==Doris and Theodora.== A Story for Girls. By Margaret Vandegrift. Illustrated with four engravings on wood. 12mo. Cloth, extra ==1 50== ==Dr. Gilbert's Daughters.== A Story for Girls. By Margaret Harriet Mathews. Illustrated with four engravings on wood. 12mo. Cloth, extra ==1 50== ==Esther's Fortune.== A Romance for Girls. By Lucy C. Lillie. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, extra, brown and gold ==1 50== ==Helen Glenn;== or, My Mother's Enemy. A Story for Girls. By Lucy C. Lillie. Illustrated with eight illustrations 12mo. Cloth, extra ==1 50== ==The Squire's Daughter.== By Lucy C. Lillie. 12mo. Illustrated. Cloth, extra ==1 50== ==For Honor's Sake.== By Lucy C. Lillie. 12mo. Illustrated. Cloth, extra ==1 50== ==Marion Berkley.== A Story for Girls. By Lizzie B. Comins (Laura Caxton). 12mo. Illustrated. Cloth, extra, brown and gold ==1 25== ==Hartwell Farm.== A Story for Girls. By Lizzie B. Comins (Laura Caxton). 12mo. Illustrated. Cloth, extra, brown and gold ==1 25== ==THE HANDSOMEST AND CHEAPEST GIFT BOOKS.== ==The "Bells" Series.== * * * * * The "BELLS" Series has been undertaken by the publishers with a view to issue original illustrated poems of a high character, at a price within the reach of all classes. Small 4to. Cloth, gilt edges $1 50 Ivory surface 1 50 Embossed calf, gilt edges 1 50 ==GEMS FROM TENNYSON.== By ALFRED TENNYSON. Elegantly illustrated by Hammatt Billings. ==BEAUTIES OF TENNYSON.== By ALFRED TENNYSON. Elegantly illustrated with twenty engravings, from original drawings by Frederic B. Schell. Beautifully printed on the finest plate paper. ==FROM GREENLAND'S ICY MOUNTAINS.== By BISHOP HEBER. Elegantly illustrated with twenty-two engravings, from original drawings by Frederic B. Schell. Beautifully printed on the finest plate paper. ==LADY CLARE.== By ALFRED TENNYSON. Elegantly illustrated with twenty-two engravings, from original drawings by Alfred Fredericks, F.S. Church, Harry Fenn, F.B. Schell, E.P. Garret and Granville Perkins. Beautifully printed on the finest plate paper. ==THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.== By CLEMENT C. MOORE. Never before has this popular poem--a favorite with both the old and the young--been presented in such a beautiful dress. It is elegantly illustrated with twenty-two engravings, from original drawings by F.B. Schell, W.T. Smedley, A. Fredericks and H.R. Poore. ==BINGEN ON THE RHINE.== By CAROLINE E. NORTON. Elegantly illustrated with twenty-two engravings, from original drawings by W.T. Smedley, F.B. Schell, A. Fredericks, Granville Perkins and E.P. Garrett. ==THE BELLS.== By EDGAR ALLAN POE. Elegantly illustrated with twenty-two engravings, from original drawings by F.O.C. Darley, A. Fredericks, Granville Perkins and others. ==THE DESERTED VILLAGE.== By OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Elegantly illustrated with thirty-five engravings, from drawings by Hammatt Billings. ==THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.== By ROBERT BURNS. Elegantly illustrated with fifty engravings, from drawings by Chapman. ==Standard Histories.== * * * * * ==History of England, from the Accession of James the Second.== By Thomas Babington Macaulay. _Standard edition._ With a steel portrait of the author. Printed from new electrotype plates from the last English edition. Being by far the most correct edition in the American market. 5 vols., 12mo. Cloth, extra, per set ==$5 00== Sheep, marbled edges, per set ==7 50== Half Russia (imitation), marbled edges ==7 50== Half calf, gilt ==10 00== ==History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.== By Edward Gibbon. With notes by Rev. H.H. Milman. _Standard edition._ To which is added a complete Index of the work. A new edition from entirely new stereotype plates. With portrait on steel. 5 vols., 12mo. Cloth, extra, per set ==5 00== Sheep, marbled edges, per set ==7 50== Half Russia (imitation), marbled edges, ==7 50== Half calf, gilt, per set ==10 00== ==History of England, from the Invasion of Julius Cæsar to the Abdication of James the Second, 1688.== By David Hume. _Standard edition._ With the author's last corrections and improvements to which is prefixed a short account of his life, written by himself. With a portrait on steel. A new edition from entirely new stereotype plates. 5 vols., 12mo. Cloth, extra, per set ==5 00== Sheep, marbled edges, per set ==7 50== Half Russia (imitation), marbled edges ==7 50== Half calf, gilt ==10 00== ==Miscellaneous.== * * * * * ==A Dictionary of the Bible.== Comprising its Antiquities Biography, Geography, Natural History and Literature. Edited by William Smith, LL.D. Revised and adapted to the present use of Sunday-school Teachers and Bible Students by Revs. F.N. and M.A. Peloubet. With eight Colored maps and 440 engravings on wood. 8vo. Cloth, extra ==$2 00== Sheep, marbled edges ==3 00== Half morocco, gilt top ==3 50== ==History of the Civil War in America.== By the Comte de Paris. Translated with the approval of the author. With maps faithfully engraved from the originals and printed in three colors. 8vo. Cloth, extra, per vol. ==3 50== Red cloth, extra, Roxburgh style, uncut edges, per vol. ==3 50== Sheep, library style, per vol. ==4 50== Half Turkey morocco, per vol. ==6 00== Volumes I, II, III and IV now ready, put up in a neat box, or any volume sold separately. ==The Battle of Gettysburg.== By the Comte de Paris. With maps. 8vo. Cloth, extra ==1 50== ==Comprehensive Biographical Dictionary.== Embracing accounts of the most eminent persons of all ages, nations and professions. By E.A. Thomas. Crown 8vo. Cloth, extra, gilt top ==2 50== Sheep, marbled edges ==3 00== Half morocco, gilt top ==3 50== Half Russia, gilt top ==4 50== ==The Amateur Photographer.== A manual of photographic manipulations intended especially for beginners and amateurs, with suggestions as to the choice of apparatus and of processes. By Ellerslie Wallace, Jr., M.D. New edition, with two new chapters on paper negatives and microscopic photography. 12mo. Limp morocco, sprinkled edges ==1 00== ==Interest Tables.== Containing accurate calculations of interest at 1/2, 1, 2, 3, 3-1/2, 4, 4-1/2, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 10 per cent. per annum, both simple and compound, on all sums from $1.00 to $10.00, and from one day to six years. Also some very valuable tables, calculated by John E. Coffin. 8vo. Cloth, extra ==$1 00== ==England, Picturesque and Descriptive.== A Reminiscence of Travel. By Joel Cook, author of "A Holiday Tour in Europe," "Brief Summer Rambles" etc. Elegantly illustrated with 487 engravings on wood. 4to. Cloth, extra ==7 50== Half calf, gilt, marbled edges ==10 00== Half Morocco, full gilt edges ==10 00== Full Turkey morocco, gilt edges ==15 00== ==The Waverley Novels.== By Sir Walter Scott, Bart. 23 vols. _Household Edition._ Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, extra, per set ==23 00== Half calf, gilt, per set ==46 00== Half morocco, gilt top ==46 00== _Universe Edition._ Printed on thin paper, and containing one illustration to the volume. 25 vols., 12mo. Cloth, extra, per vol. ==75== _World Edition._ 12 vols., thick 12mo. (Sold in sets only.) Cloth, extra ==18 00== Half im't. Russia, marbled edges ==24 00== ==Captain Jack the Scout;== or, The Indian Wars about Old Fort Duquesne. An Historical Novel, with copious notes. By Charles McKnight. With eight engravings. 12mo. Cloth, extra ==1 50== ==Ladies' and Gentlemen's Etiquette.== A Complete Manual of the Manners and Dress of American Society. Containing forms of Letters, Invitations, Acceptances and Regrets. By E.B. Duffey. 12mo. 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Persian calf, line pattern, limp, red and gold edges ==1 50== ==THE== ==Fireside Encyclopædia of Poetry== COLLECTED AND ARRANGED ==By HENRY T. COATES.== * * * * * 27th edition, enlarged and thoroughly revised, and containing portraits of prominent American poets, with facsimiles of their handwriting. * * * * * Imperial 8vo., cloth, extra, gilt side and edges ==$5 00== Half calf, gilt ==7 50== Half morocco, antique, gilt edges ==7 50== Turkey morocco, antique, full gilt edges ==10 00== Tree calf ==12 00== Plush, padded sides, nickel lettering ==14 00== The remarkable success that has attended the publication of "The Fireside Encyclopædia of Poetry"--26 editions having been printed--has induced the author to thoroughly revise it, and to make it in every way worthy of the high place it has attained. About one hundred and fifty new poems have been inserted, and the work now contains nearly fourteen hundred poems, representing four hundred and fifty authors, English and American. The work is now illustrated by finely-engraved portraits of many prominent poets, with their signatures and facsimiles of their handwriting. * * * * * ==The Children's Book of Poetry.== Compiled by HENRY T. COATES. With nearly 200 illustrations. The most complete collection of poetry for children ever published. 4to. Cloth, extra, gilt edges ==3 00== Full Turkey morocco, gilt edges ==7 50== 
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4040	----	Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines. THE PEDLER OF DUST STICKS BY MRS. FOLLEN With illustrations by Billings CONTENTS THE PEDLER OF DUST STICKS. "ON THE GRAVE OF THE GOOD, GREAT MAN." THE MIGHTY DEEDS OF ABC. WHAT DAY IS IT? THE CHILD AT HER MOTHER'S GRAVE. EVENING PRAYER. THE SABBATH IS HERE. TO A BUTTERFLY. THE PEDLER OF DUST STICKS. One day I went to visit a friend, a lady, who came from Hamburg, in Germany. I was much pleased with a portrait which was hanging up in her room, and I was particularly struck by the ornamental drawings with which the picture was surrounded. They consisted of whip handles, canes, piano keys, mouth-pieces for wind instruments, all sorts of umbrellas, and many more things, of every sort, made of cane and whalebone. The arrangement was so ingenious, the designs so fanciful, and the execution so good, that nothing could be prettier. But what of course was of the most importance, was the face and head that they were meant to ornament. "What a benevolent, what a beautiful face!" I said. "Who is it?" "My father," the lady replied; "and he is more beautiful than the picture, and he is still more kind than he looks there." "What is the meaning of all these bits of bamboo and these little canes, so fancifully arranged around the picture?" I asked. "These little sticks," she replied, "tell the story of my father's success, and of the beginning of his greatness. He began his noble and honorable life as a little Pedler of Dust Sticks." "Pedler of Dust Sticks?" "Yes," she said; "if you would like to hear his history, I will relate it." I replied that nothing could please me better; that I considered the life of a good, great man the most beautiful of all stories. "I will tell it to you just as it was; and you may, if you please, repeat it for the benefit of any one." When I had returned home I wrote the story down, just as I remembered it, as she had given me leave to do. The Christian name of our hero was Henry, and so we will call him. His parents lived in Hamburg, in Germany. They were very poor. His father was a cabinet maker, with a very small business. Henry was the second of eight children. As soon as he was eight years old, his father, in order to raise a few more shillings to support his family, sent him into the streets to sell little pieces of ratan, which the people there use to beat the dust out of their clothes. Henry got about a cent and a half apiece for the sticks. If he sold a great number of these little sticks, he was allowed, as a reward, to go to an evening school, where he could learn to read. This was a great pleasure to him; but he wanted also to learn to write. For this, however, something extra was to be paid, and Henry was very anxious to earn more, that he might have this advantage. There is a fine public walk in Hamburg, where the fashionable people go, in good weather, to see and be seen; and where the young men go to wait upon and see the ladies. These gentlemen were fond of having little canes in their hands, to play with, to switch their boots with, and to show the young ladies how gracefully they could move their arms; and sometimes to write names in the sand. So little Henry thought of making some very pretty canes, and selling them to these young beaux. He soaked his canes for a long time in warm water, and bent the tops round for a handle, and then ornamented them with his penknife, and made them really very pretty. Then he went to the public walk, and when he saw a young man walking alone, he went up to him, and with a sweet and pleasant voice, he would say, "Will you buy a pretty cane, sir? Six cents apiece." Almost every gentleman took one of the canes. With the money he got for his canes he was able to pay for lessons in writing. This made him very happy, for it was the reward of his own industry and ingenuity. As soon as Henry was old enough, his father employed him to carry home the work to customers. The boy had such a beautiful countenance, was so intelligent, and had such a pleasant manner, that many of the customers wanted to have him come and live with them, and promised to take good care of him; but Henry always said, "No, I prefer staying with my father, and helping him." Every day the little fellow would take his bundle of dust sticks and little canes in a box he had for the purpose, and walk up and down the streets, offering them to every one who he thought would buy them. And happy enough was he when he sold them all and brought home the money to his poor father, who found it so hard to support a large family. All the evenings when Henry was not so happy as to go to school, he worked as long as he could keep his eyes open. He was very skilful, and made his canes so pretty, and he was such a good boy, that he made many friends, and almost always found a good market for his sticks. The poor fellow was very anxious to get money. Often his father's customers gave him a few pence. Once he came near risking his life to obtain a small sum. He was very strong and active, and excelled in all the common exercises of boys; such as running, jumping, &c. One day he got up on the top of a very high baggage wagon, and called to the boys below, and asked them how many pence they would give him if he would jump off of it to the ground. Some one offered two. "Two are too few to risk my life for," he replied. They then promised to double the number; and he was upon the point of jumping, when he felt a smart slap on his back. "That's what you shall have for risking your life for a few pence," said his father, who, unobserved by Henry, had heard what had passed, and climbed up the wagon just in time to save Henry from perhaps breaking his neck, or at least some of his limbs. Henry was very fond of skating, but he had no skates. One day, when the weather and ice were fine, he went to see the skaters. He had only a few pence in his pocket, and he offered them for the use of a pair of skates for a little while; but the person who had skates to let could get more for them, and so he refused poor Henry. There was near by, at the time, a man whose profession was gambling; and he said to Henry, "I will show you a way by which you can double and triple your money, if you will come with me." Henry followed him to a little booth, in which was a table and some chairs; and there the man taught him a gambling game, by which, in a few minutes, he won a dollar. Henry was going away with his money, thinking with delight of the pleasure he should have in skating, and also of the money that would be left to carry home to his poor father, when the gambler said to him, "You foolish boy, why won't you play longer, and double your dollar? You may as well have two or three dollars as one." Henry played again, and lost not only what he had won, but the few pence he had when he came upon the ice. Henry was fortunate enough that day, after this occurrence, to sell a few pretty canes, and so had some money to carry to his father; but still he went home with a heavy heart, for he knew that he had done a very foolish thing. He had learned, by this most fortunate ill luck, what gambling was; and he made a resolution then, which he faithfully kept through his whole after life, never to allow any poverty, any temptation whatever, to induce him to gamble. Henry continually improved in his manufacture of canes, and he often succeeded in getting money enough to pay for his writing lessons. There were Jews in the city, who sold canes as he did, and he would often make an exchange with them; even if they insisted upon having two or three of his for one of theirs; he would consent to the bargain, when he could get from them a pretty cane; and then he would carry it home, and imitate it, so that his canes were much admired; and the little fellow gained customers and friends too every day. The bad boys in the city he would have nothing to do with; he treated them civilly, but he did not play with them, nor have them for his friends. He could not take pleasure in their society. Henry was a great lover of nature. He spent much of his life out in the open air, under the blue skies; and he did not fail to notice what a grand and beautiful roof there was over his head. The clouds by day, the stars by night, were a continued delight to him. The warm sunshine in winter, and the cool shade of the trees in summer, he enjoyed more than many a rich boy does the splendid furniture and pictures in his father's house. One beautiful summer afternoon he was going, with his canes on his shoulder, through the public promenade on the banks of the little bay around which was the public walk. The waves looked so blue, and the air was so delicious, that he was resolved he would treat himself to a row upon the sparkling waters; so he hired a little boat, and then got some long branches from the trees on the shore, and stuck them all around the edges of his boat, and tied them together by their tops, so as to make an arbor in the boat, and got in and rowed himself about, whistling all the tunes he knew for his music, to his heart's content. He went alone, for he had no companion that he liked; and he would have none other. At last what should he see but his father, walking on the bank. Henry knew that his father would be very angry with him, for he was a severe man; but he determined to bear his punishment, let it be what it would, patiently; for he knew, when he went, that his father would not like it; and yet he said, in telling this story to a friend, "I was so happy, and this pleasure was so innocent, that I could not feel as sorry as I ought to feel." Henry bore his punishment like a brave boy. It was too bad for the poor fellow to have no pleasures; nothing but work all the time. This was especially hard for him, for no one loved amusement better than he. He relished a piece of fun exceedingly. In the city of Hamburg there was a place where young girls were always to be seen with flowers in their hands to sell. He had observed that the Jews, of whom he bought the pretty canes, were often rude to them, and he determined to punish some of them. There was one who wore a wig, with a long queue to it. The girls had their long hair braided and left hanging down behind. One day this man was sitting in this flower market, with his back to one of these girls, and Henry took the opportunity, and before either knew what he did, he tied the two queues together; the young girl happened not to like her seat very well, and got up rather suddenly to change it, and off she went with the Jew's wig dangling behind her, much to the amusement of the spectators, and especially of Henry, who saw and enjoyed it all highly, though pretending to be very busy selling a cane to a gentleman, who joined in the general laugh. Lucky it was for Henry that the Jew did not discover who it was that had played this roguish trick. Henry saw how difficult it was for his father to support the family, and was very earnest to get money in any honest way. One day the managers of a theatre hired him to take part in a play, where they wanted to make a crowd. He was pleased at the thought of making some money to carry home; but when he went behind the scenes, and saw all that the actors did, he ran away and left them, caring not for the money, so he could but get away from such disgusting things. Thus did Henry live, working from early morning till night, going to school with a little of the money he had earned, when his father would allow him to take it; keeping himself unstained by the wickedness that he often saw and heard in his walks through the city; observing every thing worth noticing, and making friends every where by his honesty, purity, and kind-heartedness. At this time the French were in Hamburg, provisions were dearer than ever, and Henry's father, with all the help he received from his son, could not support his family in the city. One day he called Henry, and said, "Do you think you could support your mother and younger sister and brother in some other place?" Henry replied directly, "Yes, dear father, I can; at least, I will try." So his father sent him with this part of his family to a cheaper place, about fifty miles inland. He gave him five dollars and his blessing, as they parted. Here was our friend Henry in a strange town, a small place, with no friends there, but just fifteen years old, and with his mother, and brother, and sister depending upon him for their daily bread. Henry was a brave boy; so he did not allow himself to fear. With his five dollars he secured small, cheap rooms for a week, bought some bread and milk for the family, and after a good night's sleep set out, the next morning, to obtain work. He went into the street, and after a while read upon a sign, "Furniture varnished." He went into the shop and asked for work. The man asked him if he could varnish well. Henry replied, "Yes, I can." He was very skilful, and he had varnished his canes sometimes, and he felt sure he could. "You came from Hamburg?" "Yes, sir." "Perhaps you know some new and better way than we have of varnishing?" "What method do you take?" asked Henry. The man told him. Here Henry's habit of observing was the means of his getting bread for himself and family. He had noticed a new and better way that varnishers employed in Hamburg, and though he had not tried it with his own hands, he was sure he could imitate what he had seen. He said that he knew a better way. The man engaged him for a week, and was much pleased with his work; he did not want him long, but gave him a recommendation when he parted with him. After this Henry went to the baker of whom he had bought bread for the family, and asked him for employment. The baker told him he wanted his house painted, and asked him if he could do it. "Yes," said Henry, "I can do it well, I know." The baker liked him very much, and gave him the job without any hesitation. The baker's apprentices had noticed what a good fellow Henry was, and would often give him, in addition to the loaf for the family, some nice cakes to carry home. So he was, as you see, now working among friends. Henry had never painted before; but he had observed painters at their work, and he did it well. He soon became known to all the people of the town, and made many friends. He was never idle. He made canes when he had no other work. He varnished, or painted, or did anything that he could get to do, and supported the whole family comfortably for two years. At the end of this time, his father sent to him to bring the family home to Hamburg. Henry left without a single debt, and in the place of the five dollars carried home ten to his father. I must tell you of a piece of Henry's economy and self-denial. He grew very fast, and his boots became too small for him. While he was getting every thing comfortable for others, he denied himself a pair of new boots, and used to oil the old ones every time he put them on, so as to be able to get his feet into them, and never complained of the pain. Our hero--for I am sure he was a true hero--was now seventeen. The French had left Hamburg when he returned, but it was still necessary to have a body of soldiers to protect it, and he joined a corps of young men. They made him distributer of provisions. His office was one given only to those known to be honest and worthy of confidence. The citizens began even then to show their respect for the little pedler of dust sticks and canes. We shall see what he was yet to be. Henry returned to cane-making, to which he and his father soon added work in whalebone. They were pretty successful, but, as they had very little money to purchase stock and tools, could not make a great business. It was about this time that Henry became acquainted with one who was to form the greatest happiness of his life. There was a poor girl in Hamburg who was a seamstress, and who not only supported herself but her mother by her needle. Her name was Agatha. She had a lovely face and very engaging manners; her character was still more lovely than her face; and she had only these to recommend her, for she was very poor. Henry became strongly attached to her, and she soon returned his love. Henry's father and mother did not approve of this connection because the girl was very poor; and as their son was so handsome and agreeable, had now many friends, and was very capable, they thought that he might marry the daughter of some rich man perhaps, and so get some money. But, although Henry was ready to jump from a wagon twenty feet high for a few pence, and would walk the streets of the city twelve hours a day for money, he would not so disgrace himself as to give that most precious of all things, his heart, for gold, and so he told his parents. "I shall," said he, "marry my dear Agatha, or I shall never marry any one. She is good, and gentle, and beautiful; and if I live, she shall have money enough too, for I can and will earn it for her. I shall work harder and better now than I ever did before, because I shall be working for one whom I love so dearly." Henry's parents saw that it was in vain to oppose him, that it would only drive him out of the house, and that they should thus lose him and his work too; so they gave the matter up. From this time Henry worked more industriously, if possible, than ever. He did the same for his father as before; but he contrived also to find some hours in which he might work for himself exclusively. All that he earned at these times he devoted to his new and dearest friend. He would purchase with the money he earned some pretty or comfortable thing to wear that she wished and had denied herself; or sometimes he would get some nice thing for her to eat; for she had delicate health, and but little appetite. After work was done in the shop, and the family had gone to bed, Henry used to hasten to his dear Agatha, and pass two or three happy hours with her. They both had fine voices, and many an hour they would sing together, till they would forget the weariness of the day, and the fact that they had nothing but their love for each other to bless themselves with in this world. They worked harder, they denied themselves more than ever, they were more careful to be wise and good for the sake of each other; and so their love made them better as well as happier. At last, when Henry was nineteen, his parents consented to his marrying and bringing his wife home to their house. As there was no money to spare, they could only have a very quiet wedding. They were married with-out any parade or expense, and never were two excellent beings happier than they. The young wife made herself very useful in her husband's family. She worked very hard,--her husband thought harder than she ought to work,--and he was anxious to be independent, and have a house of his own, where he could take more care of her, and prevent her injuring herself by labor. There was some money due his father in Bremen; and, after living at home a year or so, Henry took his wife with him, and went there to collect the money. There they lived two years, and there they suffered severely. They were very poor, and they met with misfortunes. At last Henry's wife and their two children took the small-pox; but they all lived and got well, and their love for each other was only made more perfect by suffering; for they learned patience and fortitude, and were confirmed in what they both before believed, that they could bear any trouble if they could share it together. At the end of the two years, they returned to Hamburg. During their absence, Henry's mother had died, and his father had married a woman who had a little property. Henry now felt no longer anxious about his family, and set up for himself in the cane and whalebone business. He took a small house, just big enough for his family, and they invited his wife's sister to live with them and assist in the work. Henry was very desirous of setting up a cane and whalebone factory, and doing business upon a larger scale, but had not the means to obtain suitable machinery. He wanted a large boiler, but it was too expensive, and he knew not what to do. Here his excellent character was the cause of his success. A gentleman who had known him from the time when he used to carry about dust sticks to sell came forward and offered him a large boiler, and told him that he might pay for it whenever he could conveniently. Henry accepted the kind offer, and commenced business directly. His old customers all came to him, and in a short time he was able to hire a man to help him. It was not long before he wanted another, and then another man. Every thing prospered with him. He made money fast. His business grew larger constantly. He did all sorts of work in whalebone and cane; now he added ivory, umbrella sticks, keys for pianos, canes, and whip handles, and made all sorts of things in which these materials are used. Henry was so well acquainted with his business, so industrious and faithful, was known to be so honest and just in his dealings, and was so kind in his treatment of his workmen, that all who wanted what he could supply went to him, and his success was very great. He grew rich. It was not a great while before he was able to build a large factory in the neighborhood of the city. The little pedler of dust sticks was now one of the richest men in Hamburg. He had four hundred men in his employ, had a large house in town, and another in the country. He was thus able to indulge his love for nature. After a hard day's work, he could come home and enjoy the beautiful sunset, and look at the moon and stars in the evening, and hear the nightingale sing, and join with his Agatha in the song of praise to the Giver of all good things. Henry did not, because he was rich, lead a lazy and selfish life. He still worked with his own hands, and thus taught his workmen himself, and made their work more easy and agreeable by his presence as well as by his instructions. He was continually making improvements in his business, inventing new things, and so keeping up his reputation. He exported large quantities of the articles made in his factory. Every year his business grew larger, and he gained still higher reputation. Henry's fellow-citizens offered him some of the highest offices of honor and profit which the city had to bestow; but he refused them. The only ones he accepted were those that gave no pay. He was one of the overseers of the poor, and was always one of the first to aid, in any way he could, plans for the benefit of his suffering fellow-beings. He gave money himself generously, but was very anxious not to have his charities made public. He was one of the directors of the first railroad from Hamburg. He engaged all his workmen with reference to their character as well as their capacity, and no one of them ever left him. He was their best benefactor and friend. So lived this excellent man, as happy as he was good and useful, for sixteen years with his dear wife; they had seven living children; but, as I before told you, she had very delicate health, and it was the will of God that these two loving hearts should be separated in this world, as we hope, to meet in heaven to part no more. After sixteen years of perfect love and joy, he parted with his dear Agatha. Henry bore his sorrow meekly and patiently. He did not speak, he could not weep; but life was never again the same thing to him; he never parted for a moment with the memory of his loving and dearly-beloved wife. He was then only thirty-five years old, but he never married again; and when urged to take another wife, he always replied, "I cannot marry again." He felt that he was married forever to his dear Agatha. I must relate to you some of the beautiful things Henry's daughter told me about her mother. Agatha had such a refined and beautiful taste and manner that though, from her parents' poverty, she had not had the benefit of an education, yet it was a common saying of the many who knew her, that she would have graced a court. She never said or did any thing that was not delicate and beautiful. Her dress, even when they were very poor, had never a hole nor a spot. She never allowed any rude or vulgar thing to be said in her presence without expressing her displeasure. She was one of nature's nobility. She lived and moved in beauty as well as in goodness. When she found she was dying, she asked her husband to leave the room, and then asked a friend who was with her to pray silently, for she would not distress her husband; and so she passed away without a groan, calmly and sweetly, before he returned. An immense procession of the people followed her to the grave, to express their admiration of her character and their sorrow for her early death. There were in Hamburg, at that time, two large churches, afterwards burned down at the great fire, which had chimes of bells in their towers. These bells played their solemn tones only when some person lamented by the whole city died. These bells were rung at the funeral of Agatha. Henry, ever after his separation from her, would go, at the anniversary of her birth and death, and take all his children and grand-children with him to her grave. They carried wreaths and bouquets of flowers, and laid them there; and he would sit down with them and relate some anecdote about their mother. It is a custom with the people of Germany to strew flowers on the graves of their friends. The burying ground was not far from the street, and often unfeeling boys would steal these sacred flowers; but not one was ever stolen from the grave of Agatha. The sister of whom we have before spoken, whom we will call also by her Christian name, Catharine, loved her sister with the most devoted love, and when Agatha was dying, promised her that she would be a mother to her children, and never leave them till they were able to take care of themselves. She kept her word. She refused many offers of marriage, which she might have been disposed to accept, and was a true mother to her sister's children, till they were all either married or old enough not to want her care. Then, at the age of fifty, aunt Catharine married a widower, who had three children, who wanted her care. From the time Henry lost his dear wife, he devoted himself not only more than ever to his children, but also to the good of his workmen. He sought in duty, in good works, for strength to bear his heavy sorrow; so that death might not divide him from her he loved, but that he might be fitting himself for an eternal union with her in heaven. Henry never forgot that he had been obliged to work hard for a living himself, and he also remembered what had been his greatest trials in his days of poverty. He determined to save his workmen from these sufferings as much as possible. He recollected and still felt the evils of a want of education. He could never forget how with longing eyes he had used to look at books, and what a joy it had been to him to go to school; and he resolved that his children should be well instructed. The garden of knowledge, that was so tempting to him, and that he was not allowed to enter, he resolved should be open to them. He gave them the best instructors he could find, and took care that they should be taught every thing that would be useful to them--the modern languages, music, drawing, history, &c. Henry had found the blessing of being able to labor skilfully with his hands; so he insisted that all his children should learn how to work with their own hands. "My daughters," he said, "in order to be good housewives, must know how every thing ought to be done, and be able to do it. If they are poor, this will save them from much misery, and secure them comfort and respectability." He insisted that those of his sons who engaged in his business should work with the workmen, wear the same dress, and do just as they did; so that the boys might be independent of circumstances, and have the security of a good living, come what would. Thus every one of his children had the advantages which belong to poverty as well as those of riches. Their father said to them, that if they knew what work was, they would know what to require of those who labored for them; that they would have more feeling for laborers, and more respect for them. Henry was truly the friend of his workmen. He gave them time enough to go to school. He encouraged temperance; he had a weak kind of beer, made of herbs, for them to drink, so that they might not desire spirit. He gave them, once a year, a handsome dinner, at which he presided himself. He encouraged them to read, and helped them to obtain books. He had a singing master, and took care that every one who had a voice should be taught to sing. He bought a pianoforte for them, and had it put in a room in the factory, where any one, who had time, and wished to play, could go and play upon it; and he gave them a music teacher. He did every thing he could to make their life beautiful and happy. He induced them to save a small sum every week from their wages, as a fund to be used when any one died, or was sick, or was married, or wanted particular aid beyond what his wages afforded. Henry's factory was the abode of industry, temperance, and cheerfulness. The workmen all loved him like a brother. It was his great object to show them that labor was an honorable thing, and to make laborers as happy as he thought they ought to be. Henry was much interested in all that related to the United States of America; and he was very angry at our slavery. He felt that slavery brought labor into discredit, and his heart ached for the poor slaves, who are cut off from all knowledge, all improvement. Nothing excited in him such a deep indignation, nothing awaked such abhorrence in his heart, as the thought of a man's receiving the services of another without making adequate compensation; or the idea of any man exercising tyranny over his brother man. Henry's workmen were the happiest and best in Hamburg. They loved their employer with their whole hearts; there was nothing they would not do for him. When his factory had been established twenty-five years, the workmen determined to have a jubilee on the occasion, and to hold it on his birthday. They kept their intention a secret from him till the day arrived; but they were obliged to tell his children, who, they knew, would wish to make arrangements for receiving them in such a way as their father would approve of, if he knew of it. It was summer time; and on Henry's birthday, at seven o'clock in the morning, (for they knew their friend was an early riser,) a strain of grand and beautiful music broke the stillness of the early hour, and a long procession of five hundred men was seen to wind around the house. The musicians, playing upon their fine wind instruments, and dressed very gayly, came first. Then came those of his workmen who had been with him twenty-five years; then his clerks and book-keepers; then followed his other workmen, and then all the boys who were employed in his factory. All wore black coats, with a green bow pinned on the breast. They drew up in a circle on the lawn before his house; and five old men, who had been with him for twenty-five years, stood in the centre, holding something which was wrapped up in the Hamburg flag. Now all the musical instruments played a solemn, religious hymn. Immediately after, the five hundred voices joined in singing it. Never did a truer music rise to heaven than this; it was the music of grateful, happy hearts. When the hymn was sung, the book-keeper came forward and made an address to his master, in the name of them all. In this address they told Henry how happy he had made them; how much good he had done them; how sensible they were of his kindness to them, and how full of gratitude their hearts were towards him. They expressed the hope that they should live with him all their lives. Now the old men advanced, and uncovered what they bore in their hands. It was a fine portrait of their benefactor, in a splendid frame. The picture was surrounded on the margin by fine drawings, arranged in a tasteful manner, of all the various articles which were made in his factory, views of his warehouses in Hamburg, of the factory in which they worked, of his house in town, of the one in the country where they then were, and of the old exchange, where he used to stand when he sold canes and dust sticks. Then the old men presented to him the picture, saying only a few words of respectful affection. The good man shed tears. He could not speak at first. At last he said, that this was the first time in his life that he regretted that he could not speak in public; that if he had ever done any thing for them, that day more than repaid him for all. They then gave him three cheers. They now sang a German national tune, to words which had been written for the occasion. The children, who, as I told you, knew what was to happen, had prepared a breakfast for these five hundred of their father's friends. All the tables were spread in the garden behind the house, and Henry desired that all the store rooms should be opened, and that nothing should be spared. After an excellent breakfast, at which the children of the good man waited, the procession marched around to the fine music; and the workmen, having enjoyed themselves all the morning to their hearts' content, went to partake of a dinner which the family had provided for them in a large farm house. Here they sang, and laughed, and told stories till about eight o'clock in the evening, when they returned by railway to Hamburg, in a special train which the railroad directors ordered, free of expense, out of respect for Henry. The railroad was behind Henry's house, and as the workmen passed, they waved their hats and cheered him and the family till they were out of hearing. The picture I had so much admired was a copy of this very picture which the workmen had presented. The original was hung up in Henry's drawing room, as his most valuable possession. No wonder his daughter felt proud of that picture, and loved to show her copy of it to her friends. Near it hung a likeness of his dear Agatha. She was very beautiful. It was a pleasant thing to hear the daughter talk of her father and mother. Thus did Henry live a useful, honorable, and happy life--the natural result of his industry, perseverance, uprightness, and true benevolence. Like Ben Adhem, he had shown his love to God by his love to man. One of Henry's sons had come to this country, to set up a cane and whalebone factory in New York. The father had aided him as far as he thought best, but urged him to depend as far as possible upon his own industry and ability. This son followed his father's example, and was very successful; but was obliged, on account of the bad effects of our climate upon his health, to return to his native land. The father, who was anxious to visit the United States, and wished much to see his daughter again, who was particularly dear to him, determined to come, for a while, in his son's place. Henry thought also that his health, which began to fail, might be benefited by a sea voyage. One reason why he wished much to visit America was, that he might see, with his own eyes, the position of the laboring classes in the Free States. Of the Slave States he never could think with patience. His daughter told me that the only time when she had seen her father lose his self-command, was when a gentleman, just returned from the West Indies, had defended slavery, and had said that the negroes were only fit to be slaves. Henry's anger was irrepressible, and, although it was at his own table, and he was remarkable for his hospitality and politeness, he could not help showing his indignation. Nothing could exceed his delight at what he saw in this part of our country. The appearance every where of prosperity and comfort; the cheerful look of our mechanics and laborers; their activity; the freedom and joyousness of their manners,--all spoke to him of a free, prosperous, and happy people. He was only, for any long time, in New York, where his son's factory was, and in Massachusetts, where his daughter lived. Unhappily his health did not improve. On the contrary, it failed almost daily. Still he enjoyed himself much. While in this part of the country, he took many drives around the environs of Boston with his daughter, and expressed the greatest delight at the aspect of the country, particularly at the appearance of the houses of the farmers and mechanics. He found, when in the city of New York, that attention to business was too much for his strength; so he resolved to travel. "Nature," he said, "will cure me; I will go to Niagara." He brought with him, as a companion and nurse, his youngest son, a lad of fifteen years of age. The boy went every where with him. When they arrived at Niagara, Henry would not go to the Falls with any other visitors; he only allowed his son to accompany him. When he first saw this glorious wonder of our western world, he fell on his knees and wept; he could not contain his emotion. He was a true worshipper of Nature, and he courted her healing influences; but he only found still greater peace and health of mind; his bodily health did not return. His daughter, who, like all Germans, held a festival every Christmas, wrote to urge him to pass his Christmas with her at her Massachusetts home; he was then in New York. He replied that he was too ill to bear the journey at that season. The pleasure of the thought of her Christmas evening was gone; but she determined to make it as pleasant as she could to her husband and children, though her thoughts and her heart were with her sick father. In the morning, however, a telegraphic message arrived from her father, saying he would be with them at eight o'clock in the evening. With the Germans, the whole family make presents to each other, no matter how trifling; but some little present every one receives. Henry's little granddaughter was dressed in a style as fairy-like as possible, and presented her grandfather with a basket of such fruits as the season would allow of, as the most appropriate present for a lover of Nature. A very happy evening the good man had with his children. He was forced to return to New York. It was not many months after that his daughter heard that he was very ill at Oyster Bay, where he had gone to a water cure establishment. She went immediately to him, and remained with him, nursing him, and reading to him, till he was better, though not well. During this period, when he was able to bear the fatigue, his daughter drove him in a gig round the neighboring country; and she told me that such was his interest in the laborers, that he would never pass one without stopping, and asking him questions about his mode of working, &c. He could not speak English; but she was the interpreter. At last he insisted upon his daughter's returning to her family. There was something so solemn, so repressed, in his manner, when he took leave of her, that she was afterwards convinced that he knew he should never see her again; but he said not a word of the kind. His health grew worse; his strength failed daily; and he determined to return to Germany, so as to die in his native land. He wrote to his daughter, to ask her, as a proof of her love for him, not to come to say farewell. She was ill at the time, and submitted with a sad and aching heart. She had seen her dear, excellent father for the last time. He lived to arrive in Hamburg. His workmen, when they heard of his arrival, went to the vessel, and bore him in their arms to his country house, where he died eight days afterwards. He showed his strong and deep love of nature in these his last hours; for when he was so weak as to be apparently unconscious of the presence of those he loved, he begged to be carried into his garden, that he might hear the birds sing, and look upon his flowers once more. When he knew he was breathing his last, he said to his children who were standing around his bed, "Be useful, and love one another." His death was considered a public calamity in Hamburg. His workmen felt that they had lost their benefactor and brother. His children knew that life could never give them another such friend. His body was placed in the great hall, in his country house, and surrounded by orange trees in full bloom. Flowers he loved to the very last; and flowers shed their perfume over the mortal garment of his great and beautiful soul. One after another, his workmen and his other friends came and looked at his sweet and noble countenance, and took a last farewell. In Germany, when a distinguished man dies, he is carried to the grave on an elevated hearse decorated with black feathers and all the trappings of woe; but Henry's workmen insisted upon carrying their benefactor and friend to his last home in their arms. Their sorrowing hearts were the truest mourning, the only pomp and circumstance worthy of the occasion; and their streaming eyes were the modest and unobtrusive, but most deeply affecting, pageant of that day. All the inhabitants followed him, with mourning in their hearts. Remembering Henry's love for flowers, his fellow-citizens made arches of flowers in three places for his mortal remains to pass under, as the most appropriate testimonial of their love. The public officers all followed him to the grave, and the military paid him appropriate honors. Three different addresses were delivered over his body by distinguished speakers, and then hundreds and hundreds of voices joined in singing a hymn to his praise written by a friend. Henry made such an arrangement of his business, and left such directions about it, as to make sure that his workmen should, if they wished it, have employment in his factory for ten years to come. He divided his property equally amongst his children, and bequeathed to them all his charities, which were not few, saying that he knew that his children would do as he had done, and that these duties would be sacred with them. Such a life needs no comment. Its eloquence, its immortal power, is its truth, its reality. Among the many beautiful things that were written in honor of Henry, I have translated these as peculiarly simple and just. "ON THE GRAVE OF THE GOOD, GREAT MAN." "Henry--, a MAN in the best sense of the term, strong in body and soul, with a heart full of the noblest purposes, which he carried out into action, without show and with a child-like mind." "To the great Giver of all things thankful for the smallest gift. To his family a devoted father. To his friends a faithful friend. To the state a useful citizen. To the poor a benefactor. To the dying a worthy example." "Why was this power broken in the prime of life? Why were the wings of this diligent spirit clipped? Why were stopped the beatings of this heart, which beat for all created things? Sad questions, which can only find an answer in the assurance that all which God wills for us is good." "Peace be with thee, friend and brother! We can never forget thee." Around their father's grave the children stand, And mourning friends are shedding bitter tears; With sorrowing faces men are standing here, Whose tender love did bear him in their arms In sickness once, and now once more in death, Him who protector, friend, and helper was; And many eyes whose tears he wiped away, Are weeping at his narrow house to-day. When the frail vestments of the soul Are hidden in the tomb, what then remains to man? The memory of his deeds is ours. O sacred death, then, like the flowers of spring, Many good deeds are brought to light. Blessed and full of love, good children And true friends stand at his grave, And there with truth loudly declare, "A noble soul has gone to heaven; Rich seed has borne celestial fruit; His whole day's work now in God is done." Thus speak we now over thy grave, Our friend, now glorified and living in our hearts. A lasting monument thou thyself hast built In every heart which thy great worth has known. Yes, more than marble or than brass, our love Shall honor thee, who dwellest in our hearts. These tears, which pure love consecrates to thee, Thou noble man, whom God has called away From work which He himself has blessed,-- These grateful tears shall fall upon the tomb That hides the earthly garment of our friend. O, let us ne'er forget the firm and earnest mind Which bore him swiftly onward in his course; How from a slender twig he built a bridge O'er which he safely hastened to the work Which youthful hope and courage planned. Think how the circle of his love embraced His children and his children's children, all, His highest joy their happiness and good. Think how he labored for the good of all, Supporter, benefactor, faithful friend! How with his wise and powerful mind He served and blessed his native place! His works remain to speak his praise. How did his generous, noble spirit glow With joy at all the good and beautiful Which time and human skill brought forth! He ever did the standard gladly gain Which light, and truth, and justice raised; And when his noble efforts seemed to fail, Found ever in his pure and quiet breast a sweet repose. We give to-day thy dust to dust. Thy spirit, thy true being, is with us. Thou art not dead; thou art already risen. Loved friend, thou livest, and thou watchest o'er us still. Be dry our tears; be hushed our sighs; Victor o'er death, our friend still lives; Takes his reward from the Great Master's band. Deep night has passed away. On him Eternal morning breaks. He, From the dark chamber of the grave, Goes to the light of the All-holy One. Weep, weep no more! Look up with hope on high! There does he dwell. He liveth too on earth. The Master who has called him hence to higher work, To-morrow will call us--perhaps to-day. Then shall we see him once again. He, who went home From earth in weakness and in pain, Is risen there in everlasting joy and strength. Till then we here resolve to live like him, That we, like him, may die religious, true, and free. When any little boy reads this true story of a good, great man, I would have him remember that Henry began to be a good, great man when only eight years old. Henry began by being industrious, patient, and good humored, so that people liked to buy his sticks. Then he was faithful and true to his father, and would not leave him, not even for the sake of gaining some advantages. Henry used all his faculties, and, by making his pretty canes, he got money, not to buy sugar plums, but to pay for instruction. When he did wrong, he took his punishment cheerfully, and did not commit the same fault again. All the virtues which finally made him a good, great man he began to practise when he was only eight years of age, when he was really a little boy. I would have every little boy and girl who reads this story try to imitate him. If he is poor, let him learn to do something useful, so to earn money that may help his father and mother, and perhaps be the means of giving him a better education. If he is rich, let him seek to get knowledge, and let him remember those who have not as much as he has, like little Eva, who taught Uncle Tom. Let him remember that the selfish and the lazy cannot be truly happy; that selfishness is its own punishment in the end; that no children and no men are truly happy or truly good who do not obey the words of the noble-minded Henry on his death-bed-- "Be useful, and love one another" THE MIGHTY DEEDS OF ABC. A LETTER TO A LITTLE BOY FROM HIS AUNT. MY DEAR FRANK: I was much pleased with your writing me a letter. If you were to take a piece of paper, and do up some sugar plums in it, and send it to me, I should eat up the sugar plums, and then there would be nothing left but the piece of white paper; but if you take a piece of paper, and mark on it with a pen some crooked and some straight, some round and some long strokes, they tell me, though they make no noise, that you love me, and they seem just like little messengers from you to me, all with something to tell me of my dear little Frank. Besides, after these messengers have spoken once, there they stand ready to speak again as soon as I only look at them, and tell me the same pleasant story the second time that they did the first. If I were to put them away in a safe place for forty years, and then look at them, when you were beginning to be an old man, these crooked scratches of your pen would still talk to me of little Frank, as he was when I held him in my lap, and we used to laugh, and talk, and tell stories together. Think, then, my dear Frank, how much better it is to be able to fill a letter with these curious strokes to send to a friend than to have bushels of sugar plums to send him. Did you ever think what curious things these little letters are? You know the great Bible that you love to look at so much, and to hear father read from. All the wonderful things related in it are told by twenty-six little letters. It is they that tell you of the creation of the world, of the beautiful garden called Eden in which Adam and Eve lived; they tell you the sad story of their disobedience to God, and of their being turned out of paradise. Then they tell you all about the Israelites, or Jews, as we call them. In the same book, these twenty-six letters place themselves a little differently, and tell you the story of Joseph and his brethren that you were so much pleased with when your father read it to you, and that of David and Goliath, that you like so much. Then these same wonderful story tellers relate to you the beautiful history of Daniel; of that courageous, good man who chose rather to be torn to pieces by wild beasts than not to pray every day to God, and thank Him for His goodness; and how God preserved him in the lion's den. The wonderful story of Elijah they also tell you, and many others. But last and most interesting and wonderful of all, my dear little Frank, is the story of Jesus Christ and his friends called the apostles. These little letters have never told such a beautiful and affecting story as they tell you of that pure and spotless Being who was sent by God to teach us our duty, and to show us the way to be happy forever. No being ever existed on this earth who showed so much love and tenderness, so much goodness and humility, so much wisdom and power as did Jesus Christ. There, in that best of books, stand these little messengers, as I call them, still speaking the very words of the blessed Saviour; ready to comfort the poor and sorrowful; to teach patience and hope to the sick; to instruct the ignorant; to reprove the wicked; and inviting little children to come to his arms and receive his blessing. Do you not want to know all that they can tell you of this great and good Being? I could write you, my dear Frank, a letter so long that I fear you would be tired of reading it, about these same wonderful little figures; but now I dare say that you will think more of them yourself, and that the little book with the corners rolled up which contains your ABC will be more respectable in your sight. Perhaps you will, after thinking some time, ask who invented these wonderful letters; and then, if you do really want to know, your father will tell you all that is known about it, or, at least, all that you can remember and understand. When you are old enough to read about the history of letters, you will find books which will make you laugh by telling you that there was a time when, if you wanted to write "a man," you would have been obliged to draw the picture of a man; and, as there was then no paper like ours, you would have been obliged to take a piece of wood or bark to make the drawing on; and so the same with every thing else. So you see, if you and I had lived at that time, and you had written to me about your dog, your pleasant ride and the other things that were in your letter, you would perhaps have been obliged to get a man to bring me the letter, it would have been so clumsy, instead of bringing it yourself, folded neatly in your nice little pocket book; and as for my letter, only think how much room it would have taken up. You will say, "Why, aunt, letters are not only better than sugar plums, they are better than dollars." Indeed they are, my dear Frank. The knowledge that they can give, the blessing they can bestow, is better and more valuable than all the silver and gold in the whole world; for they can teach us what is wisdom and happiness; they can teach us the will of God. I love to think, too, of what pleasant messages they can carry backwards and forwards between friends, and that in a few hours these curious, handy little things will appear before you, my dear little Frank, and tell you what I have just been thinking about, and that I always love you, and am ever Your affectionate AUNT. WHAT DAY IS IT? It is so still that, although it is midday, one can hear the sound of the soft spring shower as it falls on the young and tender leaves. The crowing of the cock pierces the ear with his shrill note, as in the silent watches of the night. The song of the wren is so undisturbed, it is so full, and is heard so distinctly that it only reminds one, with its sweet music, how unusual is the silence; it does indeed seem but the "echo of tranquillity." There are many people in the streets, but they have a different appearance from usual; they are all dressed in their holiday garments; they look happy, but they are very calm and serious. The gentle shower does not seem to disturb them; it only affords an opportunity for reciprocal kindness. I see a venerable-looking old lady who from infirmity is obliged to walk very slowly. She is supported by a bright, rosy-cheeked girl who holds up the umbrella, and keeps back her light and joyous step to the slow time of her aged companion. An elegant-looking woman is leading, with great care and tenderness, a little girl through the mud. The lady puts her umbrella so low that the rain is kept from the child, but it falls upon her own gay clothes. The little girl must be that lady's daughter. But see! they stop at the door of yonder miserable-looking house. The lady cannot live there, surely. She gives the child a little book. The little girl enters alone. I see her now in the house. She is the daughter of the poor, sick woman who lives there. There is a trembling old man tottering along: he looks a little like Tipsy David, as the boys call him; but he has on a clean and respectable suit of black, and a weed on his hat; he is quite sober, but it is David; and one of the very boys that have laughed at and abused him when intoxicated, now respectfully offers him an umbrella. A fashionable young man is gallanting a lady with the greatest care and most delicate respect; she must be his sister, or the lady he is engaged to marry, he is so careful to shelter her from every drop of rain. No, I see her enter her door; it is my good neighbor, Miss--; she is one of the excellent of the earth, but she is poor, old and forsaken by all but the few who seek for those whom others forget. She has no beauty, no celebrity; there is no eclat in noticing her; there are those who will even laugh at him for his attention to her. Stranger than all, there are two men, violent opponents in religion and politics, walking arm in arm with each other. The Calvinist extends to him whom he considers his erring brother a kindness as if to a dear friend; for the Universalist is sick, and the Calvinist tries to protect him from the shower while exposing himself; see, he takes off his own cloak and puts it on him. What does all this mean? Whence is this holy stillness? What day is it? It is the Lord's day! All these people are returning from the house of prayer. It is this thought that makes the laughing girl restrain her gayety, and teach her steps to keep time with her infirm old friend. The sinful old man abstains from his vicious habit out of reverence for this holy day; he has lost his son too; and sorrow and the weight of an evil conscience have driven him to the mercy seat; and they who despised his drunkenness respect his misery. The lady who led the little child so tenderly to its poor mother's door is a teacher in the Sunday school; the book she gave tells of the wisdom and goodness of God; she has awakened in her little pupil's soul that princi-pie which shall never die, and taught her to be a messenger of peace and joy to her poor, sick mother. It is the influence of this blessed day that makes the usually frivolous and thoughtless prefer a work of charity to the gratification of vanity. It is the Sabbath day, with its calm and elevated duties and holy repose, that subdues animosity, lays the restless spirit of vanity, checks habitual vice, and awakens all the charities and sweet courtesies of life. This is the true rest of the Sabbath; the rest from vanity, from contention, from sin. This is the true preaching, the practice of Christian duties, the performance of works of love, the exercise of the holiest affections of our nature. This is the true service of God; doing good to His human family. This is the true knowledge of Him, "that we love one another." Doubtless the instructions from the pulpit do, in many instances, enlighten the ignorant, quicken the languid and the cold-hearted, and alarm or persuade the sinful and the erring; and, on this account alone, the day is a great good, and should be welcomed. However, were any one doubtful of the blessing that attends it, I would not reason with him, but I would, if it were possible, lead him, when he knew not what day it was, where he could witness, as I have, such a scene as I have just described; and when he exclaimed, "What does it all mean? What day is it?" I would simply answer, "It is the Sabbath day." THE CHILD AT HER MOTHER'S GRAVE. [TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.] In that little room of thine Sweet sleep has come to thee. Ah, mother! dearest mother mine! O, call me to that room of thine; O, shut it not from me. I would so gladly be with thee, And be thy child again. 'Tis cold and stormy here with me. Tis warm, and O, so still with thee. O, let me, let me in. Thou took'st me gladly once with thee, So gladly held'st my hand! O, see! thou hast forsaken me. Take me, this time, again with thee Into the heavenly land. EVENING PRAYER. Thou, from whom we never part; Thou, whose love is every where; Thou, who seest every heart, Listen to our evening prayer. Father, fill our souls with love; Love unfailing, full, and free; Love no injury can move; Love that ever rests on thee. Heavenly Father, through the night Keep us safe from every ill. Cheerful as the morning light, May we wake to do thy will. THE SABBATH IS HERE. [FROM KRUMACHER.] The Sabbath is here. It is sent us from Heaven. Rest, rest, toilsome life. Be silent all strife. Let us stop on our way, And give thanks, and pray To Him who all things has given. The Sabbath is here. To the fields let us go. How fresh and how fair, In the still morning air, The bright golden grain Waves over the plain! It is God who doth all this bestow. The Sabbath is here. On this blessed morn, No tired ox moans, No creaking wheel groans. At rest is the plough. No noise is heard now, Save the sound of the rustling corn. The Sabbath is here. Our seed we have sown, In hope and in faith. The Father He saith Amen! Be it so! Behold the corn grow! Rejoicing his goodness we'll own. The Sabbath is here. His love we will sing, Who sendeth the rain Upon the young grain. Full soon all around The sickle will sound, And home the bright sheaves we will bring The Sabbath is here. In hope and in love, We sow in the dust, While humbly we trust, Up yonder, shall grow The seed which we sow, And bloom a bright garland above. TO A BUTTERFLY. [FREE TRANSLATION FROM HERDER.] Airy, lovely, heavenly thing! Butterfly with quivering wing! Hovering, in thy transient hour, Over every bush and flower, Feasting upon flowers and dew, Thyself a brilliant blossom too. Who, with rosy fingers fine, Purpled o'er those wings of thine? Was it some sylph whose tender care Spangled thy robes so fine and fair, And wove them of the morning air? I feel thy little throbbing heart. Thou fear'st, e'en now, death's bitter smart Fly little spirit, fly away! Be free and joyful, thy short day! Image, thou dost seem to me, Of that which I may, one day, be, When I shall drop this robe of earth, And wake into a spirit's birth. 
35773	----	VIOLET: A FAIRY STORY. BOSTON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY. 1856. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the Year 1855, by PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. STEREOTYPED AT THE BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY. PUBLISHERS' ADVERTISEMENT. In the absence of any preface by the author, the publishers desire to call special attention to this most exquisite little story. It breathes such a love of Nature in all her forms, inculcates such excellent principles, and is so full of beauty and simplicity, that it will delight not only children, but all readers of unsophisticated tastes. The author seems to teach the gentle creed which Coleridge has imbodied in those familiar lines,-- "He prayeth well who loveth well Both man, and bird, and beast." VIOLET: A FAIRY STORY. CHAPTER I. VIOLET'S HOME. Once there was a gardener who lived in an old hut of a house, with one table inside, and some rough stools, and a large box that served for a bed, all of which he had made himself. There was one window; but when it stormed the rain beat in so that the old lady, his wife, had to pin her shawl against it, and then the whole house was dark as night. Every body thought these people poor except themselves; but they had one treasure which seemed to them better than a whole mountain of gold and all the splendid houses and gay carriages in the world. This was their little daughter Violet, whose presence in their home made it beautiful and stately, and whose absence, they thought, would have made a palace dull. Violet was not as beautiful as some children. She was pale and slender, and her soft, light hair did not curl in ringlets, but floated over her shoulders like a golden veil. But O, she had such beautiful eyes! They were large, and so bright and clear, and such a deep, deep blue! Sometimes they made you think of a brook in the shady wood when gleams of sunshine have found their way to it; sometimes they were like nothing so much as the violets that grew beside the doorway of her own father's hut. The old man had, besides his daughter, a garden, which was dear to him; and well it might be, for in summer it did one's eyes good to look at the blossoms all tangled together, and sprinkled over with great drops of pearly dew. Roses there were, and lilies, and fox-gloves, and mignonette, and a great many other flowers that had long names, which Violet could not remember. Then there were long, neatly-kept beds of vegetables and sweet herbs, which Reuben--for that was the gardener's name--carried to market. Now, while Reuben was digging his vegetables, his wife and Violet would gather the prettiest flowers and buds, and tie them into bouquets with so much taste that soon the old gardener became famous for his flowers, and many rich people sought him out, promising to buy all he would bring to their houses. Flowers only grow in summer time; and all the year round people must eat, and drink, and wear clothes; and then Reuben had to pay rent for his garden; so, notwithstanding their industry, Violet's friends were poor. But they were happier than a great many rich people, and certainly loved Violet as well as though she had been a queen. They were so kind to her that sometimes the little girl thought, if there were such beings as fairies, they must look into her heart every day, find out her wishes, and tell them to her good parents. Between you and me, there _were_ two fairies--one named Love and the other Contentment--that lived all the time in Reuben's hut; and though Violet had never seen their faces, and did not even know their names, they were always doing something for her. It was because these excellent friends had touched her coarse garments that they looked fine and soft as velvet to her eyes; it was because they never left the old black hut that it looked so clean and sunny--cheerful as a palace. You may wonder, if these fairies were so powerful, why they didn't have a palace of their own; but you must remember directly they enter a place it becomes a palace; and besides, Violet possessed a charm so powerful that even the fairies could not fly away unless she gave them leave; and yet--wasn't it queer?--she did not know this herself. CHAPTER II. STRANGE PLAYFELLOWS. Violet's birthday was very near; but she had forgotten all about it, birthdays came so far apart in her happy life. From morning until evening seemed long enough for a year to her; she found so much work to do, and such beautiful walks to take, and had so many playfellows, to say nothing of the two good fairies that always watched over and followed her. Perhaps you wonder how the little girl found friends, living as she did away out in a lonesome field among the mountains. She could have described her pets to you better than I can, because the fairy Love dressed them up for her in jewels and rainbows, while to others they were only toads, and snakes, and flies, and trees, and brooks, and clouds. Funny playfellows, you will think. There was one good thing about them--they never quarrelled or used bad words; and then it was sport for Violet, after her work was finished, to scamper away with them. But if she ran ever so fast, the fairy Love always kept up with her; and it is well she did; for if she had staid at home, or fallen into a pit on the way, all Violet's dear playfellows would have changed in an instant--have grown ugly and coarse, and, what is worse, she would have trodden on them and crushed their wings--by mistake, I hope, for she never had been so wicked; and Violet herself would have changed into a little peevish girl, with a sickly face and loose yellow hair, and wearing a dress so coarse and rough you would not give it to a beggar child. But Violet kept the charm locked safe in her heart, and therefore, wander wherever she would, the fairies had to follow. They were up with her early in summer mornings, for she loved dearly to watch the sun rise. She would climb a hill, at the foot of which Reuben's hut was built, and all alone up there, close, she thought, to the soft, rosy sky, would wait and watch, and at last clap her little hands for joy when the great golden sun came in sight above the woods. She would stand on tiptoe, and laugh aloud when she saw the shadows fly away, like frightened birds, before the sunshine, which flooded all the valley now, and which lay upon the beautiful wreaths of mist that went curling up to meet it from the ponds and brooks, brightening them to dazzling whiteness--so like the clouds in heaven that Violet half believed the earth about her was beautiful as that far-off blue sky. So it would be if every little girl and boy kept two good fairies, like Love and Contentment, flying about with them. How the grass glittered with dew! how the slender wild flowers were bowed down with its weight!--pearl and diamond beads strung all along the stems, and edging every petal. Children who keep in bed until eight o'clock know very little about the beauty of summer mornings. Perhaps, even if they did arise in time, they would be afraid of wetting their shoes in the grass; but Violet was very poor, you know, and never wore a shoe in her life, and lived out of doors so much that she was not in the least delicate. As soon as the sunshine had crept near their nests among the green boughs of the wood, all the wild birds began to flutter about and sing such loud, clear, sweet songs that Violet could not help joining the chorus; and any one else would have known that fairies Love and Contentment were singing loudest of all. Violet heard their music, but supposed it came from the birds. How she wanted to fly away with them, up among the beautiful rosy clouds! but Love whispered in her ear,-- "Won't your mother want you, little girl, at home? Cannot you help her there?" and just then a bird fluttered away from a dew-wet bough, dashing a whole shower of drops in Violet's face. Instead of being angry, she laughed, and shouted,-- "Do it again, bird. If I can't fly away with you, you may wash my face before you go. Do it again." But the bird was soon out of sight among the clouds, and Violet, with these pearly dewdrops clustering in her golden hair, went dancing down the hill. CHAPTER III. THE MOUNTAIN BROOK. Close beside the pathway ran a little murmuring brook, foaming and sparkling over its rocky bed, gliding just as merrily through the dark shadows as when its course lay open to the sun. It seemed as if fairy Contentment must have bathed in it, or planted some of the flowers along its brink; never was there a merrier little stream. "I know what you're singing about," said Violet; "I know, Mr. Brook; you're trying to make me think you can run down the hill faster than any one else. Let us see;" and away she flew, and away the brook went after her, and by her side flew the fairies, and over her head the birds--all singing, "Success to Violet!" while the leaves "clapped their little hands" in favor of their friend the brook, and the young birds looked over the edge of their nests to find out what in the world this stir could be about. Nobody ever knew which won the race. Up in the clouds the birds sang, "Good, good, good; it was Violet, Violet!" while the leaves whispered, "No, no, no, no; it was the brook!" But Violet and the brook were as good friends as were the birds and trees; so they all laughed together, instead of quarrelling. When Violet reached home her breakfast was ready, and she sat down on the doorstep with her tin porringer of bread and milk. She was so hungry that it tasted better than a great many nicer breakfasts which have been eaten from silver cups; but, hungry as she was, she did not forget her kitten, who came, saying, plainly as she could purr, "Leave a little for me." Violet had found out that it makes one quite as happy to be generous as to eat a good breakfast, and kitty had her share. Then she washed her porringer, hung it up in the sun to dry, and ran out in the garden, where her mother was picking flowers, whole baskets full of them, for the market, and told Violet to look among the thickly-clustering leaves of her namesakes, and gather all the blossoms she could find. She found a whole apron full, white and blue violets, single and double ones; these she tied in bunches, with a few bright green leaves around each bouquet. The whole garden was scented with their fragrance, and Violet thought them the prettiest flowers in the world, as well as the sweetest, and wished in her heart that she could, just once, have one of these whole bunches for her own. While she knelt on the ground admiring her lovely flowers, and wishing they need not all be sent away and sold, the fairy Love flew to her mother's side, and whispered in her ear all that Violet was thinking about. Then her mother remembered that to-morrow would be Violet's birthday, and on that occasion she never forgot to give her a present. But about this I must tell in another chapter. CHAPTER IV. TOADY. Violet passed such long, long, busy days, talking all the time to her mother, her kitten, her toads, or the birds that alighted now and then upon a bush, and sang to her while she worked; for Violet's mother, though she gave her plenty of time to play, had taught her little girl to sew and read. She might have forgotten to do this amid all her own hard work; but fairy Contentment whispered in her ear that, unless Violet became useful and industrious, _she_ must fly away, never to return; and Love, close by, sang, "See--I have brought her these books; and I'll make the learning easy." I told you that some of Violet's playfellows were toads--the same ugly brown toads you have seen hopping about your own garden walks. You must not think they were ugly to her; for, soon as they came in sight, it always happened that the shadow of Love's purple wings would fall upon them, and then their brown backs changed to crimson and violet, and the poisonous-looking spots became jewelled studs; and I will not say they were very graceful pets even then; but Violet loved them, and they loved her. This is the way their acquaintance began: It was a hot day--blazing hot; so light too--not a shadow to be seen. Violet had been in the garden at work, and, as she hastened homeward through the scorching sun, almost fell over a great toad, that had been crossing the path, but was so dusty she had mistaken him for a stone or a ball of earth. She stooped to see if she had injured him, and patting the toad's back, said,-- "You poor little dirty fellow, don't you know enough to keep out of the sun and dust?" Toady looked up at her as if he would answer if he did but know how to talk; he only opened and shut, opened and shut, his great wide mouth; but Violet understood very well what he meant by this; for the fairy Love teaches a language that is not set down in books or studied in colleges. I have known of great scholars, who could talk in twenty or thirty different tongues, and who yet knew less about this language of Love, which is the very best in the whole wide world, than our poor little barefooted Violet. "You're thirsty, are you, toady?" said she; "stand still, and I'll give you a drink." The toad opened his mouth again, and Violet poured over him a few drops she had left in her watering pot. She was half afraid he would not be very well pleased with such a showering; but there he stood, stock still, blinking his round red eyes, and opening his mouth at her as if he would say, "More--more!" "Well, wait," she said, laughing; "I'll go to the brook and bring you more water in welcome, just for the sake of seeing your face clean once." Away she ran, and toady not only waited for her, but, when she came back, there, one on each side of him, were two smaller toads--the three ranged in a row, looking so sober and funny that Violet laughed louder than ever. She sprinkled the poor dusty toads all over with cool, bright water from the mountain brook; and when they had enough, they began to shake their heads and hop away, without even saying, "Thank you," and hid themselves in the grass. CHAPTER V. LOVE'S CHARM. But the next day, (and this is a true story,) when it had grown so warm that Violet could not work any longer in the garden, and was going home with her hoe and watering pot, there stood the three toads again in the walk, just as they were the day before, with Toady, as she called him, between the two smaller ones. All three gave a little hop when Violet came in sight, and then stood still again. This was their way of saying, "Good morning; we hope you haven't forgotten us." And long afterwards, whenever Violet passed through the garden walk, especially if the day was warm, she was pretty sure of meeting her new acquaintances. They even grew so tame that they would follow her about the garden; and often she would walk up and down the same path for half an hour at a time, just for the sake of seeing how soberly her droll little pets would hop along after her, turning whenever she turned, and waiting for her whenever she stopped. Violet thought them the wisest and most loving toads that ever hopped. She did not know that Love, directly their mistress entered the garden, fastened them to her by a delicate silken cord, just the color of Love's own purple wings, and they could not very well help following her; though, if Violet had treated them unkindly, in an instant the purple cord would have lost all its strength, and grown slender as the slenderest thread in a spider web. Now, my dear readers, though I hope with all my heart that you will try to be as good and loving as Violet, I don't want you to _do_ every thing she did. All toads are not as fond of a sprinkling as Toady and his young brothers were; so you mustn't drown the poor things in water every time you meet one. What you need is, to persuade the fairies Love and Contentment to live in your home, and trust to your keeping a charm like the one they had placed in Violet's heart. Then, every morning of your lives, they will tell something which you can do, and no one else can do as well, to make others happy--kind deeds that will lighten misfortune, and loving words that may enter like music, and dwell in some lonely, sorrowing heart. Believe always this one thing--that every kind deed you do for others will make _you_ happier then and always, and every unkind deed will make you feel ashamed and sorry so long as you remember it. No matter to whom the kindness or unkindness may be done--a king or a butterfly, your own dear mother or a little toad in the garden walk. I have known children who could not bear to see even a lily broken down by rain, its beautiful white flowers all lying in the dirt. I have watched them prop it up with sticks, and gently wash the earth away from its delicate petals, and have said to myself, "Ah, little one, the fairy Love is nestling in your heart." And I have seen the fairy Contentment start from her nest among the lilies, and follow the little one as she ran off to play. CHAPTER VI. HOW FAIRIES LOOK. Do you want to know how Contentment looks? Some people think she is the most beautiful among all the fairies; (and there are hosts of them, and some of the bad ones, even, have handsome faces.) Her cheeks are not quite as rosy as Love's, and her mild eyes do not sparkle and glitter as brilliantly; but she has a smile even brighter than Love's own; this sheds a peaceful light about Contentment wherever she goes; and wherever it falls, beautiful flowers will blossom, and the air grow clear and fragrant. She wears a wreath of starbeams, braided into a delicate but brilliant crown; and there is no place so dark but this will light a path through it. Her pure white wings look like two lily petals, and though always clean and fresh themselves, I suppose they have dusted away more heaps of care, and though so delicate, have lifted people safely over wider seas of trouble, than all the strong arms in the world--all the railroads and steamships put together. She always carries in her hand an urn, from which a sweet and delicate odor arises like incense. Perhaps you will be surprised when I tell where she found this urn. It was the largest and most perfect blossom on a branch of lilies of the valley. Did you ever notice what lovely little vases they form when you turn them stem side down? I never saw one half as pretty made of Parian; but, then, of course nothing _could_ be as beautiful as a flower; they are God's vases, and his work is always the most perfect. The lily never faded; nothing _can_ fade in the light of Contentment's smile; and the modest little flower that might only have shed fragrance about its own green leaves, borne by the fairy, has sprinkled its incense odor through every land. Love is more splendid than Contentment, but not any more beautiful; _her_ wings are larger, richer, and more delicate. They are like petals of the fleur-de-lis, or iris, perhaps you call it--the splendid, feathery, purple flower, with leaves like long ribbon streamers. They are transparent too; and wherever Love goes, the light, shining through these wings, casts a rich purple glow about her--dyed, as you may have seen the sunshine in falling through the great stained window of some church. Love's crown is a broad band of golden sunshine, and she scatters roses and violets about every where. CHAPTER VII. THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. But I must tell you what happened to poor Toady one day, and see if you wonder that Violet felt badly. She was sitting on the doorstep sewing, with kitty in her lap, sound asleep, and the three toads watching her from the walk--as happy a little girl as ever breathed. It was her birthday; and when she awoke that morning, the first thing her eyes rested upon was the largest bunch of sweet violets she had ever seen in her life. They were set in a beautiful white cup, with VIOLET printed in gold letters on the front. She hardly stopped to look twice at them, but, in her nightgown, ran to the door to find and thank her good, kind parents. They were not in the field or the garden; and then Violet remembered that this was market day, and they must have gone to the town, and might not be home again until afternoon. It was an hour before Violet could dress herself. She looked at and smelt of the flowers a hundred times--set them in every corner and on every ledge to see where they would look prettiest--talked to them, and danced around them, and even pinched her finger to see if she could be awake. All these beautiful, fragrant blossoms her own for a whole day--for a week--as long as they did not fade! Then she went to the brook for water, and setting her basin on the bank, knelt down among the dewy flowers to wash her face and smooth her long, soft, golden hair, and as she went home, sang her morning hymn; for Violet knew that every morning the birds poured forth their songs, and the flowers their odors, and the brook its vapor wreaths, in gratitude to Heaven; and she had no idea of being the only ungrateful thing on earth. She met kitty, and taking her in her arms, hurried into the house, thinking how surprised and delighted puss would be with the violets. But kitty was thinking of something else; she only sneezed when Violet put her nose among the wet flowers, and struggled to get away. "Well, there--go," said Violet, a little hurt. Puss had no thought of going; she purred louder than ever, and rubbed her white face against Violet's dress, and looked up at her wistfully. "O, you greedy kit!" said Violet, at last; "you're thinking about breakfast, and not my flowers. I'll eat it right away, so as to leave you some." But, for joy, she could hardly eat a spoonful; and however kitty slighted what was in the gilded cup, it was plain enough that she enjoyed the contents of the old tin porringer. While puss was eating, Violet brought her flowers to the door again, and began to look about for the toads. Pretty soon out they hopped from the wet grass, half drowned themselves in dew, and hop, hop, hop they came towards Violet. You may think she was very silly; but you must remember she was all alone out in the fields, and had no other playmates; so she made the most of these. The toads stood still when they came to the cup of violets, and looked up at her, winking their round, lazy eyes, until she felt sure they were trying to congratulate her and praise her flowers. Then kitty came along, gaping, for she had eaten more breakfast than usual; and Love reminded Violet that she had work to do, although it was her birthday; so she took kitty in her lap, left the toads staring at her flowers, and seated herself on the doorstep to sew. CHAPTER VIII. VIOLET'S TROUBLES. Just then she heard a light, rolling sound, which came nearer and nearer, till at last she saw a carriage, drawn by two white horses. This entered the green field, and, to Violet's surprise, stopped before old Reuben's little hut. In the carriage were two children not much older than Violet, and their father, a tall, stately gentleman; besides, there were two footmen and a driver. The carriage was painted in gay colors, and gilded so that it fairly glittered in the sun; and the little girl inside was so gayly dressed, in silks, and ribbons, and artificial flowers, that Violet thought it must be one of the dolls she had seen in a milliner's window. But the doll, if it was one, spoke, tossing back her curls, and beckoning with her gloved hand to Violet, while the gentleman, placing a purse in his daughter's outstretched hand, said,-- "Buy as many flowers as you want, Narcissa. Meantime I will climb the hill yonder, which must overlook a fine prospect, it seems to me. What do _you_ say, Alfred? Will you accompany me?" Now, when the carriage stopped, the boy, Narcissa's brother, had taken a book from his pocket, and was reading it attentively; he appeared so unwilling to leave it, although he arose to follow his father, that the indulgent parent said,-- "Well, never mind; you can read on." "Little girl," exclaimed Narcissa, "run quickly into the house and call your mother or father, or somebody; I want them." "We are the only bodies here," said Violet, looking at her pets. "Well, then, go and pick me all the violets in your garden; I shall pay for them." "They were sent to market this morning," said Violet, stroking kitty's back, and not feeling very sorry at Narcissa's disappointment, for the little girl in the carriage did not seem to her well bred. "But you must, you _shall_, find me some, girl," said Narcissa, in a rage. "Don't you know that I'm going to a fancy ball to-night, and my maid must have fifteen bunches of violets to dress me with, and we have only found twelve so far? I know you're not telling the truth, for there in the grass is a whole bunch of beautiful ones. Bring them to me," turning to the footman, "and kill those dirty toads in the path; I hate the sight of them." Violet rushed to the rescue of her pets. "O, no, no! they are mine--my own--my best friends--_my_ toads and violets!" she screamed. But in vain. The footman stepped on poor Toady, kicked him across and across the path, till, all bruised and bleeding, he lay still, and, Violet thought, dead, while Narcissa clapped her hands and laughed at Violet's sorrow. "_Your_ toads and violets!" she said; "I should think you were crazy. But I don't want to hurt your feelings, girl. Go and bring me two more large handfuls of violets, and I will forgive all your impudence and wrong stories. Why don't you go? What are you staring at?" CHAPTER IX. FAIRIES AGAIN. It had just come into Violet's head that this proud and imperious little mortal in the carriage must be a queen, such as her story books told about, and had a right to every body's service and every body's goods. What strengthened this belief was the fact that, fluttering about Narcissa's head, she saw (and though her face was wet with tears, she stared at it) the queerest little fairy; now, too, she saw another fairy perched on Alfred's arm as he read, and turning over the leaves of his book; while all about the carriage flew a third, the largest and most splendid of all; he trod upon the servant's heads, right over the crown of their hats; he would sit down to rest on the necks of the beautiful white horses, as they pawed the ground; he whirled round and round Narcissa, even daring to pull her own fairy's hair, while he patted Alfred's fairy on the back quite condescendingly. This little imp was named Pride. He looked, as he flew, like a great scarlet cactus blossom, in his long rich cloak, with heavy tassels, that swept the ground, and left wherever they trailed a very fine dust of gold. In this dust the tassels were dipped continually--powdered over with it, finer than the yellow pollen you may have seen on the stamens of a lily. The flower pollen is good for something, but not so pride's gold dust. He only scatters it because it is so expensive, and common people cannot do the same. I have known persons who sold comfortable homes, cheerful hearts, and good consciences, all for a little gold, which they ground into this silly powder, and threw away. I think Pride makes people a little insane; you must take care that none of his gold dust gets into _your_ eyes. The good thing about Pride--and there is something good about every body--was his affection for Alfred's fairy, Ambition. I cannot describe this being, he is so dazzlingly bright. He is the best and the worst fairy I know, for he is at times like each one, and often like all together. It is ambition that makes men good as angels; and every one knows it is Ambition that makes Satan so bad. This fairy is useful; but he cannot be trusted for a moment; he may serve you faithfully through a long life, and at the end plunge you into some pitfall, just for mischief. He will whisper sweet words in your ear, and build you a glittering boat, and promise to row you down the pleasantest river to Paradise itself. Perhaps he will do all he promises; perhaps he will only land you in a madhouse or a jail. Ambition had taken a fancy to Alfred, and never left his side. He would urge him away from his companions and sports, to work over books,--always to work and study,--and promised to make him a great and useful man. There is one strange thing about these fairy people; beautiful and rich as they are, and free and powerful, they will follow and make their home with the poorest little child, and shelter him with their splendid wings, and light up his pathway with their gleaming crowns; but only on one condition--that the child follow wherever they lead, and is true to the fairies as they are true to him; which is but fair, you know. Who wants to give advice that is not followed? We all, though at the time we do not know it, choose our own fairies, and, once chosen, they love us and make us love them so well that it is no easy matter to escape from them, or to avoid obeying their advice. So, when you see any one--and grown-up men and women have fairies as well as children--who is led about by a wicked fairy, you must pity instead of blaming the sufferer; and if he offend you, you must take care that _his_ fairy doesn't fly into your heart and frighten away your own, or make you forget, and give unkind answers back. Be very sure no one _wants_ to be bad; only if a spiteful little spirit perched on your shoulder, and whispered evil thoughts and angry words into _your_ ear, don't you suppose that sometimes you would obey him and believe what he said? Whenever you feel these wicked spirits near, call loud for Violet's fairy, Love. She will be sure to come; and they know very well they cannot live in her presence; for the light of her starry crown puts out their eyes, and the incense from Contentment's urn will take away their breath. If Love come, Content will be sure to follow; so only keep these fairies near, and you are safe. CHAPTER X. THE STRANGERS. But we were talking about Violet and poor Toady, who lay on the ground all bruised and bleeding, one of his legs so broken that it dragged along after him when he tried to hop, and one of his eyes torn out and hanging by the skin; while the poor thing quivered all over with pain, and looked up at Violet with his one eye, as if he would say, "_Do_ help me, Violet. Why didn't you keep them away?" She lifted him into the grass, smoothing it first into something like a nest; then she poured some water from her violet cup to wash away the dust and blood, and stroked his back gently, while Toady looked up at her, and shut and opened his one eye, and tried to hop, which was his way of thanking her, you know. When she found how stiff and sore he was, Violet burst into tears again, and wondered if the little queen in the carriage was any happier for doing all this mischief. Let us see. Having taken care of her pet, the little girl looked to see if the carriage had gone; and though she was almost as blind as Toady, her eyes were so full of tears, she knew plainly enough by the sound that it was waiting still; for Alfred had thrown his book aside, and he and Narcissa were talking angrily. "You're an ugly, envious thing," said Alfred. "That poor little girl had nothing on earth but those few flowers and a miserable toad; and you, who have every thing you want, could not rest till you had stolen these. If I were king, I'd send you to state's prison." "And if you were a queen, what would _you_ do to the girl in the carriage?" asked Narcissa's father of Violet; for the gentleman had returned from his walk, and coming quietly behind, had been watching her as she wept and watched over Toady, who seemed to be fast asleep. "O, I would send her away to the end of the world, so I might never see her again. _Do_ take her away," she pleaded. "But she _has_ done wrong; she had no more right to hurt your toad than you have to hurt my horses in the carriage there. Shall I not punish her?" "It wouldn't do me any good," said Violet, mournfully. "Tell her she may have the flowers in welcome _now_. I don't care about them or any thing else if Toady must die." "And why do you care about Toady?" "About _him_?" asked Violet, shaking away the golden hair as she looked up wonderingly with her beautiful blue eyes,--"care about _him_? Why, did you ever see such a handsome toad? And then I have known him so long, and he hops about after me and lets me feed him; and now, now, when I come here in the morning, how lonesome I shall be, for he can't come hopping out from the grass any more, all wet with dew, and winking his round eyes, as if he'd say, 'Good morning.'" The gentleman laughed, and then looked very sober, as he said,-- "I can't see much beauty in your pet; but I like you, little girl, for loving him so well; and here is money to pay for the harm my daughter has done." "Why," said Violet, who had never seen any coin before, "I thought money was made to buy flour and meal with." "So it is," replied the gentleman, "and to buy cake, and fine clothes, and artificial flowers like those in Narcissa's bonnet." "I shouldn't want to look like _her_. I am not a queen," said Violet, "and I can find a great deal prettier flowers on the mountain than she wears, and prettier-looking stones than these;" and she looked at the silver carelessly; then, brightening up all at once, she asked,-- "Will they cure Toady's leg? O, if they will, I'll give you my flowers and the new cup both for them." The gentleman shook his head. "Then take them away. I don't want any thing." CHAPTER XI. THE DOCTOR DOCTORED. If Narcissa's father had looked then, he would have seen the fairy Love bending over Violet till the sunny crown she wore brightened up her face, and made it look beautiful as an angel's, and Contentment, too, pouring perfume out of her lily urn. But the gentleman had a great deal of Pride's gold dust in his eyes, and therefore he could not see very clearly. He _did_ see the beautiful love Violet had for her ugly little pet, and felt how much better it was to be contented, like Violet, with so little, than to have almost every thing, like Narcissa, and be always wishing for more. And what do you think the fairies did? They looked out of Violet's eyes, right through them, into his; and whenever she spoke they flew into his heart with the words, till the proud man, who had not wept since Narcissa's mother died, long and long ago, felt great tears gathering in his eyes; and as these fell into the grass, Contentment took care to wash away all the pride dust with her own white wings. "The money will not cure your toad," said he; "but _I_ can mend his leg, for I am a physician, and know all about broken bones." So he made the servant bring a case from the carriage, and taking a sharp little knife from it, he cut away the eye, which was too much crushed to be of any use, and then bound up the leg. But Toady kicked, and struggled, and made such a time about it, and seemed in such pain, that Violet begged him to unfasten the bandage. "Well, you are right," he said; "the limb cannot be cured, and if I cut it off it will be out of his way, at least." He had no sooner done _this_ than Toady hopped right out of his grassy nest, and looking at Violet, winked so drolly with his one eye that she laughed and cried at once, and thanked the doctor over and over again. "You needn't thank _me_," he said; "for it seems you knew better what would suit him than I did, little girl. I wonder who taught you." Then Love and Contentment looked at each other and smiled; _they_ knew very well who had taught Violet, and they knew besides that Violet was teaching the proud, rich, learned man a lesson better than he could find in all his books or buy with all his money; for the sweet smile of Contentment and the beautiful words of Love, which had come to him through the lips of the little berry girl, Violet, would be remembered for long years, and prompt him to perform kind deeds, and thus to forget his pride and his cares, and be sometimes light-hearted as a little child. CHAPTER XII. WHO ARE HAPPIEST. Do you know, dear children, that as soon as people have grown up they begin to wish they were young again, and had not troublesome servants to manage, and great houses to take care of, and purses full of money to spend or to save, and, worst of all, whole troops of wicked fairies? _They_ call them habits; but fairies they are, for all that. These spirits lead into so much mischief that there are very few men and women who don't sometimes fold their hands and say, "O, dear! if I could go back and be a little child once more!" Ask your mother if she wouldn't give all her jewels away in exchange for as pure a heart as children have. Ask your father whether he wouldn't give all his bonds and railroad stocks if that would make him as merry and free from care as you are when you climb upon his knee to ask the question. And if they say "No," ask them which fairy they would rather _you_ took for a friend--Pride or Truth. Now, here you are, children still; and if I were you, I'd enjoy being young while it lasts. I'd make friends with as many good fairies, and scare away as many bad ones, as I could find. Scare them away! I wouldn't wait to look at them or hear them talk; for some have pretty faces and sweet words, but they are dreadful cheats. I would find out ever so many things,--and there's no end to the number there _are_,--ever so many things which are right, and good, and beautiful. I wouldn't look for any thing else, but would be so happy among these that other people would notice it, and look after them too; and then I would give them as many as they wanted of my treasures, and teach them where to find more; for fairy Love takes care that the more we give the more we shall have; and even if we didn't, who wants to be a miser? Think how much God has given us!--this whole great world, all the sky over your head, and the air, and sunshine, and woods, and gardens full of flowers, and fathers and mothers to love and take care of us, and a million other things. And what do we give God? Every thing that we give away at all we give to him just as much as if we laid it in his hand. Don't you know that Christ called the poor and ignorant God's little children, and declared he loved them all _better_ than your mother and father love you? And not only this, God cares when even a bird falls to the ground with his wing broken, and is watching to see how much you are willing to do for his creature. CHAPTER XIII. VIOLET BERRYING. I called Violet a little berry girl, and I'll tell you why. On the great hill above their hut, all over one side of it, were blackberry vines; and in autumn, when the berries were ripe, Violet and her mother would spend hours and hours picking them. The sun would be scorching hot sometimes, and the thorny vines would tangle into Violet's dress and tear her arms, and mosquitos would buzz around her, until she was ready to cry or to declare she _could_ not pick any more. Poor Violet! _You_ think, perhaps, that it is hard to walk to school under your parasol these sunny days; and she had, day after day, to stand out there among the vines, picking, and picking, and picking, till the two great water pails were full of berries. But when she grew tired, Love would point to her poor old mother working so patiently, and looking so tired and warm; and when the fairy whispered, "Will you leave her here to finish the work _alone_?" Violet would forget in a minute her own weariness, and sing and laugh so merrily, and tell so often how fast her pail was filling up, that the mother would forget _her_ weariness too, and only think how fortunate and how rich she was to have such a good, bright child. When she found a place where the berries grew thick and large, Violet would call her mother to pick there; and old Mary, Reuben's wife, said that "somehow she never could find such splendid places as Violet did." So, leaving her there, the little girl would move on; and no matter how low she found the bushes, or how thinly covered with fruit, fairy Contentment, hovering over her head, would sing, "Who cares? The fewer, the sweeter." What with Contentment's singing, and that of Violet, and the crickets and locusts, and the bees and bobolinks, there was music enough in the blackberry pasture; and it all chimed together just like the instruments in an orchestra. CHAPTER XIV. THE BIRDS' HARVEST TIME. But I was telling you about Violet's birthday; so let us go back to the doorstep of her father's little hut. Narcissa called impatiently that she was tired of waiting; so her father, bidding good by to his new acquaintance, sprang into the carriage, and it rolled lightly through the green field once more. Violet sat watching until it was out of sight, and she could no longer see Narcissa's feathers and flowers fluttering in the wind. Some how she never thought of her afterwards, except as a whole bunch of lace and finery, with a little girl inside of it. Then she looked around for her violets; they were gone, and in their place lay the stranger's money. But Toady hopped in sight just then, looking so brisk, and getting about so well on his three legs, she thought her flowers were little enough to pay for so much good as he had received. So, happy as ever, Violet took her pail and went towards the blackberry hill. It seemed to her the berries were never so thick and large; she soon had enough, and setting them in a shady place, she went to the brook to wash her hands. There were long, deep scratches on her arms. How they smarted when the water touched them! but Violet only thought how much worse Toady's scratches and bruises were; and then she loved to be clean, for she had watched how the birds wash in the brook a dozen times a day, and how smooth the squirrels keep their fur, and how the flowers and leaves bathe their faces every morning in dew. She didn't want the leaves and birds to be ashamed of her. The little girl strolled on towards the wood, singing and laughing, and talking to every thing she met, but most of all to kitty, who followed after her; while whole troops of grasshoppers and little yellow butterflies flew before, and settled in advance of Violet, and when she came up, flew a little farther, as if they wanted to lead her on. Then there were flocks and flocks of birds; the ground seemed alive with them, for it was harvest time, and they came for the ripe grain which had fallen when the farmers cut their crops, and was scattered all over the fields. The thistle seeds were ripe too; and the birds, and butterflies, and bees seemed to love this best of all. Violet stood watching them eat, and laughed as she told puss that must be where she learned to be so greedy. The bees went buzzing down into the very heart of the purple flowers, and took such long, deep honey draughts, and went back again and again, as if they could never have enough, and hurried away to their hives, for the sake of hurrying back for more. The birds were not much better. They would hover an instant over the whole thistle bed, and then, selecting a good large flower, they would fly at it, fanning away with their fluttering wings till they were lost in a cloud of down, and tear out the rich, ripe seeds, swallowing them so fast it seemed as if they were eating for all winter. Violet was never tired of watching, for she loved to see every creature happy, and knew, besides, that the birds and bees only have so good a chance to eat once in the year; and therefore, though she laughed at it, she couldn't blame them for their greediness. There were such handsome yellow birds, with black spots and stripes over their bright breasts and wings. They buried their black and golden heads away in among the thistle down, while they clung to the stem with claws and wings, and were so busy eating that they did not see how near Violet crept to them. Then a beautiful great butterfly, its rich brown wings spotted with blue and orange, settled upon a flower, and sipped daintily, and fluttered away again to take another sip somewhere else, and then went sailing off into the sunshine. So she skipped along after it, kitty running close behind her, until they came to a bank covered with white everlasting flowers--so many it looked a little way off like snow; and Violet, whose mother had told her that in heaven flowers did not fade, but were _all_ everlasting, wondered if the door of heaven had not been left ajar, some day, long enough for a whole shower of seed to blow down towards this hill, and planting itself, come up in these pearl-white flowers. Ah, Violet! the commonest seeds sprang up into heavenly flowers if they fell in _your_ pathway. CHAPTER XV. WHERE THE SQUIRREL LED VIOLET. While Violet stood wondering thus, she saw a squirrel on the fence, nibbling upon a nut. As soon as she stirred, he darted along a rail or two, and then, waiting till she came up with him, went nibbling again. "You needn't feel so grand with your spry legs. I guess I can run as well as you," said Violet. The squirrel tucked the nut under one arm, and with a whisk of his bushy tail, darted like lightning along the rails, leaving Violet so far behind she thought he had gone into the wood; but when she had reached far enough herself, there he sat, quietly nibbling at his nut again, and soon as he saw her, whisked up into a tree, and from among the high boughs called, "Cheep, cheep, chip! Which beat, little girl?" Violet could not see him, he went so fast and far; and as she looked up among the leafy boughs, he dropped the nut right into her face, and ran round and round the limb, and called "Cheep, cheep, chip!" again, as if he were laughing at her. Violet laughed too, and threw the nut back at him, looking first to see how clean he had eaten out the meat. Away darted squirrel, without waiting to chip this time, and Violet called, as he ran,-- "It's all very fine to whisk along so fast, mister; but I should like to know how much good your travelling does. I know you can't _see_ a thing, any more than they can in the rail cars I've heard about. You're welcome to your legs so long as you leave the brook, and the flowers, and birds for puss and me." But he only answered by dropping another nut from directly over her head, and she followed him into the wood--the beautiful, cool, still wood. Violet left off singing as she entered it; for she loved to hear the rustle of the ripe leaves, and to watch the tiny fibres falling lightly from the pines, and hear the nuts and acorns rattle down, and to see the spider webs and insects glitter wherever a gleam of sunshine had stolen through the boughs. Her hands were full of flowers, which she had gathered on the way; for she did not mean her new cup should be empty when the good parents came home. So she had picked such a splendid bunch!--bright red cardinal flowers from the swamp; and along by the brook side, where it was sunniest, she found beautiful blue fringed gentians; and farther on branches of golden rod, that looked like little elm trees changed to gold; and on farther still, by the edge of the wood, where, as they waved, they seemed beckoning her, she found plenty of asters, white as snow, with little yellow eyes twinkling out among the petals, or else rich purple with deep gold inside; and she had some of the everlasting flowers too, like bunches of pure pearls. Violet crept under the deep shade of the boughs, where the brook was gurgling over its mossy stones, and laid the stems of her flowers there to keep them fresh, making a wall of pebbles around them, so that the water, which tripped along so fast, should not carry them away. For once, when she forgot to do this, she had no sooner placed her flowers in the brook than off they sailed down stream, and scattered so fast and far she couldn't think of finding them all again. Violet laughed when she remembered that day, and how the brook, full of its mischief, had run away with her treasures, and scattered them any and every where along its banks, setting some upright, as if they were growing again, and wedging some under the stones, and tangling some under the fence, and floating some down the hill and through the sunny field, so fast they seemed chasing the little fish that made their home in the brook. Even away down by Reuben's house a few had strayed, and reached home so much before Violet that she began to think the waves had, after all, as spry feet as her own. CHAPTER XVI. ALONE IN THE WOOD. Her flowers safe in the water, the little girl seated herself on a stone that seemed made purposely for her, it was cushioned so softly with moss; and overhead the boughs of the great trees bent towards her, and rustled and waved like so many fans, and shut her in so closely from the rest of the wood that you might have passed close by, and never guessed she was there. The kitten went fast asleep in her lap, and Violet, folding her hands, looked up among the leaves, and across where the boughs parted a little into the wood, and down at her feet, where the grass grew so long and fine, and was sprinkled over with such pretty little leaves--as tiny, some of them, as Violet's finger nails, and yet as beautifully scolloped or pointed, and as perfectly finished, as the stoutest laurel or broadest oak leaf in the wood; and, noticing this, Violet wondered if God, who had taken as much pains in making little leaves as big ones, had not taken as much pains with, and didn't care as much for, little _people_ as big ones. Who knew but he loved her, in her ragged dress, just as well as Narcissa in all her finery, or even the tall, rich doctor, who tried to mend Toady's leg? Then she listened, and felt how still it was there alone with the trees; and the sweet, low sounds that came through this stillness were beautiful as music. Far off she could hear the cool, sparkling brook foaming and hurrying over its stony bed; and then the air came breathing through the trees, as if they sighed for joy; and each leaf trembled, and seemed rising to meet the air and fly away with it, and then, falling back again, nestled closer to its neighbor leaves, and whispered softly, as if it were making love to them. But there came a louder rustling among the boughs, and a flutter of wings, and then burst forth a clear, wild song, so near that Violet held her breath; for a golden oriole had alighted close beside her, and chirped, and twittered, and trilled, as if he meant to say aloud what the leaves and the brook had been whispering. When he paused, the leaves all clapped their hands for more; and oriole understood them, for he gave another and another song, waiting between each to wet his bill in some bunch of bright, juicy berries. Violet did not suspect that the reason the sunshine looked so bright, and the shadows so cool and refreshing, and the leaves and brook so wide awake and so musical, was because the good fairies Love and Contentment were watching over her; and the beautiful purple light from Love's wings, and from Contentment's starry crown, and the fragrance from her lily urn, would make any, the dullest place, bright. But as the bird flew away, Fairy Love whispered inside of Violet's heart, "The bird has gone to her nest. Isn't it time for Violet to be thinking about _her_ nest, and the good mother, who will be there first if she does not make haste and run home?" Love's voice was lower than the whisper of the leaves or the far-off murmur of the brook; but the little girl heard and obeyed it for all that. CHAPTER XVII. THE KITTEN'S BATH. Violet had picked a whole apron full of leaves, reaching up in the trees for the largest and handsomest, and then, kneeling where they grew close to the ground, had collected the lovely, delicate ones that were so small you would not notice unless you were looking for them--broad, shining oak leaves, long, graceful chestnut leaves, and some from the fluttering poplar, and some from the hemlocks and pines, tall ferns, and maiden's-hair, and grass, clover, sorrel, ground pine, and hundreds more. Violet had been counting how many kinds there were; and as I have forgotten, the first time you go into the woods you must try yourself, and lay them side by side, as she did, to see which is prettiest. But away flew all the leaves, as, directly she heard Love's voice, the little girl sprang to her feet, waking puss out of her nap so suddenly that she spit, and put up her back, and her hair stood all on end with fright. Then you might have heard Violet's laughter ringing merrily enough through the silent wood. Such an unusual noise startled a whole flock of crows, where, hid in a tall pine tree, they had, like pussy, been taking a nap, and scolded well because they were awakened. Violet wondered if it would help the matter to make such a noise about it with their hoarse voices, which sounded as if they were made on purpose to scold--so grating and shrill. She went to the brook for her flowers, while the kitten followed, gaping such great gapes that Violet told her she'd better take care, or she wouldn't be able to close her mouth again. And looking back among the trees, as she climbed the stone wall and was going out into the sunshine again, Violet wondered if God _could_ have made that beautiful place for no one but her; no one else entered it, she knew. "I guess God thinks it's no matter how small I am, so long as I'm large enough to love it all," she thought; and I don't believe Violet was wrong. As they went home, a great cricket flew from under the kitten's feet and frightened her again, for she was hardly awake. Away she sprang to catch it, and away sprang the cricket, while Violet had to run fast to keep up with them, laughing to see how puzzled puss would be when the cricket hid under the long grass; and while she was pawing, and purring, and looking up to Violet as if she'd ask, "Where is he?" out he'd spring again, directly past her nose, and in among the grass would hide, and peep at her, while she looked every where but in the right place. At last, in her eagerness, the kitten jumped rather too far, and went into the brook; and in her fright I don't know what would have happened next if Violet had not seized her just as, mewing and trembling, the water was washing her down stream. She lapped Violet's face and purred as the little girl tried to dry her fur and warm her again in her bosom; but she was a wilful puss, and preferred creeping along in the sunshine, shaking each of her four paws at every step in the drollest fashion. But she didn't chase any more crickets _that_ day. This affair of the kitten's, and waiting to look for her berries, which Violet had hid among the bushes so safely she could not find them herself at first, delayed her so long that she almost flew the rest of the way; for when the old people went to market with their goods, they always came home tired and hungry, and were very glad of a cup of warm tea. So she did not stop flying until a fire was made and the table set; and just then she heard voices at the door. CHAPTER XVIII. THE PRICE OF TOADY'S LEG. Reuben and Mary had come; and glad enough Violet was to see them; but this, like all her days, had been so long that she forgot to say a word about her flowers and the gilded cup; she could not remember back to the morning, until her mother asked if she knew whose birthday this was; and then it all came back, and she gave more thanks and kisses than there had been flowers in the cup. "But why is it empty?" asked Reuben. And Violet told about the carriage, and Narcissa, and Toady's misfortune, and the kind doctor, who had waited to mend the mischief his daughter had done, and how he took her violets, leaving money in their stead. You should have seen the old people hold up their hands when Violet showed them the coin she had only looked upon as so many bright stones. Their marketing had not sold as well as usual, and the winter was to be a hard one for poor people, every one said; and they had been telling each other, as they came home, that if Providence had not taken care of them so well thus far, they should certainly expect to starve now. And here stood Violet with six silver dollars! They could hardly believe their eyes. Some fairy must have given it to the child. True enough, old Reuben--the fairy LOVE! The rich doctor might have given six times as much, and never have felt the loss enough to remember it. But I cannot tell you how many comforts his money procured for the poor old people. Mary had a new warm gown, and Reuben a pair of rubbers and some flannel, and Violet a blanket shawl, and what was left they spent in tea, rice, flour, and molasses. Every afternoon, when the old lady sat down to sew that winter, feeling warmer than she had for many a cold month, and seeing so beautifully, too, from the light that came in at a new window they had bought for the hut where they lived, Mary would bless the rich man, and the good child God had given her. And every time Reuben waded through the snow towards town, and did not wet his feet, nor come home with rheumatism, as he used to the winter before, he, too, would think of the rich man, and thank God for his little daughter, and wonder if ever _any_ one had so many blessings as he. Violet too, with her thick, warm shawl, could go to the district school; and very soon she learned more out of books than Reuben and Mary had known in all their lives. CHAPTER XIX. GOING TO SCHOOL. Violet's years were like her days--busy and joyous; for they were spent in making all about her happy, and in finding new wonder and beauty in the world. Winter evenings she would sit on her cricket at the old people's feet, and amuse them by telling her adventures on the way to and from school, or the wonderful things she had learned there. Perhaps it had stormed, and she would describe how beautiful it was to see every thing folded in a mantle of white snow, and to run through the pearly dust, and scatter it far and wide, and to see it gathering like a world of blossoms in the branches of the dark pine trees. Then she would tell how, when it cleared away, every thing shone, and glittered, and stood so still in the cold, blue air, and she could not hear her own footsteps any more than those of the squirrels that darted along the stone wall, and how she had sung, and shouted, and clapped her hands for company. Or she had found a half-frozen bird, and, picking it up with her own half-frozen hands, had warmed it to life, while she felt its little frightened heart beating beneath her shawl--that heart and her own the only moving things in the wide, white silence. And then how glad it made her feel when her bird sprang forth into the sky again, and she watched his shadow circling round and round her, until he alighted in a tree just as she passed underneath, and, with his fluttering wings sent down a shower of snow flakes all over her. This, she supposed, was the only way he had of telling how well and strong he felt, and how he loved her for what she had done to him. But Violet could hardly make the old folks believe what she heard at school about far-off countries and strange animals--snakes large enough to crush a horse and rider in their folds, and fishes so huge that half a dozen people could sit inside of them. Every child knows these things now, and has pictures of them in his books; but when Reuben and Mary were young there were few schools; and they, poor people, had to work instead of study. On summer mornings, after her work was done, Violet would bring home roots from her favorite wood, and plant them about the house, until you would hardly know it, it was so buried in beautiful green vines. You could not have made Violet think there was a pleasanter home on earth than hers, when the clematis was starred all over with white blossoms, and the honeysuckle she had trained over the door was full of bright yellow flowers, and the hop vine hung full of its beautiful cones, and among all shone the bright pink wild roses, and the whole air was sweet with her own favorite violets. Birds built nests within the vine, and hatched their young, and sang loudly and sweetly to their friends in the hut as often as they cared to hear. CHAPTER XX. OLD REUBEN DEAD. Nothing pleased Reuben half as much as to sit in the shadow of the vines, watch the flowers grow, and feel that all this beauty was Violet's work; for the old gardener loved flowers dearly; and when he had grown too old to work himself, he was so glad to feel that his garden pets need not be smothered up in weeds, and die. So there he sat in the sun day after day, while he grew thinner and more feeble; and one pleasant afternoon, when Violet thought he had taken too long a nap, she went to waken him for fear he might take cold. But she paused to look at the good old man as he sat there with his hands folded on his bosom, and such a beautiful smile on the wrinkled face, and the wind stirring the gray locks, while his head rested among the fresh summer leaves. Reuben never awoke; he was dead. Violet burst into tears, and wished for a moment that she could die herself; but she thought of the mother who was too infirm to take care of herself, and who had lived with Reuben longer and would feel his loss more than she. Just then a bird flew from his nest in the vine, and soaring slowly, sang low at first, and sweetly, and then louder and louder, till he was lost among the clouds. And Violet remembered what her father had said so often, that one of these days he should shake off the old aching body, and soar as lightly as any bird, and live as happily, up in that calm heaven. They buried Reuben under a great elm tree in sight of his own garden, and where he had often rested after his work, and watched the orioles building their nests or teaching their young to sing. Lonely and sad enough it was in the hut when Violet and her mother went home and saw the old man's empty chair, and his garden tools hanging on the wall. "It won't be long before I shall follow him," said old Mary, "and then God will take care of our child." "But I will take care of my mother first, for a great many years," said Violet, drawing closer, and putting her arms around Mary protectingly; for Violet, though still young, was no longer a little child, as when we knew her first. The blue eyes, though, were just as bright and as full of love and tenderness; and the light hair, which was folded now in wavy bands over a calm white forehead, when the light touched it, had the same golden look as of old. She had grown tall too, and healthy, and was graceful as a bird, and had a low, musical voice like the brook, and a smile like sunshine, and, in short, was beautiful as a fairy herself. While she sat there, with her low, sweet voice, trying to console her mother, and now and then her own sunny smile breaking through even her tears, the door opened, and their landlord entered. He had sold the pasture and the whole blackberry hill to a rich man who would build there immediately; and they must move this very night, for the hut stood in his way. CHAPTER XXI. A NEW HOME AND OLD FRIENDS. Trouble seemed to come all at once; they had no money and no place to store their humble furniture; but Violet always hoped for the best, and only smiled when they began to move the rough chairs and table her father had nailed together. "There's one comfort," she said; "our things are not so fine that a little dew will hurt them. We may leave them here till we find a better place." But it did make her heart ache to see the men tear away her vines, even from above old Reuben's seat, and then, with a few axe strokes, batter down the wall, till nothing was left of the dear old home but a little pile of boards. "We had better go to this rich man and tell our story," said her mother, as they walked sadly out of the pasture for, as they thought, the last time. "He was boarding," the landlord said, "at a hotel in the village where Reuben had carried his marketing, only three or four miles thence." So, leaning on Violet's arm, old Mary crept along the dusty road, farther than she had walked for many a day, and was tired enough when they reached the hotel door. Not so Violet, who was full of hope, and had in her head more plans than one for finding a new home. They asked for the stranger, Dr. Story, were led to his parlor, and told their simple tale. He was interested at once, and very angry that they had been treated so badly on his account, and offered to give them money, while he hardly took his eyes from Violet's face. "No," she said, smiling; "we did not come to beg, but thought, as we had lost our home through you, you might be willing to help us find another." "And how shall I do that?" asked the doctor. Then Violet told him that she had studied evenings so long it seemed to her she could teach in the village school; but she was poor, and had no friends to speak a good word for her with the committee. "What is your name?" asked the gentleman, suddenly. "Violet." "I thought so; and what has become of Toady?" It was the doctor who had mended Toady's leg so many years ago, and the young man who sat reading on the sofa was no other than Alfred, his son, with the fairy Ambition still keeping him hard at work, and making him care for little else but books. He looked up though, and listened to Violet's story, and, as he watched her, actually closed his book, and always afterwards closed it if she entered the room; for fairy Love was stronger than Ambition, and he could no more see in the purple light which fell from her wings than an owl could in broad noonday. "But where is Narcissa?" asked Violet. The father's face grew sad as he told how, the very day they were at the hut, in riding home the carriage was overturned, and Narcissa not only lamed for life, but thrown against a tree, one of whose branches entered her eye and put it out. When Violet heard of this her eyes filled with tears, and forgetting all the unkindness she had received from this girl, she only remembered how handsome Narcissa was, and how happy she seemed as they drove away. And the fairy Love shed such a beautiful light around the poor berry girl, that Ambition hid in a corner, and Alfred didn't think of his books again that day. CHAPTER XXII. THE NEW OLD HOME. The doctor lent them money enough to hire a pleasant, sunny room in the village street, where her mother could sit and watch the passers by when she was tired of knitting and reading, for she was alone now almost all the day, and Violet was mistress of the village school. One morning, as Mary sat in her comfortable chair, and was wishing old Reuben could see what a beautiful home she had, a carriage drove to the door below, and then came a knock at her own door, and Dr. Story entered. "I have come to give you a ride this pleasant day," he said. "We will call for Violet. Wouldn't you like to see how I have improved the old blackberry field?" Mary was delighted. She had never ridden in a carriage in her life; and to go in that splendid one of the doctor's, with velvet cushions, and footmen behind! She sat very straight, you may be sure, and kept tucking in her gown; for though it was new, she was afraid it might harm the seats, and her wrinkled face was shining all over with smiles. They met Violet on her way home from school, and she was almost as much pleased as the old lady with her ride. But what was their surprise to find, instead of the little footpath, a broad avenue through the pasture, with young trees on each side, and the hill where the blackberry vines had been, covered with waving oats, and in front of Violet's own beloved wood a beautiful great house large as a palace! "But now look on the other side," said Dr. Story. Where the old hut had stood was the prettiest little cottage you ever saw, with the very clematis, and honeysuckle, and wild roses Violet had planted trained over it; and there was Reuben's garden all in order, just as they had left it; and under the great elm tree there was his grave, with a new white stone at the head, and the old man's name and age cut in it. They alighted at the cottage door, and Violet noticed how the air was perfumed with her own favorite flowers. While Alfred stooped to gather some of these for Violet, his father said,-- "Do you remember, Mary, whose birthday this is?" "Sure enough, it's Violet's!" exclaimed the old woman. "And this," said the doctor, "is Violet's birthday present--this house and garden, and these beds of flowers." But before they could thank him, he added,-- "In return, you are to give up your school, and teach my own children. Will you do it, Violet? They are so young it will be easy at first, and meantime you shall have teachers yourself." Pleased as Violet and Mary were, I don't think they were half as glad as Alfred, who threw his book down into the grass so suddenly at his father's speech, I should not be surprised if it broke fairy Ambition's head. CHAPTER XXIII. ALFRED. The cottage was all furnished, and had even a foot stove for the old lady, and a soft, stuffed easy chair in the parlor, while on the woodshed wall hung Reuben's tools; and what do you think hopped up from under a board as Violet stood looking at these? Toady, on his three legs, who winked his one round eye at her, as if he would say, "Isn't all this fine?" Then there was a school room, where Violet's pupils came every morning, and learned to love her as if she were their own sister. After school she would tell them stories about the birds, and squirrels, and flowers, among which she had lived so long, or take them to walk in the old pleasant places. They told their sister Narcissa, who, like Violet, was grown to a young lady now, so much about the new teacher, that one pleasant day she went to the cottage with them. Violet was grieved to see how the handsome face was scarred and spoiled; but Narcissa said,-- "It was the best thing that ever happened to me, Violet--that accident; it cured me of pride and selfishness." And it had, truly. Narcissa was so gentle and patient, you would not have known her for the same person. She grew as fond of Violet as the children were; and when they were busy in the school room, studying, she would often sit and read to the old lady in the sunny little room where she slept and spent almost all her time. This room looked out towards the violet beds, and over it the vines grew most luxuriantly; their blossoms looked in at her window, and their shadows flickered over the bright-red carpet; while old Mary sat in her easy chair thinking of Reuben, who was dead and gone, and rejoicing that she could live and die where every thing reminded her of him, and be buried by his side. By his side she _was_ buried, under the great elm tree, but not until she had lived many years in the cottage with Violet--the happiest years of her life. Then Violet's friends at the great house said she had better go and live with them, it was so lonely in the old place now; and about this time Alfred came home from India, where he had lived long enough to grow very sickly and very rich. He told Violet that he had been earning money to take care of her, and now, if she would be his wife, they might still live in the cottage and be happy all their days. But Alfred's father was proud and ambitious, and would not be satisfied to have his son marry a poor berry girl. This Violet knew well enough; so she never told Alfred that she loved him, but only said "No" to his offers, at which he felt so badly he threatened to shoot himself. But instead of this, he concluded afterwards to marry some one else--a lady, rich, and accomplished, and gay, who made the great house merrier than it had ever been before she went to it. There were balls, and parties, and concerts, strangers coming and going constantly; there was no such thing as quiet. Violet was unwilling to exchange for this her pleasant, sunny little cottage; the vines and the elm tree and crowded garden beds had grown so dear to her, and the very birds and squirrels seemed to know and love Violet, and sing and chip to her, "_Do_ stay." How could she refuse? Who would take care of poor Toady if she went? and who would feed the old faded cat lying now on the doorstep half asleep, opening half an eye sometimes to watch her kittens play, and then going off into a doze again like a worn-out grandmother, as she had become. Who will believe it?--she was the same kitten that followed Violet into the wood about the time our story began, and wasn't old enough then to catch a cricket or keep from drowning in the brook. CHAPTER XXIV. NARCISSA. While Violet sat on the doorstep wondering whether to please Alfred and his father by going to live with them or to stay with her favorites in the cottage, Narcissa came in sight. She was limping along with her crutches through the grass, and looked very pale and tired; for the walk from the wood to the cottage, which was nothing to Violet, was a great undertaking to the lame girl. She never walked as far in any other direction; but some how the path to Violet's seemed the smoothest and easiest. Shall I tell you why? Because the fairy Love went before her, picking up every rough stone and bur or brier, and when the sun was hottest, shaded the invalid with her delicate purple wings. Violet, too, had taught Narcissa how many pleasant things there are in the world even for one who is sick. So, instead of fretting because the way was dusty and the sunshine hot, Narcissa looked up at the cool green leaves which were fanning her, and watched along all the way to see what beautiful flowers the heat and light were opening. She, too, had learned to love the cool song of the brook; to be glad--though she could not follow them herself, poor cripple!--that the butterflies could flutter about and drink honey from all the flowers, and the squirrels could dart away with their nuts, and the birds go sailing and singing up into the far blue sky. Her old fairy, Envy, was banished forever from Narcissa's heart, and in its place dwelt Violet's fairy, Love, and Contentment, Love's unfailing friend. The moment these fairies came, her heart began to grow larger and purer; for it only takes a small soul to hold such a miserable little sprite as Envy, who is so mean and poor that he makes every place poor into which he enters, though he looks fine enough in his cloak streaked with purple, gold, and red, like the gaudiest of tulips. No wonder Narcissa was glad to make the exchange of friends; for Love soon taught her that the way to be happy is to forget all about ourselves, and be glad whenever another is glad, no matter how humble a thing. So when she watched the sunshine creep towards a flower that had been waiting for it in the shade, or when she saw a young bird fly for the first time, or, in frosty mornings that made her sick frame shiver, when she heard the nuts rattle down, and knew the frost had opened their burs, and that the children would be glad, Narcissa's heart would be so full of sympathy that I am not sure but she was the happiest of all. CHAPTER XXV. NEW PLANS. Violet saw Narcissa's white dress among the trees,--for the young elms in the avenue had grown so high as to meet now overhead,--and ran out to welcome her. She helped the invalid into her house, brought her mother's easy chair out to the porch, and a footstool and fan, and last of all a little table, upon which she placed fresh flowers and a new book that had been given her, and then hurried away to mix a cooling drink, of which Narcissa was very fond. "How good you are, Violet," said Narcissa when she came back, "and how little I deserve so much from you! A toad just hopped over the step--the queerest old fellow--looked as if he had been through a dozen wars, with his one eye and a missing leg. I could have laughed, we were so much alike; and yet I couldn't, for he made me think of that first day we came to your father's house, and----" "O, yes," interrupted Violet; "and only think how much good has come to _us_ from that first visit--how comfortably we have lived ever since!--your father was so kind." "But _I_ wasn't kind," said Narcissa, looking very sorrowful; "I did you nothing but harm; and think what you have done for me." "Brought you a chair and a fan," laughed Violet; "wonderful deeds!" "You may laugh if you will," answered the lady; "but I would not give what I have gained from you in exchange for a hundred times what I ever had before. My beauty only made me vexed if I was not admired; my health and strength made me restless, kept me always in search of what I could not find nor buy. Beauty, and health, and money are good for nothing by themselves. O Violet, you have given health and beauty to my _heart_, and now I am rich and happy because no living thing can be glad but I grow richer by sharing its joy--those cool cloud shadows flickering over the grass--this sweetness the air has caught from your violet beds; and look how that humming bird enjoys the dew and honey he is drinking out of the roses, hanging among them by his long, slim bill; I can almost taste it with him as clearly as I smell the odor he shakes from the roses with his glittering wings; and I feel, too, the coolness the shadows must bring to the heated grass. For all of this, my friend, I thank you constantly." Violet was not fond of hearing herself praised; she thought it pleasure enough to help any one; so she changed the subject by offering Narcissa some more of the refreshing drink. She answered,-- "Not now, I thank you; but pray where do you buy this cordial?--it is so much pleasanter to me than the rich wines we have at home, which always make me sick." When Violet told how she had made the cordial herself from wild raspberries of her own picking, had pressed the juice out with her own white hands, and that the same hands had made the light biscuit she brought with it, and arranged the tasteful bouquet, and nailed up the luxuriant rosebushes, Narcissa was quite enchanted, and wished she could live as independently herself. "O," she said, "I am so tired of the noise and confusion at home, and so many new faces, such rich food. If I could live here, Violet, with you!" "Why not make me a visit? and if you are contented with my simple fare, I shall be very glad to have you stay as long as you will. We might have beautiful times together." "Are you in earnest?" asked Narcissa, eagerly. "I shall be so happy and so independent here! and I won't be in the way either, for you shall teach me to work, and I can paint, and draw, and play on the piano, and read ever so many languages. All these I will teach you." She smiled, and Violet asked why. "I was thinking that the accomplishment of which I was proudest once must be taught by some one else." "Why?" "Every one praised my dancing; but how in the world could I teach you with my wooden leg? I will learn of you to work, to help others, to find out the best things in books, and the most beautiful things every where. Why, we shall be like two fairy queens in our little cottage palace." Narcissa's father, instead of objecting to this plan, was very much pleased with it--said the change would be better than any medicine for the invalid. CHAPTER XXVI. SPRING AT THE COTTAGE. Love and Contentment waved their bright wings now; for the two friends became so fond of each other they were not contented apart. Narcissa even grew beautiful again, there was such a peaceful smile upon her face, and such an earnest, loving look within her eyes. It was a real pleasure for Violet to comfort and amuse this friend, from whom she was constantly learning some new thing. Narcissa painted beautifully, and Violet would bring her the freshest and loveliest flowers to copy; so there was hardly a blossom or a green leaf in the neighborhood, from April to November, but you could find it almost living again in their portfolio. They would watch the birds too, find out all their names, and their different notes, and how they fed and taught their young; and Violet worked in her garden more than ever now, because Narcissa's maid took care of the cottage, and kept it as neat as even its mistress wished. She had the lawn before the house enclosed in a border shaped like the half of a great ring, and this was planted full of snowdrops, which blossom quite early, you know, and are very delicate and beautiful. It was like a ring of living pearls; and when these wilted, odors began to steal towards the cottage door, which tempted Violet to look under another border thick with green leaves, and there would be more violets than you could count; so the pearl ring changed to one of emerald and amethyst. Meantime the sweetbrier by the doorway would begin to have pale green buds on its brown stems, and the honeysuckle and bitter-sweet came forth in fresh green shoots, until there were so many new, tender, fragrant leaves, and buds, and blossoms that the birds were sure to select it as the place for their nests. Narcissa loved to watch them while Violet was busy with her work. A flock of robins would settle upon the plum tree in the garden, peck at the gum, and dig insect eggs out from the bark, and then fly away towards the wood, singing all together; but soon two would steal back to the plum tree, and chirp and twitter to each other, and look at the cottage, and then at the wood, and then at the thickest boughs of the plum. Presently both would fly together towards the house, one settling on the sweetbrier, and one on the roof, and then on the chimney, and then hop along the porch, and then back both would go to have another talk in the plum tree, and then fly off to find their brothers and sisters in the wood. But sure as another morning came, back would come the birds too, looking with their little bright eyes all about the cottage, and always settling at last on that one sweetbrier branch. Then they would begin to bring straws and hair, which they wove together into a soft little nest, working away as busy and happy as birds could be, now and then going back to the plum tree, as if from a distance to admire their tiny home. Before very long, looking out of the cottage window, you might find the nest full of little cunning eggs; but you could not see these often, for the birds kept them almost constantly sheltered with their own warm breasts, waiting until the little things within should grow strong enough to break and creep out of their shells. All this time the father bird would bring the mother food--bring her ripe cherries, seeds, buds, and worms; and sometimes he would take her place, letting her fly away for a look at the woods, or a drink from the sparkling brook. But some bright morning you would hear the old birds twittering so joyfully, you might know something had come to pass; and the first time they flew away, if you looked from the window again, there would be, instead of the eggs, a little heap of the homeliest things in the world, with great eyes, and great legs and claws, and long red necks, and mouths half as large as the bodies, gaping at you--not a feather to be seen except a little down, like whiskers, about their ears. Birds grow very fast; you would be surprised to find how soon they began to fill, and more than fill, the nest, until some morning one after another would hop out among the sweetbrier stems, and show you their glossy backs and speckled breasts, while the old birds watched so proud and happy, and began teaching them to fly and to sing. One morning towards the last of May, when Violet was in the garden transplanting her forget-me-nots, and Narcissa, in the porch, sat watching her, enjoying the cool, fresh air, the new life that budded forth from every thing, and the freedom and joy of the golden orioles as they flashed in and out among the elm boughs, and twittered forth their wild and plaintive melodies, her attention was caught by a stir and fluttering in the sweetbrier, and then a song from the larch tree opposite. These sounds came from two yellow birds, a mother and her little one. The young one would go, "Twe-te-twee," timidly and sweetly, with such a tired tremble at the end; then forth poured the old bird a clear, connected strain, half repeated it, and then paused; and the little sweet voice came again, "Pee-te-wee--pee-te-wee--twee-te-wee." It was too cunning, and the old bird took up the trembling, broken strain so clearly, with such ease, "Twitter, witter, witter--wee-te-twee-te-twee--twitter, witter, witter"--"Wee-te-twee," ended the young one, with that same little tremble in the midst, the same baby sweetness, just such as in a child would make you snatch it up and kiss it--"twee-te-wee." Narcissa wondered if there could have been more exquisite music in paradise. CHAPTER XXVII. VIOLET'S SCHOLARS. Violet still had her little school of Narcissa's brothers and sisters; but she was so gentle and patient that study was never very hard to them, though the lessons might be long; and then at recess time the boys would go out and pick cherries, or apples, or plums, from the garden, bring them in on fresh green leaves, and they would all sit in the porch and have a little feast together. Saturday afternoons they would take a walk in the woods; and Violet taught them how to weave oak leaves into crowns, and to make necklaces out of dandelion stems and lilac flowers, and baskets of rushes. They always took something home to Narcissa, who could not enjoy long walks because of her lameness. One would pick up a pocket full of checkerberries, and one a handful of the young, spicy leaves; and the prettiest branch of hawthorn, the longest-stemmed violets, the largest-leaved bough of oak, were sure to go home for her. When it grew late in the year, they had such sport gathering chestnuts, hazelnuts, and shagbarks; the boys climbed the trees, and shook or beat them with long poles, and down the nuts would come rattling by baskets full. These were stored away in the cottage; for they all knew that what Violet kept for them was safe. When they came near the cottage again after one of these excursions, looking so bright, with their rosy cheeks, and flying hair, and laughing faces, Narcissa's smiling face was always at the window watching, and quickly appeared at the door to welcome them. Sometimes they all went home crowned with autumn leaves, sometimes with woodbine or ground pine, and early in spring with bloodroots, violets, or anemones. But the prettiest crown, and the rarest flower, and the juiciest bunch of berries were always for Narcissa. In stormy days, or when the ground was covered with snow, Violet still made the holidays pleasant for her scholars; they would play games and sing in the afternoon. She would teach the girls how to dress their dolls, and the boys how to make pasteboard boxes and kites, and how to put puzzles together. Then at evening they would gather around the fireplace, with Narcissa's great chair in the midst of the circle, and she or Violet would tell stories for hours together. One of these stories Narcissa liked so much that she wrote it down, and after Violet was dead,--for, like the snowdrops and wild roses, our Violet died at last,--she read it to me. I will try and remember it for you; but first I must tell what sorrow there was in the great house on the hill, and not there only, but among all the poor in the neighborhood, when Violet went to heaven. Under the elm tree they buried her, beside Mary and Reuben; and the orioles she loved to watch still hatch their young and sing sweet songs above her grave. Alfred wanted to build a great marble monument over her; for he said the whole world did not contain a better or lovelier woman. But Narcissa said,-- "No; she has built her own monument of good deeds, which will last after marble has mouldered away. Let us cover her grave with her own sweet violets, that whenever we pass we may think of _our_ Violet." Long afterwards, even to this day, when any who knew her witness a kind action, or meet one with a cheerful, hopeful spirit, and a sunny smile, they say, "It is just like Violet." So, dear children, let us try to make friends with her fairies, Love and Contentment, and let us remember that whenever the thought of her urges _us_ to be cheerful, contented, and loving, we, too, shall plant a flower on Violet's grave. VIOLET'S STORY. CHAPTER I. It was a snowy night, and the children, as we gathered around the fire, began to ask for stories. I told them a queer dream of my own, and then they insisted that Violet should give one of her fairy tales. While she was puzzling her brain for a new one, my little sister Mabel, who had climbed upon the sofa and was nestling close to her, asked,-- "What makes you love violets so much? Here even in winter time you have some in your bosom. Aren't you sweeter than these little homely things?" "Narcissa," she answered, "has told a dream, and now I will tell one. It's a kind of fairy story besides, and partly true. You must not ask any questions about the little girl, or make any guesses. Her name happened to be just like yours, Mabel." "Little girl! I thought 'twas a _dream_," said Mabel. [Illustration: MABEL'S DREAM.] "Listen, then: A little girl went out one day in search of strawberries. She went into a wide green field that was starred all over with dandelions, and clusters of wild lilies hanging like bells around their stems, and violets, and blue-eyed grass. "There was not a living being in this place except the birds, and little fishes in the brook; for through the long grass all around the field ran a stream of clearest water over a dark-brown, pebbly bed. "Rising on every side, so as to shut the field in by itself, were hills closely covered with trees and vines. Here birds sang all day long, and flowers bloomed, and nuts and berries ripened; the ground was in some places slippery with fallen pine leaves, and in others soft with a carpet of fresh moss. "It was shady in these woods, but in the field the sun shone, opened the lilies, ripened the strawberries, and made the little girl feel bright and glad, although it was so warm. "Strawberries are tiny things to pick; the little girl thought it would take a million to fill her pail; and often she longed to leave them and gather flowers, or play with the fish in the brook, or rest in the cool wood. "But she had always loved violets, just as I love them; and a gardener's wife had promised Mabel that the first time she brought a pail full of strawberries to her, she should have in return a whole bunch of these fragrant flowers. "So, stooping among the lilies, which were almost as tall as herself, and picking one by one, one by one, the bright sun pouring its heat down upon her, after a great while her pail was heaped with berries. Almost as fragrant as violets they were, too, and looked, upon their long green stems, like little drops of coral. "Mabel's work was not over now; she climbed half way up the hill, found a beautiful shady place, where the grass was long, and the roots of a great tree had coiled themselves into a seat, which was cushioned over with moss. "She threw aside her sun bonnet, and began to pick off the green hulls from her fruit, while the broad oak leaves overhead kept fanning her, and lifting the matted curls from her warm forehead. "But then came a great mosquito, and then another, and another; they would whirl around her head, buzzing and buzzing, and fly from her forehead to her nose, and from nose to hand, and hand to shoulder, and then creep into the curly hair, and buzz so close to her ear it frightened her. "Twenty times she had a mind to throw her berries into the brook and run home; but then she thought of the violets--how splendid it would be to have them all to herself; she should not give away one flower, not one, she had worked so hard for them. "Throwing the stems away lowered the contents of her pail so much that Mabel had to go out in the hot field and pick again, and then back to the wood where the mosquitoes were, and work another hour. She never had such a long, hard task before. "But the little girl travelled home at last with her pail brimful in one hand, and a splendid great bunch of lilies in the other. This last served as a parasol till she reached the gardener's gate. "Then, taking her violets, Mabel hurried home. There were more of them, and they were larger and sweeter, than she had even hoped. She hardly took her eyes from them until she reached her mother's door. "While she was placing her flowers in water, a woman came up the hot, dusty road, with a young child in her arms. She looked tired and warm, and said she had eaten nothing all day long. Mabel looked in the closet; there was plenty of bread, but she dared not give it without her mother's leave. She looked in all the rooms; but her mother was not to be found; and when the poor woman had rested a little, Mabel watched her creep out into the blazing sun again, dragging the little child after her. She could not bear to think that while she had every thing to make her happy, others must go hungry and tired; and 'Suppose it were my mother,' Mabel thought; 'I _must_ do something for her; yet I have nothing in the world to give.' "'Except the violets,' whispered something inside of Mabel's heart. Snatching them from the table, she ran after the beggar, and said,-- "'There, I gave a whole pail of strawberries for these; perhaps you can sell them for a loaf of bread.'" The poor woman looked so pleased, and thanked Mabel so heartily, that she felt the violets could never have caused her so much joy as it had done to give them away. CHAPTER II. "Not many days after these events, Mabel went again to the field where the lilies and strawberries grew, played about in the sun until she was tired, and then seated herself under a shady tree to rest, and hear the birds and rustling leaves, and watch the brook glide through the grass. "The grass about her was long, and fine, and soft as any bed; it was cool too, and Mabel, listening to the quiet murmur of the brook, fell fast asleep; but all the while she thought herself wide awake, and wondered why the sound of the rippling of water changed to something like the tread of tiny feet; and then there came the sweetest, most delicate music; and all at once--could it be?--she saw a multitude of little beings marching through the very pathway her footsteps had made in the grass, and approaching her. They were hardly taller than a grasshopper would be if he could stand up like a man, and had formed themselves into the drollest little procession. "First came the musicians; there were flute players, using each a joint of grass stem for instrument, bell ringers, jingling lilies of the valley, and trumpeters tooting through white lilac blossoms. Then came the guards, dressed in uniform, and bearing each a fern leaf for banner at once and parasol. With these leaves they shaded a group of little women, who marched along as dignified as nuns until they came to a bunch of fennel leaves that grew near Mabel's resting-place. Towards this they flew, for the tiny people had wings; they climbed the stems and clung to the feathery leaves, and then all at once, espying Mabel, trooped towards her, and ranged themselves upon a platform of plantain leaves. "They were funny little women--tall, and prim, and slim, wearing green mantles and such big purple hoods. They were more polite than some larger people, and did nothing but bow, and courtesy, and smile to Mabel, who asked them who they were and whence they came. "They shook their heads, and laughed, while the air was filled with sweetest odor. At last one said,-- "'We are flower spirits. Every year we come to earth and live in some blossom, which we fill with beauty and fragrance; but when it withers we go back to Fairyland until another spring. We have, besides our fairy queen, a queen whom we choose every year among mortals, and serve her faithfully. We have just returned from working in her service.' "'Are you not hungry?' asked Mabel. 'I have brought luncheon. Won't you eat some of my gingerbread?' "The fairies laughed again. 'We live,' they said, 'upon flower dust and dewdrops; we should not relish mortal food.' "Then they called from the attendants who lingered among the fennel leaves their steward and butler; and it was Mabel's turn to laugh when she saw how queerly they ate. "Some blossoms from the elder bush, little ivory urns, served them for goblets. These were set upon a mushroom, and some red clover blossoms were rolled around the table for seats. The little men had tried in vain to break these blossoms off; so they caught a caterpillar, whipped him along with grass blades, and made him use his teeth for a knife. Then they had caught a toad, and heaped his round back with the blossoms, which rolled off as fast as they could be picked up again; and by the time they reached their mistresses, the fairy servants were warm and red in the face as any hay makers. "The fairies grew so hungry with waiting that they even tasted a crumb of Mabel's gingerbread; but not liking this very well, they took out from among the provisions that were packed in a wild rose, the petals nicely fastened together with cobweb threads, some poppy and caraway seeds, upon which they began to gnaw with their little white teeth. "'You must have lived in violets,' said Mabel. 'Every time you shake your bonnets and laugh, the air is full of their odor. Can't you smell it?' "'Yes, for we were violets once ourselves, and all blossomed in the same garden; some of us grew from the same root, and a queer life we have led in the last few days. One hot day this very week the gardener's wife picked us in the greatest haste, and tied us together so tightly we were all but smothered for a while. The woman gave us to a little girl, who was just putting our stems in some cool water, and we half dead with thirst, when she must needs give us away to a beggar woman.' "'Why,' exclaimed Mabel, 'were you _my_ violets?' "The fairies only laughed. "'The woman held us in her hot hands until we were all but wilted, and she gave one or two of my sisters to the poor tired child that followed her through the dust.' "'What is the matter?' asked Mabel; 'your eyes are full of tears.' "'I am thinking of my sisters, whom we shall never meet again;' and the tears ran down the fairy's little cheeks. 'The child was overtired, and so warm that when they came to a resting-place, and she lay down to sleep, she never awoke again. A lady who had taken pity upon her laid the little body out for burial, and finding those few violets still clinched in the dead hand, would not remove them; so my sisters were buried in her grave, and must remain there no one knows how long; for while we live on earth we must take care of these bodies, frail flowers though they be. If we omit this, all our happiness and usefulness are gone. The kind lady who buried the beggar child bought us from the woman, all wilted as we were. In her shady parlor we soon grew refreshed, lifted our heads again, and in gratitude breathed forth odors, till the room was all perfumed. A lovely girl came to visit the lady, and said so much about our sweetness, that, to our joy, we were divided with her. She took us to her home, a splendid place, all light, and gilding, and flowers, curtains, and cushions, and velvet carpets, and marble stands. Upon one of these last we were placed, in a white Parian cup, but hardly had time to regain our breath when one of the maiden's lovers came, selected me from among the rest, and twirled me around his finger as he talked, until my stem was broken, and I all but dead. In a lucky hour he let me fall, and, lame as I was, I caught by the leg of a great fly, who whizzed me out of the window in a second, buzzing so all the while that he almost stunned me. I have just found my friends here, and have not had time to ask about their adventures.' "The little woman, tired with talking so long, sank into her seat on the plantain leaf, and taking a caraway seed from her pocket, began nibbling, while her companions finished the story. "'We have had less trouble,' they said. 'The benevolent lady took us to a dismal prison, to be sure, and we were shut up for a while with a man who had murdered another, and was waiting to be hung. He had forgotten his own mother and his early home; but when he looked at us, the past came back to him. He remembered the little garden by his father's house, and felt for a moment like an innocent boy again. From that hour he grew penitent, and he may be forgiven in consequence by God.' "'But didn't the jailer forgive him?' asked Mabel. "'No; he was hung. We belonged to no one then, so we caught our withering bodies under our arms, and flew away through the iron gratings of his cell. But, Mabel, what are you thinking about?' ended the fairy. "'Thinking,' said Mabel, 'how much better it was to give away my violets than to keep them. I little dreamed they would do so much good in the world. But, fairy, what is the name of the earthly queen you told me about?' "'Mabel,' answered all the little voices; and the fern leaf banners waved, and violet odors filled the air again, while the tiny flutes and trumpets made sweet music at the mention of their queen. "'Why, that is my name,' said the little girl. "'And you are our queen,' said the fairies. 'It is a kind and loving heart that gives one power like a fairy wand, and can win all good spirits to serve its owner. This will change selfishness into benevolence, and sin to penitence, and hatred to forgiveness; it will transform--haven't you done it?--a prison into a dewy garden, and put love and penitence into a murderer's heart. Whoever uses us to best purposes is our queen; and _this_ summer our queen is Mabel.' "Mabel reached forward to take her little subjects from the leaf; but lo, it was only a handful of violets. In her surprise, she awoke, with a dim feeling still that she had watched the little procession wind away through her foot tracks in the grass, the fern leaf banners waving over it, while mingled with violet odors came back triumphant music from the tiny flutes and timbrels. Low but clear were the fairy voices; and Mabel never forgot the words they sang, which ended,-- 'All of us, whoe'er we be, May carve us out such royalty.'" JUVENILE WORKS CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS AT CHESTNUT HILL. BY COUSIN MARY. Containing fine engravings from original Designs, and printed very neatly. It will be found to be a charming little book for a present for all seasons. LITTLE BLOSSOM'S REWARD; A CHRISTMAS BOOK FOR CHILDREN BY MRS. EMILY HARE. Beautifully Illustrated from original Designs, and a charming Presentation Book for Young People. ESTELLE'S STORIES ABOUT DOGS; Containing six beautiful Illustrations; being original Portraits from Life. BY H. TRUSTA LITTLE MARY; OR, TALKS AND TALES. This little book is charmingly illustrated, and is a very beautiful book. It is made up of short lessons, and was originally written for the practical use of children from five to ten years of age. PEEP AT "NUMBER FIVE;" Or, A CHAPTER IN THE LIFE OF A CITY PASTOR. THE TELLTALE; Or, HOME SECRETS TOLD BY OLD TRAVELLERS. THE "LAST LEAF FROM SUNNY SIDE;" BY PAUL CREYTON. FATHER BRIGHTHOPES; Or, AN OLD CLERGYMAN'S VACATION. HEARTS AND FACES; Or, HOME LIFE UNVEILED. By Francis C. Woodworth. EDITOR OF "WOODWORTH'S YOUTH'S CABINET," AUTHOR OF "THE WILLOW LANE BUDGET," "THE STRAWBERRY GIRL," "THE MILLER OF OUR VILLAGE," "THEODORE THINKER'S TALES," ETC., ETC. UNCLE FRANK'S BOYS' AND GIRLS' LIBRARY _A Beautiful Series, comprising six volumes, with eight Tinted Engravings in each volume. The following are their titles respectively_:-- I. THE PEDDLER'S BOY; or, I'll be Somebody. II. THE DIVING BELL; or, Pearls to be sought for. III. THE POOR ORGAN GRINDER, and other Stories. IV. OUR SUE: Her Motto and its Uses. V. MIKE MARBLE: His Crotchets and Oddities. VI. THE WONDERFUL LETTER BAG OF KIT CURIOUS "Woodworth is unquestionably and immeasurably the best writer for children that we know of; for he combines a sturdy common sense and varied information with a most childlike and loveful spirit, that finds its way at once to the child's heart. We regard him as one of the truest benefactors of his race; for he is as wise as he is gentle, and never uses his power over the child-heart to instil into it the poison of false teaching, or to cramp it with unlovely bigotry. The publishers have done their part, as well as the author, to make these volumes attractive. Altogether we regard them as one of the pleasantest series of juvenile books extant, both in their literary character and mechanical execution."--_Syracuse (N. Y.) Daily Standard._ 
44658	----	courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/)) HISTORY OF ORRIN PIERCE. [Illustration] WRITTEN FOR THE AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, AND REVISED BY THE COMMITTEE OF PUBLICATION. Philadelphia: AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, NO. 146 CHESTNUT STREET. _Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1847, by_ THE AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, _in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania_. ORRIN PIERCE. [Illustration] The cottage where Orrin Pierce was born stood by the side of a clear bright stream not far from the sea-shore. This cottage had a thatched roof, and was surrounded by a plain fence. Orrin's mother was very fond of flowers, and the little yard in front of the cottage was filled with many beautiful plants and shrubs; some of them were trained up about the upper window and around the door. A marten's house stood on a post one side of the cottage, where three twittering birds built their nests in safety. Everybody that passed Mrs. Pierce's house, looked at it with pleasure, and some even stopped to admire its neatness and comfortable appearance. [Illustration] [Illustration: Noah.] Mrs. Pierce was an excellent woman; she feared God and instructed her little son out of the Scriptures. Before he was old enough to read, she used to read to him about the creation of the world; and before he was four years old, he could tell a great deal of Scripture history. He knew about the temptation and fall of man; the story of Noah; the deluge; the history of Joseph; the account of the Israelites in Egypt; the plagues sent upon Pharaoh; the departure of the children of Israel out of Egypt; their journey through the wilderness, and their entrance into the promised land. He also could relate the story of Daniel; of Israel, and many other accounts from the Bible. Those who do not read the Bible are ignorant of some of the most interesting and important parts of the world's history. [Illustration] [Illustration] Sometimes Mrs. Pierce would walk out with little Orrin, and she always used to talk with him, so as to improve his mind. She would make him observe the works of God, and tell him of the wonders of Creation. Orrin was very fond of going to the sea-shore, and when he had been a good boy his mother would go there with him. He always took with him a basket to put his shells in, for there were many shells on the beach. His little dog, Dash, always went with him, and when Orrin threw a stick into the water, Dash would plunge in, and swim after it, and bring it to his little master. [Illustration] [Illustration] Often during the summer, when the evenings were mild and pleasant, she would walk in the fields with Orrin, and they would sit down to enjoy the beauty of the scene. The calm, full moon, shining above them, shed a soft light on all around. Sometimes a cloud would pass over it and hide for a moment its brightness, and they would watch for it as the cloud moved on, and it would suddenly burst upon their sight; on such occasions, Orrin used to repeat some passages of Scripture to his mother, giving thanks to God, who made the moon and stars to shine by night. [Illustration] [Illustration] Orrin loved very much to see the different animals, that are for the use of man. He liked horses and cows and dogs very much, but best of all he liked the sheep and lambs. There was a field not far from his mother's cottage where a flock of sheep were often kept. He used to watch the shepherd taking care of the sheep, and when he noticed how readily they followed him, he thought of the words of Christ, "My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me." He also remembered that this harmless animal was employed as a type of Christ, who is called "the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sin of the world." [Illustration] [Illustration] Mrs. Pierce gave her little son a place for a garden, which the gardener used to dig up for him. She gave him different seeds of plants and flowers. She bought him a shovel, a rake and a hoe, of a suitable size for a little boy. Here he used to amuse himself for hours. He had one tree in his garden which would not thrive, though he had bestowed much labour upon it, but finally he determined to remove it. Indeed the branches were many of them dead. He told his mother he was reminded of the passage in Luke xiii. 6, 9, for he had waited long for fruit, but found none, and he was going to remove the worthless tree. [Illustration] [Illustration] On a pleasant afternoon, it was very delightful to walk in Mrs. Pierce's garden. Orrin's garden spot was as neat and in quite as good order as his mother's. The roses were so fragrant, and the various colours of the numerous flowers so pleasing to the eye, that all admired who beheld them. The butterflies roamed from flower to flower undisturbed: the humming-birds and bees took their portion of the sweets, and pretty singing birds fluttered among the branches. Mrs. Pierce used often to point to the beautiful lilies, and say to Orrin, "Consider the lilies, how they grow, and remember the instruction they give." [Illustration] [Illustration] You may be sure Orrin was early taught to pray; and that he was careful never to forget or neglect this duty. He did not wait till after he was in bed, either, but kneeled down before he became sleepy, so that he might pray with the understanding. He used to pray for a new heart, so that he might love holiness and hate sin. He also prayed for the forgiveness of his sins. Sometimes he prayed when he was in the field or on his way to school, when he thought he should not be observed. He thanked God for all his mercies, but more than all for the gift of the Saviour; and when quite young, he could repeat many very pleasing verses about the love of Christ for this sinful world. [Illustration] [Illustration] One day when Orrin was on his way to the Sabbath-school, he met a boy going across a field with a kite in his hand. He did not know the boy, but he knew he was about to commit sin, so he asked him if he would not leave his kite and go to the Sabbath-school. He opened his book and showed him where the lesson was, and told him that he would be much happier in learning to keep God's commandments, than all his kite-flying could make him. The boy thought so too, and was willing to take advice, so he hid his kite behind the fence, and went with Orrin. We should try to do good to all as we have opportunity. [Illustration] [Illustration] The next day he met the same boy flying his kite. He stopped as Orrin approached him, and said, "I thought yesterday when you asked me to go to the Sabbath-school that it was a pity to give up flying my kite, because there was such a good wind, but to-day the wind is just as good, and I have had a fine time with my kite." So he lost no pleasure, but gained much good. Orrin stayed a while and played with this boy, and told him he hoped to see him again at Sunday-school; and so he did, for he continued to attend regularly from that time. [Illustration] [Illustration] Orrin's mother was almost sorry when he was too old to be kept at home under her instruction. She felt afraid that when he began to be more from her watchful care he might become more like those boys whose company she had always directed him to avoid. He was very fond of study; and his teacher soon noticed him as a boy who would be an example to the school. He was always in his place when the bell rang for nine o'clock, and his lessons were well learned. His mother was much pleased with the accounts she received from his teacher, of his good conduct. [Illustration] [Illustration] When Orrin was about fourteen years old, he met with the greatest affliction that could have been sent upon him. This was the death of his excellent mother. She was sick for a long time, and had a very good physician, but God did not see fit to restore her to health, and she was quite ready to submit to His will. Her only anxiety was for her son, and even this care she was able to commit to the Lord, who has promised to be a father to the fatherless. She talked much to Orrin, and told him that she had trained him up thus far, in the way he should go, and charged him not to depart from it. [Illustration] [Illustration] A great number of friends and neighbours followed Mrs. Pierce to the grave. She was greatly beloved by all who knew her, but none could mourn for her as her poor afflicted boy did. When he saw his mother laid in the grave, he felt as if he had not a friend on the earth. True, he had neither sister nor brother. His father died when he was an infant, and now his precious mother was taken away. But God could supply to him all that he had lost, and be to him more than all earthly friends, even one who would never leave him nor forsake him. [Illustration] [Illustration] Day after day, Orrin went to the graveyard, to visit the tomb of his beloved parent. He used to take with him the Bible, which they had so often read together, and read those passages which she delighted in. He was much comforted by these words of the Lord Jesus Christ, "I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me, though he were dead yet shall he live, and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. The hour is coming in the which all that are in their graves shall hear the voice of the Son of Man, and shall come forth; the followers of Christ to enter into heaven, and his enemies to be cast into hell." [Illustration] [Illustration] After his mother's death, Orrin went to live with a kind uncle, a brother of Mrs. Pierce, who lived a great distance off, so that Orrin went there in a ship. Then God raised up a friend for this orphan-boy. His uncle had a little daughter much younger than Orrin, whose name was Jane. As he never had a sister, it was very pleasant to have such a little companion as Jane. His aunt was very kind and affectionate to him, but no one was like his mother. Though he was very sad for a long time, he tried to overcome such feelings, and, by dutiful conduct, to show his kind uncle and aunt that he was grateful to them. [Illustration] [Illustration] Jane had not received as much instruction as Orrin had, and he was very happy to tell her some of the things he had heard from his mother. One day, he and Jane were walking in the garden, and they stopped by the bee-hives to watch the bees go out to gather their stores, and return laden with sweets. Orrin told Jane many curious facts about bees, which instructed her very much. He told her that they were always busy, and would not allow an idler to live in the hive. Orrin and Jane also attended Sunday-school together. [Illustration] [Illustration] Jane used to walk and play in her father's garden, but she did not have one of her own. Her father used to tell her she might look at the flowers, but that she must not pick them, as she would injure them. But when Orrin came he gave Jane a garden by herself in which her cousin worked, and they both kept it in order, and it was a great pleasure to her to pick flowers whenever she liked. She used often to gather a pretty nosegay for her mother. Orrin used to say when he looked at her flowers, why even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. [Illustration] [Illustration] Many boys who have been taught by pious mothers to pray to God in childhood, when they become older forsake the law of their mother. They begin to think it is well enough for children, but not needful for men; but this was not the case with Orrin. He remembered what Solomon says of a mother's counsel: "When thou goest it shall lead thee; when thou sleepest it shall keep thee; and when thou wakest it shall talk to thee." Orrin read his Bible daily, and continued to pray to the God of his mother, and he kept in mind her instructions and always tried to act as he supposed his mother would wish. [Illustration] [Illustration] From the time he was old enough to behave properly, Orrin went to Sunday-school. He was in a room where only the little scholars attended, and they were taught by a very kind lady. She taught them from Scripture-cards, and they could say and sing many beautiful little hymns. He could also answer all the questions in a simple catechism. When he could read well, he went into the larger school, and was put into a class with some boys larger than himself. Some of them did not behave as well as Orrin did. [Illustration] [Illustration] Orrin's mother loved to see her little boy play at proper times. She did not always require him to be studying, or reading books. When he went to play she was careful that his mates should be good boys who did not take the name of God in vain, or use coarse and vulgar language, or quarrel and fight. She told him always to treat his mates kindly, to be just and fair in his sports, and at all times to "do unto others as he would wish others to do unto him." She reminded him that "even a child is known by his ways," and that "cheating play never prospers." [Illustration] [Illustration] Wherever there is a library of useful books, a young person can gain a store of knowledge. Orrin was very fond of reading, and his uncle gave him the liberty of reading in his study, whenever he wished to do so. There Orrin spent many hours, gaining useful knowledge; and as he had a very good memory, he found, many years after, much use for the instruction he received in this way. Solomon says, "Get wisdom, get understanding, take fast hold of instruction, let her not go, keep her, for she is thy life." [Illustration] [Illustration] Those who have read the history of this good boy, will like to hear something of him as a man. He became not only a respectable, but a useful and pious man. He was a kind friend; he warned and reproved those he found doing wrong. When a man, he was as fearless in reproving sin as he was when a boy. If he saw a young man profaning the Sabbath day, he kindly warned him of his evil way and would invite him to go with him to the house of God. His example was, also, a silent teacher of all. [Illustration] [Illustration] You will not be surprised to hear that Orrin became a Sunday-school teacher, nor that he knew how to teach in a way to profit his scholars. They all loved him very much, and never were absent from school unless they were sick. Here he is, just returning from Sunday-school. Two of his scholars are with him; they have their library-books in their hands. How orderly they walk by his side, talking with him about the lesson. It is a great blessing to have such a teacher. [Illustration] [Illustration] This picture may remind us of Orrin, for we may think of him as walking by the water-side with a friend. Perhaps he is speaking of the occupation of Christ's disciples, when he called them to preach the gospel. They left their ships and followed him. He is pointing to the church amid the trees, and says "I too would preach the gospel." No doubt he would make a useful minister of the gospel, for from his youth he has known the Scriptures, which are able to make him wise unto salvation. He may be thinking of Christ's words, Go ye unto all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature. [Illustration] [Illustration] After much thought upon the subject, and having taken the advice of friends, Orrin determined to be a missionary. He went to bid farewell to the scenes of his childhood. He visited the cottage where he was born. He stood by the sea-side, where he had gathered shells, and listened to his mother's instructions; he walked in the fields where he had seen the lambs. And as he stood thinking over his days of childhood tears fell from his eyes, but they were tears of gratitude to God, for having given him a mother who taught him to love the service of God. [Illustration] [Illustration] He at length goes to make known the way of salvation to those who never heard of a Saviour; to poor ignorant pagans, who worship idols, the work of their own hands. Many, like him, have gone to tell the perishing heathen of Jesus, who is the way, the truth, and the life. May all such reap a rich reward, and turn many to righteousness. May God incline the heathen to cast away their senseless idols, which have eyes that see not, and ears that hear not, and enter upon the service of Him who is worthy of all their love. [Illustration] 
21042	----	Roger Ingleton, Minor By Talbot Baines Reed ________________________________________________________________________ You would expect this book with its schoolish title, and by one of the most distinguished authors of books about school-life, to be another such book. But it isn't, and in fact it is much more of an adult's book than a child's. Old squire Roger Ingleton dies in the first few pages of the book, and we are left with two more Roger Ingletons. The first of these had had a row with his family twenty years before, had stormed out, had then led a dissipated life, and finally had been reported dead somewhere in India. The third one is the eponymous hero of the book. He is handed a sealed envelope left by his deceased father, and in it the father says that he is not at all sure that the older son is really dead. So young Roger goes looking for his older brother, who will of course then inherit all the property. Honest and generous, we must say! The book takes us through all sorts of twists, and is really very good value. We recommend that you read it or listen to it, as it is well worth the trouble. NH. ________________________________________________________________________ ROGER INGLETON, MINOR BY TALBOT BAINES REED CHAPTER ONE. A SUMMONS. The snow lay thick round Maxfield Manor. Though it had been falling scarcely an hour, it had already transfigured the dull old place from a gloomy pile of black and grey into a gleaming vision of white. It lodged in deep piles in the angles of the rugged gables, and swirled up in heavy drifts against the hall-door. It sat heavily on the broad ivy- leaves over the porch, and blotted out lawn, path, and flowerbed in a universal pall of white velvet. The wind-flattened oaks in the park were become tables of snow; and away over the down, to the edge of the cliff itself, the dazzling canopy stretched, making the gulls as they skimmed its surface in troubled flight appear dingy, and the uneasy ocean beyond more than ever grey and leaden. And the snow was falling still, and promised to make a night of it. At least so thought one of the inmates of the manor-house as he got up from his music-stool and casually looked out of the fast-darkening window, thanking his stars that it mattered little to him, in his cosy bachelor- den, whether it went on a night or a fortnight. This complacent individual was a man at whom one would be disposed to look twice before coming to any definite conclusion respecting him. At the first glance you might put him down for twenty-five; at the second, you would wonder whether you had possibly made a slight miscalculation of twenty years. His keen eyes, his smooth face, his athletic figure, his somewhat dandified dress were all in favour of the young man. The double line across his brow, the enigmas about his lips, the imperturbable gravity of his features bespoke the elder. Handsome he was not--he was hardly good-looking, and the nervous twitch of his eyebrow as it came down over his single eye-glass constantly disfigured him. What was his temper, his character, his soul, you might sit for a month before him and never discover. But from his deep massive chest, his long arms, his lithe step, and the poise of his head upon his broad shoulders, you would probably conclude that his enemy, if he had one, would do well not to frequent the same dark lane as Mr Frank Armstrong. This afternoon, as he draws his curtain and lights his lamp, he is passably content with himself and the world; for he has just discovered a new volume of Schumann that takes his fancy. He has no quarrel, therefore, with the snow, except that by its sudden arrival it will probably hold his promising pupil, Master Roger, prisoner for the night at Castleridge, where he and his mother have driven for dinner. The tutor has sufficient interest in his work to make him regret this interruption of his duties, but for the present he will console himself with Schumann. So he returns to his music-stool--the one spot in creation where he allows that he can be really happy--and loses himself in a maze of sweet sound. So engrossed is he in his congenial occupation, that he is quite unaware of the door behind him opening and a voice saying-- "Beg pardon, sir, but the master wants you." Raffles, the page-boy, who happened to be the messenger, was obliged to deliver his summons three times--the last time with the accompaniment of a tap on the tutor's shoulder--before that _virtuoso_ swung round on his stool and demanded-- "What is it, Raffles?" "Please, sir, the master wants you hinstanter." Mr Armstrong was inclined to compliment Raffles on his Latin, but on second thoughts (the tutor's second thoughts murdered a great number of his good sayings) he considered that neither the page nor himself would be much better for the jest, and spared himself. He nodded to the messenger to go, and closing the piano, screwed his eye-glass in his eye, ready to depart. "Please, sir," said Raffles at the door, "the governor he's dicky to- day. You'd best have your heye on 'im." "Thank you, Raffles; I will," said the tutor, going out. He paced the long passage which led from his quarters to the oak hall, whistling _sotto voce_ a bar or two of the Schumann as he went; then his manner became sombre as he crossed the polished boards and entered the passage beyond which led to his employer's library. Old Roger Ingleton was sitting in the almost dark room, staring fixedly into the fire. There was little light except that of the flickering embers in his dim, worn face. Though not yet seventy, his spare form was bent into the body of an old, old man, and the hands, which feebly tapped the arms of the chair on which they rested, were the worn-out members of a man long past his work. He saw little and heard less; nor was he ever to be met outside the confines of his library, or, in summer weather, the sunny balcony on to which it opened. Only when he talked were you able to realise that this worn-out body did not belong to a Tithonus, but to a man whose inward faculties were still alert and vigorous, whatever might be said of his outward failure. Could he but have been accommodated with the physical frame of a man of fifty, he had spirit enough to fill it, and become once more what he was twenty years ago, a complete man. "Sit down, Armstrong," said he, when presently his dim eyes and ears became aware of the tutor's presence. "There's no need to light the lamp, and you need not trouble to talk, for I should not be able to hear you." The tutor shook the eye-glass out of his eye, and seated himself at a corner of the hearth in silence. Mr Ingleton, having thus prepared his audience, looked silently into the fire for another half-hour, until the room was dark, and all the tutor could see was a wan hand fidgeting uneasily on the arm of the chair. Then with a weary effort the Squire turned his head and began, as if continuing a conversation. "I have not been unobservant, Armstrong. You came at a time when Roger needed a friend. So far you have done well by him, and I am content with my choice of a tutor. What contents me more is to think you are not yet tired of your charge. I rather envy you, Armstrong. I came to grief where you succeeded. I once flattered myself I could bring up a boy--he happened to be my son, too--but--" Here the old man resumed his gaze into the fire, and the room was as silent as the grave for a quarter of an hour. The tutor began to be uneasy. Perhaps he had yearnings for his piano and Schumann. For all that, he sat like a statue and waited. At last the Squire moved again. "I dreaded a repetition of that, Armstrong. Had he lived--" Here he stopped again abruptly. The tutor waited patiently for five minutes and then screwed his eye- glass into his eye. As he did so, the old man uttered a sound very like a snore. Mr Armstrong gave an imperceptible shrug of his shoulders and inwardly meditated a retreat, when the sound came through the darkness again. There was something in it which brought the tutor suddenly to his feet. He struck a match and hastily lit a candle. Squire Ingleton sat there just as he had sat an hour ago when the tutor found him, except that the hand on the chair-arm was quiet, and his chin sunk a little deeper in his chest. The tutor passed the candle before the old man's face, and then, scarcely less pallid than his master, rang the bell. "Raffles," said he, as the page entered, "come here, quick. The Squire is ill." "I said he was dicky," gasped the boy. "I knowed it whenever--" "Hold your tongue, sir, and help me lift him to the sofa." Between them they moved the stricken man to the couch, where he lay open-eyed, speechless, appealing. "We must get Dr Brandram, Raffles." "That'll puzzle you," said the boy, "a night like this, and the two 'orses at Castleridge." "Is there any chance of your mistress returning to-night?" "Not if Tom Robbins knows it. He's mighty tender of his 'orses, and a night like this--" "Go and fetch the housekeeper at once," said the tutor. Raffles vanished. Mr Armstrong was not the man to lose his head on an emergency, but now, as he bent over the helpless paralytic, and tried to read his wants in the eyes that looked up into his, he found it needed a mighty effort to pull himself together and resolve how to act. He must go for the doctor, five miles away. There was no one else about the place who could cover the ground as quickly. But if he went, he must leave the sufferer to the tender mercies of Raffles and the housekeeper--a prospect at which Mr Armstrong shuddered; especially when the latter self-important functionary entered, talking at large, and proposing half a dozen contradictory specifics in the short passage from the door to the sick-couch. Mr Armstrong only delayed to suggest meekly that his impression was that a warm bath would, under the circumstances, be of benefit, and then, not waiting for the contemptuous "Much you know about it" which the suggestion evoked, he set off. It was no light task on a night like this to plough through the snow for five miles in search of help, and the lanes to Yeld were, even in open weather, none of the easiest. But the tutor was not the kind of man to trouble himself about difficulties of that sort, provided only he could find the doctor in, and transport him in a reasonable time to Maxfield. As he passed the stables, he glanced within, on the off-chance of finding a horse available. But the place was empty, and not even a stable-boy could be made to hear his summons. So he tramped out into the road, where the snow lay a foot deep, and with long strides carved his way through it towards Yeld. Half a mile on he overtook a country cart, heavily laden and stuck fast in the snow. "Ah! Hodder," said he to the nonplussed old man in charge, "you may as well give it up." "So I are without your telling," growled the countryman. "Very well; I want your horse for a couple of hours. The Squire's ill, and I have to fetch the doctor." And without another word, and heedless of the ejaculations of the bewildered Hodder, he began to loose the animal's girths. "I'm blamed if you have a hair of him," said the yokel. "I don't want one. Here!" and he pitched him a half-crown. The man gaped stupidly at the unharnessing of his beast, and began to pump up for another protest. But before the words were ready, Mr Armstrong had led the horse out of the shafts and had vaulted on his bare back. "Eh," sputtered Hodder, "may I--" "Good-bye and thanks," said the tutor, clapping his heels to the animal's flanks; "you shall have him back safe." And he plunged away, leaving the gaping son of the soil, with his half- crown in his hand, to the laborious task of hoisting his lower jaw back into its normal position. Dr Brandram, in whose medical preserves Maxfield Manor lay, was solacing himself with an after-dinner pipe in his little cottage at Yeld, when the tutor, crusted in snow from head to foot, broke unceremoniously on his privacy. An intuition told the doctor what was the matter before even his visitor could say-- "The Squire has had a stroke. Come at once." The doctor put down his pipe, and, with a sigh, kicked off his cosy slippers. "He has chosen a bad night, Armstrong. How are the roads?" "A foot deep. Shall you drive or ride?" "I never ride." "You'll need both horses to get through, and I can lend you a spent third." "Thank you. How did he look?" "He knew what had happened, I think, but could not speak or move." "Of course. Suppose you and I do the latter, and postpone the former till we are under weigh." In less than ten minutes, the doctor's gig was trundling through the snow, with three horses to drag it, and Mr Armstrong in charge of the reins. "Yes," said the doctor, "he's been leading up to this for a long time, as you have probably observed." "I can't say I have," said Mr Armstrong. "Ah! well, you've only known him a year. I knew him twenty years ago." "Ah!" replied the tutor, chirruping encouragement to the horses. "Roger Ingleton's life twenty years ago was a life to make an insurance company cheerful," said the doctor. "What changed it?" "He had a scape-grace son. They fell out--there was a furious quarrel-- and one day the father and son--ugh!--fought, with clenched fists, sir, like two--two costermongers!--and the boy did not get the best of it. He left home, and no wonder, and was never heard of since. Faugh! it was a sickening business." "That explains what he was saying this afternoon about a son he had once. He was telling me about it when he was struck." "Ay! that blow has been owing him for twenty years. It is the last round of the fight, Armstrong. But," continued he, "this is all a secret. No one knows it at Maxfield. I doubt if your pupil so much as imagines he ever had a brother." "He has never mentioned it to me," said the tutor. "No need that he should know," said the doctor. "Let the dead bury his dead." "Is he dead, then?" "Before the Squire married again," said the doctor, "the poor boy went straight to the dogs, and they made an end of him. There! let's talk of something else. I don't know why I tell you what has never passed my lips for twenty years." "I wish you hadn't," said Mr Armstrong shortly, whipping up his horses. The two men remained silent during most of that cold, laborious journey. The doctor's few attempts at conversation fell flat, and he took refuge finally in his pipe. As for the tutor, he had his hands full, steering his team between the lane-side ditches, and thinking of the wrecked life that lay waiting at the journey's end. It was nearly ten o'clock before the dim lights of Maxfield Manor showed ahead. The snow on the home-drive was undisturbed by the wheels of any other vehicle. The mother and son had not returned, at any rate, yet. As the two men entered, the hall was full of scared domestics, talking in undertones, and feeding on the occasional bulletin which the privileged Raffles was permitted to carry from the sick-room to the outer world. At the sight of the doctor and Mr Armstrong, they sneaked off grudgingly to their own territories, leaving Raffles to escort the gentlemen to the scene of the tragedy. Old Roger Ingleton lay on the sofa, with eyes half-closed, upturned to the ceiling; alive still, but no more. Cups and wine-glasses on the table near told of the housekeeper's fruitless experiments at restoration, and the inflamed countenance of that ministering angel herself spoke ominously of the four hours during which the sufferer's comfort had been under her charge. The tutor, after satisfying himself that his mission had not been too late, retired to the fireplace, where he leaned dismally, and watched through his eye-glass the doctor's examination. After a few minutes, the latter walked across to him. "Did you say Mrs Ingleton and the boy will not be back till the morning?" "Probably not." "If so, they will be too late; he will not last the night." "I will fetch them," said Mr Armstrong quietly. "Good fellow! you are having a night of it. I shall remain here; so you can take whichever of my horses you like. The mare will go best." "Thanks!" said the tutor, pulling himself together for this new task. Before he quitted the room, he stepped up to the couch and bent for a moment over the helpless form of his employer. There was no recognition in the glazed eyes, and the hand, which he just touched with his own, was nerveless and dead already. With a silent nod to the doctor Mr Armstrong left the room, and was presently once more ploughing on horseback through the deep snow. It was well this man was a man of iron and master of himself, or he might have flagged under this new effort, with the distressing prospect awaiting him at his journey's end. As it was, he urged doggedly forward, forgetful of the existence of such an individual as Frank Armstrong, and dwelling only on the dying man behind and the mourners ahead. The clock was chiming one in Castleridge Church when at length he reined up his spent horse at the stable entrance to the Grange. Here for a weary quarter of an hour he rang, called, and whistled before the glimmer of a lantern gave promise of an answer. To the stable-boy's not altogether polite inquiry, Mr Armstrong replied, "Mr Ingleton of Maxfield is ill. Call Robbins, and tell him to put the horses in immediately, to take his mistress and Mr Roger home; and get some one in the house to call them. Don't delay an instant." This peremptory speech fairly aroused the sleepy stable-boy, and in a few minutes Mr Armstrong was standing in the hall of the Grange talking to a footman. "Take me up to his room," said he, pushing the bewildered servant before him up the staircase. The man, not at all sure that he was not in the grip of an armed burglar, ascended the stair in a maze, not daring to look behind him. At the end of a corridor he stopped. "Is that the room? Give me the lamp! Go and tell your master to get up. Say a messenger has come with bad news from Maxfield; and look here--put some wraps in the carriage, and have some coffee or wine ready in the hall in ten minutes." The fellow, greatly reassured by this short parley, went off to fulfil his instructions, while the tutor, with what was very like a sigh, opened the door and entered his pupil's bedroom. Roger Ingleton, minor, lay sound asleep, with his arms behind his head and a smile on his resolute lips. As the light of the lamp fell on his face, it looked very pale, with its frame of black curly hair and the deep fringe of its long eyelashes; but the finely-chiselled nostrils and firm mouth redeemed it from all suspicion of weakness. Even as he slept you might judge this lad of nineteen had a will of his own hidden up in the delicate framework of his body, and resembled his father at least in this, that his outer man was too narrow a tenement for what it contained. Almost at the first flash of the light his big black eyes opened, and he started to a sitting posture, bewildered, scared. "Oh! why, hullo, Armstrong! what's the matter?" "I'm sorry to disturb you, Roger, but--" The boy bounded out of bed and stood facing his tutor in his night- dress. "But I want you to dress as sharp as you can. Your father is unwell." "Unwell?" repeated the boy, shivering. "You do not mean he is dead?" "No--no; but ill. He has had a stroke. Dr Brandram is with him. I thought it better not to wait till the morning before fetching you." "Mother--does she know?" "By this time." "Why ever did we not go back?" groaned the boy. "Is there _any_ hope, Armstrong?" "Some--yes. Go to your mother and tell her so. The carriage will be ready in five minutes." In five minutes the boy and his mother descended to the hall, where already their host and hostess were down to bid them farewell. It was difficult to imagine that the slender dark-eyed handsome woman, who stood there and looked round for a moment so white and trembling and bewildered, was really the mother of the young man on whose arm she leant. Even under a blow such as this Mrs Ingleton belied her age by a decade. She was still on the sunny side of forty. You and I might have doubted if she was yet thirty. Captain Curtice and his wife had the true kindness to attempt no words as they sympathisingly bade their visitors farewell. When the hall-door opened and let in the cold blast, the poor lady staggered a moment and clung closer to her son's side. Then abandoning composure to the wintry winds, she found her best refuge in tears, and let herself be led to the carriage. The tutor helped to put her in, and looked inquiringly at his pupil. "Come in too, please," said the latter; "there is room inside." Mr Armstrong would fain have taken his seat beside Robbins on the box. He hated scenes, and tears, and tragedies of all sorts. But there was something in his pupil's voice which touched him. He took his place within, and prayed that the moments might fly till they reached Maxfield. Scarcely a word was spoken. Once Roger hazarded a question, but it was the signal for a new outburst on his mother's part; and he wisely desisted, and leant back in his corner, silent and motionless. As for the tutor, with the front seat to himself, he nursed his knee, and gazed fixedly out of the window the whole way. What weeks those two hours seemed! How the horses laboured, and panted, and halted! And how interminably dismal was the dull muffled crunching of the wheels through the snow! At length a blurred light passed the window, and the tutor released his knee and put up his eye-glass. "Here we are," said he; "that was the lodge." Roger slowly and reluctantly sat forward, and wrapped his mother's shawl closer round her. Raffles stood on the door-step, and in the hall beyond Mr Armstrong could see the doctor standing. As he stepped out, the page touched him on the arm. "No 'urry," whispered he; "all over!" Whereupon the tutor quietly crept away to the seclusion of his own room. CHAPTER TWO. THE LIVING AMONG THE DEAD. The household of Maxfield, worn-out by the excitement of the night, slept, or rather lay in bed, till hard on midday. The tutor, as he slowly turned on his side and caught sight of the winter sun through the frost-bespangled window, felt profoundly disinclined to rise. He shrank from the tasks that awaited him--the task of witnessing the grief of the widow and the pale looks of the orphan heir, the dismal negotiations with undertakers and clergymen and lawyers, the stupid questions of the domestics, the sickly fragrance of stephanotis in the house. Then, too, there was the awkward uncertainty as to his own future. What effect would the tragedy of last night have on that? Was it a notice to quit, or what? He should be sorry to go. He liked the place, he liked his pupil, and further, he had nowhere else to go. Altogether Mr Armstrong felt very reluctant to exchange his easy bed for the chances and changes of the waking world. Besides, lastly, the water in his bath, he could see, was frozen; and it was hopeless on a day like this to expect that Raffles would bring him sufficient hot, even to shave with. However, the tutor had had some little practice before now in doing what he did not like. With a sigh and a shiver, therefore, he flung aside his blankets and proceeded to break the ice literally, and take his bath. After that he felt decidedly better, and with the help of a steady ten minutes grind at the dumb-bells, he succeeded in pulling himself together. He had reached this stage in his toilet when a knock came at the door. "Come in, Raffles," said Mr Armstrong, beginning to see some prospect of a shave after all. It was not Raffles, but Dr Brandram, equipped for the road. "I'm off, Armstrong," said he. "I'd ask you to come and drive me, only I think you are wanted here. See the boy eats enough and doesn't mope. You must amuse him if you can. You understand what I told you last night was not for him. By the way,"--here the doctor held out a sealed packet--"this was lying on the old man's table last night. It was probably to give it to you that he sent for you in the afternoon, and then forgot it. Well, good-bye. I shall come to-morrow if the roads are passable. I only hope, for my sake, all this will not make any difference to your remaining at Maxfield." Mr Armstrong finished his toilet leisurely, and then proceeded to examine the packet. It was a large envelope, addressed, "Frank Armstrong, Esquire," in the old man's quavering hand. Within was another envelope, firmly sealed, on which the same hand had written these words-- "_To be given unopened into the hands of Roger Ingleton, junior, on his twentieth birthday_." The effort of writing those few words had evidently been almost more than the writer could accomplish, for towards the end the letters became almost illegible, and the words were huddled in a heap at the corner of the paper. The sealing, too, to judge from the straggling blots of wax all over and the ineffective marks of the seal, must have been the labour of a painful morning to the feeble, half-blind old man. To the tutor, however, as he held the missive in his hand, and looked at it with the reverence one feels for a token from the dead, it seemed to make one or two things tolerably clear. First, that the contents, whatever they were, were secret and important, else the old man would never have taken upon himself a labour he could so easily have devolved upon another. Secondly, that this old man, rightly or wrongly, regarded Frank Armstrong as a man to be trusted, and contemplated that a year hence he would occupy the same position with regard to the heir of Maxfield as he did now. Having arrived at which conclusions, the tutor returned the packet to its outer envelope and locked the whole up in his desk. Which done, he descended to the breakfast-room. As he had expected, no one was there. What was worse, there was no sign either of fire or breakfast. To a man who has not tasted food for about twenty hours, such a discovery could not fail to be depressing, and Mr Armstrong meekly decided to summon Raffles to his assistance. As he passed down the passage, he could not forbear halting for a moment at the door of a certain room, behind which he knew the mortal remains of his dead employer lay. As he paused, not liking to enter, liking still less to pass on, the sound of footsteps within startled him. It was not difficult, after a moment's reflection, to guess to whom they belonged, and the tutor softly tapped on the door. The only answer was the abrupt halting of the footsteps. Mr Armstrong entered and found his pupil. Roger was standing in the ulster he had worn last night. His eyes were black and heavy with weariness, his face was almost as white as the face of him who lay on the couch, and as he turned to the open door his teeth chattered with cold. "I couldn't leave him alone," whispered he apologetically, as the tutor laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Of course--of course," replied Mr Armstrong. "I guessed it was you. Would you rather be left alone?" "No," said the lad wearily. "I thought by staying here I should get some help--some--I don't know what, Armstrong. But instead, I'm half asleep. I've been yawning and shivering, and forgotten who was here-- and--" Here his eyes filled with tears. "Dear old fellow," said the tutor, "you are fagged out. Come and get a little rest." Roger sighed, partly to feel himself beaten, partly at the prospect of rest. "All right!" said he. "I'm ashamed you should see me so weak when I wanted to be strong. Yes, I'll come--in one minute." He walked over to the couch and knelt beside it. His worn-out body had succumbed at last to the misery against which it had battled so long, and for a moment he yielded himself to his sorrow. The tutor waited a moment, and then walked quietly from the room. For a quarter of an hour he paced restlessly in the cold passage outside; then, as his pupil did not appear, he returned to the chamber of death. Roger Ingleton, as he expected, had fallen asleep where he knelt. The wretched days between the death and the funeral dragged on in the usual dismal fashion. Mrs Ingleton kept her room; the domestics took the occasion to neglect their work, and Roger Ingleton, minor, passed through all the stages from inconsolable misery to subdued cheerfulness. Mr Armstrong alone went through no stages, but remained the same unimpassioned individual he had been ever since he became a member of the Maxfield household. "Armstrong," said the boy, the day before the funeral, "do you know, I'm the only male Ingleton left?" "I didn't know it. Have you no uncles or cousins?" "None on our side. Some distant cousins on, mother's side, but they're abroad. We were going over the lot yesterday, mother and I; but we couldn't scrape up a single relation to come to-morrow. We shall have to get you and Brandram and fathers solicitor to come to the funeral, if you don't mind." "Of course I shall come," said Mr Armstrong. "And, by the way, it seems rather queer, doesn't it, that I shall have charge of all this big property, and, I suppose, be master of all the people about the place." "Naturally. Amongst your humble and obedient servants the present tutor of Maxfield will need to be included." "Oh, you!" said Roger, smiling; "yes, you'll need to look out how you behave, you know, or I shall have to terminate our engagement. Isn't it queer?" Queer as it was, the tutor winced at the jest, and screwed his eye-glass a little deeper into his eye. "Seriously, though," said Roger, "I'm awfully glad I've got you here to advise me. I want to do things well about the place, and keep square with the tenants, and improve a great many things. I noticed a whole lot of cottages to-day that want rebuilding. And I think I ought to build a club-room for the young fellows in the village, and give a new lifeboat to replace the `Vega,' What do you think?" "I'll tell you this time to-morrow. Meanwhile what do you say to a ride before dark? It would do you good." They had a long trot through the lanes and along the shore, ending with a canter over the downs, which landed the heir of Maxfield at home with a glow in his cheeks and an appetite such as he had not known for a week. Next day the funeral took place in the family vault at the little churchyard of Yeld. The villagers, as in duty bound, flocked to pay their last respects to the old Squire, whose face for the last twenty years they had scarcely seen, and of whose existence, save on rent-day, many of them had been well-nigh ignorant. Many an eye turned curiously to the slim, pale boy, as he stood alone, the last of his house, at the open tomb; and many a speculation as to his temper and prospects occupied minds which were supposed to be intent on the solemn words of the Burial Service. Roger himself, with that waywardness of the attention which afflicts us even in the gravest acts of our life, found himself listening to the words in a sort of dream, while his mind was occupied in reading over to himself the names of his ancestors inscribed on the panels of the vault. "John Ingleton of Maxfield Manor, who died ye ninth day of June, 1760, aetat 74. "Peter Ingleton of Maxfield Manor, his son, obiit March 6, 1794. "Paul Ingleton, only son of above Peter; born January 1, 1790, died September 20, 1844. "Ruth, beloved wife of Roger Ingleton, Esquire, of Maxfield Manor, who died on February 14, 1865, aged 37." Now a new inscription would be added. "Roger Ingleton, son of the above-named Paul Ingleton, who died January 10, 1885." And when that was added, there would yet be space for another name below. Roger shuddered a little, and brought his mind back with an effort to the solemn act which was taking place. The clergyman's voice ceased, and the fatherless lad stooped to get a last view of the flower-covered coffin. Then, with a heart lonelier than he had ever known it before, he turned away. The people fell back and made a silent lane for him to pass. "Poor lad," said a country wife, as she looked after him, "pity knows, he'll be this way again before long." "Hold thy tongue," said another; "thee'd look white and shaky if thee was the only man of thy name left on earth--eh, Uncle Hodder?" "Let un go," said the venerable proprietor of the tutor's borrowed horse last week, "let 'un go. The Ingletons was all weaklings, but they held out to nigh on threescore and ten years. All bar the best of them-- there was naught weak about him, yet he dropped off in blossom-time." "Ay, ay, poor lad," said the elder of the women in a whisper, "pity of the boy. He'd have taken the load on his shoulders to-day better than yonder white child." "Hold thy tongue and come and take thy look at the old Squire's last lying-place." Roger overheard none of their talk, but wandered on, lonely, but angry with himself for feeling as unemotional as he did. He told the coachman he would walk home, and started along the half-thawed lanes, hoping that the five miles solitary walk would help to bring him into a frame of mind more appropriate to the occasion. But try as he would, his mind wandered; first to his mother; then to Maxfield and the villagers; then to his pet schemes for a model village; then to Armstrong and his studies; then to a certain pair of foils that hung in his room; then to the possibility of a yacht next summer; then to the county festivities next winter, with perhaps a ball at Maxfield; then to his approaching majority, and all the delights of unfettered manhood; then-- He had got so far at the end of a mile, when he heard steps tramping through the mud behind him. It was Mr Armstrong. The boy's first impulse was to put on an air of dejection he was far from feeling; but his honesty came to his rescue in time. "Hullo, Armstrong! I'm so glad it's you. You'll never guess what I was thinking about when I heard you?" "About being elected M.P. for the county?" asked the tutor gravely. "How did you guess that? I tried to think about other things, you know, but--" "Luckily you chose to be natural instead. Well, I hope you'll be elected, when the time comes." The two beguiled their walk in talk which, if not exactly what might have been expected of mourners, at least served to restore the boy's highly-strung mind to its proper tone, and to make the aspect of things in general brighter for him than it had been when he started so dismally from the graveyard. "Now," said he, with a sigh, as they entered the house, "now comes the awful business of reading the will. Pottinger is sure to make an occasion of it. It would be worth your while to be present to hear him perform." "Thanks!" said the tutor; "I'll look to you for a full account of the ceremony by and by. I'll accompany it to slow music upstairs." But as it happened, Mr Armstrong was not permitted to escape, as he had fondly hoped, to his piano. Raffles followed him presently to his room and said-- "Please, sir, Mr Pottinger sends his compliments, and will be glad if you will step down to the library, sir." Mr Armstrong scowled. "What does he want?" he muttered. "He wants a gentleman or two to say 'ear, 'ear, I fancy," said the page, with a grin. Mr Armstrong gave a melancholy glance at his piano, and screwed his glass in his eye aggressively. "All right, Raffles; you can go." "What does the old idiot want with me, I wonder," said he to himself, "unless it's to give me a month's notice, and tell me I may clear out? Heigho! I hope not." With which pleasant misgivings, he strolled down-stairs. In the library was assembled a small but select audience to do Mr Pottinger, the Yeld attorney, honour. The widow was there, looking pale but charming in her deep mourning and tasteful cap. Roger was there, restless, impatient, and a little angry at all the fuss. Dr Brandram and the Rector were there, resigned, as men who had been through ceremonies of the kind before. And a deputation of dead-servants sat on chairs near the door, gratified to be included in the party, and mentally going over their services to the testator, and appraising them in anticipation. "We were waiting for you, Mr Armstrong," said the attorney severely, as the tutor entered. Mr Armstrong looked not at all well pleased to be thus accosted, and walked to a seat in the bay-window behind Mr Pottinger. The man of the law put on his glasses, took a sip of water from a tumbler he had had brought in, blew his nose, and glancing round on his audience with all the enjoyment of a man who feels himself master of the situation, began to make a little speech. There was first a little condescending preamble concerning the virtues of the deceased, which every one but Roger listened to respectfully. The son felt it as much as he could put up with to sit still and hear it, and began to fidget ominously, and greatly to the disturbance of the speaker. When Mr Pottinger, after a few reproachful pauses, left this topic and began to discourse on his own relations with the late Squire, it was the turn of Dr Brandram to become restless. "This is not the occasion for dwelling on the gratification I received from--" Here the doctor deliberately rose and walked across the room for a footstool, which, as deliberately, he walked back with and laid at the feet of Mrs Ingleton. "Beg pardon--go on," said he, meeting the astonished eye of the attorney. "The gratification I received from the kind expressions--" Here a large coal inconsiderately fell out of the fire with a loud clamour. Raffles, with considerable commotion, came from his seat and proceeded to restore it to its lost estate. Mr Pottinger took his glasses from his nose and regarded the performance with such abject distress, that Roger, catching sight of his face, involuntarily smiled. "Really," exclaimed the now thoroughly offended friend of the family, "really, my boy, on an occasion such as this--" Here the Rector, to every one's relief, came gallantly to the rescue. "This is very tedious, Mr Pottinger," said he. "The friends here, I am sure, will prefer that you should omit all these useless preliminaries, and come to the business at once. Let me read the document for you; my eyes are younger than yours." At this terrific act of insubordination, and the almost blasphemous suggestion which capped it, the lawyer fell back in his chair and broke out into a profuse perspiration, gazing at the Rector as he would at some suddenly intruding wild animal. Then, with a gasp, taking in the peril of the whole situation, he hastily took up the will and plunged into it. It was a long, tedious document, hard to understand; and when it was ended, no one exactly grasped its purport. Then came the moment of Mr Pottinger's revenge. The party was at his mercy after all. "What does it all amount to?" said the doctor, interpreting the perplexed looks of the company. "I had better perhaps explain it in simple words," said the attorney condescendingly, "if you will give me your attention." You might have heard a pin drop now. "Briefly, the provisions of our dear friend's will are these. Proper provision is made for the support in comfort of the widow during her life. Legacies are also left, as you have heard, to certain friends, servants, and charities. The whole of the remaining property, which it is my impression will be found to be very considerable, is left in trust for the testator's only son, Roger, our young friend here, who is to receive it absolutely on reaching the age of twenty-one. The conditions of the trust are a trifle peculiar. There are three trustees, who are also guardians of the heir. The first is Mrs Ingleton, the widow; the second is Edward Oliphant, Esquire, of Her Majesty's Indian Army, second cousin, I understand, of Mrs Ingleton, and, in the event (which I trust is not likely) of the death of our young friend here, heir-presumptive to the property. His trusteeship is dependent on his coming to this country and assuming the duties of guardian to the heir, and provision is made accordingly. The third trustee and guardian is Mr Frank Armstrong, who is entitled to act so long as he holds his present post of tutor to the heir, which post he will retain only during Mrs Ingleton's pleasure. It is also provided that, in the event of any difference of opinion among the trustees, Mrs Ingleton (as is most proper) shall be permitted to decide; and lastly--a curious eccentricity on our dear friend's part, which was perhaps hardly necessary to insert--in the event of Roger Ingleton, previous to his attaining his majority, becoming a felon, a lunatic, or marrying, he is to be regarded as dead, and the property thereby passes to the next heir, Captain Oliphant. I think we may congratulate ourselves on what is really a very simple will, and which, provided the trustees named consent to act, presents very little difficulty. I have telegraphed already to Captain Oliphant. Mr Armstrong, will you do me the favour, at your convenience, of intimating to me your consent or otherwise?" Mr Armstrong made no response. It was indeed doubtful whether he had heard the question. For at that precise moment, gazing about him in bewilderment at the unexpected responsibility thus thrown upon him, his eyes became suddenly riveted by a picture. It was a portrait, partly concealed behind the curtain of the window in which he sat, but unveiled sufficiently to disclose the face of a fair-haired boy, younger by some years than Roger, with clear blue eyes and strong compressed mouth, somewhat sullen in temper, but with an air of recklessness and determination which, even in the portrait, fascinated the beholder. Mr Armstrong, although he had frequently been in his late employer's study, had never noticed this picture before. Now, as he caught sight of it and suddenly met the flash of those wild bright eyes, he experienced something like a shock. He could not help recalling Dr Brandram's sad story the other day. Something seemed mysteriously to connect this portrait and the story together in his mind. Strange that at such a moment, when the fate of the younger son was being decided, his guardian should thus come suddenly face to face with the elder! Mr Armstrong was not a superstitious man, but he felt decidedly glad when a general break up of the party allowed him to get out of range of these not altogether friendly eyes, and escape to the seclusion of his own room. CHAPTER THREE. A MISSING INSCRIPTION. A week later, Mr Pottinger, as he trotted into his office, found a letter and a telegram lying side by side on his desk. He opened the telegram first and read-- "Bombay, January 17. Consent. Am starting, Oliphant." "That's all right," said the lawyer to himself. "We shall have one competent executor, at any rate." He endorsed the telegram and proceeded to open the letter. It too was a very brief communication. "Sir, I beg to say I accept the duties of trustee and guardian conferred on me by the will of the late Roger Ingleton, Esquire. "Yours, etcetera, "Frank Armstrong." "Humph!" growled the attorney. "I was afraid so. Well, well, it's not my affair. The Squire knew my opinion, so my conscience is clear. An adventurer, nothing less--a dangerous man. Don't like him! Well, well!" To do Mr Pottinger justice, this opinion of his was of no recent date. Indeed, it was of as long standing as the tutor's first arrival at Maxfield, eighteen months ago. It was one of the few matters on which he and his late client had differed. Calmly indifferent as to the effect of his communication on the lawyer, Mr Armstrong was at that moment having an audience with his co-trustee and mistress, Mrs Ingleton. "Mr Armstrong," said she, "I hope for all our sakes you see your way to accept the duties my dear husband requested of you." "I have written to Mr Pottinger to notify my consent." "I am so glad. I shall have to depend on you for so much. It will be so good for Roger to have you with him. His father was always anxious about him--most anxious. You know, Mr Armstrong," added she, "if there is any--any question as to salary, or anything I can do to make your position here comfortable, you must tell me. For Roger's sake I am anxious you should be happy here." "Thank you, madam. I am most comfortable," said Mr Armstrong, looking anything but what he described himself. He had a detestation of business interviews, and wished profoundly he was out of this. "I am sure you will like Captain Oliphant," said the widow. "I have not seen him for many years--indeed, since shortly after Roger was born; but we have heard from him constantly, and Mr Ingleton had a high opinion of him. He is a very distant cousin of mine, you know." "So I understand." "Poor fellow! his wife died quite young. His three children will be quite grown up now, poor things. Well, thank you very much, Mr Armstrong. I hope we shall always be good friends for dear Roger's sake. Good-bye." Roger, as may be imagined, had not waited a whole week before ascertaining his tutor's intentions. He had been a good deal staggered at first by his father's will, with its curious provisions; but, amongst a great deal that was perplexing and disappointing in it, he derived no little comfort from the fact that Mr Armstrong was to be one of his legal protectors. "I don't see, you know," said he, as he lounged against his tutor's mantelpiece one evening. "I don't see why a fellow of nineteen can't be trusted to behave himself without being tied up in this way. It's my impression I know as well how to behave now as I am likely to do when I am twenty-one." "That is a reflection in advance on my dealings with you during the next two years," said the tutor with a grin, as he swung himself half round on the piano-stool so as to get his hand within reach of the keys. "I don't mind _you_," said the boy, "but I hope this Cousin Edward, or whoever he is, won't try to `deal' with me too." "I am informed he is virtue and amiability itself," said the tutor. "If he is, all serene. I'll take my walks abroad with one little hand in yours, and the other in his, like a good boy. If he's not, there'll be a row, Armstrong. In anticipation of which I feel in the humour for a turn at the foils." So they adjourned into the big empty room dedicated to the manly sports of the man and his boy, and there for half an hour a mortal combat raged, at the end of which Roger pulled off his mask and said, panting-- "Where did you learn foils, Armstrong? For a year I've been trying to run you through the body, and I've never even yet scratched your arm." "I fenced a good deal at Oxford." "Ah! I wonder if I shall ever go to Oxford? This will cuts me out of that nicely." "Not at all. How?" "Well, you can't be my tutor here while I'm an undergraduate there, can you? I'd sooner give up Oxford than you, Armstrong." "Kind of you--wrong of you too, perhaps. But at twenty-one you'll be your own master." "I may not be in the humour then. Besides, I shall have my hands full of work here then. It's hard lines to have to kick my heels in idleness for two years, while I've so many plans in my head for improving the place, and to have to ask your leave to spend so much as a halfpenny." "It is rather tragic. It strikes me, however, that Cousin Edward will be the financial partner of our firm. I shall attend to the literary part of the business." "And poor mother has to umpire in all your squabbles. Upon my word, why couldn't I have been treated like a man straight off, instead of being washed and dressed and fed with a spoon and wheeled in a perambulator by three respectable middle-aged persons, who all vote me a nuisance." "In the first place, Roger Ingleton, I am not yet middle-aged. In the second place, I do not vote you a nuisance. In the third place, if you stand there much longer like that, with your coat off, you will catch your death of cold, which would annoy me exceedingly." This was one of many conversations which took place. It was difficult to say whether Mr Armstrong took his new duties seriously or not. He generally contrived to say something flippant about them when his pupil tackled him on the subject, but at the same time he rarely failed to give the boy a hint or two that somewhere hidden away behind the cool, odd exterior of the man, there lurked a very warm corner for the fatherless heir of Maxfield. For the next week or two the days passed uneventfully. The manor-house settled down to its old routine, minus the old man who had once been its master. The villagers, having satisfied themselves that things were likely to be pretty much the same for them under the new _regime_ as the old, resumed their usual ways, and touched their caps regularly to the young Squire. The trampled grass in Yeld churchyard lifted its head again, and a new inscription was added to the family roll on the door of the vault. "Armstrong," said the heir one day, as he stood inspecting this last memorial, "I have a good mind to have my brother's name put on here too." This was the first time the tutor had ever heard the boy mention his brother. Indeed, he had, like Dr Brandram, doubted whether Roger so much as knew that he had had a brother. "What brother?" he inquired vaguely. "Oh, he died long ago, before I was born. He was the son of father's first wife, you know," pointing to the inscription of Ruth Ingleton's name. "He is not buried here--he died abroad, I believe--but I think his death should be recorded with the others. Don't you?" "Certainly," said the tutor. "I must try to find the exact date," said Roger as they walked away. "My father would hardly ever talk about him; his death must have been a knock-down blow to him, and I believe it broke his mother's heart. Sometimes I wish he had lived. He was called Roger too. I dare say Brandram or the Vicar can tell me about it." Mr Armstrong was a good deal concerned at this unexpected curiosity on the boy's part. He doubted whether it would not be better to tell him the sad story at once, as he had heard it from the doctor. He disliked secrets extremely, especially when he happened to be the custodian of them; and painful as the discovery of this one might be to his ward, it might be best that he should know it now, instead of hovering indefinitely in profitless mystery. It was, therefore, with some sense of relief that, half-way home, he perceived Dr Brandram in the road ahead. The doctor was, in fact, bound for Maxfield. "By the way, doctor," said the tutor, determined to take the bull by the horns, and glaring at his friend rather fiercely through his eye-glass, "we were talking about you just now. Roger has been telling me about an elder brother of his who died long ago and thinks some record of the death should be made on the vault. I think so too." "I was saying," said Roger, "my father never cared to talk about it; so, except that he died abroad, and that his name was the same as mine, I really don't know much about him. Did you know him?" The doctor looked uncomfortable, and not altogether grateful to Mr Armstrong for landing him in this dilemma. "Don't you think," said he, ignoring the last question, "as the Squire did not put up an inscription, it would be better to leave the tomb as it is?" "I don't see that," said the boy. "Of course I should say where he really did die. Where was that, by the way?" "I really did not hear. Abroad, I understood your father to say." "Was he delicate, then, that he had to go away? How old was he, doctor?" "Upon my word, he was so seldom at home, and, when he was, I saw so little of him, that my memory is very hazy about him altogether. He can't have been more than a boy of fifteen or sixteen, I should say. By the way, Roger, how does the new cob do?" "Middling. He's rather lumpy to ride. I shall get mother to swop him for a horse, if she can. I say, doctor, what was he like?" "Who?--The cob? Oh, your brother! I fancy he was a fine young fellow, but not particularly good-looking." "At all like me?" "Not at all, I should say. But really, as I say, I can recall very little about him." The doctor uttered this in a tone which conveyed so broad a hint that he did not relish the subject, that Roger, decidedly mystified, desisted from further inquiries. "What on earth," said the former to Mr Armstrong, when at last they had reached Maxfield and the boy had left them, "what on earth has put all this into his head?" "I cannot tell you. I rather hoped you would tell him all you knew; it would come better from you. If I know anything of Roger, he will find it out for himself, whether you like it or not." "Nice thing to be a family doctor," growled Dr Brandram, "and have charge of the family skeletons. Between you and me, Armstrong, I was never quite satisfied about the story of the boy's death abroad. The old man said he had had news of it, and that was all anybody, even the poor mother, ever got out of him." "Really, Brandram," said the tutor, "you are a most uncomfortable person. I wish you would not make me a party to these mysteries. I don't like them, they are upsetting." "Well, well, old fellow," replied the doctor, "whatever it was once, it's no mystery now; for the poor fellow has long ago made good his right to an inscription on the tombstone. You need have no doubt of that." A letter with an Indian post-mark, which arrived that same evening, served for the present, at least, to divert the thoughts of Roger as well as of his tutor to other channels. The letter was from Captain Oliphant addressed to Mrs Ingleton. "My very dear cousin," it read, "need I say with what deep sympathy I received the news of our dear Roger's sudden call? At this great distance, blows of this kind fall with cruel heaviness, and I assure you I felt crushed as I realised that I should no more grasp the hand of one of the noblest men it has been my privilege to call by the name of friend. If my loss is so great, what must _yours_ be? I dare not think of it! I was truly touched by our dear one's thought of me in desiring that I should join you in the care of his orphaned boy. I regard this dying wish as a sacred trust put upon me, which gratitude and love alike require that I should accept. Ere this letter reaches you, I shall myself be nearing England. The provision our dear Roger has made has emboldened me to resign my commission, so that I may devote my whole time without distraction to my new charge. You know, dear cousin, the special bond of sympathy that unites us; your boy has been robbed of a parent; my children long since have had to mourn a mother. I cannot leave them here. They accompany me to England, where perhaps for all of us there awaits a community of comfort. I bespeak your motherly heart for them, as I promise you a father's affection for your boy. I will write no more at present. The `Oriana' is due in London, I believe, about February 20, and we shall, I need hardly assure you, not linger long before bringing in our own persons to Maxfield whatever sympathy four loving hearts can carry amongst them. "With love to the dear boy, believe me, dear cousin, your loving and sympathising fellow-mourner,-- "Edward Oliphant." Mrs Ingleton, highly gratified, handed the beautiful letter first to her son, then to Mr Armstrong. Roger was hardly as taken with it as his mother. "Civil enough," said he, "and I dare say he means all he says; but I don't warm to the prospect of being cherished by him. Besides, there is something a trifle too neat in the way he invites his whole family to Maxfield. What do you think, Armstrong?" Mr Armstrong was perusing the letter with knitted brows and a curl of his lips. He vouchsafed no reply until he had come to the end. Then he shook the glass ominously out of his eye and said-- "I'll tell you that when I see him." Roger knew his tutor well enough to see that he did not like the letter at all, and he felt somewhat fortified in his own misgivings accordingly. "I wonder what mother will do with them all?" said the boy. "Surely we aren't to have the place turned into a nursery for two years." "I understand the young people are more than children," said the tutor. "So much the worse," growled Roger. On the morning before the "Oriana" was due, Mrs Ingleton suggested to her son that it would be a polite thing if he were to go to town and meet the travellers on their arrival. Roger, not particularly charmed with the prospect, stipulated that Mr Arm strong should come with him, and somewhat shocked his fond parent by expressing the hope that the vessel might be a few days late, and so allow time for a little jaunt in London before the arrival of his new guardian. Mr Armstrong meekly acquiesced in the proposal, and scarcely less exhilarated than his pupil, retired to pack for the journey. Roger meanwhile occupied the interval before starting by writing a letter in the study. Since his father's death he had taken quiet possession of this room, one of the pleasantest in the house. A feeling of reverence for the dead had prompted him to disturb its contents and furniture as little as possible, and hitherto his occupation had scarcely extended beyond the arm-chair at the fire, and the writing- table. To-day, however, as he sat biting his pen and looking for an inspiration out of the window, his eye chanced to rest for a moment on a frame corner peeping from behind a curtain. He thought nothing of it for a while, and having found his idea, went on writing. But presently his eyes strayed again, and once more lit upon the misplaced piece of gilding. He went over mechanically to adjust it, pondering his letter all the while. "Why ever can't they hang things where they can be seen?" said he as he drew back the curtain. The last words dropped half-spoken from his lips, as he disclosed the portrait of a certain boy, flashing at him with his reckless eyes, and half-defying him out of the canvas. Like Mr Armstrong, when he had encountered the picture a month ago, Roger Ingleton instinctively guessed in whose presence he stood. The discovery had something in it both of a shock and a disappointment. If this was really his elder brother, he was strangely different from what he had in fancy pictured him. He had imagined him his own age, whereas this was a boy considerably his junior. He had imagined him dark and grave, whereas this was fair and mocking; and he had imagined him amiable and sympathetic, whereas this was hostile and defiant. Yet, for all that, Roger stood fascinated. A chord deep in his nature thrilled as he said to himself, "My brother." He, the young man, felt himself captive to this imperious boy. He wished he knew the mind of the picture, or could hear its voice. What were the eyes flashing at? At whom or what were the lips thus curled? Was it wickedness, or anger, or insolence, or all together, that made the face so unlike any other face he knew? How long he spent over these speculations, half afraid, half enamoured of the picture, he could not say. He forgot all about his letter; nor did he finally descend from the clouds till a voice behind him said-- "What have you got there, old fellow?" "Oh, Armstrong," said the boy, turning round hurriedly, like one detected in mischief, "look here at this picture." The tutor was looking. "Who is it?" he asked. "My elder brother, I'm sure. I didn't know we had it." "There's not much family likeness in it," said Mr Armstrong. "Are you sure it is he?" "I feel positive of it. Stay, perhaps there's something written on the back," and he lifted the picture from the nail. The paper at the back was almost black with dust and age. They wiped it carefully with a duster, and took it to the window. "No," said Roger, "nothing there." "Yes," said the tutor, "what's this?" And he pointed out a few faint marks in very faded ink, which, after considerable trouble, they deciphered. "R.I., born 3 September 1849, died 186--," (the last figure was illegible). "That settles it," said Roger, "all except the exact date when he died. Upon my word, I'm quite glad it is my brother after all. I shouldn't have liked if he'd turned out any one else." "Do you know," added he, as he was about to replace the picture, "I think I shall take it up to my room. I've taken rather a fancy to him." That afternoon the two friends took the train to London, where, considerably to the relief of both, they heard that the "Oriana" was not expected in dock for three days. CHAPTER FOUR. ACQUAINTANCES NEW AND OLD. Roger's projected jaunt in London did not turn out as satisfactorily as he had anticipated, as he caught a heavy cold on the first day, which kept him a prisoner in his hotel. Mr Armstrong needed all his authority to restrain the invalid within bounds; and it was only by threatening to convey him bodily home that the boy consented to nurse himself. Even so, it was as much as he could do to shake off his cold sufficiently on the morning of the arrival of the "Oriana" to accompany his tutor to the Dock to greet his unknown kinsfolk. As he shouldered his way on board over the crowded gangway, he found himself speculating somewhat nervously as to which of the numerous passengers standing about the deck was his new guardian. Was it the ferocious man with the great black beard who was swearing at his Indian servant in a voice loud enough to be heard all over the ship? Or was it the dissipated-looking fellow who walked unsteadily across the motionless ship, and finally clung for support to the deck railings? Or was it the discontented-looking little person who scowled at the company at large from the bridge? Or was it the complacent man with the expansive presence and leonine head, who smoked a big cigar and was exchanging a few effusive farewells with a small group of fellow- voyagers? Roger accosted one of the stewards-- "Will you please tell Captain Oliphant that Mr Roger Ingleton is on board, with Mr Armstrong, and would like to see him?" The man gave a look up and down and went straight to the expansive person before mentioned. The visitors could see the gentleman start a little as the steward delivered his message, and pitch his cigar away as, with a serious face, he walked in their direction. "My poor dear boy," said he, taking Roger's hand, "this _is_ good of you--very good. How glad I am to see you! How is your dear mamma?" "Mother is very well. Have you had a good voyage? Oh, this is Mr Armstrong." Mr Armstrong all this while had been staring through his eye-glass at his co-trustee in no very amiable way, and now replied to that gentleman's greeting with a somewhat stiff "How do you do?" "Where on earth did I see you before, my gentleman?" said he to himself, and having put the riddle, he promptly gave it up. Mr Oliphant displayed very little interest in his fellow-guardian, but said to Roger-- "The children will be so delighted to see you. We have talked so much of you. They will be here directly; they are just putting together their things in the cabin. But now tell me all about yourself, my boy." Roger did not feel equal to this comprehensive task, and said, "I suppose you'll like to go straight on to Maxfield, wouldn't you?" "Oh, yes! It may be a day before we get our luggage clear, so we will come to your hotel to-night and go on to-morrow. Why, my boy, what a cough you have! Ah! here comes Rosalind." The figure which approached the group was that of a young lady about seventeen years of age, tall and slim, clad in a loose cloak which floated about her like a cloud, and considerably encumbered with sundry shawls and bags on one arm, a restive dog in another, and a hat which refused to remain on her head in the wind. Mr Armstrong was perhaps no great connoisseur of female charms, but he thought, as he slowly tried to make up his mind whether he should venture to assist her, that he had rarely seen a more interesting picture. Her face was flushed with the glow of youth and health. An artist might have found fault with it here and there, but to the tutor it seemed completely beautiful. The fine poise of her head upon the dainty neck, the classic cut of mouth and nostril, the large dark liquid eyes, the snowy forehead, the short clustering wind-tossed hair, the frank countenance, the refinement in every gesture--all combined to astonish the good man into admiration. Yet, with all his admiration, he felt a little afraid of this radiant apparition. Consequently, by the time he had half decided to advance to her succour, his ward had stepped forward and forestalled him. "Let me help you, Cousin Rosalind," said Roger. She turned on him a look half surprise, half pleasure, and then allowing him to take cloaks, bags, dog, and all, said-- "Really, papa, you must go and help down in the cabin. It's an awful chaos, and Tom and Jill are making it ten times worse. Do go." And she sat down with a gesture of despair on one of the benches, and proceeded to adjust her unruly hat. While doing this she looked up at Roger, who stood meekly before her with her belongings. "Thanks! Don't mind holding them; put them down anywhere, Roger, and do, there's a dear boy, go and help father and the others in that horrid, horrid cabin." Roger, more flurried and docile than he had felt himself for a long while, dropped the baggage, and thrusting the dog into Armstrong's hands, flew off to obey the behests of his new cousin. The young lady now looked up in charming bewilderment at the tutor, who could not fail to read the question in her eyes, and felt called upon to answer it. "May I introduce myself?" said he. "I am Frank Armstrong, Roger's tutor." "I'm so glad," said she with a little laugh. "I'd imagined you a horrid elderly person with a white cravat and tortoise-shell spectacles. It _is_ such a relief!" And she sighed at the mere recollection of her forebodings. "There's no saying what we may become in time," said Mr Armstrong. "I suppose," said she, eyeing him curiously once more, "you're the other trustee, or whatever it's called? I hope you and father will get on well. I can't see what use either of you can be. Roger looks as if he could take care of himself. Are you awfully fond of him?" "I am rather," said the tutor in a voice which quite satisfied his hearer. "Heigho!" said she presently, picking up the dog and stroking its ears. "I'm glad this dreadful voyage is over. Mr Armstrong, what do they all think about all of us coming to Maxfield? If I lived there, I should hate it." "Mrs Ingleton, I know, is very pleased." "Yes, but you men aren't. There'll be fearful rows, I know. I wish we'd stayed behind in India. It's hateful to be stuck down where you aren't wanted, for every one to vote you a nuisance!" "I can hardly imagine any one voting _you_ a nuisance," said Mr Armstrong, half-frightened at his own temerity. She glanced up with a little threatening of a blaze in her eyes. "Don't!" said she. "That's the sort of thing the silly young gentlemen say on board ship. I don't like it." The poor tutor winced as much under this rebuff as if he had been just detected in a plot to run away with his fair companion; and having nothing to say in extenuation of his crime, he relapsed into silence. Miss Oliphant, apparently unaware of the effect of her little protest, stroked her dog again and said-- "Are you an artist?" "No; are you?" "I want to be. I'd give anything to get out of going to Maxfield, and have a room here in town near the galleries. It will be awful waste of time in that dull place." "Perhaps your father--" began the tutor; but she took him up half angrily. "My father intends us to stay at Maxfield. In fact, you may as well know it at once, and let Roger know it too. We're as poor as church- mice, and can't afford to do anything else. Oh, how I wish we had stopped where we were!" And her voice actually trembled as she said the words. It was an uncomfortable position for Mr Armstrong. Once again his mother-wit failed him, and he watched the little hand as it moved up and down the dog's back in silence. "I tell you this," continued the young lady, "because tutors are generally poor, and you'll understand it. I wish papa understood it half as well. I do believe he really enjoys the prospect of going and landing himself and all of us at that place." "You forget that it is by the desire and invitation of the old Squire," said the tutor. "Father might easily have declined. He ought to have. He wasn't like you, fond of Roger. He doesn't care--at least I fancy he doesn't--much about Roger at all. Oh, I wish I could earn enough to pay for every bite every one of us eats!" To the tutor's immense relief, at this point Captain Oliphant reappeared, followed by Roger with a boy and little girl. The boy was some years the junior of the heir of Maxfield, a rotund, matter-of-fact, jovial-looking lad, sturdy in body, easy in temper, and perhaps by no means brilliant in intellect. The turmoil of debarkation failed to ruffle him, and the information given him in sundry quarters that he was the _fons et origo_ of all the confusion in the cabin failed to impress him. Everything that befell Tom Oliphant came in the day's work, and would probably vanish with the night's sleep. Meanwhile it was the duty of every one, himself included, to be jolly. So he accepted his father's chidings and Roger's greetings in equally good part; agreed with every word the former said, and gave in his allegiance to the latter with one and the same smile, and thought to himself how jolly to be in England at last, and perhaps some day to see the Oxford and Cambridge boat-race. The little maid who tripped at his side was perhaps ten or eleven--an odd blending of the sister's beauty and alertness with the brother's vigorous contentment. A prophet, versed in such matters, would have predicted that ten years hence Miss "Jill" Oliphant might seriously interfere with the shape of her elder sister's nose. But as no prophets were present, only a fogey like Mr Armstrong and an inexperienced boy like Roger, no one concerned themselves about the future, but voted the little lady of ten a winsome child. "Well, thanks for all _your_ help," said Tom to his elder sister. "I don't know what we should have done without her. Eh, Roger?" "Upon my word, with _you_ in charge down there," retorted the young lady, "I wouldn't have been safe in that awful place a minute longer. I wonder you haven't packed up Jill in one of the trunks." "Oh, Cousin Roger took care of me," said Miss Jill demurely. "I hope Armstrong did the same to you, Rosalind," said Roger. "Here, Tom; this is my tutor, Frank Armstrong--a brick. Here, Jill; say how do you do to Mr Armstrong." Jill horrified Mr Armstrong by putting up her face to be kissed. Indeed the poor gentleman as he shook the glass out of his eye and gazed down at this forward young person in consternation, presented so pitiable a spectacle, that Rosalind, Roger, and Tom all began to laugh. "She won't bite," said Tom reassuringly. Mr Armstrong, thus encouraged, took off his hat, and stooping down, kissed the child on the brow, much to that little lady's satisfaction. This important operation performed, Captain Oliphant expressed concern for Roger's cough, and proposed that his ward should take the girls and himself to the hotel, while no doubt Mr Armstrong would not mind remaining to help Tom with the luggage. By which excellent arrangement the party succeeded at last in getting clear of the "Oriana." The tutor had his hands full most of that morning Tom Oliphant's idea of looking after the luggage was to put his hands in his pockets and whistle pleasantly up and down the upper deck; nor was it till Mr Armstrong took him bodily below, and made him point out one by one the family properties (among which, by the way, he included several articles belonging to other owners), that he could be reduced to business at all. Then for half an hour he worked hard; at the end of which time he turned to his companion with a friendly grin. "Thanks awfully, Mr Armstrong. I say, I wonder if you'll be my tutor as well as Frank's? I heard father say something about it! Wouldn't it be stunning?" Mr Armstrong gave a qualified assent. "I'm not a bit clever, you know, like Rosalind, but I'd like to have a tutor awfully. I say, haven't we done enough with these blessed boxes? They'll be all right now. Should we have time to see Christy's Minstrels on our way to the hotel, do you think? I'd like it frightfully." "My dear boy," said Mr Armstrong, "if we are to get all the things properly cleared and labelled and sent off to Maxfield, we shall have no time for anything else. If the way you stick to your lessons is anything like the way you stick to this task, I don't envy your tutor." This covert threat at once reduced Tom to a sense of discipline, and he made a gallant effort to secure Mr Armstrong's good opinion. The tutor was right. It was well on in the afternoon when they had the baggage finally disposed of, and were free to follow to the hotel. Here they found, instead of the party they expected, a hurriedly scrawled line from Roger. "Dear Armstrong,-- "Oliphant has taken it into his head to go down to Maxfield at once by the two train. So we are starting. I'm sorry he can't wait, so as all to go together. If you are back in time to come by the evening train, do come. If not, first train in the morning. "Yours ever, "R.I." It was too late to get a train that day; so Mr Armstrong, much disgusted, had to make up his mind to remain. Tom, on the contrary, was delighted, and proposed twenty different plans for spending the evening, which finally resolved themselves into the coveted visit to Christy's Minstrels. The tutor, in no very festive humour, allowed himself to be overborne by the eagerness of his young companion, and found himself in due time jammed into a seat in a very hot hall, listening to the very miscellaneous performance of the coloured gentlemen who "never perform out of London." The tutor, who had some ideas of his own on the subject of music, listened very patiently, sometimes pleased, sometimes distressed, and always conscious of the enthusiastic delight of his companion, whose unaffected comments formed to him the most amusing part of the entertainment. "Isn't that, stunning?" "Thanks awfully, Mr Armstrong, for bringing me." "Hooray! Bones again!" "I say, I'm looking forward to the break-down; ain't you?" and so on. Whatever Mr Armstrong's anticipations may have been as to the rapture of the coming "break-down," he contained himself admirably, and with his glass inquiringly stuck in his eye, listened attentively to all that went on, and occasionally speculated as to how Miss Rosalind Oliphant was enjoying her visit to Maxfield. The programme was half over, and Tom was repairing the ravages of nature with a bun, when Mr Armstrong became suddenly aware of a person in the row but one in front looking round fixedly in his direction. To judge by the close-cropped, erect hair and stubbly chin of this somewhat disreputable-looking individual, he was a foreigner; and when presently, catching the tutor's eye, he began to indulge in pantomimic gestures of recognition, it was safe to guess he was a Frenchman. "Who's that chap nodding to you?" said Tom with his mouth full. "Is he tipsy?" "He lays himself open to the suspicion," said Mr Armstrong slowly. "At any rate, as I vote we go put and get some fresh air, he will have to find some one else to make faces at. Come along." Tom did not at all like risking his seat, and particularly charged the lady next to him to preserve it from invasion at the risk of her life. Then wondering a little at Mr Armstrong's impatience to reach the fresh air, he followed him out. The Frenchman witnessed the proceeding with some little disappointment, and sat craning his neck in the direction in which they had gone for some minutes. Then, as if moved by a similar yearning for fresh air, he too left his seat and went out. The band was beginning to play as he did so, and most of the loiterers were crowding back for the second part. "You go in; I'll come directly," said Mr Armstrong to the boy. Tom needed no second invitation, and a moment later had forgotten everything in the delightful prelude to the "break-down." He did not even observe that Mr Armstrong had not returned to his seat. "Well, Gustav," said that gentleman in French as the foreigner approached him, where he waited in the outer lobby. "_Eh bien, man cher_," replied the other, "'ow 'appy I am to see you. I can speak ze Englise foine, _n'est ce pas_?" "What are you doing in London?" "I am vaiter, _garcon_ at ze private hotel. 'Zey give me foods and drinks and one black coat, but not no vage. _Oh, mon ami_, it is ver' ver' 'ard." "And the old man?" "_Ah, helas_! he is ver' ver' ill. He vill die next week. _Moi_, I can not to him go; and Marie, she write me she must leave Paris this day to her duties. It is sad for the poor old _pere_ to die with not von friend to 'old 'is 'and. Ah! if ze petite Francoise yet lived, _ma pauvre enfant_, she would stay and--" "Stop!" said the tutor imperatively. "Is he still in the old place?" "_Helas_, non! you make ze joke, you. Ve are ver' ver' poor, and 'ave no homes. _Mon pere_, he is to the hopital. Thank 'eaven, they 'ave zere give 'im ze bed to die." "Which hospital is he at?" said the tutor. "De Saint Luc." "I will see him." The Frenchman gave a little hysterical laugh; then, with tears in his eyes, he seized the hand of the Englishman and wrung it rapturously. "_Oh, mon ami, mon cher ami_!" cried he, "'eaven will bless you. I am 'appy that you say that. You vill see 'im? Yes? You vill 'old 'is 'and ven he do die? He sall have one friend to kiss his poor _front_? Oh, I am content; I am gay." How long he would have gone on thus it is hard to say. Mr Armstrong cut short the scene rather abruptly. "There, there!" said he. "Good-bye, Gustav. I shall go very soon, and will come and see you when I return." And he went back to the performance. "You've missed it!" said Tom, as he dropped into his seat. "It was the finest `break-down' you ever saw! That one next but one to Bones kept it up best. We couldn't get an encore out of them. Never mind; perhaps they'll have another to finish up. There's lot's more in the programme." Mr Armstrong watched it all with the same critical interest as before, but his mind was far away. It wandered to the foreign city, to the gaunt pauper hospital there, to a little low bed where lay an old dying friendless man, tossing and moaning for the laggard death to give him rest. He saw nothing of what went on before him; he felt none of the merry boy's nudges at his side; he even forgot Roger and Maxfield. The performance was over at last. "Well, that _was_ a jolly spree! I wish it was coming all over again," chirped the boy. "Oh, thank you awfully, Mr Armstrong, for bringing me. Did you like it too? That last break-down wasn't up to the other, but I'm glad you've seen one of them, at any rate." As they crowded out, Mr Armstrong was surprised and a little vexed to see Gustav still hanging about the lobby waiting for him. He dropped behind the boy for a moment and beckoned him. "Well, Gustav?" said he impatiently. "Ah, _mon ami_," said the Frenchman, putting a little bunch of early violets into the tutor's hands, "vill you give 'im zese from me? 'Tis all I can send. But he will love zem for the sake of me and ze little Francoise. Adieu, adieu, _mon cher ami_." It took not a minute; but in that time Tom had wandered serenely on, never dreaming that his protector was not close at his heels. Nor did he discover his mistake till he found himself half-way up Piccadilly, enlarging to a stranger at his side on the excellence of the evening's performance. Then he looked round and missed his companion. The pavement was crowded with wayfarers of all sorts, some pressing one way, some another. Among them all the boy could not discover the stalwart form of Mr Armstrong. He pushed back to the hall, but he was not there. He followed one or two figures that looked like his; but they were strangers all. Then he returned up the street at a run, hoping to overtake him; but in vain. He knew nothing of London; he did not even know the name of the hotel; he had no money in his pocket. He was, in short, lost. As for Mr Armstrong, not seeing his charge at the door, he had started to run in the direction of the hotel, which was the opposite direction to that taken by Tom. Seeing no sign of the prodigal, he too returned to the hall, just after Tom had started a second time on the contrary tack; and so for an hour these two played hide and seek; sometimes almost within reach of one another; at others, with the whole length of the street between them. At last the crowd on the pavement thinned, and the tutor, sorely chagrined, started off to the hotel, on the chance of the boy having turned up there. No Tom was there. Tom, in fact, was at that moment debating somewhere about a mile and a half away whether he should not try to make his way to the "Oriana" at the Docks, and remain quietly there till claimed. What a joke it would all be when he _was_ found! What an adventure for his first night in London! It was not very easy even for Tom Oliphant to derive much amusement from these philosophical reflections, and he looked about him rather dismally for some one of whom to inquire his way. A seedy-looking person was standing under a lamppost hard by, trying to light a cigarette in the wind. Tom decided to tackle him. "Please can you tell me the way to the Docks where the P and O steamers come in?" said he. The man let drop his match and stared at the boy. "Vy," said he with an odd shrug, "that is some long walks from here. _Mais, comment_. Vas you not at ze Christy Minstrel to-night viz a nice gentleman?" "Rather!" said the boy. "Were you there? I say, wasn't it a clipping turn out? I did like it, especially the break-down. I say, I'm lost. The fellow who was looking after me has lost me." "Oh, you 'ave lost 'im. I am 'appy you to find. You sall not valk to ze Dock, no. I sall give you sleeps at ze hotel, and to-morrow you sall find zat dear gentleman. Come wiz me." "Oh, but you know, he'll be looking for me; besides, I've got no tin. Father forgot to leave me any. I'd better go to the Docks, I say." "You sall not. Zey will be all shut fast zere. No, my dear friend, you sall come sleep at my hotel, and you sall have nothings to pay. It will be all right. I would die for to help ze friend of my friend." "Is Mr Armstrong a friend of yours?" asked the boy. "I thought you were only cheeking him that time in the Hall. Oh, all right, if you know him. Thanks awfully." Gustav, as delighted as a cat who has found her kitten, led the boy off jubilantly to his third-rate hotel off the Strand, taking the precaution, as he passed, to leave word at the Hall that if a gentleman called who had lost a boy, he should be told where he would find him. He smuggled Tom up to his own garret, and made him royally welcome with three-quarters of his scanty supper and the whole of his narrow bed, sleeping himself on the floor cheerfully for the sake of the _cher ami_ who had that night promised to go to Paris to hold the hand of his dying father. About three in the morning there was a loud ringing of the bell and a sound of steps and voices on the stairs, and presently Mr Armstrong entered the room. Gustav sprang up with his finger on his lips, pointing to the sleeping boy. "Oh, _mon ami_," whispered he, "'ow 'appy I am you 'ave found 'im. But I keep him ver' safe. I love to do it, for you are ver' good to me and the _pauvre pere_. He sall rest here till to-day, vile you (helas! that I have no two beds to offer you), you sall take one in ze hotel, and at morning we sall all be 'appy together." Mr Armstrong grimly accepted this proposal, and took a room for the night at Gustav's hotel. The next morning, scarcely waiting to take breakfast or bid another adieu to his grateful friend, he hurried the genial Tom, who had enjoyed himself extremely, to the station, and carried him down by express train to Maxfield. CHAPTER FIVE. A CHURCHYARD COUGH. When Mr Armstrong with his jovial charge arrived about midday at Maxfield, he was struck with the transformation scene which had taken place since he quitted it gloomily a day or two before. The house was the same, the furniture was untouched, the ordinary domestic routine appeared to be unaltered, but a sense of something new pervaded the place which he could interpret only by the one word-- Oliphant. The captain had made a touching entry--full of sympathy, full of affection, full of a desire to spare his dear cousin all business worry, full of the responsibility that was on him to take charge of the dear fatherless boy, full of that calm sense of duty which enables a man to assert himself on all occasions for the good of those committed to his care. As for his charming daughters, they had floated majestically into their quarters--Miss Rosalind a trifle defiantly, making no secret of her dislike of the whole business; Miss Jill merrily, delighted with the novelty and beauty of this new home, so much more to her mind than the barrack home in India. And Roger, despite all his sinister anticipations, found himself tolerant already of the new guardian, and more than tolerant of his _suite_. For somehow his pulses had taken to beating a little quicker since yesterday, and when half a dozen times that evening he had heard a summons down the landing to come and hang this picture, or like a dear boy unfasten that strap, or like an angel come and make himself agreeable, unless he intended his cousins to sit by themselves all the evening as penance for coming where they were not wanted,--at all such summonses Roger Ingleton had experienced quite a novel sensation of nervousness and awkwardness, which contributed to make him very uncomfortable. "Why," said he, as he and his tutor greeted one another again in Mr Armstrong's room, "why, it seems ages since I saw you, and yet it's only yesterday. I wish we could all have come down together. Do you know, Armstrong, I half fancy it's not going to be as awful as I expected." "That's all right," said Mr Armstrong, who had already begun to entertain a contrary impression. "Oliphant seems civilly disposed, and not inclined to interfere; and the girls--well they seem harmless enough. How do you like Tom?" "Tom's a nice, quiet, business-like boy," said the tutor with a grin. "I'll tell you more about him soon, but at present I have no time. I must catch the four o'clock train back to London." "What! What ever for?" exclaimed Roger, with falling face. "Urgent private affairs. I shall be away perhaps a week," said Mr Armstrong shortly, in a tone which discouraged Roger from making further inquiries. "I'm awfully sorry," said he; "I shall miss you specially just now." "If I could have taken any other time, I would," said the tutor, busily throwing his things into his bag all the time; "but I am going to a death-bed." "Oh, Armstrong, I'm so sorry. Is it a relation?" "As I regard relations, yes. Now I must go and make my apologies to your mother. I'll come and see you before I go." He found the lady sitting in the library in consultation with Captain Oliphant. The table was spread with the late Squire's papers and documents, concerning which the Captain was evincing considerable interest. The tutor glared a little through his glass at the spectacle of this industry, and disposing of his co-trustee's greeting with a half nod, accosted Mrs Ingleton. "I must ask you to excuse me for a few days, Mrs Ingleton. I have just received news which render a journey necessary." "Indeed!" said Captain Oliphant, looking up from his papers. "I am afraid, Mr Armstrong, we must ask you to postpone it, as there are a good many business matters of importance to be gone into, which will require the attention of all the trustees. It is an inconvenient time to seek for leave of absence." The tutor's mouth stiffened ominously. "You take unnecessary interest in my affairs, sir. I shall be at your service on my return. Mrs Ingleton, I am sorry for this interruption in Roger's studies. It shall be as brief as I can make it." "Oh, of course, Mr Armstrong," said the lady, "I hope it is nothing serious. We shall be glad to have you back to consult about things; that is all Captain Oliphant means, I'm sure." The tutor bowed. "I really hope," said Captain Oliphant blandly, "Mr Armstrong will appreciate my desire to cooperate harmoniously in the sacred trust laid upon us all by the dying wish of our dear friend." "I have no wish to do anything else, sir," said the tutor shortly, "if you will allow me. Good-bye, Mrs Ingleton." Roger was a good deal concerned to notice the grim cloud on his friend's face, when he returned for a moment to his room for his bag. He knew him too well to ask questions, but made up for his silence by the warmth of his farewell. "Come back soon, Armstrong; it will be awfully slow while you're away. Let's carry your bag down-stairs." As they passed the end of the lobby, a certain door chanced to open, and Armstrong caught a vision of an easel and a fair head beyond, and beyond that a mantelpiece decorated with all sorts of Oriental and feminine knick-knacks. He might have observed more had his glass been up, and had he not been eagerly accosted by Miss Jill, who just then was running out of the room. "Mr Armstrong! Mr Armstrong!" shouted she in glee. "Rosalind, he's come back; here he is!" And without more ado she caught the embarrassed tutor by the arm and demanded a kiss. He compromised feebly by patting her head, whereat Miss Jill pouted. "You're more unkind than yesterday," she said; "you kissed me then." "You shouldn't ask Mr Armstrong to do horrid things," said Miss Rosalind, coming to the door. The tutor, very hot and flurried, replied to this cruel challenge by saluting the little tyrant and bowing to her sister. "Won't you come in and see the studio?" said the latter. "It's a little less dreadful than yesterday, thanks to Roger. What are you carrying that bag for, Roger?" "Armstrong's going up to town for a few days." "How horrid!" said Miss Rosalind, with vexation in her voice; "just while Jill and I are feeling so lonely, cooped up here like nuns, with not a soul to talk to, and knowing we're in everybody's way." "Armstrong has a sad enough reason for going," said Roger; "but I say, it's not very complimentary to me to say you've not a soul to talk to." The half-jesting petulance in Rosalind's face had given place to a look almost of pain as she held out her hand. "Good-bye, Mr Armstrong," said she. "I didn't know you were in trouble." "It _will_ be jolly when you come home," chimed in Jill. Somehow in Mr Armstrong's ears, as he whirled along to town that afternoon, those two pretty farewells rang continuous changes. When, at evening, he took his seat in the Dover express, they still followed him, now in solos, now in duet, now in restless fugue. On the steamer they rose and fell with the uneasy waves and played in the whistling wind. As he sped towards Paris, past the acacia hedges and poplar avenues, among foreign scenes, amidst the chatter of foreign tongues, surrounded by foreign faces, he still caught the sound of those two distant voices--one quiet and low, the other gay and piping; and even when, at last, he dropped asleep and forgot everything else, they joined in with the rattle of the rail to give him his lullaby. Such are the freaks of which a sensitive musical ear is often the victim. At Maxfield, meanwhile, he remained in the minds of one or two of the inmates. The two young ladies, assisted by their cousin, and genially obstructed by their easy-going brother, proceeded seriously in the task of adorning the studio; now and then speculating about the absent tutor, and now and then feeling very dejected and lonely. Roger did his best to enliven the evening and make his visitors feel at home. But although Tom and Jill readily consented to be comforted, Miss Rosalind as stubbornly refused, and protested a score of times that the cabin of the "Oriana" itself was preferable to the misery of being condemned, as she termed it, to eat her head off in this dismal place. She was sorry for Mr Armstrong, but she was vexed too that he should go off the very first day after her arrival, and leave her to fight her battles alone. After that talk on the steamer, she had, in her own mind, reckoned on him as an ally, and it disappointed her not to find him at her bidding after all. But she was not the only person whose mind was exercised by the tutor's abrupt exodus. Captain Oliphant felt decidedly hurt by the manner of his going. It argued a lack of appreciation of the newly arrived trustee's position in the household on which he had hardly calculated; and it bespoke a spirit of independence in the tutor himself, which his colleague could not but regard as unpromising. Indeed, when, after the day's labours, Captain Oliphant sought the seclusion of his own apartment, this amiable, pleasant-spoken gentleman grew quite warm with himself. "Who is this grandee?" he asked himself. "A man hired at a few pounds a year and fed at the Maxfield table, in order to help the heir to a little quite unnecessary knowledge of the ancient classics and modern sciences. What was the old dotard,"--the old dotard, by the way, was Captain Oliphant's private manner of referring to the lamented "dear one," whose name so often trembled on his lips in public,--"what was the old dotard thinking about? At any rate, I should like to know a little more about the fellow myself." With this laudable intention he questioned Mrs Ingleton next morning. "He is a good friend to dear Roger," said the mother. "Roger is devoted to him. I am sure you will get to like him, Edward. He is perhaps a little odd in his manner, but he has a good heart." This was about all Mrs Ingleton knew, except that he was a University man and an accomplished musician. Captain Oliphant was not much enlightened by this description. He sat down, and for the third time carefully read over the "dear one's" will. "I think," said he at lunch-time, "I will stroll over to Yeld this afternoon and see Mr Pottinger. Roger, will you walk with me? A walk would do you good. You are looking pale, my boy." "Oh, I'm all right," said Roger, whose cough, however, was still obstinate. "I'll come with pleasure." A walk of five miles on a damp afternoon through drenched country lanes may be a good specific for a cough in India, but in England it occasionally fails in this respect. Roger was wet through when he reached Yeld. "I shall not be long," said the Captain as they reached the attorney's door. "Don't catch cold, there's a good fellow. Remember your health is very precious." Roger undertook to act on this considerate advice, and occupied his time of waiting by strolling up and down the High Street in the rain, paying a call here and there at one or two shops, and finally dropping in to see his friend Dr Brandram. The Captain meanwhile was having an interesting chat with the attorney. After introducing himself and receiving the suitable congratulations, he said-- "Mr Ingleton's will, Mr Pottinger, so far as I can understand it, seems fairly simple, and I am ready and anxious to perform my part of its provisions." "Yes. You see, after all, it is only a matter of two years' trouble. As soon as Master Roger comes of age you will be released." "Unless," says the Captain, laughing, "he marries, becomes mad, or goes to prison, isn't that it? What a curious proviso!" "It is. The old Squire had his peculiarities, like most of us. He set his heart on this boy turning out well." "Ah! I presume this tutor, Mr Armstrong, has very high qualifications, since so much depends on him." "Of that I can't say, Captain Oliphant. To tell you the truth, I never quite understood that appointment. But doubtless the Squire knew best." "Doubtless. He must have had a very high opinion of him to associate him with Mrs Ingleton and me in the guardianship. I take it, by the way, that hardly extends beyond his present duties as tutor." "That's just it," said Mr Pottinger. "According to the will, he has the right to participate in every action taken by the other trustees, either as regards the boy, or the estate, or anything else." "How very singular! You don't mean to say that he is to be consulted in matters of finance or the management of the property?" "Technically, yes--if he claims it. I imagine, however, he is hardly aware of this, and I am not inclined to urge him to claim it. I should be sorry to give you an unfavourable impression, Captain Oliphant, but I do not like this Mr Armstrong." "He appears to be well thought of at Maxfield," said the Captain. "My private opinion is--but you must not let it influence you--that he is somewhat of an adventurer. I know nothing of his antecedents." "Indeed! not even where he lives?" "No; the Squire was reticent on the matter. He told me he had good recommendations with him, and that he was an Oxford man." "Surely that should be satisfactory. I hope we shall find him not difficult to get on with, after all. We shall have to wait a week or so, however, before putting the question to the test, as he has just gone off rather abruptly, and at this particular time rather inopportunely, on a journey, for what object I do not know." "Humph!" said the attorney. "I do not like mysteries. However, I trust it will be as you say." Dr Brandram, when presently the Captain called in for his ward, was in by no means a good temper. "I have been blowing Roger up sky-high," said he, puffing his smoke rather viciously in the Captain's direction, "for behaving like a lunatic. The idea of his coming out and getting himself wet through with this cold upon him." "Dear, dear!" said the Captain; "has he got wet through? Why, my dear boy, what did I tell you?" "You shouldn't have let him come," said the doctor bluntly. "He's no business to play tricks with himself." "Really, doctor," said Roger, laughing and coughing alternately, "I'm not a baby." "You're worse," said the doctor severely. "Don't let it happen again. You must go home in a fly; I won't allow you to walk. Armstrong wouldn't have let you do it." It grated on the Captain's nerves to hear the tutor thus quoted in what seemed to be a reflection on himself. "Roger, my boy," said he, "you are fortunate to have somebody to look well after you. I quite agree with the doctor; we must drive home. I hope your things are dry." "He's made me change everything I had on," said Roger. "Quite right--quite right!" The doctor took an opportunity before the fly arrived of talking to the Captain seriously about his ward's health. "He's not robust, you can see that yourself," said he, "and he won't take care of himself, that's equally evident. You must make him do it, or I won't answer for the consequences." The Captain laughed pleasantly. "My duties grow on me apace," said he. "I have come over from India to look after his morals, his estate, his education, and now I find I must add to them the oversight of--" "Of his flannels. Certainly; see they are well aired, that's more important than any of the others. Good-bye!" The Maxfield household was a dismal one that evening. Mrs Ingleton in distress had prevailed on Roger to go to bed. Miss Rosalind, defrauded in one day of her two allies, sulked in a dignified way in her own room, and visited her displeasure with the world in general on poor Jill, who consoled herself by beginning a letter to her "dear Mr Armstrong." Tom, having wandered joyously over the whole house, making friends with everybody and admiring everything, was engaged in the feverish occupation of trying to find his stamp album, which he had left behind in India. The only serene member of the party was Captain Oliphant, who in the arm-chair of the library smoked an excellent cigar and ruminated on things at large. "Poor lad!" said he to himself, "great pity he's so delicate. Not at all a pleasant cough--quite a churchyard tone about it. Tut! tut! I'm not favourably impressed with that doctor; an officious bumpkin, he seems to me. And this Armstrong--I should really like to know a little more about him. Pottinger was decidedly of my way of thinking. Not a nice fellow at all, Armstrong. Wrong sort of companion for Roger. Poor fellow! how he's coughing to-night." And this kindly soul actually laid down his cigar and went out into the passage to listen. "Shocking cough," said he as he returned and relit his cigar. Then he took out a document from his pocket--a copy of the will, in fact--and read it again. Which done, he relapsed into genial meditation ones more. Presently his kindly feelings prompted him to pay his ward a visit. "Well, my boy, how are you? Better, I hope." "Oh, yes," said Roger, coughing; "it's only a cold in my head. I'll soon be all right. I'm awfully sorry to desert the girls and Tom, tell them." "Nothing I can do for you, is there?" "Thanks very much. I'm all right. I shall get to sleep pretty soon. Good night, Cousin Edward." "Good night, dear boy. Another time you must take better care of yourself. Remember your life is precious to us all." With these affectionate words Captain Oliphant left the room, candle in hand. As he passed his daughter's boudoir he looked in. It was empty. The young ladies had long since taken refuge in their bedroom. All the house, in fact, except Captain Oliphant, had done the same. That gentleman, as he passed another door which stood half open, could not resist a friendly impulse to peep in. It was a snug room, with a piano in one corner, and foils, boxing gloves, Oxford prints, and other tokens of a bachelor proprietorship displayed on the walls. The table was littered with classical exercises, music scores, and letters. A college boating-jacket hung behind the door, and one or two prize- goblets decorated the mantelpiece. Captain Oliphant displayed a genial interest in everything. He read the inscriptions on the goblets, glanced casually through the papers, read the addresses on a few of the letters, and generally took stock of the apartment. Of course, like an honourable gentleman, he disturbed nothing, and presently, distressed by a sudden fit of coughing from the direction of his ward's room, he hastily stepped out into the lobby again and made his way back to the library. Before he went to bed this methodical person committed three several matters to paper. In his memorandum-book he wrote the name of a certain college at Oxford, and a date, corresponding, oddly enough, to the name and date on one of the goblets in Mr Armstrong's room. That done, he scrawled a post card to Dr Brandram, requesting him to call and see Roger, whose cough was still a little troublesome. After that, he pulled out of his pocket and read with a somewhat pained expression a letter he had received the day before by the Indian mail. It was gather long, but the passage which pained Captain Oliphant particularly ran thus:-- "The trouble about the mess accounts is not blown over yet. I have done what I can for you. I hope you will make it unnecessary for me to enter into details with the parties chiefly interested in that affair. It depends pretty much on what you are able to tell me, whether I can give you the time you mention in your last. You will consult your own interests best by being quite square," and so on. The expression which Captain Oliphant mentally applied to the writer as he re-read this pleasant passage was not wholly flattering, and his countenance, as I have said, bore traces of considerable pain. However, after a little meditation it cleared somewhat, and he wrote:-- "It seems to me a pity you should take up a position which can only end in trouble all round. You know how things stand, and how impossible it is to hasten matters. At the present moment there seems every probability of my being able to discharge all my accounts--yours among them--considerably earlier than the time first mentioned. It is worth your while, under the circumstances, reconsidering what, you must allow me to say, is a preposterous claim for interest. Of course, if you charge me for the full term, I have very little inducement to settle up sooner. Turn it over, like a sensible man, and believe me, meanwhile, "Yours truly, "E.O. "_P.S_.--I enclose a copy of the clauses of the will most likely to interest you. I am sorry to say my ward is in very bad--I might say seriously bad--health. He has a constitutional complaint, which, I greatly fear, will make this winter a most anxious time to us all." After this, Captain Oliphant soothed himself down with a cigarette, and spent a little time in admiring contemplation of an excellent portrait of Mrs Ingleton on the wall. Finally, he went cheerfully to bed. CHAPTER SIX. A CASE OF EVICTION. A week passed and Mr Armstrong did not return. By the end of that time Miss Rosalind Oliphant, for better or worse, had settled down into her new quarters, and made herself as much at home as a fair Bohemian can do anywhere. She still resented the fate which brought her to Maxfield at all, and annoyed her father constantly by casting their dependence on the hospitality of the place in his teeth. "I wish you had some business, father," said she, "so that we could pay our way. I don't suppose my pictures will ever sell, but every penny I earn shall go to Roger. Couldn't we go and live in the lodge, somewhere where we can--" "Rosalind," said her father, "you vex me by talking like a child. After the education I have tried to provide for you, I had a right to hope you would at least regulate your tongue by a little common-sense. Do you not know that I have given up my profession, everything, in order to come to do my duty here?" "I wish you hadn't," said the girl doggedly; "it would have been so easy to decline the trust and remain independent. It's awful to think we've nothing to live on but what we get out of Roger's money." "Foolish girl," said her father with a forced laugh, "you are a delightful specimen of a woman's incapacity to understand the very rudiments of business. Why, you absurd child, old Roger Ingleton's will bequeathed me £300 a year for acting as the boy's guardian." "Yes, for two years. And Roger would have been all that richer if you'd declined. I'm sure his mother and Mr Armstrong are plenty to look after him. I'd have liked you so much better, dear father, if you'd stayed in the army." "I'm afraid, my poor girl, it is useless to argue with you. When you do get a wrong idea into your head, nothing will induce you to part with it, even if it involves an injustice to your poor father." "Father," said she, "you know it is because I love you and--" "Enough," said he rather sternly. "I know you mean well." And he went. At the door, however, he returned and said-- "By the way, Rosalind, I must mention one matter; not for discussion, but as my express wish. You named Mr Armstrong just now. I desire that you hold no communication with him. I have reason for knowing he is not a desirable person at all." "If so, you had better take us away from here," said Rosalind, flushing. "You've no right to let us stay." "Silence, miss, and bear in mind what I tell you. Do you understand?" Rosalind had taken up her brush and was painting furiously at her picture. Captain Oliphant having waited a minute for an answer and getting none, stalked out of the room a model of parental anguish. As for Miss Rosalind, she painted away for a quarter of an hour, and then said to herself-- "Is he?" With which profound inquiry she laid down her brush and went to visit her invalid cousin. Roger was up, though still coughing, and ensconced in his study. "How jolly of you to come!" said he. "I came because I'd nothing else to do," said she, "I'm not jolly at all." "Why, what's the row?" "Can't you guess? Don't you know that I owe you already for a week's board and lodgings and haven't earned sixpence to pay you." "I shall put you in the county court," said Roger solemnly. "It's no joke to me," said she. "I know it isn't, and I wish to goodness I could help you out. By the way, though," added he, jumping up from his chair, "I've got it." "Don't," said she; "you'll only start the cough. What have you got? An idea?" "Yes. Rosalind, do you know I'm going to get some painting-lessons?" "Where? Oh, I wish I could afford some too. Is there any one near here who teaches?" "Yes. Some one who's just starting. A rather jolly girl, only she has an awful temper; and I'm afraid, when she sees what a poor hand I make, she'll have no patience with me." Rosalind looked at him steadily, and then smiled. "How nice of you! May I really try? I'll teach you all I know." "Will you promise to be nice, and never to fly out at me?" "No, I'll promise nothing of the sort. But if you learn well, I'll be very proud." "And your terms?" She looked at him again. "Would a shilling an hour be an awful lot?" "No. It's very moderate. I accept the terms. I'll begin to-day." This satisfactory bargain being concluded. Miss Rosalind inquired how her new pupil's cold was. "Nearly all right. I'm glad to have got rid of it before Armstrong comes back." "When will that be?" "I don't know. He hasn't written a line. I hope he'll come soon." "Are you awfully fond of him!" asked Rosalind. "Rather," replied the boy. "That's exactly what he said when I asked him if he was fond of you." "Odd," said Roger with a laugh. "But, I say, what do you think of my den? Isn't it rather snug?" "I like one of the pictures," said Rosalind, pointing to a certain portrait on the mantelpiece. "I'm awfully glad," said Roger. "Do you know who it is?" "No." "A brother of mine who died long before I was born." Rosalind took the picture in her hands and carried it to the window. The scrutiny lasted some minutes. Then she replaced it on the chimney- piece. "Well," said Roger, "do you like him?" "Yes, I do." "Aren't you a little afraid of him, too?" "Not a bit. He looks like a hero." Roger sighed. "I'm glad there's one in the family," said he. "Why not two? I say, will your tutor mind your having painting-lessons of me?" "Mind? Not he. I shouldn't be surprised if he wants to have some too." Rosalind laughed. "That would be too terrible," said she. "But I must go now. Will you lend me this picture for a little? I'd like to look at it again." Roger laughed. "Oh yes, if you'll promise not to fall in love with him for good." When Roger presented himself at the appointed hour in his cousin's studio, he found that young lady very much in earnest and not at all disposed to regard her new functions as a jest. Roger, who had come expecting to be amused, found himself ignominiously set down at a table beside the amenable Tom (who had been coerced into joining the class) and directed to copy a very elementary representation of a gable of a cottage which the instructress had set up on the easel. Six times was he compelled to tackle this simple object before his copy was pronounced passable; and until that Rosalind sternly discouraged all conversation or inattention. "Really, Roger," said she, when at last he meekly submitted his final copy, "for a boy of your age you are an uncommonly rough hand. Tom is a much more promising pupil than you." "I haven't promised you a bob an hour, though," rejoined that not-to-be- flattered genius, beginning to whistle. "Silence, sir!" said Miss Rosalind, stamping her little foot with something like temper; "as long as you are in my class you must do as I tell you." Here Roger protested. "You're rather strict," said he. "I don't mind working hard and attending to all you say, but I vote we enjoy ourselves too--all three of us." "You mean," said Rosalind petulantly, "that you come here to play, while I try to work." "No, I don't. I come to do both, and I want you to, as well." "Very well then, I withdraw from my engagement," said the young lady, with an ominous flush; "we don't agree about art. Unless you can give yourself up to it while you are about it, it's not meant for you--and-- and I'm very sorry indeed I made such a stupid mistake as to think you meant what you said when you told me you wanted to learn." And she took the copy down from the easel. "Look here, Rosalind," said Roger, in unusual perturbation, "I'm so sorry. You're quite right. Of course one can't do two things at once. I'll--" "You're a dear boy, as I've said before," said Miss Oliphant, brightening up suddenly and accepting her victory serenely. "Now please both of you draw the picture again from memory as exactly as you can." "What's the long and short of it all?" presently whispered Tom, who had been supremely indifferent to the argument. "Is it larks or no larks?" "Shut up!--that's what it is," said Roger. "All right; thanks," said Tom contentedly. And for a quarter of an hour more the two worked steadily and silently, the only sound in the room being the scratching of their pencils and Rosalind's occasional terse criticisms over their shoulders. This little incident opened Roger's eyes considerably. He was astonished at himself afterwards for taking his rebuff so meekly, and submitting to what, after all, was rather a preposterous regulation. He was aware that he would not have submitted to any one but Rosalind, or possibly Armstrong. Why he should do so to her he did not particularly know; unless it was because he felt it would be pleasanter on the whole to have her as a friend than as a foe. When, three days later, Mr Armstrong neither appeared nor communicated with any member of the household, the uneasiness which his prolonged absence caused found expression in several different ways. Miss Jill cried in a corner; Miss Rosalind tossed her head and painted fiercely; Roger, already pulled down with a return of his cough, moped in his own room; while his mother, impressed by the growing indignation of her cousin, began to work herself into a mild state of wrath. Tom alone was serene. "I expect he's having a jolly time with that French chap," he volunteered at the family dinner. "With whom?" inquired his father pricking his ears. "Oh, a chum of his; not half a bad sort of cove, only he dropped all his `h's.' He turned up at Christy's, you know, but missed the best break- down, while he and Mr Armstrong were hob-nobbing outside. I saw it, though. It was prime." "Why didn't you tell me this before?" demanded Captain Oliphant. "I didn't know you'd care about it," said his son in mild surprise. "You see, it was this way. The fellow had wooden shoes on, and when the music began slow he began a shuffle, and gradually put on the pace till you couldn't tell one foot from the other." Here Miss Rosalind broke into a derisive laugh. "Really, Tom," said she, "you are too clever. However did you guess that we were all dying to hear how a break-down is danced?" "I didn't till father said so." Here Roger and the two young ladies laughed again; whereat Tom, concluding he had said something good unawares, laughed too, and thought to himself how jolly it is to be clever and keep the table at a roar. In private Captain Oliphant pursued the subject of Gustav and his relations (apart from their mutual connexion with the break-down) with the Maxfield tutor. He received very little satisfaction from his inquiry. Tom was so full of his main topic that the other events of that memorable evening in town occupied but a secondary place in his memory. He recollected Gustav as a good-natured foreigner whom Armstrong called by his Christian name, and who talked French in return. He could not remember where he lived, except that it was ten minutes' walk from Christy's Minstrels; nor had he the slightest idea what the two men talked about, except that Armstrong had promised to hold somebody's hand, and that Gustav had tried to kiss him by way of recompense. Captain Oliphant chose to take a very serious view of this disclosure. It fitted in exactly with his theory that the tutor was an adventurer of "shady antecedents," and, as such, an undesirable companion for the late "dear one's" orphan-boy. "I should not feel I was doing my duty," said he to Mr Pottinger that afternoon, "if I were not to follow this up. We don't know whom we have to deal with; and the fact of Mr Ingleton having confided in him really, you know, weighs very little with me; old men of enfeebled intellect, my dear Pottinger, are so easily hoodwinked." "Quite so. Does it not occur to you, Captain, that a simple solution of the difficulty would be for Mrs Ingleton to send her boy to college?" "Mrs Ingleton," said the Captain, "is unfortunately incapable of regarding this subject in any light but that of her son's likings. And Roger Ingleton, minor, is infatuated." "Humph!" said the lawyer, "I thought so. Then I agree with you, it will be useful to institute a few inquiries." "Leave that to me," said the captain. "By the way, what about that piece of land you were speaking of?" "Ah!" said the lawyer, making as near an approach to a blush as he could muster, "the fact is, Hodder's lease falls in next week. He has had it at a ridiculously low figure, and is not a profitable tenant." "That is the old dotard who is always croaking about Maxfield in the days before the Flood?" "Well, almost as remote a period. He was here in the time of the late squire's father. At any rate his lease falls in; and I happen to know a person who is willing to give twenty per cent more for the land than he pays. I can't tell you his name," said the lawyer, looking sufficiently conscious, "but I happen to know he would be a better tenant to Maxfield than the old man." Mr Pottinger amused himself with making a little mystery about a matter that was no secret to Captain Oliphant. That gallant gentleman knew as well as the lawyer did that Mr Pottinger himself, whose land adjoined Hodder's, was the eligible tenant in question. "There will be no difficulty about that, Pottinger. Of course, you must give Hodder the option of offering your friend's price. If he does not, it is clearly the duty of the executors to take the better tenant." He took up his hat and turned to go. "By the way," said he at the door, "it will hardly be necessary, I take it, to go through the farce of bringing a trifling matter of this kind before the other executors; Mrs Ingleton should really be spared all worry of this sort; and as for the other one--well, he chooses to be somewhere else." "Quite so, quite so. If you and Mrs Ingleton sign the lease it will be sufficient," said Mr Pottinger. Unluckily for the pleasantly arranged plan of these two good gentlemen, Miss Rosalind Oliphant took it into her pretty head a day or so afterwards to call at old Hodder's cottage in passing, to ask for a glass of milk. The young lady was in a very discontented frame of mind. She was angry with Mr Armstrong for staying away so long. Not that she cared what he did, but till he came back she felt she did not know the full extent of the forces arrayed against her at Maxfield; and she wanted to know the worst. Besides, although Roger was diligently prosecuting his art studies and displaying the most docile obedience to her discipline, she could not help thinking he would not have taken to art except to please her; and that displeased her mightily. Besides, Tom, her brother, was too silly for anything; he insisted on enjoying himself, whoever else was miserable; and Jill was very little better. Altogether, Miss Oliphant was out of humour, and felt this walk would do her good. She found the Hodder family in mighty tribulation. The old man sat in his corner with his hat on the floor beside him, crying and boohing like a child. And his two little granddaughters looked on at his grief, pale and half-frightened, knowing something bad had happened, but unable to guess what. "Why, Hodder," said Miss Rosalind, "whatever's the matter? What a noise you're making! What has happened?" "Happened!" cried the old man with a voice quavering into a shrill treble. "How would he like it himself? Seventy years, boy and man, have I sat here, like my father before me. I've seen yon elm grow from a stick to what she is now. I've buried all my kith and kin bar them two lassies." "Of course, I know you're very old. But why are you crying?" demanded Rosalind. "Crying! Wouldn't you cry, Missy, if you was to be turned neck and crop into the road at threescore years and ten?" "Nonsense. What do you mean?" "Come Tuesday," sobbed the old man, "me and the lassies will be trespassers in this here very place." "What!" exclaimed Miss Rosalind, "do you mean you're to be turned out? Who dares to do such a thing?" "You go and ask Mr Pottinger, if you doubt it," blubbered the old man. "He ought to know." Without another word, Miss Rosalind flung herself from the cottage and marched straight for the lawyer's, pale, with bosom heaving and a light in her eyes, that Armstrong, had he been there to see it, would have shivered at. "Mr Pottinger," said she, breaking unceremoniously into the lawyer's private room, "what is this I hear! How dare you frighten old Hodder by talking about his leaving his farm?" The lawyer stared at this beautiful apparition, not knowing whether to be amused or angry. It was the first time any one in Maxfield had addressed him in this strain, and the sensation was so novel that he felt fairly taken aback. "Really, dear young lady, I am delighted with any excuse that gives me the pleasure of a visit from--" "Mr Pottinger," said the young lady in a tone which made him open his eyes still wider, "will you tell me, yes or no, if what Hodder tells me is true?" "That depends on what Hodder says," replied the lawyer, trying to look cheerful. "He says he has had notice to leave his farm next week. Is that true?" "That entirely depends on himself, if I _must_ suffer cross-examination from so charming a counsel." "You mean--" "I mean, my pretty young lady, that if he chooses to pay the new rent he is entitled to stay." "You have raised his rent?--a poor old man of seventy-five?" "I have no power to do that. But I understand he has had the land for next to nothing. It is worth more now." "Mr Pottinger," said Miss Rosalind, "let me tell you that if you have any hand in this wicked business you are a bad man, whatever you profess to be. I shouldn't sleep to-night if I failed to tell you that. So is everybody who dares treat an old man thus." "Pardon me, Miss Oliphant, that is not quite respectful to your own father." She rounded on him with trembling lips. "My father," she began and faltered--"my father is not the sort of man to do a thing of this kind unless he were cajoled into it by some-- some--some one like you, Mr Pottinger--" With which she left the room, much to the lawyer's relief, who tried to laugh to himself at the pretty vixen, but couldn't be as merry as he would have wished. Rosalind, on her return to Maxfield, went straight with flashing eyes to Roger's room, and told him the story. "Roger," she said, "if you are half a man you will stop it. You are master here, or will be. Are you going to let this poor old man be turned out of his home? You are not the dear boy I take you for, if you are." "Of course it must be stopped," said Roger, amazed at her vehemence; "and it shall be. I always thought Pottinger a sneak. I assure you, Rosalind, I shall make poor old Hodder happy before we are a day older. So good-bye; I'll go at once." But he was no match for the lawyer, who politely recounted the circumstances and referred him to his guardians, who, however, as he pointed out, had no choice but to accept the best-paying tenant. "It is done in your interest, my dear boy," said Mr Pottinger. "We are bound to consider your interests, whether you like it or not." Mortified beyond measure, both on his own account and at the prospect of facing Rosalind, Roger returned slowly to Maxfield. As he entered, a hand was laid on his shoulder; Mr Armstrong had come back. CHAPTER SEVEN. MR. ARMSTRONG PUTS DOWN HIS FOOT. Mr Armstrong, as unconcerned as if he had just returned from a half- hour's stroll, had little idea of the flutter which his return caused to the Maxfield family. He could hardly know that Raffles was parading the lower regions rubbing his hands, and informing his acquaintance down there that the season for "larks" was coming on; nor, as he was out of earshot, could he be supposed to know the particularly forcible expressions which Captain Oliphant rehearsed to himself in celebration of the occasion. As for the young people, it did afford him a passing gratification to feel his pupil's arm linked once more in his own, and to encounter the expected boisterous welcome from Tom and Jill. Miss Rosalind was busy, forsooth! and if Mr Armstrong flattered himself she took the slightest interest in his return, he might find out his mistake. "I'll join you in a minute, Roger," said he to his ward, "but I must go and pay my respects to your mother." "Oh, she'll keep," said Roger; "I want to hear what you've been up to." "In five minutes," said the tutor, going to the drawing-room. Mrs Ingleton was there, looking pale and fragile, pouring out afternoon tea for Captain Oliphant. "Why, Mr Armstrong," said she, "we had given you up for lost; Roger was getting quite melancholy without you." "I understood," began the captain, "when you asked leave--" "Mrs Ingleton, I must ask you to excuse my long absence. I went to see a dying friend, and was unable to return earlier." "You might have written," said the captain, returning to the charge. Mr Armstrong screwed his eye-glass round and stared at the speaker. "I beg your pardon," said he. "I say, sir, you might have written. Let me tell you, Mr Armstrong, that, as my dear relative's co-trustee and guardian--" "I am sorry," observed the tutor, addressing Mrs Ingleton, "that Roger's cough is still troubling him. He is waiting for me upstairs, by the bye, but I was anxious to offer you my apologies without delay for my long absence." "Mr Armstrong," said the captain, stepping between the tutor and the door, "this will not do, sir. When I speak to you, I expect you to listen." Mr Armstrong bowed politely. "I repeat, sir, your conduct satisfies neither me nor your mistress. You forget, sir, that you are here on sufferance, and I desire to caution you that it may become necessary to dispense with your services, unless-- I am speaking to you, Mr Armstrong." Mr Armstrong was examining with some curiosity a china group on the mantelpiece. He turned round gravely. "You were saying--?" said he. The captain gave it up. "We shall discuss this matter some other time," said he. "Pray, pray," said Mrs Ingleton with tears in her eyes, "let us not forget that my boy's happiness depends on our harmony. I am sure Mr Armstrong recognises that I depend on you both." Mr Armstrong bowed again; and finding that the captain had returned to his chair, he quietly left the room. When he entered Roger's room, humming a tune to himself, he neither looked like a man who had returned from a funeral or from an altercation in the drawing-room. In five minutes he was in possession of most of what had taken place during his absence--of Roger's cold, of the painting-lessons, of Tom's reminiscences of Christy's Minstrels, and most of all of Hodder's tribulation. "And what sort of an artist are you turning out?" inquired he. "Oh, all right. But I say, Armstrong, I want you to make it right about Hodder before anything. Will you come and see him?" "My dear fellow, Hodder is as safe in his cottage as you are here. Leave that to your responsible guardian. My present intention is to work on the tender mercies of Raffles for some dinner. I have travelled right through from Paris since this morning." "Your friend died?" inquired Roger. "Yes. I was in time to be of some little help, I think, but he was past recovery. How is Miss Oliphant?" "All right; but in an awful state about old Hodder. I'm afraid to meet her myself. She will be relieved to have you back." "Will she really?" said the tutor, laughing. "I hardly flatter myself her comfort depends on which particular hemisphere I happen to be in." Miss Oliphant, as it happened, had taken to a spell of hard work in her studio, and was not visible all the evening. She was, in fact, making a copy of the portrait Roger had lent her, and the work interested her greatly. This bold, fearless, almost insolent, boy's face fascinated her. She seemed to be able to interpret the defiance that flashed in his eye, and to solve the problem which gathered on his half-mocking lips. She was half afraid, half enamoured of this old piece of canvas. "Why are not you here now?" she muttered as she gazed at it. "You don't look like the sort of boy to die. Should we be friends or enemies? Heigho! I shouldn't care much which, if only you were here. Roger minor is a dear boy; but--you are--" She didn't say what he was, but worked late into the night with her copy. At bedtime Jill came in radiant. "He's come back, Rosalind. Dear Mr Armstrong's come back." "Oh!" said Rosalind shortly. "Aren't you glad? Oh, I am!" "Why should I be glad? I don't care two straws for all the Mr Armstrongs in the world. Go to bed, Jill, and don't be a goose." Jill obeyed, a little discomfited, and was sound asleep long before the artist joined her. And long before she woke from her dreams next morning Rosalind was astir and abroad. She had resolved to pay an early call on old Hodder, if not to relieve his mind about the eviction, at least to take him some comfort in the shape of a little tea and sugar. The old man was sitting outside the cottage, smoking and moaning to himself. He cheered up a bit at the sight of his visitor, still more at the sight of the tea. But it was a short-lived gleam of comfort, and he relapsed at the earliest opportunity into the doleful. "Little good it'll do me," said he, "as have known this place, man and boy, seventy-five years, Missy. Never a word did they say to me till now. The old squire had allers his nod for Hodder, and when times was bad he let the rent stand. And young Master Roger was of the same sort." "Oh, Roger is your friend still," said Rosalind; "he's doing everything to help you." "I don't mean _him_. He's good enough; but he's a boy. But young Master Roger as was, he had a will of his own, Missy. Not one of 'em durst stand up to him." Rosalind became interested. "Do you mean the one who died?" said she. "Ay, they say he died. They said as much and wrote it on the tombstone." "Do you mean that there was ever a doubt about it?" said the young lady uncomfortably. "They said he died, so he must have died," said old Hodder, sipping his tea. "It was all talk to the likes of me. Young Master Roger wasn't of the dying sort." "He went abroad, I hear?" she asked. "So they say. It's a score of years or more since. I tell 'ee, Missy, young Master Roger wouldn't have stood by to see me turned out like this; he'd have--" Here there was a click at the gate and a long shadow fell on the footpath. It was Mr Armstrong in his flannels. He looked somewhat alarmed to find Miss Rosalind in possession. Still more to perceive that she proposed to remain where she was. His impulse was to make a feeble excuse and say he would call again. But his courage revived on second thoughts. "Ah, Hodder," said he, after saluting the young lady, "what's all this about turning you out of your cottage! What a notion to get into your head!" "You may call it a notion, Mr Armstrong," said the old man, "but what about this here piece of paper?" And he produced a blue legal document. Mr Armstrong put up his eye-glass and read it, with a face which, as Rosalind furtively glanced upwards, seemed inscrutable. When he had finished he coolly put it in his pocket. "I'll see to this," said he. "You choose the best time of day for a walk, Miss Oliphant." "Shall you really be able to settle this for Hodder?" replied she. "I've very little doubt about it." The old man chuckled ungallantly. "He, he," said he, "Missy, you ladies are good enough for tea and sugar, but it takes a man to put the likes of me right with my masters." Armstrong flushed angrily at this speech and was about to relieve his mind when Rosalind laughingly interposed-- "Poor old Hodder! You're quite right; I should never have been clever enough to help you. Good-bye. I'm so glad." To tell the truth, Miss Oliphant was a good deal more engrossed with what the old man had let drop concerning the lost Roger than with the tutor and his knowledge of the law of landlord and tenant. "Suppose he did not die!" she said, half scared at the boldness of the suggestion. "If he were to come back!" And she went back and looked long once more at the picture. Then with less satisfaction she contemplated her own copy. Thus employed Roger found her when he passed her door an hour later. "Still harping on my brother," said he. "I've done with him, thank you," said Rosalind, handing him back the picture. "See, I have one of my own now." "Why, it's better than the original. I like it better." "That shows how little you know about painting." "It shows how much you know about my brother," said he. "But if you like to keep the original and let me have the copy, I should consider I had the best of the bargain." Rosalind tossed her head and locked her own copy up in her desk. "Roger," she said when that was done, "where did he die?" "The date is on the picture, if one could only make it out. He was abroad at the time, I believe." "Where?" "I never heard." "Have you never tried to find out?" Roger looked at her, startled. "It was before I was born," said he. "Father never spoke of him. But why do you ask?" "Only a girl's curiosity. I thought, if any one knew, you would. But there is the bell for lunch." Armstrong meanwhile had been having an interview of a different kind. He strolled into Mr Pottinger's office almost at the same time as that worthy lawyer himself. "So you are back?" asked the latter. "Yes, and quite at your service," said the tutor. "I am afraid my absence has been inconvenient. But I am ready for business now. By the way, I have brought you back a document which must have been left on old Hodder by mistake. I certainly did not sanction it." The lawyer sat back in his chair and gazed at the tutor through his spectacles. Mr Armstrong, leaning against the chimney-piece, put up his glass and gazed leisurely back. The two men understood one another pretty well already. "The notice is quite in order. I have Captain Oliphant's instructions." "And mine?" "You were not here." "I am here now, and I object to Hodder's being disturbed. Do I make myself clear?" "But--" "You must excuse me, Mr Pottinger. I shall be glad to discuss the matter with you in the presence of my co-trustees. Meanwhile, good- morning." The lawyer jumped out of his chair like a man shot. "What, sir--you, an interloper, an adventurer, a nobody, a parasite--do you suppose I am going to be talked to by you as if I didn't know my own duty. Do you know, Master Usher, that you can any day receive a week's notice of dismissal--" "A month's, I think," observed the tutor, taking up his hat. "In that respect, perhaps, I have the advantage of the solicitor to the trust. However, we won't talk of that just now. Good-morning again." Mr Armstrong looked in on his friend the doctor, whom he found in an opportune moment at breakfast. The two men had a long chat over their coffee, and finally adjourned for a walk along the shore, ending up with a cool spring dip in Sheephaven Cove. After which, much refreshed, and glad to be once more in his familiar haunts, the tutor strolled cheerfully back to Maxfield for lunch. He was quite aware things had undergone a change. He had two new enemies, but he was not afraid of them. He had a new pupil, but he liked him. He had a devoted new champion, in the shape of a little girl, but that was no hardship, Roger, too, despite his new friends, was still loyal to his tutor; and Mrs Ingleton, by all appearances, still regarded him as a useful friend. What then was the difference! It could hardly have anything to do with a certain young person half his own age, with whom the tutor had not had two hours' continuous conversation in his life, and of whose behaviour generally he did not at all know whether he approved or not. "Ridiculous!" said Mr Armstrong to himself with a smile, as he strolled up the carriage drive. At that moment the distant hall-door opened, and a light figure stepped out for a moment on to the door-step to pat the great mastiff that lay sleeping on the mat. The apparition, the caress, and the vanishing occupied scarcely half a minute, and when it was past Mr Armstrong was only ten paces nearer the house than he had been when it appeared. But, somehow, in those few seconds the amused smile on his lips faded away, and the eye-glass dropped somewhat limply from his eye, as he repeated to himself more emphatically than before-- "Ridiculous!" At lunch, Roger innocently broached the question of Hodder's eviction. "Mother," said he, "what do you think that idiot Pottinger has been up to? He's taken it into his wise head to threaten to turn old Hodder out of his cottage unless he pays a higher rent in future. I went to row him about it, but he's far too dense to see what a scoundrelly thing it is." "How shocking!" said Mrs Ingleton. "Poor old Hodder has been in that place all his life. Your father was always fond of him, Roger. I wouldn't have him disturbed for the world." "You'll have to tell Pottinger so yourself," said Roger. "He says he's bound to screw all he can out of the old chap in my interests, if you please." The captain had listened to this parley with anything but comfort, and was about at this point to explain, when Mr Armstrong seeing his chance adroitly stepped in. "You may make yourself easy about the matter, Roger. Evidently Mr Pottinger has acted most unwarrantably on his own responsibility. I have been to see him this morning, and told him in future he is not to take upon himself to do anything about the estate without consulting Mrs Ingleton, and Captain Oliphant, and myself--" "Then Hodder is not to be disturbed?" inquired Rosalind. "I have seen that the notice is withdrawn. I, for one, should certainly never sanction it." "Oh, how delightful you are," said the young lady. "How happy you will have made the poor old man. Father, do get that horrid Pottinger sent away. He's a monster. I told him so yesterday, but he wouldn't believe me." "Rosalind," said her father, whose lunch was not agreeing with him at all, "it vexes me to see you interfere in matters in which you have no concern. It seems to me, my dear Eva," he added, addressing Mrs Ingleton, whom he had already taken to calling by her Christian name, "that these business questions had much better be left for discussion among ourselves, and not at the family meal." "Perhaps so," said Mrs Ingleton; "only we are all so interested in poor old Hodder, we hardly regard this as a business question. However, I am delighted to hear it is all right now. I only wish Mr Pottinger had consulted you, Edward, before he took such a step." "Oh, he did," blurted out Rosalind. "But, as I told him, of course papa not knowing what a villain he was, would believe all he said. It was all the more shame of him to go and impose on papa, who hasn't had time to get to know all the people about the place, instead of going to Auntie or Mr Armstrong, who know all of them. I don't think he'll do it again," said the young lady, firing up like a charming Amazon, at the remembrance of her interview. Captain Oliphant pushed his chair brusquely back from the table and got up, looking, so Armstrong thought, not as proud of his loyal daughter as he should have been. "Eva," said he drily, "I shall be in the library if you want me. Will you tell Raffles to bring me in the _Times_ when it arrives?" "I'm afraid papa will be very angry with me," said Rosalind dolefully, as she and Roger walked back across the hall. "But if he won't stand up for himself some one must. I'm quite sure he would give the impression, to any one who did not know him, that he had purposely been harsh to poor Hodder." As it happened, Captain Oliphant displayed no anger. The question of Hodder was allowed to drop, and no further reference was made to his threatened eviction. Mr Pottinger during the week meekly submitted an agreement to permit him to remain where he was, which the trustees sanctioned unanimously; and when the old man's champions at Maxfield rejoiced in the discomfiture of the man of the law. Captain Edward Oliphant said nothing in his defence. After this matters went on quietly, as they will do when one storm has blown over and the next is yet below the horizon. Armstrong settled down to his duties with his two pupils--or rather his three pupils, for Miss Jill made a point of receiving lessons too. Miss Rosalind worked away at her painting, and succeeded in evoking a glimmering interest in art in the Philistine breasts of her two students. The young people divided their leisure between riding, cricket, tennis, and yachting. Mrs Ingleton, as the weeks went by, not only grew more pale, but began to be aware of the attentions of her sympathetic kinsman, and to be sorely perplexed and disturbed thereat. And the Captain himself received his Indian letters regularly by each mail, and confessed to himself that, but for two considerations--one appertaining to love, the other to hate--he had better far have remained in Her Majesty's service abroad. CHAPTER EIGHT. TWO ENDS OF A ROPE. The summer passed, and even Captain Oliphant began to grow reconciled to his surroundings. That is to say, he discovered that at present it was his policy to make himself agreeable, even to his co-trustee. Armstrong, with the position he held at Maxfield as Roger's friend and Mrs Ingleton's trusted servant, was not to be disposed of quite as easily as the gallant officer had at first anticipated. At the same time, while he remained where he was, the Captain felt himself decidedly embarrassed in the working out of sundry little projects which floated in his ingenious brain. Besides which, time was getting on. Roger would be twenty in November, and a year later-- Captain Oliphant had reached this pleasant stage in his meditations one morning, as he sipped his coffee in his own room, when Raffles entered with the letters. "Eightpence to pay on this one, please, sir." It was a letter with an Indian post-mark, unstamped. The Captain regarded it with knitted brows; then tossing it on the table, said-- "Give it back. I won't take it in, Raffles." Raffles, reflecting within himself that the Captain must have a vast amount of correspondence if he could afford to chuck away an interesting document like this, took the letter and retired. "Wait a minute," called the Captain, as the door was closing. "Let me look at it again." Raffles guessed as much, and brought the missive back triumphantly. The Captain again regarded it with expressions of anything but cordiality, and seemed half inclined to reject it once more. But he took it up again and posed it in his hand. "You can leave it, Raffles," said he presently; "give the postman the eightpence." It was some time before Captain Oliphant opened the letter. He sipped his coffee and glared at it viciously, as it lay on the table beside him. "What game is the scoundrel up to now?" muttered he. "I began to hope I was rid of him. What does he want now?" He opened the letter and read-- "Dear Comrade,--You have not answered my last three letters, and I feel quite anxious to know of your welfare. You will be pleased to hear that I have arranged to take my leave home during the coming autumn--" The Captain put the letter down with an exclamation which startled the sparrows on the window-ledge, and set the breakfast cup shaking in its saucer. "Coming home!" he gasped. Then he read on. "I look forward to inquiring personally after your health and prospects, in which, as you know, my dear fellow, I am much interested. It would be very nice of you, as the only friend I have in England, to ask your old comrade on a visit to you in your comfortable quarters. A particular advantage in such an arrangement would be that it would prevent my coming without being asked. I am due by the `Nile' about the first week in October. Come and meet me in town. I have no doubt I shall get a line at Southampton to say at which hotel I shall find you. I fear you will find me financially in low water. But I shall have with me papers relating to the regimental accounts previous to your regretted departure from India, which, no doubt, some people would regard as valuable, _Au revoir_, my dear fellow-- "Yours ever,-- "R.R. "_P.S_.--Commend me to your charming family, I look forward with particular pleasure to make the acquaintance of the young ladies, of whom I have heard delightful reports over here." Raffles, when he came in to remove the breakfast things, could not help being struck with the narrow escape Captain Oliphant had had of throwing away, for the sake of a paltry eightpence, a most interesting and appetising letter. The Captain sat holding it abstractedly in his hand, nor was it till the door opened half an hour later and Rosalind sailed in that he hastily pulled himself together, and crumpled the paper away in his pocket. "Why, papa, what is the matter? Is there any bad news in that letter." "On the contrary, it announces the arrival from India of a very dear old comrade." "Oh," said Rosalind. "You will like to hear all about the people over there. Does he belong to our regiment?" "No, dear. But I shall expect you to be very agreeable to him when he comes here." "But he's not coming _here_, is he?" she asked, in amazement. "Where else do you suppose he would be likely to come to visit me?" "Oh, but, papa, we cannot--we must not ask people here. As it is, think of all four of us living here on Roger's money. It isn't fair." "Rosalind, you use expressions which, to anyone but your father, would be positively offensive. Rest assured that I do not require my own child to correct me." "Oh, of course, dear father, I don't mean that, but--" "But it sounds extremely as if you did mean it." "I do hope you won't ask any one here," said she doggedly. "Rosalind, you offend me. You are incapable, as I have told you before, of appreciating your duty either to me or yourself. Oblige me by going." "Papa, dear, I am only anxious--" "Go!" said the Captain brusquely. She obeyed. Mr Armstrong, as he met her in the hall and marked the bright colour in her cheeks and the light in her eyes, thought to himself how uncommonly well she was looking this morning. He might have thought otherwise had he seen her in her studio half an hour later, with the colour all faded, striving miserably to resume her painting at the point where she had left it off. Her good father, meanwhile, naturally put out, continued his meditations. "A most vexing child--no support to me at all. On the contrary, an embarrassment. I might have guessed she would cut up rough. Yet I do so long for a little sympathy. Wonder if I shall get any from my dear cousin Eva some fine day? Hum. I more and more incline to that venture. It would suit my book, to say nothing of my being really almost in love with the dear creature. But I'm so abominably shy. Let's see, Ratman is due first week in October--a month hence. I shall have to keep him quiet some how. He won't be satisfied with things as they are, I'm afraid. All very well to be heir-presumptive when there's little prospect of presuming. Dear Roger is certainly not robust--not at all, poor boy. Still he seems tenacious of what would be very much more useful to me than to him. Yes, it would strengthen my hands vastly if my dear cousin Eva were to give me the right to regard the lad as a father. There would be something definite in that. It would solve the Armstrong question, for one thing, I flatter myself; and as for Rosalind--yes by the way--" He took out the letter again and read the postscript carefully. "Yes--tut, tut--how oddly things do work out sometimes. Evidently it is my duty all round, for the sake of everybody, to cast aside my natural bashfulness and use the opportunities Providence gives me." With which reflection he lit a cigar, and had a pleasant ramble in the park with little Miss Jill, who had rarely seen her papa more lively or amusing. His spirits were destined to be still further cheered by an occurrence which took place on the following day. Roger, despite his delicate health, had managed to get through a creditable amount of work during the summer under Mr Armstrong's guidance. He was shortly to go up for his first B.A. in London, and, with that ordeal in view, had been tempted to tax his strength even more than was good for him. At last the tutor put down his foot. "No, old fellow," said he; "if you work any move you will go backwards instead of forward. You must take this week easy, and go up fresh for the exam. Depend on it, you will do far better than if you tried to keep it up till the last moment." In vain Roger pleaded, threatened, mutinied. The tutor was inexorable, and, fortified by the joint authority of Mrs Ingleton and Dr Brandram, carried the day. He had also an unexpected ally in Miss Rosalind. "Don't be obstinate, Roger," said she. "The three Fates are too many for you; and don't sulk, whatever you do, there's a dear boy, but make yourself nice and propose to take Tom and Jill and me across to Pulpit Island to-morrow. If you are so wedded to lessons, you and Tom shall have your art class for once in a way on the Pelican's Rock instead of my room." Roger could hardly hold out after this; and Mr Armstrong, a little envious, set the seal of his approval to the programme. "I wish you'd come too," said Tom; "can't you?" "Oh, do," said Jill; "it would be twice as nice." "Mr Armstrong has enough of all of us on working-days," said Rosalind rather cruelly, "to forego a chance of being rid of us on a holiday." "Quite so," said the tutor, trying to enjoy the situation; "when the mice are away the cat will play--on the piano." The next day promised well for the picnic; and Roger had sufficiently warmed up to the proposed expedition to be able to enter eagerly into the preparations. The Pulpit Island, a desolate cavernous rock three miles from the coast, dominated by a lighthouse, was a familiar hunting-ground of his in days gone by, and he decidedly enjoyed the prospect of doing the honours of the place to his cousins now--particularly one of them. As not a breath of air was stirring, they decided not to encumber the small boat with mast or sail, but to row leisurely across with just as much energy as suited their holiday humour. The channel was on the whole free from currents, and, as Roger knew the landing-places as well as the oldest sailor in the place, any precaution in the way of a pilot was needless. Armstrong, as he watched the little craft slowly glide over the glassy water, dwindling smaller and smaller, but sending back the sound of voices and laughter long after it itself had become an indistinguishable speck in the gleaming water, wished himself one of the crew. But as fate had ordained otherwise he retreated to his piano, and succeeded in irritating Captain Oliphant considerably by his brilliant execution, vocal and instrumental, of some of his favourite pieces. The day, however, was too hot even for music, and after an hour's practice Mr Armstrong gave it up and took a book. But that was dull, and he tried to write some letters. Worse and worse. The place was stifling, and the pen almost melted in his hand. What was the matter with him? Why did he feel so down, so lonely. Surely he could exist a day without his pupil, whatever the temperature. Perhaps he had his doubts about the boy's success in the coming examination. No; he fancied that would be all right. He would try a stroll in the park. It could not at least be hotter under the trees than in the house. Across the passage a door stood wide open--a familiar door, through which he caught sight of a familiar easel on the floor, and over the fireplace one or two familiar Indian knick-knacks. He couldn't help stopping a moment to peep in. It seemed cooler in there. What was the picture on the easel? Might he not just look? A view of the park, with the sea beyond-pretty, but--no, not as good as it might be. Landscape was not this artist's strong point. Ah, there was a portrait on the mantelpiece. That promised better. Why, it was the identical boy's portrait that had once hung in the old squire's library. No--it was a copy, but an extraordinary copy, as if the original had suddenly lived while it was being made. Mr Armstrong had rarely seen a portrait which looked so like speaking and breathing. The original in Roger's room was weak compared with this. And in front of it stood a glass with a rose, whose petals leaned over and just touched the canvas-- Mr Armstrong, feeling very guilty, beat a hasty retreat into the hot passage and made his way down-stairs. He was a little jealous of that portrait, perched there in that cool room, with the sweet rose in front of it. "Going out?" said Captain Oliphant in the hall. The Captain, by the way, had taken to being civil to his co-trustee, much to Mr Armstrong's annoyance, "Warm, isn't it?" "Yes," said he. "Beautiful day for those young people." "Beautiful," said the tutor. As he spoke, he casually tapped the barometer at the hall-door, as was his habit. To his surprise, the dial gave a great leap downward. Something was wrong with it evidently, for the sky was as monotonously blue as it had been all day, and not a leaf stirred in the trees. However, Mr Armstrong took the precaution to return to his own room for a moment to consult the barometer there. It, too, answered him with a downward plunge. The tutor screwed his glass rather excitedly into his eye, and looked at the clock. Half-past three. He touched the bell. "Tell the groom to saddle `Pomona' for me, Raffles. I will come to the stables in a minute or two and mount there." "You need a bit of exercise this weather, you do," remarked Raffles to himself, as he retired, "to keep warm." A few minutes later the tutor was riding smartly to Yeld. During the half-hour occupied by that journey the signs of the approaching storm became manifest. The blue of the sky took a leaden hue, and out at sea an ominous cloud-bank lifted its head on the horizon, while the sultry air seemed to breathe hot on the rider's cheek. He pulled up short at Dr Brandram's door. "What's the matter now?" asked the doctor. "I hate to see you on horseback. It always means bad news. Is Mrs Ingleton poorly? I am not at all comfortable about her." "No; nobody's ill. But I want you for all that. There's a storm coming on." "So the glass says. All the more reason for staying indoors." "The youngsters from the Hall are out in it." "Well, can I lend you an umbrella?" "Don't be an ass, Brandram. They are out in an open boat at sea." The doctor jumped to his feet. "By Jove!" he exclaimed. "They went to the island this morning, and will have started back a quarter of an hour ago." "They've caught it already, then," said the doctor. "Look!" The horizon was lurid with clouds. Pulpit Island out at sea seemed, instead of three miles distant, to have come in to within a mile. The channel between, still gleaming in the sun, was struck by a bar of shadow which seemed like a scar on the surface. The two men, as they stood in the street looking seaward, could hear already the solemn hum through the breathless air, and feel the first cool whiff of the breeze on their faces, while at their feet there fell with a sudden plash a heavy drop of rain. "Had they a sail?" asked the doctor. "No." "It's coming south-east. They will drive in this side of Sheep Head." "That's what I thought. An awful coast, and not a boat there." "Get the horse in the gig," said Dr Brandram, "while I put together what we are likely to want. Look sharp." Armstrong wanted no encouragement to be expeditious, and had the trap at the door almost before the doctor had his pile of blankets, wraps, with brandy and other restoratives, ready to put in it. In the village they paused to buy a rope and to warn one or two stragglers of their errand. Then in the gathering storm they drove hard towards Sheep Head. There was no mistake about the gale now. The sky was black with clouds, and the rain and wind struck them simultaneously as they urged on. The warning hum had already risen to a roar, and the wave, as they raced, crest over crest, to the shore, hissed and seethed with a fury which could be heard a mile off. Neither of the men spoke. Armstrong, with the reins in his hand, kept his eyes stolidly between the horse's ears. The doctor, more agitated, looked eagerly out across the sea. At last, near the summit of the tall, angular headland, the gig came abruptly to a standstill. The horse was tied up, and the two men, scarcely able to keep their feet, staggered to the cliff edge. There for half an hour they lay, straining their eyes seaward, with the full fury of the blast on their faces. It was hopeless to expect to see anything, for the rain drove blindingly in their eyes, and, though scarcely five o'clock, the afternoon was almost as dark as evening. "Could they possibly drive clear of the point?" asked the doctor. "Not possibly, I think. Come down to the shore. We are no use here." "Wait a bit; it seems to be getting lighter." It was; but for a long time the glow served only to make the obscurity more visible. Presently, however, the rain paused for a moment, and enabled them to dear their eyes and look steadily ahead. Dr Brandram felt his arm suddenly gripped as his companion exclaimed hoarsely-- "What's that?" "Something red." Sure enough there was a speck of red tossed about in the waves, now visible, now lost, now returning. It was all that could be seen, but it was enough for Mr Armstrong. "It's the boat. She wore a red cloak. Come down, come down." "No; stop till we see how they are driving. There's time enough." As far as they could calculate, the boat (if boat it was) was being driven straight for Sheephaven Cove, under the cliff on which they stood--a furious, rugged shore--unless, indeed, a miracle should chance to pitch them into the deep, natural harbour that lay in between the low rocks and the headland. "Come down," said Armstrong again. From the sea-level nothing, not even the red speck, was discernible; and for a terrible five minutes they wondered, as they scrambled out on hands and knees to the outmost limit of the jutting rocks, whether, among the wild breakers, the little boat and its precious crew had not vanished for ever. It was all they could do to struggle to their feet, and, clinging to the rocks, turn their faces seaward. A new paroxysm of the gale well-nigh dashed them backwards, and for a time prevented their seeing anything. But in a minute or two it eased off enough to allow them to open their eyes. "See--there--look out, look out," cried the doctor, pointing. He was right. About a quarter of a mile away, buffeted like a cork on the water, was a boat, and in it something red. "Stand up and wave; it's no use shouting," said Armstrong. Taking advantage of a temporary lull, they stood and waved their coats above their heads. Whether they were seen or not, they could not tell. No signal came in return; only the boat--as it seemed, stern-foremost-- drove on towards them. "Hold on and get your rope ready," said the doctor. "Will she clear the rocks or no?" "We shall see. They've no oars out. Stay there while I wave again." This time it was not in vain. There was a stir in the boat. The red cloak was seen to wave aloft, and a faint cry mingled with the storm. "Hold on!" cried the doctor; "they see us, thank God. I'll go on waving." Presently they could see one oar put out, in an attempt to steer the boat into the cove. But in a moment it was swept away, and she drove on as helplessly as before. It seemed years while she gradually approached, stern-foremost, now seeming to lurch straight towards the fatal rocks, now to stand clear for the narrow channel. They could distinguish the four passengers at last. She in red sat in the stern looking ahead, holding her little sister at her side. The two lads in the middle were baling out wildly, pausing every now and then to turn white faces landward, but returning at once to their task. And indeed the boat sat so low in the water that it was a miracle how she floated at all. Armstrong stood up, his friend holding him, and waved his coil of rope above his head. The signal was read in a moment. The two girls retreated to the middle of the boat to make room for Roger in the stern. On and on they came. For an instant it seemed as if nothing could save them, for an ugly cross wave hurled them straight towards the rocks. But the next righted them as suddenly, lifting them high on its crest and dashing them headlong towards the one spot where help awaited them. Before they rose again a deft cast from Armstrong had sent the rope across the bows within Roger's reach, while the doctor, with the other end lashed round his body, was running at full speed towards the calmer water of the cove. For a moment the line hung slack, as a great back-wave lifted the boat on its crest and carried it seawards. But suddenly the strain came, carrying the two men on shore nearly off their feet, and grinding on the gunwale of the boat with a creak which could be heard even above the waves. "Hold on now!" cried Armstrong, as a forward wave surged up behind the boat. All obeyed but Roger, who, seeking to ease the strain, began to haul in on the rope. The wave tossed the boat up with a furious lurch, half swamping it as it did so, and flinging it down again headlong into the trough. When it rose once more the rope still held, and three of her passengers were safe. But Roger was not to be seen. With an exclamation which even the doctor, in the midst of his excitement, could hear, Armstrong flung himself blindly into the chaos of water. For a moment or two it seemed as if he had gone straight to his fate, for amid the foam and lashing spray they strained their eyes in vain for a glimpse either of him or his pupil. Then he appeared high above their heads on the crest of a wave, striking out to where, for one instant, an upstretched arm and nothing more rose feebly from the water. The next moment, hurled thither as it seemed by the wave, he had reached it, and was battling for dear life with the surf that swept him back seaward. By this time a few bystanders had ventured out on to the rocks, one of them with a rope, which, after three vain attempts, fell within reach of the exhausted pair. By its aid Armstrong piloted his senseless charge into the calmer water of the cove, and the whole party, a few moments later, were safe on _terra firma_. CHAPTER NINE. THE CAPTAIN RELIEVES GUARD. When Mr Armstrong, having with some difficulty taken in who and where he was, proceeded, as was natural under the circumstances, to feel for his eye-glass, he discovered that his right arm hung powerless at his side, and refused to perform its familiar functions. The next thing he was aware of was that Rosalind and the doctor were kneeling on the rocks beside the senseless form of Roger, who lay, white as a corpse, with the blood trickling from a gash on the temple. Then Jill crept beside him, pale and sobbing, and said something, he did not hear what. Finally the ruddy countenance of Tom dawned upon him, and made him aware, even in the midst of his dream, that one person at least had thoroughly enjoyed the day's adventures, and was no whit the worse either for the fright or the drenching. How they all got up to Maxfield the tutor was never able to say, for the pain of his broken arm became so intense that he was as near swooning as he had ever been in his life, and but for the timely services of the doctor, who was able to give him some little relief, he might have disgraced himself for ever by fainting light off. He remembered seeing Roger lying in the carriage with eyes half open, his head on Rosalind's shoulder. And he remembered feeling his own hand held fast in the two hands of his little champion. The next thing he was conscious of was that he was in his own bed, with his arm firmly bound beside him, and the friendly face of Dr Brandram bent over him. "That's better, isn't it, old fellow?" said the latter. "It's a wonder it was only the arm. You must keep quiet now, for you shipped a lot of water, and were a quarter drowned into the bargain." "What about Roger?" "He'll do now--at least I hope so. I was concerned about him at first, but he came round. I envy you your plunge. Just my luck! All the big things are done by the other fellows, and I'm left to hold on to the rope and order the physic. Never mind. I never expected to see either of you out of that caldron. I certainly could never have come out myself." "Miss Oliphant--is she all right?" "Right as a trivet; and has mounted guard over her cousin already. If he doesn't get well with her for nurse, he's an obstinate, customer." "Thanks, Brandram. Come again soon." Captain Oliphant's concern at this untoward misadventure may well be imagined. He shed tears with the mother over their "dear one's" narrow escape, and censured in terms of righteous indignation all who had been parties to the hazardous expedition. He cross-examined the doctor as to the dangers to be apprehended from the patient's present condition, and shook his head gloomily at the probable consequences of so terrible a shock to his already fragile constitution. He summoned his three children into his presence to be severally kissed in recognition of their deliverance, and sent a message by Raffles to Mr Armstrong to say that he was glad to hear his injuries were only of a slight nature, and trusted he would take what time was necessary from his duties to make a proper recovery. After which, in a passably good-humour, he returned to his room, and wondered what improvements he should make at Maxfield if, by any melancholy dispensation of Providence, the property should fall into his unworthy hands. Of course there were the usual thorns among the roses. Mrs Ingleton, ill herself, was far too painfully absorbed in her boy's danger to lend an ear to the tender nothings of her sympathetic kinsman. And the whole party were so possessed with the notion that Mr Armstrong was something of a hero, that any suggestion to the contrary was just then clearly inopportune. The main fact, however, was that Roger Ingleton, Minor--dear lad--was very ill indeed. "I trust, doctor," said the captain, about a fortnight after the accident, to Dr Brandram, who was quitting the house with a decidedly long face, "I trust our dear young patient is on a good road now to recovery." "I don't like the look of him, I must confess," replied the doctor; "but, with perfect quiet and nothing to excite him, he will pull round. The one thing to be dreaded is excitement. The lungs we have got well in hand, but that blow on his temple makes an ugly complication." "Poor fellow. Is there nothing one can do?" "Let him alone, with your sweet daughter to nurse him. She is an angel, Captain Oliphant, if you'll excuse my saying so." "She knows, as we all do, how precious his life is. And how is your other patient?" "Armstrong? Practically well. I have given him leave to get up. He has the constitution of a tiger. I wish we could give some of it to the boy." "Ah, indeed!" said the captain, with a sigh. On the following day, a desire took possession of the guardian to visit his dear ward in the sick-chamber. Rosalind, who had clung to her post, defiant of fatigue and sleep, had been prevailed upon in deference to her father's peremptory command to seize an hour's sleep in her own room. "I will sit with him myself," said the captain. "You must not be selfish, my child, in using your privilege. You forget that what gratifies you may also be a pleasure to others. I am going to town in a few days. Who knows if I may see the dear fellow again." "Father!" exclaimed Rosalind, seizing his arm almost roughly; "he is getting better. The doctor says so." "My poor child," said her father, with a forced cheerfulness far more terrifying to the girl than his previous melancholy, "I was wrong to alarm you. Yes, of course he is getting better; of course. Come, we must all be brave." Rosalind, quite broken down, went to her bed and cried herself to sleep. When the captain entered the sick-chamber, he found the mother at the bedside. "My dear Eva," said he, "let me beg you to take a little rest. I will remain here. Do give me the pleasure for once. You know how I shall value the privilege." Mrs Ingleton, who was in truth fairly worn out, was fain to consent, on condition that she should be called at once if necessary. Having escorted her affectionately to the door, Captain Oliphant seated himself at the bedside, and looked hard at his ward. The boy lay in a feverish doze, his large dark eyes half-closed, and his head turning now and again restlessly on the pillow. "My poor dear fellow," said his guardian, bending over him, "how do you feel this afternoon!" "Better, I think. Where's Rosalind?" "Gone to bed. I am really afraid of her becoming ill. She looks so pale and worn." "She was so good to me," said Roger. "I never thought of her getting ill. How long have I been ill?" he asked. "Three weeks, my boy. What a narrow escape you had. You know I never heard yet what happened that day in the boat. How did it all happen?" Whereupon Roger, rousing himself still more, began to go over the events of that memorable day, which at that distance of time seemed to loom out in his mind more terrible than at the time. His guardian, deeply interested in the narrative, drew him out into a full and particular account of all that passed: the picnic on the island, the sudden storm, the drive before the wind, the awful roar of the surf on the shore, what each one said and thought and prepared for, and then of the crowning excitement of the rescue, the struggle in the water, and the drowning sensations. When all was told the boy's head fell exhausted on the pillow, his chest heaved, and he lay half muttering to himself, half moaning, a pitiful spectacle of weakness and exhaustion. When, an hour later, Rosalind glided in, her father walked with finger to his lips to meet her. "Make no noise," said he, "the dear lad is sleeping. Don't disturb him whatever you do." That was a bad night in the sick-room. The fever rose higher and higher. Roger tossed and moaned ceaselessly all night, and for the first time wandered in his talk. Armstrong, who looked in once or twice, durst not let himself be seen by the patient for fear of adding to his excitement. A midnight messenger was despatched for Dr Brandram, who came, looking very grave, and remained at the bedside all night. Captain Oliphant was indefatigable in his inquiries and attentions. He denied himself his natural sleep in order to linger near the dear one's door and feed on the crumbs of information which from time to time came out. He insisted on lending Dr Brandram a pair of his own slippers, and besought Armstrong, with his bad arm, to take care of himself and go shares in his brandy and water. Finally, when the doctor peremptorily ordered every one to bed, he retired in a chastened mood to his own room, where he packed his trunk and smoked his cigar thoughtfully till daylight struggled through the windows. Then he took a brief nap in his arm-chair, and was astir in time to meet the doctor as he descended to the hall. "What news?" he asked. "Don't ask me," said the doctor; "my calculations are completely upset. Something has excited him. Whom did he see yesterday?" "Only my daughter and his mother, and, for a short time, myself." "Was he at all disturbed while you were there?" "On the contrary, he was drowsy when I entered and drowsy when I left. He may possibly have caught sight of Mr Armstrong when he looked in." "He should not have come near him in his present state. Anything that reminds him of the accident is bad for him." "Dear, dear, what a pity! No doubt the boy caught sight of him. Tell me, doctor--may I venture up to town for a day or two on important business? If you thought I should stay--" "No. I hope it's not quite as bad as that; but you should leave word where a message will find you, if necessary. Good day." "I'm not quite such a fool," growled the doctor to himself as he walked to the stables, "as you think me, my fine fellow. If you were in the room half an hour last night this is all explained. To think that you are the father of that ministering angel, too!" The captain, in a spirit of subdued cheerfulness, travelled up that afternoon to town. The weather was superb. The country, rich with harvest, looked beautiful. The carriage was unusually comfortable, and the cigars magnificent. Altogether this good man felt that he had much to be thankful for, and quietly wondered within himself whether, on his arrival at the "Langham" Hotel, he should find a telegram from Maxfield already awaiting him. Instead, he found what pleased him decidedly less, a telegram from Southampton. "Business keeps me here for a week--arrive London Friday evening. "Ratman." The captain expressed himself to himself as greatly annoyed by this simple message, and for the rest of that evening quite lost his natural gaiety. Next morning, however, not being a man to waste the precious hours, he decided, like a dutiful son of his _alma mater_, to take a little run to Oxford. He had still in his pocket a certain memorandum, made long ago, of the name of a certain college at that seat of learning, at which, at a certain date, of which he had also a note, a person in whom he felt interested had been a student. Why not improve the occasion by a few inquiries on the spot as to the academical career of that interesting person? It was a brilliant idea, no sooner conceived than executed. That afternoon, among a crowd of returning undergraduates at --- College, might have been seen the well-dressed military form of a certain gentleman, who politely inquired for the senior tutor. "I have called sir, on behalf of a friend of mine in India, to inquire respecting a Mr Frank Armstrong, who is, or was a year or two since, an undergraduate here." "Armstrong, Armstrong?--no man of that name here at present. Ah, I fancy we had a man here of that name some years since." "Could you conveniently inform me how long it is since he left?" The tutor referred to his lists. "He left three years ago. I remember him now--well." "My friend would be extremely grateful for any information. He has lost sight of him since he was at Oxford." "Well, the fact is Armstrong was not a particular success here. He was a fairly good scholar, and athlete too, I believe, but his course here ended abruptly." "Dear, dear! Do you mean to say he was expelled?" "Hardly so. But he left the place heavily in debt. At the end of his second year he wrote to the authorities to say that the source of supply on which he had depended for paying his college and other bills (which had accumulated to a very considerable extent) had suddenly ceased, and he was unable to meet his obligations. As he was in destitution, he could make no suggestion for meeting them, and requested us to accept an undertaking from him to discharge them if possible at a future time. Under the circumstances he was informed that he was not to come up again, and his name was struck off the books. I believe that since then a few of his debts have been reduced by small instalments." "I am very grieved to hear what you tell me. Could you very kindly tell me the address from which he last wrote?" "If I remember, it was from a coffee-house in London, and he mentioned that he was hoping to obtain employment as a private tutor in a family." "Well, sir, although this is very disagreeable news for my friend. I am sure he will thank you all the same. I suppose you have no idea, beyond this address in London, what became of him?" "None." "Or where he lived before he came to Oxford?" "I was looking for that. I see the address on the entrance form is 3, Blue Street, London." Captain Oliphant made a note of the address, and after effusive thanks, said good-bye. He spent two interesting days in Oxford looking about him and enjoying himself considerably. But although he met several men whose names he knew, and made several new acquaintances, he was unable to hear anything further of the defaulting undergraduate of --- College. On his return to town, as he had still a day or two to spare, this industrious gentleman, with a good deal of trouble, found out Number 3, Blue Street. For a person of his refined tastes it was in a shockingly low neighbourhood near one of the docks, and Blue Street itself was one of the shadiest--metaphorically--of its streets. It consisted mainly of slop shops, patronised by the shipping interest, and displaying wares of which one half at least might be safely counted upon as stolen property. Number Three, which for some unexplained reason was located half-way down the street, was an establishment of this sort, very offensive to the nose and not at all agreeable to the eye. Old clothes of every fashion and antiquity hung exposed in the dingy window, while within a still larger assortment lay piled up on the counter. Nor were the clothes all. Second-hand watches, marlinspikes, compasses, spoons, books, boxes, and curiosities crowded the narrow space, in the midst of which the shrivelled old lady who called herself proprietress was scarcely visible. "Come in--don't be afraid," cried she, as the captain paused doubtfully at the door. "Is this Number 3, my good woman?" "Look over the door--'aint you got no eyes?" "Number 3, Blue Street--this is Blue Street, is it not?" "If yer doubts it, go and read the name at the end of the street. What do you want? Clothes or money?" "Neither--I want information," replied the captain. "Then yer've come to the wrong shop. Don't sell it 'ere, so clear out. Do you think I don't know what you're arter?" "Very well," said the captain, "that will be so much saved. I shall have to get for nothing what I meant to pay for." She looked at him doubtfully and growled. "Why can't yer say what yer want instead of talking gibberish there?" "If this is Number 3, Blue Street, and you are the same person who was here five years ago--" "Go on." "I may have something to give you from an old lodger; but not till I'm sure you have a right to it." "What, _him_?" "Very likely," said the captain, calmly lighting a cigarette. "I shall know if you're right, I dare say." "Right? Do you suppose I'm made of lodgers! 'Aint you talking about the singing chap--Armstrong he called himself, but at the Hall they called him Signor something--Francisco or the likes of that." The captain pricked his ears with a vengeance, and in his eagerness rattled the keys encouragingly in his trouser pocket. "That won't do," said he. "I must have come to the wrong place after all. What sort of looking man was he, and where did he come from?" "He'd got a pair of arms would knock you into the middle of next week, and when he went down to the Hall--" "Which Hall?" "The `Dragon' Music-Hall--what, don't you know it! go on with you--when he went there he flashed it with an eye-glass. Lor', you should 'ave heard him sing! He'd a made your hair curl; it was lovely." "Ah! he wore an eye-glass and sang, did he?" said the captain. "And where did he come from, and what became of him when he left you?" "Come from? I don't know. The other end of the world, I fancy myself. Where he went to I don't know neither. I fancy myself he took up with a bad lot at the Hall, and turned me up. Howsomever, I got my dues out of him, so it's no concern of mine. There you are, mister. Now, what have you got for me?" The captain looked doubtful and shook his head. "I'm afraid it's not right after all," said he. "It doesn't correspond with the particulars I have. Had you no other lodgers?" "What did I tell you," snarled the woman, perceiving she was to be done out of her reward after all. "Come, are you going to give me what you promised or not? If you 'aint, clear out of here, my beauty, or I'll break every bone of your ugly body." And since, with a stick in her hand, she looked very like putting her threat into execution, the captain beat a hasty retreat, chuckling to himself at the thought of his own excellent cleverness. "Upon my word," said he to himself as he strolled westward, "I am having a most interesting time. What a versatile genius my co-trustee appears to be--a tutor to an heir, a defaulting and rusticated undergraduate, a penniless music-hall cad. Dear, dear! what a curious settlement of scores we shall have, to be sure--or rather, should have had, had our poor dear Roger remained with us. Heigho! what a curious sensation it will be, to be sure, to own a fortune." At the hotel the porter met him with a telegram. He expected as much. He could guess what was inside. It really seemed waste of energy to open it. But he must go through with his melancholy functions, and he therefore took a seat in the hall and composed his face for the worst. "Thankful to say good night; fever abated, all hopeful. "Rosalind." Captain Oliphant turned pale, crushed the pink paper viciously in his hands, and uttered an exclamation which called forth the sympathy of the hotel servants who loitered in the hall. "Poor gentleman," said the lady manager to her clerk, "he's got some bad news in that telegram." He had indeed. CHAPTER TEN. ROBERT RATMAN, ESQUIRE, GENTLEMAN. The next morning, as Captain Oliphant, somewhat depressed by the good news of last might was, attempting to write to his dear cousin expression his thankfulness for the mercies vouchsafed to their precious boy, he was considerably disturbed to feel himself slapped on the shoulder and hear a voice behind him exclaim-- "Got you, my man. How are you, Teddy!" The captain turned with, a startled face, and confronted a stylishly- dressed man of about thirty-five, who, but for the dissipated look of his eyes and the vulgarity of his ornaments, might have passed for a gentleman. He wore a light suit--diamonds and turquoises blazed from his fingers, a diamond stud flashed from his shirt front, and from his heavy watch chain hung a bunch of seals and charms enough to supply half a dozen, men of ordinary pretensions His light hat was tilted at an angle on his head, his brilliant kid boots sparkled beneath the snow- white "spats," and the lavender gloves he flourished in his hands were light enough for a ball-room. Once he might have been a handsome man. There were still traces of determination about his mouth, his nose was finely cut, and his lustreless eyes still retained occasional flashes of their old spirit. There was a recklessness in his face and demeanour which once, when it belonged to an honest man, might been attractive; and when he took off his hat and you saw the well-shaped head with its crisp curly hair, you could not help feeling that you saw the ruin of a fine fellow. It was when he began to talk that you would best understand what a ruin it was. He was chary of his oaths and loose expressions--but when he spoke the words came out vulgarly, with a sleepy, half-tipsy drawl, which jarred on the ear. Any words from the lips of Robert Ratman, however, would have jarred on the ears of Captain Oliphant. "Aren't you glad to see me?" said the new arrival, putting his hat cheerfully on the writing-table and helping himself to an easy-chair. "As usual, writing _billets doux_ to the ladies! Ah, Teddy, my boy, at your time of life too! Now, for a youngster like me--" "I thought you would not be able to leave Southampton till the end of the week?" "Couldn't resist the temptation of giving you a pleasant surprise. Why, Teddy, you look exactly as if you thought it was the arm of the law on your shoulder and heard the rattle of the handcuffs. Never mind. They're all safe. I know where they keep them." "Ratman," said the captain, "you have a very poor idea of humour. You have made me blot my letter, and I shall have to write it over again." "Take your time, old boy. No hurry. I shall not be going away for six months or so." Captain Oliphant came to the conclusion he had better finish the letter with the blot than attempt a new one. Having done so, he put it in his pocket, and turned with a good show of coolness to his guest. "When do we run down to Maxfield?" inquired the latter. "Not for some time. There is illness in the house. You must wait." "Oh, I don't mind if you don't. Who is the invalid? Young Croesus?" "Yes--dangerously ill. I expect every day to hear that it is all over." Ratman laughed. "Order two suits of black while you're about it. But, Teddy, my boy, doesn't it strike you you'd be more usefully employed down there than here? It seems unfeeling of a guardian to be enjoying himself in town while his ward is _in extremis_ at home, doesn't it? Who is nursing him?" "My daughter, chiefly." Ratman laughed coarsely. "Ho, ho, clever Teddy! You've left a deputy to look after your interests, have you? Poor boy--no wonder you expect news of him!" Captain Oliphant, crimson and trembling, rose to his feet. "Ratman!" muttered he between his teeth, "I may be all you take me for-- but don't talk of my daughter. She--she,"--and he almost choked at the word--"she is as good as I--and you--are black. Talk about me if you like--but forget that I have children of my own." "My dear boy, you are quite amusing. I will make a point of forgetting the interesting fact. So the boy is being well looked after?" "Too well," replied the captain, pulling himself together after his last outbreak. "The doctor is daft about him; and besides him, as I told you, there is the tutor." "Ah! I forgot about him. Is he a nice sort of chap?" "He's your worst enemy as well as mine. While he is about the place there's no chance for either of us." "Thanks--don't bring me into it. Say there's no chance for you. I can take care of myself. And how about mamma?" "She is at present too ill and distracted by her son's danger to think of anything else. If the boy dies I shall not need to trouble her. If he gets well, I may find it my duty to become his stepfather." "Charming man, and fortunate mamma! Meanwhile, what are you going to do for me?" "My dear fellow, you must wait. I can put you up at Maxfield if you behave decently, but as to money, you will spoil all if you are impatient. I am not the only trustee, remember. I have to be careful." "That's all very well. Sounds beautiful. But do you know, Teddy, I've not quite as much confidence in you as I should like to have. I can't enjoy my holiday without some pocket-money. The big lump might wait, if properly secured. But the interest would be very convenient to me just now. What shall I give you a receipt for?" added he, taking a seat at the table; "a hundred?" "Don't be a fool, Ratman! I've nothing I can give you just now," said the captain angrily. Ratman put down his pen, and whistled a stave, drubbing his fingers on the table. Then he took the pen again. "A hundred, eh?" he repeated. The captain ground his teeth in impotent fury. "No. Fifty." "Thanks very much. I'll make it seventy-five, if you don't mind." Captain Oliphant, with black countenance, slowly counted the notes out onto the table, while his friend with many flourishes wrote out the receipt. Before signing it he counted the money. "Quite right, perfectly right. Thanks very much, Teddy. Now let us go out and see the sights. You forget it's years since I was in town." "Tell me first," said the captain, going to the window, was turning his back, "about that--you know--that affair in--" "About your robbing the mess-funds?" supplied his friend cheerfully. "Certainly, my dear boy. Quite a simple matter. Shortly after you left, Deputy-Assistant something or other came with a long face. `This is a bad job,' says he; `your friend Oliphant's left the accounts in an awful mess. Doesn't look well at all. Where is he?' `Nonsense, my dear Deputy-Assistant,' says I; `must be a mistake. Oliphant's a man of his word. Besides, he's just come into a fortune. Bound to be right if you look into it.' `Will you make it good if it's wrong?' asks he. `Don't mind if I do,' says I, `within reason. He's a young family.' `Only way of hushing it up. Either that or bringing him back between a file of soldiers.' `You don't mean that?' says I. `What's the figure?' `£750,' says he." "Liar!" growled the captain, wheeling round. "It wasn't half that." "They're bound to make something out of it--always happens. Well, as you'd told me you'd got the pickings of a cool half million, I felt I couldn't go wrong in covering you. So I came down with five hundred of needful. Got them to promise to let the rest stand till I had done myself the pleasure of a run over here just to remind you that they have you on their mind. You've disappointed me, Teddy, my boy, but I won't desert you. Don't say you've no friends. I'll stick by you, I rather fancy." The captain was probably able to form a pretty clear estimate how much of this glib story was fact and how much fiction. Whatever the proportion may have been, he had to acknowledge that this friend of his held him in an uncomfortable grip, and had better--for the present at least--be conciliated. So the two went out arm in arm for a stroll--the first of many they took during their fortnight's sojourn in town. The news from Maxfield became unpleasingly damping. Here, for instance, is a letter the doting father received from his son and heir a week after Ratman's arrival. "Dear Pater,--Isn't it fizzing that old Roger is pretty nearly out of the wood? The fever's come down like anything, and he's getting quite chirpy. I can't fancy how a chap can hang on at all with nothing to eat but milk. It wouldn't fill up my chinks. If ever I get a fever, keep me going on beefsteak and mashed potatoes. It's been a great lark having no lessons. Armstrong's forgotten my existence, I think. He and Rosalind have regular rows about sitting up with him--I mean Roger, and Rosalind generally has to cave in. It does her good to cave in now and then. Armstrong's the only one can make her. I can't; nor can Brandram. Brandram's a stunner. I drive him in and out of Yeld every day, and he's up to no end of larks. And now Roger's pulling round, he's as festive as an owl. Jill's in jolly dumps because she's out of it all. Rosalind sits on her and tells her she's too much of a kid to be any good; and she doesn't get much change out of Armstrong. So she has to knock about with me all day, which is awful slow. I say, go and see Christy's Minstrels when you're in town, and get them to let Jockabilly do the break-down. It will make you split. If that French chap is hanging about, tip him a bob for me and be civil to him, because he was decent enough to me. Auntie Eva said something about your bringing a gentleman home with you. I hope he's a jolly sort of chap. Rosalind's temper is all anyhow. When I told her a visitor was coming, she shut me up with a regular flea in my ear. Never mind, she's been a brick to old Roger and Auntie Eva, so we must make allowances. Old Hodder calls up nearly every day to ask after us all. He's grown quite young since he was left alone in his cottage, and Armstrong came down like a sack of coals on that beast Pottinger. My dear father, if you would like to know what I most hope you'll bring home for me, it's a football--Rugby--for the coming winter. Armstrong's promised to coach me in the drop kick. Can you do it? I shall be glad to see you home, as I'm jolly low in pocket-money, besides the affection one feels for those who are absent. Jill joins in love. "Your affectionate `Tom.' "_P.S_.--Auntie Eva is not nearly so down on her luck now that Roger's taken his turn. If he's well enough she's going to have a little kick- up on his birthday, which will be rare larks." "A letter!" inquired Ratman, who had watched the not altogether delighted expression on his friend's face as he read it. "Good news? May I read it?" "If you like," said the captain, tossing it across the table. Ratman, who evidently had a better appreciation of juvenile vagaries than the father, read it with an amused smile on his face. "Nice boy that," said he; "he and I will be friends." "Remember," said the captain, "our bargain. Do and say what you like with me, but before my children--" "Don't be afraid, Teddy, my boy. Depend on me for doing the high moral business. The innocent babes shall never guess that you owe me three years' pay, and that I could walk you off to the next police station for a sharper. It's amusing when you come to think of it, isn't it? But, I say, it looks as if you'll have to trouble mamma after all. The boy's getting well in spite of his nurses. I'm really impatient to see the happy family. When shall we go?" "Next week. We must be decent, and wait till he's better now." "Oh, all right. If we can't go to the funeral we'll go to the birthday party, eh? It's all one to me, Teddy, as long as you don't make a fool of me in the long run." "You wait, and it'll be all right," said the captain, with a trace in his voice of something like desperation. At the end of the following week these two nice gentlemen presented themselves at Maxfield. Captain Oliphant had written for the brougham to meet them, and as Tom and Jill were in it, Mr Ratman was spared the embarrassment of meeting the whole household at one time. Before the house was reached he had impressed Tom with the conviction that there was a considerable possibility of "larks" in his father's visitor. But Jill, who had acquired the habit of contrasting every gentleman she saw with her dear Mr Armstrong, was obdurate to his fascinations. "I don't want to talk to you," said she shortly, when for the twentieth time he renewed his friendly overtures. "I don't like you, and hope you're not going to stay long." Ratman took his rebuff as complacently as he could; and Jill, having exhausted her conversation with this outburst, put her hand apologetically into her father's, and remained silent the rest of the drive. At Maxfield, the visitor, who appeared to experience no difficulty in making himself at home, received a polite welcome from the widow, whose style he generally approved, and considered a good deal better than his gallant comrade deserved. Then, as none of the rest of the household put in an appearance, he retired serenely to his comfortable apartment to dress for dinner. Captain Oliphant's first anxiety was naturally for his dear young ward. He found him sitting up in an arm-chair, with Rosalind reading Shakespeare to him. "Hullo, guardian!" said he, "you see the place hasn't got rid of me yet--thanks to my kind nurse here." "I am indeed thankful, my dear boy, for your recovery. And how is my Rosalind?" She came and kissed him. "Very well, dear father. But Roger has to keep very quiet still, so you must only stay a minute or two, or I shall get into disgrace with the doctor. He has been so good. Have you seen cousin Eva?" "Yes, my child. But come with me; I want to introduce you to Mr Ratman." She looked inclined to rebel, but after a moment closed her book, and, having smoothed the invalid's cushions, followed her father from the room. The captain felt decidedly nervous as she walked silently at his side. At her own door she paused abruptly and said-- "Won't you come in, father? I want to say something to you." "A storm brewing," said the captain to himself. "I expected it." He followed her into her studio and closed the door. "What is it?" "I am going to leave Maxfield, father. I cannot stay here any longer, living on other people. I am going to accept an engagement at the vicarage as governess." "What!" exclaimed her father. "What freak is this, miss? I forbid you to do anything of the kind." "I am very sorry you don't approve. I thought you would. It will enable me to support myself, and perhaps help to keep Jill. I shall get my board and lodging, and £30 a year, I am going on Monday. I wanted to tell you before any one else knew of it." "I repeat you must abandon the idea at once. It is most derogatory in one of our family. In addition to which, I particularly desire to have you here during Mr Ratman's visit." "It is chiefly on that account I have decided to go. It is not right, father, indeed it is not, to go on as we are." She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him, and looked into his eyes. It was an ordeal on which Captain Edward Oliphant had not calculated. The sight of her there, the touch of her hands, the clear flash of her eyes, recalled to him all sorts of unpleasant memories. They reminded him of a day long ago, when the girl's mother had stood thus and pleaded with him for the sake of their children to be pure and honest and self- respecting. It reminded him of his own miserable schemings and follies, and how he had rejected that dear appeal, and ever since slipped and slipped out of reach of any love but the love of himself. It reminded him of the day when he heard that the one prop of his manhood had gone from him; and of how, even then, his sorrow was tempered by the thought that he was a free man to follow his own paths without question or reproof. Now, suddenly, the same hands seemed for a moment to lie on his shoulders, the same eyes to look into his, the same voice to fall on his ear, and he staggered under the illusion. For a moment at least hope was within his reach. But the sound of a man's voice in the passage without recalled him, with a shiver, to himself. It was Ratman's voice--the voice of the man to whom he owed money, who held the secret of his crime, who claimed his villainy and--who could say?--might even have to be pacified with a human sacrifice. He shook her off rudely and said in dry, hard tones-- "Rosalind, I am disappointed in you. I will not discuss the matter with you. You know my wish; I expect you to obey me." And he left the room. She remained standing where she was till the bell rang for dinner. Then with a shiver she went down-stairs. On the stairs she met Mr Armstrong. "Your father has returned," said he. "Yes, with a friend. Are you going down, or shall you stay with Roger?" "May I?" he asked. "You know how glad he will be." So the tutor turned back, and thought to himself that Miss Rosalind was evidently anxious that he should not be a witness to her introduction to her father's friend. Mr Ratman, brilliantly arranged in evening dress, and evidently already very much at home, was comfortably leaning against the mantelpiece in the hall as she descended. He did not wait for an introduction. "I could tell Miss Oliphant anywhere," said he, advancing, "by her likeness to her father. May I offer you my arm?" "I am not at all like father," said she quietly, scanning him as she spoke in a way which made even him uncomfortable, and then putting her hand on her father's arm. Thus repulsed, the visitor cheerfully offered his arm to Mrs Ingleton, congratulating her as he did so on the recovery of her son. During the meal he was aware that the young lady's eyes were completing their scrutiny, and although, being a bashful man, he did not venture too often to meet them with his own, he was conscious that the result was not altogether satisfactory to himself. His few attempts to talk to her fell flat, and in spite of the captain's almost nervous attempts to improve the festivity of the occasion, the meal was an uncomfortable one. "Where's old Armstrong?" demanded Tom. "With Roger," replied Rosalind. "Have you seen Armstrong?" inquired the boy of the visitor; "he's a stunner, I can tell you. He can bend a poker double across his knee. You'll like him awfully; and he plays the piano like one o'clock. He's our tutor, you know--no end of a chap." Mr Ratman was fain to express a longing desire to make the acquaintance of so redoubtable a hero. "Does he lick you?" he inquired. "Sometimes, when it's wanted; but, bless you, he could take the lot of us left-handed; couldn't he, Jill?" "Oh, yes," said Jill enthusiastically; "and he saved Roger's life, and prevented Hodder being turned out, and won such a lot of prizes at Oxford." "He must be a fine fellow," said Ratman, with a disagreeable laugh. "You admire him too, of course, Miss Oliphant?" "Yes, he's honest," said she. "Teddy, my boy," said the visitor, when he and his friend had been left alone at the table, "that girl of yours is a treasure. She don't fancy me, but she'll get over that. I like her, Teddy; I like her." That evening, on his way to say good night to his dear ward, Captain Oliphant stopped at his daughter's door. She was hard at work over a picture. "Rosalind," said he, "you have disappointed me. But if your mind is made up, I know it is no use my setting up my authority against your self-will. Therefore, to relieve you of the sin of disobedience to your father's wishes, I withdraw my refusal to your proposal. You may do as you like. Good night!" CHAPTER ELEVEN. AWKWARD QUESTIONS. The sun, when it peeped through the blinds next morning, found Mr Robert Ratman wide awake. His was one of those active minds which do not waste unnecessary time in sluggish repose, but, on the contrary, do a principal part of their most effective brain-work while other people are asleep. "Snug enough so far," said he to himself, turning over on his side. "The place will suit me after all. Capital table, easy-going hostess, charming young Bohemian to amuse me, money going about, and all that. Teddy wants stirring up. I shall have to flick him a bit. He'll go well enough when he's once started, but he's wasting his time here disgracefully. Eight months since he came, and absolutely nothing done! The boy's not buried, the mother's not married, and the tutor's not had his month's notice, (Like to see this precious tutor, by the way.) Upon my honour, it's about time I came and opened shop here." And with a grunt he got out of bed, and began to array himself preparatory to a stroll round the park before breakfast. It was a delicious September morning. The birds, hardly convinced that the summer was over, were singing merrily in the trees. The hum of the not distant ocean droned solemnly in the air. The sunlight played fitfully with the gold of the harvest fields, and the lowing cattle in the meadows added their music to nature's peaceful morning anthem. Mr Ratman was only half alive to the beauties of nature. He was considerably more impressed with the substantial masonry of the manor house, with the size of the timber, the appointments of the stables, and the acreage of the park. They all spelt money to him--suggesting a good deal more behind. "Teddy's certainly a man to be looked after," said he to himself. "He's wasting his time scandalously. Yet he's clever in his way, is Edward. He has tucked his family into the big bed snugly, and made the most of his chance that way. Why--" He had reached this pleasant stage in his reflections when something darted round from a side-walk and collided with him suddenly. It was Miss Jill, taking an early scamper with her dog, and little dreaming that she was not, as usual, the sole occupant of the grounds. "Hullo! my little lady," said Mr Ratman, recognising his enemy of yesterday; "you nearly did for me that time. Come, you'll have to tell me you are sorry, and beg my pardon very prettily." "No, I won't!" exclaimed Jill, and proceeded to run. Mr Ratman was not beyond a bit of fun himself; besides, he did not quite like to be thus set down by a child of twelve. Therefore, although his running days had passed their prime, he gave chase, and a very exciting race ensued. Jill, as fleet as the wind, darted forward with little to fear from her pursuer; while the dog, naturally regarding the whole affair as an entertainment got up for his benefit, barked jubilantly, and did his best to force the pace. After a minute or two Mr Ratman began to wonder if the game was worth the candle, and was turning over in his mind the awkward possibility of owning himself beaten, when he perceived that the little fugitive was, by some error of judgment on her part, leading the way into what looked uncommonly like a _cul de sac_. Therefore, although painfully aware of the stitch in his side, he bravely held on, and had the gratification in a minute more of running his little victim to earth after all. "Aha!" said he, laughing and panting; "you can't get away from me, you see. Now, my little beauty, I'm going to take you back in custody to the place where you started from, and make you beg my pardon very prettily for nearly knocking me over." In vain Jill protested and struggled; he held her by the wrist as with a vice, and, rather enjoying her wild efforts to escape, literally proceeded to carry his threat into execution. He had nearly brought her back to the starting-place, and she, having fought and struggled all the way, was beginning with humiliation to feel her eyes growing dim with tears, when a gentleman dressed in boating flannels, with one arm in a sling and an eye-glass in his eye, stepped abruptly across the path. A moment later Mr Robert Ratman lay on the grass half a dozen yards away, on the flat of his back, blinking up at the sky. Several curious reflections passed through his mind as he occupied this not very exhilarating position. Jill had escaped after all. That was annoying. He should have a black eye for a week. That was very annoying. This left-handed individual with the eye-glass must be the tutor. That was most excessively annoying. And the injured gentleman, neither looking nor feeling at all well, pulled himself together and sprang to his feet. Jill was there, clinging to her champion. "Run away, Jill!" said Armstrong. "But you have only one arm," said she. "Go, Jill!" said he, so decisively that the little maid, darting only one look behind her, fled towards the house. All she saw was the two men facing one another--one flurried, vicious, and noisy; the other curious, silent, disgusted. "You dog!" hissed Ratman, with an oath, "what do you mean by that?" "My meaning should have been clear--it was intended to be." Ratman tried hard to copy his adversary's composure, but failed miserably. With many imprecations, and, heedless of the tutor's maimed condition, he threw himself upon him. But Robert Ratman's boxing, like his running, was a trifle out of date, and once more he found himself on his back regarding the clouds as they flitted by overhead. This time the tutor assumed the initiative. "Get up," said he, advancing to his prostrate antagonist. Ratman was surprised at himself when, after a moment's doubt, he obeyed. "What's your name?" demanded Mr Armstrong, surveying him from head to foot. Again, by some curious mental process, Mr Ratman obeyed. "What are you doing down here?" "I am Captain Oliphant's guest," growled Ratman. The tutor looked him up and down in a manner which was clearly not calculated to imply admiration of Captain Oliphant's choice of friends. "Allow me to tell you, sir, that in this part of the world we call men like you blackguards." And the tutor, whose eye-glass had become uncomfortably deranged during this brief interview, screwed it in with a wrench, and turned on his heel. "Where's jolly old Ratman?" inquired Tom, when the family presently assembled for breakfast. "Tired with his journey, no doubt," said Mrs Ingleton. As no one disputed this theory, and Jill's exchange of glances with her champion passed unheeded, there seemed every prospect of the meal passing off peaceably. But Tom, as usual, contrived to improve the occasion in the wrong direction. "You'll like him, Armstrong, when you see him. He's no end of a chap-- all larks. He'll make you roar with his rummy stories." "I have met him already," said the tutor shortly. "Then he is up. Jill, my child," said the captain, "go and knock at Mr Ratman's door, and tell him breakfast is ready." "I won't go near him," said Jill, flushing up. "He's a horrid, hateful man. Isn't he, Mr Armstrong?" Mr Armstrong, thus appealed to, looked a little uncomfortable, and nodded. "Yes," blurted the girl; "and if it hadn't been for Mr Armstrong, father, he might have hurt me very much." "Explain yourself," said the fond father, becoming interested. "I don't want to talk about him," said Jill. "What does all this mean, Armstrong?" "As far as I am concerned, it means that I took the liberty of knocking Mr Ratman down for insulting your daughter. I am sorry you were not present to do it yourself." Captain Oliphant turned white, and red, and black in succession. "You knocked a visitor of mine--" "Down twice," said the tutor, helping himself to sugar. "Oh, what a lark!" exclaimed Tom. "Oh, I wish I'd been up too. Was it a good mill, I say? How many rounds? Six? Why ever didn't you come and tell me, Jill?" "Be quiet, Tom," said Jill. "Did you get him clean on the jaw, I say?" persisted Tom, "like the one--" "Hold your tongue, sir," said his father peremptorily. "Mr Armstrong, I must ask you to explain this matter later; this is not the place for such talk." "Quite so. I regret the matter was referred to. Tom, be good enough to pass Miss Oliphant the toast." Tom could scarcely be induced to take the hint, and talked at large on the science of boxing during the remainder of the meal with an access of high spirits which, on any other occasion, would have been amusing. Mr Ratman, later in the day, appeared with a decidedly marred visage, and announced with the best grace he could that an important business letter that morning necessitated his return to London. In private he explained himself more fully to his host. "If this is what you call making me comfortable," growled he, with an unusual number of oaths interspersed in his sentence, "you've a pretty notion of your own interests." "My dear fellow, how could I help it?" "You can help it now, and you'll have to. I may be only a creditor, but I'll let you see I am not going to be treated in this house like a dog, for all that." "The awkward thing is that if you had behaved--" "Shut up about how I behaved," snarled the other. "You'll have to clear that cad out of the way here. I'll not come back till you do; and till I do come back you're sitting on a volcano." "My dear fellow, you will spoil everything if you take such an absurd view of the matter--really you will. Of course I'll put you right. You are my guest. But remember my difficult position here." "It will be a precious deal more difficult for you soon. I can promise you," said Mr Ratman, lifting his hand to his swollen eye with an oath. "Now then, I'll give you a month. If you're not rid of this fellow by then, and aren't a good deal nearer than you are now to squaring up with me, you'll be sorry you ever heard my name." "I'm that already," said the captain. "I can promise nothing; but I'll do what I can." "You'll have to do more, if you're to get rid of me. How about money?" This abrupt question fairly staggered the captain, who broke out-- "Money! Didn't you drain me of every penny I had in London?" The fellow laughed coarsely. "What did you drain the regimental mess of, I should like to know? You needn't think you're out of that wood. Now, I shall want £200 for my month in town. I mean to enjoy myself." The captain laughed dismally. "Where are you going to get it from?" "You. Look sharp!" "I tell you, Ratman, I haven't any money. You can't get blood out of a stone." "Then you must give me a bill--at a month." "No, no! I won't begin that," said the captain, who had fibre enough left in him to know that a bill was the first plunge into an unknown region of financial difficulty. "If you're bent on ruining me in any case, for heaven's sake do it at once and have done with it. Remember, you bring down more than me. Whatever I may be, they don't deserve it." "For their sake, then, give me the bill. Bless you, any one can put his hand to paper. Consider yourself lucky I don't insist on taking it out in hard cash." It was no use arguing or protesting with a man like this. The captain flung himself miserably into a chair and scrawled out the ill-omened document. Ratman snatched it up with a grunt of triumph. "That's more like," said he. "What's the use of all that fuss? Plenty of things can happen in a month. Order the dogcart in half an hour." The abrupt departure of Captain Oliphant's guest might have excited more remark than it did, had not another departure from Maxfield that same day thrown it somewhat into the shade. True to her promise, or rather threat, Miss Rosalind had packed up her things and had them transported to the Vicarage. It was not without a pang that she uprooted herself from her surroundings in Maxfield, or bore the protests of Roger, the tears of Jill, and the chaff of Tom for her desertion. "It's not that you're not all awfully kind," said she to the first that afternoon, when the party was assembled in his room. "You are too kind--that's why I'm going." "If a little of the opposite treatment would induce you to stay," said Roger, "I'd gladly try it. Don't you think it's a little unkind of her to go when we all want her to stay--eh, Armstrong?" "That depends," said Mr Armstrong diplomatically. "I should be inclined to say no, myself." "Thank you, Mr Armstrong, I'm glad I've got one person to back me up. Every one else is down on me--auntie, father, Roger, Jill, Tom--" "I'm not down on you," put in Tom. "I think it's rather larks your going to the Vicarage. No more of that beastly art class for us. But if you want to know who's down on you, it's jolly old Ratman. I've just been to see him off in the tantrums to London. I asked him to be sure and be back for Roger's birthday, and he said he'd try, if his black eye was well enough. That must have been a ripping clean shot of yours, Armstrong. He'll get over it all right, you bet. He was grinning about it already, and said he'd have a return some day. I asked him if he didn't think Rosalind was a stunner (one's got to be civil to fellows, you know), and he said `Rather,' and envied the kids at the Vicarage. I don't. You always make yourself jolly civil to other people, but I don't come in for much of it, nor does Jill." "I can't bear your going away," said Jill, with tears in her eyes; "I'll be so lonely. But it would be far worse if Mr Armstrong were to go away too. You'll stay, won't you, dear Mr Armstrong?" Dear Mr Armstrong jerked his eye-glass by way of assent, and said he was sure everybody would miss Miss Oliphant and-- and he would say good- bye now, as he had some letters to get off by the post. Miss Rosalind, who had just been thinking a little kindly of the tutor, stiffened somewhat at this abrupt exit, and thought Mr Armstrong might at least have offered to escort her over to her new quarters. To tell the truth, that poor gentleman would have given a finger off his hand for the chance, and retired to his room very dejected about the whole business--so dejected that he fidgeted about his room a good while before he noticed a note addressed to himself, in Captain Oliphant's hand, lying on the table. He opened it and read-- "Mr Frank Armstrong is informed that his services as tutor to Roger Ingleton will not be required after this day month, the 25th _prox_. Mr Armstrong is at liberty to remain at Maxfield until that date, or may leave at once on accepting a month's wages in lieu of notice.--For the Executors of Roger Ingleton,-- "Edward Oliphant." The tutor's lips curled into a grim smile as he perused this pleasing document, and then tossed it into the waste-paper basket. He relieved his feelings with a few chords on the piano, and then, after a few more uneasy turns in his room, went off to call on his co-trustee. On his way down-stairs he met Rosalind and her escort about to take their departure. "Come along with us, do!" said Tom. "We're just going to trot Rosalind over to her diggings, and then we can have a high old lark in the paddock on our way back." "The programme is not attractive, Thomas," said the tutor. "Good-bye again, Miss Oliphant." Captain Oliphant had already bidden his daughter a tender farewell, and was enjoying a cigar in the library. "Oh," said he, as the tutor entered, "you got my note, did you, sir?" "I did, thanks." "Well, sir?" "That was the question I was about to ask you. Excuse my saying it, but it was a very foolish note for a man in your position to write. Did Mrs Ingleton--" "Mrs Ingleton has decided, on my advice, to send her son to Oxford. I have recently been there, and made inquiries." "Indeed! I'll join you in your smoke, if you don't mind," and the tutor drew a chair up to the table and filled his pipe. Captain Oliphant was considerably disconcerted at this cool reception of his piece of news; but, warned by previous experiences, he forbore to bluster. "I think the life will suit him. He is wasting his time here." "If his health improves sufficiently," said the tutor, "there is a good deal to be said in favour of the University." "You think so, do you?" said his co-guardian drily. "You are an Oxford man yourself, I understand." "Yes; I was at --- College." "So I heard from a friend of mine there, who remembered your name." Mr Armstrong twitched his glass a little and puffed away. "Yes," said the captain, encouraged by this slight symptom of uneasiness; "I heard a good deal about you up there, as it happened." "Kind of you to take so much interest in me. You ascertained, of course, that I left Oxford in debt and without a degree?" This was check again for the captain, who had counted upon this discovery as an effective bombshell for his side. "As regards Roger, however," proceeded the tutor, reaching across for the captain's ash-tray, "I would advise Balliol in preference to--" "We shall not need to trouble you for your advice." "But I shall most certainly give it." By this time Captain Oliphant's self-control was rapidly evaporating. He was beginning to feel himself a little small, and that always annoyed him. "Look here, Mr Frank Armstrong," said he, leaning back in his chair, and trying hard to look superior, "it is just as well for you and me to understand one another. I have heard what sort of figure you cut at Oxford, and the disgrace in which you left the University. Allow me to say, sir, that it reflects little credit on your honour that you should have imposed on your late employer, and taken advantage of his weak health and faculties to foist yourself upon his family under false colours." "Will you oblige me with a light?" interposed Mr Armstrong. "You are under a delusion if you think I am not perfectly well acquainted with your disreputable antecedents. Let me tell you, sir, that a music-hall cad is not a fitting companion for a lad of Roger's rank and expectations." "I perfectly agree with you. But really this has very little to do with our arrangements for Roger's future." "Do you mean to deny, sir, that you were a music-hall singer?" "By no means. I was. On the whole, I rather enjoyed the vocation at the time. I look upon that and the year (about which you apparently have not been fortunate enough to learn anything) during which I was tutor and private secretary in the family of the Hon. James Welcher-- the most notorious blackleg in the kingdom--as two of the most interesting episodes in my career." "I can believe it. And, before you devoted your energies to singing disreputable songs to the blackguards of the East End--" "Pardon me. I was particular. My songs were for the most part of the classical order; but what were you saying?" "I was saying," said the captain, now fairly dropping the dignified, and falling back on the abusive, "what were you before that?" "Really, Captain Oliphant, you have been so acute and successful so far, I would not on any account deprive you of the satisfaction of discovering what little more remains to complete my humble biography by your own exertions. Meanwhile, as to Roger's college; had you leisure when at Oxford to make any inquiries as to that rather important question?" "Oblige me by addressing your conversation to some one else, sir. I am not disposed to be asked questions by an adventurer and sharper, who--" The tutor's face blackened, the glass fell from his eye, and he rose to his feet so suddenly that the chair on which he had been sitting fell back violently. Captain Oliphant turned pale and started to his feet too in an attitude of self-defence and retreat. But the tutor only walked over to the fireplace to knock out his ashes into the fender, and then, resuming his glass, said quietly-- "I beg your pardon; I interrupted you." Captain Oliphant did not pursue the subject, and presently retired, leaving his co-trustee master of the situation. "Strange," said the latter to himself when the enemy had gone, "what a look he has of his daughter. The resemblance was distinctly fortunate for him five minutes ago." CHAPTER TWELVE. A WINDFALL FOR THE CAPTAIN. The impending birthday festivities at Maxfield were a topic of interest to others than merely the residents at the manor-house. There, indeed, the prospect was considerably damped by the failing health of Mrs Ingleton and the absence of Rosalind from the scene of action. The burden of the arrangements fell upon the tutor, who only half relished the duties of _major domo_, and heartily wished the uncomfortable date was past. Mrs Ingleton, however, ill as she was, was intent on celebrating the occasion in a manner becoming the hospitable traditions of the house of which her son was now the head, and accordingly, a large party of the neighbouring gentry was invited for the occasion. Among the uninvited guests one individual was anticipating the event with considerable interest. This was Robert Ratman, Esquire, as he lounged comfortably on a sofa at the "Grand Hotel" in London, and perused a letter which had just reached him by the post. "I shall have to get you to take another bill in place of the one I gave you, due on the 26th. The fact is, I forgot that was the day of my ward's twentieth birthday, when there are to be celebrations at Maxfield," ("What on earth has that to do with it?" grunted the reader). "If you will take my advice you will postpone your return here till after that date. In any case, please understand I am unable to attend to money matters at present. It may interest you to know that the tutor is under notice to leave," (here the reader uttered a not very complimentary expletive), "also that I am on the best of terms with the fair widow. "E.O." "Thinks I'm a fool, does he?" grunted Mr Ratman; "I shall have to undeceive him there." So he laid down his cigar and wrote-- "Dear Teddy,--It sounds very nice, but it's not good enough. You've mistaken your man, my boy. You'll have to stump up £100 on the day, and I'll wait a month for the rest and interest. I shall be on the spot to receive it and join in the festivities. If you are not lying, you deserve credit for getting rid of the tutor. See he is packed off before I come; and see I get no more impertinence from those brats of yours, unless you wish trouble to their father. "Yours,-- "R.R." The receipt of this genial epistle considerably marred the pleasure with which Captain Oliphant looked forward to the approaching festivities at Maxfield. It had been bad enough to have the Oxford scheme and all it involved fall through. Roger had explained in his pleasant manner that he was not disposed to accept his guardian's advice as to a University course at present; and as his decision was backed up by both Mrs Ingleton and Mr Armstrong, the poor man found himself in a minority, and no nearer a solution to his difficulties than before. In addition to this, Roger was every day recovering health, and, in Rosalind's absence, devoting himself more loyally than ever to his tutor's direction and instruction. Altogether Captain Oliphant had a dismal consciousness of being out in the cold. His carefully thought cut plans seemed to advance no further. Mrs Ingleton's ill-health was an unlooked-for difficulty. He even began to suspect that when he did screw himself up to the point of proposing he should make by no means as easy a conquest of the fair widow as he had flattered himself. She, good lady, liked him as her boy's guardian, but in his own personal capacity was disappointingly indifferent to his attentions. With all these worries upon him it was little wonder if Mr Ratman's letters hurt his feelings. He was very much inclined to throw up the sponge and vanish from the Maxfield horizon, and might have attempted the feat had not a letter which arrived on the following day suggested another way out of his difficulties. It came from America, addressed to the late Squire, and read thus-- "Dear Ingleton,--I guess you've forgotten the scape-grace brother-in- law who, thirty-six years ago, on the day you married his sister Ruth, borrowed a hundred pounds of you without the slightest intention of paying you back. He has not forgotten you. Your hundred pounds started me in life right away here, where I am now a boss and mayor of my city. I've put off being honest as long as I can, but can't well manage it any longer. I send you back the money in English bank- notes, and another hundred for interest. It won't do you much good, but I reckon I'll sleep better at night to have got rid of it. I saw in the papers the death of my sister, and her son, my nephew. Such is life! I got more good from that marriage than she did. I take for granted you are still in the old place, and, like all the Ingletons I ever met, alive and kicking. "Yours out of debt,-- "Ralph Headland." Captain Oliphant read and re-read this curious letter, and hummed a tune to himself. He gave a professional twitch to each of the hundred-pound notes, and held them up one after the other to the light. Then he examined the post-mark on the envelope, and failed to decipher the name of the town. "Very singular," said he to himself, tapping his fingers on the envelope. "Quite like a chapter in a story. Really it restores one's faith in one's fellow-man to find honesty asserting itself in this way after thirty-six years' suppression. Our dear one must have forgotten this debt years ago; or written it off as a gift. I'm sure he would not have liked to accept it now. Very singular indeed!" Then he hummed on for five minutes, and tried to recall what he had been thinking about before the letter came. He fancied it was about Ratman. Yes, Ratman was a bad man, and must be got rid of, not so much on the captain's account as for the sake of the innocent darlings whose happiness he threatened. And as if there were some connection between the two ideas, captain Oliphant abstractedly put the two notes into his own pocket, and proceeded thoughtfully to tear up the letter and envelope of the American mayor. He had hardly completed this function when the door opened and Rosalind sailed in, looking particularly charming after a breezy walk across the park. She had rarely seen her father in better and more amiable spirits. "Ah, my dear child," said he; "it does one good to see you again. A week's absence is a long time. And how are you getting on at the Vicarage?" "They are awfully kind to me," said Rosalind, "and I like my little pupils. I half wish it was harder work. As it is, I get time for a little art in between lessons. I've come over to-day to finish my picture of the old tower for Roger's birthday." "Ah, to be sure. The dear boy's birthday is getting near. We shall depend on you to help us here on the day, Rosalind. So they make you happy, do they? I am very glad to hear it. Have you all you want?" "Everything, dear father; and it makes all the difference to me to feel I am supporting myself." "Brave little puss. See now," added the fond parent, taking out a couple of sovereigns from his purse. "I want you to take these to get any little trifle which may add to your comfort. I have not been very lavish with pocket-money, but I think just now you may find this useful. Take it, my dear child, and bless you." "Really, I have all I--" "You must not refuse me, daughter; it will please me if you take it." So Rosalind kissed her father gratefully, and said she should be sure to find the money useful, if he could really spare it. And he, good man, only wished it were twice as much. "I have just had a note," said he, "from Mr Ratman, who announces his return on the 25th. During the few days he remains, my dear Rosalind, I think you should try, even if it cost you an effort, to be friendly. After all, he is an old comrade, and I have reasons for desiring not to offend him." "Oh, why ever do you let him come back after the unkind way he behaved to Jill? I'm sure he is a bad man, father. Indeed, I wonder at his thinking of coming at all after what has happened." "I dare say his manner may have been rough; but it was meant only in good-natured fun. Let us think no more about that. I was annoyed at the whole affair; but I must ask you, Rosalind, not to give him unnecessary offence when he comes again." "I can't pretend to like people I detest," said she; "but if he conducts himself like a gentleman, and goes away soon, there needn't be any trouble about it." And she went off to rejoice Roger with a visit. During the week that followed, Captain Oliphant impressed the whole family with his chastened good-humour. He paid a friendly call at the Vicarage, and expressed his obligations to the vicar and his wife for their consideration, and trusted his daughter, who (though he said so who should not), he was sure was a conscientious girl--would do her work well and requite them for their kindness. He bought Tom his longed-for football, and ordered from town a handsome dressing-case for his dear ward. He delighted Miss Jill by allowing her to drive him in his rounds among the tenantry, when he had a friendly word for everybody. Jill, in charge of the reins, was as happy as a queen, and quite captivated by her father's cheerful good-humour. "I wonder what makes you so jolly," she said, as they spanked along the country lanes to Yeld, "dear, dear old daddy? I shall always drive you now, for you see I can manage the pony, can't I? Mr Armstrong taught me. He says I shall make a first-rate whip. I'm sure I was very stupid when I first tried; but he is ever so patient. He scolds sometimes, but he always lets me know when he's pleased; so I don't mind. Do you know, father, I'd give my head for Mr Armstrong any day, I like him so?" Captain Oliphant shrugged his shoulders. He wasn't equal to coping with a case of sheer infatuation. "I'm sure," persisted Jill, flicking the pony into a trot, "he's fifty million times as nice as that horrible Mr Ratman." "Mr Ratman is a friend of mine," said her father, "and I fear he must think you a very silly little girl to object to a bit of fun as you did." "I don't mind what he thinks. It wasn't fun at all. He hurt me very much. Ugh!" "Well, he was very much annoyed, and so was I, at what happened; and when he comes here again next week--" "Is he coming again next week?" "Yes." "All right. I shall run away then--or if I can't do that, I shall keep a knife in my pocket. _Please_, father, don't let him come!" And the child nearly cried in her eagerness. "Listen to me, Jill," said her father sternly. "Unless you can behave yourself sensibly I shall be very angry indeed. I expect you to be polite to Mr Ratman while he is here." "He'd better be polite to young ladies," said the irrepressible Jill. "If he doesn't, I know somebody who will make him." "Be silent, miss, and bear in mind my wishes." That afternoon Captain Oliphant sent a polite message to his co-trustee requesting the favour of an interview. Mr Armstrong found him in an unusually balmy frame of mind, anxious to go into the executorship accounts. Everything was square and exact. The rents and other receipts were all in order, and the amount duly paid into the bank. The tutor quite admired his colleague's aptitude for figures, and the lucid manner in which he accounted for every farthing which had passed through his hands. He was hardly prepared for such precision, and there and then modified the previous bad impression he had formed. "It is necessary to be particular in money matters," said the captain, "especially where the money of others is involved. Perhaps you will check my figures, sir, and let me know if you agree in the result." Mr Armstrong spent an afternoon painfully going over the agent's and banker's accounts, and satisfying himself that all was absolutely correct and in order. He countersigned the balance-sheet, and went out of his way to thank Captain Oliphant for taking so much of the labour as to save both him and Mrs Ingleton a great deal of time. "Thank you," said the captain drily; "a compliment from Signor Francisco is worth receiving. But it is uncalled-for. Good afternoon, sir." Mr Armstrong flushed, and screwed his glass violently in his eye. "A civil, pleasant-spoken gentleman," said he to himself as he returned to his room. A few days later, the day before the birthday, Captain Oliphant received a telegram couched in the following lordly terms-- "Arrive 5.30. Send trap to meet me.--Ratman." He frowned to himself as he read it. The tone did not betoken peace. It rather called to mind a good many unpleasant reflections, the chief of which was that Mr Ratman would find matters no further advanced as regarded the widow, the heir, or the tutor. The only comfort was that he could hardly make himself disagreeable about the bill. The coachman was sent down with the dogcart; but if Mr Ratman expected any further demonstration of welcome, he was disappointed. Mrs Ingleton was in bed; Jill was dining at the Rectory; Roger and Armstrong were taking a long ride; Tom was poaching on the Maxfield preserves. Only Captain Oliphant was at home. "Oh, you're here to receive me, are you?" snarled the visitor. "How long has it taken you to organise this flattering reception, I should like to know?" "I really have nothing to do with other persons' arrangements," said the captain. "If they happen to be out, it's not my concern." "But it's mine. You ought to have sent the heir down to meet me--I've not seen him yet--and had those girls of yours here to give me afternoon tea. Where are they?" The captain attempted to explain. "That won't do for me," said the visitor, "not by any means. They should have been on the spot. When did the tutor leave?" "He is still here." "Still here!" said Ratman, with a curse. "Didn't I tell you he was to be packed off before I came?" "You said a good many things, Ratman. I expected he would have gone a fortnight ago; but he can't be moved." Ratman growled out a string of oaths. "Get me some tea," said he, "and tell them to take my traps upstairs. What time do we dine?" "I was going to propose that we should dine together in my room at seven," said the captain. "Not good enough. I'll dine with the lot of you at the big table. And now, about my bill." Now was the captain's turn. "What about it?" said he. "What about it? I want the money for it--that's what's about it." "All right, keep your temper. You shall have the hundred to-morrow when it's due." Ratman glanced up at his host with a leer. "Whose till have you been robbing now?" he said. Captain Oliphant frowned. "You haven't a very genial way about you, Ratman. Try a cigar." "Oh, bless you," said he, "I ask no questions. It's all one to me, so long as it's solid pounds, shillings and pence." "You wait till to-morrow, and it will be all right," said the Captain; "and meanwhile, my dear fellow, try to make yourself agreeable, and don't spoil sport by being unreasonably exacting. Ah, here's the tea!" At dinner that evening, Mr Ratman found his only companions Captain Oliphant, Roger, and Mr Armstrong. The talk was difficult, the captain working hard to give his guest a friendly lead; Mr Armstrong trying to appear oblivious of the fact that he had knocked the fellow down twice for a cad; and Roger as head of the house, trying to be affable to a person whom he had expected to find detestable, and who quite came up to expectations. As the meal went on Mr Ratman showed alarming symptoms of requiring no friendly lead to encourage his powers of conversation. Despite his host's deprecatory signals, he began to tell stories of an offensive character, and joke about matters not generally held to be amusing in a company of gentlemen. Captain Oliphant grew hot and nervous. Mr Armstrong leant back coolly in his chair, and kept his eye curiously on the speaker, an apparently interested listener. Roger, after the first surprise, flushed wrathfully and fidgeted ominously with his napkin ring. He was nearly at the end of his tether, and an awkward scene might have ensued, had not Tom opportunely broken in upon the party, very hungry and flushed with a good afternoon's sport. "Hullo, Ratman!" said he, greeting the visitor; "turned up again? Got over your black eye all right? I've told Armstrong to let me know when the next mill comes off, and I'll hold the sponge? Been telling them some of your rummy stories? I roared over that you told me about the--" "Be quiet, Tom, and go and wash yourself before dinner," said his father. "All right. But I say, Ratman, you'd better steer clear of my young sister Jill. She's got a downer on you, and so has--" "Do you hear, sir?" shouted the father. Somehow this genial interruption robbed Mr Ratman of his ideas, and stopped the flow of his discourse, much to the relief of the remainder of the party. "Well?" said Mr Armstrong, when he and his ward met afterwards in the room of the latter, "how do you like our new visitor?" "So badly that I am thankful for once that Rosalind has gone." Mr Armstrong looked hard at his ward for a moment. Then he twitched his glass uncomfortably, and replied in an absent sort of way-- "Quite so--quite so." CHAPTER THIRTEEN. A VOICE FROM THE DEAD. Roger Ingleton's reflections, as he lay awake on the morning of his twentieth birthday, were not altogether self-congratulatory. He was painfully aware that he was what he himself would have styled a poor creature. He was as weak, physically, as a girl; he was not particularly clever; he was given to a melancholy which made him pass for dull in society. Ill-health dogged him whenever he tried to achieve anything out of the commonplace. His tenantry regarded him still as a boy, and very few of his few friends set much store by him for his own sake apart from his fortune. "A poor show altogether," said he to himself. "That boy on the wall there would have made a much better thing of it. There's some go in him, especially the copy that Rosalind--" Here he pulled up. In addition to his other misfortunes, it occurred to him now definitely for the first time that he was in love. "She doesn't care two straws about me," said he ungratefully; "that is, except in a sisterly way. Why should she? I know nothing about art, which she loves. I'm saddled with pots of money, which she hates. The only way I can interest her is by being ill. I'm not even scape-grace enough to make it worth her while to take me in hand to reform me. Heigho! It's a pity that brother of mine had not lived. Yes, you," he added, shaking his head at the portrait, "with your wild harum-scarum face and mocking laugh. You'd have suited her, and been able to make her like you--I can't. I believe she thinks more of Armstrong than me. Not much wonder either. Only, wouldn't he be horrified if any one suggested such a thing!" And the somewhat dismal soliloquy ended in a some what dismal laugh, as the heir of Maxfield assumed the perpendicular and pulled up his blind. Mr Armstrong, fresh from his dip in the sea, came in before he had finished dressing. "Well, old fellow," said he, "many happy returns! How are you--pretty fit?" "I'm not sorry there's a year between each," said the boy. "What's wrong?" said the tutor. "Oh, nothing; only I don't feel particularly festive. I've been lying awake a long time." "Pity you didn't get up. Shocking habit to lie in bed after you're awake." "At that rate I should often be up at two in the morning," said Roger. "I doubt it--but what's wrong?" Roger put down his brush, and flung himself on a chair. "I don't know--yes, I do. Can't you guess?" "Cheese for supper," suggested the tutor seriously. "Don't be a fool, Armstrong, and don't laugh at me; I'm not in the mood for a joke. You know what it is well enough." The tutor's glass dropped from his eye, and he walked over to the window. "Quite so. I overtook her in the park a quarter of an hour ago, and she is already in the house, wondering why you are so late down on your birthday." Roger sprang up and resumed his toilet. "Has she really come? Armstrong, I say, I wish I knew how to make her care for me." "I'm not an expert in these matters, but it occurs to me that the sort of thing you want is not made." "You mean that if she doesn't care for me for what I am, it's no use trying to get her to care for me by being what I am not." "Roger, you have a brilliant way occasionally of putting things exactly as they should be put." "That's not much consolation," pursued the boy. "Possibly," said the tutor; "but, as I say, I am not an expert in these delicate affairs. Much as I would like to prescribe, I rather advise your taking a second opinion--your mother's, say. I was engaged to teach you classics and the sciences, but the art of love was not included among the subjects to be treated of." Mr Armstrong was late for breakfast that morning. For some reason of his own he wasted ten minutes at his piano before he obeyed the summons of the gong, and the chords he played were mostly minor. But when he did appear his glass was fixed as jauntily as ever, and his pursed lips looked impervious to any impression from within or without. To his surprise, he found Miss Jill waiting outside the door. "I didn't mean to go in," said she, "where that horrid man is, till you came. I don't mind a bit now. Come along, dear Mr Armstrong." Dear Mr Armstrong came along, feeling decidedly compromised, but yet a little grateful to his loyal adherent. As usual he dropped into his seat at the foot of the table after a bow to Miss Oliphant, and a friendly nod to Tom. Jill, to her consternation, found a seat carefully reserved for her next to Mr Ratman. Her impulse on making the discovery was to run; but a glance at Mr Armstrong, who sat watching her in a friendly way, reassured her. To gain time she went round the table and kissed every one (including the tutor), and especially the hero of the day, whom she artfully tried to persuade, in honour of the occasion, to make room for her next to himself. But when that transparent little artifice failed, she bridled up and marched boldly to the inevitable. "Well, little puss," said Mr Ratman, "haven't you got a kiss for me?" "No," she replied. "Father says I'm to be civil to you, so I'll say good-morning; but I don't mean it a bit; and I still think you're a horrid, bad man, though I don't say so. I'm not a bit afraid of you, either, because Mr Armstrong is here to punish you if you behave wickedly." Tom, as usual, improved matters with a loud laugh. "Good old Jilly!" cried he; "let him have it! Sit on his head! He's got no friends! Never you mind, Ratman--she doesn't--" "Silence, sir?" thundered his father, "or leave the table instantly." Tom subsided promptly. "And you, Jill," continued her father, "do not speak till you're spoken to." Jill looked down at Mr Armstrong to see if he counselled further resistance; but as he was studiously busy with the ham, she capitulated, and said-- "Then I hope no one will speak to me, because I don't want to talk." Mr Ratman made an effort to turn the incident off with a laugh, and addressed his further remarks to his host. But as that gentleman found some difficulty in being cordial, and as the rest of the party continued to enjoy the meal without paying much attention to him, he was on the whole relieved when the performance came to an end. On his way to the captain's room, afterwards, he encountered Mr Armstrong. The two men glared at one another in a hostile manner for a moment, and then the tutor observed casually that it was a cold day. "It will be hotter before it's much older," growled the late owner of a certain black eye. "I can well believe that," said the tutor drily. "Yes, sir, I shall have something to say to you." "Delighted, I'm sure, at any time that suits you." "You and I had better understand one another at once," said Mr Ratman. "Why not? I flatter myself I understand you perfectly already." "Do you? Now, look here, my fine fellow. It's easy for you to give yourself airs, but I know a good deal more about you than I dare say you would care to own yourself. If you'll take my advice, the sooner you clear out of here the better. You may think you've a snug berth here, and flatter yourself you pass for a saint with your pupil and his mamma, but, let me tell you, I could open their eyes to a thing or two which would alter their opinion, as well as the opinion of certain young lady friends who--" "Who do not require the assistance of Robert Ratman to keep them out of bad company," retorted the tutor, hotly for him. "No, but they may require the assistance of Robert Ratman to keep them from being ashamed of their own father, Mr Armstrong." The tutor glared through his glass. He understood this threat. "What of that?" said he. "Merely," said Mr Ratman, "that it depends pretty much on you whether they are to continue to believe themselves the children of an officer and a gentleman, or of a--a fugitive from justice. That's the position, Mr Tutor. The responsibility rests with you. If you choose to go, I shall not undeceive them; if you don't--well, it may suit me to open their eyes; there!" The tutor inspected his man from top to toe in a dangerous way, which made the recipient of the stare decidedly uncomfortable. Then, pulling himself together with an effort, Mr Armstrong coolly inquired, "Have you anything more to say?" "That's about enough, isn't it? I give you a week." "Thanks, very much," said Mr Armstrong, as he turned on his heel. Roger, after a long ramble in the park with his fair tormentor, returned about noon, flushed and excited. "Armstrong, old man," said he, "what's to be done? She's kind to me-- horribly kind; but whenever I get near the subject she laughs me off it, and holds me at arm's length. What's the use of my name and my money and my prospects, if they can't win her? If I jest, she's serious, and if I'm serious, she jests--we can't hit it. What's to be done, I say?" "Patience," said the tutor; "it took several years to capture Troy." "All very well for an old bachelor like you. I expected you'd say something like that. I know I could make her happy if she'd let me try. But she won't even let me tell her I love her. What should you do yourself?" Mr Armstrong coloured up at the bare notion of such a dilemma. "I think I might come to you and ask your advice," said he. Roger laughed rather sadly. "I know," said he. "Of course it's a thing one has to play off one's own bat, but I sometimes wish I were anything but the heir of Maxfield. She might care for me then." "You can disinherit yourself by becoming a criminal, or marrying under age--" "Or dying--thank you," said the boy. "You are something like a consoler. I know it's a shame to bore you about it, but I've no one else to talk to." "I'd give my right hand to help you, old fellow," said the tutor; "but, as you say, I'm absolutely no use in a case like this." "I know. Come upstairs and play something." "By the way," said the tutor, as they reached the study, "I've something to give you. You may as well have it now." And he went to his desk and took out an envelope. "It will explain itself," said he, handing it to the boy. He sat down at the piano, and wandered over the keys, while Roger, too full of his own cares to give much heed to the missive in his hands, walked over to the window and looked out across the park. The afternoon sun was glancing across the woods, and gleaming far away on the sea. "If only she would share it with me," thought he to himself, "how proud I should be of the dear old place. But what good is it all to me if she condemns me to possess it all myself?" Then with a sigh he turned his back on the scene, and let his eyes fall on the letter. He started as he recognised the dead hand of his father in the inscription-- "_To be given unopened into the hands of Roger Ingleton junior, on his twentieth birthday_." His breath came fast as he broke the seal and looked within. The envelope contained two enclosures, a document and a letter. The latter, which he examined first, was dated scarcely a fortnight before the old man's death, written in the same trembling hand as the words on the envelope. "My dear son," it said, "this will reach you long after the hand that writes it is still and cold. My days are numbered, and for better or worse are rapidly flying to their account. But before I go, I have something to say to you. Read this, and the paper I enclose herewith. If, after reading them, you choose to destroy them, no one will blame you; no one will know--you will do no one an injury. You are free to act as you choose. What follows is not a request from me, still less a command. It is a confidence--no more." Roger put down the letter. His head was in a whirl. He only half heard the notes of the tutor's sonata as they rose and fell on his ear. Presently, with beating heart, he read on-- "You had a brother once--a namesake--whom you never saw, and perhaps never heard of. You never mourned his loss, for he was gone before you were born. Twenty-two years ago he was a boy of 16--a fine, high- spirited Ingleton. Like a fool, I thought I could bring him up to be a fine man. But I failed--I only spoiled him. He grew up wild, self- willed, obstinate--a sorrow to his mother, an enemy to his father. The day came when we quarrelled. I accused him unjustly of fraud. He retorted insolently. In my passion I struck him, and he struck back. I fought my own boy and beat him; but my victory was the evil crisis of my life, for he left home vowing he would die sooner than return. His mother died of a broken heart. I had to live with mine; too proud to repent or admit my fault. Then came a rumour that the boy was dead. I never believed it; yet wrote him off as dead. Now, as I near my end, I still discredit the story; I am convinced he still lives. In that conviction, I have made a new will, which is the paper enclosed. As you will see, it provides that if he should return before you attain your majority, he becomes sole heir to the property; if not found before that time, the will under which you inherit all remains valid. You are at liberty to keep or destroy this new will as you choose. Nor, if you keep it, are you bound to do anything towards finding your lost brother. But should you desire to make inquiries, I am able to give you this feeble clue--that, after leaving home, he went to the bad in London in company with a companion named Fastnet, but where they lived I know not. Also, that the rumour of his death came to me from India. I can say no more, only that I am his and your loving father,-- "Roger Ingleton." Towards the end the writing became very weak and straggling, and what to the boy was the most important passage was well-nigh illegible. When, after reading it a second time, he looked up, it was hard to believe he was the same Roger Ingleton who, a few minutes since, had broken the seal of that mysterious letter. The tutor, lost in his music, played on; the sun still flashed on the distant sea, the park still stretched away below him--but all seemed part of another world to the heir of Maxfield. His brother--that wild-eyed, fascinating, defiant boy in the picture-- lived still, and all this place was his. Till that moment Roger had never imagined what it would be to be anything but the heir of Maxfield. Every dream of his for the future had Maxfield painted into the background. He loved the place as his own, as his sphere in life, as his destiny. Was that a dream after all? Were all his castles in the air to vanish, and leave him a mere dependant in a house not his own? He took up the document and read it over. It was brief and abrupt. Referring to the former will, it enjoined that all its provisions should remain strictly in force as if no codicil or later will had been executed until the 26th of October, 1886, on which day Roger Ingleton the younger should attain his majority. But if on or before that day the elder son, whom the testator still believed to be living, should be found and identified, the former will on that day was to become null and void, and the elder son was to become sole possessor of the entire property. If, on the contrary, he should not be found or have proved his identity by that day, then the former will was to hold good absolutely, and the codicil became null and void. Such, shorn of its legal verbiage, was the document which Roger, by the same hand that executed it, was invited, if he wished, to destroy. Perhaps for a moment, as his eyes glanced once more across the park, and a vision of Rosalind flitted across his mind, he was tempted to avail himself of his liberty. But if the idea endured a moment it had vanished a moment after. He went up to the piano, where Mr Armstrong, still in the clouds, was roaming at will over the chords, and laid his father's letter on the keyboard. "Read that, please, Armstrong." The tutor wheeled round on his stool, and put up his glass. Something in the boy's voice arrested him. He glanced first at his pupil, then at the paper. "A private letter?" said he. "I want your help; please read it." The tutor's inscrutable face, as he perused the letter carefully from beginning to end, afforded very little direction to the boy who sat and watched him anxiously. Having read it once, Mr Armstrong turned back to the first page and read it again; and then with equal care perused the codicil. When all was done, he returned them slowly to the envelope and handed it back. "Well?" said Roger, rather impatiently. "It is a strange birthday greeting," said Mr Armstrong, "and comes, I fear, from a mind unhinged. Your father had more than one delusion near the end. But on the night before he died he told me this elder son of his was dead. This was written before that." "Tell me exactly what he said." The tutor repeated as nearly as he could the conversation of that memorable night. "Is it not more probable that a fortnight earlier his mind might be clearer than at the very moment of his death?" "It is possible, of course; but the letter does not seem to show it. Besides, the inscription at the back of the portrait (which you have forgotten) is a distinct record of the boy's death. I wish you had not shown me the letter, because the only advice I have to give you is that you do with it what he invites you to do." "Look here, Armstrong!" said Roger, getting up and walking restlessly up and down the room; "you mean kindly, I know--you always do--but you don't seem to realise that you are tempting me to be a cad and a coward!" The tutor looked up, and his eyebrow twitched uncomfortably. Roger had never spoken like this before, and the heat of the words took even him aback. "You asked my advice, unfortunately, and I gave it," said he, rather drily. "Do you think I should have an hour's peace if I didn't do everything in my power to find my brother now?" retorted the boy. "You're not obliged to help me, I know." "I am--I am bound to help you; not because I am your tutor or your guardian, but because I love you." "Then help me in this. My father, I feel sure, was right. Whether he was or not, and whether I have to do it single-handed or not, I mean to find my brother." "Certainly you may count on me, old fellow," said the tutor; "but be quite sure first that you know what you are undertaking. If it is not a wild-goose chase it is something uncommonly like it. You resolve to waste a whole year. You are not strong, your future is all in Maxfield; the happiness of your mother, your hopes of winning the object of your affections, are involved in the step you take. Even if this brother of yours be living (of which the chances seem to be a hundred to one he is not), he is, as your father says, a man who has gone to the bad; not the boy of the picture, but a man twice your age, of the Ratman order, let us say, probably the worst possible companion for yourself, and a bad friend to the people who already count you as their master. Had he been living with any desire or intention of claiming his title, he would certainly have come forward months ago--" "I know all that, Armstrong," said the boy; "I know perfectly well you are bringing up all these points as a friend, to prevent my taking a rash step of which I shall afterwards be sorry. I don't care how bad he is, or what it costs, I mean to find him; and if you help me, I'm confident I shall. Only," said he regretfully, "I certainly wish it was the boy in the picture, and not a middle-aged person, who is to be looked for." Here Tom broke in upon the conference. "Hullo, Roger, here you are! What are you up to? You and Armstrong look as blue as if you'd swallowed live eels. I say, you're a nice chap. Rosalind has been waiting half an hour, she says, for that ride you were to go with her, and if you don't look sharp she'll give Ratman the mount and jockey you, my boy. Poor old Ratty! didn't Jill drop on him like a sack of coals at breakfast? Jolly rough on the governor having to stroke him down after it. I say, mind you're in in time to receive the deputation. They're all going to turn up, and old Hodder's to make a speech. I wouldn't miss it for a half sov! All I know is I'm jolly glad I'm not an heir. It's far jollier to be an ordinary chap; isn't it, Mr Armstrong?" "Decidedly," said the tutor demurely; "but we can't all be what we like." "Tell Rosalind I'll be down in a second; I'm awfully sorry to have kept her," said Roger. "By the way," said the tutor, when Tom had gone; "about this letter. The communication is evidently made to you by your father as a secret. I am sorry, on that account, you showed it to me, because I object to secrets not meant for me. But if you take my advice you will not let it go further. It would be clearly contrary to the wishes of your father." "I see that. Lock the will up in your desk again; I'll take care of the letter. Nobody but you and I shall know of their existence. And now I must go to Rosalind." CHAPTER FOURTEEN. WHAT A HORSEWHIP DISCOVERED. Mr Ratman's business interview with his friend was short and stormy. When Captain Oliphant produced the hundred-pound note, and requested his creditor to accept a fresh bill for the balance, that injured gentleman broke out into very emphatic abuse. "Likely, is it not?" laughed he. "You, a common thief, bring me, who've saved you from a convict's cell, here to be insulted and made a fool of by your miserable brats and servants, and then have the calmness to ask me to lend you a hundred pounds? I admire your impudence, sir, and that's all I admire about you." "My dear fellow, how can you blame me--" "Blame you! You don't suppose I'm going to take the trouble to do that! Come, hand over the other hundred, sharp. I've nothing to say to you till that's done." And Mr Ratman, digging his hands in his pockets, got up and walked to the fireplace. Captain Oliphant's face fell. He knew his man by this time, and had sense enough at least to know that this was no time for argument. Yet he could not help snarling-- "I can only do part." "The whole--in five minutes--or there'll be interest to add!" retorted Mr Ratman. With a groan Captain Oliphant flung down the second bank-note on the table. "Take it, you coward! and may it help you to perdition!" "Thanks, very much," said Ratman, carefully putting away the money. "I'm not going to ask you where the money came from. That would be painful. Ah, Teddy, my boy, what a nice, respectable family man you are, to be sure!" With which acknowledgment Mr Ratman, in capital spirits, returned to his room. On the way he encountered Tom, who, being of a forgiving disposition, owed him no grudge for the trouble that had occurred at breakfast-time. "Hullo, Mr Ratty!" said the boy; "going out? Aren't you looking forward to the party to-night? I am. Only I'm afraid they'll make a mess of it among them. Auntie's ill and in bed, Rosalind and Roger are spooning about in the grounds, Armstrong's got the dismals, and the governor's not to be disturbed. I've got to look after everything. The spread will be good enough--only I think they ought to have roasted an ox whole in the hall; don't you? That's the proper way to do things, instead of kickshaws and things with French names that one can swallow at a gulp. I say, there's to be a dance first. I'll introduce you to some of the old girls if you like. It won't be much fun for me, for Jill has made me promise to dance every dance with her, for fear you should want one. But I know a chap or two that will take her off my hands. I say, would you like to see my den?" added he, as they passed the door in question. Mr Ratman being of an inquiring turn of mind, accepted the invitation, and gave a cursory glance at the chaos which formed the leading feature of the apartment. "It's not such a swagger crib as Roger's," said Tom; "but it's snug enough. That's Roger's opposite. Like to look?" Once more Mr Ratman allowed himself to be escorted on a tour of discovery. "Who is that a portrait of?" asked he, looking at the lost Roger's picture. "Oh, that's what's his name, the fellow who would have been heir if he hadn't died. He looks rather a tough customer, doesn't he? That's the picture Rosalind painted for Roger's birthday--a view of the park from her window, with the sea beyond. Not so bad, is it? Rosalind thinks she's no end of an artist, but I--" "When did he die?" inquired Mr Ratman, still examining the picture. "Oh, ever so long ago--before the old Squire married Auntie. I say, come and have a punt about with my new football, will you?" "Go and get it. I'll be down presently. I like pictures, and shall just take a look at these first!" Tom bustled off, wondering what Mr Ratman could see in the pictures to allure him from the joys of football. To tell the truth, Mr Ratman was not a great artist. But the portrait of the lost Roger appeared to interest him, as did also the sight of an open letter, hastily laid down by the owner on the writing-table. Something in the handwriting of the letter particularly aroused the curiosity of the trespasser, who, being, as has been said, of an inquiring disposition, ventured to look at it more closely. "_To be given unopened into the hands of Roger Ingleton, junior, on his twentieth birthday_." The coast was conveniently clear for Mr Ratman, as, fired with a zeal for information, he slipped the letter from the envelope and, with half an eye on the door, hastily read it. As he did so, he flushed a little, and having read the letter once, read it again. Then he quickly replaced it in its cover, and laying it where he had discovered it, beat a rapid retreat. He played football badly that afternoon, so that his young companion's opinion of him lowered considerably. Nor was either sorry when the ceremony was over, and the bell warned them to return to their quarters and prepare for the evening's festivities. Mr Ratman dressed with special care, spending some time before the mirror in an endeavour to set off his person to the best advantage. As the reader has already been told, Mr Ratman retained some of the traces of a handsome youth. The fires of honour and sobriety were extinguished, but his well-shaped head and clear-cut features still weathered the storm, and suggested that if their owner was not good- looking now, he might once have been. Perhaps it was a lingering impression of the lost Roger's portrait which made this vain gentleman adjust his curly locks and pose his head before the glass in a style not unlike his model. Whether that was so or not, the result appeared to satisfy him, and in due time, and not till after several of the guests had already arrived, he descended in state to the drawing-room. It was the first festive gathering at Maxfield since the death of the late Squire, and a good deal of curiosity was manifest on the part of some of the guests both as to the heir and his new guardian. Roger, nerved up to the occasion by his own spirit and the encouragement of his tutor, bore his inspection well, and won golden opinions from his future comrades and neighbours. Captain Oliphant also acquitted himself well; and anything lacking in him was amply forgiven for the sake of his charming daughters, the elder of whom fairly took the "county" by storm. Quite unconscious of the broken hearts which strewed her way, Rosalind, with the duties of hostess unexpectedly cast upon her by Mrs Ingleton's illness, exerted herself for the general happiness, and enjoyed herself in the task. Despite Tom's forebodings, the evening went off brilliantly. The music was excellent, the amateur theatricals highly appreciated, and the dance all that could be desired. The loyal youth found no difficulty in palming his young sister off on half a dozen partners delighted to have the opportunity, and his head was fairly turned by the sudden popularity in which he found himself with visitors anxious for an introduction to the fair Rosalind. "Oh, all serene," said he confidentially to one of those glowing youths. "She's booked six or seven deep, but I'll work it for you if I can. You hang about here, and I'll fetch her up." But the luckless ones hung about in vain. For Tom's progress was intercepted by other candidates for the same favour, amidst whom the young diplomatist played fast and loose in a reprehensible manner. "Promised _you_, did I?" demanded he of one. "Well, you'll have to square it up with that sandy-haired chap at the door. He says I promised _him_; but he's all wrong, for the one I _did_ promise is that little dapper chap there in the window. He's been waiting on and off since eight o'clock. Never you mind; you hang about here, and I'll work it if I-- Hullo! here's another one! I didn't promise you, did I? All right, old chappie. You lean up there against the wall, and I'll engineer it for you somehow. She's owing me a dance about eight down the list. You can have a quarter of it, if you like, and the other two chaps can go halves in the rest." With which the unprincipled youth absconded into the supper-room. "And who is that talking to your charming cousin?" asked a dowager who had succeeded in capturing Roger for five minutes in a corner. "Oh, that's my tutor, Armstrong--the best fellow in the world." "Evidently a great admirer of Miss Oliphant. No doubt the attraction is mutual?" Roger laughed, and speculated on Armstrong's horror were he to hear of such a suggestion. "And that gentleman talking to Captain Oliphant? What relation is he?" "He? None at all. He's a Mr Ratman, an Indian friend of my guardian's." "Dear me! I quite thought he was an Ingleton by his face--but I'm glad he is not; I dislike his appearance. Besides, he has already had more than is good for him." "He's no great favourite," said Roger shortly. Presently Captain Oliphant and his companion stepped up to where Rosalind and her partner stood. "Mr Armstrong," said the former, "will you kindly see that the band gets supper after the next dance?" The words were spoken politely, and Mr Armstrong, although he knew that the speaker's solicitude on behalf of the band was by no means as great as his desire to see the tutor's back, felt he could hardly refuse. "Rosalind," said the Captain, looking significantly at his daughter, "Mr Ratman desires the pleasure of a dance, and will take you into the next room." Rosalind tossed her head and flushed. "Thank you; I am tired," said she. "I prefer not to dance at present." "You are keeping Mr Ratman waiting, my dear." The colour died out of the girl's face as, with a little shiver, she laid the tips of her fingers on her partner's arm. "That's right," said that genial individual. "Do as you are told. You don't fancy it; but pa's word is law, isn't it?" She said nothing, but the colour shot back ominously into her cheeks. "And so you've run off and left us," pursued her partner, who rather enjoyed the situation, and was vain enough to appreciate the distinction of dancing with the belle of the evening. "So sorry. I quite envy the little vicar boys and girls--upon my honour I do. Very unkind of you to go just as I came. Never mind. Not far away, is it? We shall see lots of one another." At this moment, just as the band was striking up for a quadrille, Jill came up. "Have you seen dear Mr Arm-- O Rosalind! how _can_ you dance with that man?" Mr Ratman laughed. "Very well, missy. I'll pay you out. You shall dance with me, see if you don't, before the evening is out." Before which awful threat Jill fled headlong to seek the tutor. "Fact is," pursued Mr Ratman, reverting to his previous topic, "ever since I saw you, Miss Rosalind, I said to myself--Robert Ratman, you have found the right article at last. You don't suppose I'd come all the way here from India, do you, if there weren't attractions?" She kept a rigid silence, and went through the steps of the quadrille without so much as a look at the talker, Ratman was sober enough to be annoyed at this chilly disdain. "Don't you know it's rude not to speak when you're spoken to, Miss Rosalind?" said he. "If you choose to be friends with me we shall get on very well, but you mustn't be rude." She turned her head away. "You aren't deaf, are you?" said he, becoming still more nettled. "I suppose if it was the heir of Maxfield that was talking to you you'd hear, wouldn't you? You'd be all smiles and nods to the owner of ten thousand a year, eh? Do you suppose we can't see through your little game, you artful little schemer? Now, will you speak or not?" Her cheeks gave the only indication that she had heard this last polished speech as she gathered up her dress and swept out of the quadrille. "Wait," said he, losing his temper, "the dance is not over." She stepped quickly to a chair, and sat there at bay. "Come back," said he, following her, "or I will make you. I won't be insulted like this before the whole room. Come back; do you hear?" And he snatched her hand. Rosalind looked up, and as she did so she caught a distant vision of an eye-glass dropping from a gentleman's eye to the length of its cord. A moment after, Mr Ratman felt a hand close like a vice on his collar and himself almost lifted from the room. It was all done so quickly that the quadrille party were only just becoming aware that a couple had dropped out; and the non-dancers were beginning to wonder if Miss Oliphant had been taken poorly, when Robert Ratman was writhing in the clutches of his chastiser in the hall. Mr Armstrong marched straight with his prey to the kitchen. "Raffles," said he to the footman, "get me a horsewhip." Raffles took in the situation at once, and in half a minute was across at the stable. As he returned with the whip he met Mr Armstrong in the yard, holding his victim much as a cat would hold a rat, utterly indifferent to his oaths, his kicks, or his threats. "Thanks," said the tutor, as he took the whip; "go in and shut the door. Now, sir, for you!" "Touch me if you dare!" growled Ratman; "it will be the worse for you and every one. Do you know who I am! I'm--I'm,"--here he pulled himself up and glared his enemy in the face--"_I'm Roger Ingleton_!" It spoke worlds for the tutor's self-possession that in the start produced by this announcement he did not let his victim escape. It spoke still more for his resolution that, having heard it, he continued his horsewhipping to the bitter end before he replied-- "Whoever you are, sir, that will teach you how to behave to a lady." "You fool!" hissed Ratman, with an oath, getting up from the ground; "you'll be sorry for this. I'll be even with you. I'll ruin you. I'll turn your precious ward out of the place. I'll teach that girl--" An ominous crack of the tutor's whip cut short the end of the sentence, and Mr Ratman left the remainder of his threats to the imagination of his audience. When, ten minutes later, the tutor, with eye-glass erect, strolled back into the drawing-room, no one would have supposed that he had been horsewhipping an enemy or making a discovery on which the fate of a whole household depended. His thin, compressed lips wore their usual enigmatic lines; his brow was as unruffled as his shirt front. "Dear Mr Armstrong, where have you been?" cried Jill, pouncing on him at the door; "I've been hunting for you everywhere. You promised me, you know." And the little lady towed off her captive in triumph. The remainder of the evening passed uneventfully until at eleven o'clock the festivities in the drawing-room gave place to the more serious business of the "county" supper, at which, in a specially-erected tent, about one hundred guests sat down. Tom had taken care to procure an early and advantageous seat for the occasion, and, with one of the vicar's daughters under his patronage and control, prepared to enjoy himself at last. He had had a bad time of it so far, for he was in the black-books of almost every youth in the room, and had been posted as a defaulter in whatever corner he had tried to hide from his creditors. "It's awful having a pretty sister," said he confidentially to his companion; "gets a fellow into no end of a mess. I wish I was your brother instead." "Thank you," said the young lady, laughing. "Oh, I didn't mean that," said Tom. "You're good enough looking, I think. But I don't see why Rosalind can't pick her own partners, instead of me having to manage it for her. Look out! if that chap opposite sees me he'll kick--put the ferns between. There she is next to Roger. Like her cheek, bagging the best place. Do you see that kid there grinning at the fellow with the eye-glass? That's my young sister--ought to be in bed instead of fooling about here. Ah, I knew it! she's planted herself opposite the grapes. If we don't look out we shan't get one. That's my governor coming in; looks rather chippy, don't he? I say, lean forward, or he'll see me. He's caught me in the supper-room five or six times already this evening. By the way, where's old Ratty? Do you know Ratty, Miss Isabel? No end of a scorch. Just the chap for you. I'll introduce you. Hullo! where is he?" added he, looking up and down the table cautiously. "Surely he's not going to shirk the feed? Never mind, Miss Isabel; I'll work it round for you if I can." Miss Isabel expressed her gratitude with a smile, and asked Tom how he liked living at Maxfield. "Oh, all right, now I've got a football and can go shooting in the woods. I have to pay up for it though with lessons, and--(thanks; all right; just a little more. Won't you have some yourself while it's here?)--Armstrong makes us stick at it. I say, by the way, do you remember that fellow who died? (Don't take any of that; it's no good. Wire in to a wing of the partridge instead.) Eh, do you?" "Whom? What are you talking about?" asked she, bewildered. "Ah, it doesn't matter. He died twenty-one years ago, before Roger was born. I thought you might have known him." "Really, Tom, you are not complimentary. You can't expect me to remember before I was born." "What! aren't you twenty-one?" asked Tom, staring round at her. "Go on; you're joking! No? Why, you look twice the age! This chap, you know, would have been the heir if he'd lived. There's a picture of him upstairs." "And he died, did he?" "Rather; but old Hodder--know old Hodder?" "Hush!" said his companion; "the speeches are beginning." "What a hung nuisance!" said Tom. The oratorical interruption was a brief one. The Duke of Somewhere, as the big man of the county, rose to propose the health of the heir of Maxfield. They were glad to make their young neighbour's acquaintance, and looked forward that day year to welcoming him to his own. They hoped he'd be a credit to his name, and keep up the traditions of Maxfield. He understood Mr Ingleton was pretty strictly tied up in the matter of guardians--(laughter)--but from what he could see, he might be worse off in that respect; and the county would owe their thanks to those gentlemen if they turned out among them the right sort of man to be Squire of Maxfield. He wished his young friend joy and long life and many happy returns of the day. Roger, rather pale and nervous, replied very briefly. He thanked them for their good wishes, and said he hoped he might take these as given not to the heir of Maxfield but to plain Roger Ingleton. He was still an infant--("Hear, hear!" from Tom)--and was in no hurry to get out of the charge of his guardians. Whatever his other expectations might be, he felt that his best heritage was the name he bore; and he hoped, as his noble neighbour had said, he should turn out worthy of that. As he sat down, flushed with his effort, and wondering what two persons there would think of his feeble performance, his eye fell on the form of Dr Brandram, who at that moment hurriedly entered the room. He saw him whisper something to Armstrong, who changed colour and rose from his seat. An intuition, quicker than a flash of lightning, revealed to the boy that something was wrong--something in which he was concerned. In a moment he stood with his two friends in the hall. "Roger, my brave fellow, your mother has been taken seriously worse within the last hour. Come and see her." The boy staggered away dazed. He was conscious of the hum of voices, with Tom's laugh above all, in the room behind; of the long curve of carriage lights waiting in the garden without; of the trophy of flowers and pampas on either side of the staircase. Then, as the doctor stepped forward and softly opened a door, he followed like one in a dream. For an hour the dull roll of carriages came and went on the drive, and the cheery babel of departing voices broke the still morning air. But two guests left Maxfield that night unexpectedly. One was the soul of a good lady; the other was the horsewhipped body of a bad man. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. STRONG HEARTS AND WEAK TEMPERS. In the sad confusion which followed upon Mrs Ingleton's sudden death, no one appeared to remark the abrupt departure of Mr Robert Ratman. Roger certainly never bestowed a thought on the occurrence, and if any of the other members of the household thought twice about it, they all-- even Jill--kept their ideas on the subject to themselves. To Roger the week that followed his twentieth birthday was the most dismal of his life. When a similar blow had fallen months ago he had been too bewildered and benumbed to realise fully his own loss. Now he realised everything only too vividly. His own trouble; the loss of the last near relative he had in the world; his own sickly health, chaining him down when he would fain seek comfort in action; the uncertainty of his position as heir of Maxfield; the hopeless task before him of finding his lost brother; Rosalind's indifference to his affection--all seemed now to pile up in one great mountain to oppress him, and he half envied the gentle dead her quiet resting-place. It was in the second week after the funeral, when Maxfield once more began to assume its normal aspect, and Captain Oliphant was allowing himself to hope that, notwithstanding the removal of his latest "dear departed," things were likely to shape themselves a trifle more comfortably for his own designs in her absence--it was in the middle of November that a letter was handed to Roger as he dressed one morning in his room. It bore the London post-mark, and looked mysterious enough to induce Roger to lay down his brushes and open it there and then. This is what it said:-- "Dear Roger,--You'll have been expecting to hear from me, as no doubt your moral friend, Mr Armstrong, has told you who I am. I don't fancy you are specially pleased with the discovery, and it may suit you to turn up your nose at your affectionate brother. You may turn up what you like, but it doesn't alter the fact. I am your brother. When I heard of my father's death I was in India, and made up my mind to come home on the chance the old boy had forgiven me and left me some of the needful in his will. Your guardian, Oliphant, had little idea that the Indian chum who made such a long journey to pay him a visit at Maxfield was really the man to whom the place ought to have belonged if every one had his rights. Of course I soon found out my mistake. The old man kept up his grudge to the end, and cut me out of his will without even a shilling. So you've nothing to be afraid of. I dare say when you come into the property you will do something for your big brother. Meanwhile I don't expect much out of the pair of hypocrites my father chose to leave as your guardians. But as I am hard up, and you can probably do what you like with your pocket-money, let me have a £10 note once and again, say fortnightly, addressed to Robert Ratman, to be called for at the General Post Office. If I don't get this, I shall conclude the Ingletons are true to their reputation of being a good deal fonder of their money than their flesh and blood. "I don't know whether I shall turn up again or not. It will depend pretty much on what I hear. No doubt you've set me down as a cad and a blackleg. Perhaps I am. I've not had the advantages you have. But, cad or no cad, I've a right to sign myself your brother,-- "Roger Ingleton, _alias_ Robert Ratman." Roger read this remarkable epistle once or twice, in a state of mind bordering on stupefaction. Robert Ratman, cad, sharper, blasphemer, insolent profligate, his brother! The notion was ludicrous. And yet, when he tried to laugh, the laugh died on his lips. He walked over to the portrait on the wall and looked at the wild, mocking boy's face there. For a moment, as he met its gaze, it seemed to grow older and coarser--the light died out of the eyes, the mouth lost its strength, the lines of shame and vice came out on the brow. Then the old face looked out again--the face of the lost Roger Ingleton. "Ratman my brother!" he groaned to himself. Then of a sudden he seemed to see it all. It was a fraud, an imposition, an impudent plot to extort money. But no! As he read the letter again that hope vanished. This was not the letter of an impostor. Had it been, there would have been more about his rights, more brotherly affection, a greater anxiety to appear in good colours. As it was, the writer wrote in the reckless vein of a man who knows he is detested and expects little; who owes a grudge to fortune for his bad luck, and being hard up for money, appeals not to his rights, but to the good nature of his more lucky younger brother. What a sad letter it seemed, read in that light. And how every word drove the unhappy heir of Maxfield deeper and deeper into the slough of perplexity. Three weeks ago, when his dead father's letter had come into his hands, he had not hesitated for a moment as to his duty or his desire in the matter. He had cheerfully accepted the task of finding that lost, aggrieved, perhaps hardly-used brother, to whom his heart went out as he gazed on the likeness of what he once had been. But now! To abdicate in favour of this blackguard. To look for him, to tell him that Maxfield was his, to have to depend on his generosity for a livelihood, to see the good name of Ingleton represented in the county by a drunken profligate. What a task was that. The writer evidently did not know of the second will, or suspect that after all Maxfield was his own. No one knew of that document but Roger and Armstrong. For a moment there returned to the boy's mind the words of his father's letter-- "If after reading the papers you choose to destroy them, no one will blame you; no one will know--you will do no one an injury. You are free to act as you choose." And Armstrong, the only other being who had seen the papers, had urged him to avail himself of the permission thus accorded. Why not take the advice and save Maxfield and the family name, and himself--ay, and Rosalind--from the discredit that threatened. He could yet be generous, beyond his hopes, to the prodigal. He would pay to get him abroad, to-- to-- A flush of shame mounted to the boy's cheeks as he suddenly discovered himself listening to these unworthy suggestions. "Heaven help me," he said, "to be a man." It was a brief inward fight, though a sore one. Roger Ingleton, weak in body, often dull of wit and infirm of temper, had yet certain old-fashioned ideas of his own as to how it behoves a gentleman to act. He cherished, too, certain still older-fashioned ideas as to how when a Christian gentleman wants help and courage he may obtain it. And he was endowed with that glorious obstinacy which, when it once satisfies itself on a question of right and wrong, declines to listen to argument. Therefore when, later than usual, he joined the family party at breakfast, it was with a grim sense of a misery ahead to be faced, but by no manner of means to be avoided. For fear the reader should be disposed to rank Roger at once among the saints, let it be added that he took his place in as genuine a bad temper as a strong mind and a weak body between them are capable of generating. "Roger, my dear boy," said the captain mournfully, as became the weeds he wore, "you are looking poorly. You need a change. We both need one after the trouble we have been through. I think a run up to London would brace us up. Would you like it?" "I don't know," said Roger shortly. "I don't think so." "It is trying to you, I am sure, to remain here, in your delicate health, among so many sad associations--" "I'm quite well, thank you," said the boy. "Tom, how does the football get on?" "Oh," said Tom, rather taken aback by the introduction of so congenial a theme from so unexpected a quarter, "I've not played very much lately. Jill and I had a little punt about yesterday; but we did it quite slowly, you know, and I had my crape on my arm." Jill flushed up guiltily. The housekeeper, who since Mrs Ingleton's death had assumed the moral direction of the young lady, had expostulated with her in no mild terms on the iniquity of young ladies playing football, even of a funereal order, and she felt it very treacherous on the part of the faithless Tom to divulge her ill-doings now. She felt reassured, however, when Mr Armstrong smiled grimly. "Nobody could see," said she; "and Tom _did_ want a game so dreadfully." "We played Association," said Tom. "Jill got two goals and I got fifty- six." "No, I got three," said Jill. "Oh, that first wasn't a goal," said Tom. "You see, she got past me with a neat bit of dribbling; but she ran, and the rule was only to walk, you know, because of being in mourning." "I really didn't run, I only walked very fast," said Jill. "I should think you might allow her the goal," said Mr Armstrong. Mr Armstrong was always coming to Jill's rescue; and if any of her heart had been left to win, he would have won it now. Tom gave in, and said he supposed he would have to let her count it; and was vastly consoled for his self-denial by Roger's proposal to join him in a game that very day. Before that important function came off, however, Roger and his tutor had a somewhat uncomfortable talk in the library. "You are feeling out of sorts, old fellow," said the latter when they were left alone. "I've had a letter," said Roger. "Another?" "Read it, please." "If you wish it, I will. Last time, however, it wasn't a success consulting me." "I want you to read this." The tutor took the letter and turned to the signature. His brow knitted as he did so, and the lines grew deeper and more scornful as he turned to the beginning and read through. "If I were you," said he, returning it, "I would frame this letter as a good specimen of a barefaced fraud." It irritated Roger considerably, in his present over-wrought frame of mind--and particularly after the memorable inward struggle of that morning--to have what seemed so serious a matter to him regarded by any one else as a jest. For once in a way the tutor failed to understand his ward. "It does not seem to be a fraud at all," said Roger. "Why didn't you tell me of it before?" "I did not regard the statement seriously. Nor do I now. There is lie written in every line of the letter. A clumsy attempt to extort money, which ought not to be allowed to succeed. He gives not a single proof of his identity. I horsewhipped him on the night of your birthday for insulting a lady, and--" "What lady?" asked Roger. "Miss Oliphant," said the tutor, flushing a little. "He then, as a desperate expedient for getting off the punishment he deserved, blurted out this preposterous story. And having once published it, it appears he means to make capital out of it. Roger, old fellow, you are no fool." "I am fool enough to believe there is something in the story," said Roger; "at any rate I must follow it up. If this Ratman is my brother--" The tutor, who himself was showing signs of irritation, laughed abruptly. "It may be a joke to you, but it is none to me," said Roger angrily. "It may not concern you--" "It concerns me very much," said the tutor. "I am your guardian, and it is my duty to protect you from schemers." The two stood looking at one another, and in that moment each relented a little of his anger. "I know, old fellow," said Roger, "you think you are doing me a kindness, but--" "Pardon me--kindness is not the word. I appeal to your common-sense--" Unlucky speech! Roger, who was painfully aware that he was not clever, was naturally touchy at any reference to his common-sense. "It doesn't seem much use discussing," said he. "I made a mistake in showing you the letter." "I heartily regret you did." "I hoped you would have helped me in my difficulty." "I will do anything for you except believe, without proof, and in spite of every probability, that Ratman is your brother." "He is just the age my brother would have been now." "So is George the coachman, so am I, so are half a dozen men in the village." "He certainly has some resemblance to the portrait." "I could find you a score more like it in London." "The long and short of it is, Armstrong, I cannot look to you to back me up in this." "To make Robert Ratman into Roger Ingleton?--I fear not. To back you up in all else, and be at your call whether you think well or ill of me-- certainly." They parted angrily, though without a quarrel. Mr Armstrong had rarely felt himself so put out, and crashed away ruthlessly at his piano all the morning. Roger, perhaps conscious that logic was not on his side, whatever instinct and feeling might be, retired disappointed and miserable to the park, and never remembered his appointment with the eager Tom. At lunch-time he said to Captain Oliphant-- "When did you think of going to town?" "At the end of the week, my boy. What do you say to coming?" "Yes--I'll come." The Captain darted a triumphant glance in the direction of the tutor. But the tutor was investigating the contents of a game pie in the endeavour to discover a piece of egg for Miss Jill. After a pause that young lady took up her discourse. "If father and Roger go to town, Tom, we shall have dear Mr Armstrong all to ourselves." "Hooroo!" said Tom; "that is, if it's holidays." "I am thinking of going to Oxford next week," said the tutor, elaborately folding up his napkin, addressing his co-trustee. "Have you any message I can give to any of your acquaintances there?" "I think it would be a pity for you to leave Maxfield just now. One of us should remain." "Yes, do stay. We'll have such larks," said Tom. "We'll get Rosalind to come and stay, and then we shall be able to play regular matches, ladies against gentlemen, you know." "No. Mr Armstrong and I will stand Rosalind and you," suggested Jill. Even these allurements failed. "I shall make my visit as short as possible. I have, as you know, a few creditors in Oxford on whom I am anxious to call. Let me give you a little cheese, Roger." That evening when, as usual, the tutor looked in to say good night to his ward, Roger said rather gloomily-- "I suppose you object to my going to London?" "On the contrary, I rather envy you." "Of course you understand I am going up to make inquiries?" "Naturally. With Captain Oliphant's assistance?" "No. I'm not inclined to tell him anything at present. He has no idea that Ratman is anything but an Indian acquaintance." "My address will be `"Green Dragon," Oxford,'" said the tutor. "By the way," said Roger--both men were talking in the forced tones which belong to an unacknowledged estrangement--"Whether this matter is right or not, I propose to write to Ratman and enclose him £10." "Naturally," said the tutor. "I am tied down, as you know, in the matter of my pocket-money, and can't well spare it out of my present allowance. I want the trustees to give me an extra allowance." "In other words, you want your trustees to keep Mr Robert Ratman at the rate of £250 a year. I shall agree to that the day that he satisfies me he is Roger Ingleton." "I expected you would refuse. I must ask Captain Oliphant." "I'm afraid he will require my sanction to any such arrangement." "What! Do you mean to say that I am at your mercy in a matter like this?" "I fear that is unhappily the case. I can resolve the matter by resigning my tutorship." Had it come to that? Roger glanced up with a scared look which for the moment clouded out the vexation in his face. "Excuse me, Armstrong. All this worry is bad for my temper. I'm afraid I lost it." "I can sympathise," said the tutor, "for I have lost mine. Good night." CHAPTER SIXTEEN. ROGER SEES A LITTLE TOO MUCH LIFE. Captain Oliphant's motive for going to London was primarily to escape for a while from the unearthly dullness of Maxfield. As long as the prospect of a matrimonial alliance with Mrs Ingleton had been in view, it had seemed to him good policy to submit to the infliction and remain at his post. That vision was now unhappily past, and the good man felt he deserved a change of scene and amusement. A further motive was to evade a possible return of his dear friend Mr Ratman, whose abrupt departure from Maxfield had both perplexed and relieved him. The second of that gentleman's uncomfortable bills was falling due in a few days, and as on the present occasion no lucky windfall had dropped in from an American mayor, it seemed altogether a fitting occasion for dropping for a season below the horizon. When, however, Roger unexpectedly consented to accompany his guardian, the visit assumed an altogether different aspect. The captain had long desired to have his dear ward to himself, and the opportunity now presented was certainly one not to be neglected. "My dear boy," said he, as the two took their places in the London train, "I hope you are well protected against the weather. Change seats with me. You are so liable to cold, you know, that it is really hardly safe for you to face the engine. We must take great care of you now-- greater than ever," and he sighed pathetically. Roger was getting accustomed to, and a little tired of, these demonstrative outbursts, and quietly took the seat in order to spare discussion. He was already repenting of his journey. No one seemed to commend it. Armstrong made no reference to it. Dr Brandram stoutly disapproved of it. Rosalind tossed her head when she heard of it, and hoped he might enjoy himself. Tom failed to see why, when there was football in the air at Maxfield, any one could be bothered to travel up to London for pleasure, unless indeed he intended to take a season ticket for Christy's Minstrels. Altogether Roger did not feel elated at the prospect of this visit. For all that, he persuaded himself that duty called him thither, even if it was bad temper which drove him from Maxfield. "What has become of Ratman?" he inquired of his guardian casually during the journey. Captain Oliphant looked up from his paper sharply Mr Ratman's whereabouts had been occupying his thoughts that very moment. "I really do not know, my boy," said he. "He left very suddenly, and in the sad trouble through which we have passed I have hardly had time to think about him." There was a pause. Then Roger said-- "Is he an old friend of yours, cousin Edward?" Cousin Edward was a little perplexed by this curiosity. "I have known him a year or so. The friendship, however, is chiefly on his side." "I thought he came all the way from India on purpose to visit you?" The captain laughed uncomfortably at this very correct representation of the facts. "That is the version he likes to give. The fact is that business brought him home, and as he knew I was at Maxfield, he wrote and proposed the visit. He is no great favourite of yours, I suspect, Roger?" "No," said Roger shortly, and relapsed again into silence. But before the journey's end he once more returned to the charge. "Was he in the army in India?" "Once, I believe. But I have never heard much of his antecedents. Latterly I believe he called himself a financial agent, a very vague profession. He was in our station before our regiment went there." "I suppose he had lived in India all his life?" "He had certainly been in England when a young man," said the captain; "and from some of his reminiscences, appears not to have led a very profitable life there. But how comes it you are so interested in him?" "I have only been wondering what he was, that's all," said Roger, feeling he had been on the topic long enough. Roger had already written a letter to Ratman, addressed to that gentleman at the General Post Office, London. "Your letter," it said, "has perplexed me greatly. If you are my brother, as you say you are, why do you not give some proof? That should be easy. There must be some people who can identify you, or some means of satisfying us all about your claim to be the elder son. I should not resist you, if it were so. Only my guardians would require clear proof before recognising you. As to whether I think well or ill of you, that has nothing to do with the matter if you are really and truly my elder brother. I enclose ten pounds in this, not to show you that I am myself fully satisfied, but to let you see that the bare chance of your being an Ingleton makes me feel anxious you should not think we, as a family, do not stand by one another. I do not expect to be able to repeat it, as my allowance is limited, and my guardians are not likely to consent to hand over any money for you till you can prove your claim. Write and give me more particulars, and I promise you I shall not shirk my duty to you or the name I bear." At any other time Roger would have shown this epistle, the writing of which cost him many anxious hours, to Armstrong. Now, however, that help was denied him. The tutor, he knew, would have screwed his eye- glass into his eye and ruthlessly pulled the document to pieces. No. He must play this game off his own bat, and keep his own counsel. Captain Oliphant, who had a good notion of doing things comfortably with other people's money, had selected a fashionable hotel at the West End. "We must see you have every comfort, dear boy," said he; "in your state of health we cannot afford to rough it. I have ordered a private sitting-room and fires in the bedroom. When you feel strong enough we will do a little sight-seeing; but meanwhile your first consideration must be to recover lost tone and spirits by means of rest and care." These constant reminders of his poor health were very unwelcome to the unlucky Roger, who protested that he was in perfect health; and, to prove it, went out next day, in a cold November fog, with no overcoat. The consequence was he caught a severe cold, and had the mortification of listening to a severe lecture from his solicitous guardian on the iniquity of trifling with his precious health. Roger, too proud to admit that he could not take care of himself, declined to treat himself as an invalid, and insisted on claiming his guardian's promise to show him a little life in the great city. It was surprising how many acquaintances Rosalind's father had in London. Some were pleasant enough--military men on leave, and here and there a civilian's family who remembered the captain and his charming family in the Hills. Roger accepted their hospitality and listened to their Indian small-talk with great good-humour, and when now and then some sympathetic soul, guessing, as a good many did, one of the lad's secrets, talked admiringly of Rosalind, he felt himself rewarded for a good deal of long-suffering. Had he heard some of the jokes passed behind his back, his satisfaction might have been considerably tempered. "I always said," observed one shrewd dowager, "that Oliphant would make a catch with that daughter of his. He has done it, evidently. This boy will be worth five or ten thousand a year, I hear." "Poor fellow! He looks as if it will be a battle with him to reach it. What a cough!" "I can't understand Oliphant not taking better care of him. He drags him about all over town, as if the boy were cast iron. I met them out twice this week." "Certainly one cannot afford to play fast and loose with the goose that lays the golden eggs." The "goose" in question made other acquaintances than these. In his bachelor days Captain Oliphant had "knocked about" in London pretty considerably, and had a notion, now that he was a bachelor again, to repeat the process. Roger--a raw country boy, as the reader by this time will admit--found himself entered upon a gay round of club and Bohemian life, which to an old stager like the captain may have seemed a little slow, but to a susceptible youth was decidedly attractive. The guardian's fast acquaintances made the young heir of Maxfield welcome, and might have proceeded to pluck him had his protector permitted. Roger speedily discovered what hundreds of locks there are which the mere rumour of money will unlock. He had never had such an idea of his own importance before, and for a short time he deluded himself into the belief that his popularity was due wholly and solely to his personal merits. Captain Oliphant fostered this delusion carefully. "I hope you are enjoying yourself, my dear boy," he would say, after a particularly festive evening. "It's an excellent rule to make oneself agreeable in all circumstances. I envy you your facility. You see how it is appreciated. It does an old fogey like me good to see you enjoy yourself." "It was a pleasant enough evening," said Roger, not quite without misgivings on the subject, however. "By the way, who was the man, older than the others, who talked loudest and not always in the most classical English?" The captain laughed pleasantly. "No. I should have been better pleased if he had not been of our party. He never was select, even in my young days, when I met him once or twice. There used to be a saying among us that Fastnet, if he gave his mind to it--" "Fastnet!" The cab was dark, and the boy's pale face was invisible to his guardian. But the tone with which he caught at the name struck that good gentleman. "Yes. What about it?" "Only," said Roger, after half a minute, and he spoke with an unusual effort, "it seems a good name for him." Alone in his room that night Roger came to himself. A week or two ago he had hugged himself into the notion he was resolved to do his duty at all costs and in spite of all discouragement. Here had he been wasting a fortnight, forgetting duty, forgetting that he had a mission, posing as the heir, and accepting the compliments of a lot of time-servers who, now that he thought about them, valued him for nothing but his name and expectations. And one of these--the least desirable of the lot--had been this Fastnet, the companion in profligacy of his lost brother, the one man, perhaps, from whom he might hope to obtain a clue as to the fate or whereabouts of the man whose rights he, Roger, was usurping! He was tempted to telegraph to Armstrong to come to his help. But he dismissed the thought. In this quest Armstrong was not with him. He shrank from making a confidant of the captain. There was no one else to help him. He must play the game single-handed or not at all. Once more his courage failed. Ratman his brother, Fastnet his brother's friend! At what a cost to the good name of his house was this wrong to be put right, this self-sacrifice to be accomplished. But ere he slept the honest man gained a victory over the poltroon. Providence had sent him stumbling into the track. It was not for him to draw back. Next morning both he and his guardian found letters on the breakfast- table re-directed in Rosalind's hand from Maxfield. The latter, as he glanced at his, scowled, and crushed the missive angrily into his pocket. It was a letter from Ratman, reminding him that a certain bill was falling due on the following day, and requiring him, on pain of exposure, to honour it. Roger's letter was in the same hand. It was dated London, a day or two back. Ratman said-- "Dear Brother,--I received your letter and enclosure. It is what I expected from you, but I hope it is not to be the last. I don't wonder at your suspecting my story--I don't particularly care whether you believe it or not. No doubt, with your respectable surroundings and the prospect before you, you are not over-anxious to claim brotherhood with a fellow of my sort. As long as you believe in me sufficiently not to leave me in the lurch, I shall be fairly content. But I cannot live on air, and have little else to support me. Don't be afraid I shall turn up again now until you want me. If I did, it would be not so much to see you as to see some one else to whom, rake as I am, I have lost my heart, and to whom I look to you to put in a good word on my behalf. You ask for proofs. I can't give you any that I know of. Everything is changed at Maxfield since I was there. Even the old hands like Dr Brandram or Hodder would not recognise me after all these years. In fact, they have seen me and have not done so. They think I'm dead. That's my fault; for when I was ill in India--goodness knows how many years ago--with, as I thought, not a day more to live, I told a comrade to send home news of my death, and they all believed it. So you see it is easier to talk about proof than give it. The only person who might be able to remember me after I left home--I had a hideous row with my father at the time--was a man called Fastnet, with whom I lodged in London, and who helped to make me the respectable specimen of humanity I have become. I lost sight of him long since, and for all I know he has joined the majority with all the others. I merely mention this to show you how hopeless it is of me to attempt to prove what I say. You may make your mind quite easy on that score. I shall probably return to India as soon as I am in funds. Except for the one reason I have named, I don't want to see Maxfield again--I've had enough of it. Nor do I see any advantage in meeting you, so I give no address. But any letters addressed to the G.P.O. I shall receive. "Your brother,-- "Roger Ingleton." This letter dispelled any lingering doubt, or perhaps hope, in Roger's mind that he was on a wrong scent. The writer, in protesting his inability to give any proof of his identity, had mentioned the two very circumstances which the old Squire had referred to in his posthumous letter. He had admitted that he had gone to the bad in London in company with a youth named Fastnet. The news of his death had reached England from abroad. Besides, the reckless, devil-may-care tone of the epistle more than ever convinced the younger brother that this was no fraudulent claimant, but the honest growl of an outcast who little guessed what his name was worth to him. Otherwise, why should he keep out of the way? Captain Oliphant came to his room while these reflections were occupying his mind. He was too much preoccupied by the unpleasant contents of his own letter to notice the trouble of his ward. "Roger," said he, "business calls me away from town for a day or two. I am sorry to interrupt our pleasant time together, but I hope it will not be long. Make yourself comfortable here, and take care of yourself." "Are you going to Maxfield?" inquired Roger. "No. But an old comrade I find is in trouble and wants my advice. It is a call I can hardly turn a deaf ear to." Had Roger guessed that the friend on whom so much devotion was to be expended was Mr Robert Ratman, he would have displayed a good deal more curiosity than he did as to his guardian's business. As it was, he was not sorry to be left thus to his own devices. "You know your way to the club by this time," said the captain. "Make yourself at home there--and keep out of mischief." That evening Roger went somewhat nervously to his guardian's club. Since last night he had grown to detest the place and the company. But just now it was the one place where he might expect to hear something of his lost brother. His new friends greeted him boisterously--and, relieved of the restraint of his guardian's presence, made more than usually merry in his honour. They chaffed him about his expectations, and quizzed him about Rosalind. They laughed at his rustic simplicity, and amused themselves by putting him to the blush. They plied him with wine and cigars, and rallied him on his pure demure face. One or two toadies sidled up and professed a sympathy which was more offensive than the badinage. He endured all as best he could, for one reason and one only. The loudest and coarsest of his tormentors was Mr Fastnet. At last, however, when, not for the first time, Rosalind's name had been dragged into the conversation, the blood of the Ingletons rose. The man who had spoken was a young _roue_, little more than Roger's own age, and reputed to be a great man in the circles of the fast. "Excuse me," said Roger, abruptly interrupting the laugh that followed this hero's jest, "do you call yourself a gentleman?" A bombshell on the floor could hardly have made a greater sensation. "What do you mean?" "I mean, sir, that you're not a gentleman." The young gentleman staggered back as if he had been shot, and gaped round the audience, speechless. "Hullo, hullo," said some one, "this is getting lively." Another of the party walked to the door and turned the key, and several others hastily finished up the contents of their glasses. Roger needed all his nerve to keep cool under the circumstances, but he succeeded. All eyes were turned to the young gentleman, whose move it clearly was next. He was very red in his face and threatening in his demeanour, but when it came to giving his feelings utterance his courage dwindled down into a-- "Bah! sanctimonious young prig!" The astonishment was now transferred to the onlookers. "Hullo, Compton, I say," said Fastnet, "did you hear what he called you? Is that all you've got to say?" The Honourable Mr Compton's face gradually bleached, as he looked from one to the other. "He said you were no gentleman," repeated Fastnet, determined there should be no mistake about the matter. "Isn't that so, youngster?" appealing to Roger. "That is what I said," said Roger. The lily-livered hero was hanging out his true colours at last. "It's lucky for him," snarled he, "he is only a visitor in this house." Fastnet and one or two of the others laughed disagreeably. "Ingleton," said the former, taking control of the proceedings generally, "are you willing to repeat what you said outside?" "Certainly," said Roger; "anywhere you like. And I shall be delighted to add that he is a coward." "There, Compton. Surely that satisfies you?" Mr Compton, very white and downcast, took up his hat. "Thank you," said he, with a pitiful affectation of superciliousness; "I take no notice of young bumpkins like him," and he turned on his heel. Fastnet stepped before him to the door. "Look here, Compton," said he, "you're a member of this club. Do we understand you funk this affair?" "I've something better to do than bother my head about him. Understand what you like. Let me go!" Fastnet opened the door. "Clear out!" said he, with an oath; "and don't show your face here again, unless you want to be kicked." "What do you mean by that?" "What I say. Be off, or I won't wait till you come again." Whereupon exit the Honourable Mr Compton with colours dipped. "Now," said Fastnet, when he had gone, "it is only fair to the youngster here to say that we agree with him in his opinion of our late member. Eh, you men?" General assent greeted the question. Upon which Mr Fastnet suggested that, as the evening had been spoiled, the house do adjourn. "You'd better come and have supper with me," said he to Roger. And Roger, feeling his chance had come, accepted. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. "WHEN THE CAT'S AWAY--" Maxfield Manor, however cheery a place in summer-time, with its household in full swing, was decidedly desolate in dark November weather, with only a housekeeper in charge--that is to say, to any one but the two young persons on whom the honours of the house devolved, it would have appeared dull. Mr Armstrong delayed his visit to Oxford for some days after the departure of the Captain and Roger. There was a good deal of business to be done in connection with the estate, and as Mr Pottinger discovered, when the second trustee did take it into his head to look into things, it was no child's play. He had an uncomfortable manner, this tutor, of demanding explanations and particulars with all the air of the proprietor himself, and was not to be put off by any dilatory tactics on the part of the official with whom the explanation lay. As in the present case the business transacted was chiefly in connection with leases and conveyances, the unfortunate lawyer had a rough week of it, and felt at the end very much like one of his own clients after a year in Chancery. However, the inquisitor appeared to be fairly well satisfied when all was done, so that Mr Pottinger, who all along had on his mind the uncomfortable consciousness of a few well-hidden irregularities, was doubly relieved when the tutor dropped his glass finally from his eye and observed-- "I need not trouble you further at present, sir." It was after this final interview that Mr Armstrong looked in on his friend the doctor. "I'm off to Oxford for a day or two," said he. "No attractions here?" asked the doctor. "Yes--you among others." "And who's to wash and dress the babies at Maxfield? And who is to keep the wolf from the fold at the Vicarage? and who is to keep an eye on the man of the law across the way?" "The babes are well qualified to nurture one another. The man of the law is under closer observation than he imagines. As to the wolf, I came to speak to you about that. He may make a descent on the fold, in which case Dr Brandram must go out with swords and staves and give him battle." The doctor laughed. "I like your ideas of the medical profession. Its duties are variegated and lively. However, make yourself easy this time. I hear to-day that the young ladies at the Vicarage with their governess are to go on Monday to Devonshire." "Good," said Mr Armstrong, decidedly relieved. "When does your ward return?" said the doctor. "I dislike this London business altogether. Oliphant is not to be trusted with a boy of his delicate make. You should have stopped it." The tutor said nothing, but looked decidedly dejected. He was greatly tempted to confide the difficulties of the situation to his friend. But the dead Squire's secret was not his to give away. "Unless they come home soon," said he, "I have a notion of returning from Oxford by way of London." "Do--the sooner the better." When, on the next day, Miss Rosalind sailed up to Maxfield to bid her brother and sister farewell, it fell to the tutor's lot to escort her back to the Vicarage. "Mr Armstrong," said she abruptly, as they went, "why have you and Roger quarrelled?" Mr Armstrong looked round uncomfortably. "Quarrelled?" "Yes. Do you suppose he would go away like this for any other reason? Won't you tell me what it is about?" "Roger and I have agreed to differ on a certain point. Miss Oliphant. We have not quarrelled?" "You cannot trust me, I see, or you would tell me what the trouble is." "I trust you completely, Miss Oliphant. I will gladly tell you." Five minutes ago wild horses would not have extorted the confession from him. But somehow or other, as he looked at her standing there, he could not help himself. "Roger has got an impression that his elder brother is still living, and is to be found; and, if found, that he ought to be made possessor of Maxfield. I am unable to sympathise in what I look upon as an unprofitable quest. That is the whole story." "Why cannot you back him up, Mr Armstrong?" "I believe his fancy is utterly groundless; besides which, if the person he believes to be the missing brother is really Roger Ingleton, to discover him would mean disgrace to Maxfield, and an injury to the name of Ingleton." "What! Mr Armstrong, do you mean to say--" "I mean to say that Mr Robert Ratman claims to be the lost elder brother, and that Roger credits the story. Miss Oliphant, I am grateful to you for sharing this confidence with me. You can help Roger in this matter better than I can." She looked at him with a flush in her face, and then replied rather dismally, "I fear not--for, to be as frank with you as you are with me, I am dreadfully afraid Roger is right. The same fancy passed through my mind when first I saw Mr Ratman. I had recently been studying the lost brother's portrait, you know, and was struck and horrified by the resemblance. Mr Armstrong," added she, after a pause, "if I were Roger's guardian and tutor, I would stand by him all the more that his duty is an unpleasant one. Thank you; here we are at the gate. Good- bye. I hope you will have a pleasant time at Oxford." And she passed in, leaving the good man in a sad state of bewilderment and perplexity. He started a day or two later in a somewhat depressed frame of mind for Oxford, where he astonished and delighted most of his old creditors by calling and paying off a further instalment of his debts to them. But his satisfaction in this act of restitution was sadly tempered by the sense of coercion put upon him by the doctor and Rosalind, and the conviction that, wise or foolish, pleasant or unpleasant, his place was at his young pupil's side. No excuse, or pleadings of a false pride, could dispel the feeling. No, he must climb down, own himself wrong, and sue for permission to assist in a quest in which he had little faith and still less inclination. While he is making up his mind, it may be worth the reader's while to remark what was happening at Maxfield. Tom and Jill woke one morning to discover themselves lord and lady of the situation. In their lamentations, not unmingled with a sense of injury, at the desertion of which they were the victims, it had not occurred to them to realise that there were alleviating circumstances in their forlorn condition. The great manor-house was theirs--library, dining-hall, corridors, haunted chamber, roof, cellars--all except the servant's hall and the room where Mrs Parker, the housekeeper, held austere sway. The park was theirs, the woods, the stream, the paddocks, and the live-stock. Nay, when they came to reckon all up, half the county was theirs, and a mile or so of sea-beach into the bargain. They were absolutely free to roam where they liked, do what they liked, eat what they liked, and sit up at night to any hour that pleased them. Mrs Parker, good soul, though excellent in academic exhortations and prohibitions, was too infirm to put her laws into active practice; and when, a day or two after the place had been left in her charge, she succumbed to a touch of her enemy, the lumbago, and had to take to her bed, these two young persons, though extremely sorry for her misfortune, felt that the whole world lay like a glorious football at their feet. "Good old Jilly!" exclaimed Tom in his balmiest mood one morning, when these two young prodigals assembled for breakfast in the big dining-room at the fashionable hour of eleven, with Raffles in full livery to attend upon them. "This is what I call a lark and a half. Raffles, pass Miss Jill the honey; and walk about, and make yourself useful. I tell you what, we'll go and have a snap at the pheasants, and try a few drop kicks over the Martyr's oak. What do you say?" "I can't shoot awfully well," said Jill apologetically. "I'd sooner, if you don't mind, Tom, walk about on the roof, or help you let the water out of the big pond." "Raffles, old chappie, more toast--a lot more toast for Miss Jill. I'll have a wing of something myself. The fact is, Jilly," said he, when Raffles had departed on his quest, "I wanted to get the beast out of the way while I told you I'd got an idea." "Oh, _what_, Tom?" asked Jill, in tones of surprised pleasure. Tom glanced round cautiously, and then whispered, "You and I'll give a small kick-up here on our own hooks. What do you say?" "A party! Oh Tom! how clever of you to think of that!" "You see," said Tom, accepting the homage meekly, "the other day in the library, when we were turning out all the drawers, I found a whole lot of `At Home' cards, and the list of fellows that were asked to Roger's birthday party." "How lovely!" exclaimed Jill; "we'll just--" But here the return of Raffles, and a significant scowl from Tom, warned her to defer her suggestion. The meal over, the conspirators met in the library, and put their heads together over Tom's documents. "That's about the ticket, isn't it?" said he, displaying one of the invitation cards which he had experimentally filled up. "_Dr Brandram_-- "_Mr and Miss Oliphant at home on Wednesday, December 2, at 7 o'clock. Music, dancing, fireworks, etcetera_. "_R.S.V.P_." "But we haven't got any fireworks," suggested Jill; "we'll have to get some. And what about the band?" "I shall write to the Colonel of the Grenadiers and order it. Anyhow, you can play the Goblin polka if we get stuck up." Jill wondered whether, after an hour or two, her one piece (even though dear Mr Armstrong liked it) might not pall on a large assembly, and she devoutly hoped the Grenadiers would accept. "There's a hundred and fifty names down," said Tom. "May as well have the lot while we're about it." "Isn't two days rather a short invitation?" asked Jill. "Bless you, no. You see, we're not out of mourning. Besides, Mother Parker may be well again if we don't look sharp, or Armstrong may turn up." "How I wish he would!" "He'd spoil everything. Look here, Jill, look alive and write the cards. I'll call out." The two spent a most industrious morning, so much so that the household marvelled at their goodness, and remarked to one another, "The children are no trouble at all." Towards the end of the sitting Tom flung down his paper with a whistle of dismay. "I say, Jill, they ought to be black-edged!" Jill turned pale. "What is to be done?" she gasped. "We'll have to doctor them with pen and ink," said Tom. So for another hour or so they occupied themselves painfully in putting their invitations into mourning. The result was not wholly satisfactory, for a card dipped edgeways into a shallow plate of ink is apt to take on its black unevenly. So that while some of the guests were invited with signs of the slightest sorrow, the company of others was requested with tokens of the deepest bereavement. However, on the whole the result was passable, and that evening Tom slunk down to Yeld post office with a bundle under his arm. At the last moment a difficulty had arisen with regard to postage, as, between them, the two could not raise the thirteen shillings required to stamp the lot. However, by a lucky accident Tom discovered a bundle of halfpenny wrappers, the property of the estate, which (after scrupulously writing an I.O.U. for the amount) he borrowed. "Saved a clean six-and-six by that," he remarked, when the last was licked up; "that'll go into the fireworks." Jill, whose admiration for her brother's genius knew no bounds, felt almost happy. It was Monday evening when the Yeld post-master was exercised in his mind by hearing a loud rap down-stairs, which on inquiry he found to have proceeded from the discharge of 150 mysterious-looking halfpenny missives, written in a very round hand, into his box. Being an active and intelligent person, he felt it his duty to examine one, addressed, as it happened, to the Duke of Somewhere. After some consideration, and a study of his rules and regulations, he came to the conclusion that the enclosure was of the nature of a letter, and thereupon proceeded to mark each with a claim for a penny excess postage. Which done, he retired to his parlour, relieved in his mind. Tom and Jill had more to do than to speculate on the adventures of their carefully-written cards. "Now about grub!" said Tom that evening. Once more Jill turned a little pale. She had been dreading this fateful question all along. "What do you think?" said she diplomatically. Tom, of course, had thought the problem out. "We must keep it dark from the slaveys," said he, "at least till everybody comes, then they're bound to give us a leg up. I fancy we can scrape a thing or two up from what's in the house. And I've called in at one or two of the shops at Yeld and told them to send up some things addressed to `Miss J. Oliphant--private.' There was rather a nice lot of herrings just in, so I got three dozen of them cheap. Then I told them at the confectioner's to send up all the strawberry ices they could in the time, and 150 buns. You see everybody is sure not to come, so there'll be plenty to go round." "Didn't Mr Rusk ask what they were for?" inquired Jill. "I said Mr Oliphant presented his kind regards, and would be glad to have the things sharp." Next morning, greatly to the delight of the hospitable pair, the herrings came up in a basket, addressed privately to Miss Jill. Later in the day tradesmen's carts rattled up the back drive with similar missives, not a little to the bewilderment of the servants of the house, who shook their heads and wished Mrs Parker would make a speedy recovery. Tom adroitly captured the booty, and half won over Raffles to aid and abet in the great undertaking. "Good old Raffy," said he, as the two staggered across the hall with one of Miss Jill's private boxes between them; "would you like a threepenny bit?" Raffles, whose ideas of a tip were elastic, admitted that he was open to receive even the smallest coin. "All right, mum's the word. Jill and I have a thing on, and we don't want it spoiled by the slaveys." Raffles said that, as far as he knew, the "slaveys" were thinking about anything else than the proceedings of the two young Oliphants. "Besides," said he, "being 'olidays, there's only me and the cook, and a maid--and she's took up with nursing Mrs Parker." "Poor old Parker! How is she? Pretty chippy? Sorry she's laid up. All serene, Raff. Keep it mum, and you shall have the threepenny. Jolly heavy box that--that's the cocoa-nuts." "Oh, you're going to have a feast, are you?" said Raffles. "Getting on that way," said Tom. "We can't ask you, you know, because you'll have to wait. But you shall have some of the leavings if you back us up." With locked doors that night Tom and Jill unpacked and took stock of their commissariat. "Thirty-six herrings cut up in four," said Tom, with an arithmetical precision which would have gratified Mr Armstrong, "makes 144 goes of herring. If every man-jack turns up, that'll only be six goes short, and if you and I sit out of it, only four. We might cheek in a head or two by accident to make that up." "Who will cook them?" asked Jill. "Oh, we can do that, I fancy, on a tray or something. Then six cocoa- nuts into 150 will be twenty-five. You'll have to cut each one into twenty-five bits, Jill. Then one bun apiece, and--oh, the ice! How on earth are we to slice that up? There's about a soup-plate full. Couldn't get strawberry, so he's sent coffee." "Ugh!" said Jill; "I'll give up my share." "I did my best," said Tom. "It's not my fault strawberries are out of season." "Of course not. You're awfully clever, Tom. What should I have done without you?" "Good old Jilly! What about plates?" The consultation lasted far into the night. Next morning the post brought a dozen or so of polite notes which sent the hearts of the hospitable pair into their mouths. The first they opened was from the Duke of Somewhere, who gravely "accepted with pleasure Mr and Miss Oliphant's polite invitation." Several of the others were acceptances--one or two refusals. "Five scratched already," said Tom. "That'll make it all right for the herrings." In the afternoon Dr Brandram called. He carried his invitation card in his hand. "What game are you at now?" he demanded. "Oh, I say, Doctor, keep it quiet! You'll come, won't you? There'll be a tidy spread--enough to go all round; and the Duke and his lot are coming, and we expect the Grenadiers." "Doctor," said Jill, "we shall depend on you so much. Do come early!" Dr Brandram drove back to Yeld in a dazed condition of mind. He was tempted to telegraph to the Duke and the county generally; to set a body of police to prevent any one entering the Maxfield gates; to shut the two miscreants up in the coal-cellar; to run away, and not return till next week. But after an hysterical consultation with himself, he decided that it was too late to do anything but cast in his lot with the other victims, and go dressed in all his best to Miss Oliphant's "At Home," and do what he could to steer her and her graceless brother out of their predicament. As the fateful hour approached, Tom began to be a little nervous. He had not anticipated the vast number of small details demanding his personal attention. For instance, there was the cooking of the herrings. Jill had nobly undertaken that task at the drawing-room fire, which was the most capacious. But then, if they ran it too fine, the guests might arrive while the fish were still fizzling on the tray. If, on the other hand, they were cooked too soon, they would be lukewarm by the time the guests came to sit down to them. Again, there were the starlights and Roman candles to get into position outside, and arrangements had to be made for their protection from the damp November mist. Then, too, the faithless Grenadiers had not turned up, which necessitated Jill deserting her herrings and privately practising the Goblin polka, in view of possible emergencies. Further, the table had to be laid, and every guest's "go" of buns, and cocoa-nut, and coffee-ice, doled out in readiness. And at the last moment there arose a difficulty in raising the requisite number of knives, forks, spoons, and plates. Then he discovered that the covers were still on the drawing-room chairs and the dust-cloth on the floor, and much time and trouble was necessary for their removal. Finally, he and Jill had to dress to receive their guests. "I think it will be a jolly evening," said he somewhat doubtfully, as they hurried to their rooms. "I'm sure it will," said Jill, whose mind had not once been clouded by a doubt. "The herrings will be cold, that's the only thing. But they may think that's the newest fashion." "Look sharp and dress, anyhow," said Tom, "because you've got to cut them in fours and stick them round on the plates, and it's half-past six already." Half an hour later a grand carriage and pair drove up to the door, and Raffles solemnly announced-- "His Grace the Duke of Somewhere, and the Ladies Marigold." Miss Oliphant's evening party had begun! CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. MISS JILL OLIPHANT AT HOME. When His Grace, who had been a good deal puzzled by his abrupt, under- stamped invitation, stepped, head in air, into the drawing-room, he was somewhat taken aback to discover neither the captain nor his charming elder daughter, but instead, to be greeted by a little girl, nervously put forward by a small boy, and saying-- "Oh, duke, _do_ you mind coming? I hope you'll enjoy the party so much. There'll be some dancing presently, and supper as soon as all the others come." "You're the first," said Tom. "Never mind, the others won't be long. Like to read the newspaper, or take a turn round?" Mentally he was calculating how he should manage to squeeze in the duke's two daughters, who hadn't been invited, at his hospitable board. The duke smiled affably. "We are rather early, but Miss Rosalind will excuse--" "Oh, she's away--so is father. This is my party and Tom's. Oh, duke, do try and like it!" said Jill, taking the great man's hand. The duke cast a scared look over his shoulder at his daughters, who were staring in a somewhat awestruck manner at their two small hosts. "If the girls would like to begin dancing," suggested Tom, "Jill can play her piece now, and you can take one, and I'll take the other. It'll keep the things going, you know, till the rest turn up." At this juncture Dr Brandram was announced, greatly to Tom's delight, who, among so many strangers, was beginning to feel a little shy. "That's all right," said he. "Good old Brandy! you lead off with one of the Marigold girls, while I stop here and do the how-d'ye-do's." The doctor, with a serious face, led His Grace aside. "This appears to be a freak of the two young people," said he. "They are the only members of the family at home. I am very sorry you have been victimised." "Tut, tut," said the duke, recovering his good-humour rapidly, "I don't mean to be a victim at all. I mean to enjoy myself; so do you, doctor. Girls," said he to his daughters, "you must see the youngsters through this. Ha, ha! what is the rising generation coming to, to be sure." Arrivals now began to drop in smartly, and as Tom looked round on the gradually filling drawing-room, a mild perspiration broke out on his ingenious brow. Jill had gallantly struck up her polka on the piano, but as no one listened and no one danced, she gave it up and returned to the support of her brother. "It's going splendidly," said Tom in a stage whisper; "they all seem to be enjoying it." They certainly were--for as each gradually took in the situation, and received his cue from his neighbour, an unwonted air of humour permeated the room. A few hoity-toity persons of course felt outraged, and would have ordered their carriages had there been any one to order them from. The honest Raffles was, to tell the truth, secretly busy, on a signal from Tom, preparing for the banquet in the dining-room, and no other servant was to be seen. "My dear," said Mrs Pottinger, in a severely audible voice to her husband, "I wish to return home. Will you get our carriage? My ideas of amusement do not correspond with those of the young people." "Oh, don't go yet!" said Tom, with beaming face, for he had caught sight of Raffles' powdered wig at the door; "there's some grub ready in the next room. It would have been ready before, only the herrings--" "Tom," said Jill, "there's the Bishop just come. He couldn't come for Roger's birthday, you know." "How do you do, Bishop?" said Tom, grasping the new arrival by the hand. "Jolly you could come this time. I was just saying there's some grub in the next room. Jill, Raff had better ring up on the gong, tell him." Raffles accordingly sounded an alarm on the gong, which brought the company to attention. "Supper!" cried Tom encouragingly, and led the way, allowing the company generally to sort themselves. The Duke behaved nobly that night. He gallantly gave his arm to Jill, and asked the Bishop to bring in one of his daughters. This saved Miss Oliphant's party from the collapse which threatened it. Every one took the cue from the great people. Even Mrs Pottinger accepted the arm of the curate, and the ardent youths, who had all arrived under the delusion that Miss Rosalind was the hostess, forgot their disappointment, and vowed to see the youngsters through with it. "Oh, Duke!" said Jill, hanging affectionately on her noble escort's arm, "are you liking it? Do try and like it! It's Tom's and my first party, and we want it to be a jolly one." "I never enjoyed a party half so much," said His Grace. Jill thought him at that moment almost as nice as dear Mr Armstrong. "Jill," said Tom, waylaying his sister at the door, "we might have cut the herrings in three after all. Never mind, some of them will be able to have two goes. I'll see you do. Good old Jilly. Isn't it going off prime? And you know, the fireworks are still to come!" It was too severe a strain on the gravity of some of the guests when they beheld each his "go" of lukewarm herring, cocoa-nut, coffee-ice, and penny bun, with a single plate to accommodate the whole, on the board before him. But the laughter, if it reached the ears of the genial host and hostess, was taken by them as a symptom of delight, in which they heartily shared. Tom, as he cast his eye down the festive board--object of so much solicitude and physical exertion--never felt happier in his life. More than half of the company would be able to get a second helping of fish and bun! "Wire in," said he to his guests generally, and to the younger Lady Marigold, his next neighbour, in particular, "before it gets cold. Awfully sorry the cocoa-nut milk wasn't enough to go round, so Jill and I thought--" Here a guilty look from Jill pulled him up. Dear old Jilly, he wouldn't let out on her for worlds. A good many eyes turned curiously to where the Duke sat with his "go" before him. Those who were quick at observing details noticed that he had ranged his cocoa-nut and ice on the edge of his plate, and was beginning to attack his herring with every sign of relish. His portion consisted mostly of hard roe, for which he had no natural predilection, but this evening he seemed to enjoy it, helping it down with occasional bites at the bun, and keeping up a cheerful conversation the while. The Bishop, too, who had a tail, was making a capital meal, as were also several other of the guests near him. "Capital fish!" said the Duke presently. Then beckoning to Raffles, "Can you get me a little more?" "Yes, your grace." Tom felt a little anxious lest Raffles should select from out of the surplus "goes" one of those with the heads which were to eke out in a last emergency. But when he saw that the duke's second helping consisted of a prime "waist" he rejoiced with all his heart. "Isn't it nice?" asked Jill, who had been busily at work under the shadow of his ducal wing. "My dear little lady, I never tasted such a meal in my life." In due time the cocoa-nut and coffee-ice were attacked with quite as much relish as the first course; after which Tom, looking a little warm, rose and made a little speech. "I hope you've all liked it," said he. "I was afraid there wouldn't be enough, but some of them didn't turn up, so it was all right after all. Jill--that's my young sister here--cut the `goes' up, and I don't know anybody more fair all round than her. She and I are awfully glad you came, and hope you'll have a good old time. Please don't tell the governor or Rosalind we gave this party. I beg to propose the health of my young sister--good old Jilly. She's a regular brick, and has backed up no end in this do. No heel-taps!" A good many healths had been drunk in the county during the year, but few of them were more genuinely responded to than this. And no queen ever bore her honours more delightfully than the little heroine of the evening. "I suppose we'd better cut into the next room now," suggested Tom, when this function was over. "There'll be some fireworks by and by; but any one who likes a hop meanwhile can have one. Jill knows a ripping piece to play." The invitation was cordially responded to, and when, after sundry repetitions of the "ripping" piece, the eldest Miss Marigold offered to play a waltz, and after her Miss Shafto relieved duty with a polka, and after her one of the ardent youths actually condescended to perform a set of quadrilles, in which His Grace the Duke, with Jill as his partner, led off _vis-a-vis_ with the Bishop and the sister of the member for the county, there was no room to doubt the glorious success of Miss Oliphant's party. Tom meanwhile, joyous at heart, warm in temperature, and excited in mind, was groping on his knees on the damp grass outside the drawing- room window, fixing his two threepenny Roman candles in reversed flower pots, and planting his starlights, crackers, and Catherine-wheels in advantageous positions in the vicinity, casting now and again a delighted glance at the animated scene within, and wondering if he had ever spent a jollier evening anywhere. It disturbed him to hear a vehicle rattle up the drive, and to argue therefrom that some belated guest had missed the feast. Never mind; he shouldn't be quite out of it. "Raffles," called he, as he caught sight of that hardworking functionary through the dining-room window removing the _debris_ of the banquet, "leave a few `goes' out on the table for any chaps who come late, and then go and tell Jill I'm ready, and turn down the gas in the drawing- room." In due time Raffles delivered his momentous message. "Oh, the fireworks!" cried Miss Jill, clapping her hands, "the fireworks are to begin. Aren't you glad, duke? Do get a good seat before the gas is turned down." The company crowded into the big bay-window, and endured the extinction of the light with great good-humour. Indeed, a certain gentleman who entered the room at this particular juncture, seeing nothing, but hearing the laughter and talk, said to himself that this was as merry an occasion as it had been his lot to participate in. The dim form of Tom might be seen hovering without, armed with a bull's- eye lantern, at which he diligently kindling matches, which refused to stay in long enough to ignite the refractory fireworks. "Never mind," said he to himself, "they'll like it when they do go off." So they did. After a quarter of an hour's waiting one of the Roman candles went off with vast _eclat_, and after it two crackers simultaneously gave chase to the operator half-way round the lawn. One of the Catherine-wheels was also prevailed upon to give a few languid rotations on its axis, and some of the squibs, which had unfortunately got damp, condescended, after being inserted bodily into the lantern, to go off. Presently, however, the wind got into the lantern, and the matches being by this time exhausted, and the starlights refusing to depart from their usual abhorrence for spontaneous combustion, the judicious Tom deemed it prudent to pronounce this part of the entertainment at an end. "All over!" he shouted through the window. "Turn up the light." When, after the applause which greeted this imposing display, the gas was turned up, the first sight which met Miss Jill's eyes was the form of Mr Robert Ratman, in travelling costume, nodding familiarly across the room. At the sight the little lady's face blanched, and the joy of the evening vanished like smoke. "Oh, Duke!" she exclaimed, clinging to her guest's arm, "do please turn that wicked man there out of the house. We didn't invite him, and he's no right, really. If dear Mr Armstrong was only here! Please put him out." The duke looked a little blank at this appeal. "Why, child, really? Who is he?" he asked. "A wicked, bad man, that I hate; and I did think you would be kind enough to--" "What is his name?" "Mr Ratman; he hurt me awfully once." The duke, feeling that Miss Oliphant's party was taking rather a serious turn, walked across the room to where Mr Ratman was already engaged in an uncomfortable colloquy with Dr Brandram. "What are you doing here?" the doctor had asked. "That's my business," said Mr Ratman. "For the matter of that, what are you doing here?" "Among other things, I am here to see that the young people of the house are not annoyed by the intrusion of a person called Ratman." "And I," said the duke, coming up, "am here to advise you to save trouble by leaving the house." "And who are you, sir?" "I am the Duke of Somewhere." "Proud to renew my acquaintance, sir. May I ask if you have quite forgotten me?" "Sir, you have the advantage of me. I never saw you before." "Pardon me, my lord, you saw me a month ago, at a birthday party in this very house." "If so, I was not sufficiently impressed sir, to remember you now. I repeat my request as the friend of the young lady." "Ah, indeed!" said Ratman; "I am not aware, your grace, of your right to speak to me in the name of Miss Oliphant, or anybody else." "Oh," said Tom, arriving on the scene at this juncture, "you there, Ratty? you'd better clear out. All the grub's done, and you're not wanted here. We didn't ask you--took care not to. Rosalind's not here. This is Jilly's and my party. Isn't it, you chaps?" The chaps appealed to, His Grace, the doctor, and one or two of the other guests, corroborated this statement. Mr Ratman leant comfortably against the wall. "Flattering reception," said he. "I am inclined to take your lordship's advice and go; but before I do, may I ask your lordship again if you really do not remember me?" "I never saw you before, sir," said His Grace; "and allow me to add, I have no desire to see you again." "_Dear_ Duke!" whispered Jill encouragingly, putting her hand in his. "Odd the changes a few years make," rejoined Mr Ratman. "I presume your lordship's memory can carry you back a little time--say twenty years?" "What of that, sir?" "Merely that if that is so, you probably can remember a lad named Roger Ingleton who lived in this house, son of the old Squire." There was a dead silence now, and the Duke looked in a startled way at the speaker. "I see you remember that boy," said the intruder; "and you probably heard the story of my--I mean his quarrel with his father, and also heard of his supposed death. Now, your grace, put twenty years on to that boy, and suppose the story of his death was a myth, then say again you don't remember me." "What, you mean to say _you_ are young Roger Ingleton?" "At your grace's service." Tom gave a whistle, half dismay, half amusement. The doctor smiled contemptuously. The duke bit his lip and gazed stolidly at the speaker. "You are not obliged to believe me," said the latter jauntily; "only you wanted to know my business in Maxfield, and I have told you. I don't say I'm the heir, for I understand my father was good enough to cut me out of every penny of his estate. And as for being a paragon of virtue, or the opposite, that's my affair and no one else's--eh, your grace?" His Grace was much disturbed. He had once seen young Roger Ingleton, at that time a mere boy, but retained no distinct memory of him. At the time of the quarrel between father and son he had been abroad, and the news of the lad's death had been formally communicated as a matter beyond question. Recognition, as far as he was concerned, was impossible. "You choose a strange time, sir," said he, "for coming here with this story, when the heir and his guardians are both away." "I supposed my brother was here," said Ratman. "In any case he knows who I am; so does your friend the tutor, Dr Brandram." "Oh, why _do_ you stop talking to that hateful man instead of coming, and enjoying the party?" pleaded Jill. "Ah, my little lady, is that you?" said Ratman advancing. But his passage was intercepted by the doctor. "Gently, my friend," said he. "Now that you have relieved yourself of your pretty story, let me suggest that the easiest way out of this house is by the door." "Who are you, sir?" blustered Ratman. Dr Brandram laughed. "I must have changed in twenty years as much as you," said he. "I am not going to ask _your_ leave to be in my father's house." "I am not going to ask your leave to put you out of it." Tom's spirits rose. There seemed every promise of an unrehearsed entertainment for the delectation of his guests. "I caution you, sir." "I will take all responsibility," said the doctor. "Anything more you have to say can just as well be said in Mr Pottinger's office to-morrow morning as here." "Thank you, sir," said Mr Ratman, with a snarl. "It is never pleasant to have to introduce oneself, but I am glad to have had the opportunity before this distinguished company. It is now the turn of the other side to move. If they want me they must find me. Good night, your grace; you are a nice loyal neighbour to an old comrade's boy. Good night, you, sir; take as much responsibility as you like if it is any satisfaction to you. Good-bye, my pretty little Jill; some day you'll have to call me cousin Roger, and then we'll be quits. Good night, gentlemen and ladies all. The prodigal's return has not been a success, I own, but it's a fact all the same. _Au revoir_." And he bowed himself out. "This fellow is either the most impudent villain I ever met," said the Duke, "or there is something in his story." This seemed to be the general impression. A few, Dr Brandram among them, scoffed irreverently at the whole affair. But the majority of those present felt decidedly disturbed by the incident, and poor Miss Jill Oliphant had the mortification of seeing her party drop flat after all. Tom and she made Herculean efforts to rehabilitate it. Jill played her polka till she was tired, and Tom, after setting out all the duplicate "goes" in the hall, retired to grope in the wet grass for a few of the unexploded squibs. Some of the guests did what they could to back their hosts up, and made great show of enjoying themselves, but the Duke was preoccupied, and the Bishop was pensive. The Marigold girls talked in a corner, and Mr Pottinger was out in the hall calling for his carriage. "Odious man!" said the poor little hostess, "he's spoiled all our fun. No one likes our party now. They'll all be glad to get away; and we did try so hard to make it jolly." "Never mind," said Tom cheerfully, "it would have been worse if he had turned up before the grub and the fireworks. They didn't miss them. Keep it up, Jilly, I say; it's going off all right." When it came to saying good night, every one remembered their genial entertainers, and Jill was a little consoled by the assurances she received on all hands that the evening had been a delightful one. "Try to think it was nice," said she, "and don't go saying it was horrid as soon as you get outside. It's Tom's and my first party, you know." And she kissed all the gentlemen, from the Duke downward, and Tom, hovering in the hall, pressed his farewell refreshments, as far as they would go, upon them and gave them a "leg up" into their carriages. Dr Brandram stayed till the end. "I should have to come and see Mrs Parker in the morning in any case," said he, "so I have told Raffles to make me a shake down in Armstrong's room to-night. I may as well stay here." The precaution, however, was unnecessary. Mr Ratman had vanished. He did not call on Mr Pottinger next morning, nor was he to be found at the hotel. He had returned by the early morning train to London. CHAPTER NINETEEN. A FEEBLE CLUE. Mr Fastnet's lodgings were a good deal less imposing than Roger, who had hitherto only met the owner at the club, had pictured to himself. In fact, the small sitting-room, with bedroom to match, commonly furnished, reeking of tobacco, and hung all round with sporting and dramatic prints, was quite as likely a refuge for an unfledged medical student as for a person of the swagger and presence of Mr Felix Fastnet. "No use to me," he explained, interpreting his young guest's thought, "except as a dog-kennel. I live at the club--breakfast, lunch, dinner-- everything; but I was so disgusted with the performance of that young cad to-night that I even prefer the dog-kennel. Have a soda?" Roger accepted, and sat down by the fire. "Yes," growled on his host; "I'm father of that club, and I don't like to see it degraded. If he'd gone for you, and kicked you into the street, I shouldn't have lifted a finger to stop him. He could have made hay of you if I'd chosen, a sickly youngster like you." "I wonder he did not," said Roger; "but, Mr Fastnet, now I have met you, I want to ask you a question." "Ask away." "My name, as you know, is Roger Ingleton. Have you never met any one of my name before?" "Bless me, no. Why should I?" "I had a namesake once who came to London, and I wondered if you possibly knew him." "My dear sir, I don't know quite all the young men who have come to London during the last twenty years. What makes you think it?" "My namesake was a brother--son of my father's first wife. He left home and disappeared. Rumour says he went to London, where he was last heard of in company of a companion named Fastnet." Mr Fastnet put down his glass. "Eh?" said he. "The Fastnets are not a big clan. Are you sure that was the name?" "It was certainly the name that reached me." "Must refer to some one else then. I never knew or heard of any one of the name of Ingleton in my life." Roger's countenance fell. The new scent appeared likely to be a false one after all. "How long ago is all this?" asked his host. "More than twenty years. My brother left home in a pique, and, I'm afraid, went to the bad in--" "Twenty years?" said Mr Fastnet, putting down his cigar beside the glass. "What sort of fellow was he? A harum-scarum young dog, with impudent eyes, and a toss of his head that would have defied the bench of bishops?" "That is he," said Roger excitedly. "Sit down!" continued Fastnet--"curly hair, arms like a young Hercules, as obstinate as a bulldog, with a temper like a tiger?" "Yes, yes! that must be the same." "Left his mother and father in a furious tantrum, with a vow to cut off his head before he showed face at home again? A regular young demon, as honest as the Bank of England--no taste for vice in any shape or form, but plunged into it just to spite his friends, civil enough when you got him on the weather side, and no fool? Was that the fellow?" "I'm sure you describe the very man," said Roger. "Man? He was a boy; a raw-boned green boy, smarting under a sense of injustice, a regular, thorough-paced young Ishmaelite as you ever saw. I should fancy I did know him. But his name was not Ingleton." "What was it?" "Jack Rogers." "No doubt he adopted his own Christian name as a disguise." "Very likely. I could never get him to talk about his people. His one object was to lose himself--body and soul--it seemed to me. Bless you, I had little enough voice in his proceedings. I was wild enough, but I promise you I was a milksop to him. Neck or nothing was his motto, and he lived up to it. The one drawback to success in his particular line was that he would insist on being a gentleman. Fatal complaint to any one who wants to go to the bad." "Have you any idea what became of my brother?" "Not in the least. He knocked about with me for about a year, till he suddenly discovered he was living on me. Not that I minded; I had pots of money--it's been my curse. Never had to do a day's work in my life. He pulled up short at that, pawned his watch, and refused to take another crust of bread, and left me without a penny in his pocket. I only heard once of him afterwards. He wrote to enclose a five-pound note." "Have you got his letter? Can you remember where he wrote from?" asked Roger excitedly. "I don't believe there was a letter. The note was wrapped up in an old play-bill of some strolling company of actors. I remember it now," added Fastnet, laughing and re-lighting his cigar. "Yes, it was _Hamlet_. Rogers was cast for the ghost in one act, Polonius in another, and the grave-digger in another. I remember how I roared when I read it. Fancy that fellow as Polonius!" "Can't you remember the town?" "Not a ghost of an idea. Some little village in the Midlands probably, where _Hamlet_ would be appreciated. I remember, by the way, the bill-- pity I didn't keep it--mentioned that this enterprising company was going to give a performance in Boulogne, of all places. It occurred to me it would be a source of great consolation to our fellow-countrymen in that dismal colony to witness Jack Rogers in the ghost for one night only." "That would be eighteen or nineteen years ago," said Roger, with a sigh at the hopelessness of his quest. "You have heard nothing since?" "Not a syllable. Have some more sherry?" Roger reached his hotel that night in more than mental distress. The fatigue and anxiety of the last few days had had their inevitable result on his health, and though the penalty had been postponed, it was coming to account at last. When his worthy guardian returned on the following day, he was much shocked to find his ward really ill. He did his best. He tried to induce the patient to make an effort to "shake off" his ailments. He sat up late in his room at night, talking and attempting to amuse him. He even purchased a few amateur specifics; and finally, when the boy was as ill as ill could be, called in a pettifogging practitioner, who might be trusted to bungle the case. "Regular bad case," said that learned gentleman, after the third or fourth visit. "May last a week with care." The good captain naturally grew concerned. Matters seemed to be progressing beyond even his expectations. The practitioner's verdict speedily got wind in the hotel. Visitors came anxiously to inquire after the young gentleman's condition, and urged a second opinion. And one or two were inconsiderate enough to suggest that the patient was not having fair play. Under these distressing circumstances, Captain Oliphant decided to write a line to Dr Brandram. "Roger has unfortunately taken a chill. Will you kindly forward me the prescription which benefited him so much last summer, as I am naturally anxious to omit no precaution for the dear fellow's good. He is being well cared for, and will, I trust, be all right in a day or two." Dr Brandram's reply to this transparent communication was to order his dogcart and take the first train to London. Before starting, he had time to send a telegram to Armstrong to meet him at the hotel the same evening. Little dreaming of the effect of his message, Captain Oliphant was spending a resigned afternoon in the sick-room. Fate was working on his side once more. Mr Ratman had apparently vanished into space. Mr Armstrong was out of the way. The practitioner's face had been longer than ever when he took his leave a few hours ago. The difficulties and disappointments of the past few months were giving way to better prospects. The good man's conscience accused him of no actual injury to his ward. On the contrary, he could honestly say he had devoted time, money, personal fatigue, to tending him. He had secured him medical attendance, he had advised the family doctor of his indisposition. He had sat up with him day and night. Was it his fault if the illness took a bad turn, and the Maxfield property changed its owner? He should like to meet the man who could lay anything at his door. Roger turned on his pillow and began to wander-- "Tell him I believe it. I'll go and find the grave-digger. Ask Fastnet, and Compton, and all of them. No more sherry, thanks. Yes, sir, I said you were no gentleman. I repeat it. You have no right to mention her name. Shut the door, Rosalind. There's only eleven months to do it in. He is waiting at the General Post Office. Armstrong has gone away. They expelled him from the club." "Poor fellow," sighed the captain, as he smoothed the sufferer's pillow; "poor fellow! How absurdly he talks." So engrossed was he in his ministrations that he failed to perceive the door behind him softly open and a gentleman enter. Mr Armstrong had outstripped the doctor in the race to town. Without a word the tutor walked to the bed and bent over the troubled form of his pupil. Then with face almost as white as that of his enemy, he turned. "What brings you here?" gasped the captain. "How long has he been like this?" demanded the tutor. "Do you hear my question?" "Do you hear mine?" The weaker man capitulated, with a malediction, to the stronger. "Since yesterday. He is being carefully tended." "By whom--you alone?" "By a doctor." "What doctor?" "When I know your right to catechise me, I will answer," snarled the captain. Mr Armstrong rang the bell. "Light the fire here at once," said he to the maid, "and then send the messenger up." In the interval the two men stood eyeing one another, while the patient from time to time tossed on his pillow and muttered to himself. Mr Armstrong hurriedly scrawled two notes. "Take a cab, and leave this note at --- Hospital. Let the nurse I have asked for come back in the cab at once. Then go on with this note to Sir William Dove, and bring word from him the earliest moment he can be here. Don't lose an instant." "Captain Oliphant," said he, as soon as the messenger had gone, "three is too many for this room. I am here to relieve guard. You need rest. Dr Brandram will be here any moment. Bring him up directly he comes." Captain Oliphant was certainly deserving of a little sympathy. He had borne the burden and heat of the day, and now another was entering into his labour. But the tutor's tone had an ugly ring about it, which, for the moment, cowed the injured gentleman, and constrained him, after glowering for a moment or two, and trying to articulate a protest, meekly to withdraw. "My responsibility ends where yours begins," said he, with his best sneer. "I grudge none of the trouble I have taken for the dear boy, but I must decline to remain here as the assistant of Signor Francisco the music-hall cad." "I can imagine it might be painful," said Mr Armstrong drily; "but the immediate thing to be desired is that you should not consume the oxygen in this room. Explanations will do later." Captain Oliphant was not at hand that evening to meet the doctors. A business engagement had summoned him to Maxfield, where he rejoiced the hearts of his two children by a sudden arrival at breakfast-time. A curt note from Armstrong the same afternoon apprised him that his movements had been anticipated. "Doctors not without hope. Admirable nurse secured. Brandram and I remain here." Captain Oliphant derived scant consolation from this announcement, and quite forgot his business engagement in his mortification and ill temper. He dropped in during the day to see Mr Pottinger, to discuss his grievance with that legal luminary. But Mr Pottinger, as the reader is aware, had complications of another kind to disclose. He astonished his visitor with an account of the surprise visit of Mr Ratman a few days previously, and of that gentleman's astounding claims to the name of Ingleton. "What!" exclaimed the captain, "you mean to say that scoundrel actually claimed to be the lost son? I always had a high opinion of his impudence, but I never imagined it capable of that. Why, my dear sir, I have known him as a pettifogging money-lender in India for years." "Quite so; but did you know why and when he came to India?" "I can't say I did. Surely you don't credit his story?" "Well, not exactly. But it strikes me the gentleman will give us some difficulty." "Why? What good can it do him even if he is what he claims! He cannot upset the will, which emphatically cuts him out of every possibility of benefit." "No; that leaves him no loophole, certainly. But he may calculate on working on the chivalry of his younger brother, or if that fails, on blackmailing him." "If so, he will have us to deal with. For once in a way Armstrong and I are likely to be of the same opinion. Surely there is evidence enough to prosecute for conspiracy." "Hardly. He claims nothing but the name. He admits he has no rights. My opinion, Captain Oliphant, is that we have not heard the end of him." "Very likely not, especially as I unluckily owe him money." "That is awkward. The sooner you square accounts and get rid of him the better." "Easier said than done," remarked the captain, and returned with a decided headache to Maxfield. Roger, with Armstrong to nurse him, with Dr Brandram to attend him, with his own strong bias towards life to buoy him up, emerged slowly from the valley of the shadow of death, and in due time stood once more on his feet. Weeks before that happened he had told and heard all that was to be said about his lost brother. Dr Brandram had recounted the incident at Miss Jill's party, and he in turn had confided to his tutor his meeting with Fastnet, and the feeble clue in which that conference had resulted. "Armstrong, old fellow," said he one day at the close of the year, "won't you help me in this? I know you hate the business, and think me a fool for my pains. I must do it, with you or without you, and would sooner do it with you. In ten months it will be too late." "I hate the business, as you say, but you may count on me; only don't ask me to hail Mr Ratman as Squire of Maxfield, or subscribe a penny to his maintenance, a day before his claim is proved." "You are a brick; I was a cad ever to doubt it. Let us start next week for Boulogne." "Quite so," said the tutor, screwing his glass viciously into his eye; "let us go to Boulogne by all means." CHAPTER TWENTY. THE GHOST OF HAMLET. It is possible to conceive of a more hopeful task than hunting up and down a large French town for tidings of a strolling player who, for one night only, played the ghost in _Hamlet_ twenty years ago. But Roger, as, early in the year, he stepped ashore at Boulogne with Armstrong at his side, felt sanguine and of good cheer. His recovery had been slow, and not without interruption. As soon as he could be moved he had returned to Maxfield, only to find Rosalind still away, and his guardian obdurate to any suggestion for expediting her return. As to the proposed journey to Boulogne, the gallant captain looked upon that as a symptom of serious mental exhaustion on the part of the invalid. Roger, however, was in a mood impervious to argument. When the time actually came, the captain surprised every one by giving in more readily than any one had expected. The truth was, Mr Ratman, though lost to sight, contrived to make himself very dear to his debtor's memory, and already a legal document had reached Maxfield demanding the payment in full of a certain bill within a certain date on pain of certain consequences. And Captain Oliphant felt it would be distinctly convenient, for a while, to be relieved of the presence both of his co-trustee and his ward. He felt himself quite competent to deal with the trust moneys which were shortly about to come in without assistance. When, therefore, Roger with some hesitation returned to the charge, he said, somewhat severely-- "You are old enough to decide for yourself, my boy. You know my view of the matter. I conclude you are not going alone?" "No; Armstrong is coming." "Naturally. I wish you joy. On your return I shall be happy to resume my responsibility for your welfare. I cannot profess to feel oppressed by it in your absence." This was enough. True, the captain contrived to get in a parting shot by announcing that Rosalind was likely to return shortly to Maxfield. But even that did not suffice to change the lad's purpose. "Don't be very long away," said Jill to Mr Armstrong. "You are always going and leaving us. Rosalind will be very, very sorry to find you are away. She likes you--she told me so; but she doesn't like you half as much as I do." The tutor flushed uncomfortably. "Oh," said Tom, "you're always spoons on somebody, Jill. I heard you tell that Duke chap you liked him better than anybody in the world." "O Tom! how dare you tell such a wicked falsehood? I told him I liked him _nearly_ as much as Mr Armstrong, but not quite. Really I did, Mr Armstrong." "I am very jealous of the Duke," said Mr Armstrong gravely. Once across the Channel, Roger's spirits rose. He had a presentiment he was on the right track. Like a knight of old, set down to a desperate task, the fighting blood rose joyously within him. Whatever it cost, whoever deserted him, whoever opposed him, he would find his brother, and give to him his own. For days they went hither and thither, inquiring at cafes, theatres, cabarets, custom-houses, police stations, and even cemeteries, without success. Most of the persons accosted laughed and shrugged their shoulders to be asked if they remembered the visit of strolling players to the town as far back as twenty years. Others bridled up suspiciously, as if the question were a preliminary to their detection in some old evil deed. Others utterly failed to comprehend the question; and a few pityingly tapped their own foreheads, and shook their heads at the two half-witted English holiday-makers. But no one could tell a word about Rogers. A fortnight passed, and the thoughts of both, dispirited and worn, turned homeward. Rosalind, a letter had informed them, was back at Maxfield. Of the two, perhaps Mr Armstrong displayed less disposition to own himself beaten. He had worked like a horse all the time. Roger had been compelled to own that without him his mission would have been a feeble farce. Not a stone did the dogged tutor leave unturned. Not a difficulty did he shirk. Not a man or woman, however forbidding, did he hesitate to tackle, who in the remotest degree might be suspected of being likely to give information. Now that it came to giving in, he hung back, reluctant to dip his colours. "To-day's Thursday," said he. "Let's give ourselves till Saturday. If nothing turns up by then, I am your man to slink home." Roger, a little ashamed to find the first last and the last first in the race after all, readily assented. And the two worked unflagging for two days longer. Friday evening came, and the two sat dismally down to _table d'hote_ with defeat staring them in the face. They said very little, but each knew the mortification in the other's breast. At last, when the meal was over, Mr Armstrong said-- "I suppose we had better go and get our tickets." "I suppose so." But the _bureau_ was closed for the night, and the two took a solitary walk along the beach. They walked on further than usual in the clear moonlight, till at last the tutor looked at his watch. "It's nine o'clock," said he; "we must go back." "Let's take the country road back." "It is a mile longer." "Never mind. It is our last night." So they struck up by the cliffs, and followed the chalky country road back to Boulogne. About two miles from the town the cheery lights of a wayside _auberge_ attracted their attention. "Let us get some coffee here," said Armstrong. This solitary tavern rejoiced in the name of "Cafe d'Angleterre," but if its owner expected thereby to attract the custom of Mr John Bull, he was singularly mistaken. The chief customers of the place were labourers and navvies, who by their noisy jargon were evidently innocent of all pretensions to a foreign tongue. Seeing two strangers, presumably able to pay ready money for what they consumed, the old landlord invited his visitors into the bar parlour, where at his own table he set before them that delightful concoction of chicory and sifted earth which certain provincial Frenchmen call _cafe_. And being a gregarious and inquisitive old man, and withal proud of his tolerable stock of English, he took the liberty of joining them. "Inglese?" inquired he, with a pantomimic shrug. "Quite so," said the tutor, putting up his glass, and inspecting the fellow carefully. "This is the `Cafe d'Angleterre,'" said the landlord, "but, _helas_! it is long since the Inglese gentleman come here. They like too well the great town." "Ah, Boulogne has grown. Can you remember the place twenty years ago?" "Can I? I can remember forty years." "I wonder," broke in Roger, too impatient to allow his tutor to lead up gradually to the inevitable question, "if you can remember some English players coming over here about eighteen years ago and acting a play called _Hamlet_ in English." The landlord blew a cloud of smoke from his lips, and stared round at the speaker as if he had been a ghost. "Why do you ask me that? _'Amlet_! Can I forget it?" Here was a bolt out of the blue! The tutor's eye-glass dropped with a clatter against his cup, and Roger fetched a breath half gasp, half sigh. "You remember it!" exclaimed he, seizing the man's hand; "do you know, we have been a fortnight in Boulogne trying to find some one who did!" "Would not _you_ remember it," replied the Frenchman, with a gesticulation, "if 'Amlet had put up at your inn and gone away without paying his bill?" "Did one of the actors stay here, then?" "One? There was twenty 'Amlets, and Miladi 'Amlets, and Mademoiselle 'Amlets. They all stay here, _en famille_. The house is full of 'Amlets. The stable is full. They bring with them a castle of 'Amlet, and a grave of 'Amlet. My poor house was all 'Amlet!" "And," inquired Mr Armstrong, flushed with the sudden discovery, but as cool as ever, "you had a pass to see the play, of course?" "_Mon dieu_! it was all the pay I got. 'Amlet come to my house with his twenty hungry mouth, and eat me up, flesh and bone. He sleep in my beds, he sleep on my roof, he sleep in my stable. The place is 'Amlet's. And all my pay is one piece of card bidding me see him play himself." "And was it well played?" Asked Mr Armstrong. "Well played? How do I know? But six persons came to see it--I one-- and in six minutes it is all done. Your English 'Amlet will not play to the empty bench. He call down the curtain, and bid us go where we please. Not even will he pay us back our money. Then, when he come to leave the hall himself, _voila_, he has no money to pay his rent. His baggage is seized, and 'Amlet fights. _Mon dieu_, there was _une emeute_ in Boulogne that night; and before day 'Amlet has vanish like his own ghost, and I am a robbed man; _voila_." "Very rough on you," said the tutor. "So there was a ghost among the players?" "Why no? It would not be _'Amlet_ without." "Did the ghost stay here too?" "_Helas_! yes. He eat, and drink, and sleep, and forgets to pay, like the rest." "What did you lose by him?" asked Roger, with parched lips. "Ah, monsieur, I was a Napoleon poorer for every 'Amlet in my house that night." Roger put down two sovereigns on the table. "That is to pay for the ghost," said he, flushing. "He was my brother." The landlord stared in blank amazement. "Your brother! Monsieur le Ghost of _'Amlet_ was--_pardieu_!" exclaimed he, looking hard at his guest, "and he was like you. It was no fault of his _'Amlet_ did not take the favour, for he play in the first act and make us all laugh. If the other 'Amlets had been so amusing as him, the house would have been full--packed. Ha! now you say it, he was a gentleman, this poor Monsieur le Ghost. He held himself apart from the noisy company, and sulk in a corner, while they laugh, and drink, and sing the song. They were afraid of him, and, _mon dieu_! they might be--for once, when Monsieur Rosencrantz, as I remember, came and threw some absinthe--my absinthe, messieurs--in his face, Monsieur le Ghost he knocked him down with a blow that sounded--oh, like a clap of the thunder. And this pauvre ghost," added the man, "was monsieur's brother! _Helas_! he was come down very poor--his coat was rags, and his boots were open to the water of heaven. He eat little. Ah, monsieur, I have deceived you. He cost me not five franc; for, when I remember, he ate nothings--he starve himself." "Was he ill?" asked Armstrong. "Worse," said the landlord, lowering his voice; "he was in love. I could see it. She laugh and make the mock at him, and play coquet with the others before his face. It nearly killed him--this pauvre ghost. He would have give his hand for a kind glance, but he got it never." "Who was the girl?" asked Roger. "But a child, the minx--fifteen, perhaps sixteen, years, no more. She played the part of a page-boy, and only so because monsieur, her father, was manage the play. He was Frenchman, this monsieur, but mademoiselle was English like her mother. _Helas_! monsieur, your brother was deep in love. But there was no hope for him. A fool could see that." This was all the host could tell them. He had never heard since of any member of the ill-fated company. He could introduce them to no one who remembered their visit. A few there might be who when appealed to might have recalled the disturbance on the night of the performance, and the absconding of the players. But who they were and what became of them no one could say. On their return to the hotel at Boulogne at midnight they found a telegram and a letter awaiting them. The former was from Dr Brandram to Mr Armstrong-- "Come at once." The letter was a missive addressed to Roger at Maxfield from London, and forwarded back to Boulogne. It was from Mr Fastnet. "Dear Ingleton,--Oddly enough I stumbled yesterday across the very piece of paper I spoke to you of. Here it is for what it was worth." Roger eagerly opened the yellow sheet. It announced a performance of _Hamlet_ at Folkestone by a celebrated company of stars under the direction of a Monsieur Callot. Among the actors was a Mr John Rogers, who took the part of the ghost in the first act. Further down was mentioned a Miss Callot, who acted the part of a page. And the bill announced that after the performance in Folkestone the company would perform for two nights only in Boulogne. More important, however, than any other particular was a footnote that Monsieur Callot was "happy to receive pupils for instruction in the dramatic art at his address, 2 Long Street, London, W. Terms moderate. Singing and dancing taught by Madame Callot." Here at last seemed a clue. The pulses of the two friends quickened as they read and re-read the time-worn document. "The boat sails in two hours," said Mr Armstrong, "I must leave you in town. Brandram would not telegraph for me like this unless he meant it." "I suppose it means my bro-- Ratman, has turned up again. If so, Armstrong--" "Well?" inquired the tutor, digging his glass deep into his eye. Roger said nothing. On the following afternoon Mr Armstrong had a pleasant game of Association football with Tom on the Maxfield lawn, and Miss Jill, who volunteered as umpire, gave every point in favour of the tutor. Just about the time when he kicked his final goal, Roger Ingleton, minor, in London arrived at the dreary conclusion, after an hour's painful study of directories and maps, that there was no such street as Long Street, London, W. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. SHARKS BY LAND AND WATER. Mr Brandram's abrupt summons to Mr Armstrong was not due to the reappearance on the scene of the mysterious Robert Ratman. It was, in fact, at the instance of Miss Rosalind Oliphant that the doctor sent his message. That young lady had returned a week ago to find everything at Maxfield awry. Her father was gloomy, mysterious, and haggard. The rumour of Mr Ratman's extraordinary claims had become the common property of the village. Roger and his tutor were away, no one exactly knew where or on what errand. On the day following her return she walked across from the Vicarage to visit her father. He sat in the library, abstracted, pale, and limp. The jaunty, Anglo- Indian veneer had for the time being dropped off, unmasking the worried exterior of a chicken-hearted man. At the sight of his daughter he pulled himself together, and crushed in his hand the letter which he had been reading. "Why, my child," said he, with unusual cordiality, "this is a pleasant apparition. Cruel girl, to desert us for so long. We have hardly existed without you, Roger and his tutor are away in France holiday- making, while I remain here on duty with no one to cheer me up." "Dear father," said Rosalind, kissing him, "how worried you look! What is the matter? Won't you tell me?" The father's eyes dwelt for a moment on her fair earnest face--so like her mother's, so unlike a daughter of his--then they fell miserably. "Worried?" said he. "Do I show it as plainly as all that? I flattered myself I kept it to myself." "Any one can see you are unhappy, father. Why?" "I am in difficulties, my child, which you could not understand." "I could. Do tell me." "The fact is," said the captain, taking up his pen and dotting the blotting-pad as he spoke, "that when on former occasions I have tried to claim your sympathy I--well, I was not quite successful. I do not want the pain of a similar failure again." "I would do anything, anything to help you, if I could!" He took her hand and held it in his. "I am in great straits," said he. "An old Indian debt has followed me here. I cannot meet it, and ruin stares me in the face. You know I am a poor man; that I am living on other people--you have reminded me of that often enough; that of all the money which passes my hands, scarcely enough to live on belongs by right to me. You know all that?" "Yes; I know that we are poor. How much do you owe?" she asked. "I cannot say. Not long ago it was some hundreds, but by this time it is nearer thousands. Nothing grows so rapidly as a debt, my child-- even," added he, with an unctuous drop of his voice, "a debt of honour." "And will not your creditor wait?" "My creditor has waited, but refuses to do so any longer. In a month from now, my child, your father and those he loves best will be paupers." "Is there no way of meeting it? None whatever?" "I cannot pay; I shrink from borrowing. The trust funds in my charge are sacred--" "Of course!" said she, astonished that he should name them in such a connection. "Is there nothing else?" "My creditor is Robert Ratman--or as he calls himself, and possibly is, Roger Ingleton. As you know, he claims to be the elder brother of our Roger, and I--" "Yes, yes," said she; "Roger told me about that. He is your creditor?" "He is. I got into his clutches in India, little guessing who he was, and he is crushing me now. There is but one way, and one only, of escaping him--and that way is, I fear, impossible, Rosalind." "What is it?" said she, with pale face, knowing what was to come. "He loves you. As my son-in-law he would be no longer my creditor." She drew away her hand with a shudder. "Father," said she, in a dry hard voice which startled him, "do you really mean this?" "Is it a time for jesting?" said he. "I ask nothing of you. I merely state facts. You dislike him--there is an end of it. Only remember we are not now dealing with Robert Ratman, but with an injured man who has not had a fair chance. The good in him," continued the father, deluded by the passive look on his daughter's face, and becoming suddenly warm in his championship of the absent creditor, "has been smothered; but for aught we know it may still be there. A wife--" She stopped him with a peremptory motion of her hand. "Please do not say anything more. Your debt--when does it fall due?" "In a week or ten days, my child. Consider--" She interrupted again. "No more, please," she said, almost imploringly. "I will think what can be done to help you in a week. Good-bye, dear father." She stooped, with face as white as marble, and touched his forehead with her cold lips. "Loyal girl," said the father, when the door had closed behind her; "she will stand by me yet. After all, Ratman has his good points--clever, cheerful, good man of business--" Here abruptly the soliloquy ended, and Captain Oliphant buried his face in his hands, a miserable man. To Rosalind, as she walked rapidly across the park, there came but one thought. Her father--how could she help him? how could she save him, not so much from his debts as from the depths into which they were plunging him? "My poor father," said she. "Only a man in desperate plight could think of such a remedy. He never meant it. He does not really suppose--no, no; he said he did not ask anything. He told me because I asked. Poor darling father!" And with something very like a sob she hurried on to Yeld. She went straight to Dr Brandram's. "Well, my dear young lady, it does one good to see you back," said he; "but bless me, how pale you look." "Do I? I'm quite well, thank you. Dr Brandram," said she, "do you know anything about this Mr Ratman?" The Doctor stared at this abrupt inquiry. "Nothing more than you and every one else does--that he is a rank impostor!" "I don't mean that. I mean, where is he? I want to see him very much." "You want to see him? He has vanished, and left no track. Is it nothing I can help you in?" "No," said she, looking very miserable. "I hoped you could have told me where to find him. Good-bye, and thank you." She departed, leaving the doctor sorely disturbed and bewildered. He stood watching her slight figure till it disappeared in the Vicarage garden, and then shrugging his shoulders, said, "Something wrong, somewhere. Evidently not a case for me to be trusted with. It's about time Armstrong came home." Whereupon he walked over to the post office and dispatched the telegram which, as the reader knows, procured Tom Oliphant the unspeakable pleasure of a game of football on the following afternoon. "Well," said the tutor to his friend in the doctor's parlour that evening, "what's all this about?" "That's what I'm not likely to know myself," said the doctor; and he narrated the circumstances of Miss Oliphant's mysterious call. "Humph!" said the tutor. "She wants to see him in his capacity of Robert Ratman, evidently, and not of Roger Ingleton, major." "So it seemed to me." "And you say she had just come from visiting her father at Maxfield?" "Yes." "On the principle that two and two make four, I suppose we may conclude that my co-trustee is on toast at present," said the tutor. "And further, that that co-trustee being somebody's father, you are the man to get him off it." The tutor's face clouded, and his glass dropped with a twang from his eye. "Don't make that mistake again, Brandram--unless," and here his lips relaxed into a quiet smile, "you mean by somebody, Miss Jill." Dr Brandram read a good deal in this short sentence, and, like a good friend, let the subject drop. "As Tom has gone to the Rectory to dinner," said the tutor, "I take it the neighbourhood for twenty miles round will know of my return by this time. Meanwhile I must go back and possibly find out some thing from Oliphant himself." Captain Oliphant, however, was in no mood for confidences. The sudden return of his co-trustee was extremely unwelcome at this juncture-- indeed so manifestly unwelcome that Mr Armstrong was convinced he had come back not a day too soon. The captain professed great annoyance and indignation at what he termed the desertion of his ward, and demanded to know when the tutor proposed to return to his duties. "In fact, sir," said he, "I desire to know what brings you here in this uncalled-for manner." "Business, my dear sir," replied the tutor. "It need not incommode you." "Your proper place is with your pupil. Where have you left him?" "In London, prosecuting a search which neither you nor I consider to be very hopeful. I should not be surprised to see him back any day." "And may I ask the nature of the very pressing business which forms the pretext of this abrupt return? Am I to understand you and my ward have quarrelled?" "No, sir; we are excellent friends. It's getting late; I'll say good night." "By the way," said he at the door, "while I am here, there are a few small matters connected with the accounts which seemed to my unpractised eye, when I went through Pottinger's books, to require some little elucidation. If you have an hour or so to spare to-morrow, I should like to go through them with you. Good night." He did not stay to notice the sudden pallor of his colleague's face, nor did he overhear the gasp which greeted the closing of the door. The captain did not go to bed that night. For an hour he sat motionless in his chair, staring blankly into the fire; then, with a sudden access of industry, he went to the safe, and producing account-books, bank books, cheques, and other documents, spent some troubled hours over their contents. That done, for another hour he paced the floor, dismally smoking a cigar. Finally, when the early March dawn filtered through the blinds, he quitted the house, and surprised Mr Pottinger by an unexpected visit at breakfast-time. Thence he proceeded to the bank; and after transacting his business there, returned easier in mind, but exhausted in body, to the seclusion of his room at Maxfield. The tutor meanwhile was abroad on horseback with Tom and Jill. The three took a scamper over the downs, and returned by way of the shore. Biding with Tom and Jill, as may be imagined, was a series of competitive exercises, rather than a straightforward promenade. Tom was an excellent rough horseman; and Jill, when Mr Armstrong was at hand, was not the young lady to stick at anything. They had tried handicaps, water-jumps, hurdles, and were about to start for a ding-dong gallop along the mile of hard strand which divided them from Maxfield, when the tutor's eye detected, perched a little way up the cliff, the figure of a young lady sketching. "I'll start you two," said he, "I scratch for this race. Ride fair, Tom; and Jill, give the mare her head when you get past the boulders. I shall go back by the downs. Are you ready now? Pull in a bit, Tom. Now--off you go!" Not waiting to watch the issue of this momentous contest, he turned to where Rosalind sat, and reining up at the foot of her perch, dismounted. She came down to meet him, palette in hand. "Mr Armstrong, I am so glad to see you. I want to speak to you dreadfully. Are you in a great hurry?" "Not at all. Brandram told me you were in trouble, and I was wondering when and where I should have the opportunity of asking how I can help you." He tied his horse to a stake, and helped her back to her seat on the cliff. There was an awkward pause, which he occupied by examining her picture with a critical air. "Do you like it?" said she. "I don't know. I'm no great judge. Do you?" "I did, before you came. I'm not so sure now. Do sit down and let me say what I want to say." The tutor, with a flutter at his breast, sat meekly, keeping his eyes still on the picture. "Mr Armstrong, it's about Mr Ratman." "So Brandram said. What of him?" Rosalind told her father's story, except that she omitted any reference to the desperate proposition for satisfying his claims. "I am sure it is a fraud, or blackmail, or something of the sort. For all that, he threatens to ruin father." "What does the debt amount to?" "Father spoke of thousands." "Does the creditor offer no terms?" Rosalind flushed, and looked round. "None; that is, none that can be thought of for a moment." "I understand," said the tutor, to whom the reservation was explicit enough. "The difficulty is, that he has disappeared. If we could find him I would--" "You would allow me to go to him," said the tutor. "No doubt the opportunity will soon come. He wants money; he is bound to turn up." "But why should you be mixed up in father's troubles?" asked Rosalind after a pause. "Your father's troubles are yours; your troubles are--shall we say?-- Roger's; Roger's troubles are mine." There was another long silence, during which Rosalind took up her brushes and began work again on the picture, Mr Armstrong critically looking on. "Have you no troubles of your own, then, that you have so much room in you for those of other people?" she said at last. "I have had my share, perhaps. Your picture, with its wide expanse of calm sea, was just reminding me of one of them." "Tell me about it." "It was years ago, when, before I was a singer in London-- You knew I followed that honourable vocation once, don't you?" "I have heard father speak of it. Why not?" "No reason at all. But before that I worked at the equally honourable profession of a common sailor on a ship between New York and Ceylon. At that time I was about as wild and reckless as they make them, and deluded myself into the foolish belief that I enjoyed it. How I had come to that pass I needn't tell you. It wasn't all of a sudden, or without the assistance of other people. I had a comrade on board--a man who had once been a gentleman, but had come down in the world; who was nearly as bad as I, but not quite; for he sometimes talked of his home and his mother, and wished himself dead, which I never had the grace to do." "Are you making this all up for my benefit," asked Rosalind, "or is it true?" "The story would not be worth telling if it were not true," said Mr Armstrong, screwing his glass into his eye and taking a fresh survey of the picture. "One very hot summer we were becalmed off Colombo, and lay for days with nothing to do but whistle for a wind and quarrel among ourselves. My mate and I kept the peace for a couple of days, but then we fell out like the rest. I forget what it was about--a trifle, probably a word. We didn't fight on deck--it was too hot--but jumped overboard and fought in the water. I remember, as I plunged, I caught sight, a hundred yards away, of an ugly grey fin lying motionless on the water, and knew it belonged to a shark. But I didn't care. Well, we two fought in the water--partly in spite, partly to pass the time. Suddenly I could see my opponent's swarthy face become livid. `Good God!' he gasped; `a shark!' and quick as thought he caught me by the shoulders and pushed me between him and the brute. I heard it swish up, and saw it half turn with gaping jaws. In that moment I lived over my life again, with all its folly and crime, and for the first time for years I prayed. How it happened I cannot tell; the shark must either have made a bad shot at me or else I must have ducked instinctively, for I remember feeling the scrape of his fin across my cheek and being pushed aside by his great tail. Next moment my mate's hands let go their grip of me and there was a yell such as I pray I may never hear again. When at last they hauled me on board I was not the same man who three minutes before had dived into the water. That was the scene your picture reminded me of, Miss Oliphant. You have told me one of your troubles, and I have told you one of mine, which makes us quits. But my horse is getting fidgety down there; I must look after him. Good-bye." Mr Armstrong was a little surprised, when he came to go through the accounts with his co-trustee that afternoon, to find that he must have been mistaken in his previous supposition that they were not all correct and straightforward. Everything appeared quite plain and properly accounted for, and he agreed with the figures, rather abashed to feel that, after all, he was not as acute a man of business as he had flattered himself. Mr Pottinger and the captain rallied him about his deserted mares'-nest, and bored him with invitations to go through all the items again, to give him a chance of proving them wrong. He declined with thanks, and signed the balance with the best grace he could summon. "Odd," said he to himself, as he strode home after the interview; "either you must be very clever or I must be very stupid. I should greatly like to know which it is." CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. MR. RATMAN VISITS HIS PROPERTY. "Dear Armstrong," wrote Roger from London about a week after the tutor's return to Maxfield, "you will be surprised to hear I am just off to Paris to look for a Mr Pantalzar. This is how it comes about. Long Street does not exist, as I told you, nor any trace of the family Callot. But old Directories are still available, and in one of these I found that fifteen years ago there was a Long Street, and that Number 2 was then occupied by a person of the uncommon name I have mentioned. The name seemed too promising a one to be let drop; so I tracked it down to the year before last, when I found a Pantalzar was proprietor of a cook-shop in Shoreditch. Of course, when I went to inquire, my gentleman had vanished. I'm sick of asking the interminable question, `Does So-and-so live here?' The present cook-man, however, remembered the queer name as that belonging to his predecessor, and informed me that, not having made the business pay over here, he had decamped two years ago without saying good-bye to his creditors, and announced his intention of starting a _cafe_ in Paris. This, then, is my off-chance. Unless he has changed his name, I should be able to discover him in Paris; and if he turns out to be the man who once lived at Number 2 Long Street, he may be able to tell me something about the Callots; and the Callots, if by a miracle I can find them, may be able to tell me something about Rogers, the Ghost in _Hamlet_. I only wish you were coming to back me up, but, from what you say, I would ever so much rather you remained on the spot at Maxfield. I hope it will be possible to help Oliphant out of his fix. Try. You'd better write to the _Poste Restante_ at Paris. Remember me at home. "Yours ever,-- "R. Ingleton." The tutor read this letter with a somewhat troubled countenance. It proved to him that his ward was desperately in earnest in his uphill quest, and it filled him with some concern to feel that he himself was not, where he should have liked to be, at the boy's side. But to leave Maxfield at present seemed impossible. Rosalind claimed his help on behalf of her father; and the possibility that any day Mr Ratman might turn up and court exposure decided the tutor to remain where he was. Another motive for this step was a haunting perplexity as to the hallucination under which he had apparently laboured with regard to the estate accounts. He never flattered himself he was a particularly good man of business, but it puzzled him to explain why a few weeks ago there should have appeared to be discrepancies and irregularities to the tune of several hundred pounds, whereas now everything was in startling apple-pie order. Much to Mr Pottinger's annoyance, he took to visiting the honest lawyer's office every other day, and spent hours in trying to discover where it was he had made his great mistake. Mr Pottinger was unable to render him any assistance; and the captain, when once he referred to the subject, only smiled pityingly and advised him to take a few lessons in the elements of finance; which advice, to do him justice, the tutor humbly proceeded to take. The result was to deepen his perplexity and cause him to regret that he had so compliantly countersigned an account which, every time he studied it in the light of his new wisdom, appeared to bristle with problems. Faithful to her promise, at the end of a week Rosalind presented herself at Maxfield. "Well, my child?" said the parent blandly, laying down his newspaper. "I said I would come and speak again about what you were saying the other day. Have you heard any more from your creditor?" "Things remain, as far as he is concerned, in _statu quo_; and I am no nearer being able to satisfy him to-day than I was a week ago; unless, indeed--" "All I have to say," said Rosalind nervously, "is, that I would work like a slave to help you, if I could." "Is that all?" asked the captain with falling face. "You know it is, father. You knew it a week ago. You knew I would even go to this man and on my knees beg him to be merciful." Her father laughed dismally. "In other words," said he, "you can do nothing. I do not complain; I expected nothing, and I have not been disappointed. I was foolish to think such a thing possible; Heaven knows I have been punished for my folly." She tried hard to keep back the tears, and rose to go. "Stay!" said he sternly; "I have a question to ask you. A week ago you seemed to hold a different mind to this. What has changed it?" "No," said she, "it was out of the question; you said so yourself." "I ask you," repeated he sternly, and not heeding her protest, "what has changed it? Have you taken counsel with any one on the subject? Have you spoken to any one of this wretched business?" "Yes; I have spoken to Mr Armstrong." "Exactly. I thought as much. I understand. Leave me, Rosalind." "Father, you are wrong-- Oh, but you must hear me," she said, as he raised his hand deprecatingly and took up his newspaper. "You must not misunderstand. I told Mr Armstrong of your difficulties, and who your creditor was. I told him no more. My only object was to see if there was any way to help you." "You mean to tell me," said he, interrupting in an angry voice, "that you considered it consistent with your duty as a daughter to gossip about my private affairs with a scoundrel who--" "No, father," she said. "Mr Armstrong is a gentleman--" "Naturally _you_ say so. But enough of this. I forbid you, as I have already done, to hold any communication with Mr Armstrong. Know that, of the two men, the man you affect to scorn is infinitely less a villain than this smug hypocrite. Go!" She made no reply, but went, choking with misery and a smarting sense of injustice. No longer was it easy to hug herself into the delusion that this was all a horrid dream. Her father stood on the brink of ruin, and she could not help him. "If only," said she, "it had been anything else! O God, pity my poor father!" The captain's thoughts were of a very different kind. He had clung to the hope that Rosalind would after all solve his difficulties by undertaking the venture he had set before her. He had already in imagination soothed his own conscience and smoothed away all the difficulties which beset the undertaking. "It might be for her good, after all, dear girl! She will reclaim him. A fortune lies before them; for Roger will be easily convinced, and will surrender his claim to them. Ratman is too long-sighted not to see that I can help him in the matter, and that on my own terms. We shall start fresh with a clear balance-sheet, and live in comfort." Now, however, these bright hopes were dashed, and to the captain's mind he owed his failure, first and last, to Mr Frank Armstrong. Had he not come home, he said to himself, Rosalind would have yielded. With him still at Maxfield everything came to a dead lock. Ratman could not be propitiated, still less satisfied. The accounts would be restlessly scrutinised. Rosalind, and in less degree Tom and Jill, would be mutinous. Roger, at home or abroad, would be beyond reach. All the grudges of the past months seemed to culminate in this crowning injury; and if to wish ill to one's fellow is to be a murderer, Captain Oliphant had already come perilously near to adding one new sin to his record. But where, all this while, was the ingenuous Mr Ratman? Why had he not, true to his word, come to claim his own--if not the Maxfield estate, at any rate the little balance due to him from his old Indian crony? The captain, after a week or two of disappointed dread, was beginning to recover a little of his ease of mind, and flattering himself that, after all his creditor's bark was worse than his bite, when the blow abruptly fell. Mr Armstrong had gone for the day to visit one of his very few old college friends on the other side of the county, and Tom, released from his lessons (the captain's animosity for the tutor, by the way, stopped short at withdrawing his son from the benefit of the gratuitous education of which for the last year that youth had been the recipient) was trundling a "boneshaker" bicycle along the Yeld lanes, when he perceived the jaunty form of Mr Ratman, bag in hand and cigar in mouth, strolling leisurely in the direction of Maxfield. Tom, who was only a beginner in the art of cycling, was so taken aback by this apparition, that, after one or two furious lurches from one side of the road to the other, and a frantic effort to keep his balance, he came ignominiously to the ground at the very feet of the visitor. "Hullo!" said that worthy; "as full of fun as ever, I see." "Hullo, Ratty!" said Tom, picking himself up; "got over your kicking?" This genial reference to the circumstances under which the so-called lost heir had last quitted Maxfield grated somewhat harshly on the feelings of the gentleman to whom it was addressed. "Look here, young fellow," said he, "you'd better keep a civil tongue in your head, or I shall have to pull your ear." "Try it," retorted Tom. Mr Ratman seemed inclined to accept the invitation; but as he was anxious for information just now, he decided to forego the experiment. "Is your father at home?" he demanded. "Rather. You'd better go back the way you came. We know all about you up there," said Tom. "That's all right. And how are your pretty sisters, Tommy?" If any insult more than another could disturb the temper of Master Oliphant, it was to be called "Tommy," as many of the rustic youths of the neighbourhood knew to their cost. He therefore replied shortly, "Find out," and proceeded to address himself to the task of remounting his machine. "That's what I'm going to do. Here, let me hold it for you, or you'll break your neck." "Look here," said the outraged Tom, thoroughly roused by this crowning indignity, "I don't want to be seen out here talking to cads. I don't mind fighting you. If you don't care for that, keep your cheek to yourself, and go and talk to somebody who's fond of rot. I'm not." And the young bruiser, who had an uncommonly broad pair of shoulders, looked so threatening that Mr Ratman began to feel a little concerned. "Ha, ha!" said he, "how well you do it! I always liked you, Tommy, my boy. I'll let your tutor know what a credit you are to him." "I wish to goodness Armstrong was at home," growled Tom; "he'd make you sit up." This was just the information Mr Ratman had been anxious to get. The prospect of encountering Mr Armstrong had interfered considerably with his pleasure in arranging this visit. But if he was out of the way-- well, so much more the luck of Mr Ratman. Therefore, without wasting time in further parley with this possible brother-in-law, he proceeded jauntily on his way. "You won't fight, then?" said Tom by way of farewell. "Some day." "All right. Coward! Good-bye, Mr Roger Ingleton, major!" Having relieved himself of which appropriate sentiment, Tom felt decidedly better, and walked his bicycle down the hill, determined to keep clear of Maxfield till the evening. Mr Ratman, somewhat ruffled, but on the whole cheerful, swaggered on to his destination. The captain was luxuriously smoking a cigar and solacing himself with a sporting paper, when Raffles sent his heart to his mouth by announcing-- "Mr Ingleton, sir, to see you." "Ah, Ratman!" said he with a forced air of welcome as his creditor entered. "I didn't recognise you by your new name. You're keeping it up, then?" "What do you mean?" demanded Mr Ratman, taking an easy-chair and helping himself to a cigar from the captain's box. "It's you who are keeping it up, I fancy. I'll trouble you to drop the Ratman." The captain laughed unpleasantly. "As you like," said he. "Now to business. Of course, you're ready to make good these little bills," and he pulled four or five blue slips from his pocket. "No, I'm not. You may as well know it at once." "Hum! What do you propose, then? Do you know there's a writ out?" "I propose nothing. I want to know what you propose." The two men regarded one another in silence; one insolent and sneering, the other desperate and scowling. "What do I propose?" said Ratman, puffing away cheerfully. "Scarcely anything--only to make a little communication to the War Office, give a few instructions to the Sheriff, write a paragraph or two to the county papers, and tell a few interesting anecdotes to your charming daughters." Captain Oliphant started to his feet with a smothered exclamation. "Not the last, Ratman! I'm in your clutches; but for Heaven's sake don't bring them into it!" Ratman laughed. "You _will_ insist on forgetting my name, my dear fellow. Yes, that's my little programme. I fancy I may as well begin at the end." "Look here," pleaded the victim; "I know it's no use appealing to your pity, for you have none; or your honesty, for you've less of that than I have. But doesn't it occur to you that it would be decidedly against your interest to ruin me just now?" "What do you mean?" said Ratman with a yawn. "Why, you claim a certain name, and you have to prove your claim. Roger has got the romantic notion into his head that if his elder brother can be found, that brother shall have the property. He is more than half inclined to credit your story already. You have to satisfy two other persons, of whom I am one. Do you understand?" "Perfectly," said Mr Ratman, who began to be interested. "I anticipate no difficulty there." "You forget that at present only a sickly boy stands between myself and the property. It would surely mean something on my part for me to admit a second life between." "What is the use of talking nonsense?" said Ratman. "Even if you did, for the sake of a little longer credit I might give you, own my right to my own name, what's the use of that, when this man Armstrong has to be satisfied too? If you could crack that nut there might be something in it." The captain groaned. He knew that every project would be pulled up short at this sticking-point. "Come," said Ratman encouragingly, "if you could work things in that direction, it might be worth my while to give you time." "I can do nothing. The fellow is immovable. In six months--" "In six months everything will be too late. And now, what about the other matter? Is that all right?" Once more the captain groaned. "I can say nothing about it yet. She knows my wishes, but as Robert Ratman she will not hear a word of it. As Roger Ingleton, the elder, you may depend on it the matter will take another view. All depends on your success there. When that's achieved, the rest will come if you give her time." Mr Ratman sneered. "You are a glib talker, Oliphant. I admire you. Now listen. You want credit, and you know how to buy it. One way or another, this business must come to an end. I'll take new bills with interest at three months. By that time everything must be square and smooth; otherwise you'll be sorry you and your children were born, my boy. Order dinner. I'm going back by the six train. Pass me that paper, and don't disturb me any more by your talking." As Mr Ratman, very well satisfied with his day's business, strolled serenely back through the park that afternoon, he was surprised to hear light footsteps behind him, and, on turning, to discover that his pursuer, of all people, was Miss Rosalind Oliphant. "Hullo!" said he, "this is flattering, with a vengeance." "Mr Ratman, I want to speak to you, please," said Rosalind, very pale and nervous. "Excuse me," said he, "that's not my name; my name is Roger Ingleton. What's the matter?" "It's about my father. Have you seen him?" "Just left the dear man." "He says he owes you money, and that you threaten to ruin him. Is that so?" "Upon my word, if you want to know, it is." "How much is it, please?" Ratman laughed. "Nothing. A trifle. Fifteen hundred pounds or thereabouts." "Fifteen hundred!" faltered she. "Does he owe you all that." The little she had to offer was a drop in the bucket only. "Look here," said he; "Miss Rosy, your father's in a fix. I don't want to be hard on him, but I must have my money or its equivalent. Now, I should consider it a very fair equivalent to be allowed to call him father-in-law. I may not be up to your mark in some things, Miss Rosalind, but I've a good name, and I flatter myself I know beauty when I see it. Now, think over it. It's the only chance your father's got, and you might do worse for yourself than become the mistress of Maxfield. Good-bye. Shake hands." She drew herself up with an air and a flush of colour which redoubled his admiration, and without a word, turned away with rapid steps. Mr Ratman was sorely tempted to follow this beautiful creature, who, in all his chequered career, had been the only human being to discover the few last dregs of affection in his nature. As much as it was possible in such a man, he was in love with this debtor's daughter. The sensation was novel and exhilarating enough to afford him food for cheerful reflection as he walked on towards the station. So engrossed was he in his day-dreams that he forgot that even country trains are occasionally punctual, and that, at least, he had not much time left him to catch the one he aimed at. Indeed, it was not till, within a few minutes of the station, he caught sight of the train already standing at the platform that it occurred to him to bestir himself. He ran, shouted, and waved his arm all at the same time, but to no effect. The whistle blew as he entered the yard, and as he reached the platform the guard's van was gliding out of the station. Thoroughly ruffled--for this was the last train to town--Mr Ratman vented his wrath on the world in general, and the railway officials in particular, even including in his objurgations an unlucky passenger who had arrived by the train and shared with him the uninterrupted possession of the platform. "Easy, young man," said the latter, a substantial-looking, bony individual with a wrinkled face, and speaking with a decided American twang. "You'll hurt yourself, I reckon, if you talk like that. It's bad for the jaws." Mr Ratman took a contemptuous survey of the stranger and quitted the platform. His first idea was to return to Maxfield and demand entertainment there for the night. But since he would have to walk all the way, and the first train in the morning left Yeld at eight, he decided to put up at the little hotel of the village instead, and with that object threw himself and his bag into the omnibus of that establishment which waited on the trains. Somewhat to his disgust, the stranger, after collecting his baggage, entered the same vehicle and took a seat opposite him. "Wal," said he, "you'll have time to cool down before the next train, young man. Putting up at the hotel?" "Where else should I put up?" growled Ratman. "What business is it of yours?" "I guess it's my business to get all the information I can on this trip. I came over this side to learn." "You've come to a queer hole to do it," said Ratman, beginning to feel he might as well resign himself to circumstances. "Just so. It's changed a bit since I was here last. We had to drive from Barbeck then." "So you know the place, do you?" inquired Ratman. "That's so," was the laconic rejoinder. "A resident, likely?" "Well, not at present, or I shouldn't be going to the inn." "Down here on business, I reckon? I was a bagman myself once." "You're wrong again. I've been down to see my property, if you want to know." "Large estate, no doubt? Anywhere near my friend Ingleton's plot, now?" Mr Ratman stared at the stranger with something like consternation. "Ingleton!" he exclaimed. "What do you know of Ingleton?" Here the omnibus pulled up. "Wal, I reckon I should know something of my own family," drawled the stranger as he alighted. "What say?--shall we have a snack of something in the parlour! Come along." The landlord led the way into the coffee-room. He knew Mr Ratman by this time. "Sorry we can't give you and your friend the private room, sir, but there's only one other gentleman in the coffee-room, and he's going directly." As they entered, the other gentleman, who was drying his boots at the fire, turned round, and Mr Ratman had the rapture of finding himself face to face with Mr Armstrong. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. CAPTAIN OLIPHANT PAYS ONE OF HIS DEBTS. Mr Ratman's natural modesty prompted a precipitate retreat from the embarrassing vicinity of the gentleman whom he had last seen with a horsewhip in his hand; but prudence and the presence of the stranger, and the lack of any other place to go to, prevailed upon him to remain. The stranger, apparently unaware of the presence of a third party, continued his conversation where it had been interrupted. "Yes," said he, "I reckon I should know something of my own family, although it's a generation since I set foot in these parts." "Yes; all right," said Ratman uncomfortably. "I'll go and order dinner." But the entrance of the landlord prevented this manoeuvre. "The gig from Maxfield is in the village, Mr Armstrong," said he, addressing the tutor. "I've sent word to Robbins to call for you in half an hour. Maybe, if Mr Ratman is going up, you could give him a lift." "Mr Ratman is not going up," said Mr Armstrong. The stranger here took notice of the tutor. "Friend of my friend, eh?" said he. "Pleased to know you, sir. Resident in these parts, I presume? What?" "Quite so," said Mr Armstrong, putting up his glass, and honouring the speaker with a minute survey. "As I was saying to our young friend here, there's been changes in this locality since I was here about the time of Noah. You named Maxfield just now, sir. Likely you know Squire Ingleton, my relative, at the manor-house there?" The tutor's glass dropped abruptly. "Your relative? What relation were you to the old Squire?" "_Was_ I--is he dead, then?" "More than a year ago." "Sir," said the stranger, with some excitement, "that man was my sister's husband. I guess I've come here a trifle late. Dead? He didn't look to have it in him. What say?" It said a good deal for Mr Ratman's nerve that in the tutor's presence he took upon himself to reply boldly-- "My father died rather suddenly a year since. So you are my uncle?" The American mayor stared at the speaker in bewilderment, which was not lessened by an abrupt laugh from the gentleman at the fireplace. "I guess I'll take a seat and work this out," said he. "I'm your uncle, am I? I never should have known it, if you hadn't been so obliging as to tell me, young man. Which branch of the family tree do you hang on to?" "Your sister had a son, Roger Ingleton. That's my name." "Is that so? And you're the present Squire of Maxfield? Well, well. When did you come to life again?" "There was a false report of my death," said Ratman, glancing a little nervously at the tutor, who was diligently removing the mud from his riding-boots. "Wal, it's singular. I never expected to see a nephew of mine again. Why, how long is it, now, since I went over? Thirty-seven years if it's a day." "I can't remember that," said Ratman tentatively. "Seeing you weren't born, you'd find it hard," said Mr Headland. "But, say, by all accounts you were a troublesome boy." "I was not all I might have been," replied Mr Ratman, beginning to wish this cross-examination was over. "Put it that way, certainly. You ran away, and left your mother, my sister, with a broken heart, I've heard say." "My father and I quarrelled, and I left home--yes." Here the tutor quitted the fire and came to where the two men sat. "Excuse my interrupting you, sir," said he to the stranger, "but your conversation interests me. The fact is, the Squire married a second time, and left a son, whose guardian I happen to be. By the old man's will my ward is the heir. You will allow I have a right to feel interested in this gentleman, who only discovered six months ago that he was the lost elder brother." The good American sat back in his chair and looked from Ratman to Armstrong, and from Armstrong back to Ratman, in a state of painful bewilderment. "Now," said the tutor, "my ward feels a little curiosity about his elder brother--only natural, is it not?--and I, as his legal guardian, naturally share that curiosity." "Why, certainly," said the Mayor, beginning to be interested. Mr Ratman began to lose countenance, and fidgeted uncomfortably with the forks and spoons. "I have heard a little of this gentleman's romantic career," continued the tutor, with his half-drawl. "He has been good enough to tell us, in fact, that when he left home--by the way, when was that, Ratman?" "When I know your right to ask me questions," growled Ratman, "I'll see about answering them." "Seems to me," said the Mayor, assuming judicial functions for the time being, "unless you've disgraced yourself, you can't hurt much by saying. You say you're the Squire's son; this gentleman--I didn't catch your name, sir?--Armstrong?--Mr Armstrong says he's not as sure as you are. Seems to me, if you tell one thing, you may as well tell another. It's all one story, and if it's true, it's a good one." Mr Ratman did not like the turn affairs were taking. If he refused to reply to the questions put to him, he was aware that he was damaging his own claim. If he answered, how was he to know if the risk was not even greater? And yet, what more was Armstrong likely to know about the lost son than he himself? He might as well go through with it. So he replied, sullenly-- "I left home a year before my mother died. He can get the date of that from the tombstone, if he wants it." "Thanks; I'll look at it," said the tutor with aggravating cheerfulness. "You went up to London, didn't you?" "I've told you so, and that I lived there with a man called Fastnet." "And then you went abroad, I think you said?" "Yes; to India." "Just so; that's where you died, is it not? You stayed in London long enough to go to the dogs, I understood you to say?" "That didn't take long. I spent all my money in six months, and then enlisted," said Ratman, feeling fairly launched by this time. "Quite so. And you died, I believe, in India?" "I was supposed to have died in a skirmish; and they sent news home that I had. I never corrected it." "Whereabouts was the skirmish, if it's a fair question?" "On the frontier. I forget the name." "That's unfortunate. By the way, to go back to London, do you recollect where Mr Fastnet lived? I should like to call on him." "You won't find him; he died before I went abroad--drank himself to death." "I'm sorry to hear that. And you enlisted under your present name of Ratman, of course?" "My present name is Ingleton. If I called myself Ratman, that was because I didn't want my father to hear of me. I never told any one my real name." "Seems to me," said the Mayor, "it's odd how your medical adviser on the field of battle found out where to write home to say you were dead." "It is still more odd, sir," said the tutor, fixing the claimant with his glass, "that this Mr Fastnet (who, you will be glad to hear, has also come to life again, was still in good health when my ward saw him a few weeks ago) retains a vivid recollection of the runaway son having entertained him for a year at his own lodgings; at the end of which time the prodigal, so far from enlisting, took to the stage, and spent another year, at least, with a company of strolling players. "We have your unfortunate's nephew's story," proceeded the tutor, "carefully traced up to a certain point, and if either you or Mr Ratman are interested in the matter, we can produce our witnesses. Your memory is a treacherous one, Robert Ratman. It is no use asking you, I fear, what became of you after a certain riot in Boulogne when you, as the Ghost in `Hamlet,' and your fellow-tragedians were mobbed for not paying the rent of your hall?" Mr Ratman, who during this cross-examination had passed through all the stages from blustering rage to abject discomfiture, sank back on his chair and turned a livid face to his questioner. He had sense enough to see that the game was up; and not being an actor himself, he was at a loss to conceal his defeat. The tutor's cold, keen gaze took the heart out of him. "Lying dog!" snarled he, "I've had enough of your questions. You think yourself clever, but I'll be even with you yet. I'll ruin the lot of you--you and your fellow-scoundrel and his brats, who don't know yet what it is to have a felon for a father. You'll be sorry for this." So saying, he took up his bag, and with the best swagger he could assume slunk from the room. "See--stay here, young man," said the Mayor excitedly; "there's something else." But he was gone. The outer door slammed to and his footsteps died gradually away down the street. Mr Armstrong and the stranger exchanged glances in silence. Then the Mayor turned to Mr Armstrong with a stern face. "Seems to me, sir," said he, "that if that young man's the knave, you're uncommon like the fool. You'll excuse me mentioning it after the service you have just rendered to the cause of veracity, but it's a solemn fact." "I have heard the same opinion expressed by other authorities, and I have no doubt it is true. You mean to tell me I should have extorted from him a written recantation of his claim?" "That's so; you guess right. Consequence is, I'm bound to stay now as a witness to see this quarrel through. Here have I come on a pleasure- trip to see my relatives, and it seems I've got to combine business and pleasure after all." "You forget I've no hold over this man. He does not claim the property, although he guesses that my ward will hand it over to him if he proves his identity. I can only show him to be a liar." "You seem pretty sure of that." "I am myself; and I hope, for everybody's sake, that your nephew, if he should turn up, will be a better credit to the name than this land- shark." "Well, sir, I don't thank you for dragging me into the business; but, since I am here, I stay to see it out." "I am relieved to hear you say so." "Tell me now," said the Mayor, "what the story is; and what does our young friend mean by his farewell threats?" Thereupon Mr Armstrong gave his new ally a faithful account of the family difficulty: of Captain Oliphant's embarrassing relations to the claimant, of Miss Rosalind's dilemma, of Roger's quixotic determination to find his lost brother, and of his own--the tutor's--conviction of the hopelessness of the quest. The visitor by no means shared the last conclusion. "I rather calculate that lost young man ain't as dead as you think," said he. "By all accounts he wasn't born to be drowned, and he's not hung yet. You bet, the young brother will come up with him before time's called." "Well, by the last accounts he seems to have a vague clue as to his whereabouts fifteen years ago," said the tutor; "we shall hear what he makes of it. To-morrow you must come up to Maxfield and see my co- trustee." The presence of this unexpected friend of the family, in the capacity of impartial umpire, struck the tutor as particularly opportune at this juncture. He had been a witness to Ratman's virtual admission to his imposture, and his natural interest in the discovery of his own nephew was not likely to warp his determination to see fair play for Roger. Captain Oliphant, when he heard next morning of the new arrival, by no means shared his co-trustee's satisfaction. The news, indeed, agitated him to a remarkable degree, and he astonished the tutor by his ill- concealed reluctance to meet him. "It is important that you should see him," remarked the tutor. "As the uncle of the lost elder brother he is entitled, I think, to our confidence. I can imagine no reason why you should be afraid to see him." "Afraid! Who says I am afraid to see him?" "I can think of no other explanation of your reluctance--" "Please, sir, Mr Headland to see you," announced Raffles. Captain Oliphant changed colour as he turned to greet the visitor. "You'll pardon the early call," said the latter, "but they gave me such a shocking supper at the inn, that I resolved to try my luck up here for breakfast. Captain Oliphant, I presume?--friend of my friend Armstrong. Pleased to know you, sir. Pity you weren't with us last night to see the decline and fall of your ingenious friend, R. Ratman. Your colleague, sir, put that young man to bed in a way that would have made you enjoy yourself. Seems to me, captain, you are well rid of him." "I fail to understand all this," said the captain. "If you refer to Mr Ratman's claims to be the lost Roger Ingleton--" "My nephew," interposed the American. "All I can say is, that I am not at all satisfied the claim is not a just one." "Well, sir," said Mr Headland, "if that's your opinion, it's more than that young man thinks himself by this time. But never mind that." "I do mind it, sir; and I should like to know what right any one has to decide the matter for me? I would suggest that, though we are pleased to see you, you should allow us to attend to our own business." "I not only allow you, sir, but I expect it of you. And that reminds me of a question that has been puzzling me ever since I heard of the Squire's death. I wrote him a letter in the fall of last year." The captain was seized with a sudden impulse to stir the fire, and as he stood thus with his back turned, Mr Armstrong could not help wondering what there was in the operation so violently to agitate the operator's frame. "Yes, sir, a letter dated November 9th, which must have been delivered, as I have made inquiries, and find it was not returned. It contained money, and as it was never acknowledged, I had fears it was lost." "Any letters for the Squire have been opened by his executors. I recollect none from abroad--do you, Captain Oliphant?" said the tutor. The Captain, still with his back turned, said-- "No; it never came into my hands." "Mrs Ingleton would hardly be likely to have opened it. It would be only a short time before her death." "It's singular," said the Mayor. "My clerk posted it. He should have registered it, but omitted." "How was it directed?" asked the captain, turning at last, and pale after his exertions. "Roger Ingleton, senior, Maxfield, England." "Hum! Did your clerk know it contained money?" "Which means, did he purloin it? Well, sir, we shall see. An English bank-note can be traced. That's one advantage you have over us on the other side." Mr Armstrong during this short colloquy experienced a curious depression of spirits. He was thinking, not of the bank-notes, or the American mayor, or even of Captain Oliphant, but of Rosalind and Jill and Tom; and the thought of them just at this moment made him feel very melancholy. As for the captain, if his thoughts for a moment turned in the same direction, they came back instantly, with a strong revulsion of hate against the man who stood in his way at every turn; who seemed to read him through, to unmask him silently whenever he sought to take refuge in a lie, to pin him ruthlessly down to the consequences of his own delinquencies. But for Armstrong he might have been a free man--free of his debts, free of his frauds, clear in his children's eyes, able to hold up his head to all the world. As it was, everything seemed to conspire with his enemy to pinion him and hold him fast, a prey to the Nemesis that was on its way! What would he not give to have this stumbling-block out of the path, and feel himself free to breathe and hope once more? In such a mood he spent the morning; and about midday, shaking off his visitor, wandered out into the park for fresh air and space to think. As he paced, there returned to him memories of old half-forgotten days, of faces that once looked into his trustfully, voices that once made his heart glad, children that once ran to welcome him; visions of vanished hopes, ambitions, ideals. Where were they all now? Who believed in him to-day? Who would believe in him a week hence? What voices rejoiced him now? Into whose life did he carry strength and cheer? The park stretched bleak and desolate before him; the earth lay sullen under his feet, the very trees drooped around him, and the great restless ocean beyond moaned at his coming. It was nothing to him that the smell of spring was in the air; that the lark was carolling high overhead; that the declining sun was darting his rays through the trees. Near at hand rose a sound of laughter. He durst not turn that way, lest he should meet his own children. Far away, through a break in the trees, he could catch a glimpse of the old church at Yeld with the Vicarage beside it, where dwelt the one being he dreaded most--his own daughter. From behind wafted a sound of music through an open window, where sat the man who had found him out and could ruin him by a word. Which way was he to turn? Which way shall a man turn who would escape from himself? For two long hours he wandered on caring not which way he took, and feeling himself step by step closer beset by his dismal forebodings. Presently he found himself beyond the park boundaries on the open downs which stretched to the edge of the cliff. The touch of the salt sea- breeze on his fevered brow startled him and made him shiver. The last gleam of daylight was fading in the west, and when presently it flickered out and left him in the dark, he felt that the last ray of his own hope had vanished too. And yet, strange as it may seem, this man had never been quite as honest with himself as he was now. The game was fairly up. He had long since given up deluding himself that he was better than he seemed. Now the time was come when it hardly seemed worth while to delude other people. It was no use. Nor, to such a pass had he come, did it seem much use to be a coward. The dog whose last hope has gone will gather himself together for a final fling at his persecutors; the poltroon driven back against the wall, unable to retreat farther, will sometimes turn and make a stand such as he never deemed himself capable of before. And so Captain Oliphant, because he could do nothing else, plucked up a little courage and groped about in the dark for some new fragments of his lost manhood. He would go back and face the worst. If he was to be ruined, he would pull the mask off himself, and not leave it to Armstrong or any one else to do it. Whatever befell, nothing could well be more wretched than the plight in which he now stood. He had no amends to make, but he could at least simplify the labours of those whose business it was to expose and punish him. With which poor spark of resolution he turned dismally to go back to Maxfield. As he did so he became aware of footsteps close at hand on the cliff- path. Whoever the passenger might be--at such an hour and place it was not likely to be any one but a coastguard or a fisherman--Captain Oliphant was in no mood for company. He therefore stepped off the path and sat down on a seat on the edge of the cliff till the intruder had passed. It was not so dark but that the latter perceived the movement, and halting suddenly, said-- "Who's that?" The voice was that of Mr Ratman. What brought him here at this moment, to extinguish, perhaps, the little gleam of courage that flickered in the breast of his wretched dupe? For a moment the captain was tempted to run like a thief from a policeman; but his very desperation came to his rescue. "What do you want here, Ratman?" "Hullo, it's Oliphant! Here's a piece of luck. You're the very man I wanted to see. I've changed my mind since I said good-bye yesterday, my boy, and mean to remain here on the spot and see the end of this business. I was on my way to see you. Come along." "You'd better say what you want to say here. You won't find any admirers of yours up at the house." "Ah! then you've heard of last night's business? What on earth brings this Yankee idiot here at this time to spoil everything? Now, Teddy, the long and short of this business is, that you must stir yourself. You've shuffled long enough. First of all you were going to marry the widow; you boggled that. Then you were going to succeed to the property; you've boggled that. Then you were to clear the tutor out of the way; you've boggled that. Then you were to raise the wind and pay me off, and you've boggled that. I've given you long enough rope, goodness knows. I mean to haul in now." Captain Oliphant rose from his seat with a dismal laugh. "I'm tired of hearing you say that, Ratman. I wish you'd do it and be done with it." Ratman peered through the gloom at the speaker in surprise. "Hullo!" said he, "that's a new tune for you. Now look here; I suppose you've not forgotten our talk yesterday?" "Well?" "You've two things to do; you've to recognise me as Roger Ingleton when the time comes. There'll be proofs and witnesses. They must satisfy you, mind. Make no mistake of that. Then I must have Rosalind. I love her. On the day I'm your son-in-law you shall have back every bill I hold against you. Now, is it a bargain? It's a cheap one for you, I can tell you." The blood rose to Captain Oliphant's brow. A few hours ago he would have faltered and evaded, half whined, half promised; now sheer desperation made him reckless. He laughed bitterly. "Recognise you--you shark! Never! And if you ever dare to speak of my daughter, I'll shake you like a cur. There now, do as you like; you've got my answer." Ratman dropped his jaw in utter amazement. For a minute the words would not come. Then, with a face so livid that Oliphant could see its whiteness through the night, he hissed-- "You mean it? You defy me?--me, with these papers in my hand, and the whole story of your villainy in my keeping? You--" As he held up the bills a wild impulse prompted the wretched captain to make a grab at them. There was a short struggle. Oliphant, with his back to the cliff, kept his hold for a moment; then a fierce blow sent him reeling backwards to the edge, with the torn half of the documents in his hand. There was a gasp, a half cry, and next moment only one man stood in the place, peering with ashen face into the black darkness below. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. THE BILLIARD-MARKER AT "L'HOTEL SOULT." In the _salon_ of a small dilapidated hotel in one of the southern suburbs of Paris sat Roger, three weeks after the event recorded in the last chapter. He had the dull place, apparently, to himself. The billiard-room, visible through the folding-doors, was deserted. In the dining-room the waiter dozed undisturbed by a single guest. The landlady in her _bureau_ yawned and hummed, and had not even a bill to make out. She had already made out that of the young English gentleman, and a pretty one it was! A guest such as he was worth a season to the landlady of "L'Hotel Soult." Three weeks ago, half dead with cold and weariness, he had come and asked for a bed; and in that bed till yesterday he had remained, feverish, coughing, sometimes gasping for breath. Compared with the attack he had had in London in the winter, this was a mild one; but in this dreary place, with not a friend at hand, with a doctor who could not understand a word he said, with a voluble landlady who, when she visited him, never gave him a chance of getting in a word, and with a few servants who stared at him blankly whenever he attempted to lift his voice, it was the most miserable of all his illnesses. He was as close a prisoner as if he had been in jail. The doctor, who took apartments at his expense in the hotel, would not allow him to move. No one to whom he appealed could be made to understand that he had friends in England with whom he desired to communicate. One letter to Armstrong which he had tried to write the landlady impounded and destroyed as waste-paper, perhaps not quite by accident. This well-to- do young guest was worth nursing. His friends would only come and fetch him away; whereas she, motherly soul! was prepared to take him in and do for him. The pocket of the coat which on the day of his arrival she had carried off to her kitchen to dry contained satisfactory proof that Monsieur was a young gentleman who could pay; and although she was too honest to recoup herself for her services in advance, she had kept the coat hanging up in her room for a week, as a pleasant reminder of the joys of hospitality. Only yesterday the invalid had recovered sufficiently to rout the doctor and stagger down to the telegraph-office; and to-day, propped up with pillows on the uncomfortable stuff-sofa, he was expiating his rashness with a day of miserable coughing. At the sound of his handbell, the landlady, a buxom dame of forty-five autumns, hastened to the couch of her profitable visitor. Roger was too weak to oppose the flood of her congratulations and compliments on his recovery, and allowed her to talk herself breathless before he put in his word. "Madame has not been many years in these parts?" he inquired in his best French. Madame threw up her shoulders and protested she had lived in those parts from a child, when the dull suburb was once a festive little rustic village, and the great city now gobbling it up once loomed mysteriously in the north, with acres and miles of green fields and woods between. "But this hotel," said Roger, "has not stood here so long?" "_Ma foi_!" said she, "since I can remember, when I used to visit my good uncle here every Sunday, I remember `L'Hotel Soult.' Why, when I married my cousin and became _Madame l'hotesse_, it was all fields between us and Paris. Yes, and little enough change about the house. We cannot afford, Monsieur, to build and decorate. By a miracle we escaped the German shells. Ah! a merry time was the year of the war! France suffered, alas! but the `L'Hotel Soult' prospered. 'Twas the year I was left a widow! I had ten waiters then, Monsieur, and two billiard-markers, a _chef_ from the best kitchen in Paris, and stables, and _chambrieres_, and--why, Monsieur, the wages of one week were twenty--twenty-five napoleons!" "That was after the war?" asked Roger. "Yes. Before that I had more. But, alas! they left me for the field, and came no more." "Were all your waiters Frenchmen?" asked Roger. Madame stared curiously at the questioner. "Why do you ask? I have had many kinds. Some English, like Monsieur." "A year or two after the war," said Roger, "there was an Englishman, a relation of mine, who was a waiter in an hotel in one of the suburbs south of Paris. I want to hear of him. I have hunted for weeks. I could hear nothing of him. I came here before I gave it up as a hopeless search, and, as you know, I've been laid up ever since. You have been kind to me, Madame; something makes me think I was not kept here for nothing. Can you help me to find my friend?" The landlady began to have inward misgivings that she had not behaved to this pleasant-spoken young guest of hers as nicely as she might have done, and she secretly resolved to revise the bill in his favour before presenting it. "Why, Monsieur, I had plenty English in my time. The year after the war I had--let me think--two or three. Your friend--was he the little lame one who waited beautiful at table, but that he cough, cough, till I must send him away?" "No; that's not the one." "Then it was the fat one?--John Bull, we call him, who eat more than he served, never used a fork when he had his fingers. Ah, he was a dirty one, was your friend!" "No," said Roger; "that's not he. My friend was not much older than I am, and a gentleman." "A gentleman--and a waiter!" laughed the landlady. "But tell me, what was his name?" "He used to call himself Rogers." She shook her head. "No one of that name was here. I had English, one or two--Bardsley, and Jackson, and Smith; he was a gentleman, but he was not young. He was fifty years, Mr Smith--a good servant. Also there was Monsieur Callow." "Callot!" exclaimed Roger, starting at the familiar name. "Was he an Englishman?" "Surely. C-a-l-l-o-w--Callow. Ah! he was a droll one, was Monsieur Callow, and a gentleman too. I never had a billiard-marker like him. He could play any man, and lose by one point; and he could recite and sing; and oh, he eat so little! Every one laughed at him; but he laughed little himself, and thought himself too good for his fellow- waiters." "What was he like?" asked Roger, flushing with excitement. "A fine young man, with long curly hair, and whiskers and a beard. He was afraid of nothing, tall and strong. Ah me! I have seen him knock a man down at a blow. He was a wild, reckless man, was Monsieur Callow; but a good servant, and oh! a beautiful billiard player. He always knew how to lose a game, and oh! it made my table so popular!" "Had he any friends in Paris?" "Yes; he went often to see his father--so he told me--an actor who gave lessons. I never saw _Monsieur le pere_." "How long did he stay with you?" "Callow? For five years he served me well. Then there was a _fracas_, a quarrel; I remember it now. An English officer was here, and played with him, and was beaten. 'Twas the only time I ever knew Callow win a game; but he lost his temper this time, and won. Then Milord called him a cheat, and without a word Monsieur Callow knocked him down. The police came, and Monsieur Callow knocked _him_ down. Then he put on his hat and walked, and I never saw him more. He always said he would go to sea, and I think he would keep his word. Ah, a telegram! 'Tis long since telegrams came to my hotel. _Helas_! not for me; for you, Monsieur." It was from Armstrong. "Shall be with you, ten to-morrow morning." The three weeks which had passed at Maxfield had been terrible. The discovery of Captain Oliphant's body at the foot of the cliff, with the clear traces of a struggle on the brink above, had created a profound sensation at Maxfield and the country round. For a day the air was full of wild conjectures of suicide, incident, foul play; until the last-named theory was finally confirmed by the discovery in the tightly-clenched hand of the dead man of a fragment of a promissory note bearing the signature of Robert Ratman. To the tutor, as he held the paper in his hand, everything became startlingly clear. This was the last act of a tragedy which had been going on for months; and now that the curtain had abruptly fallen, he could not help, in the midst of this horror, owning to a sense of thankfulness, for the sake of others, that the troubled career of his rival and enemy had stopped short at a point beyond which nothing but disgrace and scandal and misery awaited it. From that disgrace it was his business now, by every means in his power, to shield the innocent brother and sisters who still honoured the dead man as their father. Many a grievous task had been thrown upon the tutor in his day, but none cost him more effort than this, of breaking to the children of his enemy the news of their father's death. But he went through it manfully and ably. Rosalind, on whom the blow fell hardest, because on her spirit the burden of her father's cares had lain heaviest, rose, with a heroine's courage, to the occasion, and earned the tutor's boundless gratitude by making his task easy. She said little; she understood everything. She remembered nothing but the father's love--his old caresses and confidences and kindnesses. The tears she shed blotted out all the anxieties and misgivings and heart-sinkings of recent weeks. All that remained was crowded with love. Tom, dulled and stunned, took the story in gradually, and got used to it as he went along. He came and slept at night in the tutor's room, and felt how much worse things might have been had it not been for the stalwart protector who put hope and cheer into him, and filled the blank in his heart with sturdier views of life than the boy had ever harboured there before. As for Jill, for a week all was blackness and darkness to her. She felt deserted--lost. She cried herself to sleep at night, and by day wandered over the house, peeping into her father's room, and half expecting to see him back. Then her gentle spirit took courage, and she looked up, and her eyes lit with comfort and hope on Mr Armstrong. Everything could not be lost if he was there; and when he sometimes came, and took her little hand in his, and invited her to be his companion in his rides, or sought her out in her lonely walks and made her teach him the haunts of her favourite flowers or read to him from her favourite books, she began to think there was still some joy left on earth. "Dear Mr Armstrong," she said one day when, by invitation, she came to make afternoon tea for him in his room, "you are so awfully kind to me! If I was only as old as Rosalind, I would marry you." This rather startling declaration took the tutor considerably aback. He laughed and said-- "You are very nice as you are, Jill." "You think I'm silly, I know," said she, "but I'm not. Would you hate me if I was older?" "I don't think I could hate you, not even if you were a hundred." "I love you ever so much," said she. "Please don't believe what Tom said about the Duke. I don't like him a millionth part as much as you." "Poor Duke!" said the tutor. "Really and truly. And oh, Mr Armstrong, if you would only wait I would love to marry you some day! How soon shall I be big enough?" This was getting embarrassing. But the tutor was in a tender mood, and had it not in his heart to thwart the little Leap-year maid. "Time flies fast," said he; "you'll be grown up before we know where we all are." She sighed. "I know you'd sooner have Rosalind. But she doesn't care for you as much as I do. She likes Roger best; but I don't; I like you fifty thousand times better. Would it be an _awful_ bother, Mr Armstrong?" "What! to have Jill for my little wife?" said he. "Not a bit. If ever I want one, she's the first person I mean to ask." With this declaration Jill had to rest content. It solaced her sorrow vastly; and even though Rosalind, to whom she confided the compact under a pledge of secrecy, scolded and laughed at her alternately, she felt a new prospect open before her, and set herself resolutely to the task of growing up worthy of Mr Armstrong's affection. But amid all these troubles and hopes at Maxfield, two questions were on every one's lips: "Where was Roger? Where was Robert Ratman?" Roger had written once after reaching Paris, a letter full of hope, which had arrived a few days before Captain Oliphant's death. He had succeeded at last in tracking the man Pantalzar to a low lodging in the city, and from him had ascertained somewhat of the history of the Callot family. They had lodged with him at Long Street in London, where they had given lessons in acting, elocution, and music; and Pantalzar clearly remembered the lad Rogers as a constant visitor at the house, partly in the capacity of a promising student of the dramatic art, and partly as a hopeless lover of his preceptor's wayward daughter. After a year, his troubles in the latter capacity were abruptly cut short by the illness and death of the young lady; a blow which staggered the parents and broke up the establishment at Long Street. It failed, however, to drive Rogers from the party, who, with a romantic loyalty, attached himself to the fortunes of the old people, and became like a son to them in their distresses. Eventually the bereaved family migrated to Paris, whence Pantalzar had once heard from the father, who had found employment as stall manager of a third-rate theatre in one of the _fauxbourg_. Hither Roger tracked him, and after dogged search, often baffled, sometimes apparently hopeless, discovered some one who remembered the reputed son of the old couple, who, as far as this witness could remember, was thought to have hired himself out as billiard-marker in an hotel in one of the southern suburbs of the city. Thus far he had succeeded when he wrote home. What transpired subsequently, and how he dropped for a season out of all knowledge, the reader already knows. The suspense occasioned by his sudden disappearance, as may be imagined, added a new element of wretchedness to the situation at Maxfield. Telegrams, letters, inquiries, alike failed to discover his whereabouts or the secret of his silence. As post after post came and brought neither message nor tidings, the hearts of the watchers grew sick. To the tutor especially, tied as he was to the scene of the tragedy, those three weeks were a period of torture. He urged Dr Brandram to go over to Paris to make inquiries; but the Doctor, after a fortnight of fruitless search, returned empty-handed. Mr Armstrong thereupon resolved at all hazards to quit his post and go himself. He knew something of Paris. He had old associations with the city, and once, as the reader has heard, possessed acquaintances there. If any one could find the boy, he thought he could; and with such trusty substitutes as the Doctor and Mr Headland, who remained at Yeld, to leave behind, he felt that he might, nay rather that he must, venture on the journey. It was on the morning of his departure, as he was waiting for the trap to carry him to the station, that Roger's telegram was put in his hand:-- "Come--have been ill--better now--Hotel Soult--no news." Twenty-four hours later the tutor was at his pupil's side, with a heavy weight lifted from his heart, and resolved, come what would, not to quit his post till he had the truant safe back at Maxfield. The news he brought with him served to drive from Roger's mind all thoughts of continuing his sojourn a day longer than was necessary to recover his strength. "It seems pretty certain," said he, "that my brother, when he left here, returned to England, and probably went to sea very soon after. There is no object in staying here. Look in that room there, Armstrong. That's the billiard-room in which he spent most of his time, and that's the very table on which he let himself be beaten regularly for the good of the house." The tutor walked across to the folding-doors and surveyed the dingy room with critical interest. "And that must have been little more than twelve years ago," said he. "Do you still hold to your theory that Ratman is your brother?" "I have no theory. I must find my brother, even if he is a--a murderer," said the boy with a groan. "But, I say, has nothing been heard of him?" "The police have traced him to London; there the scent ends for the present. He is probably in hiding there, and one may have to wait weeks or months till he gets off his guard and is caught." About ten days later they started, by slow stages, on the homeward journey. Whether Madame received all she expected for her hospitality is doubtful. Mr Armstrong undertook the duties of cashier, and used his eye-glass considerably in scrutinising the figures. He craved an interview with Madame in her parlour to discuss her arithmetic, and although he appeared eventually to arrive at a satisfactory understanding with the good lady (so much so, that she shed tears at his departure), he did not complain that her charges were extortionate, as French hotels go. The home-coming of the heir of Maxfield created a welcome flutter of excitement among the desolate occupants of the manor-house and their neighbours. But the flutter in their hearts was nothing compared with that in the heart of the heir himself as he walked across the park on the day after his return to call at the Vicarage and invite Rosalind to accompany him in a ride. What passed--whether the flutter was contagious, what brought back the deserted colour to Miss Rosalind's cheeks, why they rode so slow and left so much of their course to the decision of their steeds,--all this and many other matters for wonder, history recordeth not, as is quite proper. But it does record that when, on their return, Mr Armstrong chanced to come out on to the door- step, where the two stood unmounted, Roger said-- "Armstrong, Rosalind has promised to be my wife." The tutor flushed a little at this not unexpected announcement; then taking his pupil's arm, he said-- "It means great happiness for you both. I am glad--very glad." But why, if he was so glad, did he slink off to his study forthwith and play a dirge on his piano, and there sit listlessly in his chair for the rest of the morning staring out of the window through his glass, till Jill tripped in and fetched him down to lunch, saying-- "Dear Mr Armstrong, try not to be too awfully sorry. _I_ think no one is as nice as you." CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE HEIR OF MAXFIELD COMES OF AGE. It wanted but a month to Roger's majority, that important day on which the fate of so many persons was to be decided, when a letter was delivered to the heir of Maxfield as he sat at breakfast. The weeks that had passed since Captain Oliphant's sudden death had been uneventful. To Rosalind and Roger the discovery that they loved one another went far to lighten the sorrow which had befallen both--one in the death of a father, the other in what appeared to be the hopeless loss of a brother. Roger had by no means yet abandoned his search. Twice already had he and Armstrong been up to London to make inquiries, but without avail. The billiard-marker of "L'Hotel Soult" had vanished as completely as-- well, as Mr Ratman. "You know, of course," said the tutor once, with the rather unsympathetic drawl in which he was wont to allude to the lost Ingleton--"you know, of course, that if the man you want is Ratman, you are having the assistance of the police in your search. A warrant is out against him, and heaven and earth is being moved to capture him." Roger sighed. "I am looking for no one but my brother," said he, "Even if he turns out to be this miscreant, I cannot help it." "Quite so. Only it is right to remember that to find Ratman means to hang him. That at least is the object the police have in view. But you need not disturb yourself on that score. Roger Ingleton, major, if we find him, may be a villain, but he won't be the murderer of Miss Oliphant's father." They returned presently, baffled, to Maxfield. No one at the depots, or recruiting head-quarters, or pension offices could tell them a word of a soldier or a sailor named Callot who might have enlisted or gone to sea about twelve years ago. How could they expect it? Nor did the most careful search among the old Squire's papers lead to the discovery of any record of the supposed report of the lad's death. As a matter of fact, if the billiard-marker at "L'Hotel Soult" was the man, they had already traced him down to a date long subsequent to that of his rumoured death. Together they ransacked the memories of Dr Brandram, the Vicar, old Hodder, and one or two other inhabitants who might be supposed to know something of the matter. Very few there were who had seen the boy at all. He had spent most of his time at school, and during his occasional holidays had usually found all the amusement he needed in the ample confines of the park. No one had seen in black and white an announcement of his death. The Squire had told the Doctor that news of it had arrived from abroad; where and when and under what circumstances he never said. Old Hodder remembered the story of the quarrel between father and son, and identified the portrait as that of the missing lad. But, despite his boasted "threescore years and ten," the old man was absolutely useless in the present inquiry. And so, thwarted at every turn, not knowing what to hope for, too proud to own himself beaten, Roger abandoned the search, and awaited his majority very much as a debtor awaits his bankruptcy. Mr Armstrong, who chanced to look up at the moment when Raffles delivered the letter, concluded at once from the startled look on the lad's face that it was a missive of no common importance. It was from Ratman, and bore on its envelope the London post-mark:-- "Dear Brother,--For the last time I claim your help. I know quite well that I am being hunted to death by you and those you employ. Without a shred of evidence you are willing to believe me a murderer. I suppose I have no right to complain. It would be convenient to you to have me out of the way, and the best way of getting rid of me is to get up this cry against me. A nice brotherly act, and worthy of an Ingleton! It is no use my telling you that I am innocent--that till I had been two days here I never so much as heard of Oliphant's death. You would not believe it. Nor, I fancy, is it much use telling you that the scoundrel owed me money, that I was shielding him from the consequences of an old felony for which he might have had penal servitude, and that the little he did pay me was stolen from your property. Of course you wouldn't believe it. It is only about your brother, who has been a slung stone all his life, who never had a friend, never knew a kind look from any one, that you are ready to believe evil. I am nearly at the end of my tether here. In a day or two you will probably hear that I am arrested, and then you will have your revenge on me for daring to be your flesh and blood; and you will have no difficulty in convincing a judge and jury that I have committed any crime you and your saintly tutor choose to concoct between you. Pleasant to be rich and influential! I could escape if I had money. Fifty pounds would rid you of me almost as effectively as the gallows. But it would cost you something; therefore it is absurd to imagine it possible. When, three days hence, I make my last call at the General Post Office, and hear once more that there is nothing for me, not even a message of brotherly pity (which costs nothing), I shall know my last hope is gone. And you, in the lap of luxury, counting your thousands, and monarch of all you survey, will be able to breathe again. Either you will hear of my arrest, or, if my courage befriends me, you may read in an obscure corner of the paper of a wretch, hounded to death, who escaped his pursuers after all, and preferred to die by his own hand rather than that of his brother. Good-bye till then. "Your brother,-- "Roger Ingleton. "_P.S_.--The Post Office know me, or my messenger, as `Richard Redfern.' No doubt you will show this letter to your tutor, who should have no difficulty in using the information I am obliged to give as to my whereabouts to run me down." The flush on Roger's face had died down into pallor by the time he reached the end of this savage yet dismal letter. Till he came to the postscript he had reckoned on demanding Armstrong's advice as to its contents. Now, somehow, his hands seemed tied. Here was a man, claiming to be his brother, practically placing his life in his hands. Whether the story were true or false, the writer had calculated astutely on the quixotic temper of his correspondent. The appeal, insultingly as it was made, was one which Roger Ingleton, minor, could not resist. "I have had a letter from Ratman," said he when the two friends were alone together. "I am not surprised," said the tutor. "He wants money, of course?" "I can't show you the letter, simply because it contains a vague clue as to his whereabouts, which you would feel bound to follow up." "I undoubtedly should," said Mr Armstrong. "Shall not you?" "No. He gives it in confidence, in the hope I shall send him money. I don't intend to do that, but it would hardly be fair to use this letter against him." "He is Captain Oliphant's murderer." "He denies it, and once more calls himself my brother." The tutor shrugged his shoulders. "As you please. Burn the letter. It probably does not tell more than the police know already." Roger dismally obeyed. Had he felt sure that this man was his brother, he would have, at all risk and in spite of all, tried to help him. Even so, to help him with one hand would mean to ruin him with the other. If he found him, it would be to hand him over to the police. If he procured his escape, it would be to oust him irrevocably from his inheritance. There seemed nothing for it but to do nothing and wait. In other quarters the policy of inaction found little favour. Mr Headland called up the same evening at Maxfield and demanded an interview with the tutor. "Wal, young man," said he, "I calculate those two hundred-pound notes of mine didn't travel so far astray after all." "You have traced them, then?" "I've been three weeks doing it, but I have so." "And with what conclusion?" "Just this, that Captain E. Oliphant fell over that cliff just about the right time, sir. Yes, sir, my notes are lying snug at the English Bank at this present moment, and I know their pedigree. Number 90,356 came there from a bank in Fleet Street. The bank in Fleet Street received it from a hotel. The hotel received it from a gentleman who slept in bedroom Number 36, and that gentleman's name was Ratman. Number 90,357 came to the bank later from Amsterdam. Amsterdam had it from an English diamond merchant, the diamond merchant had it from a stock jobber, and the stock jobber had it from a sporting club, who had it from a temporary member in December last in payment of a gambling debt, and that temporary member's name was Ratman. That's not all, sir. My letter was posted in America, November 9. On November 17 the post- master at Yeld, an intelligent man, sir, received a letter with an American stamp, sir, addressed to Roger Ingleton, senior, at Maxfield. A Yankee stamp was a novelty to your intelligent post-master, and he took a note of date, and sent it up here for delivery. It was delivered here November 17, and your footman remembers giving it to your colleague. Three days after, Mr Ratman visited his friend Captain E. Oliphant here. Two days later he reached the hotel in London with a Yeld label on his trunk. A week after that he passed note Number 90,356 to settle his bill. There, sir; the Americans are born explorers. I flatter myself there's not much more to know about my two notes." "Quite so," said the tutor. "You have done a great deal in three weeks. What reparation can be made you?" "Sir, you are an honest young man. You believe in shielding the memory of a dead enemy. You are right. Continue on that tack and you'll do yourself credit. As executor of my late kinsman, I will trouble you to place this cheque for £200 to the credit of the estate, and never to say a word about the sum that was lost. Notes get lost every day; at least they do in America." Mr Armstrong's gratitude was beyond words. He had set his heart, for the sake of the children of his late colleague, and even for Roger's sake, on covering with a cloak of oblivion the crime of which chance had made him the detector. This American had it in his power to aid or thwart him, and had chosen the former course; and a great weight was lifted off the tutor's mind in consequence. On the following day he was calling at the Yeld bank to transact some business (part of which was to pay in Mr Headland's cheque), when the manager invited him into his parlour. This functionary was a respectable, middle-aged person, who had held his appointment for five or six years, keeping pretty much to himself, and, as is the lot of bank managers, being made a great deal of by clients who chanced to be, or desired to be, under obligations to his bank. "Mr Armstrong," said he, "you will pardon me, but there's a little matter--" "Hullo!" thought the tutor, "has the bank stopped payment, or the Maxfield securities been robbed?" "Well, sir?" "It's a private matter, and I should not mention it if it were not for the talk which is going to and fro about young Mr Ingleton's lost brother. I understand there's a claimant for the title, and not a very eligible one." "On the contrary, most ineligible," said the tutor. "And it seems likely that he will, under present circumstances, keep far enough away from these parts?" "Naturally. The coroner's jury have given him a pressing invitation, which he feels compelled to decline." "Well, about this lost boy. You'll think me impertinent, but I think I can tell you something about him." The tutor started, and looked hard at the speaker. "Yes," said the latter mildly. "As you know, I've not been here long. My predecessor, Mr Morris, was a friend of the family. I remember his once mentioning an elder son of the Squire who had been reported dead, and that was all I ever heard of the matter from him or anybody else. But only last week, in a bundle of documents relating to Mr Morris's own affairs, which, as his executor, it was my duty to examine, I came upon a letter which, though evidently private at the time, seems as if it ought at least to be seen by you and your ward now. It proves that ten years ago the elder son was alive, and being in his handwriting, it may be important evidence if you have to deal with the claim of an impostor." The tutor expressed considerable discomfort at this new complication, and regarded the document in the banker's hand as if it were an infernal machine. "It's private, you say. Would it not be better to regard it as such?" "I think it should be seen. If you prefer I will submit it to Mr Pottinger." This settled the business. The tutor stretched out his hand for the letter. It was dated from on board the ship "Cyclops," off Havana, ten years ago, and, by the unsteady character of the handwriting, which rendered some words almost illegible, had evidently been written in a high sea. Mr Armstrong could scarcely help smiling at the banker's naive suggestion as to the use of the document as evidence of handwriting. The note was as follows:-- "Dear Mr Morris,--I write to you in strictest confidence. My father probably has given me up for dead. I hope so. On no account must he know that I have written to you. My object is to enclose a twenty- five dollar note which I owe him. Once, before we quarrelled, he lent me five pounds. I want to pay it back without any one knowing of it, because I'm determined not to owe anything to anybody, especially to one who has told me I'm not honest. Please put it into his bank account. He probably will never notice it; anyhow, please, whatever you do, don't tell him or any one alive where it came from, or that you ever heard a word from me or of me. I trust you as a gentleman. "Yours truly,-- "Roger Ingleton." "Well, sir," said the banker, who had watched the reading curiously, "does it not seem an important letter?" "I think so. It appears to be genuine, too, on the face of it. If you will allow me I should like my ward to see it. It will interest him." The tutor was not wrong. With this strange missive in his hand all Roger's yearnings towards his lost brother returned in full force. The object of his search seemed suddenly to stand within measurable reach. Ten years appeared nothing beside the twenty which only a few months back had divided them. If he could but postpone his majority another year! Then came the miserable doubt about Ratman. If, after all, his unlikely, discredited story should prove to have a grain of truth at the bottom of it! But he dismissed the doubt for the hope. "Armstrong, I must go to town to find out about the `Cyclops.' Come with me, there's a good fellow. In three weeks it will be too late." The tutor was prepared for this decision. "By all means," said he. "We will go to-morrow to inquire after a passenger or sailor who was on board a sailing-vessel, nationality unknown, which happened to be off Havana in a heavy sea on October 20, ten years ago." "I know it's absurd," said Roger, "but I can't help it. I never seemed so near my brother before. I should despise myself if I sat idle here." So it happened that, just when Maxfield was preparing in a quiet way to celebrate the coming of age of the heir; just as the gloom which had followed on Captain Oliphant's tragic death was beginning to lift a little and allow Tom and Jill decorously to think of football; just as Rosalind was beginning to make up her mind that she was not destined for ever to teach the elements of art and science to the Vicarage children; just when everything seemed to be settling down for the last scene of the drama, Roger and his tutor vanished once more on their familiar wild-goose chase. Dr Brandram grumbled; the county gentry shook their heads; Mr Pottinger breathed again. No one thought well of the expedition; some went so far as to make a jest of it. Roger cared nothing for what people thought. With Armstrong to back him, with Rosalind to bid him a brave God-speed, with his own stout heart to buoy him up, and with his lost brother only ten years distant, he could afford to start in good cheer, and let the world think what it liked. But the cheer was destined to failure. They heard of one or two vessels called the "Cyclops," but respecting the crew or passengers, of none of them was it possible to glean a word of news. The vessel in question might have been ship, schooner, or barque; she might have been English, American, Indian, or Australian; she might have foundered, or changed her name, or been broken up for lumber. Lloyds knew her not. West India merchants had never heard of her. Of all their quests, this seemed the most vague and hopeless. Up to the last, Roger stuck doggedly to it. Even if he spent his majority in the London docks he would not turn tail. The tutor backed up loyally, did most of the work, made most of the inquiries, never grumbled or gibed or protested. When Roger looked most like giving in, it was the tutor who put fresh heart into him. "To-morrow," said Roger on the eve of his birthday, "I will give it up. But there is a day yet." And sure enough, on the last day, a vague ray of light came in the shape of a telegram from the port-master at Havana, to whom, at the tutor's suggestion, a message of inquiry had been sent:-- "_Cyclops known. Writing_." Writing! A letter would take weeks to come, and they had but a day! They hurried to the telegraph-office and sent an urgent message begging particulars by wire whatever the cost. Late that day, indeed it was nearly midnight, the reply came:-- "_Sailed Ceylon, West Indies. Name Ingleton unknown. Ship now here_." Roger staggered from the office a beaten man. Through the deserted City streets the clocks were booming the hour of midnight and ushering in his majority. His brother! All along he had persuaded himself this quest was to end in victory, that before now he should have met his brother face to face and given him what was his. To-day it was no longer his to give. The race was already over, and the clock had won. His brother was not there. "Take my arm, dear old fellow," said Mr Armstrong, "and cheer up." CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. MISSING LINKS. For three hours that night the two friends, arm-in-arm, paced the empty streets, saying little, brooding much, yet gaining courage at every step. The touch of his guardian's arm thrilled Roger now and again with a sensation of hope and relief in the midst of his dejection which almost surprised him. He had lost his brother; but was not this man as good as a brother to him? Would life be quite brotherless as long as he remained at his side? The tutor, for his part, experienced a strange emotion too. The opening day had brought a crisis in his life as well as in that of his ward. It was a day to which he had long looked forward, partly with the dread of separation, partly with the joy of a man who has honestly done his work and is about to render up his trust. But was it all over now? No longer now was he a guardian or governor. Was he therefore to lose this gallant comrade, to whom all the brotherhood in his nature went out? With reflections such as these it is scarcely to be wondered at that little was said during that long aimless walk. At last Roger shivered. "Let's turn in," said Mr Armstrong. They were in a street off the Strand, a long way from their hotel, and no cab in sight. "Any place will do," said Roger. "Why not this?" and he pointed to the door of a seedy-looking private hotel, over which a lamp burned with the legend--"Night porter in attendance." The tutor surveyed the house curiously through his and then said-- "Quite so; I stayed here once before," and rang the bell. The door was opened by a person of whose nationality there could be little doubt, particularly when, after a momentary inspection of his belated guests, he uttered an exclamation of joy and accosted the tutor-- "_Mon ami_! Oh! I am glad to see you, my good friend. Friend of my _pauvre pere_!--friend of my youth! It is you. Ah, Monsieur!" added he, addressing Roger, "for your friend's sake you are welcome. _Entrez_!" "Be quiet now, Gustav," said the tutor. "Bring us come coffee in the coffee-room, if you can get it made, and light a fire in the bedroom. We will talk in the morning." Gustav gesticulated delighted acquiescence in any demand his hero made, and ushered them into the coffee-room. "What a queer fellow!" said Roger when he had vanished in search of the coffee. "Queer but good-hearted fellow is Gustav," said the tutor. "I have known him a long time; to-morrow I'll tell you-- Hullo!" There was but a single candle in the room, and by its dim light, and that of the half-expired fire, they had not at first been able to see that they were not the sole occupants of the apartment. On the sofa lay curled the figure of a man breathing heavily, and, to judge by the spirit-bottle and glasses on the table at his hand, expiating a carouse by a disturbed and feverished slumber. The tutor raised the candle so that the light fell more clearly on the sleeper. Something in the figure had struck him. The man lay with his face turned towards them. He was stylishly though cheaply dressed. His age may have been forty, and his features were half obscured by a profuse and unkempt sandy beard. This was not what had struck the tutor. In his frequent turnings and tossings the sleeper had contrived to betray the fact that his hirsute appearance was due not to nature but to art. A wire hook had been displaced from the ear, leaving one side of the wig tilted so as to disclose underneath the smooth cheek of a clean-shaven man. The examination was still in process when Gustav re-entered the room. The clatter with which he put down the cups on the table, aided by the glare of the candle and the tutor's sharp ejaculation, wakened the sleeper with a start. He was sober enough as he raised his head sharply and sprang to his feet. In doing this the treacherous wig slipped still farther. Before he could raise his hand to replace it Mr Armstrong had stepped forward and torn the mask from his face, disclosing the livid countenance of Mr Robert Ratman! The surprise on either side was at first beyond reach of words. The miscreant stood staring in a dazed way, first at Armstrong, then at Roger, then at Gustav, who, being a Frenchman, was the first to come to his use of his tongue. "_Mon dieu_! Monsieur, this is no bedroom for the gentleman. It is forbidden to sleep all night in the _salle a manger_." "Silence, Gustav! Go for a policeman," said Armstrong in a tone so strange that the faithful Gustav slunk away like a dog with his tail between his legs. "Now, sir!" said the tutor as the door closed. The wretch made one wild effort at escape. He might have known by this time with whom he had to deal. Mr Armstrong held him by the wrist as in a vice. "It won't do, Ratman," said he. "The game is up. The best thing you can do is to stand quietly here till the police come." The prisoner sullenly abandoned his struggle, and turned with a bitter sneer to Roger. "So you've run me down, have you? You've found your lost brother at last? I expected it. I was a fool to suppose you would lift a finger for me. There's some chance of escaping from an enemy, but from a brother who has set himself to hound a brother to death, never. Never mind. Your money's safe now. Have me hung as soon as you like; the sooner the better for me." Roger, stupefied and stung to the quick by these taunts, winced as though he and not the speaker were the miscreant. He looked almost appealingly at his accuser, and tried to speak to justify himself, but the words refused to come. Suddenly he seemed to detect in the prisoner's eye some new sinister purpose. "Take care, Armstrong; take care!" he cried, and flung himself between the two. It was not an instant too soon. With his free hand Ratman had contrived while talking to reach unheeded a pocket, from which he suddenly whipped a pistol, and, pounding on his captor, fired. The shot was badly and wildly aimed at the tutor's face. Even at so short a distance it might have missed its mark altogether. Roger's sudden intervention, however, found it an unexpected target. The lad's up-flung hand caught the pistol at the moment it went off, and received in its palm the ball which had been intended for his friend. The sight of this untoward accident completely unnerved the prisoner. He sullenly let the weapon drop from his fingers, and with the air of a gambler who has played and lost his last stake, sank listlessly on the sofa on which not ten minutes before he had been sleeping. "Luck's against me," he said with an oath. "Look to the boy; I shan't trouble you any more. I've done him harm enough without this. I wish I'd never heard of his elder brother." The tutor, busy binding up his ward's hand, only half heard the words; but Roger, amidst all his pain, heard it and looked up. "Then you are not my brother?" he said faintly. "Brother? No. And if you hadn't left the papers about in your room a year ago I should never have known it was worth my while to pretend it." When, a few moments later, Gustav entered with two constables, Mr Ratman welcomed the visitors with a sigh almost of relief, and placed himself quietly in their hands. As he passed the chair where Roger sat, half faint with pain and loss of blood, he stopped a moment and said-- "Your brother! No. If I had been I shouldn't have come to this." About ten days later a small party was gathered in Roger's cosy den at Maxfield. The young Squire was there, with his hand in a sling, still pale and weak, but able to sit up on the sofa and enjoy for the first time the society of a few choice friends. Among those friends it was not surprising to find Rosalind. That young lady had recently exchanged the duties of governess at the Vicarage for those of temporary sick-nurse at the manor-house, and to-night, in her simple mourning, with a flush of pleasure on her cheek as now and again she turned her eyes to the patient whose recovery did her care such credit she looked--at least Roger, an impartial witness, thought so--more beautiful than ever. But as Roger made the same discovery every time he and his nurse met, the opinion may be regarded as of relative value. Tom was there, enjoying himself as usual, indeed rather more than usual, because in the stable hard by, munching his oats, was a horse (the gift of the Squire) who owned him, Tom, as lord and master. Jill was there too, a little pensive as she looked round for some one who was not there, but trying hard to enjoy herself and seem glad. Besides these intimates there was Mr Headland, feeling like a father to everybody; Dr Brandram, in professional attendance; and the Vicar himself, accidentally present to congratulate his young parishioner on his recovery. The absentee of the evening was Mr Armstrong, who had gone to London the previous day on matters connected with the approaching assizes. "I wish Armstrong was here," said Tom. "Won't he open his eye when he sees `Crocodile'!" "Crocodile" was the name of the horse before mentioned. "It hardly seems like a party without him," said Jill, blushing a little. "You were telling us about the letter written at sea," said the vicar. "Of course, you heard nothing of the ship in London?" "Yes, I did," said Roger. "After no end of disappointment, Armstrong suggested telegraphing to the post-master at Havana, off which the letter was written, you know, and we heard that there had been a ship called the `Cyclops' ten years ago trading between the West Indies and Ceylon, but that nothing was known of any one of the name of Ingleton." Rosalind looked up suddenly. "Ceylon and the West Indies?" exclaimed she. "Roger, did Mr Armstrong never tell you a story he once told me of a shark adventure which happened to him when he was a sailor on a ship trading between Ceylon and the West Indies?" The sudden silence which followed this inquiry was only broken by a low whistle of wonder from Tom. Roger, with a flush of colour on his pale cheeks, sat up and said, "What is the story?" Rosalind told it as nearly as possible in the tutor's own words. "He did not tell you the name of the ship?" asked the doctor. "No." "Or the name of the man who was killed?" "No." There was another silence; it seemed as if they were sitting as witnesses to the completion of some curious tunnelling operation, when the party on one side suddenly catches sound of the pick-axe stroke of the party on the other. Step by step the lost Roger Ingleton had been tracked forward to the deck of this West India trading-ship; and backward, step by step, the tutor's history went, till it almost touched the same point. "I expect," said Tom, with a cheerfulness hardly in accord with the spirits of the company generally, "the fellow who was had by the shark was the one, and Armstrong never knew it." The profound young man had dropped on the very idea which was present in the minds of each one. "Wal," said the American mayor, "it may be so; but the question I'm asking myself is this: If so, it's singular Mr Armstrong did not mention the coincidence when you got the cablegram." "Oh," said Roger, "at the time I was so cut up to find I'd failed after all, that I didn't care to talk; and directly after that we met Ratman. He had no chance." "I calculate I'd like to ask your tutor one or two pertinent questions," said the Mayor. The meeting was fully with him, when Tom broke out again-- "I say, I know. Let's ask Gustav. He's no end chummy with Armstrong. He might know a thing or two. He's the chap I told you about at Christy's minstrels," continued Master Tom, warming up at the genial reminiscence. "Is that the French waiter down-stairs who helped bring you down from London?" asked the doctor. "Yes. I'm keeping him here as valet for the present. Armstrong mentioned, I remember, that he knew him." "Ring him up," said Tom. Gustav appeared, all smiles and shrugs and compliments. "_Eh bien_! my good gentleman," said he, "I am 'appy to see you well. I was _mortifie_ for your mishap; but Mademoiselle--ah, Mademoiselle!"-- here he raised his fingers gracefully to his lips--"ze angel step in where ze _pauvre garcon_ may not walk. You could not but be well with a nurse so _charmante_. Ah, my friend, 'ow 'appy will be my good, kind friend when he return!" "You mean Mr Armstrong. Have you known him long?" asked Roger. "_Pardieu_! Ten, fifteen, twenty year; I know not how long. He is brother to me, your kind governor. He is to the _pauvre pere_ a son, and to the _petite Francoise_--_ah! quelle est morte_!" "What was the name of your father?" demanded Roger, his hand tightening on Rosalind's as he spoke. "Ah, Monsieur! a poor name; he is called like me, Gustav Callot." The poor valet was thunderstruck by the sensation which his simple words caused. Surely the English gentlemen and ladies are beautiful listeners; no one ever paid him so much attention in his own country. The American mayor took up the examination. "I reckon," drawled he, "that young man did not go by the name of Armstrong when you knew him." "Ah, no! He has many names, my good, kind friend. It was Monsieur Rogers when we knew his finest. Ah! he act the comedy beautiful! Then when to came to cherish the _pauvre pere_ in Paris, and mourn with him the death of _la petite Francoise_, he call himself by our poor name. Ah! gentlemen, he was good to us. All he save at `L'Hotel Soult' he share with us--and _apres_ from the sea he even send us pay." "What was his ship, do you remember?" "Shall I forget? He told us it had but one eye, and called itself `Cyclops' Ah! _mes amis_," continued Gustav, delighted with his audience and amazed at his own oratorical gifts, "he was much changed when I saw him next. 'Tis six, seven, eight years since. The beard is all shorn, the curl is cut off, the eye looks through a glass, and the laugh--_helas_! gentlemen, the gay laugh of the boy Rogers is turned to the knit brow of the great man Armstrong." The company had had enough of elocution for one evening, and dismissed the orator with flattering marks of consideration. The doctor and the vicar rose to go. Close friends of the family as they were, even they were superfluous at a time like this. But the American mayor remained. "I guess," said he, "my nephew--" "Oh!" cried Jill, "then you are his uncle--dear, dear Mr Headland!" and the little maid flung herself into the astonished gentleman's arms and relieved her emotions with a flood of tears. "Seems to me," said he, looking down and kindly patting the fair head, "my nephew's a hundred miles too far away at this minute." American mayors are not as a rule endowed with gifts of prophecy, but it seemed as if there was an exception to the rule in the case of Mr Headland; for a moment later the door opened, and the tutor, eye-glass erect, and blissfully unconscious of the interest which his entry excited, strolled jauntily in. "Ah," said he, "you're still up, then. I just caught the last--" He stopped short, and the glass dropped abruptly from his eye. Roger had staggered to his feet and was standing with face aglow, stretching out his hand. The tutor comprehended all. He advanced and placed his arm in that of his brother. "You have found him at last, then, old fellow?" "Yes, and without your help." THE END. 
36759	----	produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) DAISY; OR, THE FAIRY SPECTACLES. BY THE AUTHOR OF "VIOLET; A FAIRY STORY." BOSTON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY. 1857. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. Stereotyped at the Boston Stereotype Foundry. PUBLISHERS' ADVERTISEMENT. The universal commendation bestowed upon the exquisite little story of "VIOLET," published last year, has led to the issue of this second book, by the same author. It will be found to possess the same delightful simplicity of style, the same sympathy with nature, the same love of the good and the true, which characterized its predecessor. To those parents who would bring their children into contact with a mind of perfect purity, strong in correct principles, loving and liberal in nature, and refined in tastes and sympathies, the publishers commend this little volume. DAISY; OR THE FAIRY SPECTACLES. CHAPTER I. THE OLD FAIRY. There was a great forest, once, where you might walk for miles, and never hear a sound except the tapping of woodpeckers, the hooting of owls, or the low bark of wolves, or the strokes of a woodman's axe. For on the borders of this wild, solitary place one man had built his little house, and lived there. It was very near the trees which he spent his time in cutting down; and Peter thought this all he cared about. But when the summer wore away, and the cold, lonely winter months came on, and there was no one to keep his fire burning and the wind from sweeping through his home, and no one to smile upon him and comfort him when he came back tired from his hard day's work, Peter grew lonely, and thought he must find a wife. So he went to a market town, a whole day's journey off; for he knew it was a fair-day, and that all the young women of his acquaintance would be there, and many more beside. At first he looked about for the most beautiful, and asked her if she would be his wife; but the beauty tossed her head, and answered, not unless he lived in a two-story house, and had carpets on his floors, and a wagon in which she could drive to town when she chose. All this, was very unlike the home of poor Peter, who had nothing in the world but his rough little cabin and a barrow in which he wheeled his wood. The next maiden told him he had an ugly scar on his face, and was not good looking enough for her; and, besides, his clothes were coarse. The next declared that she was afraid of wolves, and would rather marry one of the village youths, and live where she could hear the news, and on fair-days watch the people come and go. So Peter started for his lonely home again, with a sadder heart than he left it; for there was no chance that he could ever grow handsome or rich, and therefore he thought he must always dwell alone; instead of the music of kind voices, with which he had hoped to make his evenings pleasant, he was still to hear only the cracking of boughs, and hissing of snakes, and the barking of wolves. But suddenly he met in the road some people who seemed more wretched than himself--an old, bent woman, clad in rags, and with such an ugly face that, strong man as he was, Peter could not look at her without trembling, and a girl whom she led, or rather dragged along, through the dusty road. The girl looked as if she had been weeping and was very tired; she did not raise her swollen eyes from the ground while Peter talked with her companion. The old dame said she was a silly thing, crying her eyes out because her mother was dead, when she ought to be thankful to be rid of one so old, and sick, and troublesome. The girl began to cry again, and the woman to scold her loudly. "Just so ungrateful people are," she said; "when I have promised to find a place where you can live at service, and earn money to buy a new gown, you must needs whimper about the old body that's well enough in her grave." "Perhaps the poor child is lonely," said Peter, who had a kind heart under his rough coat, and knew, besides, from his own experience, what a hard thing it is to live with no one to love us and be grateful for our care. [Illustration: SHE PUT THE GIRL'S HAND INTO HIS.] The girl looked up at Peter with her pale, sad face; but her lips trembled so that she could not thank him. And he began to think how this poor beggar must have a gentle and loving heart, because she had taken such good care of her old mother, and, notwithstanding she was so troublesome, had been grieved at losing her. So he made bold to ask once more what he had been refused so many times that day, and had never thought to ask again, whether she would marry him, and live in his little cabin, and cook his meals, and keep his fires burning, and smile and comfort him when he should come home tired from his work. And at these words a bright smile came into the face of the old woman, and seemed for an instant to take its ugliness away. She put the girl's hand into his, and said to her, "One who can forget his own trouble in comforting another will make you a good husband, Susan." All at once the old woman had disappeared; and Peter and Susan, hand in hand, were travelling towards the cabin in the wood. They looked about in every direction; but she was gone. Then they looked in each other's faces, and seemed to remember that they had seen each other before; at least, Peter knew he had always meant to have exactly such a wife as Susan, and Susan was sure that, if she had looked through the world, she could have found no one so manly, and kind, and generous as Peter. I may as well tell you a secret, to begin with--that it was no accident which led the young woman into Peter's path, but a plan of the old dame. And she was not the withered hag she seemed, but the youngest and most beautiful fairy that ever entered this earth--the strongest, too, and richest, for the earth itself is only a part of her treasure; and should she forsake it for a moment, our world would wither like a flower cut from its stem, and be blown away with the first wind that came. But you must find out for yourselves the fairy's name. CHAPTER II. THE WOODLAND HOME. To Susan Peter's cabin seemed like a palace; for he had taken care that it should look clean and pleasant when his new wife came. It was shaded with the beautiful boughs of the wood; and the door stood open, for he had no lock and key. There were inside some comfortable seats, and a fireplace, and table, and some wild flowers in a cup; and on the floor were patches of sunshine that had crept through the leaves, and made the room look only cooler and shadier. Peter opened a closet, and showed his stores of meal and sugar, and all his pans and dishes; and he took from his pocket the stuff for a new gown, which he had bought at the fair on purpose for his wife, and wheeled from its dark corner an easy chair he had made for her, and hung upon the wall a little looking glass, so that she might not forget, he said, to keep her hair smooth, and look handsome when he should come home at evening. Poor Susan could hardly believe her own senses: but a few hours ago she had been a beggar in the streets, without one friend except the old woman that dragged her through the dust and scolded her. Many a night they had slept out of doors, with only a thorny hedge for shelter and the damp grass for a bed; and if it rained, and they were out, had had no fire to dry their shivering limbs; and when they woke up hungry in the morning, had no breakfast to cook or eat. And now the lonely beggar girl was mistress of a house, and the wife of a man whom she would not exchange for the whole wide world, and who seemed pleased with her, and even proud of her. So you see, dear children, that it is never worth while to be unhappy about our trials, because we do not know what may happen the next minute. We never can guess what good fortune is travelling towards us, and may, when times seem darkest, be standing outside of our door. The poor debtor in jail may suddenly hear that he has been made a prince; the dear friend that is sick, and seems almost sure to die, may arise all the stronger, and the dearer, too, for the illness which frightened us; the sad accident that causes such pain, and perhaps mutilates us for life, may have kept off from us some more dreadful pain--we cannot tell. But of this we may always be sure, that the good God, who never sleeps nor grows tired, loves and watches over us, and sends alike joy and sorrow, to make our souls purer, and fitter to live in his beautiful home on high. Susan never was sorry that the strange old dame had put her hand in Peter's; for he led her through the pleasantest paths he could find, and when the way grew rough, he was so careful of her comfort, and so grieved for her, that she almost wished it might never be smooth again. They were very poor, and worked hard from morning until night, and often had not quite clothes enough to wear nor food enough to eat; but they were satisfied with a little, and loved each other, and enjoyed their quiet, shady home. Many a time they talked over the strange events of their wedding day, and wondered if they had really happened, or were only the recollections of a dream; and Susan would declare that she had not yet awakened from her dream, and prayed she never might; for the cold, cruel, lonely world she always knew before that day had changed to a beautiful, sunny home, where she still lived, as merry as a bird. Susan was not so ignorant as you might think; for before her old mother was taken sick, she had lived at service, and though unkindly treated, had learned to do many things, and could prepare for Peter little comforts of which he never dreamed before. She had, too, a pleasant voice, and she and her husband sang together of evenings; so that it happened, after his wife came, Peter never heard the snakes or wolves again. Ah, and there were more cruel, more fearful snakes and wolves that Susan kept away. Suppose she had been ill natured or discontented, and instead of enjoying her house, had tormented Peter because it was not a more splendid one; and when he came home tired, instead of singing pleasant songs to him, had fretted about her little troubles, and they had vexed and quarrelled with each other; do you think the far-off voices of snakes and wolves outside would have made the poor man's home as doleful as those angry, peevish voices within, which no lock could fasten out? CHAPTER III. DAISY. Perhaps by this time you are wondering what has become of the fairy. This is exactly what Susan used to wonder; and when, at evening, she went out to tell Peter that supper was ready, and it was time for him to leave off work, if a leaf fell suddenly down, or a rabbit ran across her path, she would start and look about cautiously; for it seemed to her the old woman might at any time come creeping along under one of the tall arches which the boughs made on every side, or even she might be perched among the dusky branches of the trees. Peter used to laugh at her, and ask if she could find nothing pretty and pleasant in all the beautiful wood, that she must be forever searching for that ugly face. But, to tell the truth, when he walked home alone after dark, and the wind was dashing the boughs about, and sighing through them, and strange-looking shadows came creeping past him, Peter himself would quicken his pace, and whistle loudly so as not to hear the sounds that came thicker and thicker, and seemed like unearthly voices. He could not help a feeling, such as Susan had, that the old fairy was hidden somewhere in the wood, and that her dreadful face might look up out of the ground, or from behind some shadowy rock. He did not know what a lovely, smiling face was hidden beneath the dame's wrinkles and rags; he did not know that this spirit, he dreaded so much, was his best and kindest friend; and that, while he feared to meet her, she was always walking by his side, and keeping troubles away, and it was even her kind hand that parted the boughs sometimes, to let the sunshine stream upon his little home. It is very foolish to fear any thing, for our fears cannot possibly keep danger away; and suppose we should sometimes meet living shadows, and dreadful grinning faces, in a lonely place, it is not likely they would eat us up; and it is a great deal better and braver for us to laugh back at them than to be frightened out of our senses, and run into some real danger to escape a fancied one. The fairy was not to be found by seeking her, but she came at last of her own accord. When Peter came home from his work, one night, and passed the place where Susan usually met him, she was not there; he walked slowly, for it was a beautiful evening, and he did not wish to disappoint his wife, who thought more of her walk with him than of her supper. No Susan appeared, for all his lingering; and when his own door was reached, who should stand there but the old woman, her ugly face bright with smiles; and in her arms a little child, as small, and helpless, and homely as you would wish to see. But it belonged to Peter and Susan; and if children are ever so homely, their own parents always think them beautiful. You never saw a person so pleased as Peter; he hugged his little girl, and danced about with her, and went out to the door, when it was light, to look at her face, again and again. It seemed to him as if a miracle had been wrought on purpose for him; and already he could fancy the little one running about his home, building up gardens out of sticks and stones, and singing with a voice as musical as her mother's, and even pleasanter, because it would sound so childish and innocent. Of course Susan was pleased with what delighted Peter so much; and neither of them minded the little homely face, except once, when Peter declared it looked like the old woman herself, and he was afraid it had caught her ugliness. "What's that--what's that?" exclaimed the fairy, whom he supposed to have gone away; for he was too happy to think much about _her_. Up she started from Susan's easy chair, with her great eyes glittering at him, and her wide mouth opening as if she would devour the baby. "I said she looked like her godmother," answered Peter, holding his child a little closer, and moving towards the door to look at its face again. "Then," cried the old dame, "I must christen her. There is nothing rich or beautiful about her looks, and it would be foolish to call her by a splendid name. She will live in lonely, lowly places, and grow without any one's help, and always have a bright, fresh, loving face, that looks calmly up to heaven: we must call her Daisy. Take care of her heart, now, Peter; and this gift of mine will be a more precious one than ever was bestowed upon a queen." So she fumbled a while in her great pocket, and brought out a pair of rusty spectacles, which she offered Peter: but he did not know this, for he was looking at Susan; and the fairy laid them upon the little, sleeping bosom of the child, and hobbled off into the dark, and was not seen in Peter's house again for many a day. "What folly is the meddlesome old dame about, I wonder?" said Peter to himself, taking up the spectacles, and about to throw them away; but the child opened her eyes, and took them in her little hand in such a knowing way, he must needs have her mother see it. "Dear soul!" exclaimed Susan; "she will be such a comfort to me, when I am here alone all day with my work! What shall we name her? It must be something bright and pleasant; and it seems to me there is nothing prettier than Daisy." Now, while Peter and the old woman were talking by the door, Susan had been fast asleep, and had not heard what they said. "The dame has talked you into that fancy," answered Peter. "I should call the little one Susan." "What dame?" asked the wife, in surprise. "You cannot mean that the old woman has been here." If he had ever heard Susan speak an untruth, Peter would have thought she was deceiving him now; but he felt that she was good and true, and thought, perhaps, after all, she had been so drowsy as to forget the dame's visit; so he patiently told about it, spectacles and all. Susan took them in her hand with some curiosity, and even tried them upon Daisy's face; they were large and homely, besides being all over rust. While Daisy wore them, the moonlight broke through the boughs again, to show her little face, looking so old, and wise, and strange, that Susan snatched the spectacles off, and threw them into a drawer, where she quite forgot them, and where they lay, growing rustier, for years. CHAPTER IV. GREAT PICTURE BOOKS. You would not suppose that Susan's home could be any different because such a poor little thing as Daisy had come into it; but bright and pleasant as it was before, it was a hundred times brighter and pleasanter now. The child was so gentle and loving, and so happy and full of life, that Susan and Peter felt almost like children themselves, in watching her. No matter how tired Peter was at night, he would frolic an hour with Daisy, tossing the little thing in the air, lifting her up among the boughs till she was hidden from sight. And Susan would leave her work any time to admire Daisy's garden, or to dress the wooden doll that Peter had made for her. As for Daisy's self, she was the busiest little soul alive, after she once learned to walk; for at first she could only lie and look up at the leaves, and the great sky, so far, far off, and see the slow, white clouds sail past the tops of the trees, and watch the birds, that hopped from branch to branch and looked down at her curiously, wondering if she were any thing good to eat. Daisy would hold up her little hands, to tell them they'd better not try, and then the bird would turn it off by singing away as if he had no such thought, and watch her as he warbled his gay little song, that said, "O Daisy, I'm having a beautiful time; are you?" Then Daisy would coo, and laugh, and clap her hands, which was her song, and which meant, "Yes, indeed; only wait till I can use my feet, and have a run with you." Peter made a rough kind of cradle out of willow twigs, and hung it in a tree, so that the fresh, green leaves shaded it, and kept away the flies, and fanned Daisy's face, as she lay there swinging, when the day was warm, like a little hangbird in her nest. No wonder the child was always fond of birds, when she began so early to live with them and listen to their songs. But Daisy learned to walk in time; and then she was constantly flying about, like the butterflies she loved. For the little girl thought even more of butterflies than of birds; they seemed to her like beautiful flowers sailing through the air, and making calls upon the other flowers, that were fastened down to the earth,--poor things!--as she used to be before she learned to walk. She would pick the flowers sometimes, and toss them into the air to see if they didn't fly, and tell them they were silly things to fall back on the ground and wilt, when, if they only would not be afraid, they might float off, with all their wings, and see a little of the world. Daisy's hands were always full of flowers; and she brought some to the cabin which Susan had never seen before; for the good woman could not leave her work long enough to go in such out-of-the-way places as they chose to blossom in. Daisy had no work except to amuse herself; and she never tired of trudging under the trees, crowding her way among the tall weeds by the river bank, and creeping behind great rocks, or into soft, mossy places in the heart of the quiet wood; and here she was sure of finding strange and lovely things. These were the little girl's books; she had no spelling and history like yours, but studied the shapes of leaves and clouds, and the sunshine, and river, and birds. She did not know all their names, but could tell you where the swallow lived, and where wild honeysuckles grew, and the humming bird hid her little eggs, and how many nuts the squirrel was hoarding for winter time, and how nicely the ant had cleaned her house for spring, and when the winged seeds on the maple tree would change to broad green leaves, and the leaves themselves would change to colors as gay as the sunset, and then all droop and wither, and leave the bright little stars to wink at her through the naked boughs. The birds all knew Daisy, and were not afraid of her; they would bring their young ones about the door, that she might feed them with crumbs and seeds. And even the sly little rabbits, that started if a leaf fell, came quietly and nibbled grass from Daisy's hands, and let her stroke their long, soft ears. You may wonder that Susan was not afraid the snakes and wolves would devour her little girl; but, as I told you before, she never could help thinking that the old woman was somewhere in the wood, and remembering how she had smiled at looking into the baby's face, thought she would not let Daisy come to any harm. And she was right; for the fairy only lifted her finger when the little girl passed, and the wolf that had begun to watch and growl at her would crouch back in his den, and fall asleep. But he would not have frightened Daisy, had he come forth; she did not know the name of fear, and, glad to see a new play-fellow, would perhaps have climbed on his back, and, patting his mouth so gently with her little hand that he forgot to growl, would have told him now he might gallop along, and take her home to her mother. CHAPTER V. TROUBLE FOR DAISY. It was fortunate that Susan was so happy while she could be; for the poor woman little dreamed how soon her sunny home was to become a sad, dark place for her. Peter used to go forth in the morning, whistling as gayly as any of the birds; and Daisy following him, proud enough that she could carry his little dinner basket for the short way she went. She did not know that what was such a heavy load to her was only a feather for the strong man to lift, and so delighted in thinking she had grown old enough to help her dear father. Still Peter had to watch his dinner closely; for Daisy would espy some beautiful flower or vine looking at her from away off in the shade; and down the basket would go, and the little girl was off to take a nearer look, and see if she could not break off a branch to carry home to her mother. Sometimes Peter walked so fast, or Daisy staid so long, that they lost each other; and then the father made a call that could be heard for miles, which frightened all the birds home to their nests, and must have startled the old dame herself, wherever she might be lurking in the wood. But the call was music to Daisy; and before many minutes, she would come bounding into her father's arms, almost hidden in the waving white blossoms with which she had loaded herself. And all this while, unless Peter himself took care of it, what would become of his dinner! When Susan went to meet her husband at evening, now, Daisy was sure to be with her--one moment holding her hand, the next skipping away alone, or kneeling to gather bright pebbles and sheets of green moss, to make banks and paths in her garden. She fluttered about in the sunshine like the butterflies she loved, and was as harmless and gentle. But, alas! one night, no Peter came to meet them; and though Daisy kept thinking she heard his step or his voice, it could only be the fall of some dead limb or the hooting of an owl. The night grew darker, and it lightened so sharply that Daisy clung to her mother's skirts, and begged her to hide somewhere under a rock until the storm should be past, as the little girl felt almost sure her father had done. But Susan groped her way on, with the wind blowing the branches into their faces, and the dead boughs snapping and falling about them, and the snakes, that they had never seen before, gliding across the path, hissing, and running their forked tongues out with fear. And at length they found poor Peter, dead, on the ground. The tree which he had been cutting down had fallen suddenly, and crushed his head so under its great trunk that they only knew him by his clothes. CHAPTER VI. THE SWEETEST FLOWER. Small as Daisy was, she saw that her father could never speak to her again; she remembered how kind he had always been; how many good times they had had together; how, that very morning, he had waited, on his way to work, and climbed a tall tree, only to tell her whether the eggs were hatched in the blue-jay's nest. She thought, too, how he had let her go farther than usual, and then walked back with her part way, to be sure she was in the right path, and how gently he had kissed her at parting, and told her to be a good girl, and help her mother. Ah, she would take care to do that now, and never forget the last words which her dear father spoke to her. When our friends are taken away, we remember every little kind word, or look, or smile they ever gave us--things we hardly noticed while they were alive; and Daisy could remember only kindness, only smiles and pleasant words. She thought no one could ever have had so good a father as Peter was to her, and that no little girl could be so lonely and wretched as she was now. Who was there left to call her up in the morning before the birds, and to make her garden tools, and swing her in the boughs, and listen to her stories at night about the rabbits and flowers? It seemed as if her heart would break. But Daisy had one pleasant thought to comfort her--it seemed like a sweet flower that her father had dropped down from his new home in paradise, and which she would always wear in her bosom; and perhaps he would know her by it when, after a great many years, she should go to live with him there. This dear thought was, that when Peter lived, she had done every thing in her power to please him and make him forget his weariness, and that he had known of this thoughtfulness, and loved her for it, and had always felt younger and happier when she was by his side. If your brothers and sisters or parents die, whether by accident or sickness, are you sure that they would leave you such a comforter as Daisy had? Think about it; for when you stand by their coffins, and it is too late to change the past, and the cold lips have spoken their last word, this little flower will be worth more to you--though no one may see it except yourself--than all the treasure in the world. But if you have been cold and cruel, there will come into your heart, instead, when you think of them, a dismal shadow, which all the light of the blessed sun cannot drive away. CHAPTER VII. THE WOODMAN'S FUNERAL. Daisy did not see the lightning, nor hear the snakes, nor feel the drops of rain that began to patter down; she only felt the cold hand that would never lead her through the wood again; for when she lifted it, it fell back on the ground, dead--dead! She asked her mother if they were not going home; but Susan said her home was with Peter; and if he staid out in the dark wood, she must stay there, too. She was frightened, and wild with sorrow, and did not know what she was saying, and began, at last, to blame the old woman, who had brought her there, she said, to be so happy for a little while, and always afterwards lonely and wretched--the old hag! "What old hag!" said a voice close to Susan's ear, that brought her senses back quickly. "Is this all your gratitude, Susan? And are you going to kill your child, out here, with the cold and damp, because your husband's gone? Come! we must bury him; and then away to your home, and don't sit here, abusing your best friend." Daisy, you know, had never seen the woman, and she had never looked so dreadfully as now; she was pale and starved, and her great eyes glittered like the eyes of the snakes, and her voice was sharp and shrill enough to have frightened one on a pleasanter night than that. With Peter's axe the fairy sharpened two stout sticks; one of these she made Susan take, and there, by the light of the quick flashes of lightning, and a little lantern that the woman wore like a brooch on her bosom, Daisy watched them dig her father's grave. The fallen tree was one of the largest in the wood, and the two women could not lift it; so they dug the earth away at the side and underneath the trunk; and when the place was deep enough, poor Peter's body dropped into its grave. While her mother and the fairy were filling it over with earth, Daisy went for the moss which she had gathered to show her father, and, by the light of the fairy's lamp, picked the sweetest flowers, and fragrant grasses, and broad leaves that glistened with the rain, and scattered them on the spot. Then, with one of Susan's and one of Daisy's hands in hers, the old dame hurried them out of the wood. They stumbled often over the broken boughs, and stepped, before they knew it, on the snakes, that only hissed and slid away among the grass. Susan was crying bitterly, and their guide kept scolding her, and Daisy heard the wolves growl in their dens. She had heard of great funerals, where there were carriages and nodding plumes, and heavy velvet palls, and bells tolling mournfully; but Daisy thought it was because her father had been such a good man, that his funeral was so much grander. She knew that all about his grave, and on, on, farther than eye could see, the great forest trees were bending and nodding like black plumes, and sounds like groans and sighs came from them as they dashed together in the wind; the lightning was his funeral torch; and the thunder tolled, instead of bells, at Peter's grave; and the black clouds swept on like a train of mourners; and the great, quick drops of rain made it seem as if all the sky were weeping tears of pity for the little girl. Ah, and Daisy could not see how the dreadful old woman only seemed such, and was, in truth, a good and gentle fairy, who meant still to watch over the little orphan with tender care, as she had always done; whose soft, white wings, even now, were spread above, to shelter her from the cold rain and wind, and whose kind heart was full of pity for that little aching heart of hers. You and I, and all the people we know, walk through the world with this same strange fairy; who seems to frown, and scold, and force us on through cruel storms, and yet who is really smiling upon us, and shielding our shrinking forms with tender care, and leading us gently home. Have you thought yet what can be the fairy's name? CHAPTER VIII. DAISY'S MISSION. No sooner had Daisy stepped inside of her mother's door, than there came such a crash of thunder as she had never heard; and the little house shook as if it must surely fall. The old trees ground their boughs together, and, blown by the wind, the night birds dashed with their wet wings against the door; the screech owl hooted, for the young were washed out of her nest; and the rain leaked under Susan's door sill, ran across the floor, and put out the little fire of brushwood which was burning on the hearth. And Daisy thought of her father, out alone in this fearful night, and how the cold rain must be dripping into his grave. She peeped through the window. The sharp, jagged lightning made the sky look as if it were shattering like a dome of glass. She wondered if that lightning might not be the light of heaven she had heard about, and whether, if the sky should really fall, heaven and earth would be one place, and by taking a long, long journey, she could find her father, and live with him. And she thought that, for the sake of having him to take her by the hand again, she would walk to the end of a hundred worlds. Then the sky seemed to Daisy like a great black bell; and the thunder was the tongue of it that tolled so dismally over her father's grave. She was startled by a bony hand laid upon her shoulder, and looking up, heard the old woman say in her sharp, shrill voice, "Come, little girl! don't you know I am hungry after all this work? Fly round, and get me something to eat." And when Daisy noticed her poor, starved face, she wondered that she had not thought to offer her some food. So she went to the closet,--the same one which poor Peter had shown to his wife with so much pride,--and pointed to bread and a dish of milk,--for the shelves were so high that Daisy could not reach them,--and drew her mother's easy chair into the dryest place she could find, and begged the dame to seat herself. She did not wait to be asked twice, but hobbled into the chair, and, to Daisy's wonder, ate all the bread at a mouthful, and drank the milk at a swallow, and then, looking as hungry as ever, asked for more. So the little girl brought meat, and then some meal, and some dried fruit, and even cracked nuts; but the more she brought, the more the fairy wanted. If Daisy had feared any thing, she would have trembled when, at last, the old dame fixed her glittering eyes upon her, and began to talk. "Couldn't you do any better, Daisy, than this," she said, "for your mother's friend and yours? Are you not ashamed, when I am so hungry and tired, to give me such mean food?" "I am sorry, if you do not like it," said Daisy; "it is the best we ever have." "Don't tell me that," and the dame began to look angry. "Do you call it good food that leaves me thin as I was before, and as hungry, and my clothes as ragged, and does not rest or soothe my poor old aching bones?" "If you wait till mother has done crying, she can make a drink out of herbs that will stop the aching--I am sure of that," said Daisy, looking up in the fairy's face. "But I want it now; and, O, I am so cold! and she will cry all night. Do, Daisy, find me something else to eat." The poor old woman shivered as she spoke, and tears came into her eyes. "If it were daytime, I could find you berries and nuts out doors, for mother says I have sharp eyes." "Have you--have you? And could you find my hut? There is a beautiful loaf of bread and a flask of medicine on the table. O, dear! this dreadful pain again!" and the ugly face grew uglier, as its wrinkles seemed all knotting up with agony. "I am almost sure I could find it, and I am so sorry your bones ache; pray, let me try." "What! go out into the dreadful night, with the owls, and wolves, and snakes, and with bats flapping their wings in your face, and the thunder rolling and rumbling overhead?" "None of these things ever hurt me, and I don't believe they will now. May I try?" "Just listen to the wind and rain, and see the lightning cut through the darkness like a sword; and think, Daisy, if you should see your father, just as he lay in the wood, with his head all crushed." "My father has gone to heaven," said the little girl; "that is only his body out in the woods, just as that is his coat on the wall; and I shall see nothing except the nice loaf of bread and the medicine, and think only how they will cure your pain." Without another word, the fairy took the lantern from her bosom, and fastening it to Daisy's, led her to the door, and pointed out into the black night. "Who could see to hurt me, when it is so dark!" the little girl exclaimed. "Now, tell me which way I shall turn, and see if I am not back soon." "Walk only where the light of the lantern falls." She was saying more; but the wind slammed the door suddenly, and Daisy found herself alone. CHAPTER IX. FAIRY FOOD. The lantern made a little pathway of light, sometimes leading straight forward, sometimes turning, running among thick bushes or over the rocks; and Daisy went bravely on, never minding the frightened birds that fluttered through her light, like moths, nor the sad sigh of the wind, nor the dripping trees. She looked for pleasant things, instead of frightful ones; and let me whisper to you, that, with fairy help or without it, we always find, in this world, what we are looking for. The mosses seemed like a green carpet for her feet, and the pebbles like shining jewels; and the little flowers looked up at her like friends, and seemed to say, "We are smaller and weaker than you are, Daisy; but we stay out here every night, and nothing harms us." And the trees bowed, and folded their leaves above her, as she passed, so gently, that she thought they were trying to shelter and take care of her. At length the light paused before a rock; but Daisy could find no house, until she parted a clump of bushes, and then saw the entrance to a cave. She crept in; and as her lantern filled the place with light, she saw what a damp, uncomfortable home the old dame had, with only some stones for seats, and a table, and a ragged bed, and a smoky corner where she built her fire. There, however, upon the table stood the loaf and flask which Daisy had come to find; she took them and hurried away, for it seemed as if the old dame's face were looking at her out of the rocky wall on every side. [Illustration: THE LOAF AND FLASK.] It was a heavier load for the little girl than her father's basket had been; but she had a strong heart, if her hands were weak. She ran along, trying to get before the light, that was always just in front of her, and singing the merriest songs she knew, so as not to hear the wind nor think about the faces on the wall. She reached home safely, but could not open the door; for the latch was high, and the dame had gone fast asleep. Daisy thought she must wait until daylight out there in the cold, and sat on the step, feeling disappointed and sad enough. But one of her tame rabbits, awakened, perhaps, more easily than the dame, hopped out of his burrow, and nestled in Daisy's lap, and looked up at her with his gentle eyes, while she warmed her hands in his fur, and did not feel so much alone. At last the old woman started from her sleep, and wondering what had become of Daisy, went to look for her. She seized the bread with a cry of joy, and breaking a morsel, ate it eagerly, as she led Daisy towards the fire, which she had built up again. "Now, see the difference between your food and mine." As the fairy spoke, Daisy looked up, and saw, to her surprise, the wrinkles smooth away, and a beautiful light break over the old brown face, the wide mouth shrink to a little rosy one, all smiles, and pearly teeth inside. The fairy's eyes grew brighter than ever; but the dreadful glittering look had gone, and they were full of joy, and peace, and love. "Wait, now, till I take my medicine." Her voice had changed to the softest, most silvery one that Daisy ever heard. And when she had tasted the drink, her poor old crooked hands grew plump and white, her bent form straightened, and, what made Daisy wonder more, even her clothes began to change. First they looked cleaner, then not so faded, then the rags disappeared, and they seemed new and whole; and then they began to grow soft and rich, till the ragged cotton gown was changed to velvet and satin, the knotted old turban to delicate lace, that hung heavy with pearls, but was not so delicate and beautiful as the golden hair that floated about the fairy wherever she moved. "Poor child!" she said; "you are tired and cold; come, rest with me;" and taking Daisy in her arms, began to sing the sweetest songs, that seemed to change every thing into music, even the wailing tempest and her mother's sobs. And all the while that tender, loving face bent over her, and the gentle hands were smoothing her wet hair, and folding her more closely to the fairy's heart. Upon this pillow our tired Daisy fell asleep. CHAPTER X. DAISY'S DREAMS. Strange and pleasant dreams came to Daisy as she slept; and in all of them she could see the beautiful fairy floating over her head, and her father walking by her side. It seemed to her that, as she watched the lightning, the sky really broke like a dome of glass, and came shattering down, and that after it floated the loveliest forms, and odors and music came pouring down, and light which was far clearer, and yet not so dazzling as the light of earth. The clouds came floating towards her, and all their golden edges were bright wings, that waved in time with the music; then came falling, falling slowly as snow flakes, what seemed little pearly clouds, but blossomed into flowers and then changed into sweet faces, that all smiled on her as they passed by. Among these the little girl searched eagerly for her father's face, when all at once he took her in his arms, and said, "Ha, my Daisy! is it you?" in his own merry, pleasant way. This startled her so much that she awoke, only to fall asleep again, and dream another dream as wonderful. But at length the morning sun had crept around the side of the cottage, found its way through the window, and fell so full on Daisy's face, that she could dream only of dazzling, dazzling light, which seemed burning into her eyes, and made her open them wide, at length. And then, alas! how every thing was changed! Her first thought was of the fairy; but she had gone, and Daisy had been sleeping in her mother's easy chair, and felt cold and lonely as she looked around upon the silent room. No music there, no flowers and angelic faces, and clouds like chariots of pearl, with golden wings to hurry them along; no father to take her in his arms, and call her his little Daisy. She closed her eyes, and tried to sleep again, for it seemed to her a great deal better to dream than to be awake in such a dreary little world as that. But suddenly Daisy thought of her mother, and almost at the very moment was aroused by a moan from another part of the room. She ran to Susan's side, and found her sick, and wretched as she was the night before; so Daisy bathed her head, and brought her some fresh water from the spring; and when she could not comfort her in any other way, began to tell her dreams, how she had seen her father again, and felt sure he must be still alive. As Susan listened, she dried her tears, and kissed Daisy so fondly that the little girl no longer wished to be asleep, but was glad that she had power to run about, and prattle, and amuse her lonely mother. For she remembered Peter's last words now, that she must be a good girl, and help, not herself, not sit still and have pleasant dreams, but help her mother. And this Daisy felt resolved to do, if only for his sake. CHAPTER XI. THE DAME'S BUNDLE. As soon as her mother smiled once more, Daisy asked her what had become of the splendid fairy, and when she would be back again, and how it happened that the light and music had gone with her from their home. Susan had seen no fairy, and could not believe that Daisy was thinking of the poor old wrinkled dame. When she told the story of her journey to the cave, and the loaf of fairy bread, and the old dame's sudden change, the mother stroked Daisy's hair, and said that this was only another of her wonderful dreams, and that, instead of going to the rain, the rain had come to her, pelting upon the window so hard, it had, perhaps, sprinkled her face--that was all; and the light of the fairy was, she supposed, the light of the morning sun, that had pried her little sleepy lids apart, at last. Daisy felt bewildered and sorrowful at this, for she did not like to give up her new friend; but her mother told her how long she had known the dame; how she had put her hand in Peter's, years ago; and afterwards put Daisy in his arms, a little thing, no larger than her wooden doll, that could only lie in the grass or swing in its nest among the boughs, and look up at the sky. Daisy thought, if she could have such another dear little thing to play with, and love, and tell her stories to, she should be contented with her home, and willing to wait for her father, and forget the vision of the fairy that had folded her so tenderly in her arms. So she went on asking questions about the dame; and then her mother remembered the gift of the iron spectacles. Of course Daisy wished to see them; but where they were no one knew. And Susan consoled her by saying they were but homely and worthless things. "All things are worthless unless we make use of them," said the shrill voice of the dame, who in her sudden way appeared all at once in the room. "I only wonder that I don't grow tired of helping you," she said; "for you give me nothing except ingratitude. Here, take this, and see what fault you can find with it." She tossed a bundle into Susan's arms, put a loaf on the table, and pointed Daisy to the rubbish heap outside the door; then frowning angrily at Susan, "Pretty extravagance! to make believe you are poor, and throw away what is worth more than all the gold on earth. Why didn't you make the child wear my gift?" "She was homely enough, at first, without it," Susan answered; "and after she grew better looking, why should I waste my time looking up those old rusty spectacles, to make her a fright again?" "You will have no such trouble with the other one." As the fairy spoke, a lovely little face peeped out from the bundle in Susan's arms. "Now, tell what I shall give her, with her name." Susan had never seen such a beautiful child, and, poor as she was, felt grateful to the dame for this new gift; but she begged for leave to name the little one herself. "I will call it Peterkin, after my husband. Ah, how the dear man would have loved it!" And Susan began to cry. "Then her name will not match her face; if you want a Peterkin, I will bring you one instead of this; but her name must be Maud." So Susan gave up the name for the sake of the child's good looks, and begged the dame to keep her always so beautiful, and to make her rich. "That's easy enough; you should have asked me, Susan, to make her heart rich and beautiful. Yet rich she shall be; and no one in all the earth shall have so handsome a face. But, remember, it is on one condition I promise--that Maud and Daisy shall always live together, rich or poor; that they shall never spend a night apart, until Daisy goes to live with her father again." Susan promised, and was thanking the dame with all her heart, though looking at the lovely little face that nestled in her bosom, when Daisy flew into the room. "O mother, mother! I've seen her again, and prettier than she was at first. She smiled at me, and stroked my hair, and then went floating off among the trees, like all the faces in my dream." "Then she and the dame are not one; for, look!" "Look where? Has the dame been here again?" "To be sure; I was talking with her when you came; and the door has not been opened since." But no old woman was in sight; Daisy looked under the table, and in the closet, and every dark corner; but she was not there; and the little girl told her mother that she must have been dreaming, now. But Susan showed her what the dame had brought, and even put the little thing in Daisy's arms. It was hardly larger than a bird, and pretty as a flower, and as helpless, too. And Daisy almost forgot the fairy in this new delight; she thought that all the visions in the air were not so sweet and lovely as her sister's face. She could not look at it enough; and at length taking out from her pocket a pair of spectacles, gravely put them on, and looked at her sister again. Susan laughed; she couldn't help it, Daisy looked so drolly. She saw that the spectacles were the very ones the dame had brought; for she thought there could hardly be another pair so old and rusty in the world. The little girl said she had found them in a dust heap, where Susan remembered that she had emptied the rubbish from some old boxes, the day before. Daisy had but just cleaned the glasses with her apron, and was holding them up to find if they were clear, when she saw, through them, the beautiful fairy floating by, and smiling on her as she passed. She thought, after all, it might have been the glasses that had changed the sour old woman into a smiling fairy; but when she looked at her sister's sweet little face through them, it was not half so beautiful--it seemed cold and hungry, and the smile was gone. Susan felt very sure that the dame was real, for all about her were the care and trouble she had brought; and had she not dragged her on through cruel storms, and scolded her when she was trying to do her best? And if the beautiful smiling vision was real, why did it always float away? Susan forgot that the dame, too, floated away when her errands were done. So Daisy did not know but she had been dreaming again, though with her eyes wide open; and yet she could not forget how softly she had been folded once in the fairy's arms. Perhaps it was because the little girl believed in her, and was always watching and hoping to see her again, that the beautiful bright form sometimes floated past her eyes. CHAPTER XII. A LEAF OUT OF DAISY'S BOOK. After a great many days of rain, the storm ceased; and glad enough was Daisy, for she had grown tired of staying in the house, or of being drenched and almost blown away when she ventured out of doors. The sun came out, one morning, and did not hide in clouds again, as usual, but poured its beautiful beams down on the earth, till the dark forest trees seemed touched with gold, and the little drooping flowers lifted up their heads once more. Daisy, as she looked from the cabin window, and saw and heard the raging storm, had often wondered what would become of her friends the birds--if their nests would not be shaken from the trees, and their little unfledged young ones would not shiver with cold. Then, too, the butterflies, she feared, would have their bright wings washed away or broken; and the flowers would have their petals shaken off, and be snapped from their slender stems. But we are apt to dread a great deal worse things than ever happen to us; and though Daisy did find some fallen nests and dead birds scattered on the ground, she could see that the storm had done more good than harm. For every bird there were hundreds of insects lying dead--not bees and butterflies, but worms and bugs, that bite the flowers, and make them shrivel up and fade, and that gnaw the leaves off the trees and all the tender buds, and sting and waste the fruit. The toads were having a feast over the bodies of these little mischief makers; and the birds were swinging on the tips of the leafy boughs, and singing enough to do your heart good; bees came buzzing about as busily as though they meant to make up for all the time they had lost; and a beautiful butterfly, floating through the sunshine, settled upon a flower at Daisy's feet, and waved his large wings, that looked soft and dry as if there had never been a drop of rain. Then the trees were so bright and clean, with the dust all washed away, and fresh as if they had just been made; they waved together with a pleasant sound, that Daisy thought was like a song of joy and praise; and every little leaf joined in the chorus, far and wide, stirring, and skimming, and breathing that low hymn of happiness. The wood was fragrant, too; and in all its hollows stood bright little pools, that reflected the sky, and sparkled back to the sun; the grass and flowers had grown whole inches since Daisy saw them last, and the mosses were green as emerald. Quite near the cabin, though hidden from it by the trees, was a wide river, that had swollen with the rain, and was rushing on with a sound so loud that it shook the leaves, and seemed like a mighty voice calling to Daisy from a great way off. So she found her way to its shore, and saw that the bridge across it had been swept away; and as it went foaming and tearing along, whole trees, and boats, and rafts were whirling in the tide that was rushing on, on, on, she wondered where. Then the little girl remembered how long she had been away from home, and hurried back to tell her mother about the bridge, stopping now and then to snatch a flower as she passed. Her hands were full when she bounded into the cabin; and she looked as bright, and fresh, and full of joy as any thing out doors. But her mother sat in a corner, feeling very sad, and hardly looked at Daisy's flowers, and said it was nothing to her how bright the sun shone so long as it never could rest again on Peter's face. "Why," said Daisy, "I thought father was happy in heaven, and where he did not have to work so hard, and there were never any storms, and the flowers were prettier than these." "That is true enough," Susan answered; "but it will not keep us from being lonely, and cold, and hungry, too, sometimes." "But we are not hungry now, and perhaps the queer old dame may bring us some more of her bread, or else I'm pretty sure the fairy will take care of us. Who feeds the flowers, mother?" "God." "What, ours--up in heaven?" "There is only one God, Daisy; he gives us meat and milk, and gives the flowers dew and air." "Then I suppose they were thinking about him this morning." "Why?" "Because, when I first went out, they seemed as if they were dreaming--just as I felt when I dreamed; so that I wondered if they hadn't seen the fairy pass, or if their eyes were sharper than ours, and they could see faces floating in the air when there were none for us. It was damp, at first, and there were great shadows; but presently the sunshine poured in every where, and still they kept looking straight up into the sky--a whole field of them, down by the river bank; and, do see! even these I've brought you are looking up now at our wall as if they could see through it. If God can see through walls, can't we, when we are looking after him?" "I don't know but we might, Daisy. You ask strange questions." "Just answer one more, mother. If the flowers have the same God with us, why do they always look so happy, and beautiful, and young? Does he think more of them than he does of us?" "No, child--not half so much. We suffer because God made us wiser than the flowers." "Why, they get trampled on, and beaten in the wind, and have their stems broken, and have to stay out doors in the cold all night, (Daisy was thinking of her midnight walk,) and sometimes they don't have any sunshine for a week: we should call that trouble, and I know what I think about it." "Tell me." "Why, you see, the flowers are always looking at the sky, and don't mind what is happening around them, nor wait to think who may step on their pretty faces. Suppose we are wiser; why can't we live as they do, mother, and think about God and heaven, instead of always ourselves?" "I know a little girl who lives very much like them now," said Daisy's mother, kissing her. "But, my dear child, how strangely you have looked ever since you put on those old spectacles!" "Why, am I not the same Daisy? Am I changing to a fairy, like the dame?" "I fear not; they leave a sort of shadow on your face, and make you homely. It seems to me, Daisy, I'd throw the old things away." "O, don't say that--not if they make me like the old woman herself. I guess it doesn't matter much how we look down here." "Down where?" "Why, on the earth; for you know father was not handsome; and when I saw him in heaven, in my dream, O, he had such a beautiful face!" So Daisy went on prattling about her father until Susan dried her tears; for when she thought of Peter now, it was not the poor crushed body in the wood, which she had wept about, but the beautiful, smiling angel in paradise. And when cares gathered thicker about her, and want seemed so near that Susan grew discouraged, Daisy would bring her flowers; and the mother would remember then how they were always looking up to the kind God, and so look up herself, and thinking about him, forget her sorrows and her cares. CHAPTER XIII. MAUD. The little Maud grew more beautiful every day; she was fair as a lily, except that you might think rose leaves had been crushed to color her cheeks. Her bright eyes were shaded by long, silky lashes; and her pretty mouth, when it was shut, concealed two rows of delicate, pearly teeth. Her hair hung in a cloud of dark-brown curls, touched on the edges with a golden tinge. The old dame took care that her dress should be always fine; and while she gave Daisy the coarsest woollen gowns, brought delicate muslins for Maud. But Daisy did not mind this; she was glad to see her beautiful sister dressed handsomely; and, besides, how could she crowd through the bushes by the river bank, or sit on the ground looking at grass and flowers through her spectacles, if her own dresses were so frail? It was not, after all, so very amusing as Daisy had hoped, to take care of Miss Maud, when she began to run about and play. She did not dare to go in the wood, for fear of bugs and snakes; she did not like to sail chips in the river, and make believe they were boats; she tossed away Daisy's wooden doll, and called it a homely thing; she pulled up her sister's flowers, and always wanted to go in a different place and do a different thing from her. The little girl found it hard to give up so many pleasures; but she kept thinking that Maud would be older soon, and would know better than to be so troublesome. And Maud was no sooner large enough to run about than Daisy wished her young again; for she took pains to tread on the prettiest flowers, and call them old weeds, and would chase every butterfly that came in sight, and tear his wings off, and then laugh because he could not fly; she pinched the rabbits' ears until they grew so wild they were almost afraid of Daisy, and seemed to have no pleasure except in making those about her very uncomfortable. Yes, Maud had one other pleasure--she loved to sit beside the still pools in the wood, that were like mirrors, and watch the reflection of her handsome face. But after this, she was sure to go home peevish and discontented, telling her mother and Daisy what a shame it was to live in such a lonely place, and have no one admire her beauty; and to be so poor, and depend on the charity of "that hag," as she called the dame. Then she loved to tell Daisy what a common-looking little thing _she_ was, and how the mark of those ugly spectacles was always on her face, and every day it grew more homely and serious, and as if she were a daughter of the dame. "As for myself," Maud would end, "I am the child, I know, of some great man; the dame has stolen me away from him, I feel sure, and then thinks I ought to be grateful because she brings me these clothes." At this, Daisy would look up through her spectacles, and say, meekly, "It doesn't matter much who is our father here; for God, up in heaven, is the Father of us all, and gives great people their fine houses, just as he gives these flowers to you and me; for mother told me so." Then Maud would toss her head, and ask, "What is mother but an old woodcutter's wife, that has worked, perhaps, in my father's kitchen?" "God doesn't care where we have worked, but how well our work is done," said Daisy. "O, nonsense! Who ever saw God? I want a father that can build me a fine house, all carpeted, and lighted with chandeliers, and full of servants, like the houses mother tells us about sometimes." "Why, Maud, what is this world but a great house that God has built for us? All creatures are our servants; the sun and stars are its chandeliers; the clouds are its beautiful window frames; and this soft moss is the carpet. Look, what dear little flowers grow among it, and gaze up as if they were saying, 'Yes--God made us all.'" "Who wants a house that every one else can enjoy as much as we, and a father that is not ashamed to call every dirty beggar his child?" Daisy thought her home all the pleasanter for this, and loved her heavenly Father more, because he had room in his heart for even the meanest creature; but she could not make her sister feel as she did, nor try, as Daisy tried, to be patient, and gentle, and happy. CHAPTER XIV. THE SPECTACLES. Ashamed as Maud was of her mother, she found new cause for unhappiness, when, one day, Susan died. "Who is there, now," asked the beauty, "to make my fine dresses, and keep them clean, and to pet me, and praise my beauty, and carry me to the fair sometimes, so that every one may look at my face, and wish hers were half so handsome?" "Poor, dear mother, your hard work is done," said Daisy, in her gentle way, bending over the dead form that Susan had left. "You will never see the old dame's face again, nor hear the wolves growl in the wood, nor tire yourself with taking care of us." The corpse's hands were hard and rough, but they had grown so with working for her children; and Daisy kissed them tenderly, and filled them with fresh flowers, and bore her mother's body far into the still wood, and buried it under the same great tree that lay still, like a tombstone, across Peter's grave. Though Daisy was no longer a child, she could not have done this without fairy help. All the way, she felt as if other arms than hers were bearing her mother's form, and as if new strength were in her own when they handled the heavy spade. As Daisy worked there alone in the wood,--for she could not see the fairy, who was helping her,--the little birds sang sweet and tender songs, as if they would comfort their friend. For Daisy had loved her mother dearly, and remembered her loving, parental care, and could not but be sorrowful at losing her, even for a little while. Yet she tried to calm her aching heart, because Maud, she knew, would need all her care now, and must be served, and entertained, and comforted more carefully than ever, so that she might not constantly miss her mother, and spend her days in weeping over what could not be helped. The young girl did not think how much more toil, and care, and unhappiness was coming to herself; for it was always Daisy's way to ask what she could do for others, and not what others might do for her. And, children, if you want your friends, and God himself, to love you, depend upon it there is no way so sure as this--to forget yourselves, and think only whom you can serve. It is hard, at first, but becomes a pleasure soon, and as easy and natural as, perhaps, it is now for you to be selfish. You must not be discouraged at failing a few times; for it takes a great deal of patience to make us saints. But every step we move in the right way, you know, is one step nearer to our home in heaven--the grand and peaceful home that Christ has promised us. We left Daisy in the wood, with the birds singing above her, as she finished her pious work; perhaps, with finer ears, we might have heard angels singing songs of joy above the holy, patient heart that would not even grieve, because another needed all its strength. But the birds' songs ceased; they fluttered with frightened cries, instead; the wind rose, and the boughs began to dash about, and the night came on earlier than usual. Daisy saw there was to be another fearful storm; and her first thought was of Maud, alone in the lonely wood. How she wished for wings, like the birds, that she might fly home to her nest! But, instead, she must plod her way among the underbrush, which grew so thick in places, and the wind so tangled together across the path, that she went on slowly, hardly knowing whether she were going nearer home or deeper into the wood. "Silly girl, where are your spectacles?" said a voice by Daisy's side; and the old woman seized her arm, and dragged her over the rough path, as she had done once before. "There is no need of them, now I have your lamp," said Daisy in a sad voice; for she was thinking of dear faces that her eyes would never rest upon again. "That's as much as you know. But you cannot cheat me, Daisy. Have my glasses been of so little use that you put them in your pocket, and choose rather to look through tears?" "I did not mean to cry; but how can any one help it when----" "I know--I know; you needn't tell me of your sorrows, but take out the spectacles." So Daisy did as she was told, and never had the glasses seemed so wonderful; for, besides that now the old dame's lamp gave a clearer light, something made Daisy lift her eyes, and, instead of two poor bodies lying asleep in the storm, she saw a splendid city far, far up upon the tops of the tallest trees, and Peter and Susan walking there, hand in hand, and smiling upon her as Peter had smiled in her dream. "Well," said the shrill voice of the dame, "will you give me back my glasses now, and keep your tears?" "O, no!" and Daisy seized the old woman's withered hand, and turned to thank her; but she was not there: one moment Daisy felt the pressure of a gentle hand in hers, and then the beautiful fairy floated from before her sight, far up above the trees, and stood, at last, with her father and mother. All three were smiling upon her now, and pointing upwards to the trees, whose leaves were broader and more beautiful than any in the wood. But the young girl stumbled, and fell among the thorns, and seemed all at once to awake from a dream; for, the dame's lamp gone, her path had grown narrow and dark again; and she found it would not do to look any more at the city of gold, until she should find her own poor cabin in the wood. CHAPTER XV. THE FATHER'S HOUSE. At length Daisy knew that her home was near; for, above all the howling of the storm, she heard her sister's sobs and frightened cries. Very tired she was, and cold, and drenched with rain, and sad, besides, for she could not enter the door without thinking of the burden she had borne away from it last. But, instead of rest and comforting words, Maud ran to meet her with whining and bitter reproaches, and called her cruel to stay so long, and foolish to have gone at all, hard-hearted to neglect her mother's child, and would not listen to reason nor excuse, but poured forth the wickedness of her heart in harsh and untrue words, or else indulged her selfish grief in passionate tears and cries. Alas! the wolves and snakes that Susan kept away from the cabin had entered it now, and our poor Daisy too often felt their fangs at her sad heart. She gave her sister no answering reproaches back, and did not, as she well might, say that it was Maud's own fault she had been left alone; for she had refused, when Daisy asked her help in making their mother's grave. When we see people foolish and unreasonable, like Maud, we must consider that it is a kind of insanity; they don't know what they are saying. Now, when crazy people have their wild freaks, the only way to quiet them is by gentleness; and we must treat angry people just the same, until _their_ freaks pass. You would not tease a poor crazy man, I hope; and why, then, tease your brother or sister when their senses leave them for a little while? As soon as Maud would listen, Daisy began to tell about the beautiful city she saw through her spectacles, and how the dreadful old dame had changed to a graceful fairy, and floated up above the trees. But her sister interrupted her, to ask why she had never told before of the wonderful gift in her spectacles, and called her mean for keeping them all to herself. She knew very well that the reason was, Daisy had never found any one to believe in what she saw, and that even her mother laughed at her for wearing such old things. Maud snatched them eagerly now from Daisy's hand, but said, at first, she could only see the lightning and the rain, and then suddenly dashed them on the ground, with a frightened cry. For she had seemed, all at once, to stand out in a lonely wood, by night, and to look through the ground, at her feet, and see as plainly as by daylight the dead form of her mother, with the rain drops, that pelted every where, dripping upon the flowers which Daisy had put in her folded hands. Maud would not tell this to her sister, but said peevishly, "Your old glasses are good for nothing, as I always thought; and you only want me to wear them so as to spoil my beauty, and make me as homely as you. Tell me again about the place you saw our mother in, though I don't believe a word of what you say." Daisy knew better, and answered, "It was a more beautiful city than any we ever thought about in the world. This earth seemed like its cellar, it was so dull and cold here after I had seen that glorious light; the trees looked in it as if they were made of gold." "O, you are always talking about light and trees; tell me about the people and the houses." "The houses were so bright, I cannot tell you exactly how they looked; the foundations of them were clear, dazzling stones, of every color; even the streets were paved with glass; and the walls were gold, and the gates great solid pearls!" "What nonsense, Daisy! Didn't the shop-keeper tell us, at the fair, that one little speck of a pearl cost more than my new gown? Now, what of the people?" "You didn't look at the houses, after once seeing them; they had such lovely faces, and such a kind, gentle look, I could cry at only thinking of them now." "Don't cry till you've finished your story. Were any of them handsomer than the rest? And what kind of dresses did they wear?" "Their clothes were made of light, I should think; for they were softer than spider webs, and kept changing their shape and color as the people moved about." "How could they?" "Why, all the light poured from one place, that I could not look into; and even the heavenly people, when they turned towards it, folded their wings before their faces." "That is where I should build my house." "O, no, my sister; that is where our heavenly Father has built his throne; and it is the light from him that makes the whole city splendid, without any sun or moon. You cannot tell what a little, dark speck I felt before God: I trembled, and did not know where to turn, when one of the people came and took my hand." "How frightened I should have been! Did he have wings?" "I can't remember; but he moved--all in the heavenly city move--more quickly and more easily than birds. They want to be in a place, and are there like a flash of light; and they can see and hear so far, that the beautiful man who spoke to me said he saw me kiss our mother's hands, and put flowers in them, and carry her into the wood." "Did he say any thing about me?" "Yes--that some time you would love him better than any one else. And he told me why the people's clothes kept changing: when they went nearer our Father, their faces, and every thing they wore, became more splendid and lovely, but as they moved away from him, grew darker and coarser; and yet, Maud, the commonest of all the people there is beautiful as our fairy, and wears as splendid clothes." "What was the man's name? I hope he was not common, if I must love him." "No, he was the greatest in heaven; all the men and angels bowed to him, and they called him Christ." "O, I would give every thing to see him; you never shall go through the wood alone, Daisy, for fear he will come again when I'm away." "He could come to our house as well as to the grave. And I'll tell you another strange thing about the city, Maud: some of the roads, you know, are glass, and some are gold; and there is a beautiful river, like crystal, shaded with palm trees, and sweeping on till it is lost in the great light." "I don't see any thing wonderful in that, if the rest of your story be true." "I have not finished: these broad roads ended in narrow paths; and from the river trickled tiny streams, that somehow came down over the golden walls of the city, and over the clouds, and the tops of trees, into this very earth we are standing on." "O Daisy! are you sure? Could I find one of the paths, and so climb up to heaven, and find the beautiful Christ I am to love?" "Yes, he told me so himself, and pointed to all the people on earth that were in those paths; and I saw a brightness about them, and a calm look in their faces, such as God's angels have. And then Christ told how all who tasted of the streams grew strong; beautiful, and glad; sick people, that stepped into them, were healed; and those who washed in the water were never unclean again." And Daisy did not tell, because she feared it might make her sister envious and sad, that the Beautiful One had kissed her forehead, and said, "Daisy, you have picked many a flower beside these streams, and they have soothed your father's weariness, and healed your mother's aching heart; and when you come to live with me, and I place them all on your head in a wreath that shall never fade, no angel in heaven will wear a more beautiful crown." Daisy looked up at him then, and asked, "But will you take them away from my mother? And shall not Maud have some? Only let me live near you, and give her the crown." Christ smiled, and then looked sad, and said, "It will be long before your sister is willing to walk in such straight, narrow paths, and dwell beside such still waters, as she must in order to find these flowers; but you will always be pointing them out to her; and, in the end, she will love me better than she loves any one else. I would gladly help her, Daisy, for your sake; but only they who love can dwell with me." CHAPTER XVI. THE WATCHMAN. So tired was Daisy, after all the labor and excitement of the day, that as soon as she had finished her story she fell asleep. Maud tried until she was tired to arouse her sister, and make her talk some more; but Daisy, except for her quiet breathing, was like one dead. Maud could not sleep; she listened to the howling of the storm, and then remembered the grave she had seen through Daisy's spectacles, out there in the night; and then her sister's vision of the beautiful, shining city, whose people were clothed in light, and thought of the highest among them all, the King, who waited for her love. "He will not care for Daisy, with her wise little face, when once he has seen mine," thought Maud. "I shall wear my finest garments, and put on my most stately and haughtiest look, to show him I am not like common people. I hope he does not know that every thing I have comes from that wretched old dame." Here there sounded a rattling at the door latch, as if some one were coming into the cabin. Maud's heart beat loud and fast for fright; she imagined that dreadful things were about to happen, and scolded poor Daisy, as if she could hear, for pretending to be asleep. Then came quick flashes of lightning, that made the room like noonday for one instant; and then thunder in crashing peals, that sounded more dreadful in the silent night; and then a stillness, through which Maud could hear the voices of the wolves, and the heavy, pelting drops. Sometimes she thought the river would swell, and swell, till it flooded into the cabin, and drowned them both; sometimes she thought the lightning would kill her at a flash, or the wolves would break through the slender door, and eat her up, or the wind would blow the cabin down, and bury her. Wasn't it strange that the thought never came to her, as she lay there trembling, what a poor, weak thing she was, and how good the fairy had been to keep all mischief from her until now? She did think of the fairy, at length, and resolved to call her help, if it were possible. She lighted a lamp, and held it so near Daisy's eyes as almost to burn the lashes off; this she found better than shaking or scolding, for Daisy started up from her pleasant dreams, and asked where she was and what was happening. "That!" said Maud, as a still sharper flash of lightning ran across the sky, and then thunder so loud that it drowned Maud's angry voice. Daisy covered her face, for the lightning almost blinded her, and then first found that she had fallen asleep with the fairy spectacles on. "Come, selfish girl," said Maud, "look through your old glasses; and if they are good for any thing, you can find what has become of the dame, and if she is still awake and watching over us." Then Daisy told how she had been once to the old woman's cave; and if it were not for leaving her sister alone, would go again to-night. Maud would not listen to this at first, but told Daisy that she was deceiving her, and only wanted to creep off somewhere and sleep, and leave her to be eaten by the wolves. As she spoke, Daisy's face lighted all at once with the beautiful smile which Peter saw, the day that she was born. "O Maud, listen, and you will not be afraid," she said in her gentle voice. "I seemed to see, just now, the night, and the storm, and our cabin, and myself asleep--all as if in a picture. The lightning flashed and thunder rolled; the wolves were creeping about the door, and sniffing at the threshold, and the cabin rocked in the wind like a cradle. "But just where you are standing, Maud, was an angel bending over me, and shading my eyes from the dazzle with her own white wings. She had such a quiet, gentle face as I never saw any where except in my vision of our Father's house." "Were her eyes black, or blue like mine? I wonder if Christ ever saw her." "I do not remember the color; but her eyes were full of love, and pity, and tenderness; and when I seemed to awake, and look up at her, she pointed out into the night." "And there, I suppose, you will pretend that you saw something else very fine--as if I should believe such foolish stories! But talk on, for it keeps you awake." "No, Maud, nothing seemed beautiful after the angel's face; but I saw a strong city, with walls, and towers on the walls, and with watchmen walking to and fro to keep robbers away. And I saw a great house, as large as a hundred of ours, with heavy doors, and bolts, and locks, and many servants--strong men, sleeping in their beds, for it was night. "And in one of the inmost rooms, where all was rich and elegant, and the carpet was soft as moss, and the muslin curtains hung like clouds, lay a girl about my age, but a great deal more beautiful, asleep." "Was she handsomer than I?" interrupted Maud. "I had not time to ask myself; for, as I looked, the door opened softly, and two thieves crept in, and snatched the jewels that lay about the room, and then, seeing a bracelet on her white arm, went towards the bed. "I was about to scream, when the fairy softly put her hand before my mouth, and pointed again. "As soon as the thief touched her arm, the girl awoke, and shrieked aloud; and, when they could not quiet her cries, the men struck at her with their sharp knives, and left her dead. "Then the angel whispered, 'Daisy, there is only one hand that can save; there is one eye that watches, over rich and poor, the crowded city and the lonely wood, alike. That eye is God's; unless he keep the city, the watchman walketh in vain.' "So, Maud, the angel will take care of us, if we only trust in her." Maud's fears were quieted so far by Daisy's words, that she urged her sister now to go and seek the dame, and leave her there alone. The truth was, Maud had a feeling that, if poor little Daisy had an angel to watch over her, she, who was so much more beautiful, could not be left to perish. Perhaps, even the glorious Christ would come; and if he did, she would rather not have her sister in the way. CHAPTER XVII. THE FAIRY'S CAVE. The old dame had built a fire in the corner of her cave, and sat, alone, watching the embers. Presently she heard a sound unlike the storm--a parting of the bushes outside, a crackling of dry sticks upon the ground; and, all at once, Daisy's bright face appeared, seeming to bring a sunshine into the gloomy den. Daisy was dripping with rain, and felt a little afraid that the dame would scold her because her feet made wet tracks on the floor. But the fairy seemed in a merry mood to-night--perhaps she was glad of some one to keep her company. She laughed till the old cave rang again, when her visitor told that she had been frightened by the storm; for she said it was music in her ears, and ought to be in the ears of every one. So she drew a stool before the fire for Daisy, and, while wringing the dampness from her dress, asked what had become of the spectacles. "O, they are safe enough," answered Daisy. "I know now how much they are worth, and what a splendid present you gave me, though it seemed so poor. You are very good to us, dame." "Better than I seem--always better than I seem," she muttered, looking into the fire still. "Now, if you think so much of your glasses, put them on." Daisy wiped the water from them on a corner of the fairy's dress, for her own was too wet, and did as she was told. And, down, down miles beneath the cave, she saw fires burning, blazing, flashing, flaming about, and filling the whole centre of the earth; beside them the lightning was dull, and the old dame's fire seemed hardly a spark. She saw whole acres of granite--the hard stone that lay in pieces about the wood, half covered with moss and violets; acres of this were rolling and foaming like the river in a storm, melted and boiling in the fiery flames. "Why, in a few minutes, the cave itself, and all the earth, will melt, and we shall be burned up," said Daisy, alarmed. "O, no," laughed the fairy. "The fire was kindled thousands of years before you were born; and the granite your violets grow upon has boiled like this in its day; but we are not burned yet, and shall not be. There's a bridge over the fire." And, surely enough, when Daisy looked again, she saw great cold ribs of rock rising above the flames and above the sea of boiling stone, up and out, like arches on every side. Upon this rock the earth was heaped, layer above layer, until on its outside countries, and cities, and great forests were planted, and fastened together, it seemed, by rivers and seas. In the beds of rivers, in crevices of rock, in depths of the earth, were hidden precious stones and metals; and where the rocks rose highest, they formed what we call mountains, that buried their soaring heads in the sky, and stretched along the earth for many hundred miles. "What can this rock be made of?" asked Daisy. "Look!" and, to her wonder, she saw that it was all little cells, crowded with insects of different kinds. She asked the dame how many there were in one piece of stone which she picked up, and which was about an inch square. "About forty-one thousand millions of one kind, and many more of another," she answered carelessly. "You could not make Maud believe that," thought Daisy; and the dame, as if seeing into her mind, continued,-- "But it is only the one little world we live in which you have seen thus far: look above." The roof of the cave seemed gone; and Daisy beheld the stars, not far off and still, as they had always seemed, but close about her, whirling, waltzing, chasing each other in circles, with such tremendous speed that it made one dizzy to watch. And they were no longer little points of light, but worlds like ours--many of them larger than our earth, which was whirling too, and seemed so small that Daisy hardly noticed it amidst the beaming suns. There were no handles, no fastenings, no beams, or ropes, or anchors to those flying worlds, that dashed along at such mad speed; she wondered they did not strike against each other, and shatter, and fall. "O, no," said the dame; "the Hand which made these worlds can keep them in their places. But how many stars do you suppose there are?" "O, I could not count them in a week." "No, nor in a lifetime. It takes more than that to count one million; and there are more than twenty million worlds." "There will be no use in telling that to Maud," thought Daisy; "she'll never believe me." And again the fairy saw into her heart, and answered, "Only the pure in heart can see God, and believe in him. Maud thinks there is no truth, because her weak mind cannot grasp it. "Now, Daisy, think that all these worlds are God's--made, and watched, and loved by him. You see in many of them mountains such as the piece of stone you looked into; you see rivers, earth, and sky; and I tell you the truth when I say, that all of these are crowded, fuller than you can dream, with creatures He has made. And cannot He who made the lightning govern it? So, do not fear the howling of the storm again; it is your Father's voice." "How great he is! I am afraid of him!" said Daisy. "You may well be afraid to offend him, but only that; for God is a gentle, loving Father. He feels when the tiniest insect in this stone is hurt; and the same mighty Hand that guides the stars, and roofs over the fires that might burn up our earth,--the same Hand led you through the storm to-night, or, Daisy, you would not have found my cave." The dame's last words reminded Daisy that she had left her sister alone; and though Maud had surprised her by saying that she need not hurry back, Maud might have changed her mind, and complain of the very thing she asked an hour before. She flew home, therefore--falling many a time, and wounding her hands with the sharp sticks in her path. Great trees were torn up by the roots, and came crashing down, in the dark, scattering earth and pebbles far and wide; but Daisy walked among them all unharmed, and was not even frightened; for she knew some kind hand must be guiding her, and thought of the Watchman who never sleeps. Reaching the cabin, she found Maud in a quiet slumber; and, lying down beside her, Daisy was soon dreaming over again all she had seen through the spectacles. CHAPTER XVIII. DAISY ALONE. The sisters lived together comfortably enough in the wood, for the old dame still supplied their wants; and Daisy grew so accustomed to Maud's complaints and reproaches, that she did not mind them so much as at first. Then it was such a joy when, sometimes, Maud would be pleased and satisfied, and speak a kind word or two, that her sister forgot all the rest. The fairy had been in the habit, after Susan's death, of taking Maud to the fair sometimes, where she could see the people, and choose handsome gowns for herself, and hear what was going on in the world. Meantime Daisy would remain at home, cleaning the house and washing Maud's dresses, and baking some nice thing for her to eat when she should come home tired from the fair. You may think this hard for Daisy; but you are mistaken, this time, for she was never so merry as when working thus alone. There was no one to meddle and complain when she was trying to do her best. Let Maud depart, and all was peace in Daisy's home. Maud seemed to think that Daisy was made for her servant; and when she wished to enjoy herself alone, or to do some kind deed,--for other people lived, now, in the neighborhood of the cabin,--her sister would always interfere, and complain and whine so grievously that Daisy yielded to her. But Maud away, and her work all finished in the house, Daisy would clap on her spectacles, and then such a wonderful world as stretched around her! Nothing was common, or mean, or dead; all things were full of beauty and surprise, when she looked into them. The insects that stung Maud, and made her so impatient, would settle quietly on Daisy's hand, and let her find out how their gauzy, glittering wings were made, and see all the strange machinery by which they could rise and fly, and the little beating hearts and busy heads they had. Then they would go slowly circling to their homes; and Daisy would softly follow, and find how they lived, and what they ate, and what became of them in winter time, and all about their young. The birds, meantime, would come and sing to her about their joy, their young, their fairy nests, their homes among the shady summer leaves; the poorest worm, the ugliest spider, had something in him curious and beautiful. Then she would study the plants and trees, see the sap rising out of the ground, and slowly creeping into every branch and leaf, and the little buds come forth, and swell, and burst, at length, into lovely flowers. She would sit upon the mossy rocks, and think how far down under the earth they had been, and how full they might be of living creatures now; and then bending over the violets that had grown in their crevices, would count their tiny veins, and find how air and sunshine had mixed with the sap to color and perfume them. All these works of his hands made Daisy feel how near the great God was to her, and that she could never go where he had not been before, and where his eye would not follow her. And then, amidst her troubles and toils, she had but to think of the beautiful city above, where Peter and Susan were waiting for her, where the spirits clothed in light would be her teachers and friends, and she would see as far, perhaps, as they, and learn more a thousand times than even her wonderful spectacles could teach her now. But, one day, the dame took a fancy in her head that she was too old to go to the fair again, and, in future, Daisy must go instead, and take care of Maud. This pleased neither of the sisters; for Daisy now must lose her only hours of quiet; and Maud, instead of the old crone who had passed for her servant, must appear with the shabby little Daisy, of whose meek, serious face, and country manners, she was very much ashamed. Then there was the mark of the spectacles to attract attention, and make every one ask who it could be that had such a wise look on a face so young. But the two sisters started, one morning, for the fair, on the selfsame road on which Peter had met his wife, and along which he had led her home, to make his cabin such a happy place. It was not so bad for Maud to have Daisy with her as she had feared; for the good natured sister carried all her parcels, found out cool springs where they could drink, and pleasant spots where they could sit in the cool grass and rest sometimes, instead of hurrying on through the dust, as the dame had always done. Then Daisy had a cheerful heart, and was pleased with every thing she met, and so full of her stories and cheerful songs, that the way seemed not half so long to Maud as when she went with the dame. Ah, but Maud didn't think how much shorter and brighter her sister's path through life would have been had _she_, instead of her selfish temper, a good and gentle heart like that which was cheering her now. Daisy took her spectacles along, you may be sure; and besides that she saw through them many a flower, and bird, and stone, and countless other things to which her sister was as good as blind, Maud found them very useful at the fair. For the glasses showed things now exactly as they were--in the rich silk, rough places or cotton threads; calicoes, gay enough to the naked eye, through these looked faded and shabby. Was any thing shopworn, moth eaten, or out of fashion, the spectacles told it as plainly as if they had spoken aloud. And just so, seen through these magical glasses, the people changed. A man with a smiling face and pleasant words would appear dishonest and cunning, when Daisy put on her spectacles. A maiden with a proud and beautiful face looked humbled, all at once, and sad, and dying of a broken heart. People that walked about in splendid clothes, and looked down on the others, seemed suddenly poor beggars, hiding beneath their garments as if they were a mask. The dame would never carry bundles for Maud, nor allow herself to be hurried or contradicted in any way; but Daisy bore all the burdens of her own accord, and yielded to Maud's caprices, however foolish they might be, if they troubled no one except herself. But on their way home, something occurred in which Daisy resolved to have her own way; and Maud was so angry that she would not walk with her sister, and hurrying on, left her far behind. CHAPTER XIX. THE QUARREL. It was the old dame that caused the sisters' quarrel. A few miles from the cabin she appeared, creeping through the dusty road, with a bundle of sticks three times as big as herself on her head. "Pretty well!" exclaimed Maud. "The old creature could not find strength enough to walk a little way with me; but she can pick up sticks all day for herself, and carry home more than I could even lift." The dame made no reply; perhaps she did not hear the beauty's words; but Maud was so vexed that she brushed roughly past, and upset all her sticks, and the poor old dame in the midst of them. The fairy lifted her wrinkled arm, which was covered with bleeding scratches, and shook her finger angrily at Maud, who only laughed, and said, "It is good enough for you; take care, next time, how you stand in my way. I am the one to be angry, after you've scattered your sharp old sticks all over the road to fray my new silk stockings. Come, Daisy, make a path for me through them." Daisy helped the dame to her feet again, and wiped away the dust and blood, and bound the arm up with her own handkerchief, and then began patiently to pick up all the sticks, and fasten them in a bundle. She did this while Maud and the fairy were quarrelling and reproaching each other. We could often make up for a fault or accident in the time which we spend mourning over it and deciding whose was the fault. Maud, in her heart, was not sorry for what her sister had now done, because she feared the fairy, and knew, if she went too far in offending her, that she might never appear again; and then Miss Maud would eat coarse food, and wear shabby clothes, like her sister Daisy. Still she pretended to be angry, and scolded Daisy well for undoing what she had done, and comforting the old woman when she chose to punish her. Yet more vexed was she when Daisy took the sticks on her own head; for the dame seemed tired and faint, and trembled like a leaf from the fright and pain of her fall. Maud drew herself up haughtily, and asked if she was expected to walk in a public road in company with a lame old hag and a fagot girl. Her eyes flashed, and the color glowed in her delicate cheeks, as she spoke; Daisy thought she had never seen her sister look so beautiful, and even took out the glasses that she might look more closely at the handsome face. Alas, what a change! Serpents seemed coiling and hissing about Maud's breast; her eyes were like the eyes of a wolf; the color on her cheeks made Daisy think of the fires she had seen burning so far down in the centre of the earth; and the ivory whiteness of her forehead was the dead white of a corpse. It was not strange that, Maud's beauty gone, her sister grew less submissive; for Daisy, even with her spectacles, had found nothing except beauty to love in her sister. She thought a lovely heart must be hidden somewhere underneath the lovely face. But now she had looked past the outside, and all was deformed and dreadful. "I should like to know if you mean to answer," said Maud pettishly; "I told you either to throw down the sticks, or else I would walk home alone." "I must help the poor dame; and as for our walk, we both know the way," was Daisy's quiet answer. So they parted; and Daisy began to cheer the dame, who groaned dreadfully, by telling of all the fine things at the fair, and the use she had made of her spectacles, and how grateful she must always be for such a wondrous gift. It pleased the dame to have her glasses praised; and so she forgot to limp and grumble about her wounds, and walked on gayly enough by Daisy's side, telling sometimes the wisest, and sometimes the drollest, stories she had ever heard. But their mirth was interrupted by the sound of sobs; and Daisy's quick eyes discovered, sitting among the bushes by the way, a little girl, all rags and dust, crying as if her heart would break. "Never mind her; she will get over it soon enough," said the dame. "I wonder how you would have liked it, had I said that about you, an hour ago," thought Daisy, but made no reply, except to turn and ask the child what she could do for her. "O, give me food, for I am starved, and clothes, for I am cold, and take me with you, for I am so lonely," sobbed the child. "Then don't cry any more, but take my hand; and here are some wild grapes I picked just now--taste how fresh and sweet they are." The little girl laughed for joy, with the tears still glistening on her face, and soon leaving Daisy's hand, skipped about her, flying hither and thither like a butterfly, filling her hands with flowers, and then coming back, to look up curiously in the strange old face of the dame. "You are a good soul, after all," said the fairy, when Daisy returned to her side. "See how happy you have made that little wretch!" "Yes, and how easily, too! O, why do not all people find out what a cheap comfort it is to help each other? I think, if they only knew this, that every one would grow kind and full of charity." Daisy did not dream that the child listened, or would understand what she was saying; but the little girl, tears springing into her eyes again, answered softly, "O, no, not all." "Why, have you found so many wicked people, my poor child?" "Perhaps they are not wicked; but they are not kind;" and the girl's voice grew sadder. "Some time before you came, a beautiful lady passed; she was not dressed like you, but a hundred times handsomer; and I thought she would have ever so much to give away; so I asked her for a penny to buy bread." "And did she give you one?" asked Daisy, who saw that the lady must have been her sister Maud. "Not she; she called me names, and pushed me away so roughly that I fell into a bunch of nettles; and they stung till it seemed as if bees were eating me up. Look there!" So she held up her poor little arms, that were pinched with poverty, as the dame's with age; they were mottled, white and red or purple, with the nettle stings; and only looking at them made her cry again. But Daisy comforted her. "There, I wouldn't mind; she did not mean to hurt you. And, besides, you must blame me; for I offended her, and made her cross. She is my sister." "O, dear, then I don't want to go home and live with you; let me go back and die, if I must. That lady would beat me, and pull my hair, I know. When you met me, I was not crying for hunger, though I was so hungry, nor for cold, though my clothes were all worn out, but because she was so unkind. Don't make me live with her." Here the fairy drew the little girl towards her, and whispered, "Daisy has to live with her, and be fretted at and worked hard all the time; if you go, Maud will have another to torment, and will leave her sister in peace sometimes." Then the tears were dried at once; and the child, taking Daisy's hand, said firmly, "Wherever you lead me I will go." Daisy never knew what made her change her mind, for she had not heard the fairy's whisper; but angels in heaven knew it, and saw how, at that moment, the child unconsciously stepped into one of the golden paths that lead to the beautiful city on high. For no good deed, no good thought or intention even, is lost. Few, perhaps, behold them here; but hosts of the heavenly people may always be looking on. And even if they were not, it is better to be good and kind: the good deed brings its own reward; it makes our hearts peaceful; it makes us respect ourselves, so that we can look serenely in the face of every one, and, if they blame us, answer, "I have done the best I could." CHAPTER XX. TWILIGHT. When Maud had gone far enough to lose sight of Daisy and the dame, she slackened her pace, and looked about to see how beautiful the path had grown. The trees met in green arches above her head; the road side was sprinkled with lovely flowers, fragrant in the evening air; and the breeze, stirring freshly, gave motion and a sweet, low sound to every thing. Insects were chirping merrily, and stars began to twinkle through the boughs. Even Maud did not feel lonely; she had much to remember about the fair--all her purchases, all the compliments she had heard paid to her beauty, all Daisy's usefulness, and how sure she would be to make her go again. But the scene about her grew every moment quieter and more beautiful; so that, leaving her worldly thoughts, a solemn feeling came over Maud, and she began to think of the still more beautiful place which was some time to be her home,-- And then of that Glorious One whom she was to love; mean and coarse seemed her earthly lovers when she thought of him, and their compliments vulgar and idle beside his gracious words. "Ah, if I could but see this Christ once," thought Maud, "so that I might know what would please him, and could always remember him just as he really is! It is strange that he does not come when he must know how I am longing to behold his face." And, in truth, Maud had never for an hour forgotten her sister's vision, but was constantly thinking what more she could do to make herself attractive when the Beautiful One should come. She would not go out at noon, for fear of tanning her complexion; she hardly ate enough to live, because of a fancy that angels have very poor appetites; she gave up the sweet smile which she had preserved with so much care, and looked serious, and even sad. And the foolish girl made it an excuse for not doing her share of the household work, that she could not go to heaven with the stains of labor on her hands. "What more can he require of me?" thought Maud. "Let him but say, and I will do any thing to serve this greatest of all the angels--will die--will be his slave!" In the twilight, Maud saw, all at once, beside her a being more beautiful than she had even thought her Christ. He was thin and pale; he looked tired, and there were drops of blood on his forehead and tears in his eyes. Yet was there something noble and good about him, that seemed grander than all the beauty of this earth, and melted the heart of the haughty Maud; so that she asked him to come to her cabin for food, and promised to make the old dame give him clothes. He shook his head, and answered, "I have come to you before, naked, and hungry, and tired, and sad; but you drove me away." "O, no, you are mistaken," said Maud; "I never saw you in my life before." "When you refused food and shelter to the poor, old, and wretched, you were starving and freezing me." "How could I know that?" said Maud, a little peevishly. "But, come, take my hand, and I will lead you where there is shelter and food." He drew back from the hand she offered. "I cannot touch these fingers; wicked words are written over them." "No such thing!" said Maud, thoroughly vexed. "There is not a man at the fair but would be proud to take my hand. Read the wicked words, if you can." "Waste, weakness, indolence, selfishness, scorn, vanity," he read, as if the hand were a book spread out before him. And then the beautiful being disappeared; and Maud, never dreaming that she had spoken with CHRIST, and hearing her sister's voice not far behind, hurried on quickly, so as to be in the cabin first. CHAPTER XXI. THE FAIRY LETTERS. Maud was so tired of being alone, and so anxious, besides, to ask if Daisy had seen the stranger who disappeared from her, that she ran good naturedly enough to the door, to welcome her sister. But when she saw the dame's wretched old face, and the little beggar whom she had thrust away so scornfully, and Daisy herself bending under the heavy load of sticks, Maud's wrath came back again. "Here I shall have to wait an hour for my supper," she complained, "because you chose to lag behind, and tire yourself with bringing burdens for other folks. I should like to know where you will put your precious friends: not in _our_ house--be very sure of that." But the dame quickly silenced her by asking, "Who has fed, and clothed, and taken care of you and all your kith and kin? Who gave you the gown on your back and the beauty in your cheeks? And when you found your sister lying half dead by the roadside,--as you would have been but for my care,--what were you willing to do for her? O Maud, for shame!" "She is no sister of mine," answered Maud, making way; however, as she spoke, for the beggar to enter her door. "Ask Daisy," was the dame's reply. "O Maud, I was so sorry that you left us," Daisy said; "for the beautiful man I saw in heaven, whom you are to love, came and spoke to me, with a look and words I can never forget in all my life." "Where was it?" asked the sister eagerly. "In that part of the road which our father used to call the Church, because the trees made such grand arches overhead, and it was so still and holy, with the stars looking through the boughs. You remember the elm, with the grape vine climbing up among its boughs, and hanging full of fruit: I met him there." "But he could not be half so beautiful as the man I saw in that very place," boasted Maud. "I talked with him a while; then I suppose he heard you coming, for he went away." The old dame's bright, sharp eyes were fixed upon her; and Maud cast her own eyes down in shame, as Daisy continued,-- "The dame's bundle of wood was very heavy, and this little girl dragged so upon my skirts as we toiled on, that I knew she must be tired. I was feeling glad that I happened to meet them, because I am both young and strong, you know, and used to work, when, as I told you, Christ appeared, standing beneath the elm." [Illustration: AND HE LOOKED INTO MY FACE.] "How ashamed you must have felt! I suppose he thought you the old dame's daughter, or a beggar, perhaps. I'm glad you did not bring him to our cabin; how it would look beside his palace in the golden city above! What did he say to you?" "'Blessed, O Daisy, are the merciful,' he said; 'I was hungry, and you gave me food; thirsty, and you gave me drink. I was sad, and you cheered me; tired, and I rested on your arm.' "'O, no,' I answered, 'you must be thinking of some one else. I never saw you before, except in my vision once.' "He took my hand, and looked into my face with such a gentle smile that I did not feel afraid, and pointed at the wood: 'This burden was not the old dame's, but mine; the blood you wiped away was mine; when you fed and comforted this little one, you were feeding and comforting me. You never can tell how much good you are doing, Daisy; poor girl as you are, you may give joy to my Father's angels. Look through your spectacles.' "So I looked, and there sat the poor little beggar, (see, she has fallen asleep from weariness!) moaning and sobbing in the grass, as when we found her first; and an angel stood beside her, weeping, too." "An angel beside _her_?" interrupted Maud. "Yes, a beautiful angel, with the calm, holy look which they all wear in heaven, but I never saw upon this earth; he wept because she had no friend; and, just then, I was so fortunate as to come past, and, not seeing the angel, I asked her to take my hand, and run along beside me. "But now I saw that, when the child began to smile, the angel also smiled, and lifted his white wings and flew--O, faster than lightning--over the tree tops, and past the clouds; and the sky parted where he went, until I saw him stand before the throne, in the wonderful city above. "And Christ said, 'He stands there always, watching her, unless she needs him here; and when her earthly life is over, he will lead her back, to dwell in my Father's house. For the great God is her Father, and yours, and mine; she is my sister: should I not feel her grief?'" Maud's heart fell, for she felt that the being whom she had met must also have been Christ, and asked Daisy if he looked sad and tired, and had wounds in his hands. "O, no--what could tire him, Maud? He looked strong, and noble, and glad, and seemed, among the dark trees, like a shining light." "Alas! then it was I who tired him, and made him sorrowful," thought Maud; then said, aloud, "But, Daisy, are you sure he took your hand? See, it is smeared with the old dame's blood, and soiled with tears you wiped from the beggar's face, and stained and roughened with hard work: are you sure he touched it?" "The whole was so strange, that I dare not be sure whether any part of it was real," replied Daisy, who was so modest that she did not wish to tell all Christ had said. "_I_ am sure, then," outspoke the dame. "He took her hand, and--listen to me, Maud!--he said, 'This blood, these tears, these labor stains, will be the brightest jewels you can wear in heaven; have courage, and be patient, Daisy--for beautiful words are written here, that never will fade away.'" And when Maud asked what they were, the dame replied sharply, "Exactly the opposite of words that are written on somebody's fine hands: self-sacrifice, and generosity, and faith, and earnestness, and love. Such words as these make Daisy's rough hands beautiful." CHAPTER XXII. THE FACE AND THE HEART. "Can I give up my beautiful face, and become a poor little drudge, like Daisy?" asked Maud of herself. "No, it's a great deal too much trouble. I can find plenty of friends at the fair; and so I will forget the sad, sweet face that has haunted me all these months." So Maud never told that she had looked upon Christ; though every time Daisy spoke of him, she felt it could be no other. The winter came on; and the report of Maud's beauty had spread so far, that she was invited to balls in the neighboring towns; and she no longer walked, for people sent their elegant carriages for her. The dame took care that she should have dresses and jewels in abundance; and Daisy could not but feel proud when she saw her sister look like such a splendid lady; though sometimes she would be frightened by seeing the eyes of a live snake glittering among Maud's diamonds, and something that seemed like the teeth of a wolf glistening among her pearls. The beauty had many lovers, but she found some fault with each; until, one day, the handsomest and gayest man in all the country round asked her to marry him. She refused, at first, because he had not quite so much money as the others; but when she saw how many ladies were in love with him, Maud felt it would be a fine thing to humble them, and show her own power. The old dame could give them money enough; and so she changed her mind, and began to make ready for her wedding. Then you should have seen the splendid things that the old dame brought, day after day, and poured on the cabin floor--velvets, and heavy brocades, gay ribbons and silks, and costly laces; as for the pearls and diamonds, you would think she had found them by handfuls in the river bed, there were so many. Meantime Daisy had come across a very different jewel, though I am not sure but it was worth a cabin full of such as Maud's. Once she was walking with the little beggar girl, whom Daisy called her own child now, and named Susan, after her mother; before them, climbing the hill side, was a man in a coarse blue frock, who seemed like a herdsman. He was driving his cows, and turning back to look for a stray one, Susan chanced to see his face; she broke from Daisy, and with a cry of joy, ran into the herdsman's arms. His name was Joseph; and Daisy learned that, when the little girl's mother was sick, Joseph had brought her food, and taken the kindest care of her; but his master sent him to buy some cows in a distant town, and before he reached home again, Susan's mother did not need any more charity, and the poor child herself was cast out into the streets. They sat on the grass beside Joseph; and Daisy found that, for all his coarse dress, he loved beautiful things as well as herself, and had sat there, day after day, watching the river and sky, and finding out the secrets of the birds, seeing the insects gather in their stores, and the rabbits burrow, and listening to the whisper of the leaves. And, in cold winter nights, he had watched the stars moving on in their silent paths, so far above his head, and fancied he could find pictures and letters among them, and that they beckoned, and seemed to promise, if he would only try, he might come and live with them. Then, out of some young shoots of elder, Joseph had made a flute; and Daisy was enchanted when he played on this, for, besides that she had never heard a musical instrument before, he seemed to bring every thing she loved around her in his wonderful tunes. She could almost see the dark pine tops gilded with morning light, and the cabin nestling under them; and then the song of a bird, and of many birds, trilled out from amidst the boughs, and the little leaves on the birch trees trembled as with joy, and her rabbits darted through the shade. Again, she saw the wide river rolling on, the sky reflected in it, and the flowers on its banks just lifting their sweet faces to the sun, and every thing was wet with dew, and fresh, and silent. And then he played what was like a storm, with lightning, and huge trees crashing down, and the old dame seated before her fire in the cave, and Daisy herself creeping alone through the dark, tired, and drenched with rain. Daisy told her new friend that she lived in the wood, and what a beautiful sister she had at home, and how she wished that Maud could hear his music. But Joseph seemed contented to play for her, and could not leave his cows, he said, to look upon a handsome face; he did not care so much for bright eyes and pretty lips as for goodness and gentleness, that would make the ugliest face look beautiful to him. CHAPTER XXIII. JOSEPH. What with Joseph's music, and all he had to say to them, Daisy and Susan sat for hours on the hill side, and promised, at parting, to come very soon again. But they found Maud ready, as usual, to spoil all their pleasure, by fretting because they had left her alone, and had not come earlier, and a hundred other foolish things. She wouldn't hear a word about the music, but asked her sister if she was not ashamed to talk with a cow boy, and declared that neither she nor Susan should go to the hill again. But it was no strange thing for Maud to change her mind; so, one day, she told Daisy she had dreamed about Joseph's music, and must hear it, and they would all go that very afternoon. Daisy was glad, you may be sure; but she had great trouble with her sister on the way, for Maud would shriek at an earth worm, and start at a fly, and was afraid of bats, and snakes, and owls, and more other things than Daisy ever thought of. Then the sharp sticks cut through her satin boots; and when she sat a while to rest, the crickets ate great holes in her new silk gown, and mosquitos kept buzzing about her, and little worms dropped down sometimes from the boughs. When any of these things happened, of course poor Daisy had to be scolded, as if it were her fault. If a shadow moved, or a bird flew quickly past, or a bee buzzed by,--thinking of any one except Miss Maud,--the beauty would fancy that a tiger or rattlesnake was making ready to spring at her, and suffered a great deal more from fright than she would from pain if the creatures she dreaded had really been near, and she had allowed them quietly to eat her up. When, after all this trouble, she found that Joseph wore a coarse blue frock, and did not oil his curly hair, and hardly looked at her, while he was overjoyed at seeing Daisy again, Maud began to pout, and say she must go home. But Joseph brought a kind of harp he had made from reeds and corn stalks; and when he began to play, Maud started, for it was as if she stood under the arching trees again, and the Beautiful Being stood beside her, with his sad eyes, saying, "O Maud, when you despise my little ones, you are despising me." She thought it must only be a kind of waking dream, however, and tossing her head, asked Joseph if he could play any opera airs, and where he bought his harp, and who his teacher could have been. "The trees, and river, and birds, the morning wind and midnight sky, sorrow, and joy, and hope have been my teachers," he answered gravely. "They're an old-fashioned set, then," said Maud. "We haven't had any of the tunes you play at our balls this year; and you must find more modern teachers, or else be content to take care of your cows." Joseph heard not her sneers; he was talking with Daisy; and every thing he said seemed so noble, and wise, and pure, so unlike the words of Maud or of the fretful dame, that Daisy could not help loving him with all her heart. The more she thought of Joseph the less she said of him to Maud; but whenever her sister was away, they were sure to meet; and the herdsman grew as fond of Daisy as she was of him. In the long winter evenings, when Maud was away at her balls, she little dreamed what pleasant times Daisy had at home. When floating about in the dance, to the sound of gay, inspiring music, she thought of her sister only to pity her, and did not know that she was listening to sweeter music from Joseph's humble harp of reeds. We often pity people who are a great deal better off than ourselves, forgetting that what seems fine to us may be tedious enough to them. Then it was such a new thing for Daisy to have any one think of _her_ comfort, and plan pleasant surprises for her, and even admire her serious face, and--best of all--appreciate her spectacles. As soon as Joseph came, he wanted her to put them on, and tell him about a hundred things which he had looked at only with his naked eyes. Daisy found so often that he had seen rightly and clearly, and had in humblest paths picked up most lovely things, and every where found what was best, she told him that he must have borrowed the old dame's lantern. But Joseph said, no, he had only taken care that the lantern in his own breast should be free from dust and stains; while that burned clearly, there was no use in borrowing another's light. Maud's lover took her to dances and sleigh rides, and gave her jewels and confectionery; Daisy's lover took her to see the old sick mother he supported, and to look at his cows in their neat barn, and brought her a new apron sometimes from the fair, or a bag of chestnuts which he had picked up in the fall. But Joseph gave the love of a fresh, honest heart; and Daisy thought this better than all her sister's bright stones and sugar plums. CHAPTER XXIV. THE FRESHET. The spring came; and Maud's wedding day was so near that she and Daisy went to the town every week to make purchases. Now, the river which they were obliged to cross always overflowed its banks in spring. Although, in summer, Daisy had often walked across it, by stepping from stone to stone in the rough bed, it had risen now to a height of many feet. Then, blocks of ice came down from the mountain streams above, and swept along bridges, and hay ricks, and drift wood with them, just as happened once, you may remember, when Susan was alive. A new bridge had been built; but it jarred frightfully when the heaped blocks of ice came down, or some great tree was dashed against it by the rapid stream. Things were in this state when the two sisters reached home, one day, from town. When Maud felt how the bridge jarred, she ran back screaming, and told Daisy to go first, and make sure it was safe. Daisy was not a coward; but this time she did think of her own life for once, or rather of Joseph--how he would grieve if she were swept away and drowned. Her heart beat faster than usual; yet she walked on calmly, and soon gained the other side. Then she called back for Maud to wait till she could find Joseph, and secure his help. But Maud, always impatient, grew tired of waiting, and mustering all her courage, stepped upon the bridge alone. She had hardly reached the centre when its foundations gave way; and, with a great crash and whirl, with the trees, and ice, and drift wood whirling after it, the bridge went sweeping down the stream. So Joseph and Daisy returned only in time to hear Maud's shrieks, which sounded louder than the heavy, jolting logs, and creaking beams, and grinding ice. Running across the bridge wildly, she beckoned for Joseph to come to her--implored him to trust himself upon the blocks of ice, or else send Daisy, and not leave her to perish alone. There came new drifts of ice from above, jolting against the bridge, and throwing Maud from her feet; and so the heavy structure went whirling, tossing like a straw upon the stream. Joseph turned to Daisy. "If I go to her help, we both may slip from the unsteady blocks of ice, and drown. Yet I may possibly save her; shall I go or stay?" "Go," she said instantly. "Then good by, Daisy; perhaps we never shall look in each other's faces again." "Not here, perhaps; but, go." "What's that?" asked the sharp voice of the dame. "Foolish children! Don't you know that, when Maud is drowned, there will be no one to separate you, and, as long as she lives, she will not let you be married?" "She is my sister," said Daisy. And Joseph, stepping boldly upon the ice, creeping from log to log,--lost now in the branches of a tree, dashed into the water, and struggling out again,--found his way to the bridge, and threw his strong arm about the form of the fainting Maud. But here was new trouble; for she declared that she would never venture where Joseph had been, not if they both were swept away. Finding her so unreasonable, the herdsman took Maud, like an infant, in his arms, and, though she shrieked and struggled, stepped from the bridge just as its straining beams parted, and fell, one by one, among the drift wood in the stream. When Maud stood safely on the shore, she was so glad to find herself alive, that she took off every one of her jewels and offered them to Joseph. But the herdsman told her that he did not wish to be paid for what had cost him nothing, and had he lost his life, the jewels would have been no recompense. "So you want more, perhaps," said Maud, the haughty look coming again into her handsome face. "Well, what shall I give you for risking your precious life?" "Daisy," he answered. "My sister? Do you dare tell me that she would marry a cowboy?" "Ask her." "Yes," said Daisy. "Nonsense! you will live with me, Daisy, in my new great house; and if you marry at all, it will be some rich, elegant man, so that you can entertain us when I and my husband wish to visit you." "I shall marry Joseph or no one," Daisy answered firmly. "Well, then, Joseph, cross the river on the ice once more, and Daisy shall be your wife." Maud thought she had found a way to rid herself of the troublesome herdsman; for it seemed to her the dreadful voyage could not be made again in safety; and then she half believed that Joseph would sooner give up Daisy than try. But, without a word, he darted upon the ice--slipped, as at first; and when Daisy saw him struggling, she flew to his help--slipped where he slipped: a tree came sailing down, and struck them both. Maud saw no more. But, all the way home, she heard in her ears the shrill voice of the fairy, saying, "I hope you are satisfied, now you have killed them both." CHAPTER XXV. THE FAIRY'S LAST GIFT. Maud went home to the lonely cabin; there was no one to make a fire, and dry her wet clothes, and comfort her. When little Susan heard what had happened, she ran away to live with the mother of Joseph; and Maud was left alone. Wearied with fright, and trouble, and remorse, the beauty sank upon her bed and fell asleep. But hardly were her eyes closed, when she seemed in a damp, cellar-like place herself, but, looking upward, saw the glorious golden city Daisy told her about, with its pearly gates and diamond foundations, and the river shaded by beautiful palms, and throngs of angels walking on its banks. The ranks of angels parted, and she saw among them the Beautiful One, who had met her in the wood--only he was bright and joyous now, and his wounds shone like stars; and--could it be? yes--he was leading Daisy and Joseph, not a poor drudge and humble herdsboy now, but, like the other angels, clothed in light, crowned with lilies, and Joseph's harp of reeds changed to a golden harp, on which he still made music. She saw two other beautiful ones come forward and embrace her sister: one, she felt, was the father she had never seen, and one was Susan, the good and humble mother of whom Maud had been ashamed. Then she awoke, to find herself alone in the cabin, which was damp and dark as she had dreamed; and she could only hear the night wind sighing, and the voices of the wolves and snakes. As soon as morning came, she hurried to the river bank, in hopes, thus late, to save her sister, or to hear, at least, some news from her. But she saw only floating logs and blocks of ice jarring and whirling down the river. And from that hour Maud believed herself a murderer, and would gladly have given her own life to forget the dreadful scene, which kept rising before her, of the good, gentle sister drowning in the flood, and the sound of the dame's shrill voice asking, "Now, are you satisfied?" But Daisy did not drown. When Joseph saw her danger, though almost dead himself, he took fresh courage, and made such bold, brave efforts that both he and Daisy reached the shore. Long, happy days they spent together on the earth. Determined that she should have no more trouble with her sister, Joseph took his wife over the sea to a pleasant island, where she had a happier, if not so splendid a home as Maud. When he opened the door to show Daisy her beautiful little house, who should stand within but the fairy, all dressed in her velvet and pearls, and looking as bright as if she too were glad that Daisy's life was to be so happy now. Many a gift the fairy brought them: little Peters, and Susans, and Daisies came in her arms, to play before their door, and make the cottage merry with their songs, before _our_ Daisy went to wear her crown in heaven. And many a pleasant tune Joseph played to his wife and children on the home-made harp of reeds, before it was changed to a harp of gold, and chimed in with the angels' music, in our Father's home above. When packing her things, to leave the cabin, Maud left Daisy's dresses, as they were not fine enough for her, and also some little things which her sister had treasured--among them, the spectacles. But once in her fine new home, and the wedding over, the first things she found, hanging in the fringe of her shawl, were Daisy's spectacles. So she thought how queerly Daisy used to look in them, and put the glasses on, to amuse her husband; but what was her surprise to find she could see plainly through them now! And, alas! the first thing they told her was, that this man, for whom she had left all her rich suitors, did not love her, but her money; despised her because her mother was so poor, and was much fonder of one of the ladies whom he had forsaken than of her. She told him this angrily; but he only laughed, and said she might have guessed it without spectacles, and asked how he could love any one who thought only of herself. She hoped he might be jesting, yet his words were soon proved true; for he not only neglected, but treated her harshly, and when she was saddest, dragged her to the balls which she no longer enjoyed, and laughed about her spectacles, which began to leave their mark upon her handsome face. "At least," thought Maud, "I am very rich; there is no end to my jewelry. I will find out all its value through the spectacles." But though there were pearls and diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires, set in heavy gold, they seemed only a handful through the glasses; while she saw whole heaps of finer pearls lying neglected under the sea, and rubies, and emeralds, and diamonds scattered about on the sands, or in the heart of rocks, enough to build a house. Melted along the veins of the earth she discovered so much gold, too, that her own didn't seem worth keeping; for Maud only valued things when she thought others could not have so fine. Do you remember what the dame said, when she placed the spectacles on little Daisy's breast? "Take care of her heart, now, Peter, and this gift of mine will be a precious one." Here was the trouble: Maud, with all her beauty and wealth, had not taken care of her heart; and so, when Daisy saw bright, and wise, and pleasant things through the glasses, Maud saw only sad and painful ones. The beauty grew tired of life; her husband was so jealous that he would not allow any one to admire her; and she found the palace did not make her any happier than the cabin had done, nor did the open country seem any brighter than the wood. For it isn't whether we _live_ in a palace or a cave, but whether our hearts are cheerful palaces or gloomy caves, that makes the difference between sad lives and merry ones. So, one day, when the dame appeared with her gifts, Maud said, "O, take them away--take back all the beauty, the power, and money you ever brought, and give me a heart like Daisy's." "Pretty likely," said the dame. "You asked for money--you and your mother, both; now make the most of it." But the old woman had hardly left the house when one of Maud's servants brought her in, wounded, and weeping bitterly, for a wagon had run over her. "Carry her home to her cave; why did you bring her to me?" said Maud. But just then she seemed to see the cold, bare cave that Daisy had told her about, with nothing except wooden stools and a smoky fireplace--no soft bed, no child to watch over and comfort the poor old dame. So Maud called the servants back, and had the woman placed in her own room, and watched with her, and bathed her limbs, and though she was fretful, did not once neglect her through a long and tedious illness. At last, the dame felt well enough to go home, and bade good by to Maud, who begged her not to go; "for," she said,--and the tears came into her eyes,--"you make me think of dear Daisy, the only one that ever loved me, with this selfish heart." "No, no; I cannot trust you," said the dame, and disappeared. But she came back, with such a bundle in her arms as she had brought to Susan once; and when Maud looked up to thank her, lo! the dame had changed to a lovely fairy, with a young, sweet face--the same that Daisy used to talk about. Bending over Maud, she wiped the tears from her face, and put the bundle in her arms, and disappeared. And when the little child learned to love her, Maud forgot her fears and cares, her cruel husband and her selfish self, and found how much happier it makes us to give joy than to receive it. The little girl was named Daisy, and grew up not only beautiful and rich, but wise and good; she spent her money nobly, and gained the love and added to the happiness of all her friends. But the one whom she made happiest was her own mother--Maud. CHAPTER XXVI. WHAT IT ALL MEANS. Now, dear children, I suppose you have guessed all my riddles, for they are not hard ones; but I will tell you the meaning of one or two. LIFE is the old fairy, that comes sometimes frowning and wretched, sometimes smiling and lovely, but always benevolent, always taking better care of us than we take of ourselves. We should be silent, helpless dust, except for Life; and whether we be great or humble, rich or poor, she gives us all we have. Though she may seem to smile on you and frown upon your sister, be sure it is not because she loves you best; the fairy may yet change into a wrinkled dame, or the dame to a beautiful fairy. When you remember her, beware how you grieve or slight any one. If you are passing some poor beggar in the street, think, "Had I on Daisy's spectacles, I should see under all these rags a child of the great God, travelling on, as I am travelling, to live with him in the golden city above. While this man seems humble to me, angels may bow to him as they pass invisibly; for all the titles in this world are not so great as to be a child of God." When you are tempted to vex or laugh at some old woman, think, "Under these wrinkles, lo! the great fairy, Life, is hid; and she can curse or bless me, as I will." The old dame's lantern, and the light in his breast by which Joseph saw, were Instinct; which, if we could but keep it undimmed by the dust of earth, would always light our pathway. And the fairy bread is Kindness, which alone can comfort the poor and sorrowful. They may use what we give in charity, and still be poor and sad; but an act of kindness makes them feel that they too are children of the same great God, and are therefore happy and rich, though they must walk about for a little while in rags. For they remember how, like us, they have a glorious home awaiting them in the city whose streets are gold; and then it doesn't seem so hard that they have less than we of the poor gold of earth. The spectacles are Wisdom, which shows us all things as they are, not as they seem--which we may learn, like Daisy, from insects, trees, and clouds, or, easier still, from words that the wise have written. Believe me, this wisdom, which may seem but a tedious thing, will show any of you as wonderful visions as those I have told you about. So, when your lessons are hard, and you long to play, and wonder what's the use in books, think, "They are Daisy's wondrous spectacles, that change our dull earth into fairy land." Wearing these, you need never be lonely or afraid, but will feel God's strong and loving arm around you in the dreariest place. The sun will seem his watchful eye, the wind his breath, the flowers his messages. You will know that all good and lovely things are gifts from him. And you will not forget that the fairy, Life, is still on earth, and, if we ask her, will lead us all to the wonderful city which Daisy saw far up above the pines--where you, too, may be good and peaceful, like the rest, and wear a crown of lilies and a robe of light. PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, & COMPANY PUBLISH PEEP AT "NUMBER FIVE;" Or, A CHAPTER IN THE LIFE OF A CITY PASTOR. BY H. TRUSTA, _Author of_ "THE SUNNY SIDE," &c., &c. _Twenty-fifth Thousand._ THE TELLTALE; Or, HOME SECRETS TOLD BY OLD TRAVELLERS. BY H. TRUSTA, _Author of_ "PEEP AT NUMBER FIVE," "SUNNY SIDE," &c., &c. _Tenth Thousand._ THE "LAST LEAF FROM SUNNY SIDE;" By H. TRUSTA, _Author of_ "PEEP AT NUMBER FIVE," "TELLTALE," &c., &c. _Thirteenth Thousand._ FATHER BRIGHTHOPES; Or, AN OLD CLERGYMAN'S VACATION. By PAUL CREYTON. _Uniform with "Peep at Number Five," "Last Leaf,"_ &c. HEARTS AND FACES; Or, HOME LIFE UNVEILED. By PAUL CREYTON, _Author of_ "FATHER BRIGHTHOPES," &c. _Uniform with the above._ PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, & CO. PUBLISH THE FOLLOWING JUVENILE WORKS ESTELLE'S STORIES ABOUT DOGS; Containing six beautiful Illustrations; being original Portraits from Life. Printed on superfine paper. 16mo, colored engravings, 75 cents; plain, 50 cents. LITTLE MARY; Or, TALKS AND TALES. BY H. TRUSTA, Author of "SUNNY SIDE," "PEEP AT NUMBER FIVE," &c., &c. This little book is charmingly illustrated, and is a very beautiful book. It is made up of short lessons, and was originally written for the practical use of children from five to ten years of age. LITTLE BLOSSOM'S REWARD; A CHRISTMAS BOOK FOR CHILDREN BY MRS. EMILY HARE. Beautifully Illustrated from original Designs, and a charming Presentation Book for Young People. PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, & CO. PUBLISH THE FOLLOWING JUVENILE WORKS. By Francis C. Woodworth. EDITOR OF "WOODWORTH'S YOUTH'S CABINET," AUTHOR OF "THE WILLOW LANE BUDGET," "THE STRAWBERRY GIRL," "THE MILLER OF OUR VILLAGE," "THEODORE THINKER'S TALES," ETC., ETC. UNCLE FRANK'S BOYS' AND GIRLS' LIBRARY _A Beautiful Series, comprising six volumes, square 12mo, with eight Tinted Engravings in each volume. The following are their titles respectively_:-- I. THE PEDDLER'S BOY; or, I'll be Somebody. II. THE DIVING BELL; or, Pearls to be sought for. III. THE POOR ORGAN GRINDER, and other Stories. IV. OUR SUE: Her Motto and its Uses. V. MIKE MARBLE: His Crotchets and Oddities. VI. THE WONDERFUL LETTER BAG OF KIT CURIOUS. "Woodworth is unquestionably and immeasurably the best writer for children that we know of; for he combines a sturdy common sense and varied information with a most childlike and loveful spirit, that finds its way at once to the child's heart. We regard him as one of the truest benefactors of his race; for he is as wise as he is gentle, and never uses his power over the child-heart to instil into it the poison of false teaching, or to cramp it with unlovely bigotry. The publishers have done their part, as well as the author, to make these volumes attractive. Altogether we regard them as one of the pleasantest series of juvenile books extant, both in their literary character and mechanical execution."--_Syracuse (N. Y.) Daily Standard._ PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, & CO. PUBLISH THE FOLLOWING JUVENILE WORKS CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS AT CHESTNUT HILL. BY COUSIN MARY. Containing fine engravings from original Designs, and printed very neatly. It will be found to be a charming little book for a present for all seasons. ESTELLE'S STORIES ABOUT DOGS; Containing six beautiful Illustrations; being original Portraits from Life. Printed on superfine paper. 16mo, colored engravings, 75 cents; plain, 50 cents. LITTLE MARY; Or, Talks and Tales. BY H. TRUSTA, Author of "SUNNY SIDE," "PEEP AT NUMBER FIVE," &c., &c. This little book is charmingly illustrated, and is a very beautiful book. It is made up of short lessons, and was originally written for the practical use of children from five to ten years of age. 
21228	----	White Lilac, by Amy Walton ________________________________________________________________ Mrs White had had several children before the birth of this one, but they had all died. This makes her quite determined to make sure that this one survives. She was telling a visitor that she thought of calling the baby Annie, in honour of the visitor, but she had just been saying how much she loved white lilacs, and her husband had brought a branch of it over from a nearby village. So the visitor said, call her Lilac White, as there were already too many Annie Whites in the village. Unfortunately the father dies shortly after, and the mother has to bring the child up on her own. Now she is twelve, and a pretty child. A visiting artist asks if he may put her in one of his pictures. Lilac goes off with her cousin Agnetta, who believes she needs a new hair-do. Needless to say, the result is not attractive to the artist, who now refuses to put her in the picture. Other characters in the story are Uncle Joshua, who is a good and well-loved man, and Peter, probably in his late teens, who is a farm worker, well-intentioned but clumsy. A big event in the village is May Day, and there is rivalry among the girls about which of them shall be Queen of the May. It is Lilac. Yet that very day her mother is taken ill and dies. She is taken to their home by a farmer and his wife, and taught the dairymaid arts such as butter and cheese making. In those days a girl such as Lilac would hope to be taken into domestic service and trained up to such high levels as house-keeper or cook. Lilac has some opportunities--will she or won't she take them up? A lovely book that takes us back to long-gone days in the pastoral England of the 1850s. NH ________________________________________________________________ WHITE LILAC, BY AMY WALTON CHAPTER ONE. A BUNCH OF LILAC. "What's in a name?"--_Shakespeare_. Mrs James White stood at her cottage door casting anxious glances up at the sky, and down the hill towards the village. If it were fine the rector's wife had promised to come and see the baby, "and certainly," thought Mrs White, shading her eyes with her hand, "you might call it fine--for April." There were sharp showers now and then, to be sure, but the sun shone between whiles, and sudden rays darted through her little window strong enough to light up the whole room. Their searching glances disclosed nothing she was ashamed of, for they showed that the kitchen was neat and well ordered, with bits of good substantial furniture in it, such as a long-bodied clock, table, and dresser of dark oak. These polished surfaces smiled back again cheerfully as the light touched them, and the row of pewter plates on the high mantelshelf glistened so brightly that they were as good as so many little mirrors. But beside these useful objects the sunlight found out two other things in the room, at which it pointed its bright finger with special interest. One of these was a large bunch of pure white lilac which stood on the window sill in a brown mug, and the other was a wicker cradle in which lay something very much covered up in blankets. After a last lingering look down the hill, where no one was in sight, Mrs White shut her door and settled herself to work, with the lilac at her elbow, and the cradle at her foot. She rocked this gently while she sewed, and turned her head now and then, when her needle wanted threading, to smell the delicate fragrance of the flowers. Her face was grave, with a patient and rather sad expression, as though her memories were not all happy ones; but by degrees, as she sat there working and rocking, some pleasant thought brought a smile to her lips and softened her eyes. This became so absorbing that presently she did not see a figure pass the window, and when a knock at the door followed, she sprang up startled to open it for her expected visitor. "I'd most given you up, ma'am," she said as the lady entered, "but I'm very glad to see you." It was not want of cordiality but want of breath which caused a beaming smile to be the only reply to this welcome. The hill was steep, the day was mild, and Mrs Leigh was rather stout. She at once dropped with a sigh of relief, but still smiling, into a chair, and cast a glance full of interest at the cradle, which Mrs White understood as well as words. Bending over it she peeped cautiously in amongst the folds of flannel. "She's so fast, it's a sin to take her up, ma'am," she murmured, "but I _would_ like you to see her." Mrs Leigh had now recovered her power of speech. "Don't disturb her for the world," she said, "I'm not going away yet. I shall be glad to rest a little. She'll wake presently, I dare say. What is it," she continued, looking round the room, "that smells so delicious? Oh, what lovely lilac!" as her eye rested on the flowers in the window. Mrs White had taken up her sewing again. "I always liked the laylocks myself, ma'am," she said, "partic'ler the white ones. It were a common bush in the part I lived as a gal, but there's not much hereabouts." "Where did you get it?" asked Mrs Leigh, leaning forward to smell the pure-white blossoms; "I thought there was only the blue in the village." "Why, no more there is," said Mrs White with a half-ashamed smile; "but Jem, he knows I'm a bit silly over them, and he got 'em at Cuddingham t'other day. You see, the day I said I'd marry him he gave me a bunch of white laylocks--and that's ten years ago. Sitting still so much more than I'm used lately, with the baby, puts all sorts of foolishness into my head, and when you knocked just now it gave me quite a start, for the smell of the laylocks took me right back to the days when we were sweetheartin'." "How _is_ Jem?" asked Mrs Leigh, glancing at a gun which stood in the chimney corner. "He's _well_, ma'am, thank you, but out early and home late. There's bin poaching in the woods lately, and the keepers have a lot of trouble with 'em." "None of _our_ people, I _hope_?" said the rector's wife anxiously. "Oh dear, no, ma'am! A gipsy lot--a cruel wild set, to be sure, from what Jem says, and fight desperate." There was a stir amongst the blankets in the cradle just then, and presently a little cry. The baby was _awake_. Very soon she was in Mrs Leigh's arms, who examined the tiny face with great interest, while the mother stood by, silent, but eager for the first expression of admiration. "What a beautifully fair child!" exclaimed Mrs Leigh. "Everyone says that as sees her," said Mrs White with quiet triumph. "She features my mother's family--they all had such wonderful white skins. But," anxiously, "you don't think she looks weakly, do you, ma'am?" "Oh, no," answered Mrs Leigh in rather a doubtful tone. She stood up and weighed the child in her arms, moving nearer the window. "She's a little thing, but I dare say she's not the less strong for that." "It makes me naturally a bit fearsome over her," said Mrs White; "for, as you know, ma'am, I've buried three children since we've bin here. Ne'er a one of 'em all left me. It seems when I look at this little un as how I _must_ keep her. I don't seem as if I _could_ let her go too." "Oh, she'll grow up and be a comfort to you, I don't doubt," said Mrs Leigh cheerfully. "Fair-complexioned children are very often wonderfully healthy and strong. But really," she continued, looking closely at the baby's face, "I never saw such a skin in my life. Why, she's as white as milk, or snow, or a lily, or--" She paused for a comparison, and suddenly added, as her eye fell on the flowers, "or that bunch of lilac." "You're right, ma'am," agreed Mrs White with a smile of intense gratification. "And if I were you," continued Mrs Leigh, her good-natured face beaming all over with a happy idea, "I should call her `Lilac'. That would be a beautiful name for her. Lilac White. Nothing could be better; it seems made for her." Mrs White's expression changed to one of grave doubt. "It do _seem_ as how it would fit her," she said; "but that's not a Christian name, is it, ma'am?" "Well, it would make it one if you had her christened so, you see." "I was thinking of making so bold as to call her `Annie', and to ask you to stand for her, ma'am." "And so I will, with pleasure. But don't call her Annie; we've got so many Annies in the parish already it's quite confusing--and so many Whites too. We should have to say `Annie White on the hill' every time we spoke of her. I'm always mixing them up as it is. _Don't_ call her Annie, Mrs White, Lilac's far better. Ask your husband what he thinks of it." "Oh! Jem, he'll think as I do, ma'am," said Mrs White at once; "it isn't _Jem_." "Who is it, then? If you both like the name it can't matter to anyone else." "Well, ma'am," said Mrs White hesitatingly, as she took her child from Mrs Leigh, and rocked it gently in her arms, "they'll all say down below in the village, as how it's a fancy sort of a name, and maybe when she grows up they'll laugh at her for it. I shouldn't like to feel as how I'd given her a name to be made game of." But Mrs Leigh was much too pleased with her fancy to give it up, and she smilingly overcame this objection and all others. It was a pretty, simple, and modest-sounding name, she said, with nothing in it that could be made laughable. It was short to say, and above all it had the advantage of being uncommon; as it was, so many mothers had desired the honour of naming their daughters after the rector's wife, that the number of "Annies" was overwhelming, but there certainly would not be two "Lilac Whites" in the village. In short, as Mrs White told Jem that evening, Mrs Leigh was "that set" on the name that she had to give in to her. And so it was settled; and wonderfully soon afterwards it was rumoured in the village that Mrs James White on the hill meant to call her baby "Lilac." This could not matter to anyone else, Mrs Leigh had said, but she was mistaken. Every mother in the parish had her opinion to offer, for there were not so many things happening, that even the very smallest could be passed over without a proper amount of discussion when neighbours met. On the whole they were not favourable opinions. It was felt that Mrs White, who had always held herself high and been severe on the follies of her friends, had now in her turn laid herself open to remark by choosing an outlandish and fanciful name for her child. Lilies, Roses, and even Violets were not unknown in Danecross, but who had ever heard of Lilac? Mrs Greenways said so, and she had a right to speak, not only because she lived at Orchards Farm, which was the biggest in the parish, but because her husband was Mrs White's brother. She said it at all times and in all places, but chiefly at "Dimbleby's", for if you dropped in there late in the afternoon you were pretty sure to find acquaintances, eager to hear and tell news; and this was specially the case on Saturday, which was shopping day. Dimbleby's was quite a large shop, and a very important one, for there was no other in the village; it was rather dark, partly because the roof was low-pitched, and partly because of the wonderful number and variety of articles crammed into it, so that it would have puzzled anyone to find out what Dimbleby did not sell. The air was also a little thick to breathe, for there floated in it a strange mixture, made up of unbleached calico, corduroy, smockfrocks, boots, and bacon. All these articles and many others were to be seen piled up on shelves or counters, or dangling from the low beams overhead; and, lately, there had been added to the stock a number of small clocks, stowed away out of sight. Their hasty ceaseless little voices sounded in curious contrast to the slowness of things in general at Dimbleby's: "Tick-tack, tick-tack,--Time flies, time flies", they seemed to be saying over and over again. Without effect, for at Dimbleby's time never flew; he plodded along on dull and heavy feet, and if he had wings at all he dragged them on the ground. You had only to look at the face of the master of the shop to see that speed was impossible to him, and that he was justly known as the slowest man in the parish both in speech and action. This was hardly considered a failing, however, for it had its advantages in shopping; if he was slow himself, he was quite willing that others should be so too, and to stand in unmoved calm while Mrs Jones fingered a material to test its quality, or Mrs Wilson made up her mind between a spot and a sprig. It was therefore a splendid place for a bit of talk, for he was so long in serving, and his customers were so long in choosing, that there was an agreeable absence of pressure, and time to drink a cup of gossip down to its last drop of interest. "I don't understand myself what Mary White would be at," said Mrs Greenways. She stood waiting in the shop while Dimbleby thoughtfully weighed out some sugar for her; a stout woman with a round good-natured face, framed in a purple-velvet bonnet and nodding flowers; her long mantle matched the bonnet in stylishness, and was richly trimmed with imitation fur, but the large strong basket on her arm, already partly full of parcels, was quite out of keeping with this splendid attire. The two women who stood near, listening with eager respect to her remarks, were of very different appearance; their poor thin shawls were put on without any regard for fashion, and their straight cotton dresses were short enough to show their clumsy boots, splashed with mud from the miry country lanes. The edge of Mrs Greenways' gown was also draggled and dirty, for she had not found it easy to hold it up and carry a large basket at the same time. "I thought," she went on, "as how Mary White was all for plain names, and homely ways, and such-like." "She _do say_ so," said the woman nearest to her, cautiously. "Then, as I said to Greenways this morning, `It's not a consistent act for your sister to name her child like that. Accordin' to her you ought to have names as simple and common as may be.' Why, think of what she said when I named my last, which is just a year ago. `And what do you think of callin' her?' says she. `Why,' says I, `I think of giving her the name of Agnetta.' `Dear me!' says she; `whyever do you give your girls such fine names? There's your two eldest, Isabella and Augusta; I'd call this one Betsy, or Jane, or Sarah, or something easy to say, and suitable.'" "_Did_ she, now?" said both the listeners at once. "And it's not only that," continued Mrs Greenways with a growing sound of injury in her voice, "but she's always on at me when she gets a chance about the way I bring my girls up. `You'd a deal better teach her to make good butter,' says she, when I told her that Bella was learning the piano. And when I showed her that screen Gusta worked-- lilies on blue satting, a re'lly elegant thing--she just turned her head and says, `I'd rather, if she were a gal of mine, see her knit her own stockings.' Those were her words, Mrs Wishing." "Ah, well, it's easy to talk," replied Mrs Wishing soothingly, "we'll be able to see how she'll bring up a daughter of her own now." "I'm not saying," pursued Mrs Greenways, turning a watchful eye on Mr Dimbleby's movements, "that Mary White haven't a perfect right to name her child as she chooses. I'm too fair for that, I _hope_. What I do say is, that now she's picked up a fancy sort of name like Lilac, she hasn't got any call to be down on other people. And if me and Greenways likes to see our girls genteel and give 'em a bit of finishing eddication, and set 'em off with a few accomplishments, it's our own affair and not Mary White's. And though I say it as shouldn't, you won't find two more elegant gals than Gusta and Bella, choose where you may." During the last part of her speech Mrs Greenways had been poking and squeezing her parcel of sugar into its appointed corner of her basket; as she finished she settled it on her arm, clutched at her gown with the other hand, and prepared to start. "And now, as I'm in a hurry, I'll say good night, Mrs Pinhorn and Mrs Wishing, and good night to you, Mr Dimbleby." She rolled herself and her burden through the narrow door of the shop, and for a moment no one spoke, while all the little clocks ticked away more busily than ever. "She's got enough to carry," said Mrs Pinhorn, breaking silence at last, with a sideway nod at her neighbour. "She have _so_," agreed Mrs Wishing mildly; "and I wonder, that I do, to see her carrying that heavy basket on foot--she as used to come in her spring cart." Mrs Pinhorn pressed her lips together before answering, then she said with meaning: "They're short of hands just now at Orchards Farm, and maybe short of horses too." "You don't say so!" said Mrs Wishing, drawing nearer. "My Ben works there, as you know, and he says money's scarce there, very scarce indeed. One of the men got turned off only t'other day." "Lor', now, to think of that!" exclaimed Mrs Wishing in an awed manner. "An' her in that bonnet an' all them artificials!" "There's a deal," continued Mrs Pinhorn, "in what Mrs White says about them two Greenways gals with their fine-lady ways. It 'ud a been better to bring 'em up handy in the house so as to help their mother. As it is, they're too finnicking to be a bit of use. You wouldn't see either of _them_ with a basket on their arm, they'd think it lowering themselves. And I dare say the youngest 'll grow up just like 'em." "There's a deal in what Mrs Greenways's just been saying too," remarked the woman called Mrs Wishing in a hesitating voice, "for Mrs James White _is_ a very strict woman and holds herself high, and `Lilac' is a fanciful kind of a name; but _I_ dunno." She broke off as if feeling incapable of dealing with the question. "I can't wonder myself," resumed Mrs Pinhorn, "at Mrs Greenways being a bit touchy. You heard, I s'pose, what Mrs White up and said to her once? You didn't? Well, she said, `You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, and you'll never make them girls ladies, try all you will,' says she. `Useless things you'll make 'em, fit for neither one station or t'other.'" "That there's plain speaking!" said Mrs Wishing admiringly. Mr Dimbleby had not uttered a word during this conversation, and was to all appearance entirely occupied in weighing out, tying up parcels, and receiving orders. In reality, however, he had not lost a word of it, and had been getting ready to speak for some time past. Neither of the women, who were well acquainted with him, was at all surprised when he suddenly remarked: "It were Mrs Leigh herself as had to do with the name of Mrs James White's baby." "Re'lly, now?" said Mrs Wishing doubtfully. "An' it were Mrs Leigh herself as I heard it from," continued Dimbleby ponderously, without noticing the interruption. "Well, that makes a difference, don't it now?" said Mrs Pinhorn. "Why ever didn't you name that afore, Mr Dimbleby?" "And," added Dimbleby, grinding on to the end of his speech regardless of hindrance, like a machine that has been wound up; "and Mrs Leigh herself is goin' to stand for the baby." "Lor'! I do wish Mrs Greenways could a heard that," said Mrs Pinhorn; "that'll set Mrs White up more than ever." "It will so," said Mrs Wishing; "she allers did keep herself _to_ herself did Mrs White. Not but what she's a decent woman and a kind. Seems as how, if Mrs Leigh wished to name the child `Lilac', she couldn't do no other than fall in with it. But _I_ dunno." "And how does the name strike you, Mr Snell?" said Mrs Pinhorn, turning to a newcomer. He was an oldish man, short and broad-shouldered, with a large head and serious grey eyes. Not only his leather apron, but the ends of his stumpy fingers, which were discoloured and brown, showed that he was a cobbler by trade. When Mrs Pinhorn spoke to him, he fingered his cheek thoughtfully, took off his hat, and passed his hand over his high bald forehead. "What name may you be alludin' to, ma'am?" he enquired very politely. "The name `Lilac' as Mrs James White's goin' to call her child." "Lilac--eh! Lilac White. White Lilac," repeated the cobbler musingly. "Well, ma'am, 'tis a pleasant bush and a homely; I can't wish the maid no better than to grow up like her name." "Why, you wouldn't for sure wish her to grow up homely, would you now, Mr Snell?" said Mrs Wishing with a feeble laugh. "I _would_, ma'am," replied Mr Snell, turning rather a severe eye upon the questioner, "I _would_. For why? Because to be homely is to make the common things of home sweet and pleasant. She can't do no better than that." Mrs Wishing shrank silenced into the background, like one who has been reproved, and the cobbler advanced to the counter to exchange greetings with Mr Dimbleby, and buy tobacco. The women's voices, the sharp ticking of the clocks, and the deeper tones of the men kept up a steady concert for some time undisturbed. But suddenly the door was thrown violently back on its hinges with a bang, and a tall man in labourer's clothes rushed into their midst. Everyone looked up startled, and on Mrs Wishing's face there was fear as well as surprise when she recognised the newcomer. "Why, Dan'l, my man," she exclaimed, "what is it?" Daniel was out of breath with running. He rubbed his forehead with a red pocket handkerchief, looked round in a dazed manner at the assembled group, and at length said hoarsely: "Mrs Greenways bin here?" "Ah, just gone!" said both the women at once. "There's trouble up yonder--on the hill," said Daniel, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, and speaking in a strange, broken voice. "Mary White's baby!" exclaimed Mrs Pinhorn. "Fits!" added Mrs Wishing; "they all went off that way." "Hang the baby," muttered Daniel. He made his way past the women, who had pressed up close to him, to where the cobbler and Dimbleby stood. "I've fetched the doctor," he said, "and she wants the Greenways to know it; I thought maybe she'd be here." "What is it? Who's ill?" asked the cobbler. "Tain't anyone that's ill," answered Daniel; "he's stone dead. They shot him right through the heart." "Who? Who?" cried all the voices together. "I found him," continued Daniel, "up in the woods; partly covered up with leaves he was. Smiling peaceful and stone dead. He was always a brave feller and done his dooty, did James White on the hill. But he won't never do it no more." "Poachers!" exclaimed Dimbleby in a horror-struck voice. "Poachers it was, sure enough," said Daniel; "an' he's stone dead, James White is. They shot him right through the heart. Seems a pity such a brave chap should die like that." "An' him such a good husband!" said Mrs Wishing. "An' the baby an' all as we was just talking on," said Mrs Pinhorn; "well, it's a fatherless child now, anyway." "The family ought to allow the widder a pension," said Mr Dimbleby, "seeing as James White died in their service, so to speak." "They couldn't do no less," agreed the cobbler. The idea of fetching Mrs Greenways seemed to have left Daniel's mind for the present: he had now taken a chair, and was engaged in answering the questions with which he was plied on all sides, and in trying to fix the exact hour when he had found poor James White in the woods. "As it might be here, and me standing as it might be there," he said, illustrating his words with the different parcels on the counter before him. It was not until all this was thoroughly understood, and every imaginable expression of pity and surprise had been uttered, that Mrs Pinhorn remembered that the "Greenways ought to know. And I don't see why," she added, seizing her basket with sudden energy, "I shouldn't take her up myself; I'm goin' that way, and she's a slow traveller." "An' then Dan'l can go straight up home with me," said Mrs Wishing, "and we can drop in as we pass an' see Mrs White, poor soul. She hadn't ought to be alone." Before nightfall everyone knew the sad tidings. James White had been shot by poachers, and Daniel Wishing had found him lying dead in the woods. As the days went on, the excitement which stirred the whole village increased rather than lessened, for not even the oldest inhabitant could remember such a tragical event. Apart from the sadness of it, and the desolate condition of the widow, poor Jem's many virtues made it impressive and lamentable. Everyone had something to say in his praise, no one remembered anything but good about him; he was a brave chap, and one of the right sort, said the men, when they talked of it in the public-house; he was a good husband, said the women, steady and sober, fond of his wife, a pattern to others. They shook their heads and sighed mournfully; it was strange as well as pitiful that Jem White should a been took. "There might a been _some_ as we could mention as wouldn't a been so much missed." Then came the funeral; the bunch of white lilac, still fresh, which he had brought from Cuddingham, was put on Jem's newly-made grave, and his widow, passing silently through the people gathered in the churchyard, toiled patiently back to her lonely home. They watched the solitary figure as it showed black against the steep chalky road in the distance. "Yon's an afflicted woman," said one, "for all she carries herself so high under it." "She's the only widder among all the Whites hereabouts," remarked Mrs Pinhorn. "We needn't call her `Mrs White on the hill' no longer, poor soul." "It's a mercy she's got the child," said another neighbour, "if the Lord spares it to her." "The christening's to be on Sunday," added a third. "I do wonder if she'll call it that outlandish name _now_." There was not much time to wonder, for Sunday soon came, and the Widow White, as she was to be called henceforth, was at the church, stern, sad, and calm, with her child in her arms. It was an April morning, breezy and soft; the uncertain sunshine darted hither and thither, now touching the newly turned earth of Jem's grave, and now peering through the church window to rest on the tiny face of his little daughter in the rector's arms at the font. All the village had come to see, for this christening was felt to be one of more than common interest, and while the service went on there was not one inattentive ear. Foremost stood Mrs Greenways, her white handkerchief displayed for immediate use, and the expression in her face struggling between real compassion and an eager desire to lose nothing that was passing; presently she craned her neck forward a little, for an important point was reached-- "Name this child," said the rector. There was such deep silence in the church that the lowest whisper would have been audible, and Mrs Leigh's voice was heard distinctly in the farthest corner, when she answered "Lilac." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Not that it matters," said Mrs Greenways on her way home afterwards, "what they call the poor little thing--Lilac White, or White Lilac, or what you will, for she'll never rear it, never. It'll follow its father before we're any of us much older. You mark my words, Greenways: I'm not the woman to discourage Mary White by naming it to her now she's so deep in trouble, but you mark my words, she'll _never_ rear that child." CHAPTER TWO. THE COUSINS. "For the apparel oft proclaims the man."--Shakespeare. But Mrs Greenways was wrong. Twelve more springs came and went, cold winds blew round the cottage on the hill, winter snow covered it, summer sun blazed down on its unsheltered roof, but the small blossom within grew and flourished. A weak tender-looking little plant at first, but gathering strength with the years until it became hardy and bold, fit to face rough weather as well as to smile in the sunshine. It was twelve years since James White's death, twelve years since he had brought the bunch of lilac from Cuddingham which had given his little daughter her name--that name which had once sounded so strangely in Mrs White's ears. It had come to mean so much to her now, so many memories of the past, so much sweetness in the present, that she would not have changed it for the world, and indeed no one questioned its fitness, for as time went on it seemed to belong naturally to the child; it was even made more expressive by putting the surname first, so that she was often called "White Lilac." For the distinguishing character of her face was its whiteness--"A wonderful white skin", as her mother had said, which did not tan, or freckle, or flush with heat, and which shone out in startling contrast amongst the red and brown cheeks of her school companions. This small white face was set upon a slender neck, and a delicately-formed but upright little figure, which looked all the straighter and more like the stalk of a flower, because it was never adorned with any flounces or furbelows. Lilac was considered in the village to be very old-fashioned in her dress; she wore cotton frocks, plain in the skirt with gathers all round the waist, long pinafores or aprons, and sunbonnets. This attire was always spotless and freshly clean, but garments of such a shape and cut were lamentably wanting in fashion to the general eye, and were the subject of constant ridicule. Not in the hearing of the widow, for most people were a good deal in awe of her, but Lilac herself heard quite enough about her clothes to be conscious of them and to feel ashamed of looking "different." And this was specially the case at school, for there she met Agnetta Greenways every day, and Agnetta was the object of her highest admiration; to be like her in some way was the deep and secret longing in her mind. It was, she knew well, a useless ambition, but she could not help desiring it, Agnetta was such a beautiful object to look upon, with her red cheeks and the heavy fringe of black hair which rested in a lump on her forehead. On Sundays, when she wore her blue dress richly trimmed with plush, a long feather in her hat, and a silver bangle on her arm, Lilac could hardly keep her intense admiration silent; it was a pain not to speak of it, and yet she knew that nothing would have displeased her mother so much, who was never willing to hear the Greenways praised. So she only gazed wistfully at her cousin's square gaily-dressed figure, and felt herself a poor washed-out insignificant child in comparison. This was very much Agnetta's own view of the case; but nevertheless there were occasions when she was glad of this insignificant creature's assistance, for she was slow and stupid at her lessons, books were grief and pain to her, and Lilac, who was intelligent and fond of learning, was always ready to help and explain. This service, given most willingly, was received by Agnetta as one to whom it was due, and indeed the position she held among her schoolfellows made most of them eager to call her friend. She lived at Orchards Farm, which was the biggest in the parish; her two elder sisters had been to a finishing school, and one of them was now in a millinery establishment in London, where she wore a silk dress every day. This was sufficient to excuse airs of superiority in anyone. It was natural, therefore, to repay Lilac's devotion by condescending patronage, and to look down on her from a great height; nevertheless it was extremely agreeable to Agnetta to be worshipped, and this made her seek her cousin's companionship, and invite her often to Orchards Farm. There she could display her smart frocks, dwell on the extent of her father's possessions, on her sister Bella's stylishness, on the last fashion Gusta had sent from London, while Lilac, meek and admiring, stood by with wonder in her eyes. Orchards Farm was the most beautiful place her imagination could picture, and to live there must be, she thought, perfect happiness. There was a largeness about it, with its blossoming fruit trees, its broad green meadows, its barns and stacks, its flocks of sheep and herds of cattle; even the shiny-leaved magnolia which covered part of the house seemed to Lilac to speak of peace and plenty. It was all so different from her home; the bare white cottage on the hillside where no trees grew, where all was so narrow and cold, and where life seemed to be made up of scrubbing, sweeping, and washing. She looked longingly down from this sometimes to the valley where the farm stood. But other eyes, and Mrs White's in particular, saw a very different state of things when they looked at Orchards Farm. She knew that under this smiling outside face lay hidden care and anxiety; for her brother, Farmer Greenways, was in debt and short of money. Folks shook their heads when it was mentioned, and said: "What could you expect?" The old people remembered the prosperous days at the farm, when the dairy had been properly worked, and the butter was the best you could get anywhere round. There was the pasture land still, and a good lot of cows, but since the Greenways had come there the supply of butter was poor, and sometimes the whole quantity sent to market was so carelessly made that it was sour. Whose fault was it? Mrs Greenways would have said that Molly, the one overworked maid servant, was to blame; but other people thought differently, and Mrs White was as usual outspoken in her opinions to her sister-in-law: "It 'ull never be any different as long as you don't look after the dairy yourself, or teach Bella to do it. What does Molly care how the butter turns out?" But Bella tossed her head at the idea of working, as she expressed it, "like a common servant", or indeed at working at all. She considered that her business in life was to be genteel, and to be properly genteel was to do nothing useful. So she studied the fashion books which Gusta sent from London, made up wonderful costumes for herself, curled her hair in the last style, and read the stories about dukes and earls and countesses which came out in the _Family Herald_. The smart bonnets and dresses which Mrs Greenways and her daughters wore on Sundays in spite of hard times and poor crops and debt were the wonder of the whole congregation, and in Mrs White's case the wonder was mixed with scorn. "Peter's the only one among 'em as is good for anything," she sometimes said, "an' he's naught but a puzzle-headed sort of a chap." Peter was the farmer's only son, a loutish youth of fifteen, steady and plodding as his plough horses and almost as silent. It was April again, bright and breezy, and all the cherry trees at the farm were so white with bloom that standing under them you could scarcely see the sky. The grass in the orchard was freshly green and sprinkled with daisies, amongst which families of fluffy yellow ducklings trod awkwardly about on their little splay feet, while the careful mother hens picked out the best morsels of food for them. This food was flung out of a basin by Agnetta Greenways, who stood there squarely erect uttering a monotonous "Chuck, chuck, chuck," at intervals. Agnetta did not care for the poultry, or indeed for any of the creatures on the farm; they were to her only troublesome things that wanted looking after, and she would have liked not to have had anything to do with them. Just now, however, there was a week's holiday at the school, and she was obliged to use her leisure in helping her mother, much against her will. Agnetta had a stolid face with a great deal of colour in her cheeks; her hair was black, but at this hour it was so tightly done up in curl papers that the colour could hardly be seen. She wore an old red merino dress which had once been a smart one, but was now degraded to what she called "dirty work", and was covered with patches and stains. Her hands and wrists were very large, and looked capable of hard work, as indeed did the whole person of Agnetta from top to toe. "Chuck, chuck, chuck," she repeated as she threw out the last spoonful; then, raising her eyes, she became aware of a little figure in the distance, running towards her across the field at the bottom of the orchard. "Lor'!" she exclaimed aloud, "if here isn't Lilac White!" It was a slight little figure clothed in a cotton frock which had once been blue in colour, but had been washed so very often that it now approached a shade of green; over it was a long straight pinafore gathered round the neck with a string, and below it appeared blue worsted stockings, and thick, laced boots. Her black hair was brushed back and plaited in one long tail tied at the end with black ribbon, and in her hand she carried a big sunbonnet, swinging it round and round in the air as she ran. As she came nearer the orchard gate, it was easy to see that she had some news to tell, for her small features worked with excitement, and her grey eyes were bright with eagerness. Agnetta advanced slowly to meet her with the empty basin in her hand, and unlatched the gate. "Whatever's the matter?" she asked. Lilac could not answer just at first, for she had been running a long way, and her breath came in short gasps. She came to a standstill under the trees, and Agnetta stared gravely at her with her mouth wide open. The two girls formed a strong contrast to each other. Lilac's white face and the faded colour of her dress matched the blossoms and leaves of the cherry trees in their delicacy, while about the red-cheeked Agnetta there was something firm and positive, which suggested the fruit which would come later. "I came--" gasped Lilac at last, "I ran--I thought I must tell you--" "Well," said Agnetta, still staring at her in an unmoved manner, "you'd better fetch your breath, and then you'll be able to tell me. Come and sit down." There was a bench under one of the trees near where she had been feeding the ducks. The two girls sat down, and presently Lilac was able to say: "Oh, Agnetta, the artist gentleman wants to put me in a picture!" "Whatever do you mean, Lilac White?" was Agnetta's only reply. Her slightly disapproving voice calmed Lilac's excitement a little. "This is how it was," she continued more quietly. "You know he's lodging at the `Three Bells?' and he comes an' sits at the bottom of our hill an' paints all day." "Of course I know," said Agnetta. "It's a poor sort of an object he's copyin', too--Old Joe's tumble-down cottage. I peeped over his shoulder t'other day--'taint much like." "Well, I pass him every day comin' from school, and he always looks up at me eager without sayin' nothing. But this morning he says, `Little gal,' says he, `I want to put you into my picture.'" "Lor'!" put in Agnetta, "whatever can he want to paint _you_ for?" "So I didn't say nothing," continued Lilac, "because he looked so hard at me that I was skeert-like. So then he says very impatient, `Don't you understand? I want you to come here in that frock and that bonnet in your hand, and let me paint you, copy you, take your portrait. You run and ask Mother.'" "I never did!" exclaimed Agnetta, moved at last. "Whatever can he want to do it for? An' that frock, an' that silly bonnet an' all! He must be a crazy gentleman, I should say." She gave a short laugh, partly of vexation. "But that ain't all," continued Lilac; "just as I was turning to go he calls after me, `What's yer name?' And when I told him he shouts out, `_What_!' with his eyes hanging out ever so far." "Well, I dare say he thought it was a silly-sounding sort of a name," observed Agnetta. "He said it over and over to hisself, and laughed right out--`Lilac White! White Lilac!' says he. `What a subjeck! What a name! Splendid!' An' then he says to me quieter, `You're a very nice little girl indeed, and if Mother will let you come I'll give you sixpence for every hour you stand.' So then I went an' asked Mother, and she said yes, an' then I ran all the way here to tell you." Lilac looked round as she finished her wonderful story. Agnetta's eyes were travelling slowly over her cousin's whole person, from her face down to the thick, laced boots on her feet, and back again. "I can't mek out," she said at length, "whatever it is that he wants to paint you for, and dressed like that! Why, there ain't a mossel of colour about you! Now, if you had my Sunday blue!" "Oh, Agnetta!" exclaimed Lilac at the mention of such impossible elegance. "And," pursued Agnetta, "a few artificials in yer hair, like the ladies in our _Book of Beauty_, that 'ud brighten you up a bit. Bella's got some red roses with dewdrops on 'em, an' a caterpillar just like life. She'd lend you 'em p'r'aps, an' I don't know but what I'd let you have my silver locket just for once." "I'm afraid he wouldn't like that," said Lilac dejectedly, "because he said quite earnest, `_Mind_ you bring the bonnet'." She saw herself for a moment in the splendid attire Agnetta had described, and gave a little sigh of longing. "I must go back," she said, getting up suddenly, "Mother'll want me. There's lots to do at home." "I'll go with you a piece," said Agnetta; "we'll go through the farmyard way so as I can leave the basin." This was a longer way home for Lilac than across the fields, but she never thought of disputing Agnetta's decision, and the cousins left the orchard by another gate which led into the garden. It was not a very tidy garden, and although some care had been bestowed on the vegetables, the flowers were left to come up where they liked and how they liked, and the grass plot near the house was rank and weedy. Nevertheless it presented a gay and flourishing appearance with its masses of polyanthus in full bloom, its tulips, and Turk's head lilies, and lilac bushes. There was one particular bed close to the gate which had a neater appearance than the rest, and where the flowers grew in a well-ordered manner as though accustomed to personal attention. The edges of the turf were trimly clipped, and there was not a weed to be seen. It had a mixed border of forget-me-not and London pride. "How pretty your flowers grow!" said Lilac, stopping to look at it with admiration. "Oh, that's Peter's bed," said Agnetta carelessly, snapping off some blossoms. "He's allays mucking at it in his spare time--not that he's got much, there's so much to do on the farm." The house was now in front of them, and a little to the left the various, coloured roofs of the farm buildings, some tiled with weather-beaten bricks, some thatched, some tarred, and the bright yellow straw ricks standing here and there. Between these buildings and the house was a narrow lane, generally ankle-deep in mud, which led into the highroad. Lilac was very fond of the farmyard and all the creatures in it. She stopped at the gate and looked over at a company of small black pigs routing about in the straw. "Oh, Agnetta!" she exclaimed, "you've got some toiny pigs; what peart little uns they are!" "I can't abide pigs," said Agnetta with a toss of her curl-papered head; "no more can't Bella, we neither of us can't. Nasty, vulgar, low-smelling things." Lilac felt that hers must be a vulgar taste as Agnetta said so, but still she _did_ like the little pigs, and would have been glad to linger near them. It was often puzzling to her that Agnetta called so many things common and vulgar, but she always ended by thinking that it was because she was so superior. "Here, Peter!" exclaimed Agnetta suddenly. A boy in leather leggings and a smock appeared at the entrance of the barn, and came tramping across the straw towards them at her call. "Just take this into the kitchen," said his sister in commanding tones. "Now," turning to Lilac, "we can go t'other way across the fields. The lane's all in a muck." Peter slouched away with the basin in his hand. He was a heavy-looking youth, and so shy that he seldom raised his eyes from the ground. "No one 'ud think," said Agnetta as the girls entered the meadow again, "as Peter was Bella's and Gusta's and my brother. He's so dreadful vulgar-lookin' dressed like that. He might be a common ploughboy, and his manners is awful." "Are they?" said Lilac. "Pa won't hear a word against him," continued Agnetta, "cause he's so useful with the farm work. He says he'd rather see Peter drive a straight furrow than dress himself smart. But Bella and me we're ashamed to be seen with him, we can't neither of us abide commoners." Common! there was the word again which seemed to mean so many things and yet was so difficult to understand. Common things were evidently vulgar. The pigs were common, Peter was common, perhaps Lilac herself was common in Agnetta's eyes. "And yet," she reflected, lifting her gaze from the yellow carpet at her feet to the flowering orchards, "the cherry blossoms and the buttercups are common too; would Agnetta call them vulgar?" She had not long to think about this, for her cousin soon introduced another and a very interesting subject. "Who's goin' to be Queen this year, I wonder?" she said; "there'll be a sight of flowers if the weather keeps all on so fine." "It'll be you, Agnetta, for sure," answered Lilac; "I know lots who mean to choose you this time." "I dessay," said Agnetta with an air of lofty indifference. "Don't you want to be?" asked Lilac. The careless tone surprised her, for to be chosen Queen of the May was not only an honour, but a position of importance and splendour. It meant to march at the head of a long procession of children, in a white dress, to be crowned with flowers in the midst of gaiety and rejoicing, to lead the dance round the maypole, and to be first throughout a day of revelry and feasting. To Lilac it was the most beautiful of ceremonies to see the Queen crowned; to join in it was a delight, but to be chosen Queen herself would be a height of bliss she could hardly imagine. It was impossible therefore, to think her cousin really indifferent, and indeed this was very far from the case, for Agnetta had set her heart on being Queen, and felt tolerably sure that she should get the greatest number of votes this year. "I don't know as I care much," she answered; "let's sit down here a bit." They sat down one each side of a stile, with their faces turned towards each other, and Agnetta again fixed her direct gaze critically on her cousin's figure. Lilac twirled her sunbonnet round somewhat confusedly under these searching glances. "It's a pity you wear your hair scrattled right off your face like that," said Agnetta at last; "it makes you look for all the world like Daisy's white calf." "Does it?" said Lilac meekly; "Mother likes it done so." "I know something as would improve you wonderful, and give you a bit of style--something as would make the picture look a deal better." "Oh, what, Agnetta?" "Well, it's just as simple as can be. It's only to take a pair of scissors and cut yer hair like mine in front so as it comes down over yer face a bit. It 'ud alter you ever so. You'd be surprised." Lilac started to her feet, struck with the immensity of the idea. A fringe! It was a form of elegance not unknown amongst the school-children, but one which she had never thought of as possible for herself. There was Agnetta's stolid rosy face close to her, as unmoved and unexcited as if she had said nothing unusual. "Oh, Agnetta, _could_ I?" gasped Lilac. "Whyever not?" said her cousin calmly. Lilac sat down again. "I dursn't," she said. "I couldn't ever bear to look Mother in the face." "Has she ever told you not?" "N-no," answered Lilac hesitatingly; "leastways she only said once that the girls made frights of themselves with their fringes." "Frights indeed!" said Agnetta scornfully; "anyhow," she added, "it 'ull grow again if she don't like it." So it would. That reflection made the deed seem a less daring one, and Lilac's face at once showed signs of yielding, which Agnetta was not slow to observe. Warming with her subject, she proceeded to paint the improvement which would follow in glowing colours, and in this she was urged by two motives--one, an honest desire to smarten Lilac up a little, and the other, to vex and thwart her aunt, Mrs White; to pay her out, as she expressed it, for sundry uncomplimentary remarks on herself and Bella. "And supposing," was Lilac's next remark, "as how I _was_ to make up my mind, I couldn't never do it for myself. I should be scared." This difficulty the energetic Agnetta was quite ready to meet. _She_ would do it. Lilac had only to run down to the farm early next morning, and, after she was made fashionable, she could go straight on to the artist. "And won't he just be surprised!" she added with a chuckle. "I don't expect he'll hardly know you." "You're _quite_ sure it'll make me look better?" said Lilac wistfully. She had the utmost faith in her cousin, but the step seemed to her such a terribly large one. "Ain't I?" was Agnetta's scornful reply. "Why, Gusta says all the ladies in London wears their hair like that now." After this last convincing proof, for Gusta's was a name of great authority, Lilac resisted no longer, and soon discovered, by the striking of the church clock, that it was getting very late. She said good-bye to Agnetta, therefore, and, leaving her to make her way back at her leisure, ran quickly on through the meadows all streaked and sprinkled with the spring flowers. After these came the dusty high-road for a little while, and then she reached the foot of the steep hill which led up to her home. The artist gentleman was there as usual, a pipe in his mouth, and a palette on his thumb, painting busily: as she hurriedly dropped a curtsy in passing, Lilac's heart beat quite fast. "Me in a picture with a fringe!" she said to herself; "how I do hope as Mother won't mind!" That afternoon, when she sat quietly down to her sewing, this great idea weighed heavily upon her. It would be the very first step she had ever taken without her mother's approval, and away from the influence of Agnetta's decided opinion it seemed doubly alarming--a desperate and yet an attractive deed. Now and then for a moment she thought it would be better to tell her mother, but when she looked up at the grave, rather sad face, bent closely over some needlework, she lacked courage to begin. It seemed far removed from such trifles as fringes and fashions; and though, as Lilac knew well, it could have at times a smile full of love upon it, just now its expression was thoughtful, and even stern. She kept silence, therefore, and stitched away with a mind as busy as her fingers, until it was time to boil the kettle and get the tea ready. This was just done when Mrs Wishing, who lived still farther up the hill, dropped in on her way home from the village. She was an uncertain, wavering little woman, with no will of her own, and a heavy burden in the shape of a husband, who, during the last few years, had taken to fits of drinking. The widow White acknowledged that she had a good deal to bear from Dan'l, and when times were very bad, often supplied her with food and firing from her own small store. But she did not do so without protest, for in her opinion the fault was not entirely on Dan'l's side. "Maybe," she said, "if he found a clean hearth and a tidy bit o' supper waitin' at home, he'd stay there oftener. An' if he worked reg'lar, and didn't drink his wages, you'd want for nothin', and be able to put by with only just the two of you to keep. But I can't see you starve." Mrs Wishing fluttered in at the door, and, as she thought probable, was asked to have a dish of tea. Lilac bustled round the kitchen and set everything neatly on the table, while her mother, glancing at her now and then, stood at the window sewing with active fingers. "Well, you're always busy, Mrs White," said the guest plaintively as she untied her bonnet strings. "I will say as you're a hard worker yourself, whatever you say about other folks." "An' I hope as when the time comes as I can't work that the Lord 'ull see fit to take me," said Mrs White shortly. "Dear, dear, you've got no call to say that," said Mrs Wishing, "you as have got Lilac to look to in your old age. Now, if it was me and Dan'l, with neither chick nor child--" She shook her head mournfully. Mrs White gave her one sharp glance which meant "and a good thing too", but she did not say the words aloud; there was something so helpless and incapable about Mrs Wishing, that it was both difficult and useless to be severe with her, for the most cutting speeches could not rouse her from the mild despair into which she had sunk years ago. "I dessay you're right, but _I_ dunno," was her only reply to all reproaches and exhortations, and finding this, Mrs White had almost ceased them, except when they were wrung from her by some unusual example of bad management. "An' so handy as she is," continued Mrs Wishing, her wandering gaze caught for a moment by Lilac's active little figure, "an' that's all your up-bringing, Mrs White, as I was saying just now to Mrs Greenways." Mrs White, who was now pouring out the tea, looked quickly up at the mention of Mrs Greenways. She would not ask, but her very soul longed to know what had been said. "She was talkin' about Lilac as I was in at Dimbleby's getting a bunch of candles," continued Mrs Wishing, "sayin' how her picture was going to be took; an' says she, `It's a poor sort of picture as she'll make, with a face as white as her pinafore. Now, if it was Agnetta,' says she, `as has a fine nateral bloom, I could understand the gentleman wantin' to paint _her_.'" "I s'pose the gentleman knows best himself what he wants to paint," said Mrs White. "Lor', of course he do," Mrs Wishing hastened to reply; "and, as I said to Mrs Greenways, `Red cheeks or white cheeks don't make much differ to a gal in life. It's the upbringing as matters.'" Mrs White looked hardly so pleased with this sentiment as her visitor had hoped. She was perfectly aware that it had been invented on the spot, and that Mrs Wishing would not have dared to utter it to Mrs Greenways. Moreover, the comparison between Lilac's paleness and Agnetta's fine bloom touched her keenly, for in this remark she recognised her sister-in-law's tongue. The rivalry between the two mothers was an understood thing, and though it had never reached open warfare, it was kept alive by the kindness of neighbours, who never forgot to repeat disparaging speeches. Mrs White's opinions of the genteel uselessness of Bella and Gusta were freely quoted to Mrs Greenways, and she in her turn was always ready with a thrust at Lilac which might be carried to Mrs White. When the widow had first heard of the artist's proposal, her intense gratification was at once mixed with the thought, "What'll Mrs Greenways think o' that?" But she did not express this triumph aloud. Even Lilac had no idea that her mother's heart was overflowing with pleasure and pride because it was _her_ child, _her_ Lilac, whom the artist wished to paint. So now, though she bit her lip with vexation at Mrs Wishing's speech, she took it with outward calmness, and only replied, with a glance at her daughter: "Lilac never was one to think much about her looks, and I hope she never will be." Both the look and the words seemed to Lilac to have special meaning, almost as though her mother knew what she intended to do to-morrow; it seemed indeed to be written in large letters everywhere, and all that was said had something to do with it. This made her feel so guilty, that she began to be sure it would be very wrong to have a fringe. Should she give it up? It was a relief when Mrs Wishing, leaving the subject of the picture for one of nearer interest, proceeded to dwell on Dan'l and his failings, so that Lilac was not referred to again. This well-worn topic lasted for the rest of the visit, for Dan'l had been worse than usual. He had "got the neck of the bottle", as Mrs Wishing expressed it, and had been in a hopeless state during the last week. Her sad monotonous voice went grinding on over the old story, while Lilac, washing up the tea things, carried on her own little fears, and hopes, and wishes in her own mind. No one watching her would have guessed what those wishes were: she looked so trim and neat, and handled the china as deftly as though she had no other thought than to do her work well. And yet the inside did not quite match this proper outside, for her whole soul was occupied with a beautiful vision--herself with a fringe like Agnetta! It proved so engrossing that she hardly noticed Mrs Wishing's departure, and when her mother spoke she looked up startled. "Yon's a poor creetur as never could stand alone and never will," she said. "It was the same when she was a gal--always hangin' on to someone, always wantin' someone else to do for her, and think for her. Well! empty sacks won't never stand upright, and it's no good tryin' to make 'em." Lilac made no reply, and Mrs White, seizing the opportunity of impressing a useful lesson, continued: "Lor'! it seems only the other day as Hepzibah was married to Daniel Wishing. A pretty gal she was, with clinging, coaxing ways, like the suckles in the hedge, and everyone she come near was ready to give her a helping hand. And at the wedding they all said, `There, now, she's got the right man, Hepzibah has. A strong, steady feller, and a good workman an' all, and one as'll look after her an' treat her kind.' But I mind what I said to Mrs Pinhorn on that very day: `I hope it may be so,' I says, `but it takes an angel, and not a man, to bear with a woman as weak an' shiftless as Hepzibah, and not lose his temper.' And now look at 'em! There's Dan'l taken to drink, and when he's out of himself he'll lift his hand to her, and they're both of 'em miserable. It does a deal o' harm for a woman to be weak like that. She can't stand alone, and she just pulls a man down along with her." The troubles of the Wishings were very familiar to Lilac's ears, and, though she took her knitting and sat down on her little stool close to her mother, she did not listen much to what she was saying. Mrs White, quite ignorant that her words of wisdom were wasted, continued admonishingly: "So as you grow up, Lilac, and get to a woman, that's what you've got to learn--to trust to yourself; you won't always have a mother to look to. And what you've got to do now is, to learn to do your work jest as well as you can, and then afterwards you'll be able to stand firm on yer own two feet, and not go leaning up against other folk, or be beholden to nobody. That's a good thing, that is. There's a saying, `Heaven helps them as helps themselves'. If that poor Hepzibah had helped herself when she was a gal, she wouldn't be such a daundering creetur now, and Dan'l, he wouldn't be a curse instead of a blessin'." When Lilac went up to her tiny room in the roof that night, her head felt too full of confusing thoughts to make it possible to go to bed at once. She knelt on a box that stood in the window, fastened back the lattice, and, leaning on the sill, looked out into the night. The greyness of evening was falling over everything, but it was not nearly dark yet, so that she could see the windings of the chalky road which led down to the valley, and the church tower, and even one of the gable windows in Orchards Farm, where a light was twinkling. Generally this last object was a most interesting one to her, but to-night she did not notice outside things much, for her mind was too busy with its own concerns. She had, for the first time in her life, something quite new and strange to think of, something of her own which her mother did not know; and though this may seem a very small matter to people whose lives are full of events, to Lilac it was of immense importance, for until now her days had been as even and unvaried as those of any daisy that grows in a field. But to-morrow, two new things were to happen--she was to have her hair cut, and to have her picture painted. "A poor sort of picture," Mrs Greenways had said it would be, and, no doubt, Lilac agreed in her own mind Agnetta would make a far finer one--Agnetta, who had red cheeks, and a fringe already, and could dress herself so much smarter. Would a fringe really improve her? Agnetta said so. And yet--her mother--was it worth while to risk vexing her? But it would grow. Yes, but in the picture it would never grow. The more she thought, the more difficult it was to see her way clear; as the evening grew darker and more shadowy, so her reflections became dimmer and more confused; at last they were suddenly stopped altogether, for a bat which had come forth on its evening travels flapped straight against her face under the eaves. Thoroughly roused, Lilac drew in her head, shut her window, and was very soon fast asleep in bed. Night is said to bring counsel, and perhaps it did so in some way, although she slept too soundly to dream, for punctually at eleven o'clock the next morning she was at the meeting-place appointed by Agnetta at the farm. This was a loft over the cows' stables, the only place when, at that hour, they could be sure of no interruption. "The proper place 'ud be my bedroom," Agnetta had said, "where there's a mirror an' all; but it's Bella's too, you see, an' just now she's making a new bonnet, and she's forever there trying it on. But I'll bring the scissors and do it in a jiffy." And here was Agnetta armed with the scissors, and a certain authority of manner she always used with her cousin. "Tek off yer bonnet and undo yer plaits," she said, opening and shutting the bright scissors with a snap, as though she longed to begin. Lilac stood with her back against a truss of hay, rather shrinking away, for now that the moment had really come she felt frightened, and all her doubts returned. She had the air of a pale little victim before her executioner. "Come," said Agnetta, with another snap. "Oh, Agnetta, do you really think they'll like it?" faltered Lilac. "What I really think is that you're a ninny," said the determined Agnetta; "an' I'm not agoin' to wait here while you shilly-shally. Is it to be off or on?" "Oh off, I suppose," said Lilac. With trembling fingers she took off her bonnet, and unfastened her hair from its plait. It fell like a dark silky veil over her shoulders. "Lor'!" said Agnetta, "you have got a lot of it." She stood for a second staring at her victim open-mouthed with the scissors upraised in one hand, then advanced, and grasping a handful of the soft hair drew it down over Lilac's face. "Oh, Agnetta," cried an imploring voice behind the screen thus formed, "you'll _be_ careful! You won't tek off too much." "Come nearer the light," said Agnetta. Still holding the hair, she drew her cousin towards the wide open doors of the loft. "Now," she said, "I can see what I'm at, an' I shan't be a minute." The steel scissors struck coldly against Lilac's forehead. It was too late to resist now. She held her breath. Grind, grind, snip! they went in Agnetta's remorseless fingers, and some soft waving lengths of hair fell on the ground. It certainly did not take long; after a few more short clips and snips Agnetta had finished, and there stood Lilac fashionably shorn, with the poor discarded locks lying at her feet. It was curious to see how much Agnetta's handiwork had altered her cousin's face. Lilac's forehead was prettily shaped, and though she had worn her hair "scrattled" off it, there were little waving rings and bits which were too short to be "scrattled", and these had softened its outline. But now the pure white forehead was covered by a lump of hair which came straight across the middle of it, and the small features below looked insignificant. The expression of intelligent modesty which had made Lilac look different from other girls had gone; she was just an ordinary pale-faced little person with a fringe. "There!" exclaimed Agnetta triumphantly as she drew a small hand-glass from her pocket; "now you'll see as how I was right. You won't hardly know yerself." Lilac took it, longing yet fearing to see herself. From the surface of the glass a stranger seemed to return her glance--someone she had never seen before, with quite a different look in her eyes. Certainly she was altered. Was it for the better? She did not know, and before she could tell she must get more used to this new Lilac White. At present she had more fear than admiration for her. "Clump! clump!" came the sound of heavy feet up the loft ladder. Lilac let the glass fall at her side, and turned a terrified gaze on Agnetta. "Oh, what's that?" she cried. "Let me hide--don't let anyone see me!" Agnetta burst into a loud laugh. "Well, you _are_ a ninny, Lilac White. Are you goin' to hide from everyone now you've got a fringe? You as are goin' to have your picture took. An' after all," she added, as a face and shoulders appeared at the top of the ladder. "It's only Peter." Peter's rough head and blunt, uncouth features were framed by the square opening in the floor of the loft. There they remained motionless, for the sight of Agnetta and Lilac where he had been prepared to find only hay and straw brought him to a standstill. His face and the tips of his large ears got very red as he saw Lilac's confusion, and he went a step lower down the ladder, but his eyes were still above the level of the floor. "Well," said Agnetta, still giggling, "we'll hear what Peter thinks of it. Don't she look a deal better with her hair cut so, Peter?" Peter's grey-green eyes, not unkindly in expression, fixed themselves on his cousin's face. In her turn Lilac gazed back at them, half-frightened, yet beseeching mutely for a favourable opinion; it was like looking into a second mirror. She waited anxiously for his answer. It came at last, slowly, from Peter's invisible mouth. "No," he said, "I liked it best as it wur afore." As he spoke the head disappeared, and they heard him go clumping down the ladder again. The words fell heavily on Lilac's ears. "Best as it wur afore." Perhaps everyone would think so too. She looked dismally first at the locks of hair on the ground and then at Agnetta's unconcerned face. "Well, you've no call to mind what _he_ says anyhow," said the latter cheerfully. "He don't know what's what." "I most wish," said Lilac, as she turned to leave the loft, "that I hadn't done it." As she spoke, the distant sound of the church clock was heard. There was only just time to get to the foot of the hill, and she said a hurried good-bye to Agnetta, tying on her bonnet as she ran across the fields. She generally hated the sun-bonnet, but to-day for the first time she found a comfort in its deep brim, which sheltered this new Lilac White a little from the world. She almost hoped that the artist would change his mind and let her keep it on, instead of holding it in her hand. CHAPTER THREE. "UNCLE JOSHUA." "Let each be what he is, so will he be good enough for man himself, and God."--_Lavater_. Whilst all this was going on at the farm, Mrs White had been busy as usual in the cottage on the hill--her mind full of Lilac, and her hands full of the Rectory washing. It was an important business, for it was all she and her child had to depend on beside a small pension allowed her by Jem's late employers; but quite apart from this she took a pride in her work for its own sake. She felt responsible not only for the unyielding stiffness of the Rector's round collars, but also for the appearance of the choristers' surplices; and any failure in colour or approach to limpness was a real pain to her, and made it difficult to fix her attention on the service. This happened very seldom, however; and when it did, was owing to an unfortunate drying day or other accident, and never to want of exertion on her own part. There was nothing to complain of in the weather this morning--a bright sun and a nice bit of wind, and not too much of it. Mrs White wrung out the surplices in a very cheerful spirit, and her grave face had a smile on it now and then, for she was thinking of Lilac. Lilac sweetened all her life now, much in the same way that the bunch of flowers from which she took her name had sweetened the small room with its fragrance twelve years ago. As she grew up her mother's love grew too, stronger year by year; for when she looked at her she remembered all the happiness that her life had known--when she spoke her name, it brought back a thousand pleasant memories and kept them fresh in her mind. And she looked forward too, for Lilac's sake, and saw in years to come her proudest hope fulfilled--her child grown to be a self-respecting useful woman, who could work for herself and need be beholden to no one. She had no higher ambition for her; but this she had set her heart on, she should not become lazy, vain, helpless, like her cousins the Greenways. That was the pitfall from which she would strain every muscle to hold Lilac back. There were moments when she trembled for the bad influence of example at Orchards Farm. She knew Lilac's yielding affectionate nature and her great admiration for her cousins, and kept a watchful eye for the first unsatisfactory signs. But there were none. No one could accuse Lilac of untidy ways, or want of thoroughness in dusting, sweeping, and all branches of household work, and even Mrs White could find no fault. "After all," she said to herself, "it's natural in young things to like to be together, and there's nothing worse nor foolishness in Agnetta and Bella." So she allowed the visits to go on, and contented herself by many a word in season and many a pointed practical lesson. The Greenways were seldom mentioned, but they were, nevertheless, very often in the minds of both mother and daughter. This morning she was thinking of a much more pleasant subject. "How was the artist gentleman getting along with Lilac's picture? He must be well at it now," she thought, looking up at the loud-voiced American clock, "an' her looking as peart and pretty as a daisy. White-faced indeed! I'd rather she were white-faced than have great red cheeks like a peony bloom. What will he do with the picture afterwards?" Joshua Snell, through reading the papers so much, knew most things, and he had said that it would p'r'aps be hung up with a lot of others in a place in London called an exhibition, where you could pay money and go to see 'em. "If he's right," concluded Mrs White, wringing out the last surplice, "I do really think as how I must give Lilac a jaunt up to London, an' we'll go and see it. The last holiday as ever I had was fifteen years back, an' that was when Jem and me, we went--Why, I do believe," she said aloud, "here she is back a'ready!" There was a sound of running feet, which she had heard too often to mistake, then the click of the latch, and then Lilac herself rushed through the front room. "Mother, Mother," she cried, "he won't paint me!" Mrs White turned sharply round. Lilac was standing just inside the entrance to the back kitchen, with her bonnet on, and her hands clasped over her face. To keep her bonnet on a moment after she was in the house struck her mother at once as something strange and unusual, and she stared at her for an instant in silence, with her bands held up dripping and pink from the water. "Whatever ails you, child?" she said at length. "What made him change his mind?" "He said as how I was the wrong one," murmured Lilac under her closed hands. "The _wrong_ one!" repeated her mother. "Why, how could he go to say such a thing? You told him you was Lilac White, I s'pose. There's ne'er another in the village." "He didn't seem as if he knew me," said Lilac. "He looked at me very sharp, and said as how it was no good to paint me now." "Why ever not? You're just the same as you was." "I ain't," said Lilac desperately, taking away her hands from her face and letting them fan at her side. "I ain't the same. I've cut my hair!" It was over now. She stood before her mother a disgraced and miserable Lilac. The black fringe of hair across her forehead, the bonnet pushed back, the small white face quivering nervously. But though she knew it would displease her mother, she had very little idea that she had done the thing of all others most hateful to her. A fringe was to Mrs White a sort of distinguishing mark of the Greenways family, and of others like it. Not only was it ugly and unsuitable in itself, but it was an outward sign of all manner of unworthy qualities within. Girls who wore fringes were in her eyes stamped with three certain faults: untidiness, vanity, and love of dressing beyond their station. Beginning with these, who could tell to what other evils a fringe might lead? And now, her own child, her Lilac whom she had been so proud of, and thought so different from others, stood before her with this abomination on her brow. Bitterest of all, it was the influence of the Greenways that had triumphed, and not her own. All her care and toil had ended in this. It had all been in vain. If Lilac "took pattern" by her cousins in one way she would in another--"a straw can tell which way the wind blows." She would grow up like Bella and Agnetta. Swiftly all this rushed into Mrs White's mind, as she stood looking with surprise and horror at Lilac's altered face. Finding her voice as she arrived at the last conclusion, she asked coldly: "What made yer do it?" Lilac locked her hands tightly together and made no answer. She would not say anything about Agnetta, who had meant kindly in what she had done. "I know," continued her mother, "without you sayin' a word. It was one of them Greenways. But I did think as how you'd enough sense and sperrit of yer own to stand out agin' their foolishness--let alone anything else. It's plain to me now that you don't care for yer mother or what she says. You'll fly right in her face to please any of them at Orchards Farm." Still Lilac did not speak, and her silence made Mrs White more and more angry. "An' what do you think you've got by it?" she continued scornfully. "Do those silly things think it makes 'em look like ladies to cut their hair so and dress themselves up fine? Then you can tell 'em this from me: Vulgar they are, and vulgar they'll be all their lives long, and nothing they can do to their outsides will change 'em. But they might a left you alone, Lilac, for you're but a child; only I did think as you'd a had more sense." Lilac was crying now. This scolding on the top of much excitement and disappointment was more than she could bear, but still she felt she must defend the Greenways from blame. "It was my fault," she sobbed. "I thought as how it would look nicer." "The many and many times," pursued Mrs White, drying her hands vigorously on a rough towel, "as I've tried to make you understand what's respectable and right and fitting! And it's all been no good. Well, I've done. Go to your Greenways and let them teach you, and much profit may you get. I've done with you--you don't look like my child no longer." She turned her back and began to bustle about with the linen, not looking towards Lilac again. In reality her eyes were full of tears and she would have given worlds to cry heartily with the child, for to use those hard words to her was like bruising her own flesh. But she was too mortified and angry to show it, and Lilac, after casting some wistful glances at the active figure, turned and went slowly out of the room with drooping head. Pulling her bonnet forward so that her forehead and the dreadful fringe were quite hidden, she wandered down the hill, hardly knowing or caring where she went. All the world was against her. No one would ever look pleasantly at her again, if even her mother frowned and turned away. One by one she recalled what they had all said. First, Peter: "I liked it best as it wur afore." Then the artist--he had been quite angry. "You stupid little girl," he had said, "you've made yourself quite commonplace. You're no use whatever. Run away." And now Mother--that was worst of all: "You don't look like my child." Lilac's tears fell fast when she remembered that. How very hard they all were upon her! She strayed listlessly onwards, and presently came to a sudden standstill, for she found that she was getting near the bottom of the hill, where the artist was no doubt still sitting. That would never do. At her right hand there branched off a wide grass-grown lane, one of the ancient roads of the Romans which could still be traced along the valley. It was seldom used now, for it led nowhere in particular; but here and there at long distances there were some small cottages in it, and in one of these lived the cobbler, Joshua Snell. Now, Uncle Joshua, as she called him, though he was no relation to her, was a great friend of Lilac's, and the thought of him darted into her forlorn little mind like a ray of comfort. He would perhaps look kindly at her in spite of her fringe. There was no one else to do it except Agnetta, and to reach her the artist must be passed, which was impossible. Lilac could not remember that Joshua had ever been cross to her, even in the days when she had played with his bits of leather and mislaid his tools--those old days when she was a tiny child, and Mother had left her with him "to mind" when she went out to work. And besides being kind he was wise, and would surely find some way to help her in her present distress. Perhaps even he would speak to Mother, who thought a deal of what he said, and that would make her less angry. A little cheered by these reflections Lilac turned down the lane, quickened her pace, and made straight for the cobbler's cottage. It was a very small abode, with such a deep thatch and such tiny windows that it looked all roof. At right angles there jutted out from it an extra room, or rather shed, and in this it was possible, by peering closely through a dingy pane of glass, to make out the dim figure of Joshua bending over his work. This dark little hole, in which there was just space enough for Joshua, his boots and tools and leather, had no door from without, but could only be approached through the kitchen. As he sat at work he could see the fire and the clock without getting up, which was very convenient, and he was proud of his work-shed, though in the winter it was both chilly and dark. Joshua lived quite alone. He had come to Danecross twenty years ago from the north, bringing with him a wife, a collection of old books, and a clarionet. The wife, whose black bonnet still hung behind the kitchen door, had now been dead ten years, and he had only the books and the clarionet to bear him company. But these companions kept him from being dull and lonely, and gave him besides a position of some importance in the village. For by dint of reading his books many times over, and pondering on them as he sat and cobbled, he had gained a store of wisdom, or what passed for such, and a great many long words with which he was fond of impressing the neighbours. He was also considered a fine reader, and quite a musical genius; for although he now only played the clarionet in private, there had been a time, he told them, when he had performed in a gallery as one of the church choir. It was now about four o'clock in the afternoon, and he sat earnestly intent on making a good job of a pair of boots which had been brought to him to sole. He was also anxious to make the most of the bright spring sunshine, a stray beam of which had found its way in at his little window and helped him greatly by its cheerful presence. All at once a shadow flitted across it, and glancing up he saw a well-known figure run hurriedly in at the cottage door. "It's White Lilac," he said to himself with a smile but without ceasing his work, for Lilac was a frequent visitor, and he could not afford to waste his time in welcoming his guests. He did not even look round, therefore, but listened for her greeting white his hammer kept up a steady tack, tack, tack. It did not come. Joshua stopped his work, raised his head, and listened more intently. The kitchen was as perfectly silent as though it were empty. "I cert'nly did see her," said he, almost doubting his eyesight; "maybe she's playing off a game." He got up and looked cautiously round the entrance, quite expecting Lilac to jump out from some hiding-place with a laugh; but a very different sight met his eyes. Lilac had thrown herself into a large chair which stood on the hearth, her head was bent, her face buried in her hands, and she was crying bitterly. "My word!" exclaimed Joshua, suddenly arrested on the threshold. He rubbed his hands in great perplexity on his leather apron. It was quite a new thing to see Lilac in tears, and they fell so fast that she could neither control herself nor tell him the cause of her distress. In vain he tried to coax and comfort her: she would not even raise her head nor look at him. Joshua looked round the room as if for counsel and advice in this difficulty, and fixed his eyes thoughtfully on the tall clock for some moments; then he winked at it, and said softly, as though speaking in confidence: "Best let her have her cry out; then she'll tell me." "See here," he continued, turning to Lilac and using his ordinary voice. "You've come to get Uncle's tea ready for him, I know, and make him some toast; that's what you've come for. An' I've got a job as I must finish afore tea-time, 'cause the owner's coming for 'em. So I'll go and set to and do it, and you'll get the tea ready like a handy maid as you are, and then we'll have it together, snug and cosy." When he had settled himself to his work again, and the sound of his hammer mingled with the ticking of the tall clock as though they were running a race, Lilac raised her head and rubbed her wet eyes. There was something very soothing and peaceful in Uncle Joshua's cottage, and his kind voice seemed to carry comfort with it. She had a strong hope that he would help her in some way, though she could not tell how, for he had never failed to find a remedy for all the little troubles she had brought to him from her earliest years. Her faith in him, therefore, was entire, and even if he had proposed to make her hair long again at once, she would have believed it possible, because he knew so much. Gradually, as she remembered this, she ceased crying altogether, and began to move about the room to prepare the tea, a business to which she was well used, for she had always considered it an honour to get Uncle Joshua's tea and make toast for him. The kettle already hung on its chain over the fire, and gave out a gentle simmering sound; by the time the toast was ready the water would boil. Lilac got the bread from the corner cupboard and cut some stout slices. Uncle liked his toast thick. Then she knelt on the hearth, and shielding her face with one hand chose out the fiercest red hollows of the fire. It was an anxious process, needing the greatest attention; for Lilac prided herself on her toast, and it was a matter of deep importance that it should be a fine even brown all over--neither burnt, nor smoked, nor the least blackened. While she was making it she was happy again, and quite unconscious of the fringe, for the first time since she had felt Agnetta's cold scissors on her brow. It was soon quite ready on a plate on the hearth, so that it might keep hot. Uncle Joshua was ready also, for he came in just then from his shed, carrying his completed job in his hand: a pair of huge hobnailed boots, which he placed gently on the ground as though they were brittle and must be handled with care. "Them's Peter Greenways' boots," he said, looking at them with some triumph, "and a good piece of work they be!" It was a great relief to Lilac that neither then nor during the meal did Uncle Joshua look at her with surprise, or appear to notice that there was anything different about her. Everything went on just as usual, just as it had so often done before. She sat on one side of the table and poured out the tea, and Uncle Joshua in his high-backed elbow chair on the other, with his red-and-white handkerchief over his knees, his spectacles pushed up on his forehead, and a well-buttered slice of toast in his hand. He never talked much during his meals; partly because he was used to having them alone, and partly because he liked to enjoy one thing at a time thoroughly. He was fond of talking and he was fond of eating, and he would not spoil both by trying to do them together. So to-night, as usual, he drank endless cups of tea in almost perfect silence, and at last Lilac began to wish he would stop, for although she feared she yet longed for his opinion. She felt more able to face it now that she had eaten something, for without knowing it she had been hungry as well as miserable, and had quite forgotten that she had had no dinner. She watched Uncle Joshua nervously. Would he ask for more tea. No. He wiped his mouth with the red handkerchief, looked straight at Lilac, and suddenly spoke: "And how's the picture going forrard then?" After this question it was easy to tell the whole story, from its beginning to its unlucky end. During its progress the cobbler listened with the deepest attention, gave now a nod, and now a shake of the head or a muttered "Humph!" and when it was finished he fingered his cheek thoughtfully, and said: "And so he wouldn't paint you--eh? and Mother was angry?" "She's dreadful angry," sighed Lilac. "Did you think it 'ud please her, now?" asked Uncle Joshua. "N-no," answered Lilac hesitatingly; "but I never thought as how she'd make so much fuss. And after all no one don't like it. Do you think as how it looks _very_ bad, Uncle?" The cobbler put his spectacles carefully straight and studied Lilac's face with earnest attention. "What I consider is this here," he said as he finished his examination and leant back in his chair. "It makes you look like lots of other little gells, that's what it does. Not so much like White Lilac as you used to. I liked it best as it wur afore." "Peter, he said that too," said Lilac. "No one likes it except Agnetta." "Ah! And what made Agnetta and all of 'em cut their hair that way?" asked Uncle Joshua. "Because Gusta Greenways told Bella as how all the ladies in London did it," answered Lilac simply. "That's where it is," said Uncle Joshua. "My little maid, there's things as is fitting and there's things as isn't fitting. Perhaps it's fitting for London ladies to wear their hair so. Very well, then let them do it. But why should you and Agnetta and the rest copy 'em? You're not ladies. You're country girls with honest work to do, and proud you ought to be of it. As proud every bit as the grandest lady as ever was, who never put her hand to a useful thing in her life. I'm not saying you're better than her. She's got her own place, an' her own lessons to learn, an' she's got to do the best she can with her life. But you're different, because your life's different, an' you'll never look like her whatever you put on your outside. If a thing isn't fit for what it's intended, it'll never look well. Now, here's Peter's boots--I call 'em handsome." He lifted one of them as he spoke and put it on the table, where it seemed to take up a great deal of room. Lilac looked at it with a puzzled air; she saw nothing handsome in it. It was enormously thick and deeply wrinkled across the toes, which were turned upwards as though with many and many a weary tramp. "I call 'em handsome," pursued Joshua. "Because for why? Because they're fit for ploughin' in the stiffest soil. Because they'll keep out wet and never give in the seams. They're fit for what they're meant to do. But now you just fancy," he went on, raising one finger, "as how I'd made 'em of shiny leather, and put paper soles to 'em, and pointed tips to the toes. How'd they look in a ploughed field or a muddy lane? Or s'pose Peter he went and capered about in these 'ere on a velvet carpet an' tried to dance. How'd he look?" The idea of the loutish Peter capering anywhere, least of all on a velvet carpet, made Lilac smile in spite of Uncle Joshua's great gravity. "Why, he'd look silly," he continued; "as silly as a country girl, who's got to scrub an' wash an' make the butter, dressed out in silks an' fandangoes. She ought to be too proud of being what she is, to try and look like what she isn't. Give me down that big brown book yonder an' I'll read you something fine about that." Lilac reached the book from the shelf with the greatest reverence; it was the only one amongst Joshua's collection that she often begged to look at, because it was full of curious pictures. It was Lavater's Physiognomy; having found the passage he wanted, Joshua read it very slowly aloud: "In the mansion of God there are to his glory vessels of wood, of silver, and of gold. All are serviceable, all profitable, all capable of divine uses, all the instruments of God: but the wood continues wood, the silver silver, the gold gold. Though the golden should remain unused, still they are gold. The wooden may be made more serviceable than the golden, but they continue wood. Let each be what he is, so will he be sufficiently good, for man himself, and God. The violin cannot have the sound of the flute, nor the trumpet of the drum." He had just finished the last line, and still held one knotty brown finger raised to mark the important words, when there was a low knock at the door, and immediately afterwards it opened a little way and a head appeared, covered by a rusty-black wideawake. It was the second time that day that Lilac had seen it, for it was Peter Greenways' head. In a moment all the events of the unlucky morning came back to her, and his gruffly unfavourable opinion. Why had he come? This awkward Peter was always turning up when he was not wanted, and thrusting that large uncouth head in at unexpected places. She turned her back towards the door in much vexation, and Peter himself remained stationary, with his eyes fixed where he had first directed them--on his own boot, which still stood on the table by Joshua's elbow. His first intention had evidently been to come in, but suddenly seized with shyness he was now unable to move. "Why, Peter, lad," said the cobbler, "come in then; the boots is ready for you." Thus invited Peter slowly opened the door a very little wider and squeezed himself into the room. He was indeed a very awkward-looking youth, and though he was broad-shouldered and strongly made, he was so badly put together that he did not seem to join properly anywhere, and moved with effort as though he were walking in a heavy clay soil. Everything about Peter, and even the colour of his clothes, made you think of a ploughed field, and he generally kept his eyes fastened on the ground as though following the course of a furrow. This was a pity, for his eyes were the only good features in his broad red face, and had the kindly faithful expression seen in those of some dogs. As he stood there, ill at ease, with his enormous hands opening and shutting nervously, Lilac thought of Agnetta's speech: "Peter's so common." If to be common was to look like Peter, it was a thing to be avoided, and she was dismayed to hear Uncle Joshua say: "Well, now, if you're not just in time to go home with Lilac here, seein' as how we've done our tea, and her mother'll be looking for her." "Oh, Uncle, I'd rather not," said Lilac hastily. Then she added, "I want you to play me a tune before I go." Joshua was always open to a compliment about his playing. "Ah!" he said, "you want a tune, do you? Well, and p'r'aps Peter he'd like to hear it too." As he spoke he gave the boots to Peter, who was now engaged in dragging up a leather purse from some great depth beneath his gaberdine. This effort, and the necessity of replying, flushed his face to a deeper red than ever, but he managed to say huskily as he counted some coin into Joshua's hand: "No, thank you, Mr Snell. Can't stop tonight." Nevertheless it was some moments before he could go away: he stood clasping his boots and staring at Joshua. "The money's all right, my lad," said the latter. "Well," said Peter, "I must be goin'." But he did not move. "Well, good night, Peter," said Joshua, encouragingly. "Good night, Mr Snell." "Good night, Peter," said Lilac at length, nodding to him, and this seemed to rouse him, for with sudden energy he hurled himself towards the door and disappeared. "Yon's an honest lad and a fine worker," remarked the cobbler, "but he do seem a bit tongue-tied now and then." And now, after the tune was played, there was no longer any excuse to put off going home. For the first time in her life Lilac dreaded it, for instead of a smile of welcome she had only a frown of displeasure to expect from her mother. It was such a new thing that she shrank from it with fear, and found it almost as difficult to say goodbye as Peter had done. If only Uncle Joshua would go with her! Her face looked so wistful that he guessed her unspoken desire. "Now I shouldn't wonder," he said, carefully thrusting the clarionet into its green baize bag, "as how you'd like me to go up yonder with you. And it do so happen as how I've got a job to take back to Dan'l Wishing, so I shall pass yours without goin' out of my way." Accordingly, the door of the cottage being locked, the pair set out together a few moments later, Lilac walking very soberly by the cobbler's side, with one hand in his. Joshua's hand was rough with work, so that it felt like holding the bough of a gnarled elm tree, but it was so full of kindness that there was great comfort and support in it. How would Mother receive them? Lilac hardly dared to look up when they got near the gate and saw her standing there, and hardly dared to believe her own ears when she heard her speak. For what she said was: "Run in, child, and get yer tea. I've put it by." She stayed a long time at the gate talking to Uncle Joshua, and Lilac, watching them through the window, felt little doubt that they were talking of her. When her mother came in, and was quite kind and gentle, and behaved just as usual, she felt still more sure that it was Uncle Joshua's wonderful wisdom that had done it all. But if she could have heard the conversation she would have been surprised, for they dwelt entirely on the cobbler's rheumatics and the chances of rain, and said no word of either Lilac or her fringe. Mrs White had had time to repent of her harsh words, and when the hours went by, and Lilac did not come back, she had pictured her receiving comfort and encouragement from the Greenways--the very people she wished her to avoid. Now she had driven her to them. "I could bite my tongue out for talking so foolish," she said to herself as she ran out to the gate, over and over again. When at last she saw the two well-known figures approaching, she could only just restrain herself from rushing out to meet Lilac and covering her with kisses. The relief was almost too great to bear. In her own home, therefore, Lilac heard nothing further on the unlucky subject. But this was not by any means the case in the village, where nothing was too small to be important. The fact of the Widow White's Lilac wearing a fringe was quite enough to talk of, and more than enough to stare at, for it was something new. Unfortunately everyone knew Lilac, and Lilac knew everyone, so there was no escape. Her acquaintances would draw up in front of her and gaze steadily for an instant, after which the same remarks always came: "My! you have altered yerself. I shouldn't never have known you, I do declare! And so you didn't have yer picter done after all?" Lilac wished she could hide somewhere until her hair had grown long again. And worst of all, when Mrs Leigh next saw her in school, she looked quite startled and said: "I'm so sorry you've cut your hair, Lilac; it looked much nicer before." It was the same thing over and over again, no one approved the change but Agnetta, and Lilac's faith in her cousin was by this time a little bit shaken. She should not be so ready, she thought, the next time to believe that Agnetta must know best. One drop of comfort in all this was that the artist gentleman no longer sat painting at the bottom of the hill. He had packed up all his canvases and brushes and gone off to the station, so that Lilac saw him no more. She was very glad of this, for she felt that it would have been almost impossible to pass him every day and to see his keen disapproving glance fixed upon her. Slowly the picture that was to have been painted was forgotten, and Lilac White's fringe became a thing of custom. There were more important matters near at hand; May Day was approaching, an event of interest and excitement to both young and old. CHAPTER FOUR. WHO WILL BE QUEEN? "When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight."--_Shakespeare_. On the top of the ridge of hills which rose behind Mrs White's cottage there was a great beech wood, which could be reached in two ways. One was by following a rough stony road which got gradually steeper and was terribly hard for both man and beast, and the other was to take a chalky track which led straight across the rounded shoulder of the downs. This last was considerably shorter, and by active people was always preferred to the road, although in summer it was glaring and unshaded. But the scramble was soon over, and in the deep quiet shelter of the woods it was cool on the hottest day, for the trees held their leaves so thickly over your head that it was better than any roof. The sun could not get through to scorch or dazzle, but it lit up the flickering sprays on the low boughs, so that looking through them you saw a silvery shimmering dance always going on. In the valley there had not perhaps been a breath of air, but up here a little ruffling breeze had its home, and was ready to fan you gently and hospitably directly you arrived. Under your feet a red-and-brown carpet of last year's leaves was spread, stirred now and then with sudden mysterious rustlings as the small wild creatures darted away at the sound of your step. These and the birds shared the woods in almost complete solitude, disturbed now and again by the woodcutters, or boys from the village. But there was one day in the year when this quiet kingdom was strangely invaded, when its inhabitants fled to their most retired corners and peeped out with terrified eyes upon a very altered scene--and this was the first of May. Then everything was changed for a little while. Instead of the notes of the birds there were human voices calling to each other, laughing, singing, shouting, and the music of a band; instead of great silent spaces, there were many brightly-coloured figures which ran and danced. In the midst, where a clearing had been made and the oldest trees stood solemnly round, there appeared the slim form of a maypole decked with gay ribbons; near it a throne covered with hawthorn boughs, on which, dressed in white with garland and sceptre, was seated the Queen of the May. There with great ceremony she was crowned by her court, and afterwards led the dance round the maypole. Songs and feasting followed until the sun went down, and then the gay company marched away to the sounds of "God save the Queen." Quietness reigned in the woods again, and once more the wild creatures which lived there could roam and fly at their pleasure until next May Day. Now this holiday, which was fast approaching again, was not only looked forward to with interest and excitement by the children, but was an event of importance to everyone in the village. The very oldest made shift somehow to get up to the woods and join in the rejoicing, and the most careworn and sorrowful managed to struggle out of their gloom for that one day, and to leave behind the dulness of their daily toil. Many, coming from distant parts of the parish, met for the only time throughout the year in the woods on May Day, and found the keenest pleasure in comparing the growth of their children, and talking of their neighbours' affairs. It was a source of pride and satisfaction, too, to fathers as well as mothers, to point out some child in the procession so bedecked with flowers that the real Johnnie was hardly visible, and say with a grin of delight: "Why, it's our Johnnie, I do declare! Shouldn't never a known him." As the time came round again, therefore, it was more or less in everyone's mind in some way. For one thing: Would it be fine? That affected everyone's comfort, for a cold wet May Day could be nothing but a miserable failure. Mr Dimbleby at the shop had his own anxieties, for it was his business to provide tea, bread and butter, and cake for the whole assembly, and to get it all up to the top of the hill--no small matter. To do this it was necessary to keep his mind steadily fixed on May Day for a whole week beforehand, and not to allow it to relax for an instant. The drum-and-fife band, who felt themselves the pride and ornament of the occasion, had to practise new tunes and polish up "God save the Queen" to a great pitch of perfection, and the children thought themselves busier than anyone. Not only had they to wonder who would be Queen, but they must meet in the Vicarage garden and learn how to dance round the maypole, singing at the same time. Not only must they present themselves at all sorts of odd hours to have some wonderful costume "tried on" by Miss Ellen and Miss Alice, but above all they had to gather the flowers for the wreaths and garlands. Sometimes, if the season were cold and backward, it was difficult to get enough; but this year, as Lilac had noticed with delight, it had been so bright and mild that the meadows were thick with blossoms and there was no fear of any scarcity. She was always amongst the children chosen "to gather"; and there was more in this office than might at first appear, for there were good gatherers and bad gatherers. It might be done carelessly and in a half-hearted manner, or with full attention and earnest effort, and these results were evident when each child brought her own collection to the school room on May morning. The contents of the baskets were very different, for some showed plainly that as little trouble as possible had been taken. These flowers were picked anyhow, with short stalks or long stalks, in bud or too fully blown, faded or fresh, just as they happened to grow and could be most easily got. Others, again, you could see at the first glance, had been gathered with care and thought, the finest specimens chosen just at the right stage of blossoming, and tied in neat bunches with the stalks all of one length. You might be sure that the flowers in these baskets were quite as good at the bottom as those on the top. Now, Lilac White was a gatherer on whom you might depend, and the ladies at the Rectory who made the wreaths, and dressed the Queen, and arranged the festivities, considered her their best support in the matter of flowers. For, by reason of having had her eye upon them for weeks beforehand, she knew every spring where the finest grew, whether they were early or late, and whether they would be ready for the great occasion. When they had to be gathered she spared no trouble, but would get up at any hour so that they might be picked before the sun scorched them, walk any distance or climb the steepest hills to get the very finest possible. She was always appealed to when any question arose about the flowers. "We must ask Lilac White whether the king-cups are out," Miss Ellen would say; and Lilac was always able to tell. She filled, therefore, a very pleasant and important post at these times, and took great pride in it; but her Cousin Agnetta looked at this part of the affair differently. To her there was neither pleasure nor profit in "mucking" about in the damp fields, as she said, getting her feet wet, and spoiling her frock in stooping about after the flowers. She wished Mrs Leigh would let them wear artificials, which were quite as pretty to look at, and did not fade or get messy, and were no bother at all. You could wear 'em time after time. Agnetta felt quite sure she should be Queen this year, and although she did not like the trouble beforehand she looked forward to the event itself very much indeed. There were many agreeable things about it: the white dress, the crown, the crowd of people looking on, and the fact of being first amongst her companions. It was a little vexing that Lilac was quicker to learn the steps of the dance Miss Ellen was teaching them, and could sing the May-Day song better than she could. Agnetta always sang out of tune, and tumbled over her own feet in the dance; but she consoled herself by remembering how well she should look as Queen dressed all in white, with her red cheeks and frizzy black hair. Meanwhile the Queen was not yet chosen, but would be voted for in the school a week beforehand. Who would be chosen? It was a question which occupied a good many minds just then, and amongst them one which was not supposed to trouble itself about such matters, or to have anything to do with merry-making. This was Peter Greenways' mind. He was so dull and silent, and worked so very hard all the year, that it was an ever fresh surprise to see him appear with the rest on May Day, and came natural to say, "What, you here, Peter!" although he had never missed a single occasion. He expressed no pleasure, and showed no outward sign of enjoyment; but he always went, to the great vexation of his sisters, who were heartily ashamed of him. His face was red, his figure was loutish--it was impossible to smarten him up or make him look like other folks; he continued, in spite of all their efforts, to be just plain Peter--"dreadful vulgar" in his appearance. And the worst of it was, that you could not overlook him in the crowd. This might have been the case if he had been allowed to wear his ordinary working-clothes, but Peter in his "best" was an object which seemed to stand out from all others, and to be present wherever the eye turned. On the day which was to decide the important question, Peter had been ploughing in a part of his father's land called the High Field. All the rest lay level on the plain round about the farm, but this one field was on the shoulder of the downs, so that from it you looked far over the distant valley, with its little clusters of villages dotted here and there. Immediately below was the grey church of Danecross, the rectory, the school-house, and a group of cottages all nestling sociably together; farther on, Orchards Farm peeped out from amongst the trees, which were still white with blossom, and above all this came the cold serious outline of the chalk hills, broken here and there by the beech woods. Peter never felt so happy as when he was looking at this from the High Field, with his dinner in his pocket and the prospect of a long day's work before him. It was so far away from all that disturbed and worried; no one to scold, no one to call him clumsy, no one to look angrily at him, no sounds of dispute. Only the voice of the wind, which blew so freshly up here and seemed to cheer him on, and the song of the larks high above his head, and for companions his good beasts with no reproof in their patient eyes, but only obedience and kindness. Peter was master in the High Field. No one could do a better day's work or drive a straighter furrow, and he was proud of it, and proud of his team--three iron-greys, with white manes and tails, called "Pleasant", "Old Pleasant", and "Young Pleasant." Yet though he did his ploughing well, it by no means occupied all his mind. As he trudged backwards and forwards with bent head, and hands grasping the handles, with now and then a shout to his horses, and now and then a pause for rest, his thoughts were free as the wind, flying about to an sorts of subjects. For this silent Peter had always something to wonder about. He never asked questions now as he had done at school: he had been laughed at so much then, that he knew well enough by this time that he only wondered so much because he was more stupid than other folks; it must be so, for the most common things which he saw every day, and which wise people took as a matter of course, were enough to puzzle him and fill his mind with wonder. The stars, the flowers, the sunset, the sound of the wind, the very pebbles turned up by the ploughshare, gave him strange feelings which he did not understand and which he carefully hid. They would have been explained, he knew, if he had expressed them, by the sentence, "Peter's not all there"; and he was sometimes quite inclined to think that this was really the case. To-day his thoughts had been fixed on the approaching holiday, and on all the delights of the past one. It was to him a most beautiful and even solemn occasion, and he could recall the very smallest detail of it from year to year: even the uncertain squeaks and flourishes of the drum and fife band were something to be remembered with pleasure. As his eye rested on the school-house, a small red dot in the distance, he wondered if they had settled on the Queen yet, and whether Agnetta would be chosen. "She'll be rarely vexed if she ain't," he thought seriously. So the day went by, and after five o'clock had sounded from the church tower Peter and his beasts left off work and went leisurely down the hill towards home; two of the Pleasants in front with their harness clanking and flapping loosely about them, and their master following, seated sideways on the back of the third. Peter had done a long day's work and was hungry, but he did not go into the house till he had seen his horses attended to by Ben Pinhorn, who was in the yard when they arrived. Even after this he was further delayed, for as he was crossing the lane which separated the farm buildings from the house an ugly cat ran to meet him, rubbed against his legs, and mewed. "Jump, then, Tib," said Peter encouragingly; and Tib jumped, arriving with outspread claws on the front of his waistcoat and thence to his shoulder. Thus accompanied he went to the kitchen window and tapped softly, which signal brought Molly the servant girl with a saucer of skim milk. "There's your supper, Tib," said Peter as he set it on the ground, and stood looking heavily down at the cat till she had lapped up the last drop. And in this there was reason; for Sober the sheepdog, lying near, had his eye on the saucer, and only waited for Tib to be undefended to advance and finish the milk himself. Being now quite ready for his own refreshment Peter made his way through the back kitchen into the general living-room of the family, which also, much to Bella's disgust, had the appearance of a kitchen. It was large and comfortable, with three windows in it, looking across the garden to the orchard, but, alas! it had a great fireplace and oven, where cooking often went on, and an odious high settle sticking out from one corner of the chimney. This was enough to deprive it of all gentility, without mentioning the long deal table at which in former times the farmer had been used to dine with his servants. They were banished now to the back kitchen, but this was the only reform Bella and Gusta had been able to make. Nothing would induce their father to sit in the parlour, where there was a complete set of velvet-covered chairs, a sofa, a piano, a photograph-book, and a great number of anti-macassars and mats. All these elegances were not enough to make him give up his warm corner in the settle, where he could stretch out his legs at his ease and smoke his pipe. Mrs Greenways herself, though she was proud of her parlour, secretly preferred the kitchen, as being more handy and comfortable, so that except on great occasions the parlour was left in chilly loneliness. When Peter entered there were only his mother and Bella in the room. The latter stood at the table with a puzzled frown on her brow, and a large pair of scissors in her hand; before her were spread paper patterns, fashion-books, and some pieces of black velveteen, which she was eyeing doubtfully, and, placing in different ways so that it might be cut to the best advantage. Bella was considered a fine young woman. She had a large frame like all the Greenways, and nature had given her a waist in proportion to it. She had, however, fought against nature and conquered, for her figure now resembled an hour-glass--very wide at the top, and suddenly very small in the middle. Like Agnetta she had a great deal of colour, frizzy black hair, and a good-natured expression, but her face was just now clouded by some evident vexation. "Lor', Bella," said her mother, turning round from the hearth, "put away them fal-lals--do. Here's Peter wanting his tea, and your father'll be along from market directly." Bella did not answer, partly because her mouth was full of pins, and Mrs Greenways continued: "You might hurry and get the tea laid just for once. I'm clean tired out." "Where's Molly?" muttered Bella indistinctly. "Molly indeed!" exclaimed her mother impatiently. "It's Molly here and Molly there. One 'ud think she had a hundred legs and arms for all you think she can do. Molly's scrubbing out the dairy, which she ought to a done this morning." "It won't run to it after all!" exclaimed Bella, dashing her scissors down on the table; "not by a good quarter of a yard." "An' you've been and wasted pretty nigh all the afternoon over it," said Mrs Greenways. "I do wish Gusta wouldn't send you them patterns, that I do." "I've cut up the skirt of my velveteen trying to fashion it," said Bella, looking mournfully at the plate in Myra's Journal, "so now I'm ever so much worse off than I was afore. Lor', Peter!" she added, as her eye fell on her brother, "do go and take off that horrid gaberdine and them boots. You look for all the world like Ben Pinhorn, there ain't a pin to choose between you." "You oughtn't to speak so sharp," said her mother, as Peter slouched out of the room. "I know what it is to feel spent like that after a day's work. You just come in and fling down where you are and as you are, boots or no boots." As she spoke the rattle of wheels was heard outside, and then the click of a gate. "There now!" she exclaimed, starting up; "there _is_ yer father. Back already, and a fine taking he'll be in to see all this muss about and no tea ready. He's short enough always when he's bin to market, without anything extry to vex him." She swept Bella's scraps, patterns, and books unceremoniously into a heap, and directly afterwards the tramp of heavy feet sounded in the passage, and the farmer entered. His first glance as he threw himself on the settle was at the table, where Bella was hurriedly clearing away her confused mass of working materials. "Be off with all that rubbish and let's have tea," he said crossly. "Why can't it be ready when I come in?" "You're a bit earlier than usual, Richard," said his wife; "but you'll have it in no time now. The kettle's on the boil." She made anxious signs to Bella to quicken her movements, for she saw that the farmer was in a bad humour. Things had not gone well at market. "And what did you see at Lenham?" she asked, as she began to put the cups and saucers on the table. "Nawthing," answered Mr Greenways, staring at the fire. "What did you hear then?" persisted his wife. "Nawthing," was the answer again. Mother and daughter exchanged meaning looks. The farmer jerked his head impatiently round. "What I want to see is summat to eat, and what I want to hear is no more questions till I've got it. So there!" He thrust out his legs, pushed his hands deep down in his pockets, and with his chin sunk on his breast sat there a picture of moody discontent. After a good deal of clatter and bustle, and calls for Molly, the tea was ready at last--a substantial meal, but somewhat untidily served--and Peter, having changed the offensive gaberdine for a shiny black cloth coat, having joined them, the party sat down. It was a very silent one, for no one dared to address another remark to the farmer until he had satisfied his appetite, which took some time. At last, however, as he handed his cup to his wife to be refilled, he asked: "Who made the butter this week?" "Why, Molly, as always makes it," answered Mrs Greenways. "Wasn't it good. I thought it looked beautiful." "Well, all I know is," said the farmer moodily, "that Benson told me to-day that if this lot was like the last he wouldn't take no more." "Lor', Richard, you don't really mean it!" said Mrs Greenways, setting down the teapot with a thump. "Whatever shall we do if Benson won't take the butter?" "You can't expect him to take it if it ain't good," answered the farmer. "I don't blame him; he's got to sell it again." "It's that there good-for-nothing Molly," said Mrs Greenways. "I'm always after her about the dairy, yet if my head's turned a minute she'll forget to scald her pans, and that gives the butter a sour taste." "All I know is, it's a hard thing, that with good pasture and good cows, and three women indoors, the butter can't be made so as it's fit to sell," said Mr Greenways, hitting the table with his fist. "What's the use of Bella and Agnetta, I should like to know?" Bella tossed her head and smiled. "Lor', Pa, how you talk!" she said mincingly. "They've never been taught nothing of such things," said Mrs Greenways; "and besides, Agnetta's got her schooling yet awhile." "Fancy me," said Bella with a giggle, "making the butter with my sleeves tucked up like Molly. I hope I'm above that sort of thing. I didn't go to Lenham finishing school to _learn_ that." "I can't find out what it was you did learn there," growled her father, "except to look down on everything useful. I'll not have Agnetta sent there, I know. Not if I had the money, I wouldn't. It's bad enough to have bad seasons and poor crops to do with out-of-doors, without having a set of dressed-up lazy hussies in the house, who mar more than they make. Where to turn for money I don't know, and there's going on for three years' rent owing to Mr Leigh." He got up as he spoke and left the room, followed by Peter. Bella continued her tea placidly. Father was always cross on market days, and it did not impress her in the least to be called lazy; she was far more interested in the fate of her velveteen dress than in the quality of the butter. But this was not the case with Mrs Greenways. To hear that Benson had threatened not to take the butter was a real as well as a new trouble, and alarmed her greatly. The rent owing and the failing crops were such a very old story that she had ceased to heed it much, but what would happen if the butter was not sold? The dairy was one of their largest sources of profit, and, as the farmer had said, the pasture was good and the cows were good. There was no fault out-of-doors. Whose fault was it? Molly's without doubt. "But then," reflected Mrs Greenways, "she have got a sight to do, and you can't hurry butter; you must have care and time." She sighed as she glanced at Bella's strong capable form. Perhaps it would have been better after all, as Mrs White had so often said, to bring up her girls to understand household matters, instead of being stylishly idle. "I did it for their good," thought poor Mrs Greenways; "and anyhow, it's too late to alter 'em now. They'd no more take to it than ducks to flying." She was startled out of these reflections by the sudden entrance of Agnetta, who burst into the room with a hot excited face, and flung her bag of books into a corner. "Well," said Bella, looking calmly at her, "I s'pose you're to be Queen, ain't you?" "No!" exclaimed Agnetta angrily, "I ain't Queen; and it's a shame, so it is." "Why, whoever is it, then?" asked Bella, open-mouthed. "They've been and chosen Lilac White; sneaking little thing!" said Agnetta. "Well, now, surely, I am surprised," said her mother. "I made sure they'd choose you, Agnetta; being the oldest, and the best lookin', and all. I do call it hard." "It's too bad," continued Agnetta, thus encouraged; "after I've been such a friend to her, and helped her cut her hair. It's ungrateful. She might have told me." "Why, I don't suppose she knew it, did she?" said Bella. "She went all on pretending she wanted me Queen," said Agnetta, "as innocent as you please. And she must a known there were a lot meant to vote for her. I call it mean." "Never you mind, Agnetta," said her mother soothingly; "come and get yer tea, and here's a pot of strawberry jam as you're fond of. She'll never make half such a good Queen as you, and I dessay you'll look every bit as fine now, when you're dressed." "I don't want no strawberry jam," said Agnetta sullenly, kicking at the leg of the table. "Mercy me!" said poor Mrs Greenways with a sigh, "everything do seem to go crossways today." CHAPTER FIVE. MAY DAY. "But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May!" --_Tennyson_. Agnetta had been quite wrong in saying that Lilac had any idea of being Queen. At the school that afternoon, when amidst breathless silence the Mistress had counted up the votes and said: "Lilac White is chosen Queen", it had been such a surprise to her that she had stood as though in a dream. Her companions nudged her on either side. "It's you that's Queen," they whispered; and at length she awoke to the wonderful fact that it was not Agnetta or anyone else who had the most votes, but she herself, Lilac White. She was Queen! Looking round, still half-puzzled to believe such a wonderful thing, she saw a great many pleased faces, and heard Mrs Leigh say: "I think you have chosen very well, and I am glad Lilac will be Queen this year." It was, then, really true. "How pleased Mother'll be!" was her first thought; but her second was not so pleasant, for her eye fell on Agnetta. It was the only sullen face there; disappointment and vexation were written upon it, and there was no answering glance of sympathy from the downcast eyes. Lilac was an impulsive child, and affection for her friend made her forget everything else for the moment. She left her place, went up to Mrs Leigh, who was talking to the schoolmistress, and held one arm out straight in front of her. "Well, Lilac," said Mrs Leigh kindly, "what is it?" "Please, ma'am," said Lilac, dropping a curtsy, "if they don't mind, I'd rather Agnetta Greenways was Queen." "Oh, that's quite out of the question," said Mrs Leigh decidedly; "when the Queen's been once chosen it can't be altered. Why, I should have thought you would have been pleased." Lilac hung her head, and went back to her place rather abashed. She was pleased, and she did not like Mrs Leigh to think she did not care. Her whole heart was full of delight at receiving such an honour, but at the same time it was hard for Agnetta, who had so set her mind on being Queen. If only she could be Queen too! That being impossible, Lilac had done her best in offering to give it up, and it was disappointing to find that her friend, far from being grateful, was cross and sulky with her and quite out of temper. When the other children crowded round Lilac with pleased faces Agnetta held back, and had not one kind word to say, but refusing an advances flung herself away from her companions and rushed home full of wrath. Lilac looked after her wistfully; it hurt her to think that Agnetta could behave so. "After all," she said to herself, "I couldn't help them choosing me, and I did offer to give it up." Everyone else was glad that she was Queen, and ready with a smile and a nod when they met her. If Agnetta had only been pleased too Lilac's happiness would have been perfect, but that was just the one thing wanting. However, even with this drawback there was a great deal of pleasure to look forward to, and when she went to the Rectory to have the white dress fitted on she was almost as excited as though it was really a royal robe. "It's a pity about the fringe, Lilac," said Miss Ellen as she pinned and arranged the long train; "it's not nearly so becoming." Then seeing the excited face suddenly downcast she added: "Never mind; I dare say the crown will partly hide it." Her arrangements finished, she called her sister, and they both surveyed Lilac gravely, who, a little abashed by such business-like observation, stood before them shyly in her straight white gown, with the train fastened on her shoulders. "I think she'll do very nicely," said Miss Alice, "when she gets the flowers on. They make all the difference. What will she wear?" Miss Ellen's opinion was decided on that point. "It ought to be white lilac, and plenty of it," she said, "nothing would suit the Queen so well." Then came a difficulty: there was none nearer than Cuddingham. Could it be got in time? Lilac was doubtful, for Cuddingham was a long way off, but she promised to do her best, and Miss Ellen's last words to her were: "Bring moon daisies if you can't get it, but remember I should like white lilac much the best." Lilac herself thought the moon daisies would be prettier, with their bright yellow middles; but Miss Ellen's word was law, and as she had set her heart on white lilac, some way of going to Cuddingham must be found since it was too far to walk. There were only two days now to the great event, and during them Lilac did her best to make her wants known everywhere. In vain, however. No one was going to or coming from that place; always the same disappointing answers: "Cuddingham! No, thank goodness; I was there last week. I don't want to see that hill again yet a while." Or, "Well now, if I'd known yesterday I might a suited you." And so on. Lilac began to despair. She thought of Orchards Farm, but she had not courage to ask any favour there while Agnetta was so vexed with her. Even Uncle Joshua, who had always helped her at need, had nothing to suggest now, and did not even seem to think it of much importance. He dropped in to see Mrs White on the evening before May Day, and with her usual faith in him Lilac at once began to place her difficulty before him. But for once he was not ready to listen, and she was obliged to wait impatiently while he carried on a long conversation with her mother. They had a great deal to talk of, and it was most uninteresting to Lilac, for it was all about things of the past in which she had had no share. She might have liked it at another time, but just now she was full of the present, and she became more and more impatient as Uncle Joshua went on. He had to call back the first celebration of May Day which he "minded", and the smallest event connected with it; and when he had done Mrs White took up the tale, dwelling specially on Jem's musical talent, and how he had been the very soul of the drum-and-fife band. "They're all at sixes and sevens now, to my thinking," she said. "Jem, he kep' 'em together and made 'em do their best." "Aye, that's where it is," said the cobbler with an approving nod; "that's what we've all on us got to do." His eye rested as he spoke on Lilac's eager face, and seizing the opportunity of a pause she rushed in with what she had so much on her mind: "Oh, Uncle Joshua! to-morrow's the day, and I can't get no white lilac for Miss Ellen to make my garland with. What shall I do?" But Joshua was in a moralising mood, and though Lilac's question gave him another subject to discourse on, he was more bent on hearing himself talk than in getting over her difficulty. He raised one finger and began to speak slowly, and when Mrs White saw that, she paused with the kettle in her hand and stood quite still to listen. Joshua was going to say something "good." "It don't matter a bit," he said, "what you make your garland of. Flowers is all perishin' things and they'll be dead next day, and wear what you will, they won't make you into a real Queen. But there's things as will always make folks bow down when they see 'em, May Day or no May Day, and them's the things you ought to seek for, early and late till you find 'em. You take a lot of pains to get flowers to deck your outsides, but you don't care much for the plants I'm thinking of; you leave 'em to chance, and so sometimes they're choked out by the weeds. An' yet they're worth takin' trouble for, and if you once get 'em to take root and grow they're fit to crown the finest Queen as ever was; and they won't die either, but the more you use 'em the fresher and sweeter they'll be. There's Love now; you can't understand anyone, not the smallest child, without that. There's Truth; you can't do anything with folks unless they trust you. There's Obedience; you can't rule till you know how to serve. There's three plants for you, and there's a whole lot more, but that's enough for you to bear in mind, and I must be going along." Joshua departed much satisfied with his eloquence, leaving Mrs White equally impressed. "Lor'!" she exclaimed, "there's a gifted man. It's every bit as good as being in church to hear him. And I hope, Lilac, as how you'll lay it to heart and mind it when you get to be a woman." But Lilac did not feel in the least inclined to lay it to heart. She was vexed with Uncle Joshua, who had not been the least help in her perplexity; for once he had failed her, and she was glad he had gone away so that she could think over a plan for to-morrow. It was of no use evidently to reckon on white lilac any longer, the only thing to be done now was to get up very early the next morning and pick the best moon daisies she could find for Miss Ellen. This determination was so strong within her when she fell asleep, that she woke with a sudden start next morning as the daylight was just creeping through her lattice. Had she overslept herself? No, it was beautifully early, it must be an hour at least before her usual time. She dressed herself quickly and quietly, so as not to disturb her mother in the next room, and then pushing open her tiny window gave an anxious look at the weather. Would it be fine? At present a thin misty grey veil was spread over everything, but she could see the village below, which looked fast, fast asleep, with no smoke from its chimneys and nothing stirring. There was such a stillness everywhere that it seemed wrong to make a noise, as though you were in church. And the birds felt it too, for they twittered in a subdued manner, keeping back their full burst of song to greet someone who would come presently. Lilac knew who that was. She knew as well as the birds that very soon the sun would thrust away the misty veil and show his beaming face to the valley. It would be fine. It was May Day, and she was Queen! She drew a deep breath of delight, went downstairs on tiptoe, found a basket and a knife, tied on her bonnet, and unlatched the door; but there she stopped short, checked on the threshold by a sight so surprising that for a moment she could not move. For at her feet, on the doorstep, lying there purely white as though it had fallen from the clouds, was a great mass of white lilac. There were branches and branches of it, so that the air was filled with its gentle delicate scent, and it was so fresh that all its leaves were moist with dew. Someone had been up earlier even than herself. The question was--who? Uncle Joshua of course; he had not failed after all, though how even such a very clever man could have got to Cuddingham and back since last night was more than Lilac could tell. That did not matter. There it was, and what a fine lot of it! "He must have brought away nigh a whole bush," she said to herself. "Miss Ellen will be rare and pleased, surely." She gathered up the sweet-smelling boughs at last, and put them into one of her mother's washing-baskets. There was no need to pick moon daisies now, and as she swept and dusted the room and lit the fire she gave many looks of admiration at her treasure, and many grateful thoughts to Uncle Joshua. Mrs White also had no doubt that he had managed it somehow; and she was so moved by the fact of his kindness, and by Lilac being Queen, and by a hundred past memories, that her usual composure left her, and she threw her apron over her head and had a good cry. "There!" she said when it was over, "I can't think what makes me so silly. But Jem he would a been proud to have seen you--he always liked the laylocks." But now came the question as to how it was to be carried down the hill to the school room. Lilac could not lift the great basket, and it was at last found best to pile up the branches in her long white pinafore, which she held by the two corners. When all was ready she looked seriously across the fragrant burden, which reached up to her chin, and said: "You'll be sure and be up there in time, won't you, Mother, or you won't see me crowned?" "No fear," said Mrs White as she held the gate open. "Mind and walk steady or you'll drop some, and you can't pick it up if you do." Lilac nodded. She was almost too excited to speak. If it felt like this to be Queen of the May, she wondered what it must be like to be a real Queen! It was a glorious morning. The mist had gone, the sun had come, and all the birds were singing their best tunes to welcome him. To Lilac they sounded more than usually gay, as though they were telling each other all sorts of pleasant things. "The sun is here--it is May Day--Lilac is Queen." All the trees too, as they bent in the breeze, seemed to talk together with busy murmurs and whisperings: they tossed their heads and threw up their hands as if in surprise at some news, and then bowed low and gracefully before her, for what they had heard was--"Lilac White is Queen!" Her heart danced so to listen to them that it was quite difficult to keep her feet to a measured step, but when she reached the turn of the hill something made her feel that she must look back. She turned slowly round. There was Mother waving her hand at the gate. When they next met it would be up in the woods, and Lilac would wear crown and garland. She could not wave her hand or even nod in return, but she made a sort of little curtsy and went on her way. At the bottom of the hill she met Mrs Wishing, who, bent nearly double by a heavy bundle, was crawling up from the village. "Well, you look happy anyhow, Lilac White," she said mournfully. "And you haven't forgotten to bring enough flowers with you either." "I can't stop," said Lilac, "I've got to go and put these on Father first. It's so far for Mother to come." She gave a movement of her chin towards the primrose wreath which Mrs White had added at the last moment to the heap of flowers. "Ah! well," sighed Mrs Wishing, "in the midst of life we are in death. I haven't much heart for junketing myself, but I shall be up yonder this afternoon if I'm spared." Lilac passed quickly on, nodding and smiling in return to the greetings which met her. At the door of the shop stood Mr Dimbleby, his face heavier than usual with importance, and a little farther on she saw her Uncle Greenways' wagon and team waiting in charge of Ben, who leant lazily against one of the horses. Mr Greenways always lent a wagon on May Day so that the very old people and small children might drive up the worst part of the hill. Certainly it was there in plenty of time, for it would not be wanted till the afternoon; but it is always well not to be hurried on such occasions, and many of the people had to walk from outlying hamlets. Lilac laid her primroses on her father's grave, and turned back towards the school-house just as the clock struck twelve. There were now many other little figures hurrying in the same direction with businesslike step, and all carrying flowers. Primroses, daisies, buttercups, cowslips, and honeysuckle were to be seen, but there was nothing half so beautiful as the heap of white lilac. Agnetta saw it as she passed into the school room, and gave an astonished stare and a sniff of displeasure: she had only brought a basket of small daisies, and had taken no trouble about them, so that her offering was not noticed or praised at all. Then Lilac advanced, and dropping her little curtsy stood silently in front of Miss Ellen and Miss Alice holding out her pinafore to its widest extent. There were exclamations of admiration and surprise from everyone, and Agnetta stamped her foot with vexation to hear them. "It's _exquisite_!" said Miss Ellen at last. "Where did you get such a beautiful lot of it?" "Please, ma'am, I don't know," said Lilac. "I found it on the doorstep." Agnetta's wrath grew higher every moment. No one paid her any attention, and here was her insignificant cousin Lilac the centre of everyone's interest. She overheard a whisper of Miss Alice's: "She'll make far the loveliest Queen we've ever had." What could it be they admired in Lilac? Agnetta stood with a pout on her lips, idle, while all round the busy work and chatter went on. "Now, Agnetta," said Miss Ellen, bustling up to her, "there's plenty to do. Get me some twine and some wire, and if you're very careful you may help me with the Queen's sceptre." It was a hateful office, but there was no help for it, and Agnetta had to humble herself in the Queen's service for the rest of the morning. To kneel on the floor, pick off small sprays from the bunches of lilac, and hand them up to Miss Ellen as she wove them into garland and sceptre. While she did it her heart was hot within her, and she felt that she hated her cousin. The work went on quickly but very silently inside the schoolroom. There was no time to talk, for the masses of flowers which covered table, benches, and floor had all to be changed into wreaths and garlands before one o'clock, for the Queen and her court. Outside it was not so quiet. An eager group had gathered there long ago, composed of the drum-and-fife band, which broke out now and then into fragments of tunes, the boy with the maypole on his shoulder, and bearers of sundry bright flags and banners. To these the time seemed endless, and they did their best to shorten it by jokes and laughter; it was only the close neighbourhood of the schoolmaster which prevented the boldest from climbing up to the high window and hanging on by his hands to see how matters were going on within. But at last the latch clicked, the door opened wide: there stood the smiling little white Queen with her gaily dressed court crowding at her back. There was a murmur of admiration, and the band, gazing open-mouthed, almost forgot to strike up "God save the Queen." For there was something different about this Queen to any they had seen before. She was so delicately white, so like a flower herself, that looking out from the blossoms which surrounded her she might have been the spirit of a lilac bush suddenly made visible. The white lilac covered her dress in delicate sprays, it bordered the edge of her long train, it twined up the tall sceptre in her hand, it was woven into the crown which was carried after her. At present the Queen's head was bare, for she would not be crowned till she reached her throne in the woods. Then the procession began its march, band playing, banners fluttering bravely in the wind, through the village first, so that all those who could not get up the hill might come to their doors and windows to admire. Then leaving the highroad it came to the steep ascent, and here the wind blowing more freshly almost caught away the Queen's train from the grasp of her two little pages. The band, in spite of gallant struggles, became short of breath, so that the music was wild and uncertain; and the smaller courtiers straggled behind unable to keep up with the rest. It made its way, however, notwithstanding these difficulties, and from the top of the hill where crowds of people had now gathered it was watched by eager and interested eyes. First it looked in the distance like a struggling piece of patchwork on the hillside, then it took shape and they could make out the maypole and the flags, then, nearer still, the sounds of the three tunes which the band played over and over again were wafted to their ears, and at last the small white figure of the Queen herself could plainly be distinguished from the rest. It did not take long after this to reach level ground, and as the procession moved along with recovered breath and dignity to the music of "God save the Queen", it was followed by admiring remarks from all sides: "See my Johnnie! Him in the pink cap. Bless his 'art, how fine he looks!" Or "There's Polly Ann with the wreath of daisies!" "Well now," said Mrs Pinhorn, "I will say Lilac looks as peart and neat as a little bit of waxworks." "She wants colour, to my thinking," said Mrs Greenways, to whom this was addressed. The Greenways stood a little aloof from the general crowd, dressed with great elegance. Bella rather looked down on the whole affair. "It's so mixed," she said; "but we have to go, because Papa don't wish to offend Mr Leigh." "I call that a real pretty sight," said Joshua Snell, turning to his neighbour, who happened to be Peter Greenways. "They've dressed her up very fitting in all them lilac blooms. But wherever did they get such a sight of 'em?" Peter had been forced into a shiny black suit of clothes, a stiff collar, and a bright blue necktie, that he might not disgrace the stylish appearance of his mother and sisters. In this attire he felt even less at his ease than usual, and his arms hung before him as helplessly as those of a stuffed figure. Perhaps it was owing to this state of discomfort that he made no other answer to Joshua's remark than a nervous grin. "I don't see the Widder White anywheres," continued Joshua, looking round; "but there's such a throng one can't tell who's who." Lilac, too, had been looking in vain for her mother amongst the groups of people she had passed through, and as she took her seat on the hawthorn-covered throne she gazed wistfully to right and left. No, Mother was not there. Plenty of well-known faces, but not the one she wanted most to see. "She _promised_ to be in time," she said to herself, "and now she'll miss the crowning." It was a dreadful pity, for Lilac could only be Queen once in her life, and it seemed to take away the best part of the pleasure for Mother not to be there. She had been looking forward to it for so long. What could have kept her away? The Queen's eyes filled with tears of disappointment, and through them the form of Peter Greenways seemed to loom unnaturally large, his face redder than ever above his blue neckcloth, his mouth and eyes wide open. Lilac checked her tears and remembered her exalted position. She must not cry now; but directly the crowning and the dance were over she resolved to search for her mother, and if she were not there to go home and see what had prevented her coming. This determination enabled her to bear her honours with becoming dignity, and to put aside her private anxiety for the time like other royal personages. She danced round the maypole with her court, and led the May-Day song as gaily as if her pleasure had been quite perfect. But it was not; for all the while she was wondering what could possibly have become of her mother. At last, her public duties over, the Queen found herself at liberty. The crowd had dispersed now, and was broken up into little knots of people chatting together and waiting for the next excitement--tea-time. Through these Lilac passed with always the same question: "Have you seen Mother?" Sometimes in the distance she fancied she saw a shawl of a pattern she knew well, but having pursued it, it turned out to belong to someone quite different. She had just made up her mind to go home, when one of her companions ran up to her with an excited face: "Come along," she cried; "they're just agoin' to start the races." Lilac hesitated. "I can't," she said; "I've got to go and look after Mother." "Well, it'll be on your way," said the other; "and you needn't stop no longer nor you like. Come along." She seized Lilac's arm and they ran on together to the flat piece of ground on the edge of the wood, where the races were to take place. The steep side of the down descended abruptly from this, and Lilac knew that by taking that way, which was quite an easy one to her active feet, she could very quickly reach home. So she stayed to look first at one race and then at another, and they all proved so amusing that the more she saw the more she wanted to see, though she still said to herself: "I'll go after this one." She was laughing at the struggling efforts of the boys in a sack race, when suddenly, amidst the noise of cheers and shouting which surrounded her, she heard her own name spoken in an urgent entreating voice: "Lilac--Lilac White!" "Who is it wants me!" she said, starting up and trying to force her way through the crowd. "I'm here; what is it?" The people stood back to let her pass. "It's Mrs Leigh wants you," said a woman. "She's standing back yonder." It was strange to see Mrs Leigh's beaming face look so grave and troubled, and it gave Lilac a sense of fear when she reached her. "Is Mother here, ma'am?" was her first question. "Does she want me, please?" Mrs Leigh did not answer quite at once, then she said very seriously: "Your mother is at home, Lilac. You must go with me at once. She is ill." Self-reproach darted through Lilac's heart. Why had she put off going home? But she must do the best she could now, and she said at once: "Hadn't I best send someone for the doctor first, ma'am?" "He is there," answered Mrs Leigh. "He was sent for some time ago; Daniel Wishing went." The next thing was to get back to Mother as quickly as possible, and Lilac turned without hesitation to the way she had meant to take-- straight down the side of the hill. But Mrs Leigh stopped aghast. "You're not going down there, surely?" she said. "It's as nigh again as going round, ma'am," said Lilac eagerly; "and it's not to say difficult if you do it sideways." Mrs Leigh still hesitated. It was very steep; the smooth turf was slippery. There was not even a shrub or anything to cling to, and a slip would certainly end in an awkward tumble. At another time she would have turned from it with horror, but she looked at Lilac's upturned anxious face and was touched with pity. "After all," she said, grasping her umbrella courageously, "if you can help me a little, perhaps it won't be so bad as it looks." So they started, hand in hand, Lilac a little in front carefully leading the way; but she was soon sorry that they had not gone round by the road. This was a short distance for herself, but it proved a long one now that she had Mrs Leigh with her. A slip, a stop, a slide, another stop--it was a very slow progress indeed. As they went jerking along the flowers fell off Lilac's dress one by one and left a white track behind her. She had taken off her crown and held it in her hand; its blossoms were drooping already, and its leaves folded up and limp. How short a time it was since they had been fresh and fair, and she had marched up the hill so bravely, full of delight. Now, poor little discrowned Queen, she was leaving her kingdom of mirth and laughter behind her with every step, and coming nearer to the shadowy valley where sadness waited. After many a sigh and gasp Mrs Leigh and her guide reached the bottom in safety. They were on comparatively level ground now, with gently sloping fields in front of them and the sharp shoulder of the hill rising at their back. There, within a stone's throw stood the Wishings' cottage, and a little farther on Lilac's own home. How quiet, how very still it all looked! Now and then there floated in the calm air a shout or a sudden burst of laughter from the distant merry-makers, but here, below, it was all utterly silent. The two little white cottages had no light in their windows, no smoke from their chimneys, no sign of life anywhere. "Mother's let the fire out," said Lilac. Mrs Leigh came to a sudden standstill. "Lilac," she said, "my poor child--" Lilac looked up frightened and bewildered. Mrs Leigh's eyes were full of tears, and she could hardly speak. She took Lilac's hand in hers and held it tightly. "My poor child," she repeated. "Oh, please, ma'am," cried Lilac, "let's be quick and go to Mother. What ails her?" "Nothing ails her," said Mrs Leigh solemnly; "nothing will ever ail her any more. You must be brave for her sake, and remember that she loves you still; but you will not hear her speak again on earth." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The revels on the hill broke up sooner than usual that night, and those who had to pass the cottage on their way home trod softly and hushed their children's laughter. For ill news travels fast, and before nightfall there was no one who did not know that the Widow White was dead. And thus Lilac's May-Day reign held in its short space the greatest happiness and the greatest sorrow of her life. Joy and smiles and freshly-blooming flowers in the morning; sadness and tears and a withered crown at night. CHAPTER SIX. ALONE. "The spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity, but a wounded spirit who can bear?"--_Proverbs_. A few days after this Lilac sat on her little stool in her accustomed corner, listening in a dreamy way to the muffled voices of Mrs Pinhorn and Mrs Wishing. They spoke low, not because they did not wish her to hear, but because, having just come from her mother's funeral, they felt it befitted the occasion. As they talked they stitched busily at some "black" which they were helping her to make, only pausing now and then to glance round at her as though she were some strange animal, shake their heads, and sigh heavily. Lilac had not cried much since her mother's death, and was supposed by the neighbours to be taking it wonderful easy-like. For the twentieth time Mrs Wishing was entering slowly and fully into every detail connected with it--of all the doctor had said of its having been caused by heart disease, of all she had said herself, of all Mr Leigh had said; and if she paused a moment Mrs Pinhorn at once asked another question. For it was Mrs Wishing, who, running in as usual to borrow something, had found Mrs White on May morning sitting peacefully in her chair, quite dead. "And it do strike so mournful," she repeated, "to think of the child junketing up on the hill, and May Queen an' all, an' that poor soul an alone." "It's a thing one doesn't rightly understand, that is," said Mrs Pinhorn, "why both Lilac's parents should have been took so sudden." She gave a sharp glance round the room--"I suppose," she added, "the Greenways'll have the sticks. There's a goodish few, and well kep'. Mary White was always one for storing her things." "I never heard of no other kin," said Mrs Wishing. "Lilac's lucky to get a home like Orchards Farm. But there! Some is born lucky." The conversation continued in the same strain until Mrs Wishing discovered that she must go home and get Dan'l's supper ready. "An' it's time I was starting too," added Mrs Pinhorn. "I've got a goodish bit to walk." They both looked hesitatingly at Lilac. "You'll come alonger me and sleep, won't you, dearie?" said Mrs Wishing coaxingly. "It's lonesome for you here." But Lilac shook her head. "I'd rather bide here, thank you," was all she said; and after trying many forms of persuasion the two women left her unwillingly and took their way. Lilac stood at the open door and watched them out of sight, but she was not thinking of them at all, though she still seemed to hear Mrs Wishing's words: "It's lonesome for you here." Her head felt strange and dizzy, almost as though she had been stunned, and it was stranger still to find that she could not cry although Mother was dead. She knew it very well, everyone had talked of it to her. Mr Leigh had spoken very kind, and Mrs Leigh had given her a black frock, and all the neighbours at the church that morning had groaned and cried and pitied her; but Lilac herself had hardly shed a tear, though she felt it was expected of her, and saw that people were surprised to see her so quiet. She tried every now and then to get it into her head, and to understand it, but she could not. It seemed to be someone else that folks spoke of, and not Mother. As she stood by the open door, each thing her eye rested on seemed to have something to do with her and to promise her return. There was the hill she had toiled up so often: surely she would come again with a tired footstep, but always a smile for Lilac. There was the little garden and the sweet-peas she had sown, just showing green above the earth: would she never see them bloom? There on the window sill were her knitting-pins and a half-finished stocking: was it possible that Lilac would never hear them click again in her busy fingers? There, most familiar object of all, was the clothes line. Lilac could almost fancy she saw her mother's straight active figure, as she had done scores of times, stretching up her arms to fasten the clothes with wooden pegs, her skirt tucked up, her arms bare, her sunbonnet tilted over her eyes. No--it was quite impossible to feel that she would really never come back; it seemed much more likely that by and by she would walk in at the door and sit down by the window in her high-backed Windsor chair, and take up the unfinished knitting. As Lilac was thinking thus, a figure did really appear at the top of the hill, a short square figure with a gaily trimmed hat on its head--her cousin Agnetta. For the first time in all her life Agnetta was feeling not superior to Lilac as usual, but shy of her. She did not know what to say to her nor even whether she should be welcome, for she was conscious of having been very ill-tempered lately. Now that Lilac was in trouble, cast down from her high position as Queen, she no longer felt angry with her, and would even have liked to make herself pleasant--if she could. As she came near, however, and stood staring at her cousin, she felt that somehow there was a great difference in her, something which she could not understand. There was a look in Lilac's small white face which made it impossible to speak to her in the old patronising tone; it was as though she had been somewhere and seen something to which Agnetta was a stranger, and which could never be explained to her. It made her uncomfortable, and almost afraid to say anything; and yet, she remembered, Lilac was very low down in the world now--there was less reason than ever to stand in awe of her. She was only poor little Lilac White, with nothing in the world she could call her own, an orphan, and dependent for a home on Agnetta's father. So after these reflections she took courage and spoke: "Mamma said I was to tell you that she'll be up to-morrow morning to look at the furniture, and you must be ready in the afternoon to come down alonger Ben when he brings the cart." Lilac nodded, and the two girls stood silently on the doorstep for a moment; then Agnetta spoke again: "I s'pose you're glad you're coming to live at the farm, ain't ye?" "No," answered Lilac, "I don't know as I be. I'd rather bide here." Agnetta had recovered her courage with her voice. She stepped uninvited past Lilac into the room and cast a curious look round. "Lor'!" she said, "don't it look mournful! I should think you'd be glad to get away." Lilac did not answer. "What's this?" asked Agnetta, pouncing on the needlework which the two women had left on the table. "It's a frock for me," said Lilac. "Mrs Leigh give it to me." Agnetta held the skirt out at arm's length and looked at it critically. "Well!" she exclaimed with some scorn in her voice, "I should a thought you'd a had it made different now." "Different?" said Lilac enquiringly. "Why, there's no reason you shouldn't have it cut more stylish, is there, now there's no one to mind?" No one to mind! Lilac looked at her cousin with dazed eyes for a moment, as if she hardly understood--then she took the stuff out of her hand. "I'll never have 'em made different," she cried with a sudden flash in her eyes; "I never, never will." And then to Agnetta's great surprise she suddenly burst into tears. Agnetta stood staring at her, puzzled. She was sorry, only what had made Lilac cry just now when she had been quite calm hitherto? "Don't take on so," she ventured to say presently; "and you'll spoil your black. It'll stain dreadful." But Lilac took no more notice than if she had not been there, and soon, feeling that she could do nothing, Agnetta left her and took her way home. She had accomplished something by her visit, though she did not know it, for she had made Lilac feel now that it really was true. Mother would not come back. She was alone in the world. There was no one, as Agnetta had said, "to mind." She began to understand it now, and the clearer it was the harder it was to bear. So she bowed her head on the table, amongst the black stuff in spite of Agnetta's caution, and cried on. And presently another thing, which she had not realised till now, stood out plainly before her. She was to go away to-morrow and live at Orchards Farm. Orchards Farm, which she had always fancied the most beautiful place in the world, and beside which her own home had seemed poor and small! Now all that had changed, and the more she thought of it the more she felt that she did not want to leave the cottage. It had suddenly become dear and precious; for all the things in it, even the meanest and smallest, seemed full of her mother's voice and presence. Orchards Farm was a strange country now, with nothing in it that her mother had loved or that loved her, and to go there would be like going still farther from her. Raising her eyes she looked round at the familiar room, at her mother's chair, at her own little stool, at the plants in the window. They all seemed to say: "Don't go, Lilac. It is better to stay here." Must she go? Then suddenly she caught sight of the lilac crown lying dusty and withered in a corner. It reminded her of a friend. "I'll ask Uncle Joshua," she said to herself; "I'll go early to-morrow morning and ask him. _He'll_ know." Joshua had a very decided opinion on the question placed before him next day: Could Lilac live alone at the cottage and take in the washing as her mother used to do? "I can reach the line quite easy if I stand on a stool," she said anxiously; "and Mrs Wishing, she'd help me wring." "Bless you, my maid," he said, "you're not old enough to make a living, or strong enough, or wise enough yet. The proper place for you is your Uncle Greenways' house, till such time as you come to be older." "Mother, she always said, `Don't be beholden to no one. Stand on your own feet.' That's what she said ever so often," faltered Lilac. The cobbler smiled as he looked at the slight little figure. "Well, you must wait a bit. If Mother could speak to you now, she'd say as I do. And you won't be no farther from her at the farm; wherever and whenever you think of her and mind what she said, and how she liked you to act, that's her voice talking to you still. You listen and do as she bids, and that'll make her happier and you too." Joshua set to work again with feverish haste as he finished. He did not like parting with Lilac, and it was difficult to say goodbye. She lingered, looking wistfully at him. "You'll come and see me down yonder, won't you, Uncle Joshua?" "Why, surely, surely," replied Joshua hastily; "and you'll come and see me. It ain't so far after all. Bless me!" he added with a testy glance at the dusty pane in front of him, "what ails the window this morning? It don't give no light whatever." In a moment Lilac had fetched a duster and rubbed the little window bright and clear. It was a small office she had often performed for the cobbler. "It wasn't, not to say very dirty," she said; "but you'll have to do it yourself next time, Uncle Joshua." When she got back to the cottage, she felt a little comforted by the cobbler's words, although he had not fallen in with her plan. What could she do at once, she wondered, that would please her mother? She looked round the room. It had a forlorn appearance. The doorstep, trodden by so many feet lately, was muddy, there was dust on the furniture, and the floor had not been swept for days. Mother certainly would not like that, and Lilac felt she could not leave it so another minute. With new energy she seized broom, brushes, and pail and went to work, going carefully into all the corners, and doing everything just as she had been taught. Very soon it all looked like itself again, bright and orderly, and with a sigh of satisfaction she went upstairs to put herself "straight" before her aunt came. When there another idea struck her, for the moment she looked at the glass she remembered how Mother had hated the fringe. Surely she could brush it back now that her hair had grown longer. No, brush as hard as she would it fell obstinately over her forehead again. But Lilac was not to be conquered. She scraped it back once more, and tied a piece of ribbon firmly round her head; then she nodded triumphantly at herself in the glass. It was ugly, but anyhow it was neat. She had just finished this arrangement when a noise in the room below warned her of Mrs Greenways' approach, and running downstairs she found her seated breathless in the high-backed chair. One foot was stretched out appealingly in front of her, and she was so fatigued that at first she could only nod speechlessly at Lilac. "I'm fairly spent," she said at last, "with that terr'ble hill. I can't wonder myself that your poor mother was taken so sudden with her heart, though she was always a spare figure." Lilac said nothing; the old feeling came back to her that it was someone else and not Mother who was spoken of. Mrs Greenways looked thoughtfully round the room; her eye rested on each piece of furniture in turn. "They're good solid things, and well kept," she said. "I will say for Mary White as she knew how to keep her things. We can do with a good many of 'em at the farm," she went on after a pause; "but I don't want to be cluttered up with furniture, and the rest we must sell as it stands." Lilac's heart sank. She could not bear to think of any of Mother's things being sold, but she was too much in awe of her aunt to say anything. "So I've come up this morning," pursued Mrs Greenways, producing an old envelope and a stumpy pencil; "just to jot down what I want to keep. And when I've done here, and fetched my breath a little, I'll go upstairs and have a look round." Mrs Greenways made her list, and then with a businesslike air tied pieces of tape on all the things she had chosen. Lilac saw with dismay that her own little stool and the high-backed chair were left out. It was almost like leaving two old friends behind. "Have you packed your clothes?" asked Mrs Greenways. "No, Aunt, not yet," said Lilac. "Well, I shall have to send Ben up with the cart this afternoon for your box, so you may as well come alonger him. And mind this, Lilac. Don't you go bringin' any litter and rubbish with you. Jest your clothes and no more, and your Bible and Prayer Book. And now I'll go upstairs." Mrs Greenways went upstairs, followed meekly by Lilac. She watched passively while her aunt punched all the mattresses, placed a searching finger beneath every sheet and blanket, sat down in the chairs, and finally examined every article of Mrs White's wardrobe. "'Tain't any of it much good to me," she said, holding up a cotton gown to the light. "They're all cut so antiquated, and she was never anything of a figure. You may as well keep 'em, Lilac, and they'll come in for you later." It made Lilac's heart ache sorely to see her mother's clothes in Mrs Greenways' hands turned about and talked over. There was one gown in particular, with a blue spot. Mrs White had worn it on that last May morning when she had stood at the gate, and it seemed almost a part of her. When her aunt dropped it carelessly on the ground after her last remark, Lilac picked it up and held it closely to her. "And her Sunday bonnet now," continued Mrs Greenways discontentedly. "All the ribbons is fresh and it's a good straw, but I don't suppose I shall look anything but a scarecrow in it." She perched it on her head as she spoke, and turned about before the glass. "'Tain't so bad," she murmured, with a glance at Lilac for approval. There was no answer; for to her great surprise Mrs Greenways found that her niece had hidden her face in the blue cotton gown she held to her breast, and was sobbing quietly. Mrs Greenways was a kind-hearted woman in spite of her coarse nature. She could not exactly see what had made Lilac cry just now, but she went up to her and spoke soothingly. "There, there," she said, "it's natural to take on, but you'll be better soon, when you get down to the farm alonger Agnetta. You must think of all you've got to be thankful for. And now I should relish a cup o' tea, for I started away early; so we'll go down and you'll get it for me, I dessay. I brought a little in my pocket in case you should be out of it. I shouldn't wonder if Bella was able to give this a bit of style,"--taking off the bonnet. "She's wonderful clever with her fingers." Mrs Greenways drank her tea, made Lilac take some and eat some bread and butter, which she wished to refuse but dared not. "Now you feel better, don't you?" she said good-naturedly. "And before I start off home, Lilac, I've got a word to say, and that is that I hope you're proper and thankful for all your uncle's going to do for you." "Yes, Aunt," said Lilac. "If it wasn't for him, you know, there'd only be the house for you to go to. Just think o' that! What a disgrace it 'ud be! It's a great expense to have an extry mouth to feed and a growing girl to clothe in these bad times, but we must put up with it." "I can work, Aunt," said Lilac. "I can do lots of things." "Well, I hope you'll do what you can," replied Mrs Greenways. "Because, as you haven't a penny of your own, you ought to do summat in return for your uncle's charity. That's only fair and right, isn't it?" Her mother's words came into Lilac's mind: "Don't be beholden to no one." "I don't mind work, Aunt," she repeated more boldly. "I'd rather work. Mother, she always taught me to." "Well, that's a good thing," said Mrs Greenways. "Because, now you're left so desolate, you've got nothing to look to but your own hands and feet. But as to being any help--you're small and young, you see, and you can't be anything but a burden to us for years to come." A burden! That was a new idea to Lilac. "And so," finished Mrs Greenways, rising, "I hope as how you'll be a good gal, and grateful, and always remember that if it wasn't for us you'd be on the parish, instead of at Orchards Farm." She made her way out of the door, and stopped at the garden gate to call back over her shoulder: "Mind and bring no rubbish along with you. Nothing but clothes." Lilac's tears dropped fast into the painted deal box as she packed her small stock of clothes. But she felt that she must not wait to cry; she must be ready by the time Ben came, and her aunt's visit had been so long that it was already late. When she had finished she went downstairs to take a last look round. There stood all the well-known pieces of furniture, dumb, yet full of speech; they had seen and heard so much that was dear to her, that it seemed cruel to leave them to strangers. Above all she looked wistfully at a small twisted cactus in a pot standing on the window ledge. Mrs White had been fond of it, and had given it much care and attention. Might she venture to take it with her? How pleased Mother had been, she remembered, when the cactus had once rewarded her by producing two bright-red blossoms. That was long ago, and it had never done anything so brilliant again. Content with its one effort it had since remained unadorned, yet as it stood there, with its fat green leaves and little bunches of prickles, it had the air of saying to itself, "I have done it once, and if I liked I could do it a second time." Even now as she bent tenderly over it Lilac thought she could make out the faint beginning of a bud. "I do wish I could take it," she said to herself. "If it was only in bloom maybe they'd like it." But the cactus was very far from blooming, and perhaps had no intention of doing so; in its present condition it would certainly be considered "rubbish" at Orchards Farm. Lilac turned from it with a sigh, and glancing through the window was startled to see that the cart with Ben sitting in it was already at the gate. Ben looked as though he might have been waiting there for some hours, and was content to wait for any length of time. She ran out in alarm. "Oh, Ben!" she cried, "I never heard you. Have you been here long?" "Not I," said Ben; "on'y just come. Missus she give orders as how I was to fetch down some cheers alonger you, so as to lighten the next load a bit." By the time he had slowly stacked the chairs together, and disposed them round Lilac's box in the cart, which cost him much painful thought, there was not much room left. "Now then, missie," he said at length, "that's the lot, ain't it?" "Where am I to sit, Ben?" asked Lilac doubtfully. Ben took off his hat to scratch his head. He had a perfectly round, foolish face, with short dust-coloured whiskers. "That's so," he said. "I clean forgot you was to go too." A corner was at last found amongst the chairs, and Ben having hoisted himself on to the shaft they started slowly on their way. Lilac kept her eyes fixed on the cottage until a turn of the road hid it from her sight. It was just there she had turned to look at Mother on May Day. What a long, long time ago, and what a different Lilac she felt now! Grave and old, with all manner of cares and troubles waiting for her, and no one to mind if she were glad or sorry. No one to want her much or to be pleased at her coming. A burden instead of a blessing. She clung to the hope that Agnetta at least would not think her so, but would welcome her to her new home and be kind to her; but she was the only one of whom she thought without shrinking. Her aunt and uncle, Bella and Peter, above all the last, were people to be afraid of. "Here's the young master," said Ben, suddenly turning his face round to look at her. "He be coming up to fetch the rest of the sticks." Lilac peeped out through the various legs of chairs which surrounded her; towards her, crawling slowly up the hill, came a wagon drawn by three iron-grey horses, and by their side a broad-shouldered, lumbering figure. It was her Cousin Peter. Of course it was Peter, she thought impatiently, turning her head away. No one else would walk up the hill instead of riding in the empty wagon. The descent now becoming easier Ben whipped up his horse, and they soon jolted past Peter and his team. "There's been a sight o' deaths lately in the village," he resumed cheerfully, having once broken the silence. "I dunno as I can ever call to mind so many. The bell's forever agoin'. It's downright mournful." He was kindly disposed towards Lilac, and having hit upon this lucky means of entertaining her he dwelt on it for the rest of the way, fortunately requiring no answering remarks. It seemed long before they reached the farm, and Lilac was cramped and tired in her uneasy position when they had at last driven in at the yard gate. There was no one to be seen; but presently Molly, the servant girl, having spied the arrival from the back kitchen, came and stood at the door. When she discovered Lilac almost hidden by the chairs, she hastened out and held up a broad red hand to help her down from the cart. "You've brought yer house on yer back like a hoddy-dod," she said with a grin. Lilac clambered down with difficulty, and stood by the side of the cart uncertain where to go. A forlorn little figure in her straight black frock, clasping her mother's large old cotton umbrella. She wished she could see Agnetta, but she did not appear. Soon her aunt and Bella came into the yard, but their attention was immediately fixed on the chairs, which Ben had now unloaded and placed in a long row by Lilac's side. "Where were they to go?" asked Molly. In the living-room, Mrs Greenways thought, where they were short of chairs. "In the bedrooms," said Bella contemptuously. "Common-looking things like them." "We could do with 'em in the kitchen," added Molly. The dispute continued for some time, but in the end Bella carried the day, and Mrs Greenways found time to notice the newcomer. "Well, here you are, Lilac," she said. "Come along in, and Agnetta shall show where you've got to sleep." Agnetta led the way up the steep stairs to the top of the house. She had rather a condescending manner as she threw open the door of a small attic in the roof. "This is it," she said; "and Mamma says you've got to keep it clean yerself." "I'd rather," said Lilac hastily. "I've always been used to." She looked round the room. It was very like her old one at the cottage, and its sloping ceiling and bare white walls seemed familiar and homelike; it was a comfort, too, to see that its tiny window looked towards the hills. As she observed all this she took off her bonnet, and was immediately startled by a loud laugh from Agnetta. "Well!" she exclaimed, "You have made a pretty guy of yourself." Lilac put her hand quickly up to her head. "Oh, I forgot--my hair," she said. "Whatever made you do it?" asked Agnetta, planting herself full in front of her cousin and staring at her. "It's neater," said Lilac, avoiding the hard gaze. "I shall wear it so till it gets longer. I'm not agoin' to have a fringe no more." "Well!" repeated Agnetta, lost in astonishment; then she added: "You do look comical! Just like a general servant. If I was you I'd wear a cap!" With this parting thrust she clattered downstairs giggling. So this was Lilac's welcome. She went to the window, leant her arms on the broad sill, and looked forlornly up at the hill. There was not a single person who wanted her here, or who had taken the trouble to say a kind word. How could she bear to live here always? "Li-lack!" shrieked a voice up the stairs, "you're to come to tea." Through the meal that followed Lilac sat shyly silent, feeling that every morsel choked her, and listening to the clatter of voices and teacups round her but hardly hearing any words. The farmer had noticed her presence by a nod, and then resumed his newspaper. He meant to do his duty by Mary's girl until she was old enough to go to service, but no one could expect him to be glad of her arrival. Another useless member of the family to support, where there were already too many. Peter was not there at first, but when the meal was nearly over Lilac heard the wagon roll heavily into the yard, and soon afterwards its master came almost as heavily into the room and took his place at the table. When there he eat largely and silently, taking huge draughts of tea out of a great mug. This was one of his many vulgarities, which Bella deplored but could not alter, for he required so much tea that a cup was a ridiculous and useless thing to him, and had to be filled so often that it gave a great deal of trouble--in this therefore he was allowed to have his way. When Lilac got into her attic that night she found that her deal box had been carried up and placed in one corner, and as she began to undress in the half-light she caught sight of something else which certainly had not been there before. Something standing in the window twisted and prickly, but to her most pleasant to look upon. Could it really be the cactus? She went up to it, half afraid to find that she was mistaken. No, it was not fancy, the cactus was there, and Lilac was so pleased to see its ugly friendly face that tears came into her eyes. She had found a little bit of kindness at last at Orchards Farm, and it no longer felt quite so cold and strange. Peter no doubt had brought the plant down from the cottage, but who had told him to do it? Her aunt, or Agnetta, or perhaps after all it was Uncle Joshua as usual. Whoever it was Lilac felt very grateful, and went to sleep comforted with the thought that there was something in the room which had lived her old life and known her mother's care, though it was only a cactus plant. CHAPTER SEVEN. ORCHARDS FARM. "For a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal where there is no love."--_Bacon_. "I like this one best," said Lilac. She was looking in at the shed where Ben was milking the cows at Orchards Farm. Inside it was dusky and cool. There was a sweet smell of hay and new milk, and it was very quiet, the silence only disturbed when an impatient cow stamped her foot or swished her tail at the flies, and was reproved by Ben's deep-toned, "Woa then, stand still." But outside it was very different, for the afternoon sun was still hot and dazzling, and all the farmyard creatures were conversing cheerfully together in many keys and voices. A tall white cock had perched himself tiptoe on a gate, crowing in a shrilly triumphant manner, the ducks were quacking in a sociable chorus, and Chummy, the great black sow, lying stretched on her side in the sun, kept up an undertone of deeply comfortable grunts. Lilac leant against the doorpost, now looking in at Ben and his cows, and now at the sunshiny strawyard. She felt tired and languid, as she very often did at the end of the day, although the work at Orchards Farm was no harder than she had always been used to at home. There, however, it had been done in peace and quietness, here all was hurry and confusion. It was a new and distracting thing to live in the midst of wrangling disputes, to be called here, shouted after there, to do bits of everyone's business, and to be scolded for leaving undone what she had never been told to do. Altogether a heavy change from her old peaceful life, and she could not settle her mind to it with any comfort. "'Tain't the work, it's the worry I mind," she said once to Agnetta; but Agnetta only stared and laughed. There was no consolation at all to be found in her, and all Lilac's hopes concerning her were disappointed as time went on. She was the same and Orchards Farm was the same as they had been in the old days when Lilac had worshipped them from a distance; but somehow, seen quite near this glory vanished, and though the stylish Sunday frocks and bangles remained, they were worth nothing compared to a little sympathy and kindness. Alas! these were not to be had. Lilac must stand on her own feet now, as her mother had told her: everyone was too full of their own troubles and interests and enjoyments to have any thought for her. What could she need beyond a roof over her head, food to eat, and clothes to wear? Mrs Greenways and all the neighbours thought her a lucky child, and told her so very often; but Lilac did not feel lucky, she felt sad and very lonely. After one or two attempts to talk to Agnetta, she resolved, however, to keep her troubles to herself, for Agnetta did not "understand." Who was there now to understand? None in the wide world but Uncle Joshua, and from him she felt as far distant as though he were in another country. She became in this way, as time went on, more silent, graver, and more what her cousins called "old-fashioned"; and though at heart she was far more childlike than they, she went about her work with serious application like one of twice her years. Mrs Greenways did not disapprove of this, and though she lost no occasion of impressing upon Lilac her smallness and uselessness, she soon began to find her valuable in the house: it was a new thing to have someone there who was steady and thorough in her work, and might be depended on to do it without constant reproof. She was satisfied, too, that Lilac had quite got over her grief, and did not seem to miss her mother so much as might have been expected. It would be troublesome to see the child fret and pine, and as no sign of this appeared she concluded it was not there. Mrs Greenways was accustomed to the sort of sorrow which shows itself in violent tears and complaints, and she would have been surprised if she could have known how Lilac's lonely little heart ached sometimes for the sound of her mother's voice or the sight of her face; how at night, when she was shut safely into her attic, she would stretch out her arms towards the cottage on the hill, and long vainly for the days to come back which she had not loved half well enough while they were passing. But no one knew this, and amidst the turmoil and bustle of the day no one guessed how lonely she was or thought of her much in any way. She was only little Lilac White, an orphan who had been fortunate enough to get a good home. So she lived her own life, solitary, although surrounded by people; and while she worked her mind was full of her mother's memory--sometimes she even seemed to hear her words again, and to see her smile of pleasure when she had done anything particularly well. She was careful, therefore, not to relax her efforts in the least, and though she got no praise for the thoroughness of her work, it was a little bit of comfort at the end of the day to think that she had "pleased Mother." It began soon to be a pleasure, too, when work was finished, to go out amongst the creatures in the farmyard. Here she forgot her troubles and her loneliness for a little while, and made many satisfactory friendships in which there were no disappointments. True, there was plenty of noise and bustle here as well as indoors, and family quarrels were not wanting amongst the poultry; but unlike the sharp speeches of Bella and Agnetta they left no bad feeling behind, and were soon settled by a few pecks and flaps. Lilac was sure of a welcome when she appeared at the gate to distribute the small offerings she had collected for her various friends during the day; bits of bread, sugar, or crusts--nothing came amiss, and even the great lazy Chummy would waddle slowly across to her from the other end of the yard. By degrees Lilac began to look forward to the end of the day, when she should meet these friends, and found great comfort in the thought that they expected her and looked out for her coming. Especially she liked to be present at milking-time, and as often as she possibly could she stole out of the house at this hour to spend a few quiet moments with Ben and his cows. On this particular afternoon she saw that there was one among them she had not noticed before--a little cream-coloured Alderney, with slender black legs and dark eyes. "I like that one best of all," she said, pointing to it. Ben's voice sounded hollow as he answered, and seemed to come out of the middle of the cow, for his head was pressed firmly against her side. "Ah, she's a sort of a little fancy coo, she is," he said; "she belongs to the young master. He thinks a lot of her. `We'll call this one None-so-pretty,' says he, when he brung her home." "Why does it belong to him," asked Lilac, "more than the other cows?" "Well, it were like this 'ere," said Ben, who was fond of company and always willing to talk. "This is how it wur. None-so-pretty she caught cold when she'd bin here a couple of weeks, and the master he sent for coo-doctor. And coo-doctor come and says: `She's in a pretty plight,' says he; `information of the lungs she's got, and you'll never get her through it. A little dillicut scrap of a animal like that,' he says; 'she ain't not to say fit for this part of the country! An' so he goes away, and the coo gets worse, so as it's a misery to see her." Ben stopped so long in his story to quiet None-so-pretty, who wanted to kick over the pail, that Lilac had to put another question. "How did she get well?" "It wur along of the young master," answered Ben, "as sat up with her a week o' nights, and poured her drink down her throat, and poletissed her chest, and cockered her up like as if she'd bin a human Christian. And he brung her through. Like a skilliton she wur at fust, but she picked up after a bit and got saucy again. An' ever sin that she'll foller him and rub her head agin' him, and come to his whistle like a dog. An' so the old master, he says: `The little cow's yer own now, Peter, to do as you like with,' he says; `no one else'd a had the patience to bring her through. An' if you'll take my advice you'll sell her, for she'll never be much good to us.'" "But Peter wouldn't sell her, I suppose?" asked Lilac eagerly. "No fear," replied Ben's muffled voice; "he's martal fond of None-so-pretty." Lilac looked with great interest at the little cow. An odd pair of friends--she and Peter--and as unlike as they could possibly be, for None-so-pretty was as graceful and slender in her proportions as he was clumsy and awkward-limbed. It was a good thing that there was someone to admire and like Peter, even if it were only a cow; for Lilac had not been a month at the farm without beginning to feel a little pity for him. He was uncouth and stupid, to be sure, but it was hard, she thought, that he should be so incessantly worried and jeered at. From the moment he entered the house to the moment he left it, there was something wrong in what he said or did. If he sat down on the settle and wearily stretched out his long legs, someone was sure to tumble over them: "Peter, how stupid you are!" If he opened his mouth to speak he said something laughable, and if to eat, there was something vulgar in his manners which called down a sharp reproof from Bella, who considered herself a model of refinement and good taste. He took all this in unmoved silence, and seldom said a word except to talk to his father on farming matters; but Lilac, looking on from her quiet corner, often felt sorry for him, as she would have done to see any large, patient animal ill-treated and unable to complain. "Anyhow," she said to herself as she stood with her eyes fixed on None-so-pretty after Ben had done his story, "if he is common he's kind." Her reflections were disturbed by Ben's voice making another remark, which came from the side of a large red cow named Cherry: "There's not a better lot of coos, nor richer milk than what they give, this side Lenham." Lilac made no answer. "An' if so be as the dairy wur properly worked they'd most pay the rent of this 'ere farm, with the poultry thrown in." Lilac glanced at the various feathered families outside; they were supposed to be Bella's charge, she knew, but she generally gave them over to Agnetta, who looked after them when she was inclined, and often forgot to search for the eggs altogether. "They wants care," continued Ben, "as well as most things. I don't name no names, but the young broods had ought to be better looked after in the spring. And they're worth it. There's ducks now--chancy things is early ducks, but they pay well. Git 'em hatched out early. Feed 'em often. Keep 'em warm and dry at fust. Let 'em go into the water at the right time. Kill 'em and send 'em up to Lunnon, and there you are--a good profit. Why, you'll git 15 shillings the couple for ducklings in March! That's not a price to sneeze at, that isn't. I name no names," he repeated mysteriously, "but them as don't choose to take the pains can't expect the profit." At supper that night Lilac remembered this conversation with Ben, and examined Peter's countenance curiously as he sat opposite to her with his whole being apparently engrossed by the meal. She could not, however, discover any kind or pleasant expression upon it. If it were there at all, it was unable to struggle through the thick dull mask spread over it. Bella meanwhile had news to tell. She had heard at Dimbleby's that afternoon that there was to be a grand fete in Lenham next week. Fireworks and a balloon, and perhaps dancing and a band. Charlotte Smith said it would be splendid, and she was going to have a new hat on purpose. "Well, I haven't got no money to throw away on new hats and suchlike," said Mrs Greenways, "but I s'pose you and Agnetta'll want to go too." "How'll we get over there?" asked Bella, looking fixedly at Peter, who did not raise his eyes from his plate. Mrs Greenways turned her glance in the same direction, and said presently: "Well, perhaps Peter he could drive you over in the spring cart." "Hay harvest," muttered Peter, deep down in his mug; "couldn't spare time." "Oh, bother," said Bella. "Then we must do with Ben." "Couldn't spare him neither," was Peter's answer. "Heavy crop. Want all the hands we can get." Bella pouted and Agnetta looked on the edge of tears. Mrs Greenways, anxious to settle matters comfortably, made another suggestion. "Well, you must just drive yourselves then, Bella. The white horse is quiet. I've drove him often." "Couldn't spare the horse neither," said Peter, "nor yet the cart," and having finished both his meal and the subject he got up and went out of the room. The farmer, roused by the sound of the dispute from a nap in the window seat, now enquired what was going on, and was told of the difficulty. "What's to prevent 'em walking?" he asked; "it's only five miles. If they're too proud to walk they'd better stop at home," and then he too left the room. "You don't catch _me_ walking!" exclaimed Bella; "if I can't drive I shan't go at all. Getting all hot and dusty, and Charlotte Smith driving past us on the road with her head held up ever so high." "No more shan't I," said Agnetta, with a toss of her head. "Well, there, we'll see if we can't manage somehow," said Mrs Greenways coaxingly. "If the weather's good for the hay harvest your father'll be in a good temper, and we'll see what we can do. Lilac!" she added, turning sharply to her niece, "Molly's left out some bits of washing in the orchard, jest you run and fetch 'em in." Lilac picked up her sunbonnet and went out, glancing at Agnetta to see if she were coming too, but she did not move. It was a cool, still evening after a very hot day, and all the flowers in the garden were holding up their drooping heads again, and giving out their sweetest scent as if in thankfulness for the change. There were a great many in bloom now, for it was June, more than a whole month since that happy, miserable day when Lilac had been Queen, and as she passed Peter's own little bit of ground she stopped to look admiringly at them. They seemed to grow here better than in other places--with a willing luxuriance as though in return for the affection and care which was evidently spent on them. Pansies, columbines, white-fringed pinks, and sweet-peas all mixed up together, and yet keeping a certain order and not allowed to intrude upon each other. Lilac passed on through a little gate which led into the kitchen garden, and as she did so became aware that the owner of the flowers was quite near. She paused and considered within herself as to whether she should speak to him. He was sitting on the stump of a cherry tree, which had been cut down to a convenient height from the ground; on this was placed a square piece of turf, so that it formed a cushion, and was evidently a customary seat. Near him was a row of beehives, under a slanting thatch, and their busy inhabitants, returning in numbers from their day's labour, hummed and buzzed around him, much to the annoyance of Sober, the old sheep dog, who lay stretched at his feet. Tib, the ugly cat, had taken up a discreet position at a little distance from the hives, and sat very wide awake, with the only eye she possessed on the alert for any stray game that might pass that way. Neither Peter nor his companions saw Lilac; they all appeared absorbed in their own reflections, and the former had fixed his gaze vacantly on the copse beyond the orchard. A little while ago she would have passed quickly on without a moment's hesitation, but now she felt a sort of sympathy with Peter. She was lonely, and he was lonely; besides, he had been kind to None-so-pretty. So presently she made a little rustle, which roused Sober from his slumbers. He raised his head, and finding that it was a friend wagged his bushy tail and resumed his former position; but this roused Peter too, and he slowly turned his eyes upon Lilac and stared silently. Knowing that it would be useless to wait for him to speak, she said timidly: "How pretty your pinks grow!" Peter got up from his seat and looked seriously over the railing at the pinks. "They're well enough," he said; "but the slugs and snails torment 'em so." "I think they're as pretty as can be," said Lilac; "and that sweet you can smell 'em ever so far. We had some up yonder," she added, with a nod towards the hills, "but they never had such blooms as yours." "Maybe you'd like a posy," said Peter, suddenly blurting out the words with a great effort. Receiving a delighted answer in the affirmative he fumbled for some time in his pocket, and having at last produced a large clasp knife bent over his flower bed. The conversation having got on so far, Lilac felt encouraged to continue it, and looked round her for a subject. "This is a nice, pretty corner to sit in," she said; "but don't the bees terrify you?" Peter straightened himself up with the flowers he had cut in one hand, and stared in surprise. "The bees!" he repeated. He strode up to the hives, took up a handful of bees and let them crawl about him, which they did without any sign of anger. "Why ever don't they sting yer?" asked Lilac, shrinking away. "They know I like 'em," answered Peter, returning to his flowers. "They know a lot, bees do." "I s'pose they're used to see you sitting here?" said Lilac. Peter nodded. "They're rare good comp'ny too," he said, "when you can follow their carryings on, and know what they're up to." Lilac watched him thoughtfully as his large hand moved carefully amongst the flowers, cutting the best blossoms and adding them to the nosegay, which now began to take the shape of a large fan. While he had been talking of the bees his face had lost its dullness; he had not looked stupid at all, and scarcely ugly. She would try and make him speak again. "The blossoms is over now," she remarked, looking at the trees in the orchard; "but there's been a rare sight of 'em this year." "There has so," answered Peter. "It'll be a fine season for the fruit if so be as we get sun to ripen it. The birds is the worst," he went on. "I've seen them old jaypies come out of the woods yonder as thick as thieves into the orchard. I don't seem to care about shootin' 'em, and scarecrows is no good." What a long sentence for Peter! "Do they now?" said Lilac sympathisingly. "An' I s'pose," stroking Tib on the head, "they don't mind Tib neither?" "Not they," said Peter, with something approaching a chuckle. "They're altogether too many for _her_." "She's not a _pretty_ cat," said Lilac doubtfully. "Well, n-no," said Peter, turning round to look at Tib with some regret in his tone. "She ain't not to say exactly pretty, but she's a rare one for rats. Ain't ye, Tib?" As if in reply Tib rose, fixed her front claws in the ground, and stretched her long lean body. She was not pretty, the most favourable judge could not have called her so. Her coat was harsh and wiry, her head small and mean, with ears torn and scarred in many battles. Her one eye, fiercely green, seemed to glare in an unnaturally piercing manner, but this was only because she was always on the lookout for her enemies--the rats. To complete her forlorn appearance she had only half a tail, and it was from this loss that her friendship with Peter dated, for he had rescued her from a trap. He seemed now to feel that her character needed defence, for he went on after a pause: "She'll sit an' watch for 'em to come out of the ricks by the hour, without ever tasting food. Better nor any tarrier she is at it." "Ben says the rats is awful bad," said Lilac. "They're that bold they'll steal the eggs, and scare off the hens when they're setting." "They do that," replied Peter, shaking his head. "The poultry wants seeing to badly; but Bella she don't seem to take to it, nor yet Agnetta, and our hands is full outside." "I like the chickens and ducks and things," said Lilac. "I wish Aunt'd let me take 'em in hand." Peter reared himself up from his bent position, and holding the big nosegay in one hand looked gravely down at his cousin. It was a good long distance from his height to Lilac, and she seemed wonderfully small and slender and delicately coloured as she stood there in her straight black frock and long pinafore. She had taken off her sun bonnet, so that her little white face with all the hair fastened back from it was plainly to be seen. It struck Peter as strange that such a small creature should talk of taking any more work "in hand" besides what she had to do already. "You hadn't ought to do hard work," he said at length; "you haven't got the strength." "I don't mind the work," said Lilac, drawing up her little figure. "I'm stronger nor what I look. 'Taint the work as I mind--" She stopped, and her eyes filled suddenly with tears. Peter saw them with the greatest alarm. Somehow with his usual stupidity he had made his cousin cry. All he could do now was to take himself away as quickly as possible. He went up to Sober and touched him gently with his foot. "Come along, old chap," he said. "We've got to look after the lambs yonder." Without another word or a glance at Lilac he rolled away through the orchard with the dog at his heels, his great shoulders plunging along through the trees, and Lilac's gay bunch of flowers swinging in one hand. He had quite forgotten to give it to her. She looked after him in surprise, with the tears still in her eyes. Then a smile came. "He's a funny one surely," she said to herself. "Why ever did he make off like that?" There was no one to answer except Tib, who had jumped up into a tree and looked down at her with the most complete indifference. "Anyway, he means to be kind," concluded Lilac, "and it's a shame to flout him as they do, so it is." CHAPTER EIGHT. ONLY A CHILD! "Who is the honest man? He who doth still and strongly good pursue, To God, his neighbour and himself most true, Whom neither force nor fawning can Unpin or wrench from giving all his due." _G. Herbert_. Joshua Snell had by no means forgotten his little friend Lilac. There were indeed many occasions in his solitary life when he missed her a great deal, and felt that his days were duller. For on her way to and from school she had been used to pay him frequent visits, if only for a few moments at a time, dust his room, clean the murky little window, and bring him a bunch of flowers or a dish of gossip. In this way she was a link between him and the small world of Danecross down below; and in spite of his literary pursuits Joshua by no means despised news of his neighbour's affairs, though he often received it with a look of indifference. Besides this, her visits gave him an opportunity for talking, which was a great pleasure to him, and one in which he was seldom able to indulge, except on Saturdays when he travelled down to the bar of the "Three Bells" for an hour's conversation. He was also fond of Lilac for her own sake, and anxious to know if she were comfortable and happy in her new home. He soon began, therefore, to look out eagerly for her as he sat at work; but no little figure appeared, and he said to himself, "I shall see her o' Sunday at church." But this expectation was also disappointed, and he learned from Bella Greenways that Lilac and Agnetta were to go in the evenings, it was more convenient. Joshua could not do that; it had been his settled habit for years to stay at home on Sunday evening, and it was impossible to alter it. So it came to pass that a whole month went by and he had not seen her once. Then he said to himself, "If so be as they won't let her come to me, I reckon I must go and see her." And he locked up his cottage one evening and set out for the farm. Joshua was a welcome guest everywhere, in spite of his poverty and lowly station; even at the Greenways', who held their heads so high, and did not "mix", as Bella called it, with the "poor people." This was partly because of his learning, which in itself gave him a position apart, and also because he had a certain dignity of character which comes of self-respect and simplicity wherever they are found. Mrs Greenways was indeed a little afraid of him, and as anxious to make the best of herself in his presence as she was in that of her rector and landlord, Mr Leigh. "Why, you're quite a stranger, Mr Snell," she said when he appeared on this occasion. "Now sit down, do, and rest yourself, and have a glass of something or a cup of tea." Joshua being comfortably settled with a mug of cider at his elbow she continued: "Greenways is over at Lenham, and Peter's out on the farm somewheres, but I expect they'll be in soon." The cobbler waited for some mention of Lilac, but as none came he proceeded to make polite enquiries about other matters, such as the crops and the live stock, and the chances of good weather for the hay. He would not ask for her yet, he thought, because it might look as though he had no other reason for coming. "And how did you do with your ducks this season, Mrs Greenways, ma'am?" he said. "Why, badly," replied Mrs Greenways in a mortified tone; "I never knew such onlucky broods. A cow got into the orchard and trampled down one. Fifteen as likely ducklings as you'd wish to see. And the rats scared off a hen just as she'd hatched out; and we lost a whole lot more with the cramp." "H'm, h'm, h'm," said the cobbler sympathisingly, "that was bad, that was. And you ought to do well with your poultry in a fine place like this too." "Well, we don't," said Mrs Greenways, rather shortly; "and that's all about it." "They want a lot of care, poultry does," said Joshua reflectively; "a lot of care. I know a little what belongs to the work of a farm. Years afore I came to these parts I used to live on one." "Then p'r'aps you know what a heart-breaking, back-breaking, wearing-out life it is," burst out poor Mrs Greenways. "All plague an' no profit, that's what it is. It's drive, drive, drive, morning, noon, and night, and all to be done over again the next day. You're never through with it." "Ah! I dessay," said Joshua soothingly; "but there's your daughters now. They take summat off your hands, I s'pose? And that reminds me. There's little White Lilac, as we used to call her,--you find her a handy sort of lass, don't you?" "She's well enough in her way," said Mrs Greenways. "I don't never regret giving her a home, and I know my duty to Greenways' niece; but as for use--she's a child, Mr Snell, and a weakly little thing too, as looks hardly fit to hold a broom." "Well, well, well," said Joshua, "every little helps, and I expect you'll find her more use than you think for. Even a child is known by its doings, as Solomon says." Mrs Greenways interposed hastily, for she feared the beginning of what she called Joshua's "preachments." "You'd like to have seen her, maybe; but she's gone with Agnetta to the Vicarage to take some eggs. Mrs Leigh likes to see the gals now and then." Joshua made his visit as long as he could in the hope of Lilac's return, but she did not appear, and at last he could wait no longer. "Well, I'll go and have a look round for Peter," he said; "and p'r'aps you'll send Lilac up one day to see me. She was always a favourite of mine, was Lilac White. And I'd a deal of respect for her poor mother too. Any day as suits your convenience." "Oh, she can come any day as for that, Mr Snell," replied Mrs Greenways with a little toss of her head. "It doesn't make no differ in a house whether a child like that goes or stays. She's plenty of time on her hands." "That's settled then, ma'am," said Joshua, "and I shall be looking to see her soon." He made his farewell, leaving Mrs Greenways not a little annoyed that no mention had been made of Agnetta in this invitation. "Not that she'd go," she said to herself, "but he might a asked her as well as that little bit of a Lilac." It was quite a long time before she found it possible to allow Lilac to make this visit, for although she was small and useless and made no differ in the house, there were a wonderful number of things for her to do. Lilac's work increased; other people beside Mrs Greenways discovered the advantage of her willing hands, and were glad to put some of their own business into them. Thus the care of the poultry, which had been shuffled off Bella's shoulders on to Agnetta, now descended from her to Lilac, the number of eggs brought in much increasing in consequence. Lilac liked this part of her daily task; she was proud to discover the retired corners and lurking-places of the hens, and fill her basket with the brown and pink eggs. Day by day she took more interest in her feathered family, and began to find distinguishing marks of character or appearance in each, she even made plans to defeat the inroads of the rats by coaxing her charges to lay their eggs in the barn, where they were more secure. "Hens is sillier than most things," said Ben, when she confided her difficulties to him; "what they've done once they'll do allers, it's no good fightin' with 'em." He consented, however, to nail some boards over the worst holes in the barn, and by degrees, after infinite patience, Lilac succeeded in making some of the hens desert their old haunts and use their new abode. All this was encouraging. And about this time a new interest indoors arose which made her life at Orchards Farm less lonely, and was indeed an event of some importance to her. It happened in this way. Ever since her arrival she had watched the proceedings of Molly in the dairy with great attention. She had asked questions about the butter-making until Molly was tired of answering, and had often begged to be allowed to help. This was never refused, although Molly opened her eyes wide at the length of time she took to clean and rinse and scour, and by degrees she was trusted with a good deal of the work. The day came when she implored to be allowed to do it all--just for once. Molly hesitated; she had as usual a hundred other things to do and would be thankful for the help, but was such a bit of a thing to be trusted? On the whole, from her experience of Lilac she concluded that she was. "You won't let on to the missus as how you did it?" she said. And this being faithfully promised, Lilac was left in quiet possession of the dairy. She felt almost as excited about that batch of butter as if her life depended on it. Suppose it should fail? "But there!" she said to herself, "I won't think of that; I will make it do," and she set to work courageously. And now her habits of care and neatness and thoroughness formed in past years came to her service, as well as her close observation of Molly. Nothing was hurried in the process, every small detail earnestly attended to, and at last trembling with excitement and triumph she saw the result of her labours. The butter was a complete success. As she stood in the cool dark dairy with the firm golden pats before her, each bearing the sharply-cut impression of the stamp, Lilac clasped her hands with delight. She had not known such a proud moment in all her life, except on the day when she had been Queen. And this was a different sort of pride, for it was joy in her own handiwork-- something she herself had done with no one to help her. "Oh," she said to herself, "if Mother could but see that, how rare an' pleased she'd be!" Maybe she did, but how silent it was without her voice to say "Well done", and how blank without her face to smile on her child's success. There was no one to sympathise but Molly, who came in presently with loud exclamations of surprise. "So you've got through? Lor'-a-mussy, what a handy little thing it is! And you won't ever let on to missus or any of 'em?" Lilac never did "let on." She kept Molly's secret faithfully, and saw her butter packed up and driven off to Lenham without saying a word. And from this time forward the making up of the butter, and sometimes the whole process, was left in her hands. It was not easy work, for all the things she had to use were too large and heavy for her small hands, and she had to stand on a stool to turn the handle of the big churn. But she liked it, and what she lacked in strength she made up in zeal; it was far more interesting than scrubbing floors and scouring saucepans. Molly, too, was much satisfied with this new arrangement, for the dairy had always brought her more scolding from her mistress than any part of her work, and all now went on much more smoothly. Lilac wondered sometimes that her aunt never seemed to notice how much she was in the dairy, or called her away to do other things; she always spoke as if it were Molly alone who made the butter. In truth Mrs Greenways knew all about it, and was very content to let matters go on as they were; but something within her, that old jealousy of Lilac and her mother, made it impossible for her to praise her niece for her services. She could not do it without deepening the contrast between her own daughters and Lilac, which she felt, but would not acknowledge even to herself. So Lilac got no praise and no thanks for what she did, and though she found satisfaction in turning out the butter well for its own sake, this was not quite enough. A very small word or look would have contented her. Once when her uncle said: "The butter's good this week," she thought her aunt must speak, and glanced eagerly at her, but Mrs Greenways turned her head another way and no words come. Lilac felt hurt and disappointed. It was a busier time than usual at the farm just now, though there was always plenty for everyone to do. It was hay harvest and there were extra hands at work, extra cooking to do, and many journeys to be made to and from the hayfield. Lilac was on the run from morning till night, and even Bella and Agnetta were obliged to bestir themselves a little. In the big field beyond the orchard where the grass had stood so tall and waved its flowery heads so proudly, it was now lying low on the ground in the bright hot sun. The sky was cloudless, and the farmer's brow had cleared a little too, for he had a splendid crop and every chance of getting it in well. "To-morrow's Lenham fete," said Agnetta to Lilac one evening. "It's a pity but what you can go," answered Lilac. "We are going," said Agnetta triumphantly, "spite of Peter and Father being so contrary; and we ain't a-going to walk there neither!" "How are you goin' to get there, then?" asked Lilac. "Mr Buckle, he's goin' to drive us over in his gig," said Agnetta. "My I shan't we cut a dash? Bella, she's goin' to wear her black silk done up. We've washed it with beer and it rustles beautiful just like a new one. And she's got a hat turned up on one side and trimmed with Gobelin." "What's that?" asked Lilac, very much interested. "It's the new blue, silly," answered Agnetta disdainfully. Then she added: "My new parasol's got lace all round it, ever so deep. I expect we shall be about the most stylish girls there. Won't Charlotte Smith stare!" "I s'pose it's summat like a fair, isn't it?" asked Lilac. "Lor', no!" exclaimed Agnetta; "not a bit. Not near so vulgar. There's a balloon, and a promnarde, and fireworks in the evening." All these things sounded mysteriously splendid to Lilac's unaccustomed ears. She did not know what any of them meant, but they seemed all the more attractive. "You've got to be so sober and old-fashioned like," continued Agnetta, "that I s'pose you wouldn't care to go even if you could, would you? You'd rather stop at home and work." "I'd like to go," answered Lilac; "but Molly couldn't never get through with the work to-morrow if we was all to go. There's a whole lot to do." "Oh, of course you couldn't go," said Agnetta loftily. "Bella and me's different. We're on a different footing." Agnetta had heard her mother use this expression, and though she would have been puzzled to explain it, it gave her an agreeable sense of superiority to her cousin. In spite of soberness and gravity, Lilac felt not a little envious the next day when Mr Buckle drove up in his high gig to fetch her cousins to the fete. She could hear the exclamations of surprise and admiration which fell from Mrs Greenways as they appeared ready to start. "Well," she said with uplifted hands, "you do know how to give your things a bit of style. That I _will_ say." Bella had spent days of toil in preparing for this occasion, and the result was now so perfect in her eyes that it was well worth the labour. The silk skirt crackled and rustled and glistened with every movement; the new hat was perched on her head with all its ribbons and flowers nodding. She was now engaged in painfully forcing on a pair of lemon-coloured gloves, but suddenly there was the sound of a crack, and her smile changed to a look of dismay. "There!" she exclaimed, "if it hasn't gone, right across the thumb." "Lor', what a pity," said her mother. "Well, you can't stop to mend it; you must keep one hand closed, and it'll never show." Agnetta now appeared. She was dressed in the Sunday blue, with Bella's silver locket round her neck and a bangle on her wrist. But the glory of her attire was the new parasol; it was so large and was trimmed with such a wealth of cotton lace, that the eye was at once attracted to it, and in fact when she bore it aloft her short square figure walking along beneath it became quite a secondary object. Lilac watched the departure from the dairy window, which, overgrown with creepers, made a dark frame for the brightly-coloured picture. There was Mr Buckle, a young farmer of the neighbourhood, in a light-grey suit with a blue satin tie and a rose in his buttonhole. There was Bella, her face covered with self-satisfied smiles, mounting to his side. There was Agnetta carrying the new parasol high in the air with all its lace fluttering. How gay and happy they all looked! Mrs Greenways stood nodding at the window. She had meant to go out to the gate, but Bella had checked her. "Lor', Ma," she said, "don't you come out with that great apron on--you're a perfect guy." When the start was really made, and her cousins were whirled off to the unknown delights of Lenham, leaving only a cloud of dust behind them, Lilac breathed a little sigh. The sun was so bright, the breeze blew so softly, the sky was so blue--it was the very day for a holiday. She would have liked to go too, instead of having a hard day's work before her. "Where's Lilac?" called out Mrs Greenways in her high-pitched worried voice. "What on earth's got that child? Here's everything to do and no one to do it. Ah! there you are," as Lilac ran out from the dairy. "Now, you haven't got no time to moon about to-day. You must stir yourself and help all you can." "Bees is swarmin'!" said Ben, thrusting his head in at the kitchen door, and immediately disappearing again. "Bother the bees!" exclaimed Mrs Greenways crossly. But on Molly the news had a different effect. It was counted lucky to be present at the housing of a new swarm. She at once left her occupation, seized a saucepan and an iron spoon, and regardless of her mistress rushed out into the garden, making a hideous clatter as she went. "There now, look at that!" said Mrs Greenways with a heated face. "She's off for goodness knows how long, and a batch of loaves burning in the oven, and your uncle wanting his tea sent down into the field. Why ever should they want to go swarmin' now in that contrairy way?" She opened the oven door and took out the bread as she spoke. "Now, don't you go running off, Lilac," she continued. "There's enough of 'em out there to settle all the bees as ever was. You get your uncle's tea and take it out, and Peter's too. They won't neither of 'em be in till supper. Hurry now." The last words were added simply from habit, for she had soon discovered that it was impossible to hurry Lilac. What she did was well and thoroughly done, but not even the example which surrounded her at Orchards Farm could make her in a bustle. The whole habit of her life was too strong within her to be altered. Mrs Greenways glanced at her a little impatiently as she steadily made the tea, poured it into a tin can, and cut thick hunches of bread and butter. "I could a done it myself in, half the time," she thought; but she was obliged to confess that Lilac's preparations if slow were always sure, and that she never forgot anything. Lilac tilted her sunbonnet well forward and set out, walking slowly so as not to spill the tea. How blazing the sun was, though it was now nearly four o'clock. In the distance she could see the end of her journey, the big bare field beyond the orchard full of busy figures. As she passed the kitchen garden, Molly, rushing back from her encounter with the bees, almost ran against her. "There was two on 'em," she cried, her good-natured face shining with triumph and the heat of her exertions; "and we've housed 'em both beautiful. Lor'! ain't it hot?" She stood with her iron weapons hanging down on each side, quite ready for a chat to delay her return to the house. Molly was always cheerfully ready to undertake any work that was not strictly her own. Lilac felt sorry, as they went on their several ways, to think of the scolding that was waiting for her; but it was wasted pity, for Molly's shoulders were broad, and a scolding more or less made no manner of difference to them. There were all sorts and sizes of people at work in the hayfield as Lilac passed through it. Machines had not yet come into use at Danecross, so that the services of men, women, and children were much in request at this busy time. The farmer, remembering the motto, was determined to make his hay while the sun shone, and had collected hands from all parts of the neighbourhood. Lilac knew most of them, and passed along exchanging greetings, to where her uncle sat on his grey cob at the end of the field. He was talking to Peter, who stood by him with a wooden pitchfork in his hand. Lilac thought that her uncle's face looked unusually good-tempered as she handed up his meal to him. He sat there eating and drinking, and continued his conversation with his son. "Well, and what d'ye think of Buckle's offer for the colt?" "Pity we can't sell him," answered Peter. "_Can't_ sell him!" repeated the farmer; "I'm not so sure about that. Maybe he'd go sound now. He doesn't show no signs of lameness." "Wouldn't last a month on the roads," said Peter. The farmer's face clouded a little. "Well," he said hesitatingly, "that's Buckle's business. He can look him over, and if he don't see nothing wrong--" "We hadn't ought to sell him," said Peter in exactly the same voice. "He's not fit for the roads. Take him off soft ground and he'd go queer in a week." "He might or he mightn't," said the farmer impatiently; "all I know is I want the cash. It'd just pay that bill of Jones's, as is always bothering for his money. I declare I hate going into Lenham for fear of meeting that chap." Peter had begun to toss the hay near him with his pitchfork. He did not look at his father or change his expression, but he said again: "Knowing what we do, we hadn't ought to sell him." The farmer struck his stirrup-iron so hard with his stick that even the steady grey pony was startled. "I wish," he said with an oath, "that you'd never found it out then. I'd like to be square and straight about the horse as well as anyone. I've always liked best to be straight, but I'm too hard up to be so particular as that comes to. It's easy enough," he added moodily, "for a man to be honest with his pockets full of money." "I could get the same price for None-so-pretty," said Peter after a long pause. "Mrs Grey wants her--over at Cuddingham. Took a fancy to her a month ago." "I'll not have her sold," said the farmer quickly. "What's the good of selling her? She's useful to us, and the colt isn't." "She ain't not exactly so _useful_ to us as the other cows," said Peter. "She's more of a fancy." "Well, she's yours," answered the farmer sullenly. "You can do as you like with her of course; but I'm not going to be off my bargain with Buckle whatever you do." He shook his reins and jogged slowly away to another part of the field, while Peter fell steadily to work again with his pitchfork. Lilac was packing the things that had been used into her basket, and glanced at him now and then with her thoughts full of what she had just heard. Her opinion of Peter had changed very much lately. She had found, since her first conversation with him, that in many things he was not stupid but wise. He knew for instance a great deal about all the animals on the farm, their ways and habits, and how to treat them when they were ill. There were some matters to be sure in which he was laughably simple, and might be deceived by a child, but there were others on which everyone valued his opinion. His father certainly deferred to him in anything connected with the live stock, and when Peter had discovered a grave defect in the colt he did not dream of disputing it. So Lilac's feeling of pity began to change into something like respect, and she was sure too that Peter was anxious to show her kindness, though the expression of it was difficult to him. Since the day when he had gone away from her so suddenly, frightened by her tears, they had had several talks together, although the speech was mostly on Lilac's side. She shrank from him no longer, and sometimes when the real Peter came up from the depths where he lay hidden, and showed a glimpse of himself through the dull mask, she thought him scarcely ugly. Would he sell None-so-pretty? She knew what it would cost him, for since Ben's history she had observed the close affection between them. There were not so many people fond of Peter that he could afford to lose even the love of a cow--and yet he would rather do it than let the colt be sold! As she turned this over in her mind Lilac lingered over her preparations, and when Peter came near her tossing the hay to right and left with his strong arms, she looked up at him and said: "I'm sorry about None-so-pretty." Peter stopped a moment, took off his straw hat and rubbed his hot red face with his handkerchief. "Thank yer," he answered; "so am I." "Is it _certain sure_ you'll sell her?" asked Lilac. Peter nodded. "She'll have a good home yonder," he said; "a rare fuss they'll make with her." "She'll miss you though," said Lilac, shaking her head. "Well," answered Peter, "I shouldn't wonder if she did look out for me a bit just at first. I've always been foolish over her since she was ill." "But if Uncle sells the colt I s'pose you won't sell her, will you?" continued Lilac. "He _won't_ sell him," was Peter's decided answer, as he turned to his work again. Now, nothing could have been more determined than Mr Greenways' manner as he rode away, but yet when Lilac heard Peter speak so firmly she felt he must be right. The colt would not be sold and None-so-pretty would have to go in his place. She returned to the farm more than ever impressed by Peter's power. Quiet, dull Peter who seemed hardly able to put two sentences together, and had never an answer ready for his sisters' sharp speeches. That evening when Bella and Agnetta returned from Lenham, Lilac was at the gate. She had been watching for them eagerly, for she was anxious to hear all about the grand things they had seen, and hoped they would be inclined to talk about it. As they were saying goodbye to Mr Buckle with a great many smiles and giggles, the farmer came out. "Stop a bit, Buckle," he said, "I want a word with you about the colt. I've changed my mind since the morning." Lilac heard no more as she followed her cousins into the house; but there was no need. Peter had been right. During supper nothing was spoken of but the fete--the balloon, the band, the fireworks, and the dresses, Charlotte Smith's in particular. Lilac was intensely interested, and it was trying after the meal was over to have to help Molly in taking away the dishes, and lose so much of the conversation. This business over she drew near Agnetta and made an attempt to learn more, but in vain. Agnetta was in her loftiest mood, and though she was full of private jokes with Bella, she turned away coldly from her cousin. They had evidently some subject of the deepest importance to talk of which needed constant whispers, titters from Bella, and even playful slaps now and then. Lilac could hear nothing but "He says--She says," and then a burst of laughter, and "go along with yer nonsense." It was dull to be left out of it all, and she wished more than ever that she had gone to the fete too. "Lilac," said her aunt, "just run and fetch your uncle's slippers." She was already on her way when the farmer took his pipe out of his mouth and looked round. He had been moody and cross all supper-time, and now he glanced angrily at his two daughters as they sat whispering in the corner. "It's someone else's turn to run, it seems to me," he said; "Lilac's been at it all day. You go, Agnetta." And as Agnetta left the room with an injured shrug, he continued: "Seems too as if Lilac had all the work and none of the fun. You'd like an outing as well as any of 'em--wouldn't you, my maid?" Lilac did not know what to make of such unexpected kindness. As a rule her uncle seemed hardly to know that she was in the house. She did not answer, for she was very much afraid of him, but she looked appealingly at her aunt. "I'm sure, Greenways," said the latter in an offended tone, "you needn't talk as if the child was put upon. And your own niece, and an orphan besides. I know my duty better. And as for holidays and fetes and such, 'tisn't nateral to suppose as how Lilac would want to go to 'em after the judgment as happened to her directly after the last one. Leastways, not yet awhile. There'd be something ondacent in it, to my thinking." "Well, there! it doesn't need so much talking," replied the farmer. "I'm not wanting her to go to fetes. But there's Mr Snell--he was asking for her yesterday when I met him. Let her go tomorrow and spend the day with him." "If there is a busier day than another, it's Thursday," said Mrs Greenways fretfully. "Why, as to that, she's only a child, and makes no differ in the house, as you always say," remarked the farmer; "anyhow, I mean her to go to-morrow, and that's all about it." Lilac went to bed that night with a heart full of gratitude for her uncle's kindness, and delight at the promised visit; but her last thought before she slept was: "I'm sorry as how None-so-pretty has got to be sold." CHAPTER NINE. COMMON THINGS. "...Find out men's wants and will And meet them there, all earthly joys grow less To the one joy of doing kindnesses." _George Herbert_. Lilac could hardly believe her own good fortune when nothing happened the next morning to prevent her visit, not even a cross word nor a complaint from her aunt, who seemed to have forgotten her objections of last night and to be quite pleased that she should go. Mrs Greenways put a small basket into her hand before she started, into which she had packed a chicken, a pot of honey, and a pat of fresh butter. "There," she said, "that's a little something from Orchards Farm, tell him. The chick's our own rearing, and the honey's from Peter's bees, and the butter's fresh this morning." She nodded and smiled good-naturedly; Joshua should see there was no stint at the farm. "Be back afore dusk," she called after Lilac as she watched her from the gate. So there was nothing to spoil the holiday or to damp Lilac's enjoyment in any way, and she felt almost as merry as she used to be before she came to live in the valley, and had begun to have cares and troubles. For one whole day she was going to be White Lilac again, with no anxieties about the butter; she would hear no peevish voices or wrangling disputes, she would have kindness and smiles and sunshine all round her, and the blue sky above. In this happy mood everything along the well-known road had new beauties, and when she turned up the hill and felt the keener air blow against her face, it was like the greeting of an old friend. The very flowers in the tall overgrown hedges were different to those which grew in the valley, and much sweeter; she pulled sprays of them as she went along until she had a large straggling bunch to carry as well as her basket, and so at last entered Joshua's cottage with both hands full. "Now, Uncle Joshua," she said, when the first greetings over he had settled to his work again, "I've come to dinner with you, and I've brought it along with me, and until it's ready you're not to look once into the kitchen. You couldn't never guess what it is, so you needn't try; and you mustn't smell it more nor you can help while it's cooking." It was a proud moment for Lilac when, the fowl being roasted to a turn, the table nicely laid, and the bunch of flowers put exactly in the middle, she led the cobbler up to the feast. Even if Joshua had smelt the fowl he concealed it very well, and his whole face expressed the utmost astonishment, while Lilac watched him in an ecstasy of delight. "My word!" he exclaimed, "its fit for a king. I feel," looking down at his clothes, "as if I ought to have on my Sunday best." Lilac was almost too excited to eat anything herself, and presently, when she saw Joshua pause after his first mouthful, she enquired anxiously: "Isn't it good, Uncle?" "Fact is," he answered, "it's _too_ good. I don't really feel as how I ought to eat such dillicate food. Not being ill, or weak, or anyway picksome in my appetite." "I made sure you'd say that," said Lilac triumphantly; "and I just made up my mind I'd cook it without telling what it was. You've got to eat it now, Uncle Joshua. You couldn't never be so ungrateful as to let it spoil." "There's Mrs Wishing now," said Joshua, stilt hesitating, "a sickly ailing body as 'ud relish a morsel like this." It was not until Lilac had set his mind at rest by promising to take some of the fowl to Mrs Wishing before she returned, that he was able to abandon himself to thorough enjoyment. Lilac knew then by his silence that her little feast was heartily appreciated, and she would not disturb him by a word, although there were many things she wanted to say. But at last Joshua had finished. "A fatter fowl nor a finer, nor a better cooked one couldn't be," he said, as he laid down his knife and fork. "Not a bit o' dryness in the bird: juicy all through and as sweet as a nut." Ready now for a little conversation, he puffed thoughtfully at his pipe while Lilac stood near washing the dishes and plates. "It's thirty years ago," he said, speaking in a jerky voice so as not to interfere with the comfort of his pipe, "since I had a fowl for dinner-- and I mind very well when it was. It was my wedding-day. Away up in the north it was, and parson gave the feast." "Was that when you used to play the clar'net in church, Uncle?" asked Lilac. Joshua nodded. "We was a clar'net and a fiddle and a bass viol," he said reflectively. "Never kept time--the bass viol didn't. Couldn't never get it into his head. He wasn't never any shakes of a player--and he was a good feller too." "Did they play at your wedding?" asked Lilac. "They did that," he answered; "in church and likewise after the ceremony. Lor'! to hear how the bass viol did tag behind in _Rockingham_. I can hear him now. 'Twas like two solos being played, as one might say. No unity at all. I never hear that tune now but what it carries me back to my wedding-day and the bass viol; and the taste of that fowl's done the same thing. It's a most pecooliar thing, is the memory." Lilac liked to hear Joshua talk about old days, but she was eager too to tell her own news. There was so much that he did not know: all about hay-harvest, and her butter-making, about Lenham fete, and her cousins, and, finally, all about None-so-pretty and Peter. "I do think," she added, "as how I like him best of any of 'em, for all they say he's so common." "Common or uncommon, they'd do badly without him," muttered Joshua. "He's the very prop and pillar of the place, is Peter; if a wall's strong enough to hold the roof up, you don't ask if it's made of marble or stone." "Are common things bad things?" asked Lilac suddenly. Joshua took his pipe out of his mouth and looked at her in some surprise. "Common things--eh?" he repeated. "Yes, Uncle," said Lilac hesitatingly, and trying to think of how to make it clear. But she could only add: "They call the pigs common too." "Well, as to pigs," said Joshua, "I wish they was commoner still. I don't despise a bit of bacon myself. I call that a good thing anyhow. When one comes to look at it," he continued after a few puffs at his pipe, "the best things of all is common. The things as is under our feet and nigh to our hand and easy to be got. There's the flowers now-- the common ones which grow so low as any child can pick 'em in the fields, daisies and such. There's the blue sky as we can all see, poor as well as rich. There's rain and sunshine and air and a heap else as belongs to all alike, and which we couldn't do without. The common things is the best things, don't you make any mistake about that. There's your own name now--Lilac. It's a common bush lilac is; it grows every bit as well in a little bit of garden nigh the road as in a grand park, and it hasn't no rare colours to take the eye. And yet on a sunshiny day after rain the folks passing'll say, `Whatever is it as smells so beautiful?' Why it's just the common lilac bush. You ought to be like that in a manner of speaking--not to try and act clever and smart so as to make folks stare, but to be good-tempered and peaceful and loving, so as they say when you leave 'em, `What made the place so pleasant? Why, it was Lilac White. She ain't anything out of the common, but we miss her now she's gone--'" The frequent mention of her name reminded Lilac of something she wanted to say, and she broke in suddenly: "Why, I've never thought to thank you, Uncle, for all that bloom you got me on May Day. What a long way back it do seem!" Joshua looked perplexed. "What's the child talking on?" he said. "I didn't get no flowers." "Whoever in all the world could it a been then?" said Lilac slowly. "You're sure you haven't forgotten, Uncle Joshua?" "Sartain sure!" "You didn't ask no one to get it?" "Never mentioned a word to a livin' bein'." Lilac stared thoughtfully at the cobbler, who had now gone back to his little shed and was hard at work. "P'r'aps, then," she said, "'twarn't you neither who sent Mother's cactus down to the farm?" "Similarly," replied he, "it certainly was _not_; so you've got more friends than you reckoned for, you see." Lilac stood in the doorway, her bonnet dangling in one hand, her eyes fixed absently on Joshua's brown fingers. "I made sure," she said, "as how it was you. I couldn't think as there was anybody else to mind." It was getting late. Without looking at the clock she knew that her holiday would soon be over, because through Joshua's little window there came a bright sun beam which was never there till after five. She tied on her bonnet, prepared a choice morsel of chicken for Mrs Wishing, and set out on her further journey after a short farewell to the cobbler. Joshua never liked saying goodbye, and did it so gruffly that it might have sounded sulky to the ear of a stranger, but Lilac knew better. She had a "goodish step" before her, as she called it to herself, and if she were to get back to the farm before dusk she must make haste. So she hurried on, and soon in the distance appeared the two little white cottages side by side, perched on the edge of the steep down. The one in which she had lived with her mother was empty, and as she got close to it and stopped to look over the paling into the small strip of garden, she felt sorry to see how forlorn and deserted it looked. It had always been so trim and neat, and its white hearthstone and open door had invited the passer-by to enter. Now the window shutters were fastened, the door was locked, the straggling flowers and vegetables were mixed up with tall weeds and nettles--it was all lifeless and cold. It was a pity. Mother would not have liked to see it. Lilac pushed her hand through the palings and managed to pick some sweet-peas which were trailing themselves helplessly about for want of support, then she went on to the next gate. Poor Mrs Wishing was very lonely now that her only neighbour was gone; very few people passed over that way or came up so far from Danecross. Sometimes when Dan'l had a job on in the woods he was away for days and she saw no one at all, unless she was able to get to the cobbler's cottage, and that was seldom. Lilac knocked gently at the half-open door, and hearing no answer went in. Mrs Wishing was there, sitting asleep in a chair by the hearth with her head hanging uncomfortably on one side; her dress was untidy, her hair rough, and her face white and pinched. Lilac cast one glance at her and then looked round the room. There were some white ashes on the hearth, a kettle hanging over them by its chain, and at Mrs Wishing's elbow stood an earthenware teapot, from which came a faint sickly smell; and when Lilac saw that she nodded to herself, for she knew what it meant. The next moment the sleeper opened her large grey eyes and gazed vacantly at her visitor. "It's me," said Lilac. "It's Lilac White." Mrs Wishing still gazed without speaking; there was an unearthly flickering light in her eyes. At last she muttered indistinctly: "You're just like her." Not in the least alarmed or surprised at this condition, Lilac glanced at the teapot and said reproachfully: "You've been drinking poppy tea, and you promised Mother you wouldn't do it no more." Mrs Wishing struggled feebly against the drowsiness which overpowered her, and murmured apologetically: "I didn't go to do it, but it seemed as if I couldn't bear the pain." Lilac set down her basket, and opened the door of a cupboard near the chimney corner. "Where's your kindlin's?" she asked. "I'll make you a cup of real tea, and that'll waken you up a bit. And Uncle Joshua's sent you a morsel of chicken." "Ha'n't got no kindlin's and no tea," murmured Mrs Wishing. "Give me a drink o' water from the jug yonder." No tea! That was an unheard-of thing. As Lilac brought the water she said indignantly: "Where's Mr Wishing then? He hadn't ought to go and leave you like this without a bit or a drop in the house." Mrs Wishing seemed a little refreshed by the water and was able to speak more distinctly. She sat up in her chair and made a few listless attempts to fasten up her hair and put herself to rights. "'Tain't Dan'l's fault this time," she said; "he's up in the woods felling trees for a week. They're sleeping out till the job's done. He did leave me money, and I meant to go down to the shop. But then I took bad and I couldn't crawl so far, and nobody didn't pass." "And hadn't you got nothing in the house?" asked Lilac. "Only a crust a' bread, and I didn't seem to fancy it. I craved so for a cup a' tea. And I had some dried poppy heads by me. So I held out as long as I could, and nobody didn't come. And this morning I used my kindlin's and made the tea. And when I drank it I fell into a blessed sleep, and I saw lots of angels, and their harps was sounding beautiful in my head all the time. When I was a gal there was a hymn--it was about angels and golden crownds and harps, but I can't put it rightly together now. So then I woke and there was you, and I thought you was a sperrit. Seems a pity to wake up from a dream like that. But _I_ dunno." She let her head fall wearily back as she finished. Lilac was not in the least interested by the vision. She was accustomed to hear of Mrs Wishing's angels and harps, and her mind was now entirely occupied by earthly matters. "What you want is summat to eat and drink," she said, "and I shall just have to run back to Uncle Joshua's for some bread and tea. But first I'll get a few sticks and make you a blaze to keep you comp'ny." Mrs Wishing's eyes rested an her like those of a child who is being comforted and taken care of, as having collected a few sticks she knelt on the hearth and fanned them into a blaze with her pinafore. "You couldn't bide a little?" she said doubtfully, as Lilac turned towards the door. "I'll be back in no time," said Lilac, "and then you shall have a nice supper, and you mustn't take no more of this," pointing to the teapot. "You know you promised Mother." "I didn't _go to_," repeated Mrs Wishing submissively; "but it seemed as if I couldn't bear the gnawing in my inside." It did not take long for Lilac, filled with compassion for her old friend, to run back to the cobbler's cottage; but there she was delayed a little, for Joshua had questions to ask, although he was ready and eager to fill her basket with food. The return was slower, for it was all uphill and her burden made a difference to her speed, so that it was long past sunset when she reached Mrs Wishing for the second time. Then, after coaxing her to eat and drink, Lilac had to help her upstairs and put her to bed like a child, and finally to sit by her side and talk soothingly to her until she dropped into a deep sleep. Her duties over, and everything put ready to. Mrs Wishing's hand for the next morning, she now had time to notice that it was quite dusk, and that the first stars were twinkling in the sky. With a sudden start she remembered her aunt's words: "Be back afore dusk," and clasped her hands in dismay. It was no use to hurry now, for however quickly she went the farm would certainly be closed for the night before she reached it. Should she stay where she was till the morning? No, it would be better to take the chance of finding someone up to let her in. Mrs Wishing would be all right now that Joshua knew about her; "and anyway, I'm glad I came," said Lilac to herself, "even if Aunt does scold a bit." With this thought to console her, she stepped out into the cool summer night, and began her homeward journey. It was not very dark, for it was midsummer--near Saint Barnabas Day, when there is scarcely any night at all-- "Barnaby Bright All day and no night!" Lilac had often heard her mother say that rhyme, and she remembered it now. It was all very, very still, so that all manner of sounds too low to have been noticed amongst the noises of the day were now plainly to be heard. A soft wind went whispering and sighing to itself in the trees overhead, carrying with it the sweetness of the hayfields and the honeysuckle in the hedges, owls hooted mysteriously, and the frogs croaked in some distant pond. Creatures never seen in the daytime were now awake and busy. As Lilac ran along, the bats whirred close past her face, and she saw in the grass by the wayside the steady little light of the glow-worms. It was certainly very late; there was hardly a glimmer of hope that anyone would be up at the farm. It was equally certain that, if there were, a scolding waited for Lilac. Either way it was bad, she thought. She wanted to go to bed, for she was very tired, but she did not want to be scolded to-night; she could bear that better in the morning. When she reached the house, therefore, and found it all silent and dark, with no light in any window and no sound of any movement, she hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry. But presently, as she stood there forlornly, with only the sky overhead full of stars blinking their cold bright eyes at her, she began to long to creep in somewhere and rest. Her limbs ached, her head felt heavy, and her hard little bed seemed a luxury well worth the expense of a scolding. Should she venture to knock at the door? She had almost determined on this bold step, when quite suddenly a happy idea came to her. There would perhaps be some door open in the outbuildings, either in the loft or the barn or the stables, where she could get in and find shelter for the night. It was worth trying at any rate. With renewed hope she ran across the strawyard and tried the great iron ring in the stable door. It was not locked. Here were shelter and rest at last, and no one to scold! She crept in, and was just closing the heavy door when towards her, across the rickyard, came the figure of a man. His head was bent so that she could not see his face, but she thought from his lumbering walk that it must be Peter, and in a moment it flashed across her mind that he had just got back from Cuddingham. While she stood hesitating just within the door the man came quite close, and before she could call out the key rattled in the lock and heavy footsteps tramped away again. Then it was Peter. But surely he must have seen her, and if so why had he locked her in? Anyhow here she was for the night, and the next thing to do was to find a bed. She groped her way past the stalls of the three Pleasants, whose dwelling she had invaded, to the upright ladder which led to the loft. The horses were all lying down after their hard day's work, and only one of them turned his great head with a rattle of his halter, to see who this small intruder could be. Lilac clambered up the ladder and was soon in the dark fragrant-smelling loft above, where the trusses of hay and straw were mysteriously grouped under the low thick beams. There was no lack of a soft warm nest here, and the close neighbourhood of the Pleasants made it feel secure and friendly; nothing could possibly be better. She took off her shoes, curled herself up cosily in the hay, and shut her weary eyes. Presently she opened them drowsily again, and then discovered that her lodging was shared by a companion, for on the rafters just above her head, her single eye gleaming in the darkness, sat Peter's cat Tib. Lilac called to her, but she took no notice and did not move, having her own affairs to conduct at that time of night. Lilac watched her dreamily for a little while, and then her thoughts wandered on to Peter and became more and more confused. He got mixed up with Joshua, and the cactus and None-so-pretty and heaps of white flowers. "The common things are the best things," she seemed to hear over and over again. Then quite suddenly she was in Mrs Wishing's cottage, and the loft was filled with the heavy sickly smell of poppy tea: it was so strong that it made her feel giddy and her eyelids seemed pressed down by a firm hand. After that she remembered nothing more that night. CHAPTER TEN. THE CREDIT OF THE FARM. "Many littles make a mickle."--_Scotch Proverb_. She was awakened the next morning by trampling noises in the stable below, and starting up could not at first make out where she was. The sun was shining through a rift in the loft door, Tib was gone, cocks were crowing outside, all the world was up and busy. She could hear Ben's gruff voice and the clanking of chains and harness, and soon he and the three horses had left the stable and gone out to their day's work. It must be late, therefore, and she must lose no time in presenting herself at the house. Perhaps it might be possible, she thought, to get up to her attic without seeing anyone, and tidy herself a bit first; she should then have more courage to face her aunt, for at present with her rough hair and pieces of hay and straw clinging to her clothes, she felt like some little stray wanderer. She approached the house cautiously and peeped in at the back door before entering, to see who was in the kitchen. Bella was there talking to Molly, whose broad red face was thrust eagerly forward as though she were listening to something interesting. They were indeed so deeply engaged that Lilac felt sure they would not notice her, and she took courage and went in. "It's a mercy she wasn't killed," Molly was saying. "She's no light weight to fall, isn't the missus." "It's completely upset me," said Bella in a faint voice, with one hand on her heart. "I tremble all over still." "And to think," said Molly, "as it was only yesterday I said to myself, `I'll darn that carpet before I'm an hour older'." "Well, it's a pity you didn't," said Bella sharply; "just like your careless ways." Molly shook her head. "'Twasn't to _be_," she said. "'Twasn't for nothing that I spilt the salt twice, and dreamt of water." "The doctor says it's a bad sprain," continued Bella; "and it's likely she'll be laid up for a month. Perfect rest's the only thing." "_I_ had a cousin," said Molly triumphantly, "what had a similar accident. A heavy woman she was, like the missus in build. Information set in with _her_ and she died almost immediate." Lilac did not wait to hear more; she made her escape safely to her attic, and soon afterwards found Agnetta and learnt from her the history of the accident. Mrs Greenways had had a bad fall; she had caught her foot in a hole in the carpet and twisted her ankle, and the doctor said it was a wonder she had not broken any bones. Everyone in the house had so much to say, and was so excited about this misfortune, that Lilac's little adventure was passed over without notice, and the scolding she had dreaded did not come at all. Poor Mrs Greenways had other things to think of as she lay groaning on the sofa, partly with pain and partly at the prospect before her. To be laid up a month! It was easy for the doctor to talk, but what would become of things? Who would look after Molly? Who would see to the dairy? It would all go to rack and ruin, and she must lie here idle and look on. Her husband stood by trying to give comfort, but every word he said only seemed to make matters worse. "Why, there's Bella now," he suggested; "she ought to be able to take your place for a bit." "And that just shows how much you know about the indoors work, Greenways," said his wife fretfully; "to talk of Bella! Why, I'd as soon trust the dairy to Peter's cat as Bella--partikler now she's got that young Buckle in her head. She don't know cream from buttermilk." "Why, then, you must just leave the butter to Molly as usual, and let the girls see after the rest," said Mr Greenways soothingly. "Oh, it's no use talking like that," said his wife impatiently; "it's only aggravating to hear you. I suppose you think things are done in the house without heads or hands either. Girls indeed! There's Agnetta, knows no more nor a baby, and only that little bit of a Lilac as can put her hand to anything." Finding his efforts useless, Mr Greenways shrugged his shoulders and went out, leaving his wife alone with her perplexities. The more she thought them over the worse they seemed. To whom could she trust whilst she was helpless? Who would see that the butter was ready and fit for market? Not Bella, not Agnetta, and certainly not Molly. Really and truly there was only that little bit of a Lilac, as she called her, to depend on--she would do her work just as well whether she were overlooked or not, Mrs Greenways felt sure. It was no use to shut her eyes to it any longer, Lilac White was not a burden but a support, not useless but valuable, only a child, but more dependable than many people of twice her years. It was bitter to poor Mrs Greenways to acknowledge this, even to herself, for the old jealousy was still strong within her. "I s'pose," she said with a groan, "there was something in Mary White's upbringing after all. I'm not agoin' to own up to it, though, afore other folks." When a little later Lilac was told that her aunt wanted her, she thought that the scolding had come at last, and went prepared to bear it as well as she could. It was, however, for a surprisingly different purpose. "Look here, Lilac," said Mrs Greenways carelessly, "you've been a good deal in the dairy lately, and you ought to have picked up a lot about it." "I can make the butter all myself, Aunt," replied Lilac, "without Molly touching it." "Well, I hope you're thankful for such a chance of learning," said Mrs Greenways; "not but what you're a good child enough, I've nothing to say against you. But what I want to say is this: Molly can't do everything while I'm laid by, and I think I shall take her from the dairy-work altogether, and let you do it." Lilac's eyes shone with delight. Her aunt spoke as though she were bestowing a favour, and she felt it indeed to be such. "Oh! thank you, Aunt," she cried. "I'm quite sure as how I can do it, and I like it ever so much." "With Agnetta to help you I dessay you'll get through with it," said Mrs Greenways graciously, and so the matter was settled. Lilac was dairymaid! No longer a little household drudge, called hither and thither to do everyone's work, but an important person with a business and position of her own. What an honour it was! There was only one drawback--there was no mother to rejoice with her, or to understand how glad she felt about it. Lilac was obliged to keep her exultation to herself. She would have liked to tell Peter of her advancement, but just now he was at work on some distant part of the farm, and she saw him very seldom, for her new office kept her more within doors than usual. The good-natured Molly was, however, delighted with the change, and full of wonder at Lilac's cleverness. "It's really wonderful," she said; "and what beats me is that it allus turns out the same." With this praise Lilac had to be content, and she busied herself earnestly in her own little corner with increasing pride in her work. Sometimes, it is true, she looked enviously at Agnetta, who seemed to have nothing to do but enjoy herself after her own fashion. Since Lenham fete Bella and she had had some confidential joke together, which they carried on by meaning nods and winks and mysterious references to "Charlie." They were also more than ever engaged in altering their dresses and trimming their hats, and although Lilac was kept completely outside all this, she soon began to connect it with the visits of young Mr Buckle. She thought it a little unkind of Agnetta not to let her into the secret, and it was dull work to hear so much laughter going on without ever joining in it; but very soon she knew what it all meant. "Heard the news?" cried Agnetta, rushing into the dairy, then, without waiting for an answer, "Bella's goin' to get married. Guess who to?" "Young Mr Buckle," said Lilac without a moment's hesitation. "As soon as ever Ma's about again the wedding's to be," said Agnetta exultingly. "I'm to be bridesmaid, and p'r'aps Charlotte Smith as well." Lilac, who had stopped her scrubbing to listen, now went on with it, and Agnetta looked down at her kneeling figure with some contempt. "What a lot of trouble you take over it!" she said. "Molly used to do it in half the time." "If I ain't careful," answered Lilac, "the butter'd get a taste." "I'll help you a bit," said her cousin condescendingly. "I'll rinse these pans for you." Lilac was glad to have Agnetta's company, for she wanted to hear all about Bella's wedding; but Agnetta's help she was not so anxious for, because she usually had to do the work all over again. Agnetta's idea of excellence was to get through her work quickly, to make it look well outside, to polish the part that showed and leave the rest undone. Speed and show had always been the things desired in the household at Orchards Farm--not what _was_ good but what _looked_ good, and could be had at small expense and labour. Beneath the smart clothing which Mrs Greenways and her daughters displayed on Sundays, strange discoveries might have been made. Rents fastened up with pins, stains hidden by stylish scarves and mantles, stockings unmended, boots trodden down or in holes. A feather in the hat, a bangle on the arm, and a bunched-up dress made up for these deficiencies. "If it don't show it don't matter," Bella was accustomed to say. Agnetta paused to rest after about two minutes. "Bella won't have nothing of this sort to do after she's married," she said. "Charlie says she needn't stir a finger, not unless she likes. She'll be able to sit with her hands before her just like a lady." "I shouldn't care about being a lady if that's what I had to do," said Lilac. "I should think it would be dull. I'd rather see after the farm, if I was Bella." "You don't mean to tell me you _like work_?" said Agnetta, staring. "You wouldn't do it, not if you weren't obliged? 'Tain't natural." "I like some," said Lilac. "I like the dairy work and I like feeding the poultry. And I want to learn to milk, if Ben'll teach me. And in the spring I mean to try and get ever such a lot of early ducks." "Well, I hate all that," said Agnetta. "Now, if I could choose I wouldn't live on a farm at all. I'd have lots of servants, and silk gownds and gold bracelets and broaches, and satting furniture, and a carridge to drive in every day. An' I'd lie in bed ever so late in the mornings and always do what I liked." Time went on and Mrs Greenway's ankle got better, so that although still lame she was able to hobble about with a stick, and find out Molly's shortcomings much as usual. During her illness she had relied a good deal on Lilac and softened in her manner towards her, but now the old feeling of jealousy came back, and she found it impossible to praise her for the excellence of the dairy-work. "I can't somehow bring my tongue to it," she said to herself; "and the better she behaves the less I can do it." One day the farmer came back from Lenham in a good humour. "Benson asked if we'd got a new dairymaid," he said to his wife; "the butter's always good now. Which of 'em does it?" "Oh," said Mrs Greenways carelessly, "the girls manage it between 'em, and I look it over afore it goes." Lilac heard it, for she had come into the room unnoticed, and for a second she stood still, uncertain whether to speak, fixing a reproachful gaze on her aunt. What a shame it was! Was this her reward for all her patience and hard work? Never a word of praise, never even the credit of what she did! On her lips were some eager angry words, but she did not utter them. She turned and ran upstairs to her own little attic. Her heart was full; she could see no reason for this injustice: it was very, very hard. What would they do, she went on to think, if she left the butter to Bella and Agnetta to manage between them? What would her aunt say then? Trembling with indignation she sat down on her bed and buried her face in her hands. At first she was too angry to cry, but soon she felt so lonely, with such a great longing for a word of comfort and kindness, that the tears came fast. After that she felt a little better, rubbed her eyes on her pinafore, and looked up at the small window through which there streamed some bright rays of the afternoon sun. What was it that lighted the room with such a glory? Not the sunshine alone. It rested on something in the window, which stood out in gorgeous splendour from the white bareness of its surroundings--the cactus had bloomed! Yes, the cactus had really burst into two blossoms, of such size and brilliancy that with the sunlight upon them they were positively dazzling to behold. Lilac sat and blinked her red eyes at them in admiration and wonder. She had watched the two buds with tender interest, and feared they would never unfold themselves. Now they had done it, and how beautiful they were! How Mother would have liked them! Her next thought was, as she went closer to examine them, that she must tell Peter. She remembered now, that, occupied with her own affairs and interests, she had never thanked him for two kind things he had done. She was quite sure that he had got the flowers for her on May Day, and had brought the cactus down from the cottage, yet she had said nothing. How ungrateful she had been! She knew now how hard it was not to be thanked for one's services. Did Peter mind? He must be pretty well used to it, for certainly no one ever thanked him for anything, and as for praise that was out of the question. If, as Uncle Joshua had said, he was the prop of the house, it was taken for granted, and no one thought of saying, "Well done, Peter!" Yet he never complained. He went patiently on in his dull way, keeping his pains and troubles to himself. How seldom his face was brightened by pleasure, and yet Lilac remembered when he had been talking to her about his animals or farming matters, that she had seen it change wonderfully. Some inner feeling had beamed out from it, and for a few minutes Peter was a different creature. It was a pity that he did not always look like that; no one at such times could call him stupid or ugly. "Anyway," concluded Lilac, "he's been kind, and I'll thank him as soon as ever I can." Her sympathy for Peter made her own trouble seem less, and she went downstairs cheerfully with her mind bent on managing a little talk with him as soon as possible. Supper-time would not do, because Bella and Agnetta were there, and afterwards Peter was so sleepy. It must be to-morrow. As it happened things turned out fortunately for Lilac, and required no effort on her part, for Mrs Greenways discovered the next day that someone must do some shopping in Lenham. There were things wanted that Dimbleby did not keep, and the choice of which could not be trusted to a man. "I wonder," she said, "if I could make shift to get into the cart--but if I did I couldn't never get in and out at the shops." She looked appealingly at her elder daughter. "The cart's _going_ in with the butter," she added. But Bella was not inclined to take the hint. "You don't catch me driving into Lenham with the cart full of butter and eggs and such," she said. "Whatever'd Charlie say? Why shouldn't Lilac go? She's sharp enough." There seemed no reason against this, and it was accordingly settled that Lilac should be entrusted with Mrs Greenways' commissions. As she received them, her mind was so full of the dazzling prospect of driving into Lenham with the butter that it was almost impossible to bring it to bear on anything else. It would be like going into the world. Only once in her whole life had she been there before, and that was when her mother had taken her long ago. She was quite a little child then, but she remembered the look of it still, and what a grand place she had thought it, with its broad market square and shops and so many people about. When her aunt had finished her list, which was a very long one, Bella was ready with her wants, which were even more puzzling. "I want this ribbon matched," she said, "and I want a bonnet shape. It mustn't be too high in the crown nor yet too broad in the brim, and it mustn't be like the one Charlotte Smith's got now. If you can't match the ribbon exactly you must get me another shade. A kind of a sap green, I think--but it must be something uncommon. And you might ask at Jones's what's being worn in hats now--feathers or artificials. Oh, and I want some cream lace, not more than sixpence a yard, a good striking pattern, and as deep as you can get for the money." Agnetta having added to this two ounces of coconut rock and a threepenny bottle of scent, Lilac was allowed to get ready for her expedition. The cart was waiting in the yard with the baskets packed in at the back, and Ben was buckling the last strap of the harness. She expected that he was going with her, and it was quite a pleasant surprise when Peter came out of the house with a whip in his hand and took the reins. Nothing could have happened more fortunately, she thought to herself as they drove out of the gate, for now there would be no difficulty at all in saying what she had on her mind. This and the excitement of the journey itself put her in excellent spirits, so that though some people might have called the road to Lenham dull and flat, it was full of charms to Lilac. It was indeed more lively than usual, for it was market day, and as they jogged along at an easy pace they were constantly greeted by acquaintances all bent in the same direction. Some of these were on foot and others in all kinds of vehicles, from a wagon to a donkey cart. Mr Buckle presently dashed by them in a smart gig, and called out, "How's yourself, Peter?" as he passed; and farther on they overtook Mrs Pinhorn actively striding along in her well-known checked shawl. Peter answered all greetings in the same manner--a wag of the head towards the right shoulder--but Lilac felt so proud and pleased to be going to Lenham with her own butter that she sat up very straight, and smiled and nodded heartily to those she knew. It seemed a wonderfully short journey, and she saw the spire of Lenham church in the distance before she had said one word to Peter, or he had broken silence except to speak to his horse. This did not disturb her, for she was used to his ways now, and she made up her mind that she would put off any attempt at conversation until their return. And here they were at Lenham, rattling over the round stones with which the marketplace was paved. It was full of stalls, crowded together so closely that there was scarcely room for all the people passing up and down between them. They struggled along, jostling each other, pushing their way with great baskets on their arms, and making a confusion of noises. Scolding, laughter, shouting filled the air, mixed up with the clatter of crockery, cracking of whips, and the shrill cries of the market women. Such a turmoil Lilac had never heard, and it was almost a relief when Peter turned a little away from it and drew up at the door of Benson's shop, where the butter was to be left. It was a large and important shop, and though the entrance was down a narrow street it had two great windows facing the market square, and there was a constant stream of people bustling in and out. Lilac's heart beat fast with excitement. If she had known that the butter was to be displayed in such a grand beautiful place as this, and seen by so many folks, she would hardly have dared to undertake it. Sudden fear seized her that it might not be so good as usual this time: there was perhaps some fault in the making-up, some failure in the colour, although she had thought it looked all right when she packed up at the farm. She followed Peter into the shop with quite a tremor, and was glad when she saw Mr Benson could not attend to them just yet, for he and his boy were both deeply engaged in attending to customers. Lilac had plenty of time to look round her. Her eye immediately fell on some rolls of butter on the counter, and she lifted a corner of the cloth which covered her own and gave an anxious peep at it, then nudged Peter and looked up at him for sympathy. "It's a better colour nor that yonder," she whispered. Peter stood stolidly unconscious of her excitement, but he turned his quiet eyes upon the eager face lifted to his, and nodded kindly. Mr Benson caught sight of him and bustled up. "Morning, Peter," he said briskly. "How's your mother?" "Middling, thank you," said Peter, and without any further words he pointed at the basket on the counter. "Butter--eh?" said the grocer. "Well, I hope it's as good as the last." He unpacked the basket and proceeded to weigh the butter, talking all the time. "It's an odd thing to me how your butter varies. Now, the last month it's been as good again as it used to be. Of course in the winter there will be a difference because of the feed, I can understand that; but I can't see why it shouldn't be always the same in the summer. I don't mind telling you," he continued, leaning forward and speaking in a confidential tone, "that I'd made up my mind at one time to give it up. People won't buy inferior butter, and I don't blame 'em." "It's good this time, anyhow," said Peter. "It's prime," said Mr Benson. "Is it the cows now, that you've got new, or is it the dairymaid?" "The cows isn't new, nor yet the dairymaid," said Peter. "Well, whichever it is," said the grocer, "the credit of the farm's coming back. Orchards Farm always had a name for its dairy in the old days. I remember my father talking of it when I was a boy." Mrs Pinhorn, who had been standing near during this conversation, now struck sharply in: "They _do_ say there was a brownie at the farm in those days, but when it got into other hands he was angered and quitted." "That's a curious superstition, ma'am," said the grocer politely. "There's folks in Danecross who give credit to it still," continued Mrs Pinhorn. "Old Grannie Dunch'll tell you ever so many tales about the brownie and his goings-on." "Well, if we didn't live, so to say, within the pale of civilisation," said the grocer, sticking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, "we might think you'd got him back again at the farm. What do you say to that, Peter?" Everyone knew that Peter believed in all sorts of crazy things, and when Mr Benson put this jocular question to him several people turned to see how he took it. Lilac looked eagerly up at him also, for she had a faint hope that he might somehow know that she was dairymaid, and would tell them so. That would be a triumph indeed. At any rate he would stop all this silly talk about the brownie. She had heard Grannie Dunch's stories scores of times, and they were very interesting, but as to believing them--Lilac felt far above such folly, and held them all in equal contempt, whether they were of charms, ghosts, brownies, or other spirits. It was therefore with dismay that she saw Peter's face get redder and redder under the general gaze, and heard him instead of speaking up only mutter, "I don't know nothing about it." Moved by indignation at such foolishness, and at the mocking expression an Mr Benson's round face, she ventured to give Peter's sleeve a sharp pull. No more words came, he only shuffled his feet uneasily and showed an evident desire to get out of the shop. "Well, well," said the grocer, turning his attention to some money he was counting out of a drawer, "never you mind, Peter. If you've got him you'd better keep him, for he knows how to make good butter at any rate." Everyone laughed, as they always did at Mr Benson's speeches, and in the midst of it Peter gathered up his money and left the shop with Lilac. She felt so ruffled and vexed by what had passed, that she could hardly attend to his directions as he pointed out the different shops she had to go to. They were an ironmonger's, a linendraper's, and a china shop, and in the last he told her she must wait until he came to fetch her with the cart in about an hour's time. Lilac stood for a moment looking after him as he drove away to put up his horse at the inn. She was angry with Mr Benson, angry with the people who had laughed, and angry with Peter. No wonder folks thought him half-silly when he looked like that. And yet he knew twice as much as all of 'em put together. Only that morning when Sober had cut his foot badly with broken glass, it was Peter with his clumsy-looking gentle fingers who had known how to stop the bleeding and bind up the wound in the best way. But in spite of all this he could stand like a gaby and let folks make a laughing-stock of him? It was so provoking to remember how silly he had looked, that it was only by a determined effort that Lilac could get it out of her head, and bend her attention on Bella's ribbons and her aunt's pots and pans. When she had once began her shopping, however, she found it took all her thoughts, and it was not till she was seated in the china shop, her business finished, and her parcels disposed round her, that the scene came back to her again. Could it be possible that Peter put any faith in such nonsensical tales? Grannie Dunch believed them; but then she was very ignorant, over ninety years old, and had never been to school. When Grannie Dunch was young perhaps folks did believe such things, and she had never been taught better; there were excuses for her. On one point Lilac was determined. Peter's mind should be cleared up as to who made the butter. What had Mr Benson said about it? "The credit of the farm's coming back." She repeated the words to herself in a whisper. What a grand thing if she, Lilac White, had helped to bring back the credit of the farm! At this point in her reflections the white horse appeared at the door, and Lilac and all her belongings were lifted up into the cart. Very soon they were out of the noisy stony streets of Lenham, and on the quiet country road again. She took a side glance at her companion. He looked undisturbed, with his eyes fixed placidly on the horse's ears, and had evidently nothing more on his mind than to sit quietly there until they reached home. It made Lilac feel quite cross, and she gave him a sharp little nudge with her elbow to make him attend to what she had to say. "Why ever did you let 'em go on so silly about the brownie?" she said. "You looked for all the world as if you believed in it." Peter flicked his horse thoughtfully. "There's a many cur'ous things in the world," he said; "cur'ouser than that." "There ain't no such things as brownies, though," said Lilac, with decision; "nor yet ghosts, nor yet witches, nor yet any of them things as Grannie Dunch tells about." Peter was silent. "_Is_ there?" she repeated with another nudge of the elbow. "I don't says as there is," he answered slowly. "Of course not!" exclaimed Lilac triumphantly. "And I don't say as there isn't," finished Peter in exactly the same voice. This unexpected conclusion quite took Lilac's breath away. She stared speechlessly at her cousin, and he presently went on in a reflective tone with his eyes still fixed on the horse's ears: "It's been a wonderful lucky year, there's no denying. Hay turned out well, corn's going to be good. More eggs, more milk, better butter, bees swarmed early." "But," put in Lilac, "Aunt sprained her ankle, and the colt went lame, and you had to sell None-so-pretty. That wasn't lucky. Why didn't the brownie hinder that?" Peter shook his head. "I don't say as there _is_ a brownie at the farm," he said. "But you think he helps make the butter," said Lilac scornfully. Peter turned his eyes upon his companion; her face was hidden from him by her sunbonnet, but her slender form and the sound of her voice seemed both to quiver with indignation and contempt. "Well, then, who _does_?" he asked. But Lilac only held her head up higher and kept a dignified silence; she was thoroughly put out with Peter, and if he was so silly it really was no use to talk to him. Conscious that he was in disgrace, Peter fidgeted uneasily with his reins, whipped his horse, and cast some almost frightened glances over his shoulder at the silent little figure beside him, then he coughed several times, and finally, with an effort which seemed to make his face broader and redder every minute, began to speak: "I'd sooner plough a field than talk any day, but but I'll tell you something if I can put it together. Words is so hard to frame, so as to say what you mean. Maybe you'll only think me stupider after I'm done, but this is how it was--" He stopped short, and Lilac said gently and encouragingly, "How was it, Peter?" "I've had a sort of a queer feeling lately that there's something different at the farm. Something that runs through everything, as you might say. The beasts do their work as well again, and the sun shines brighter, and the flowers bloom prettier, and there's a kind of a pleasantness about the place. I can't set it down to anything, any more than I know why the sky's blue, but it's there all the same. So I thought over it a deal, and one day I was up in the High field, and all of a sudden it rapped into my head what Grannie Dunch says about the brownie as used to work at the farm. `Maybe,' I says to myself, `he's come back.' So I didn't say nothing, but I took notice, and things went on getting better, and I got to feel there was someone there helping on the work--but I wasn't not to say _certain_ sure it was the brownie, till one night--" "When?" said Lilac eagerly as Peter paused. "It was last Saint Barnaby's, and I'd been up to Cuddingham with None-so-pretty. It was late when I got back, and I remembered I hadn't locked the stable door, and I went across the yard to do it--" "Well?" said Lilac with breathless interest. "So as I went, it was most as light as day, and I saw as plain as could be something flit in at the stable door. 'Twasn't so big as a man, nor so small as a boy, and its head was white. So then I thought, `Surely 'tis the brownie, for night's his working time,' and I'd half a mind to take a peep and see him at it. But they say if you look him in the face he'll quit, so I just locked the door and left him there. When Benson talked that way about the credit of the farm, I knew who we'd got to thank. Howsomever," added Peter seriously, "you mustn't thank him, nor yet pay him, else he'll spite you instead of working for you." As he finished his story he turned to his cousin a face beaming with the most childlike faith; but it suddenly clouded with disappointment, for Lilac, no longer gravely attentive, was laughing heartily. "I thought maybe you'd laugh at me," he said, turning his head away ashamed. Lilac checked her laughter. "Here's a riddle," she said. "The brownie you locked into the stable that night always makes the butter. He isn't never thanked nor yet paid, but you've looked him in the face scores of times." Peter gazed blankly at her. "You're doing of it now!" she cried with a chuckle of delight; "you're looking at the brownie now! Why, you great goose, it's me as has made the butter this ever so long, and it was me as was in the stable on Saint Barnaby's!" It was only by very slow degrees that Peter could turn his mind from the brownie, on whom it had been fixed for weeks past, to take in this new and astonishing idea. Even when Lilac had told her story many times, and explained every detail of how she had learnt to be dairymaid, he broke out again: "But how _could_ you do it? You didn't know before you came, and there's Bella and Agnetta was born on the farm, and doesn't know now. Wonderful quick you must be, surely. And so little as you are--and quiet," he went on, staring at his cousin. "You don't make no more clatter nor fuss than a field-mouse." "'Tisn't only noisy big things as is useful," said Lilac with some pride. "It's harder to believe than the brownie," went on Peter, shaking his head; "a deal more cur'ous. I thought I had got hold of him, but I don't seem to understand this at all." He fell into deep thought, shaking his head at intervals, and it was not until the farm was in sight that he broke silence again. "The smallest person in the farm," he said slowly, "has brought back the credit of the farm. It's downright amazing. I'm not agoin' to say `thank you,' though," he added with a smile as they drove in at the gate. A sudden thought flashed into Lilac's mind. "Oh, Peter," she cried, "the flowers was lovely on May Day, and the cactus is blooming beautiful! Was it the brownie as sent 'em, do you think?" Peter made no reply to this, and his face was hidden, for he was plunging down to collect the parcels in the back of the cart. Lilac laughed as she ran into the house. What a funny one he was surely, and what a fine day's holiday she had been having! CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE CONCERT. "But I will wear my own brown gown And never look too fine." Months came and went. August turned his beaming yellow face on the waving cornfields, and passed on leaving them shorn and bare. Then came September bending under his weight of apples and pears, and after him October, who took away the green mantle the woods had worn all the summer, and gave them one of scarlet and gold. He spread on the ground, too, a gorgeous carpet of crimson leaves, which covered the hillside with splendour so that it glowed in the distance like fire. Here and there the naked branches of the trees began to show sharply against the sky--soon it would be winter. Already it was so cold, that although it was earlier than usual Miss Ellen said they must begin to think of warming the church, and to do this they must have some money, and therefore the yearly village concert must be arranged. "It was the new curate as come to me about it," said the cobbler to Mr Dimbleby one evening. "`You must give us a solo on the clar'net, Mr Snell,' says he." "He's a civil-spoken young feller enough," remarked Mr Dimbleby, "but he's too much of a boy to please me. The last was the man for my money." "Time'll mend that," said Joshua. "And what I like about him is that he don't bear no sort of malice when he's worsted in argeyment. We'd been differing over a passage of Scripture t'other day, and when he got up to go, `Ah, Mr Snell,' says he, `you've a deal to learn.' `And so have you, young man,' says I. Bless you, he took it as pleasant as could be, and I've liked him ever since." He turned to Bella Greenways, who had just entered. "And what's _your_ place in the programme, Miss Greenways?" Bella always avoided speaking to the cobbler if she could, for while she despised him as a "low" person, she feared his opinion, and knew that he disapproved of her. She now put on her most mincing air as she replied: "Agnetta and me's to play a duet, the `Edinburgh Quadrilles,' and Mr Buckle accompanies on the drum and triangle." "Why, you'd better fall in too with the clar'net, Mr Snell," suggested Mr Dimbleby. "That'd make a fine thing of it with four instruments." Joshua shook his head solemnly. "Mine's a solo," he said. "A sacred one: `Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea.' That'll give a variety." "Mr Buckle's going to recite a beautiful thing," put in Bella: "`The Dream of Eugene Aram'. He's been practising it ever so long. He's going to do it with action." "I don't know as I can make much of that reciting," said Joshua doubtfully. "Now a good tune, or a song, or a bit of reading, I can take hold of and carry along, but it's poor sport to see a man twist hisself, and make mouths, and point about at nothing at all. I remember the first time the curate did it. He stares straight at me for a second, and then he shakes his fist and shouts out suddenly: `Wretch!' or `Villain!' or summat of that sort. I was so taken aback I nearly got up and went out. Downright uncomfortable I was." "It's all the fashion now. But of course," said Bella disdainfully, "it isn't everybody as is used to it. I'm sure it's beautiful to hear Charlie! It makes your blood run cold. There's a part where he has to speak it in a sort of a hissing whisper. He's afraid the back seats won't hear." "And a good thing for 'em," muttered Joshua. "It's bad enough to see a man make a fool of hisself without having to hear him as well." "But after all," continued Bella, without noticing this remark, "it's only the gentry as matter much, and they'll be in the two front rows. Mrs Leigh's going to bring some friends." "And what's Lilac White going to do?" said Joshua, turning round with sudden sharpness. "She used to sing the prettiest of 'em all at school." "Oh, I dare say she'll sing in the part songs with the other children," said Bella carelessly. "They haven't asked her for a solo." But although this was the case Lilac felt quite as interested and pleased as though she were to be the chief performer at the concert. When the programme was discussed at the farm, which was very often, she listened eagerly, and was delighted to find that Mrs Leigh wished her to sing in two glees which she had learnt at school. The concert would be unusually good this year, everyone said, and each performer felt as anxious about his or her part as if its success depended on that alone. Mr Buckle, next to his own recitation, relied a good deal on the introduction of a friend of his from Lenham, who had promised to perform on the banjo and sing a comic song--if possible. "If you can get Busby," he repeated over and over again, "it'll be the making of the thing, and so I told Mrs Leigh." "What did she say?" enquired Bella. "Well, she wanted to know what he would sing. But, as I said to her, you can't treat Busby as you would the people about here. He moves in higher circles and he wouldn't stand it. You can't tie him down to a particular song, he must sing what he feels inclined to. After all, I don't suppose he'll come. He's so sought after." "Well, it is awkward," said Bella, "not being certain--because of the programme." "Oh, they must just put down, _Song, Mr Busby_, and leave a blank. It's often done." Each time Mr Buckle dropped in at the farm just now he brought fresh news relating to Mr Busby. He could, or could not come to the concert, so that an exciting state of uncertainty was kept up. As the day grew nearer the news changed. Busby would certainly _come_, but he had a dreadful cold so that it was hardly probable he would be able to sing. Lilac heard it all with the greatest sympathy. The house seemed full of the concert from morning till night. As she went about her work the strains of the "Edinburgh Quadrilles" sounded perpetually from the piano in the parlour. Sometimes it was Agnetta alone, slowly pounding away at the bass, and often coming down with great force and determination on the wrong chords; sometimes Bella and Agnetta at the same time, the treble dashing along brilliantly, and the bass lumbering heavily in the distance but contriving to catch it up at the end by missing a few bars; sometimes Mr Buckle arriving with his drum and triangle there was a grand performance of all three, when Lilac and Molly, taking furtive peeps at them through the half-open door, were struck with the sincerest admiration and awe. It was indeed wonderful as well as deafening to hear the noise that could be got out of those three instruments; they seemed to be engaged in a sort of battle in which first one was triumphant and then another. "It's a _little_ loud for this room," observed Mr Buckle complacently, "but it'll sound very well at the concert." Bella felt sure that it would be far the best thing in the programme, not only because the execution was spirited and brilliant but on account of the stylish appearance of the performers. Mr Buckle had been persuaded to wear his volunteer uniform on the occasion, in which, with his drum slung from his shoulders and the triangle fastened to a chair, so that he could kick it with one foot, he made a very imposing effect. Agnetta and Bella had coaxed their mother into giving them new dresses of a bright blue colour called "electric", which, being made up by themselves in the last fashion, were calculated to attract all eyes. These preparations, whilst they excited and interested Lilac, also made her a little envious. She began to wish she had something pretty to put on in honour of the concert, and even to have a faint hope that her aunt might give her a new dress too. But this did not seem even to occur to Mrs Greenways, and Lilac soon gave up all thoughts of it with a sigh. Her Sunday frock was very shabby, but after all just to stand up amongst the other children it would not show much. She took it out of her box and looked at it: perhaps there was something she could do to smarten it up a little. It certainly hung in a limp flattened manner across the bed, and was even beginning to turn a rusty colour; nothing would make it look any different. Would one of her cottons be better, Lilac wondered anxiously. But none of the children would wear cottons, she knew--they all put on their Sunday best for the concert. The black frock must do. She could put a clean frill in the neck, and brush her hair very neatly, but that was all. There was no one she remembered to take much notice what she wore, so it did not matter. The evening came. Everyone had practised their parts and brought them to a high pitch of perfection; and except Mr Busby, whose appearance was still uncertain, everyone was prepared to fill their places in the programme. "You won't find two better-looking girls than that," said Mrs Greenways to her husband, looking proudly at her two daughters. "That blue does set 'em off, to be sure!" "La!" said Bella with a giggle, "I feel that nervous I know I shall break down. I'm all of a twitter." "Well, it's no matter how you _play_ as long as you look well," said Mrs Greenways; "with Charlie making all that noise on the drum, you only hear the piano now and again. But where's Lilac!" she added. "It's more than time we started." Lilac had been ready long ago, and waiting for her cousins, but just before they came downstairs she had caught sight of Peter looking into the room from the garden, and making mysterious signs to her to come out. When she appeared he held towards her a bunch of small red and white chrysanthemums. "Here's a posy for you," he said. "Stick it in your front. They're a bit frost-bitten, but they're better than nothing." Lilac took the flowers joyfully; after all she was not to be quite unadorned at the concert. "You ain't got a new frock," he continued, looking at her seriously when she had fastened them in her dress. "You look nice, though." "Ain't you coming?" asked Lilac. She felt that she should miss Peter's friendly face when she sang, and that she should like him to hear her. "Presently," he said. "Got summat to see to first." When the party reached the school-house it was already late. The Greenways were always late on such occasions. The room was full, and Mr Martin, the curate, who had the arrangement of it all, was bustling about with a programme in his hand, finding seats for the audience, greeting acquaintances, and rushing into the inner room at intervals to see if the performers had arrived. "All here?" he said. "Then we'd better begin. Drum and fife band!" The band, grinning with embarrassment and pleasure, stumbled up the rickety steps on to the platform. The sounds of their instruments and then the clapping and stamping of the audience were plainly heard in the green room, which had only a curtain across the doorway. "Lor'!" said Bella, pulling it a little on one side and peeping through at the audience, "there _is_ a lot of people! Packed just as close as herrings. There's a whole row from the Rectory. How I do palpitate, to be sure! I wish Charlie was here!" Mr Buckle soon arrived with vexation on his brow. No sign of Busby! He was down twice in the programme, and there was hardly a chance he would turn up. It was too bad of Busby to throw them over like that. He might at least have _come_. "Well, if he wasn't going to sing I don't see the good of that," said Bella; "but it _is_ a pity." "It just spoils the whole thing," said Mr Buckle, and the other performers agreed. But to Lilac nothing could spoil the concert. It was all beautiful and glorious, and she thought each thing grander than the last. Uncle Joshua's solo almost brought tears to her eyes, partly of affection and pride and partly because he extracted such lovely and stirring sounds from the clar'net. It made her think of her mother and the cottage, and of so many dear old things of the past, that she felt sorrowful and happy at once. Next she was filled with awe by Mr Buckle's recitation, which, however, fell rather flat on the rest of the assembly; and then came the "Edinburgh Quadrilles", in which the performers surpassed themselves in banging and clattering. Lilac was quite carried away by enthusiasm. She stood as close to the curtain as she could, clapping with all her might. The programme was now nearly half over, and Mr Busby's first blank had been filled up by someone else. Mr Martin came hurriedly in. "Who'll sing or play something?" he said. "We must fill up this second place or the programme will be too short." His glance fell upon Lilac. "Why, you're the little girl who was Queen? You can sing, I know. That'll do capitally--come along." Lilac shrank back timidly. It was an honour to be singled out in that way, but it was also most alarming. She looked appealingly at her cousin Bella, who at once came forward. "I don't think she knows any songs alone, sir," she said; "but I'll play something if you like." "Oh, thank you, Miss Greenways," said Mr Martin hastily, "we've had so much playing I think they'd like a song. I expect she knows some little thing--don't you?" to Lilac. Lilac hesitated. There stood Mr Martin in front of her, eager and urgent, with outstretched hand as though he would hurry her at once to the platform; there was Bella fixing a mortified and angry gaze upon her; and, in the background, the other performers with surprise and disapproval on their faces. She felt that she _could_ not do it, and yet it was almost as impossible to disoblige Mr Martin, the habit of obedience, especially to a clergyman, was so strong within her. Suddenly there sounded close to her ear a gruff and friendly voice: "Give 'em the `Last Rose of Summer', Lilac. You can sing that very pretty." It came from Uncle Joshua. "The very thing!" exclaimed Mr Martin. "Couldn't possibly be better, and I'll play it for you. Come along!" Without more words Lilac found herself hurried out of the room, up the steps, and on to the platform, with Mr Martin seated at the piano. Breathless and frightened she stood for a second half uncertain whether to turn and run away. There were so many faces looking up at her from below, and she felt so small and unprotected standing there alone in front of them. Her heart beat fast, her lips were as though fastened together, how could she possibly sing? Suddenly in the midst of that dim mass of heads she caught sight of something that encouraged her. It was Peter's round red face with mouth and eyes open to their widest extent, and it stood out from all the rest, just as it had done on May Day. Then it had vexed her to see it, now it was such a comfort that it filled her with courage. Instead of running away she straightened herself up, folded her hands neatly in front of her, and took a long breath. When Mr Martin looked round at her she was able to begin, and though her voice trembled a little it was sweet and clear, and could be heard quite to the end of the room. Very soon she forgot her rears altogether, and felt as much at her ease as though she were singing in Uncle Joshua's cottage as she had done so often. The audience kept the most perfect silence, and gazed at her attentively throughout. It was a very simple little figure in its straight black frock, its red and white nosegay, and thick, laced boots, and it looked all the more so after the ribbons and finery of those which had come before it; yet there was a certain dignity about its very simplicity, and the earnest expression in the small face showed that Lilac was not thinking of herself, but was only anxious to sing her song as well as she could. She finished it, and dropped the straight little curtsy she had been taught at school. "After all it had not been so bad," she thought with relief, as she turned to go away in the midst of an outburst of claps and stamps from the audience. But she was not allowed to go far, for it soon became evident that they wanted her to sing again; nothing in the whole programme had created so much excitement as this one little simple song. They applauded not only in the usual manner but even by shouts and whistling, and through it all was to be heard the steady thump, thump, thump of a stick on the floor from the middle of the room where Peter sat. Lilac looked round half-frightened at Mr Martin as the noise rose higher and higher, and made her way quickly to the steps which led from the platform. "They won't leave off till you sing again," he said, following her, "though we settled not to have any encores. You'd better sing the last verse." So it turned out that Lilac's song was the most successful performance of the evening; it was impossible to conceal the fact that it had won more applause than anything, not even excepting the "Edinburgh Quadrilles." This was felt to be most unjust, for she had taken no trouble in preparing it, and was not even properly dressed to receive such an honour. "I must own," said Mrs Greenways in a mortified tone, "that I did feel disgraced to see Lilac standing up there in that old black frock. I can't think what took hold of the folks to make so much fuss with her. But there! 'Tain't the best as gets the most praise." "I declare," added Bella bitterly, "it's a thankless task to get up anything for the people here. They're so ignorant they don't know what's what. To think of passing over Charley's recitation and encoring a silly old song like Lilac's. It's a good thing Mr Busby _didn't_ come, I think--he wouldn't 'a been appreciated." "'Twasn't only the poor people though," said Agnetta. "I saw those friends of Mrs Leigh's clapping like anything." "Ah, well," said Mrs Greenways, "Lilac's parents were greatly respected in the parish, and that's the reason of it. She hasn't got no cause to be set up as if it was her singing that pleased 'em." Lilac had indeed very little opportunity of being "set up." After the first glow of pleasure in her success had faded, she began to find more reason to be cast down. Her aunt and cousins were so jealous of the applause she had gained that they lost no occasion of putting her in what they called her proper place, of showing her that she was insignificant, a mere nobody; useless they could not now consider her, but she had to pay dearly for her short triumph at the concert. The air just now seemed full of sharp speeches and bitterness, and very often after a day of unkind buffets she cried herself to sleep, longing for someone to take her part, and sore at the injustice of it all. "'Tain't as if I'd wanted to sing," she said to herself. "They made me, and now they flout me for it." But her unexpected appearance in public had another and most surprising result. About a week after the concert, when the excitement was lessening and the preparations for Bella's wedding were beginning to take its place, Mrs Greenways was sent for to the Rectory--Mrs Leigh wished to speak to her. "I shouldn't wonder," she said to her husband before she started, "if it was to ask what Bella'd like for a present. What'd you say?" "I shouldn't wonder if it was nothing of the kind," replied Mr Greenways. "More likely about the rent." But Mrs Greenways held to her first opinion. It would not be about the rent, for Mrs Leigh never mentioned it to her. No. It was about the present; and very fitting too, when she called to mind how long her husband had been Mr Leigh's tenant. To be sure he had generally owed some rent, but the Greenways had always held their heads high and been respected in spite of their debts. On her way to the Rectory, therefore, she carefully considered what would be best to choose for Bella and Charlie. Should it be something ornamental--a gilt clock, or a mirror with a plush frame for the drawing-room? They would both like that, but she knew Mrs Leigh would prefer their asking for something useful; perhaps a set of tea-things would be as good as anything. These reflections made the distance short, yet an hour later, when, her interview over, Mrs Greenways reappeared at the farm, her face was lengthened and her footstep heavy with fatigue. What could have happened? Something decidedly annoying, for she snapped even at her darling Agnetta when she asked questions. "Don't bother," she said, "let's have tea. I'm tired out." During the meal her daughters cast curious glances at her and at each other, for it was a most unusual thing for their mother to bear her troubles quietly. As a rule the more vexed she was the more talkative she became. It must therefore be something out of the common, they concluded; and before long it appeared that it was the presence of Lilac that kept Mrs Greenways silent. She threw angry looks at her, full of discontent, and presently, unable to control herself longer, said sharply: "When you've finished, Lilac, I want you to run to Dimbleby's for me. I forgot the starch. If you hurry you'll be there and back afore dusk." CHAPTER TWELVE. LILAC'S CHOICE. "A stone that is fit for the wall will not be left in the way."--_Old Proverb_. As the door closed on Lilac, the news burst forth from Mrs Greenways in such a torrent that it was difficult at first to follow, but at length she managed to make clear to her astonished hearers all that had passed between herself and Mrs Leigh. It was this: A lady staying at the Rectory had seen Lilac at the concert, and asked whom she was. Whereupon, hearing her history and her present occupation at Orchards Farm, she made the following suggestion. She wanted a second dairymaid, and was greatly pleased with Lilac's appearance and neat dress. Would Mrs Leigh find out whether her friends would like her to take such a situation? She would give her good wages, and raise them if she found her satisfactory. "It's a great opportunity for a child like Lilac," Mrs Leigh had said to Mrs Greenways; "but I really think from what I hear of her that she is quite fit to take such a place." "Well, as to that," said Mr Greenways slowly when his wife paused for breath, "I suppose she is. If she can manage the dairy alone here, she can do it with someone over her there." "Now I wonder who _could_ 'a told Mrs Leigh that Lilac made our butter," said Mrs Greenways; "somehow or other that child gets round everyone with her quiet ways." "Most likely that interfering old Joshua Snell," said Bella, "or Peter maybe, or Ben. They all think no end of Lilac." "Well, I don't see myself what they find in her," said Mrs Greenways; "though she's a good child enough and useful in her way. I should miss her now I expect; though, of course," with a glance at her husband, "she wouldn't leave us, not so long as we wanted her." "That's for _her_ to say," said the farmer. "I'm not going to take a chance like that out of her mouth. She's a good little gal and a credit to her mother, and it's only fair and right she should choose for herself. Go or stay, I won't have a word said to her. 'Tain't every child of her age as has an offer like that, and she's deserved it." "And who taught her all she knows?" said Mrs Greenways wrathfully. "Who gave her a home when she wanted one, and fed and kep' her? And now as she's just beginning to be a bit of use, she's to take herself off at the first chance! I haven't common patience with you, Greenways, when you talk like that. It's all very well for you; and I s'pose you're ready to pay for a dairymaid in her place. But I know this: If Lilac's got a drop of gratitude in her, and a bit of proper feeling, she'll think first of what she owes to her only relations living." "Well, you ought to 'a told her how useful she was if you wanted her to know it," said Mr Greenways. "You've always gone on the other tack and told her she was no good at all. I shouldn't blame her if she wanted to try if she could please other folks better." There was so much truth in this, that in spite of Mrs Greenways' anger it sank deeply into her mind. Why had she not made more of Lilac? What should she do, if the child, with the consent of her uncle and encouraged by Mrs Leigh, were to choose to leave the farm? It was not unlikely, for although she had not been actively unkind to Lilac she had never tried to make her happy at the farm; her jealousy had prevented that. And then, the money--that would be a great temptation; and the offer of it seemed to raise Lilac's value enormously. In short, now that someone else wanted her, and was willing to pay for her services, she became twice as important in Mrs Greenways' eyes. One by one the various duties rose before her which Lilac fulfilled, and which would be left undone if she went away. She sat silent for a few minutes in moody thought. "I didn't say nothing certain to Mrs Leigh," she remarked at length, "but I did mention as how we'd never had any thought of Lilac taking service, no more nor Agnetta or Bella." "Lor', Ma!" said Bella, "the ideer!" "All the same," said the farmer, "when we first took Lilac we said we'd keep her till she was old enough for a place. The child's made herself of use, and you don't want to part with her. That's the long and the short of it. But I stand by what I say. She shall settle it as she likes. She shall go to Mrs Leigh and hear about it, and then no one shan't say a word to her, for or against. When's she got to decide?" "In a week," answered his wife. "But you're doing wrong, Greenways, you hadn't ought to put it on the child's shoulders; it's us as ought to decide for her, us as are in the place of her father and mother. She's too young to know what's for her good." "I stand by what I say," repeated the farmer, and he slapped the table with his hand. Mrs Greenways knew then that it was useless to oppose him further, and the conversation came to an end. Now, when the matter was made known to Lilac, it seemed more like a dream than anything real. She had become so used to remain in the background, and go quietly on at her business without notice, that she could not at first believe in the great position offered to her. She was considered worth so much money a year! It was wonderful. After she had seen Mrs Leigh, and heard that it really was true and no dream, another feeling began to take the place of wonder, and that was perplexity. The choice, they told her, was to remain in her own hands, and no one would interfere with it. What would be best? To go or stay? It was very difficult, almost impossible, to decide. Never in her short life had she yet been obliged to choose in any matter; there had always been a necessity which she had obeyed: "Do this," "Go there." The habit of obedience was strong within her, but it was very hard to be suddenly called to act for herself. And the worst of it was that no one would help her; even Mrs Leigh only said: "I shan't persuade you one way or the other, Lilac, I shall leave it to you and your relations to consider." Uncle Joshua had no counsel either. "You must put one against the other and decide for yourself, my maid," he said; "there'll be ups and downs wherever you go." She studied her aunt's face wistfully, and found no help there. Mrs Greenways kept complete and gloomy silence on the question. Thrown back upon herself, Lilac's perplexity grew with each day. If she went to sleep with her mind a little settled to one side of the matter, she woke up next morning to see many more advantages on the other. To leave Orchards Farm, and the village, and all the faces she had known since she could remember anything, and go to strangers! That would be dreadful. But then, there was the money to be thought of, and perhaps she might find the strangers kinder than her own relations. "It's like weighing out the butter," she said to herself; "first one side up and then t'other." If only someone would say you _must_ go, or you _must_ stay. During this week of uncertainty many things at the farm looked pleasanter than they had ever done before, and she was surprised at the interest everyone in the village took in her new prospects. They all had something to say about them, and though this did not help her decision but rather hindered it, she was pleased to find that they cared so much for her. "And so you're goin' away," said poor Mrs Wishing, fluttering into the farm one day and finding Lilac alone. "Seems as if I was to lose the on'y friend I've got. But I dunno. There was your poor mother, she was took, and now I shan't see you no more. 'Tain't as I see you often, but I know you might drop in anywhen and there's comfort in that. Lor'! I shouldn't be standing here now if you hadn't come in that night--I was pretty nigh gone home that time. Might a been better p'r'aps for me and Dan'l too if I had. But you meant it kind." "Maybe I shan't go away after all," said Lilac soothingly. "You're one of the lucky ones," continued Mrs Wishing. "I allers said that. Fust you get taken into a beautiful home like this, and then you get a place as a gal twice your age would jump at. Some gets all the ups and some gets all the downs. But _I_ dunno!" She went on her way with a weary hitch of the basket on her arm, and a pull at her thin shawl. Then Bella's voice sounded beseechingly on the stairs: "Oh, _do_ come here a minute, Lilac." Bella was generally to be found in her bedroom just now, stitching away at various elegancies of costume. She turned to her cousin as she entered, and said with a puzzled frown: "I'm in ever such a fix with this skirt. I can't drape it like the picture do what I will, it hangs anyhow. And Agnetta can't manage it either." Agnetta stood by, her face heated with fruitless labour, and her mouth full of pins. Lilac examined the skirt gravely. "You haven't got enough stuff in it," she said. "You'll have to do it up some other way." "Pin it up somehow, then, and see what you can do," said Bella. "I'm sick and tired of it." Lilac was not quite without experience in such things, for she had often helped her cousins with their dressmaking, and she now succeeded after a few trials in looping up the skirt to Bella's satisfaction. "_That's_ off my mind, thank goodness!" she exclaimed. "You're a neat-fingered little thing; I don't know what we shall do without you." It was a small piece of praise, but coming from Bella it sounded great. Lilac's affairs, her probable departure from the farm and how she would be much missed there, were much talked of in the village just now. The news even reached Lenham, carried by the active legs and eager tongue of Mrs Pinhorn, who, with many significant nods, as of one who could tell more if she chose, gave Mr Benson to understand that he might shortly find a difference in the butter. It was not for _her_ to speak, with Ben working at the farm since a boy, but--So even the great and important Mr Benson was prepared to be interested in Lilac's choice. She often wondered, as day after day went by so quickly and left her still undecided, what her mother would have advised her to do. But then, if her mother had been alive, all this would not have happened. She tried nevertheless to imagine what she would have said about it, and to remember past words which might be of help to her now. "Stand on your own feet and don't be beholden to anyone." Certainly by taking this situation she would follow that advice, and child though she was, she knew it might be the beginning of greater things. If she filled this place well she might in time get another, and be worth even more money. But then, could she leave the farm? the home which had sheltered her when she had been left alone in the world. Who would take her place? No one could deny now that she would leave a blank which must be filled up. She could hardly bear to think of a stranger standing in her accustomed spot in the dairy, handling the butter, looking out of the little ivy-grown window, taking charge of the poultry. "They'll feed 'em different, maybe," she thought; "and they won't get half the eggs, I know they won't." How hard it would be, too, to leave the faces she had known from childhood, all so familiar, and some of them so dear: not human faces alone, but all sorts of kind and friendly ones, belonging to the dumb animals, as she called them. She would miss the beasts sorely, and they would miss her: the cows she was learning to milk, the great horses who jingled their medals and bowed their heads so gently as she stood on tiptoe to feed them, the clever old donkey who could unfasten any gate and let all the animals out of a field: the pigs, even the sheep, who were silliest of all, knew her well and showed pleasure at her coming. She looked with affection, too, at the bare little attic, out of whose window she had gazed so often with eyes full of tears at the white walls of her old home on the hillside. How hard it had been to leave it, and now it made her almost as sad to think of going away from the farm. But then--there was the money, and although Mrs Leigh said nothing in favour of her going to this new place, Lilac had a feeling that she really wished it, and would be disappointed if she gave it up. Everyone said it was such a chance! It was not altogether a fancy on Lilac's part that everyone at the farm looked at her kindly just now, for the idea of losing her made them suddenly conscious that she would be very much missed. Mrs Greenways watched her with anxiety, and there was a new softness in her way of speaking; her old friends, Molly and Ben, were eager in showing their goodwill, and Agnetta, in spite of the approaching excitement of Bella's wedding, found time to enquire many times during the day if Lilac "had made up her mind." "Of course you meant to go from the first," she said at length. "Well, I don't blame you, but you might 'a said so to an old friend like me." The only person at the farm who was sincerely indifferent to Lilac's choice was Bella. "It won't make any matter to me whether you're here or there," she said candidly; "but there's no doubt it'll make a difference to Ma. There's some as would call it demeaning to go out to service, but I don't look at it like that. Of course if it was me or Agnetta it wouldn't be thought of; but I agree with Pa that it's right you should choose for yourself." So no one helped Lilac, and the days passed and the last one came, while she was still as far as ever from deciding. Escaping from the chatter and noises inside the house she went out towards evening into the garden for a little peace and quietness. She wanted to be alone and think it over for the last time; after that she would go to Mrs Leigh and tell her what she meant to do, and then all the worry would be over. She strolled absently along, with the same tiresome question in her mind, through the untidy bushy garden, past Peter's flower bed, gay with chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies, until she came to the row of beehives, silent, deserted-looking dwellings now with only one or two languid inhabitants to be seen crawling torpidly about the entrances. Lilac sat down on the cherry-tree stump opposite them, and, for a moment leaving the old subject, her mind went back to the spring evening when Peter had cut the bunch of flowers for her, and let the bees crawl over his fingers. She smiled to herself as she remembered how suddenly he had gone away without giving her the nosegay at all. Poor Peter! she understood him better now. As she thought this there was a click of the gate leading into the field, she turned her head, and there was Peter himself coming towards her with his dog Sober at his heels. During this past week Peter as well as Lilac had been turning things over a great deal in his mind. Not that he was troubled by uncertainty, for he felt sure from the first that she would go away from the farm. And it was best she should. From outward ill-treatment he could have defended her: he was strong in the arm, but with his tongue he was weaker than a child. Many a time he had sat in silence when hard or unkind speeches had been cast at her, but none the less he had felt it sorely. After the concert, when she had sung as pretty as a bird, how they had flouted her. It was a hard thing surely, and it was best she should go away to folks as would value her better. But he felt also that he must tell her he was sorry. That was a trial and a difficulty. How should he frame it? Though he could talk more easily to Lilac than anyone else in the world, speech was still terribly hard, and when he suddenly came upon her this evening his first instinct was to turn and go back. Sober, however, pricked his ears and ran forward when he saw a friend, and this example encouraged Peter. "As like as not," he said to himself, "I shall say summat quite different the minute I begin, but I'll have a try at it;" so he went on. There was a touch of frost in the air, and the few remaining leaves, so few that you could count them, were falling every minute or so gently from the trees. A scarlet one from the cherry tree overhead had dropped into Lilac's lap, and lay there, a bright red spot on her white pinafore. As Peter's eye fell on it it occurred to him to say gruffly: "The leaves is nearly all gone." "Pretty nigh," said Lilac, looking up into the bare branches of the cherry tree. "We'll soon have winter now." There was silence. Peter took off his hat and rubbed his forehead with his coat sleeve. "There's lots will be sorry when you go," he burst out suddenly. "The beasts'll miss you above a bit." Lilac did not answer. She saw that he wanted to say something more, and knew that it was best not to confuse his mind by remarks. "Not but what," he went on, "you're in the right. Why should you work for nothing here and get no thanks? You're worth your wages, and there you'll get 'em. There's justice in that. Only--the farm'll be different." "There's only the dairy," said Lilac. "Someone else'll have to do that if I go. And I should miss the beasts too." She put her hand on Sober's rough head as he sat by her. "It's a queer thing," said Peter after another pause, "what a lot I get in my head sometimes and yet I can't speak it out. You remember about the brownie, and me saying the farm was pleasanter and that? Well, what I want to say now is, that when you're gone all that'll be gone--mostly. It'll be like winter after summer. Anyone as could use language could say a deal about that, but I can't. I don't want you to stay, but I've had it in my mind to tell you that I shall miss you as well as the beasts--above a bit. That's all." Sober now seemed to think he must add something to his master's speech, for he raised one paw, placed it on Lilac's knee, and gazed with a sort of solemn entreaty into her face. She knew at once what he wanted, for though he could not "use language" any more than Peter, he was quite able to make his meaning clear. In the course of many years' faithful attention to business he had become rheumatic, and this paw, in particular was swollen and stiff at the joint. Lilac had found that it gave him ease to rub it, and Sober had got into the habit of calling her attention to it in this way at all times and seasons. Now as she took it in her hand and looked into his wise affectionate eyes, it suddenly struck her that here were two people who would really miss her, and want her if she were far away. No one would rub Sober's paw, no one would take much notice of her other dumb friend, Peter. She could not leave them. She placed the dog's foot gently on the ground and stood up. "I'm not going away," she said, "I'm going to bide. And I shall go straight in and tell Aunt, and then it'll be settled." Indoors, meanwhile, the same subject had been discussed between different people. In the living room, where tea was ready on the table, Mrs Greenways and her two daughters waited the coming of the farmer, Agnetta eyeing a pot of her favourite strawberry jam rather impatiently, and Bella, tired with her stitching, leaning languidly back in her chair with folded arms. "Lilac ain't said nothing to either of you, I s'pose?" began Mrs Greenways. "I know she means to go, though," said Agnetta. "Well, I must look about for a girl for the dairy, I s'pose," said Mrs Greenways sadly. "I won't give it to Molly again. And a nice set they are, giggling flighty things with nothing but their ribbons and their sweethearts in their heads." "Lor'! Ma, don't fret," said Bella consolingly; "you got along without Lilac before, and you'll get along without her again." "I shan't ever replace her," continued her mother in the same dejected voice; "she doesn't care for ribbons, and she's not old enough for sweethearts. I do think it's not acting right of Mrs Leigh to go and entice her away." "If here isn't Mr Snell coming in alonger Pa," said Agnetta, craning her neck to see out of the window. "He's sure to stay to tea." She immediately drew her chair up to the table and helped herself largely to jam. "And of all evenings in the week I wish he hadn't chosen this," said Mrs Greenways. "Poking and meddling in other folks' concerns. Now mind this, girls,--don't you let on as if I wanted to keep Lilac, or was sorry she's going. Do you hear?" It did not at first appear, however, that this warning was necessary, for Joshua said no word of Lilac or her affairs; he seemed fully occupied in drinking a great deal of tea and discussing the events of the neighbourhood with the farmer, and it was not till the end of his meal that he looked round the table enquiringly, and asked the dreaded question. "And what's Lilac settled to do about going?" "You know as much about that as we do, Mr Snell," replied Mrs Greenways loftily. "There's no doubt," continued the cobbler, fixing his eye upon her, "as how Mrs Leigh's friend is going to get a prize in Lilac White. She's only a child, as you once said, ma'am, but I know what her upbringing was: `As the twig is bent, the tree's inclined'. There's the making of a thorough good servant in her. Well worth her wages she'll be." "She's been worth more to us already than ever I knew of, or counted on, till lately," put in the farmer. "Just now, I met Benson, and says he: `You're losing your dairymaid by what I hear, and I can but wish you as good a one.'" "That's not so easy," said Joshua, shaking his head. "Good workers don't grow on every bush. It's a pity, too, just when your butter was getting back its name." "I'd half a mind," said the farmer, "to offer the child wages to stop, but then I thought it wouldn't be acting fair. She ought to have the chance of bettering herself in a place like that. If she goes she's bound to rise, and if she stays she won't, for I can't afford to give her much." "And what's your opinion, ma'am?" asked Joshua politely of Mrs Greenways. "Oh, it isn't worth hearing, Mr Snell," she replied with a bitter laugh; "its too old-fashioned for these days. I should 'a thought Lilac owed summat to us, but my husband don't seem to take no count of that at all. Not that it matters to me." As she spoke, with the colour rising in her face and a voice very near tears, the door opened and Lilac came quickly in. The conversation stopped suddenly, all eyes were fixed on her; perhaps never since she had been Queen had her presence caused so much attention: even Agnetta paused in her repast, and looked curiously round to see what she would do or say. Without giving a glance at anyone else in the room, Lilac walked straight up to where Mrs Greenways sat at the head of the table: "Aunt," she said rather breathlessly, "I've come to say as I've made up my mind." Mrs Greenways straightened herself to receive the blow. She knew what was coming, and it was hard to be humiliated in the presence of the cobbler, yet she would put a brave face upon it. With a great effort she managed to say carelessly: "It don't matter just now, Lilac. Sit down and get your tea." But Mr Greenways quite spoilt the effect of this speech. "No, no," he called out. "Let her speak. Let's hear what she's got to say. Here's Mr Snell'd like to hear it too. Speak out, Lilac." Thus encouraged, Lilac turned a little towards her uncle and Joshua. "I've made up my mind as I'd rather bide here, please," she said. The teapot fell from Mrs Greenways' hands with such a crash on the tray that all the cups rattled, the air of indifference which she had struggled to keep up vanished, her whole face softened, and as she looked at the modest little figure standing at her side tears of relief came into her eyes. Uncle Joshua and her old feelings of jealousy and pride were forgotten for the moment as she laid her broad hand kindly on the child's shoulder: "You're a good gal, Lilac, and you shan't repent your choice," she said; "take my word, you shan't." "And that's your own will, is it, Lilac?" said her uncle. "And you've thought it well over, and you won't want to be altering it again?" "No, Uncle," said Lilac. "I'm quite sure now." Her aunt's kind manner made her feel more firmly settled than before. "It's a harassing thing is a choice," said Mr Greenways. "I know what it is myself with the roots and seeds. Well, I won't deny that I'm glad you're going to stop, but I hope you've done the best for yourself, my maid." "Lor', Greenways, don't worry the child," interrupted his wife, who had recovered her usual manner. "She knows her own mind, and I'm glad she's shown so much sense. You sit down and get your tea, Lilac, and let's be comfortable and no more about it." Lilac slipped into the empty place between the cobbler and Agnetta, rather abashed at so much notice. Agnetta pushed the pot of jam towards her. "I'm glad you're going to stop," she said. "Have some jam." Joshua had not spoken since Lilac's entrance, but Mrs Greenways, eyeing him nervously, felt sure he was preparing to "preachify." She went on talking very fast and loud in the hope of checking this eloquence, but in vain; Joshua, after a few short coughs, stood upright and looked round the table. "Friends," he said, "I knew Lilac's mother well, and I call to mind this evening what she often said to me: `I want my child to grow up self-respecting and independent. I want to teach her to stand alone and not to be a burden on anyone.' And then, poor soul, she died sudden, and the child was left on your hands. And she couldn't but be a burden at first, seeing how young she was and how little she knew. And now look at it! How it's all changed. 'Tain't long ago, and she isn't much bigger to speak of, and yet she's got to be something as you value and don't want to part with. She's made her own place, and she stands firm in it on her own feet, and no one would fill it as well. It's wonderful that is, how small things may help big ones. Look at it!" said Joshua, spreading out the palms of his hands. "You take a little weak child into your house and think she's of no count at all, either to help or to hinder; she's so small and the place is so big you hardly know she's there. And then one day you wake up to find that she's gone quietly on doing her best, and learning to do better, until she's come to be one of the most useful people on the farm. Because for why? It's her mother's toil and trouble finding their fruit; we oughtn't to forget that. When folks are dead and gone it's hard on 'em not to call to mind what we owe 'em. They sowed and we reap. Lilac's come to be what she is because her mother was what she was, and I expect Mary White's proud and pleased enough to see how her child's valued this day. And so I wish the farm luck, and all of you luck, and we'll all be glad to think as we're not going to lose our little bit of White Lilac as is growing up amongst us." Lilac's eyes had been fixed shyly on her plate. It was like being Queen a second time to have everyone looking at her and talking of her. As Joshua finished there was a sound at the door of gruff assent, and she looked round. It came from Peter, who stood there with all his features stretched into a wide smile of pleasure. "They're all glad I'm going to bide," she said to herself, "and so am I." 
31521	----	[Illustration: Looking anxiously at the babe in her arms. _See page 42._] LITTLE FRIDA A TALE OF THE BLACK FOREST BY THE AUTHOR OF "LITTLE HAZEL, THE KING'S MESSENGER" "UNDER THE OLD OAKS; OR, WON BY LOVE" ETC. ETC. THOMAS NELSON AND SONS, LTD. LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK CONTENTS I. LOST IN THE WOODS 9 II. THE WOOD-CUTTER'S HUT 16 III. FRIDA'S FATHER 23 IV. THE PARSONAGE 29 V. THE WOODMEN'S PET 36 VI. ELSIE AND THE BROWN BIBLE 42 VII. IN DRINGENSTADT 46 VIII. THE VIOLIN-TEACHER AND THE CONCERT 54 IX. CHRISTMAS IN THE FOREST 68 X. HARCOURT MANOR 76 XI. IN THE RIVIERA 86 XII. IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS 95 XIII. IN THE SLUMS 104 XIV. THE OLD NURSE 115 XV. THE POWER OF CONSCIENCE 127 XVI. THE STORM 131 XVII. THE DISCOVERY 137 XVIII. OLD SCENES 151 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Looking anxiously at the babe in her arms _Frontispiece_ Ere the child consented to go to bed she opened the little "brown book" 17 "Come, Frida," she said, "let us play the last passage together" 66 LITTLE FRIDA. CHAPTER I. LOST IN THE WOODS. "When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up." "See, Hans, how dark it gets, and thy father not yet home! What keeps him, thinkest thou? Supper has been ready for a couple of hours, and who knows what he may meet with in the Forest if the black night fall!" and the speaker, a comely German peasant woman, crossed herself as she spoke. "I misdoubt me something is wrong. The saints preserve him!" The boy, who looked about ten years old, was gazing in the direction of a path which led through the Forest, but, in answer to this appeal, said, "Never fear, Mütterchen; father will be all right. He never loses his way, and he whistles so loud as he walks that I am sure he will frighten away all the bad--" But here his mother laid her hand on his mouth, saying, "Hush, Hans! never mention them in the twilight; 'tis not safe. Just run to the opening in the wood and look if ye see him coming; there is still light enough for that. It will not take you five minutes to do so. And then come back and tell me, for I must see to the pot now, and to the infant in the cradle." The night, an October one, was cold, and the wind was rising and sighing amongst the branches of the pine trees. Darker and darker gathered the shades, as mother and son stood again at the door of their hut after Hans had returned from his useless quest. No sign of his father had he seen, and boy though he was, he knew too much of the dangers that attend a wood-cutter's life in the Forest not to fear that some evil might have befallen his father; but he had a brave young heart, and tried to comfort his mother. "He'll be coming soon now, Mütterchen," he said; "and won't he laugh at us for being so frightened?" But the heart of the wife was too full of fear to receive comfort just then from her boy's words. "Nay, Hans," she said; "some evil has befallen him. He never tarries so late. Thy father is not one to turn aside to his mates' houses and gossip away his time as others do. It is always for home and children that he sets out when his work is done. No, Hans; I know the path to the place where he works, and I can follow it even in the dark. Stay here and watch by the cradle of the little Annchen, whilst I go and see if I can find thy father." "Nay, Mütterchen," entreated the boy; "thee must not go. And all alone too! Father would never have let you do so had he been here. O Mutter, stay here! Little Annchen will be waking and wanting you, and how could I quiet her? O Mütterchen, go not!" and he clung to her, trying to hold her back. Just as his mother, maddened with terror, was freeing herself from his grasp, the sound of a footstep struck her ear, and mother and child together exclaimed, "Ah, there he comes!" Sure enough through the wood a man's figure became visible, but he was evidently heavily laden. He carried, besides his axe and saw, two large bundles. What they were could not be distinguished in the darkness. With a cry of joyous welcome his wife sprang forward to meet her husband, and Hans ran eagerly to help him to carry his burden; but to their amazement he said, though in a kindly tone, "Elsie--Hans, keep off from me till I am in the house." The lamp was lighted, and a cheerful blaze from the stove, the door of which was open, illumined the little room into which the stalwart young wood-cutter, Wilhelm Hörstel, entered. Then, to the utter astonishment of his wife and son, he displayed his bundle. Throwing back a large shawl which completely covered the one he held in his arms, he revealed a sleeping child of some five or six years old, who grasped tightly in her hand a small book. In his right hand he held a violin and a small bag. Elsie gazed with surprise, not unmingled with fear. "What meaneth these things, Wilhelm?" she said; "and from whence comes the child? _Ach_, how wonderfully beautiful she is! Art sure she is a child of earth? or is this the doing of some of the spirits of the wood?" At these words Wilhelm laughed. "Nay, wife, nay," he replied, and his voice had a sad ring in it as he spoke. "This is no wood sprite, if such there be, but a little maiden of flesh and blood. Let me rest, I pray thee, and lay the little one on the bed; and whilst I take my supper I will tell thee the tale." And Elsie, wise woman as she was, did as she was asked, and made ready the simple meal, set it on the wooden bench which served as table, then drew her husband's chair nearer the stove, and restraining her curiosity, awaited his readiness to begin the tale. When food and heat had done their work, Wilhelm felt refreshed; and when Elsie had cleared the table, and producing her knitting had seated herself beside him, he began his story; whilst Hans, sitting on a low stool at his feet, gazed with wondering eyes now on the child sleeping on the bed, and then at his father's face. "Ay, wife," the wood-cutter began, speaking in the _Plattdeutsch_ used by the dwellers in the Forest, "'tis a wonderful story I have to tell. 'Twas a big bit of work I had to finish to-day, first cutting and then piling up the wood far in the Forest. I had worked hard, and was wearying to be home with you and the children; but the last pile had to be finished, and ere it was so the evening was darkening and the wind was rising. So when the last log was laid I collected my things, and putting on my blouse, set off at a quick pace for home. But remembering I had a message to leave at the hut of Johann Schmidt, telling him to meet me in the morning to fell a tree that had been marked for us by the forester, I went round that way, which thou knowest leads deeper into the Forest. Johann had just returned from his work, and after exchanging a few words I turned homewards. "The road I took was not my usual one, but though it led through a very dark part of the Forest, I thought it was a shorter way. As I got on I was surprised to see how dark it was. Glimpses of light, it is true, were visible, and the trees assumed strange shapes, and the Forest streams glistened here and there as the rising moon touched them with its beams. But the gathering clouds soon obscured the faint moonlight.--You will laugh, Hans, when I tell you that despite what I have so often said to you about not believing in the woodland spirits, that even your good Mütterchen believes in, my heart beat quicker as now one, now another of the gnarled trunks of the lower trees presented the appearance of some human form; but I would not let my fear master me, so only whistled the louder to keep up my courage, and pushed on my way. "The Forest grew darker and darker, and the wind began to make a wailing sound in the tree-tops. A sudden fear came over me that I had missed my way and was getting deeper into the Forest, and might not be able to regain my homeward path till the morning dawned, when once more for a few minutes the clouds parted and the moon shone out, feeble, no doubt--for she is but in her first quarter--and her beams fell right through an opening in the wood, and revealed the figure of a little child seated at the foot of a fir tree. Alone in the Forest at that time of night! My heart seemed to stand still, and I said to myself, 'Elsie is right after all. That can only be some spirit child, some woodland being.' "A whisper in a little voice full of fear roused me and made me approach the child. She looked up, ere she could see my face, and again repeated the words in German (though not like what we speak here, but more the language of the town, as I spoke it when I lived there as a boy), 'Father, father, I am glad you've come. I was feeling very frightened. It is so dark here--so dark!' As I came nearer she gave a little cry of disappointment, though not fear; and then I knew it was no woodland sprite, but a living child who sat there alone at that hour in the Forest. My heart went out to her, and kneeling down beside her I asked her who she was, and how she came to be there so late at night. She answered, in sweet childish accents, 'I am Frida Heinz, and fader and I were walking through this big, big Forest, and by-and-by are going to see England, where mother used to live long ago.' It was so pretty to hear her talk, though I had difficulty in making out the meaning of her words. 'But where then is your father?' I asked. I believe, wife, the language I spoke was as difficult for her to understand as the words she had spoken were to me, for she repeated them over as if wondering what they meant. Then trying to recall the way I had spoken when a boy, which I have never quite forgotten, I repeated my question. She understood, and answered in her sweet babyish accents, 'Fader come back soon, he told little Frida. He had lost the road, and he said I'se to wait here till he came back, and laid his violin and his bag 'side me, and told me to keep this little book, which he has taught me to read, 'cos he says mother loved it so. Then he went away; and I've waited--oh so long, and he's never come back, and I'se cold, so cold, and hungry, and I want my own fader. O kind man, take Frida to him. And he's ill, so ill too! Last night I heard the people in the place we slept in say he'd never live to go through the Forest; but he would go, 'cos he wanted to take me 'cross the sea.' Then the pretty little creature began to cry bitterly, and beg me again to take her to father. I told her I would wait a bit with her, and see if he came. For more than an hour I sat there beside her, trying to warm and comfort her; for I tell you, Elsie, she seemed to creep into my heart, and reminded me of our little one, who would have been about her size had she been alive, though she was but three years old when she died. "Well, time went on, and the night grew darker, and I knew how troubled you would be, and yet I knew not what to do. I left the child for a bit, and looked here and there in the Forest; but all was dark, and though I called long and loud no answer came. So I returned, took the child in my arms (for she is but a light weight), and with my tools thrown over my shoulder, and the violin and bag in my hand, I made my way home. The child cried awhile, saying she must wait for fader, then fell sound asleep in my arms. Now, wife, would it not be well to undress her, and give her some food ere she sleeps again, for she must be hungry?" CHAPTER II. THE WOOD-CUTTER'S HUT. "Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me; Bless Thy little lamb to-night." "Indeed you are right, Wilhelm," said his wife. "No doubt the poor little maid must be hungry, only I had not the heart to waken her.--See, Hans, there is some goat's milk in the corner yonder. Get it heated, whilst I cut a bit of this bread, coarse though it be. 'Tis all we have to give her; but such as it is, she is right welcome to it, poor little lamb." As she spoke she moved quietly to the bed where the child lay asleep. As she woke she uttered the cry, "Fader, dear fader!" then raised herself and looked around. Evidently the story of the day flashed upon her, and she turned eagerly to the wood-cutter, asking if "fader" had come yet. On being told that he had not, she said no more, but her eyes filled with tears. She took the bread and milk without resistance, though she looked at the black bread as if it were repugnant to her. Then she let herself be undressed by Elsie, directing her to open the bag, and taking from it a nightdress of fine calico, a brush and comb, also a large sponge, a couple of fine towels, a change of underclothing, two pairs of stockings, and one black dress, finer than the one she wore. [Illustration: Ere the child consented to go to bed she opened the little "brown book."] Ere the child consented to go to bed she opened the little "brown book," which was a German Bible, and read aloud, slowly but distinctly, the last verse of the Fourth Psalm: "Ich liege und schlafe ganz mit Frieden; denn allein Du, Herr, hilfst mir, dass ich sicher wohne" ("I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety"). Then she knelt down, and prayed in simple words her evening prayer, asking God to let father come home, and to bless the kind people who had given her a shelter, for Christ's sake. Elsie and Wilhelm looked at each other with amazement. Alas! there was no fear of God in that house. Elsie might cross herself when she spoke of spirits, but that was only as a superstitious sign that she had been told frightened them away. Of Christ and His power to protect and save they knew nothing. Roman Catholics by profession, they yet never darkened a church door, save perhaps when they took a child to be baptized; but they only thought of that ordinance as a protection to their child from the evil one. God's holy Word was to them a sealed book. True, all the wood-cutters were not like them, but still a spirit of ignorance and indifference as regarded religion reigned amongst them; and if now and then a priest sought their dwelling, his words (such as they were) fell on dull ears. Things seen and temporal engrossed all their thoughts. The daily work, the daily bread, and the nightly sleep--these filled their hearts and excluded God. So it was not to be wondered at that little Frida's reading and prayer were an astonishment to them. "What think you of that, Elsie?" said Wilhelm. "The child spoke as if she were addressing some one in the room." "Ay, ay," answered his wife. "It was gruesome to hear her. She made me look up to see if there was really any one there; and she wasn't speaking to our Lady either. Art sure she is a child of earth at all, Wilhelm?" "Ay, she's that; and the question is, wife, What shall we do with her? Suppose the father never turns up, shall we keep her, or give her over to them that have the charge of wanderers and such like?" Here Hans sprang forward. "Nay, father, nay! Do not send her away. She is so pretty, and looks like the picture of an angel. I saw one in the church where little Annchen was baptized. Oh, keep her, father!--Mutter, do not send the little maid back into the forest!" But Elsie's woman's heart had no thought of so doing. "No, no, my lad," she said. "Never fear; we'll keep the child till some one comes to take her away that has a right to her. Who knows but mayhap she'll bring a blessing on our house; for often I think we don't remember the Virgin and the saints as we ought. My mother did, I know;" and as she spoke great tears rolled down her cheeks. The child's prayer had touched a chord of memory, and recalled the days of her childhood, when she had lived with parents who at least reverenced the Lord, though they had not been taught to worship Him aright. Wilhelm sat for a few minutes lost in thought. He was pondering the question whether, supposing the child was left on his hands, he could support her by doing extra work. It would be difficult, he knew; but if Elsie were willing he'd try, for his kind heart recoiled from sending the little child who clung to him so confidingly adrift amongst strangers. No, he would not do so. After a while he turned to his wife, who had gone to the cradle where lay their six-weeks-old baby, and was rocking it, as the child had cried out in her sleep. "Elsie," he said, "I'll set off at break of day, and go amongst my mates, and find out if they have seen or heard aught of the missing gentleman.--Come, Hans," he said suddenly; "'tis time you were asleep." A few minutes later and Hans had tumbled into his low bed, and lay for a short time thinking about Frida, and wondering who she had been speaking to when she knelt down; but in the midst of his wondering he fell asleep. Wilhelm, wearied with his day's work, was not long in following his son's example, and was soon sound asleep; but no word of prayer rose from his heart and lips to the loving Father in heaven, who had guarded and kept him from the dangers of the day. Elsie was in no hurry to go to bed; her heart was full of many thoughts. The child's prayer and the words out of the little book had strangely moved her, and she was asking herself if there were indeed a God (as in her childhood she had been taught to believe), what had she ever done to please Him. Conscience said low, Nothing; but she tried to drown the thought, and busied herself in cleaning the few dishes and putting the little room to rights, then sat down for a few minutes beside the stove to think. Where could the father of the child be, she asked herself, and what would be his feelings on returning to the place where he had left her when he found she was no longer there? Could he have lost his way in the great Forest? That was by no means unlikely; she had often heard of such a thing as that happening. Then she wondered if there were any clue to the child's friends or the place she was going to in the bag; and rising, she took it up and opened it. Besides the articles we have already enumerated, she found a case full of needles, some reels of cotton, a small book of German hymns, and a double locket with chain attached to it. This Elsie succeeded in opening, and on the one side was the picture of a singularly beautiful, dark-eyed girl, on the verge of womanhood; and on the other a blue-eyed, fair-haired young man, a few years older than the lady. Under the pictures were engraved the words "Hilda" and "Friedrich." Elsie doubted not that these were the likenesses of Frida's father and mother, for the child bore a strong resemblance to both. She had the dark eyes of her mother and the golden hair of her father, if such was the relationship she bore to him. These pictures were the only clue to the child's parentage. No doubt she wore a necklace quite unlike anything that Elsie had ever seen before; but then, except in the shop windows, she had seen so few ornaments in her life that she knew not whether it was a common one or not. She put the locket carefully back in its place, shut the bag, and slipped across the room to take another glance at the sleeping child. Very beautiful she looked as she lay, the fair, golden hair curling over her head and falling round her neck. Her lips were slightly parted, and, as if conscious of Elsie's approach, she muttered the word "fader." Elsie patted her, and turned once more to the little cradle where lay her infant. The child was awake and crying, and the mother stooped and took her up, and sat down with her in her arms. A look of anxiety and sadness crossed the mother's face when she observed that although she flashed the little lamp in the baby's face her eyes never turned to the light. For some time the terrible fear had been rising in her head that her little Anna was blind. She had mentioned this to her husband, but he had laughed at her, and said babies of that age never took much notice of anything; but that was three weeks ago, and still, though the eyes looked bright, and the child was intelligent, the eyes never followed the light, nor looked up into the mother's face. The fear was now becoming certainty. Oh, if only she could make sure, see some doctors, and find out if nothing could be done for her darling! A blind child! How could they support her, how provide for the wants of one who could never help herself? Poor mother! her heart sank within her, for she knew nothing of the One who has said, "Cast all your cares upon me, for I care for you." Now as she gazed at the child she became more than ever convinced that that strange trial had fallen upon her. And to add to this new difficulty, how could she undertake the charge and keeping of this stranger so wonderfully brought to their door? Elsie, although no Christian, had a true, loving woman's heart beating within her, and putting from her the very idea of sending away the lost child, she said to herself, "The little that a child like that will take will not add much to the day's expense; and even if it did, Elsie Hörstel is not the woman to cast out the forlorn child." Oh, the pity of it that she did not know the words of Him who said, "Inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it unto me;" and again, "Whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me." But these words had never yet reached her ears, and as yet it was only the instincts of a true God-created heart that led her to compassionate and care for the child lost in the forest. Taking the babe in her arms, she slipped into bed and soon fell asleep. CHAPTER III. FRIDA'S FATHER. "And though we sorrow for the dead, Let not our grief be loud, That we may hear Thy loving voice Within the light-lined cloud." Early in the morning, ere wife or children were awake, and long before the October sun had arisen, Wilhelm Hörstel arose, and putting a hunch of black bread and goat-milk cheese into his pocket, he shouldered his axe and saw and went out into the Forest. The dawn was beginning to break, and there was light enough for the practised eye of the wood-cutter to distinguish the path which he wished to take through the Forest. Great stillness reigned around; even the twittering of the birds had hardly begun--they were for the most part awaiting the rising of the sun, though here and there an early bird might be heard chirping as it flew off, no doubt in search of food. Even the frogs in the Forest ponds had not yet resumed their croaking, and only the bubbling of a brooklet or the falling of a tiny cascade from the rocks (which abound in some parts of the Forest) was heard. The very silence which pervaded, calmed, and to a Christian mind would have raised the thoughts Godward. But it had no such influence on the heart, the kindly heart, of the young wood-cutter as he walked on, bent only on reaching the small hamlet or "Dorf" where stood the hut of the man with whom he sought to hold counsel as to how a search could be instituted in the Forest for the father of little Frida. As he reached the door, and just as the sun was rising above the hill-tops, and throwing here and there its golden beams through the autumn-tinted trees, he saw not one but several wood-cutters and charcoal-burners going into the house of his friend Johann Schmidt. Somewhat wondering he hastened his steps, and entered along with them, putting as he did so the question, "_Was gibt's?_" (What is the matter?) His friend, who came forward to greet him, answered the question by saying, "Come and help us, Wilhelm; a strange thing has happened here during the night. "Soon after Gretchen and I had fallen asleep, we were awakened by the noise of some heavy weight falling at the door; and on going to see what it was, there, to our amazement, lay a man, evidently in a faint. We got him into our hut, and after a while he became conscious, looked around him, and said 'Frida!' Gretchen tried to find out who it was he wished, but could only make out it was a child whom he had left in the Forest; but whether he was still delirious none could tell. He pressed his hand on his heart and said he was very ill, and again muttering the word, 'Frida, Armseliger Frida,' he again fainted away. "We did what we could for him, and he rallied a little; and then an hour ago, Gretchen stooping over him heard him say, 'Herr Jesu. Ob ich schon wandelte im finstern Thal fürchete ich kein Unglück: denn Du bist bei mir' ('Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me'); and giving one deep breath his spirit fled." As their mate said these words, exclamations of sorrow were heard around. "_Ach_, poor man!" said one. "Thinkest thou the child he spoke of can be in the Forest?" "And the words he said about fearing no evil, what did they mean?" said another. "Well," said one who looked like a chief man amongst them, "I believe he was _ein Ketzer_, and if that be so we had better send to Dringenstadt, where there is a _ketzer Pfarrer_ [heretic pastor], and get his advice. I heard the other day that a new one had come whom they called Herr Langen." Then as a momentary pause came, Wilhelm Hörstel stepped forward and told the tale of the child he had found in the Forest the night before, who called herself Frida. The men listened with amazement, but with one breath they all declared she must be the child of whom the dead man had spoken. "Ay," said Wilhelm, "and I am sure she is the child of a _Ketzer_ [heretic]; for what think ye a child like that did ere she went to bed? She prayed, and my wife says never a word said she to the Virgin, but spoke just straight to God." "_Ach_, poor _Mädchen_!" said another of the men; "does she think the Lord would listen to the prayer of a child like her? The blessed Virgin have pity on her;" and as he spoke he crossed himself. "If these things be so," said the chief man, by name Jacob Heine, "then it is plain one of us must go off to Dringenstadt, see the _Pfarrer_, and settle about the funeral." His proposal was at once agreed to, and as he was overseer of the wood-cutters, and could not leave his work, Johann Schmidt, in whose hut the man had died, was chosen as the best man to go; whilst Wilhelm should return to his home, and then take the child to see her dead father. "Yes, bring the _Mädchen_" (little maid), said all, "and let us see her also; seems as if she belongs to us all, found in the Forest as she was." There was no time to be lost, for the sun was already well up, and the men should have been at work long ago. So they dispersed, some going to their work deeper in the Forest, Wilhelm retracing his way home, and Johann taking the path which led through the wood to the little town of Dringenstadt. As Wilhelm approached his door, the little Frida darted to him, saying, "Have you found my fader? Oh, take me to him! Frida must go to her fader." Tears rose to the wood-cutter's eyes, as lifting the child in his arms he entered the hut, and leaving Frida there with Hans, he beckoned his wife to speak to him outside; and there he told her the story of the man who had died in Johann's cottage. "Ah, then," said Elsie, "the little Frida is indeed an orphan, poor lambie. How shall we tell her, Wilhelm? Her little heart will break. Ever since she woke she has prattled on about him; ay" (and the woman's voice lowered as she spoke), "and of a Father who she says lives in heaven and cares both for her earthly father and herself. And, Wilhelm, she's been reading aloud to Hans and me about the Virgin's Son of whom my mother used to speak." "Well, never mind about all that, wife, but let us tell the child; for I and my mates think she should be taken to see the body, and so make sure that the man was really her father." * * * * * "Fader dead!" said the child, as she sat on Wilhelm's knee and heard the sad story. "Dead! Shall Frida never see him again, nor walk with him, nor talk with him? Oh! dear, dear fader, why did you die and leave Frida all alone? I want you, I want you!" and the child burst into a flood of tears. They let her cry on, those kind-hearted people--nay, they wept with her; but after some minutes had passed, Wilhelm raised her head, and asked her if she would not like to see her father once more, though he could not speak to her now. "Yes, oh yes! take me to see him!" she exclaimed. "Oh, take me!" Then looking eagerly up she said, "Perhaps Jesus can make him live again, like he did Lazarus, you know. Can't he?" But alas! of the story of Lazarus being raised from the dead these two people knew nothing; and when they asked her what she meant, and she said her father had read to her about it out of her little brown book, they only shook their heads, and Wilhelm said, "I feared there was something wrong about that little book. How could any one be raised from the dead?" Frida's passionate exclamations of love and grief when she saw the dead body of the man who lay in Johann Schmidt's hut removed all doubt from the minds of those who heard her as to the relationship between them; and the manner in which the child turned from a crucifix which Gretchen brought forward to her, thinking it would comfort her, convinced them more firmly that the poor man had indeed been a heretic. No! father never prayed to that, nor would he let _her_ do so, she said--just to Jesus, dear Jesus in heaven; and though several of those who heard her words crossed themselves as she spoke, and prayed the Virgin to forgive, all were much taken with and deeply sorry for the orphan child; and when Wilhelm raised her in his arms to take her back to his hut and to the care of Elsie, more than one of the inhabitants of the Dorf brought some little gift from their small store to be taken with him to help in the maintenance of the little one so strangely brought among them. Ere they left the Dorf, Johann Schmidt had returned from executing his message to Dringenstadt. He had seen the _Pfarrer_, and he had promised to come along presently and arrange about the funeral. CHAPTER IV. THE PARSONAGE. "The Lord thy Shepherd is-- Dread not nor be dismayed-- To lead thee on through stormy paths, By ways His hand hath made." On the morning of the day that we have written of, the young Protestant pastor of Dringenstadt was seated in a room of the small house which went by the name of "Das Pfarrhaus." He was meditating more than studying just then. He felt his work there an uphill one. Almost all the people in that little town were Roman Catholics. His own flock was a little one indeed, and only that morning he had received a letter telling him that it had been settled that no regular ministry would be continued there, as funds were not forthcoming, and the need in one sense seemed small. He had come there only a few months before, knowing well that he might only be allowed to remain a short time; but now that the order for his removal elsewhere had come, he felt discouraged and sad. Was it right, he was asking himself, to withdraw the true gospel light from the people, and to leave the few, no doubt very few, who loved it to themselves? Karl Langen was a true Christian, longing to lead souls to Jesus, and was much perplexed by the order he had received. Suddenly a knock at the door roused him, and the woman who took charge of his house on entering told him that a man from the Forest wished to speak to him. Telling her to send him in at once, he awaited his entry. Johann Schmidt was shown into the room, and told his sorrowful tale in a quiet, manly way. The pastor was much moved, and repeated with amazement the words, "A child lost in the Black Forest, and the father dead, you say? Certainly I will come and see. But why, my friend, should you think the man was an Evangelisch?" Then Johann told of the words he had repeated, of the child's prayer and her little brown book. Suddenly a light seemed to dawn on the mind of the young pastor. "Oh!" he said, "I believe you are right. I think I have seen both the father and the child. Last Sunday there came into our church a gentleman and a lovely little girl, just such a one as you describe the child you speak of to be. I tried to speak to them after worship, but ere I could do so they had gone. And no one could tell me who they were or whither they had gone. I will now see the Bürgermeister about the funeral, and make arrangements regarding it. I think through some friends of mine I can get money sufficient to pay all expenses." Johann thanked him warmly, and hastened back to tell what had been agreed on, and then got off to his work. Late in the afternoon Pastor Langen took his way to the little hut in the Black Forest. The Forest by the road he took was not well known to him, and the solemn quiet which pervaded it struck him much and raised his thoughts to God. It was as if he had entered the sanctuary and heard the voice of the Lord speaking to him. It was, as a poet has expressed it, as if "Solemn and silent everywhere, The trees with folded hands stood there, Kneeling at their evening prayer." Only the slight murmuring of the breeze amongst the leaves, or the flutter of a bird's wing as it flew from branch to branch, broke the silence. All around him there was "A slumberous sound, a sound that brings The feeling of a dream, As when a bell no longer swings, Faint the hollow echo rings O'er meadow, lake, and stream." As he walked, he thought much of the child found in the Forest, and he wondered how he could help her or find out to whom she belonged. Oh, if only, he said to himself, he had been able to speak to the father the day he had seen him, and learned something of his history! Johann had told him that if no clue could be found to the child's relations, Wilhelm Hörstel had determined to bring her up; but Johann had added, "We will not, poor though we be, let the whole expense of her upbringing fall on the Hörstels. No; we will go share for share, and she shall be called the child of the wood-cutters." As he thought of these words, the young pastor prayed for the kind, large-hearted men, asking that the knowledge of the loving Christ might shine into their hearts and bring spiritual light into the darkness which surrounded them. The afternoon had merged into evening ere he entered the wood-cutters' Dorf. As he neared Johann's hut, Gretchen came to the door, and he greeted her with the words, "The Lord be with you, and bless you for your kindness to the poor man in the time of his need." "Come in, sir," she said, "and see the corpse. Oh, but he's been a fine-looking man, and he so young too. It was a sight to see his bit child crying beside him and begging him to say one word to her--just one word. Then she folded her hands, and looking up said, 'O kind Jesus, who made Lazarus come to life, make dear fader live again.' Oh, 'twas pitiful to see her! Who think you, sir, was the man she spoke of called Lazarus? When I asked her she said it was all written in her little brown book, which she would bring along and read to me some day, bless the little creature." The pastor said some words about the story being told by the Lord Jesus, and recorded in the Holy Scriptures. He did not offer her a Testament, as he knew if the priest heard (as it was likely he would) of his having been there, he would ask if they had been given a Bible, and so trouble would follow. But he rejoiced that the little child had it in her heart to read the words of life to the kind woman, and he breathed a prayer that her little brown Bible might prove a blessing to those poor wood-cutters. Pastor Langen at once recognized the features of the dead man as those of the stranger whom he had seen with the lovely child in the little church. He then made arrangements for the funeral the next day, and departed. * * * * * On the morrow a number of wood-cutters met at the house of Johann Schmidt to attend the funeral of the stranger gentleman. Wilhelm Hörstel, and his wife, Hans, and little Frida, were there also. The child was crying softly, as if she realized that even the corpse of her father was to be taken from her. Presently the young pastor entered, and the moment Frida saw him she started forward, saying in her child language, "O sir, I've seen you before, when fader and I heard you preach some days ago." All this was said in the pure German language, which the people hardly followed at all, but which was the same as the pastor himself spoke. He at once recognized the child, and sought to obtain from her some information regarding her father. She only said, as she had already done, that he was going to England to see some friends of her mother's. When questioned as to their name, she could not tell. All that she knew was that they were relations of her mother's. Yes, her father loved his Bible, and had given her such a nice little brown one which had belonged to her mother. Could she speak any English, the pastor asked. "Yes, I can," said Frida. "Mother taught me a number of words, and I can say 'Good-morning,' and 'How are you to-day?' Also mother taught me to say the Lord's Prayer in English. But I do not know much English, for father and mother always spoke German to each other." No more could be got from the child then, and the simple service was gone on with; and when the small procession set off for Dringenstadt, the kindly men took it by turns to carry the little maiden in their arms, as the walk through the forest was a long one for a child. In the churchyard of the quiet little German town they laid the mortal remains of Friedrich Heinz, to await the resurrection morning. Tears rose to the eyes of many onlookers as Frida threw herself, sobbing, on the grave of her father. Wilhelm and Elsie strove in vain to raise her, but when Pastor Langen drew near and whispered the words, "Look up, Frida; thy father is not here, he is with Jesus," a smile of joy played on the child's face, and rising she dried her tears, and putting her hand into that of Elsie she prepared to leave the "God's acre," and the little party set off for their home in the Black Forest. Darkness had fallen on all around ere they reached the Dorf, and strange figures that the trees and bushes assumed appeared to the superstitious mind of Elsie and some of the others as the embodiment of evil spirits, and they wished themselves safe under the shelter of their little huts. That night the little stranger child mingled her tears with her prayers, and to Elsie's amazement she heard her ask her Father in heaven to take greater care of her now than ever, because she had no longer a father on earth to do it. Little did the kneeling child imagine that that simple prayer was used by the Holy Spirit to touch the heart of the wood-cutter's wife. And from the lips of Elsie ere she fell asleep that night arose a cry to the Father in heaven for help. True, it was but "As an infant crying in the night, An infant crying for the light, And with no language but a cry." But still there was a felt need, and a recognition that there was One who could meet and satisfy it. At all events Elsie Hörstel clasped her blind babe to her heart that night, and fell asleep with a feeling of rest and peace to which she had long been a stranger. Ah! God had a purpose for the little child and her brown Bible in that little hut of which she as yet had no conception. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings He still perfects praise. CHAPTER V. THE WOODMEN'S PET. "Lord, make me like the gentle dew, That other hearts may prove, E'en through Thy feeblest messenger, Thy ministry of love." Pastor Langen, ere leaving Dringenstadt, visited the hut in the Black Forest where Frida had found a home. His congregation, with two or three exceptions, was a poor one, and his own means were small; yet he had contrived to collect a small sum for Frida's maintenance, which he had put into the hands of the Bürgermeister, who undertook to pay the interest of it quarterly to the Hörstels on behalf of the child. True, the sum was small, but it was sufficient to be a help; and a kind lady of the congregation, Fräulein Drechsler, said she would supply her from time to time with dress, and when she could have her now and then with herself, instruct her in the Protestant faith and the elements of education. Frida could already read, and had begun to write, taught by her father. Every effort was being made to discover if the child had any relations alive. The Bürgermeister had put advertisements in many papers, German and English, but as yet no answer had come, and many of the wood-cutters still held the opinion that the child was the offspring of some woodland spirit. But in spite of any such belief, Frida had a warm welcome in every hut in the Dorf, and a kindly word from every man and woman in it. The "woodland child" they called her, and as such cherished and protected her. Many a "bite and sup" she got from them. Many a warm pair of stockings, or a knitted petticoat done by skilful hands, did the inmates of the Dorf present to her. They did what they could, these poor people, for the orphan child, just out of the fullness of their kind hearts, little thinking of the blessing that through her was to descend on them. The day of Pastor Langen's visit to the hut, some time after her father's funeral, Frida was playing beside the door, and on seeing him coming up the path she rose from the spot where she was sitting and ran eagerly to meet him. But though unseen by her, he had been standing near for some time spell-bound by the music which, child though she was, she was bringing out of her father's violin, in the playing of which she was amusing herself. From a very early age her father, himself a skilled violinist, had taught her to handle the bow, and had early discovered the wonderful talent for music which she possessed. The day of which we write was the first one since her father's death that Frida had played on the violin, so neither Wilhelm nor Elsie was aware that she could do so at all. The pastor was approaching the cottage when the sound of music reached his ears, and having a good knowledge of that art himself, he stood still to listen. A few minutes convinced him that though the playing was that of a child, still the performer had the true soul of music, and only needed full instruction to develop into a musician of no ordinary talent. As he drew nearer his surprise was great to see that the player was none other than the beautiful child found in the Black Forest. Attracted by the sound of steps, Frida had turned round, and seeing her friend had, as we have written, bounded off to meet him. Hearing that Elsie had taken her babe and gone a message to the Dorf, he seated himself on a knoll with the child and began to talk to her. "How old are you?" he asked her. "Seven years and more," she replied; "because I remember my birthday was only a little while before Mütterchen (I always called her that) died, and that that day she took the locket she used to wear off her neck and gave it to me, telling me always to keep it." "And have you that locket still?" queried the pastor. "Yes; Elsie has it carefully put away. There is a picture of Mütterchen on the one side, and of my father on the other." "And did your mother ever speak to you of your relations either in Germany or England?" "Yes, she did sometimes. She spoke of grandmamma in England and grandpapa also, and she said they lived in a beautiful house; but she never told me their name, nor where their house was. Father, of course, knew, for he said he was going to take me there, and he used to speak of a brother of his whom he said he dearly loved." "But tell me," asked the pastor, "where did you live with your parents in Germany?" "Oh, in a number of different places, but never long at the same place. Father played at concerts just to make money, and we never remained long anywhere--we were always moving about." "And your parents were Protestants?" "I don't know what that means," said the child. "But they were often called 'Ketzers' by the people where he lodged. And they would not pray to the Virgin Mary, as many did, but taught me to pray to God in the name of Jesus Christ. And Mütterchen gave me a little 'brown Bible' for my very own, which she said her mother had given to her. Oh, I must show it to you, sir!" and, darting off, the child ran into the house, returning with the treasured book in her hand. The pastor examined it and read the inscription written on the fly-leaf--"To my dear Hilda, from her loving mother, on her eighteenth birthday." That was all, but he felt sure from the many underlined passages that the book had been well studied. He found that Frida could read quite easily, and that she had been instructed in Scripture truth. Ere he bade her farewell he asked her to promise him to read often from her little Bible to Wilhelm, Elsie, and Hans. "For who knows, little Frida, that the Lord may not have chosen you to be a child missionary to the wood-cutters, and to read to them out of His holy Word." Frida thought over these words, though she hardly took in their full meaning; but she loved her Bible, and wished that the people who were so kind to her loved it also. On his way home the pastor met Elsie with her babe in her arms, and told her of his farewell visit to Frida, and of his delight with the child's musical talent, and advised her to encourage her as much as possible to play on the violin. Elsie's face brightened as he spoke, for she and her husband, like many of the German peasants, dearly loved music. "O sir," she said, "have you heard her sing? It is just beautiful and wonderful to hear her; she beats the very birds themselves." Thanking her once more for her care of the orphan child, and commending her to God, the pastor went on his way, musing much on the future of the gifted child, and wondering what could be done as regarded her education. In the meantime Elsie went home, and entrusting her babe to the care of Frida, who loved the little helpless infant, she made ready for her husband's return from his work. Hans had gone that day to help his father in the wood, which he loved much to do, so Elsie and Frida were alone. "Mutter," said the child (for she had adopted Hans's way of addressing Elsie), "the pastor was here to-day, and he played to me--oh so beautifully--on my violin, it reminded me of father, and made me cry. O Mutter, I wish some one could teach me to play on it as father did. You see I was just beginning to learn a little how to do it, and I do love it so;" and as she spoke, the child joined her hands together and looked pleadingly at Elsie. "_Ach_, poor child," replied Elsie, "how canst thou be taught here?" And that night when Elsie repeated to Wilhelm Frida's desire for lessons on the violin, the worthy couple grieved that they could do nothing to gratify her wish. Day after day and week after week passed, and still no answer came to any of the advertisements about the child; and save for her own sake none of the dwellers in the wood wished it otherwise, for the "woodland child," as they called her, had won her way into every heart. CHAPTER VI. ELSIE AND THE BROWN BIBLE. "Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path." Frida, as time went on, was growing hardy and strong in the bracing Forest air. Every kindness was lavished on her, and the child-spirit had asserted itself, and though often tears would fill her eyes as something or other reminded her vividly of the past, yet her merry laughter was often heard as she played with Hans in the woods. Yet through all her glee there was at times a seriousness of mind remarkable in one so young, also a power of observation as regarded others not often noticeable in one of her years. She had become warmly attached to the kind people amongst whom her lot was cast, and especially so to Elsie. Several times she had observed her looking anxiously at the babe in her arms, taking her to the light and endeavouring to attract her attention to the plaything which she held before her. Then when the babe, now some months old, showed no signs of observing it, Frida would see a great tear roll down Elsie's cheek, and once she heard her mutter the words, "Blind! my baby's blind!" Was it possible? Frida asked herself; for the child's eyes looked bright, and she felt sure she knew her, and had often stretched out her little arms to be taken up by her. "No," she repeated again, "she cannot be blind!" Poor little Frida knew not that it was her voice that the baby recognized. Often she had sung her to sleep when Elsie had left her in her charge. Already father and mother had noted with joy the power that music had over their blind babe. One day Frida summoned courage to say, "Mutter, dear Mutter, why are you sad when you look at little Anna? I often notice you cry when you do so." At that question the full heart of the mother overflowed. "O Frida, little Frida, the babe is blind! She will never see the light of day nor the face of her father and mother. Wilhelm knows it now: we took her to Dringenstadt last week, and the doctor examined her eyes and told us she _ist blind geboren_ [born blind]. O my poor babe, my poor babe!" Frida slipped her hand into that of the poor mother, and said gently, "O Mutter, Jesus can make the babe to see if we ask Him. He made so many blind people to see when He was on earth, and He can do so still. Let me read to you about it in my little brown book;" and the child brought her Bible and read of Jesus healing the two blind men, and also of the one in John ix. who said, "Whereas I was blind, now I see." Elsie listened eagerly, and said, "And it was Jesus the Virgin's Son who did that, do you say? Read me more about Him." And the child read on, how with one touch Jesus opened the eyes of the blind. She read also how they brought the young children to Jesus, and He took them into His arms and blessed them, and said to His disciples, "Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of heaven." "Oh," said Elsie, "if only that Jesus were here now, I'd walk miles and miles to take my Anna to Him; but, alas! He is not here now." Frida was a young child, and hardly knew how to answer the troubled mother; but her faith was a simple one, so she answered, "No, Jesus is not here now, but He is in heaven, and He answers us when we pray to Him. Father once read to me the words in Matthew's Gospel--see, here they are--'Ask, and it shall be given you.' Shall we ask Him now?" and kneeling down she prayed in child language, "O Lord Jesus, who dost hear and answer prayer, make little Anna to see as Thou didst the blind men when Thou wert on earth, and oh, comfort poor Elsie!" As she rose from her knees, Elsie threw her arms round her, saying, "O Frida, I do believe the God my mother believed in hath sent thee here to be a blessing to us!" Often after that day Frida would read out of her brown Bible to Elsie about Jesus, His life and His atoning death. And sometimes in the evening, when Hans would sit cutting out various kinds of toys, for which he had a great turn, and could easily dispose of them in the shops at Dringenstadt, she would read to him also; and he loved to hear the Old Testament stories of Moses and Jacob, Joseph, and Daniel in the lion's den; also of David, the sweet psalmist of Israel, who had once been a shepherd boy. They were all new to poor Hans, and from them he learned something of the love God has to His children; but it was ever of Jesus that Elsie loved to hear, and again and again she got the child to read to her the words, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." And erelong it was evident, though she would scarcely have acknowledged it, that she was seeking not only the rest but the "_Rest_-Giver." And we know that He who gave the invitation has pledged His word that whosoever cometh to Him He will in no wise cast out. All this while Wilhelm seemed to take no notice of the Bible readings. Once or twice, when he had returned from his work, he had found Frida reading to his wife and boy, and he had lingered for a minute or two at the door to catch some of the words; but he made no remark, and interrupted the reading by asking if supper were ready. But often later in the evening he would ask the child to bring out her violin and play to him, or to sing one of his favourite songs, after which she would sing a hymn of praise; but as yet it was the sweetness of the singer's voice and not the beauty of the words that he loved to listen to. But notwithstanding, by the power of the Holy Ghost, the Bible was doing its work--slowly, it may be, but surely; so true is it that God's word shall not return to Him void. CHAPTER VII. IN DRINGENSTADT. "Sing them over again to me, Wonderful words of love." Three years had passed. Summer had come round again. Fresh green leaves quivered on the trees of the Forest, though the pines still wore their dark clothing. The song of the birds was heard, and the little brooks murmured along their course with a joyful tinkling sound. In the Forest it was cool even at noontide, but in Dringenstadt the heat was oppressive, and in spite of the sun-blinds the glare of light even indoors was excessive. In a pleasant room, into which the sun only shone through a thick canopy of green leaves, sat a lady with an open book in her hand. It was an English one, and the dictionary by her side showed it was not in a language she was altogether familiar with. The book evidently recalled memories of the past. Every now and then she paused in her reading, and the look which came into her eyes told that her thoughts had wandered from the present surroundings to other places, and it might be other days. Sitting beside her, engaged in doing a sum of arithmetic, was a beautiful child of some ten years old, neatly though plainly dressed. The lady's eyes rested on her from time to time, as if something in her appearance, as well as the book she was reading, recalled other days and scenes. "Frida," she said, for the child was none other than our little friend found in the Forest, "have you no recollections of ever hearing your mother speak of the home of her childhood, or of her companions there?" "No, dear Miss Drechsler, I do not remember her ever speaking of any companions; but she told me about her mother and father, and that they lived in a beautiful house in England, somewhere in the country; and whenever she spoke of her mother she used to cry, and then she would kiss me, and wish she could show me to her, for she knew she would love me, and I am sure it was to her that my father was taking me when he died. See, here is my little brown Bible which her mother gave to her and she gave to me." Miss Drechsler took the Bible in her hand, and examined the writing, and noted the name "Hilda;" but neither of them seemed to recall any special person to her memory. "Strange," she said to herself; "and yet that child's face reminds me vividly of some one whom I saw when I was in England some years ago, when living as governess to the Hon. Evelyn Warden, and I always connect it with some fine music which I heard at that time." Then changing the subject, she said abruptly, "Frida dear, bring your violin and let me hear how far you are prepared for your master to-morrow." Miss Drechsler, true to her promise to the German pastor, had kept a look-out on the child known as "the wood-cutters' pet," who lived in the little hut in the Black Forest. From the time Pastor Langen had left, she had her often living with herself for days at a time at Dringenstadt, and was conducting her education; but as she often had to leave that town for months, Frida still had her home great part of the year with the Hörstels in the Forest. At the time we write of, Miss Drechsler had returned to her little German home, and Frida, who was once more living with her, was getting, at her expense, lessons in violin-playing. She bid fair to become an expert in the art which she dearly loved. She was much missed by the kind people in the Forest amongst whom she had lived so long. Just as, at Miss Drechsler's request, she had produced her violin and begun to play on it, a servant opened the door and said that a man from the Forest was desirous of seeing Fräulein Heinz. The girl at once put down her instrument and ran to the door, where she found her friend Wilhelm awaiting her. "Ah, Frida, canst come back with me to the Forest? There is sorrow there. In one house Johann Schmidt lies nigh to death, caused by an accident when felling a tree. He suffers much, and Gretchen is in sore trouble. And the Volkmans have lost their little boy. You remember him, Frida; he and our Hans used to play together. And our little Anna seems pining away, and Elsie and all of them are crying out for you to come back and comfort them with the words of your little book. Johann said this morning, when his wife proposed sending for the priest, 'No, Gretchen, no. I want no priest; but oh, I wish little Frida were here to read to me from her brown book about Jesus Christ our great High Priest, who takes away our sins, and is always praying for us.'" "Oh, I remember," interrupted Frida. "I read to him once about Jesus ever living 'to make intercession for us.' Yes, Wilhelm, I'll come with you. I know Miss Drechsler will say I should go, for she often tells me I really belong to the kind people in the Forest." And so saying, she ran off to tell her story to her friend. Miss Drechsler at once assented to her return to the Forest to give what help she could to the people there, adding that she herself would come up soon to visit them, and bring them any comforts necessary for them such as could not be easily got by them. Ere they parted she and Frida knelt together in prayer, and Miss Drechsler asked that God would use the child as His messenger to the poor, sorrowing, suffering ones in the Forest; after which she took Frida's Bible and put marks in at the different passages which she thought would be suitable to the different cases of the people that Wilhelm had spoken of. It was late in the afternoon ere Wilhelm and Frida reached the hut of Johann Schmidt, where he left the child for a while, whilst he went on to the Volkmans to tell them of Frida's return, and that she hoped to see them the next day. Gretchen met the girl with a cry of delight. "_Ach!_ there she comes, our own little Fräulein. What a pleasure it is to see thee again, our woodland pet! And see, here is my Johann laid up in bed, nearly killed by the falling of a tree." The sick man raised himself as he heard the child's voice saying as she entered, in reply to Gretchen's words, "Oh, I am sorry, so sorry! Why did you not tell me sooner?" And in another moment she was sitting beside Johann, speaking kind, comforting words to him. He stroked her hair fondly, and answered her questions as well as he could; but there was a far-away look in his eyes as if his thoughts were in some region distant from the one he was living in now. After a few minutes he asked eagerly,-- "Have you the little brown book with you now?" "Yes, I have," was the reply. "Shall I read to you now, Johann? for Wilhelm is to come for me soon." "Yes, read, read," he said; "for I am weary, so weary." Frida turned quickly to the eleventh chapter of Matthew, and read distinctly in the German, which he could understand, and which she could now speak also, the words, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." He stopped her there. "Read that again," he said. She complied, and then he turned to her, saying, "And Jesus, the Son of God, said that? Will He give it to me, thinkest thou?" "Yes," she said, "He will; for He has promised to do it, and He never breaks His word." "Well, if that be so, kneel down, pretty one, and ask Him to give it me, for I need it sorely." Frida knelt, and in a few simple words besought the Saviour to give His rest and peace to the suffering man. "Thanks, little Frida," he said as she rose. "I believe that prayer will be answered." And shutting his eyes he fell quietly asleep, and Frida slipped out of the room and joined Wilhelm in the Forest. "Is little Anna so very ill?" she queried as they walked. "I fear she is," was the answer the father gave, with tears in his eyes. "The mother thinks so also; though the child, bless her, is so good and patient we hardly know whether she suffers or not. She just lies still mostly on her bed now, and sings to herself little bits of hymns, or speaks about the land far away, which she says you told her about, and where she says she is going to see Jesus. Then her mother begins to cry; but she also speaks about that bright land. 'Deed it puzzles me to know where they have learned so much about it, unless it be from your little brown book. And the child has often asked where Frida is. 'I want to hear her sing again,' she says." "O Wilhelm, why did you not come for me when she said that?" "Well, you see, I had promised the pastor that I would let you visit Miss Drechsler as often as possible, and then you were getting on so nicely with your violin that we felt as if we had no right to call you back to us. But see, here we are, and there is Hans looking out for us." But Hans, instead of rushing to meet them as he usually did, ran back hastily to his mother, calling out, "Here they come, here they come!" "Oh, I am glad!" she said.--"Anna, dear Anna, you will hear Frida's voice again." The mother looked round with a smile, but moved not, for the dying child lay in her arms. A moment longer, and Frida was beside her, her arms round the blind child. "Annchen, dear Annchen, speak to me," she entreated--"just one word, to say you know me. It is Frida come home, and she will not leave you again, but will tell you stories out of the little brown book." A look of intelligence crossed the face of the blind child, and she said,-- "Dear Frida, tell Annchen 'bout Jesus, and sing." Frida, choking back her sobs, opened her Bible and read the story that little Anna loved, of Jesus taking the children in His arms and blessing them; then sang a hymn of the joys of heaven, where He is seen face to face, and where there is "no more pain, neither sorrow nor crying, neither is there any more death," and where His redeemed ones _see_ His face. The mother, almost blinded with tears, heard her child whisper, "'See His face;' then Annchen will see Him too, won't she, Frida?" "Yes, Annchen. There your eyes will be open, and you will be blind no more." As Frida said these words she heard one deep-drawn breath, one cry, "Fader, Mutter, Jesus!" and the little one was gone into that land where the first face she saw was that of her loving Saviour, whom "having not seen she loved," and the beauties of that land which had been afar off burst on her eyes, which were no longer blind. Poor father! poor mother! look up; your child sees now, and will await your coming to the golden gates. Heartfelt tears were shed on earth by that death-bed, but there was a song of great rejoicing in heaven over another ransomed soul entering heaven, and also over another sinner entering the kingdom of God on earth, as Wilhelm Hörstel bent his knee by the bed where his dead child lay, and in broken words asked the Saviour whom that child had gone to see face to face to receive him as a poor sinner, and make him all he ought to be. In after-years he would often say that it was the words little Frida, the woodland child, had read and sung to his blind darling that led him, as they had already led his wife, to the feet of Jesus. CHAPTER VIII. THE VIOLIN-TEACHER AND THE CONCERT. "There in an arched and lofty room She stands in fair white dress, Where grace and colour and sweet sound Combine and cluster all around, And rarest taste express." Three years had passed since all that was mortal of the blind child was laid to rest in the quiet God's acre near where the body of Frida's father lay. After the funeral of little Anna, Frida at her own request returned to the Forest with her friends, anxious to help and comfort Elsie, who she knew would sorely miss the blind child, who had been such a comfort and companion to her when both Wilhelm and Hans were busy at work in the woods; but after remaining with them for a few months, she again returned for a part of each year to Dringenstadt, and made rapid progress under Miss Drechsler's tuition with her education, and especially with her music. The third summer after little Anna's death, Frida was again spending some weeks in the Forest. It was early summer when she returned there. Birds and insects were busy in the Forest, and the wood-cutters were hard at work loading the carts with the piles of wood which the large-eyed, strong, patient-looking oxen conveyed to the town. Loud sounded the crack of the carters' whips as they urged on the slow-paced oxen. Often in those days Frida, accompanied by Elsie (who had now no little child to detain her at home), would take Wilhelm's and Hans's simple dinner with them to carry to them where they worked. One day Frida left Elsie talking to her husband and boy, and strolled a little way further into the Forest, gathering the flowers that grew at the foot of the trees, and admiring the soft, velvety moss that here and there covered the ground, when suddenly she was startled by the sounds of footsteps quite near her, and looking hastily round, saw to her amazement the figure of the young violinist from whom she had lately taken lessons. "Fräulein Heinz," he said, as he caught sight of the fair young girl as she stood, flowers in hand, "I rejoice to meet you, for I came in search of you. Pupils of mine in the town of Baden-Baden, many miles from here, where I often reside, are about to have an amateur concert, and they have asked me to bring any pupil with me whom I may think capable of assisting them. They are English milords, and are anxious to assist local musical talent; and I have thought of you, Fräulein, as a performer on the violin, and I went to-day to Miss Drechsler to ask her to give you leave to go." "And what did she say?" asked the child eagerly. "How could I go so far away?" And she stopped suddenly; but the glance she gave at her dress told the young violinist the direction of her thoughts. "Ah!" he said, "Fräulein Drechsler will settle all that. She wishes you to go, and says she will herself accompany you and also bring you back to your friends." "Oh! then," said Frida, "I would like very much to go; but I must ask Wilhelm and Elsie if they can spare me. But, Herr Müller, do you think I can play well enough?" The violinist smiled as he thought how little the girl before him realized the musical genius which she possessed, and which already, young as she was, made her a performer of no ordinary skill. "Ah yes, Fräulein," he said, "I think you will do. But you know, as the concert is not for a month yet, you can come to Dringenstadt and can have a few more lessons ere then." "Come with me, then, and let me introduce you to my friends;" and she led him up to the spot where Wilhelm, Elsie, and Hans stood. They looked surprised, but when they heard her request they could not refuse it. To have their little woodland child play at a concert seemed to them an honour of no small magnitude. Hans in his eagerness pressed to her side, saying, "O Frida, I am so glad, for you do play so beautifully." "As for that matter, so do you, Hans," she replied, for the boy had the musical talent so often found even in German peasants, and taught by Frida could really play with taste on the violin. "O Herr Müller," she said, turning to him, "I wish some day you could hear Hans play; I am sure you would like it. If only he could get lessons! I know he would excel in it." "Is that so?" said the violinist; "then we must get that good Fräulein Drechsler to have him down to Dringenstadt, and I will hear him play; and then if we find there is real talent, I might recommend him to the society for helping those who have a turn for music, but are not able to pay for instruction." Hans's eyes danced with delight at the idea, but in the meantime he knew his duty was to help his father as much as he could in his work as a wood-cutter. "But then some day," he thought, "who knows but I might be able to devote my time to music, and so it would all be brought about through the kindness of little Frida." Frida was a happy girl when a few days after the violinist's visit to the Forest she set out for Dringenstadt, to live for a month with Fräulein Drechsler, and with her go on to Baden-Baden. A few more lessons were got from Herr Müller, the selection of music she was to perform gone through again and again, and all was ready to start the next day. When Frida went to her room that evening, great was her amazement to see laid out on her bed a prettily-made plain black delaine morning dress, neatly finished off at neck and wrists with a pure white frill; and beside it a simple white muslin one for evening wear, with a white silk sash to match. These Miss Drechsler told her were a present from herself. Frida's young heart was filled with gratitude to the kind friend who was so thoughtful of her wants; and she wondered if a day would ever come when she would be able in any way to repay the kindnesses of the friends whom God had raised up for her. In the meantime Herr Müller had told the Stanfords, in whose house the concert was to be held, about the young girl violinist whose services he had secured. They were much interested in her, and were prepared to give a hearty welcome, not to her only, but to her friend Miss Drechsler, whom they had already met. Sir Richard Stanford, who was the head of an old family in the south of England, had with his wife come abroad for the health of their young and only daughter. Sir Richard and Lady Stanford were Christians, and interested themselves in the natives of the place where they were living, and themselves having highly-cultivated musical tastes, they took pleasure in helping on any of the poorer people there in whom they recognized the like talent. "Father," said his young daughter Adeline, as she lay one warm day on a couch under a shady tree in the garden of their lovely villa at Baden-Baden, "suppose we have a concert in our villa some evening; and let us try and find out some good amateur performers, and also engage two or three really good professionals to play, so that some of the poorer players who have not opportunities of hearing them may do so, and be benefited thereby." Anxious in any reasonable way to please their daughter, a girl not much older than Frida, Sir Richard and Lady Stanford agreed to carry out her suggestion; and calling their friend Herr Müller to their assistance, the private concert was arranged for, and our friend the child of the Black Forest invited to play at it. * * * * * The day fixed for the concert had come round, and Adeline Stanford, who was more than usually well, flitted here and there, making preparations for the evening. The concert-room had been beautifully decorated, and the supper-table tastefully arranged. Very pretty did Ada (as she was called) look. Her finely-cut features and graceful appearance all proclaimed her high birth, and the innate purity and unselfishness of her spirit were stamped on her face. Adeline Stanford was a truly Christian girl whose great desire was to make those around her happy. One thing she had often longed for was to have a companion of her own age to live with her and be as a sister to her. Her parents often tried to get such a one, but as yet difficulties had arisen which prevented their doing so. The very morning of the concert, Ada had said, "O mother, how pleasant it would be, when we are travelling about and seeing so many beautiful places, to have some young girl with us who would share our pleasure with us and help to cheer you and father when I have one of my bad days and am fit for nothing." Then she added with a smile, "Not that I would like it only for your sakes, but for my own as well. It would be nice to have a sister companion to share my lessons and duties with me, and bear with my grumbles when I am ill." Adeline's grumbles were so seldom heard that her parents could not help smiling at her words, though they acknowledged that her wish was a natural one; but then, where was the suitable girl to be found? "Ah! here we are at last," said Miss Drechsler, as she and Frida drove up to the door of the villa where the Stanfords lived. "How lovely it all is!" said Frida, who had been in ecstasies ever since she arrived in Baden. Everything was so new to her--not since her father's death had she been in a large town; and her admiration as they drove along the streets between the rows of beautiful trees was manifested by exclamations of delight. Once or twice something in the appearance of the shops struck her as familiar. "Surely," she said, "I have seen these before, but where I cannot tell. Ah! look at that large toy-shop. I know I have been there, and some one who was with me bought me a cart to play with. I think it must have been mamma, for I recollect that the purse she had in her hand was like one that I often got from her to play with. Oh, I am sure I have lived here before with father and mother!" As they neared the villa, the "woodland child" became more silent, and pressed closer to her friend's side. "Ah! here they come," exclaimed Adeline Stanford, as followed by her father and mother she ran downstairs to welcome the strangers. Miss Drechsler they had seen before, but the appearance of the girl from the Black Forest struck them much. They had expected to see a peasant child (for Herr Müller had told them nothing of her history nor spoken of her appearance), and when Frida had removed her hat and stood beside them in the drawing-room, they were astonished to see no country child, but a singularly beautiful, graceful girl, of refined appearance and lady-like manners. Her slight shyness soon vanished through Ada's unaffected pleasant ways, and erelong the two girls were talking to each other with all the frankness of youth, and long ere the hour for the concert came they were fast friends. [Illustration: "Come, Frida," she said, "let us play the last passage together." _See page 61._] Ada was herself a good pianist, and could play fairly well on the violin, and she found that Herr Müller had arranged that she and the girl from the Forest should perform together. "Come, Frida," she said, "let us play the last passage together; we must be sure we have it perfect." "Oh, how well you play!" she said when they had finished. "Has Herr Müller been your only teacher?" "Latterly he has," was the answer; "but when I was quite little I was well taught by my father." "Your father!" said Adeline; "does he play well? He cannot have had many advantages if he has to work in the woods all day." "Work in the woods! why, he never did that." Then she added, "Oh! I see you think Wilhelm Hörstel is my father; but that is not the case. My own dear father is dead, and Wilhelm found me left alone in the Black Forest." "Found in the Black Forest alone!" said Ada. Here was indeed a romance to take the fancy of an imaginative, impulsive girl like Adeline Stanford; and leaving Frida with her story unfinished, she darted off to her parents to tell them what she had heard. They also were much interested in her story, for they had been much astonished at the appearance of the girl from the Forest; and telling Ada that she had better go back to Frida, they turned to Miss Drechsler and asked her to tell them all she knew of the child's history. She did so, mentioning also her brown Bible and the way in which God was using its words amongst the wood-cutters in the Forest. * * * * * The concert was over, but Sir Richard, Lady Stanford, and Miss Drechsler lingered awhile (after the girls had gone to bed), talking over the events of the evening. "How beautifully your young friend played!" said Lady Stanford; "her musical talent is wonderful, but the girl herself is the greatest wonder of all. She cannot be the child of common people, she is so like a lady and so graceful. And, Miss Drechsler, can you tell us how she comes to be possessed of such a lovely mosaic necklace as she wore to-night? Perhaps it belongs to yourself, and you have lent it to her for the occasion." "No, indeed," was the answer; "it is not mine. It evidently belonged to the child's mother, and was on her neck the night she was found in the Forest." "Then," said Sir Richard, "it is just possible it may be the means of leading to the discovery of the girl's parentage, for the pattern is an uncommon one. She is a striking-looking child, and it is strange that her face haunts me with the idea that I have seen it somewhere before; but that is impossible, as the girl tells me she has never been in England, and I can never have met her here." "It is curious," said Miss Drechsler; "but I also have the feeling that I have seen some one whom she greatly resembles when I was in England living in Gloucestershire with the Wardens." "'Tis strange," said Lady Stanford, "that you should see a likeness to some one whom you have seen and yet cannot name, the more so that the face is not a common one." "She is certainly a remarkable child," continued Miss Drechsler, "and a really good one. She has a great love for her Bible, and I think tries to live up to its precepts." That evening Sir Richard and his wife talked together of the possibility of by-and-by taking Frida into their house as companion to Ada, specially whilst they were travelling about; and perhaps afterwards taking her with them to England and continuing her education there, so that if her relations were not found she might when old enough obtain a situation as governess, or in some way turn her musical talents to account. The day after the concert, Frida returned with Miss Drechsler to Dringenstadt, to remain a few days with her before returning to her Forest home. As they were leaving the Stanfords, and Frida had just sprung into the carriage which was to convey them to the station, a young man who had been present at the concert, and was a friend of the Stanfords, came forward and asked leave to shake hands with her, and congratulated her on her violin-playing. He was a good-looking young man of perhaps three-and-twenty years, with the easy manners of a well-born gentleman. After saying farewell, he turned into the house with the Stanfords, and began to talk about the "fair violinist," as he termed her. "Remarkably pretty girl," he said; "reminds me strongly of some one I have seen. Surely she cannot be (as I overheard a young lady say last night) just a wood-cutter's child." "No, she is not that," replied Sir Richard, and then he told the young man something of her history, asking him if he had observed the strange antique necklace which the girl wore. "No," he answered, "I did not. Could you describe it to me?" As Sir Richard did so a close observer must have seen a look of pained surprise cross the young man's face, and he visibly changed colour. "Curious," he said as he rose hastily. "It would be interesting to know how it came into her possession; perhaps it was stolen, who knows?" And so saying, he shook hands and departed. Reginald Gower was the only child of an old English family of fallen fortune. Rumour said he was of extravagant habits, but that he expected some day to inherit a fine property and large fortune from a distant relative. There were good traits in Reginald's character: he had a kind heart, and was a most loving son to his widowed mother, who doted on him; but a love of ease and a selfish regard to his own comfort marred his whole character, and above all things an increasing disregard of God and the Holy Scriptures was pervading more and more his whole life. As he walked away from Sir Richard's house, his thoughts were occupied with the story he had just heard of the child found in the Black Forest. He was quite aware of the fact that the girl's face forcibly reminded him of the picture of a beautiful girl that hung in the drawing-room of a manor-house near his own home in Gloucestershire. He knew that the owner of that face had been disinherited (though the only child of the house) on account of her marriage, which was contrary to the wishes of her parents, and that now they did not know whether she were dead or alive; though surely he had lately heard a report that, after years of bitter indignation at her, they had softened, and were desirous of finding out where she was, if still alive. And then what impressed him most was the curious coincidence (he called it) that round the neck of the girl in the picture was just such another mosaic necklace as the Stanfords had described the one to be which the young violinist wore. Was it possible, he asked himself, that she could be the child of the daughter of the manor of whom his mother had often told him? and if so, ought he to tell them of his suspicions--the more so that he had heard from his mother that the lady of the manor was failing in health, and longing, as she had long done, to see and forgive her child? If he were right in his surmises that this "woodland girl," as he had heard her called, was the daughter of the child of the manor, then even if the mother was dead, the young violinist would be received with open arms by both the grand-parents, and would (and here arose the difficulty in the young man's mind) inherit the estates and wealth which would have devolved on her mother, all of which, but for the existence of this woodland child, he, Reginald Gower, would have inherited as heir-at-law. "Well, there is no call on you to say anything about the matter, at all events at present," whispered the evil spirit in the young man's heart. "You may be mistaken. Why ruin your whole future prospects for a fancy? Likenesses are so deceptive; and as to the necklace, pooh! that is nonsense--there are hundreds of mosaic necklaces. Let the matter alone, and go your way. 'Eat, drink, and be merry.'" All very well; but why just then of all times in the world did the words of the Bible, taught him long ago by the mother he loved, come so vividly to his remembrance--"Do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with thy God;" and those words, heard more distinctly still, which his mother had taught him to call "the royal law of love"--"As ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them"? Good and bad spirits seemed fighting within him for the mastery; but alas, alas! the selfish spirit so common to humanity won the day, and Reginald Gower turned from the low, soft voice of the Holy Spirit pleading within him, and resolutely determined to be silent regarding his meeting with the child found in the Black Forest, and the strange circumstance of her likeness to the picture and her possession of the mosaic necklace. Once again the god of self, who has so many votaries in this world, had gained a great triumph, and the prince of this world got a more sure seat in the heart of the young man. But all unknown to him there was one "climbing for him the silver, shining stair that leads to God's great treasure-house," and claiming for her fatherless boy "the priceless boon of the new heart." Was such a prayer ever offered in vain or unanswered by Him who hath said, "If ye ask anything according to my will, I will do it. Ask, and ye shall receive"? CHAPTER IX. CHRISTMAS IN THE FOREST. "Christmas, happy Christmas, Sweet herald of good-will, With holy songs of glory, Brings holy gladness still." Summer had long passed, autumn tints had faded, and the fallen leaves lay thick in the Forest. For days a strong wind had blown, bending the high trees under its influence, and here and there rooting up the dark pines and laying them low. Through the night of which we are going to write, a heavy fall of snow had covered all around with a thick mantle of pure white. It weighed down the branches of the trees in the Forest, and rested on the piles of wood which lay ready cut to be carted off to be sold for fuel in the neighbouring towns. The roll of wheels, as the heavily-laden wagons passed, was heard no more. The song of the birds had ceased, though the print of their claws was to be seen on the snow. All was quiet. The silence of nature seemed to rest on the hearts of the dwellers in the Forest. In vain Elsie heaped on the wood; still the stove gave out little heat. She busied herself in the little room, but a weight seemed to be on her spirit, and she glanced from time to time uneasily at Frida, who sat listlessly knitting beside the stove. "Art ill, Frida?" she said at last. "All this morning hast thou sat there with that knitting on thy lap, and scarce worked a round at it. And your violin--why, Frida, you have not played on it for weeks, and even Hans notices it; and Wilhelm says to me no longer ago than this morning, 'Why, wife, what ails our woodland child? The spirit has all left her, and she looks white and tired-like.'" Frida, thus addressed, rose quickly from her seat, a blush, perchance of shame, colouring her cheeks. "O Mutter," she said, "I know I am lazy; but it is not because I am ill, only I keep thinking and wondering and--There! I know I'm wrong, only, Elsie dear, Mutter Elsie, I do want to know if any of my own people are alive, and where they live. I have felt like this ever since I was at Baden-Baden; and I have not heard from Adeline Stanford for such a long time, and I suppose, though she was so kind, she has forgotten me; and Miss Drechsler has left Dringenstadt for months; and, O Mutter, forgive me, and believe that I am not ungrateful for all that you and Wilhelm and the kind people in the Dorf have done for me. Only, only--" And the poor girl laid her head on Elsie's shoulder and cried long and bitterly. Elsie was much moved, she did so love the bright, fairy-like girl who had been the means of letting in the light of the gospel to her dark heart. "_Armes Kind_" (poor child), she said, soothing her as tenderly as she would have done her own blind Anna, had she been alive and in trouble, "I understand it all, dear." (And her kind woman heart had taken it all in.) "It is just like the little bird taken from its mother's nest, and put into a strange one, longing to be back amongst its like again, and content nowhere else. But, Frida, dost thou not remember that we read in the little brown book that our Lord hath said, 'Lo, I am with you alway'? Isn't that enough for you? No place can be very desolate, can it, if He be there?" In a moment after Elsie said these words, Frida raised her head and dried her eyes. Had she been forgetting, she asked herself, whose young servant she was? Was it right in a child of God to be discontented with her lot, and to forget the high privilege that God had given her in allowing her to read His Word to the poor people in the Forest? "I must throw off this discontented spirit," she said to herself; and turning to Elsie she told her how sorry she was for the way in which she had acted, adding, "But with God's help I will be better now." Frida was no perfect character, and, truth to tell, ever since her return from Baden-Baden, a sense of the incongruity of her circumstances had crept upon her. The tasteful surroundings, the cultured conversation, the musical evenings, the refinement of all around, had enchanted the young girl, and the humble lot and homely ways of her Forest friends had on her return to them stood out in striking contrast. And, alas! for the time being she refused to see in all these things the guiding hand of God. But after the day we have written of, things went better. The girl strove to conquer her discontent, and in God's strength she overcame, and her friends in the Forest had once more the pleasure of seeing her bright smile and hearing her sweet voice in song. Johann Schmidt had fallen asleep in Jesus with the words of Holy Scripture on his lips, blessing the "wood-cutters' pet," as he called her, for having, through the reading of God's Word, led him to Jesus. But though sickness had left the Forest, the severe cold and deep snow were very trying to the health of all the dwellers in it, and the winter nights were long and dreary. One day in December, Wilhelm Hörstel had business in Dringenstadt, and on his return home he gave Frida two letters which he had found lying at the post-office for her. They proved, to Frida's great delight, to be from her two friends Miss Drechsler and Adeline Stanford. Miss Drechsler's ran thus:-- "DEAR FRIDA,--I have been thinking very specially of you and your friends in the Forest, now that the cold winter days have come, and the snow, I doubt not, is lying thick on the trees and ground. Knowing how interested you are, dear, in all your kind friends there, I have thought how nice it would be for you, if Elsie and Wilhelm consent, to have a Christmas-tree for a few of your friends; and in order to carry this out, I enclose a money order to the amount of £2, and leave it to you and Elsie to spend it to the best of your power. "I am also going to write to Herr Steiger to send, addressed to you, ten pounds of tea, which I trust you to give from me to each of the householders--nine in number, I think--in the little Dorf, retaining one for your friends the Hörstels. Will you, dear Frida, be my almoner and do my business for me? I often think of and pray for you, and I know you do not forget me. I fear I will not be able to return to Dringenstadt till the month of May, as my sister is still very ill, and I feel I am of use to her.--Your affectionate friend. M. DRECHSLER." "Oh, isn't it good? isn't it charming?" said Frida, jumping about the room in her glee. "Mayn't we have the tree, Mutter? And will you not some day soon come with me to Dringenstadt and choose the things for it? Oh, I wish Hans were here, that I might tell him all about it! See, I have not yet opened Adeline's letter; it is so long since I heard from her. I wonder where they are living now. Oh, the letter is from Rome." Then in silence she read on. Elsie, who was watching her, saw that as she read on her cheeks coloured and her eyes sparkled with some joyful emotion. She rose suddenly, and going up to Elsie she said, "O Mutter, _was denken Sie?_ [what do you think?]. Sir Richard and Lady Stanford enclose a few lines saying they would like so much that I should, with your consent, spend some months with them at Cannes in the Riviera, as a companion to Adeline; and if you and Miss Drechsler agree to the plan, that I would accompany friends of theirs from Baden-Baden who propose to go to Cannes about the middle of January. And, Mutter," continued the girl, "they say all my expenses will be paid, and that I shall have Adeline's masters for music and languages, and be treated as if I were their daughter." Elsie looked up with tears in her eyes. "Well, Frida dear," she said, "it does seem a good thing for you, and right glad I am about it for your sake; but, oh, we will miss you sorely. But there! the dear Lord has told us in the book not to think only of ourselves, and I am sure that He is directing your way. Of course I'll speak to Wilhelm about it, for he has so much sense; but I don't believe he'll stand in your way." Frida, overcome with excitement, and almost bewildered with the prospect before her, had yet a heart full of sorrow at the thought of leaving the friends who had helped her in her time of need; and in broken words she told Elsie so, clinging to her as she spoke. Matters were soon arranged. Elsie and Wilhelm heartily agreed that Frida should accept Sir Richard and Lady Stanford's invitation. They only waited till an answer could be got from Miss Drechsler regarding the plan. And when that came, full of thankfulness for God's kindness in thus guiding her path, a letter of acceptance was at once dispatched to Cannes, and the child of the Forest only remained with her friends till the new year was a fortnight old. In the meantime, whilst snow lay thick around, Christmas-eve came on, and Frida and Elsie were busy preparing the tree. Of the true Christmas joy many in the Forest knew nothing, but in some hearts a glimmer at least of its true meaning was dawning, and a few of the wood-cutters loved to gather together and hear Frida read the story of the angelic hosts on the plain of Bethlehem singing of peace and good-will to men, because that night a Babe, who was Christ the Lord, was born in a manger. How much they understood of the full significance of the story we know not, but we _do_ know God's word never returns to Him void. The tree was ready at last. Elsie, Frida, and Hans had worked busily at it for days, Miss Drechsler's money had gone a long way, and now those who had prepared it thought there never had been such a beautiful tree. True, every child in the Forest had had on former occasions a tree of their own at Christmas time--none so poor but some small twig was lit up, though the lights might be few; but this one, ah, that was a different matter--no such tree as this had ever been seen in the Forest before. "Look, Hans," said Frida; "is not that doll like a little queen? And only see that little wooden cart and horse; won't that delight some of the children in the Dorf?--And, Mutter, we must hang up that warm hood for Frau Schenk, poor woman; and now here are the warm cuffs for the men, and a lovely pair for Wilhelm.--And, O Hans, we will not tell you what _you_ are to have; nor you either, Mutter. No, no, you will never guess. I bought them myself." And so, amid chattering and laughing, the tree got on and was finished; and all I am going to say about it is that for long years afterwards that particular Christmas-tree was remembered and spoken of, and in far other scenes--in crowded drawing-rooms filled with gaily-dressed children and grown-up people--Frida's eyes would fill as she thought of the joy that Christmas-tree had given to the dwellers in the Forest, both young and old. Ere that memorable night ended, Frida and Hans, who had prepared a surprise for every one, brought out their violins, and sang together in German a Christmas carol; and as the assembled party went quietly home through the snow-carpeted Forest, a holy influence seemed around them, as if the song of the angels echoed through the air, "Peace on earth, and goodwill to men." CHAPTER X. HARCOURT MANOR. "Shall not long-suffering in thee be wrought To mirror back His own? His _gentleness_ shall mellow every thought And look and tone." Three years and a half have passed since the Christmas-eve we have written of, and the golden light of a summer day was falling on the earth and touching the flowers in a lovely garden belonging to the old manor-house of Harcourt, in the county of Gloucester in England. In the lawn-tennis court, which was near the garden, preparations were making for a game. Young men in flannels and girls in light dresses were passing to and fro arranging the racquets and tightening the nets, some gathering the balls together and trying them ere the other players should arrive. It was a pleasant scene. Birds twittered out and in the ivy and rose covered walls of the old English manor-house, and the blithe laughter of the young people blended with the melodious singing of the choristers around. The company was assembling quickly, kind words were passing amongst friends, when there appeared on the scene an elderly lady of great elegance and beauty, to whom all turned with respectful greeting, and a hush came over all. Not that there was anything stern or severe in the lady's appearance to cause the hush, for a look of calmness and great sweetness was in her countenance, but through it there was also an appearance of sadness that touched every heart, and although it would not silence any true young joy, had certainly the effect of quieting anything boisterous or rude. The "gentle lady" of Harcourt Manor was the name Mrs. Willoughby had gone by for some years. It was pretty well known that a deep sorrow had fallen upon her whilst still in the prime of life; and those there were who said they could recall a time when, instead of that look of calm peace and chastened sorrow, there were visible on her face only haughty pride and fiery temper. It was hard to believe that that had ever been the case; but if so, it was but one of many instances in which God's declaration proved true, that though "no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous, nevertheless _afterward_ it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness." Mr. Willoughby, a man older by some years than his wife, was a man who had long been more feared than beloved; and the heavy trial, which had affected him no less than his wife, had apparently hardened instead of softening his whole nature, though a severe illness had greatly mitigated, it was thought, some of his sternness. The party of which we are writing was given in honour of the return from abroad of the heir of the manor, a distant relation of the Willoughbys, Mr. Reginald Gower, whom we have written of before. For five years he had been living abroad, and had returned only a month ago to the house of his widowed mother, the Hon. Mrs. Gower of Lilyfield, a small though pretty property adjoining Harcourt Manor. Just as Mrs. Willoughby entered the grounds, Reginald and his mother did so also, although by a different way, and a few minutes passed ere they met. The young man walked eagerly up to the hostess, a smile of real pleasure lighting up his handsome face at the sight of the lady he really loved, and who had from his boyish days been a kind friend to him. But as he greeted her, the look of sadness on her countenance struck him, and some secret thought sent a pang through him, and for the moment blanched his cheek. Was it possible, he asked himself, that he had it in his power, by the utterance of a few words, to dispel that look of deep sadness from the face of one of the dearest friends, next to his mother, whom he possessed? "Very glad to see you back again, Reginald," said Mrs. Willoughby. "But surely the southern skies have blanched rather than bronzed your cheeks. You were not wont to be so pale, Reggie. Ay, there you are more like your old self" (as a flush of colour spread over his face once more). "We hope you have come to stay awhile in your own country, for your dear mother has been worrying about your long absence.--Is it not so, Laura?" she said, addressing herself to Mrs. Gower, who now stood beside them. "Yes, indeed," was the reply; "I am thankful to have my boy home again. Lilyfield is a dull place without him." "Yes," said Mrs. Willoughby; "it is a dreary home that has no child in it." And as she spoke she turned her face away, that no one might see that her eyes were full of tears. But Reginald had caught sight of them, and turned away suddenly, saying, "Farewell for the present;" and raising his cap to the two ladies, he went off to join the players in the tennis-court, to all outward appearance one of the brightest and most light-hearted there. But he played badly that day, and exclamations from his friends were heard from time to time such as, "Why, Reginald, have you forgotten how to play tennis?" "Oh, look out, Gower; you are spoiling the game! It was a shame to miss that ball." Thus admonished, Reginald drew himself together, collected his thoughts, concentrated his attention on the game, and played well. But no sooner was the game over than once again there rose before his eyes the face and figure of the beautiful foundling of the Black Forest, with her strange story and her extraordinary likeness not only to the picture of the young girl in the drawing-room of the manor, but also to his gentle friend Mrs. Willoughby. Oh, if only he had never met the young violinist; if he could blot out the remembrance of her and be once more the light-hearted man he had been ere he heard her story from Sir Richard Stanford! He had been so sure of his sense of honour, his pure morality, his good principles, his high-toned soul ("True," he said to himself, "I never set up to be one of your righteous-overmuch sort of people, nor a saint like my noble mother and my friend Mrs. Willoughby") that he staggered as he thought of what he was now by the part he was acting. Dishonest, cruel, unjust--he, Reginald Gower; was it possible? Ah! his self-righteousness, his boasted uprightness, had both been put to the test and found wanting. "Well, Reggie, had you a pleasant time at the manor to-day?" said his mother to him as they sat together at their late dinner. "Oh, it was well enough," was the reply; but it was not spoken in his usual hearty tone, and his mother observed it, and also the unsatisfied look which crossed his face, and she wondered what had vexed him. A silence succeeded, broken at last by Reginald. "Mother," he said, "what is it that has deepened that look of sadness in Mrs. Willoughby's face since I last saw her? And tell me, is the story about their daughter being disinherited true? And is it certain that she is dead, and that no child (for I think it is said she married) survives her? If that were the case, and the child should turn up and be received, it would be awkward for me and my prospects, mother." "Reginald," Mrs. Gower replied, for she had heard his words with astonishment, "if I thought that there was the least chance that either Mrs. Willoughby's daughter or any child of hers were alive, I would rejoice with all my heart, and do all I could to bring about a reconciliation, even though it were to leave you, my loved son, a penniless beggar. And so I am sure would you." A flush of crimson rose to Reginald's brow at these words. Then his mother believed him to be all that he had thought himself, and little suspected what he really was. But then, supposing he divulged his secret, what about debts which he had contracted, and extravagant habits which he had formed? No! he would begin and save, retrench his expenses, and if possible get these debts paid off; and then he might see his way to speak of the girl in the Black Forest, if she was still to be found. So once more Reginald Gower silenced the voice of conscience with, "At a more convenient time," and abruptly changing the subject, began to speak of his foreign experiences, of the beauty of Italian skies, art, and scenery; and the conversation about Mrs. Willoughby's daughter passed from his mother's mind, and she became absorbed in her son's descriptions of the places he had visited. And as she looked at his handsome animated face, was it any wonder that with a mother's partiality she thought how favoured she was in the possession of such a child? Only--and here she sighed--ah, if only she were sure that this cherished son were a true follower of the Lord Jesus Christ, and that the Word of God, so precious to her own soul, were indeed a light to his feet and a lamp to his path! That evening another couple were seated also at their dinner-table, and a different conversation was being held. The master of Harcourt Manor sat at the foot of the table, opposite his gentle wife; but a troubled look was on his face, brought there very much by the thought that he noticed an extra shade both of weariness and sadness on the face of his wife. What could he do to dissipate it? he was asking himself. Anything, except speak the word which he was well aware would have the desired effect, and, were she still alive, restore to her mother's arms the child for whom she pined; but not yet was the strong self-will so broken down that those words could be spoken by him, not yet had he so felt the need of forgiveness for his own soul that he could forgive as he hoped to be forgiven. Did not his duty as a parent, and his duty towards other parents of his own rank in life, call upon him to make a strong stand, and visit with his righteous indignation such a sin as that of his only child and heiress marrying a man, however good, upright, and highly educated he might be, who yet was beneath her in station (although he denied that fact), and unable to keep her in the comfort and luxury to which she had been accustomed? "No, no, _noblesse oblige_;" and rather than forgive such a sin, he would blight his own life and break the heart of the wife he adored. Such was the state of mind in which the master of Harcourt Manor had remained since the sad night when his only child had gone off to be married at a neighbouring church to the young musician Heinz. But some months before Reginald Gower's return from abroad, during a severe illness which had brought him to the borderland, Mr. Willoughby was aroused to a dawning sense of his own sinfulness and need of pardon, which had, almost unconsciously to himself, a softening effect on his mind. His wife was the first to break the silence at the dinner-table. "Has not Reginald Gower grown more manly and older-looking since we saw him last?" she said, addressing her husband. A shade came over his face as he answered somewhat testily, "Oh, I think he looks well enough! Of course five years must have made him look older. But Reginald never was the favourite with me that he is with you, wife; a self-indulgent lad he always seems to me to be." "Well, but surely, husband" (once she always called him father, but that was years ago now), "he is a good son, and kind to his mother." "Well, well, I am glad to hear it. But surely we have some more interesting subject to discuss than Reginald Gower." Mrs. Willoughby sighed. Well she knew that many a time she had a conflict in her own heart to think well of the lad who was to succeed to the beautiful estates that by right belonged to their own child. Dinner over, she sought the quiet of her own boudoir, a room specially endeared to her by the many sweet memories of the hours that she and her loved daughter had spent together there. The day had been a trying one to Mrs. Willoughby. Not often nowadays had they parties at Harcourt Manor, and she was tired in mind and body, and glad to be a few minutes alone with her God. She sat for a few minutes lost in thought; then rising she opened a drawer, and took from it the case which contained the miniature of a beautiful girl, on which she gazed long and lovingly. The likeness was that of the daughter she had loved so dearly, and of whose very existence she was now in doubt. Oh to see or hear of her once more! Poor mother, how her heart yearned for her loved one! Only one could comfort her, and that was the God she had learned to love. She put down the picture and opened a little brown book, the very _fac-simile_ of the one which little Frida possessed, and which God had used and blessed in the Black Forest. Turning to the Hundred and third Psalm, she read the words, well underlined, "Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him." Then turning to the Gospel of Matthew, she read Christ's own blessed word of invitation and promise, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and _I_ will give you rest." Ah, how many weary, burdened souls have these words helped since they were spoken and then under the inspiration of the Holy Ghost written for the comfort of weary ones in all ages! Ere she closed the book, Mrs. Willoughby read the fourth verse of the Thirty-seventh Psalm: "Delight thyself in the Lord, and he shall give thee the desire of thine heart." Then kneeling down she poured out, as she so often did, the sorrows of her heart to her heavenly Father, and rose quieted in spirit. Ere she put away the little brown book she looked at it thoughtfully, recalling the day, not long before her daughter had left her, when they had together bought two Bibles exactly alike as regarded binding, but the one was in German, the other in English. The German Bible she had given to her daughter, who presented the English one to her mother. On the fly-leaf of the one she held in her hand were written the words, "To my much-loved mother, from Hilda." Ah, where was that daughter now? And if she still possessed the little brown German Bible, had she learned to love and prize its words as her mother had done her English Bible? Then carefully locking up her treasured book and portraits, she went downstairs, to wait in solitary grandeur for her husband's coming into the drawing-room. CHAPTER XI. IN THE RIVIERA. "My God, I thank Thee who hast made The earth so bright, So full of splendour and of joy, Beauty, and light; So many glorious things are here, Noble and right." More than four years had elapsed since Frida had left her home in the Black Forest. April sunshine was lighting up the grey olive woods and glistening on the dark-green glossy leaves of the orange-trees at Cannes, and playing on the deep-blue waters of the Mediterranean there. Some of these beams fell also round the heads of two young girls as they sat under the shade of a palm tree in a lovely garden there belonging to the Villa des Rosiers, where they were living. A lovely scene was before their eyes. In front of them, like gems in the deep-blue sea, were the isles of St. Marguerite and St. Honorat, and to the west were the beautiful Estrelle Mountains. Around them bloomed masses of lovely roses, and the little yellow and white noisettes climbed up the various tall trees in the garden, and flung their wealth of flowers in festoons down to the ground. The two girls gazed in silence for some minutes at the lovely scene. Then the youngest of the two, a dark-eyed, golden-haired girl, said, addressing her companion, "Is it not lovely, Adeline? The whole of nature seems to be rejoicing." "Yes, indeed," answered her companion. "And I am sure I owe much to the glorious sunshine, for, by God's blessing, it has been the means of restoring my health. I am quite well now, and the doctor says I may safely winter in England next season. Won't it be delightful, Frida, to be back in dear old England once more?" "Ah! you forget, Adeline, that I do not know the land of your birth, though I quite believe it was my mother's birthplace as well, and perhaps my own also. I do often long to see it, and fancy if I were once there I might meet with some of my own people. But then again, how could I, on a mere chance, make up my mind to leave my kind friends in the Forest entirely? It is long since I have heard of them. Do you know that I left my little Bible with them? I had taught Elsie and Hans to read it, and they promised to go on reading it aloud as I used to do to the wood-cutters on Sunday evenings. It is wonderful how God's Word has been blessed to souls in the Forest. And, Adeline, have I told you how kind your friend Herr Müller has been about Hans? He got him to go twice a week to Dringenstadt, and has been teaching him to play on the violin. He says he has real talent, and if only he had the means to obtain a good musical education, would become a really celebrated performer." "Yes, Frida," replied her friend; "I know more about all that than you do. Herr Müller has been most kind, and taken much trouble with Hans; but it is my own dear, kind father who pays him for so doing, and tells no one, for he says we should 'not let our left hand know what our right hand doeth.'" A silence succeeded, broken only by the noise of the small waves of the tideless Mediterranean at their feet. Then Frida spoke, a look of firm resolution on her face. "Adeline," she said, "your father and mother are the kindest of people, and God will reward them. This morning they told me that they mean to leave this place in a couple of weeks, and return by slow stages to England; and they asked me to accompany you there, and remain with you as your friend and companion as long as I liked. Oh, it was a kind offer, kindly put; but, Adeline, I have refused it." "Refused it, Frida! what do you mean?" said her friend, starting up. "You don't mean to say you are not coming home with us! Are you going back to live with those people in the little hut in the Forest, after all your education and your love of refined surroundings? Frida, it is not possible; it would be black ingratitude!" "O Adeline, hush! do not pain me by such words. Listen to me, dear, for one moment, and do not make it more difficult for me to do the right thing. Your parents have given their consent to my plan, and even said they think it is the right plan for me." "Well, let me hear," said Adeline, in a displeased tone, "what it is you propose to do. Is it your intention really to go back to the Forest and live there?" "Not exactly that, Adeline. I have thought it all over some time ago, and only waited till your parents spoke to me of going to England to tell them what I thought was my duty to do. And this is what has been settled. If you still wish it, as your parents do, I shall remain here till you leave, and accompany you back to Baden-Baden, where your parents tell me they intend going for a week or so. From there I propose returning to my friends in the Forest, not to live there any more, but for a few days' visit to see them who are so dear to me. After that I shall live with Miss Drechsler. Her sister is dead, and has left her a good deal of money, and she is now going to settle in Dringenstadt, and have a paid companion to reside with her. And, Adeline, that situation she has offered to me." "Well, Frida," interrupted her friend, "did not I wish you to be my companion? and would not my parents have given you any sum you required?" "O Adeline dear, hush, I pray of you, and let me finish my story. You _know_ that it is not a question of money; but you are so well, dear, that you do not really _need_ me. You have your parents and friends. Miss Drechsler is alone, and I can never forget all she has done for me. Then I am young, and cannot consent to remain in dependence even on such dear friends as you are. I intend giving lessons in violin-playing at Dringenstadt and its neighbourhood. Miss Drechsler writes she can secure me two or three pupils at once, and she is sure I will soon get more, as the new villas near Dringenstadt are now finished, and have been taken by families. And then, Adeline, living there I shall be near enough to the Forest to carry on the work which I believe God has called me to, in reading to these poor people the words of life. And at Miss Drechsler's I mean to live, as long as she requires me, _unless_ I am claimed by any of my own relations, which, as you know, is a most unlikely event. I believe I am right in the decision I have come to. So once again I pray of you, dear Adeline, not to dissuade me from my purpose. You know how much I love you all, and how grateful I am to you. Only think how ignorant I would have been had not your dear parents taken me and got me educated, as if I had been their own child. Oh, I can never, never forget all that you have done for me!" Adeline's warm heart was touched, and her good sense convinced her, in spite of her dislike to the plan, that her friend was right. "Well, Frida," she said, after a minute or two's silence, "if you feel it really to be your duty, I can say no more. Only you must promise me that you will come sometimes, say in the summer time, and visit us." Frida smiled. "That would be charming, Adeline; but we will not speak of that at present. Only say you really think I am right in the matter. I have not forgotten to ask God's guidance, and you know it is written in the Word of God which we both love so well, 'In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.' But come; we must go now and get ready, for we are to go to-day to the Cap d'Antibes." And in the delights of that lovely drive, and in strolling amongst the rocks honeycombed till they look almost like lacework, the two friends forgot the evils of the impending separation. In the meantime Frida was warmly remembered by her friends in the Forest, and their joy when they heard that she was once more coming to live near them was unbounded. "Ah," said Elsie, as she bent her head over a sweet little year-old girl whom she held on her lap, "now I shall be able to show her my little Gretchen, and she will, I know, sing to her some of the sweet hymns she used to sing to my little Annchen, and she will read to us again, Wilhelm, out of the little brown book which I have taken great care of for her." "Ay," put in Hans, "and Mütterchen, she will bring her violin, and she and I will play together some of the music you and father love; and she will, I know, be glad to hear that through Sir Richard Stanford and Herr Müller I am to become a pupil in the Conservatorium of Leipsic. I can hardly believe it is true." "Ay, my son, thou art a lucky one, and ye owe it all to Frida herself. Was it not she who told Sir Richard about your love of music, and got Herr Müller to promise to hear you play? Ah! under the good God we owe much to the 'woodland child.'" And so it fell out that after a few more happy weeks spent at Cannes and Grasse, Frida found herself once more an inmate of Miss Drechsler's pretty little house at Dringenstadt, and able every now and then to visit and help her friends in the Forest. "Ah, Mütterchen," she said as she threw herself into Elsie's arms, "here I am again your foundling child, come to live near you, and so glad to see you all once more.--And Hans, why, Hans, you look a man now; and oh, I am so pleased you are to go to Leipsic! You must bring down your violin now and then to Miss Drechsler's, and let us play together. I am sure you will be a great musician some day, Hans." The young man (for such he now was) looked much gratified at his friend's hopeful words, and said, "If I do turn that, I shall owe it all to you, Frida." But the girl interrupted his speech by saying, "Now, Mutter, let me see little Gretchen;" and next minute she was stooping over the bed where lay the sleeping child--the very bed whence the spirit of the blind child whom she had loved so dearly had taken its flight to the heavenly land. "What a darling she looks, Elsie! Oh, I am glad God has sent you this little treasure! She will cheer you when Hans has gone away and her father is all day in the Forest." "Yes," said Elsie, "she is indeed a gift from God; and you, Frida, must teach her, as you taught her parents and Anna, the 'way of life.' And O Frida, thou must go down to the Dorf, for all the people there are so eager to see thee once more. And now that thou hast grown a young lady, they all wonder if thou still beest like the woodland child, and wilt care about the like of them, or if perchance thou hast forgotten them." "Forgotten them! O Elsie, how could they think so? Could I ever forget how they and you gave of their little pittance to maintain the child found in the Black Forest, and how you all lavished kindness on her who had neither father nor mother to care for her? I must go at once and ask them what I have done that they should have thought so badly of me even for a minute. Don't you know, Mutter, that I have given up the going to England to live with Miss Drechsler at Dringenstadt, in order that I may often see my dear friends in the Forest; and that shall be my life-work, unless"--and here the girl looked sad--"any of my own friends find me out and claim me." "Hast had any clue to them, Frida?" asked Elsie. "Alas, no!" said the girl, "none whatever; and yet I have seen a great number of people during these few years. And I have always worn my necklace, which, being such a peculiar one, might have attracted attention and led to the discovery of my parentage; but except one Englishman, whom I met at the Stanfords', who said I reminded him of some one whom he had seen, there has been nothing to lead me to suppose that any one thought of me except as a friend of the Stanfords. But, Elsie, though I am not discontented, still at times there is the old yearning for my own people. But God knows best, and I am not going to waste my life in useless longings. I have got five pupils in Dringenstadt already, and several more applications, and next week I begin my life-work as a teacher of the violin.--Don't you envy me, Hans?" "That is what I do, Fräulein Frida," said Hans. Somehow as he looked at the fair young lady the old familiar name of Frida seemed too familiar to use. Frida turned quickly round on him as he uttered the word "Fräulein." "Why, Hans--for I will not call thee Herr--to whom did you speak? There is no Fräulein here--just your old sister playmate Frida; never let me hear you address me again by such a title. Art thou not my brother Hans, the son of my dear friends Elsie and Wilhelm?" and a merry laugh scattered Hans's new-born shyness. And to the end of their lives Frida and Hans remained as brother and sister, each rejoicing in the success of the other in life; and in after years they had many a laugh over the day that Hans began to think that he must call his sister friend, the companion of his childhood, his instructor in much that was good, by the stiff title of Fräulein Frida. Ere Frida left the hut that day, they all knelt together and thanked God for past mercies, and it was Elsie's voice that in faltering accents prayed that Frida might still be used in the Forest to lead many to the knowledge of Christ Jesus through the reading of the Word of God. CHAPTER XII. IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS. "There are lonely hearts to cherish While the days are going by, There are weary souls who perish While the days are going by. If a smile we can renew, As our journey we pursue, Oh, the good we all may do While the days are passing by!" The London season was at its height, but though the pure sunshine was glistening on mountain-top and green meadow, and beginning to tinge the corn-fields with a golden tint in country places, where peace and quietness seemed to reign, and leafy greenery called on every one who loved nature to come and enjoy it in its summer flush of beauty, yet the great city was still filled not only by those who could not leave its crowded streets, but by hundreds who lingered there in the mere pursuit of pleasure, for whom the beauties of nature had no charm. On one peculiarly fine day a group of people were gathered together in the drawing-room of a splendid mansion in one of the West End crescents. There was evidently going to be a riding party, for horses held by grooms stood at the door, and two at least of the ladies in the drawing-room wore riding habits. In conversation with one of these--a pretty fair-haired girl of some twenty years--stood Reginald Gower. "Will your sister ride to-day, do you know?" he was asking, in somewhat anxious tones. "Gertie? No, I think not; she has a particular engagement this morning. I don't exactly know what it is, but she will not be one of the party. So, Mr. Gower, you and Arthur Barton will have to put up with only the company of myself and Cousin Mary." Ere the young man could reply, the door opened, and a girl dressed in a dark summer serge and light straw hat entered. She carried a small leather bag in her hand, and was greeted with exclamations of dismay from more than one of the party. "Are you going slumming to-day, Gertie? What a shame! And the sun so bright, and yet a cool air--just the most delightful sort of day for a ride; and we are going to call on your favourite aunt Mary." "Give her my love then," replied Gertie, "and tell her I hope to ride over one of those days and see her. No, I cannot possibly go with you to-day, as I have an engagement elsewhere." "An engagement in the slums! Who ever heard of such a thing?" said her sister and cousin together. "I am sorry to disappoint you, Lily dear, and my cousin also; but I had promised two or three poor people to see them to-day before I knew anything of this riding party, and I am sure I am right not to disappoint them.--And, Mr. Gower, I know your mother at least would not think I was wrong." "That is true, Miss Warden. My mother thinks far more about giving pleasure to the poor than she does about the wishes of the rich. But could you not defer this slumming business till to-morrow, and give us the pleasure of your company to-day?" But she shook her head, and assuring them they would get on very well without her, she turned to leave the room, saying as she did so, "O Lily, do find out if it is true that Aunt Mary's old governess, Miss Drechsler, of whom we have all heard so much, is coming to visit her soon, and is bringing with her the young violinist who lives with her, and who people say was a child found in the Black Forest. I do so want to know all about her. We must try and get her to come here some evening, and ask Dr. Heinz, who plays so well upon the violin, to meet her; and you also, Mr. Gower, for I know you dearly love music." Had Lily not turned quickly away just then, she would have noticed the uneasy, startled look which crossed Reginald Gower's face at her words. Was this woodland child, he asked himself, to be always crossing his path? He had hoped he had heard the last of her long ago, and some years had elapsed since he had seen her. The circumstance of the likeness to the picture in Harcourt Manor, and the coincidence of the necklace, had _almost_ (but as he had not yet quite killed his conscience), not _altogether_, escaped his memory; and still, as at times he marked the increasing sadness on Mrs. Willoughby's countenance, he felt a sharp pang of remorse; and since he had known and begun to care for Gertie Warden, her devoted Christian life and clear, truthful spirit were making him more conscious than ever of his own selfishness and sin. True, he had no reason to suppose that she cared for him in any way except as the son of his mother, whom she dearly loved, but his vanity whispered that perhaps in time she might do so; and if that came to pass, and he found that his love was returned, _then_ he would tell her all, and consult with her as to what course he should follow. Lately, however, he had become uneasy at the many references which Lily Warden made to a Dr. Heinz, who seemed to be often about the house, and of whom both sisters spoke in high terms as a Christian man and pleasant friend. What if he should gain the affection of Gertie? Heinz! something in the name haunted him. Surely he had heard it before, and in connection with the young violinist. And now was it possible that that beautiful girl was really coming amongst them, and that his own mother might meet her any day? for she was often at the house, not only of the Wardens, but also of their aunt Mary, with whom the girl was coming to stay. No wonder that during the ride Lily Warden thought Mr. Gower strangely preoccupied and silent. She attributed it all to his disappointment at her sister's absence, and felt vexed that such should be the case, as well she knew that in the way he wished Gertie would never think of Reginald Gower; but she felt sorry for him, and tried to cheer him up. Through that long ride, with summer sunshine and summer beauties around him, Reginald saw only one face, and it was not that of Gertie Warden, but that of the young girl whom he had heard play on the violin at the house of the Stanfords at Baden-Baden. Oh, if he had only had courage then to write home and tell all that he had heard about her! And in vivid colours there rose before his mind all the disgrace that would attach to him when it became known that he knew of the girl's existence and kept silence. The reason of his so doing would be evident to many. And what, oh, what, he was asking himself, would his loved, high-souled mother think of her son? Surely the words of the Bible he heeded so little were true, "The way of transgressors is hard," and his sin was finding him out. As soon as the first greetings were over, and the party were seated at the lunch-table in Miss Warden's pretty cottage situated on the banks of the Thames, Lily said, "O Aunt Mary, is it true what Gertie has heard--that Miss Drechsler and a beautiful young violinist with a romantic story are coming to visit you? Gertie is so anxious to know all about her, for neither she nor any of us can believe that she can excel Dr. Heinz in violin-playing; and, indeed, you know how beautifully Gertie herself plays, and she often does so now with Dr. Heinz himself." "Yes, Lily dear, I am glad to say it is all true. I expect both Miss Drechsler and her young _protégé_ next week to visit me for a short time, after which they propose to go to the Stanfords at Stanford Hall, who take a great interest in the young violinist--in fact, I believe she lived for three or four years with them, and was educated along with their own daughter.--By the way, Mr. Gower, you must tell your mother that her old friend Miss Drechsler is coming to me, and I hope she will spend a day with me when she is here." "I am sure she will be delighted to do so, Miss Warden," replied the young man; but even as he spoke his cheek blanched as he thought of all that might come of his mother meeting the young violinist. Reginald rode back with his friends to their house, but could not be induced to enter again, not even to hear how Gertie had got on with her slumming. "Not to-day," he said; "I find I must go home. I don't doubt your sister has been well employed--more usefully than we mere pleasure-seekers have been," he added, in such a grave tone that Lily turned her head to look at him, as she stood on the door-steps, and inquire if he were quite well. "Quite so, thanks," he replied, in his usual gay tone; "only sometimes one does think there is a resemblance between the lives the butterflies live and ours. Confess it now," he said laughingly; but Lily was in no thoughtful mood just then, so her only reply was,-- "Speak for yourself, Mr. Gower. I have plenty of useful things to do, just as much so as making a guy of myself and going a-slumming, only I am often too lazy to do them," and with a friendly nod she followed her cousin into the house. Reginald rode slowly homeward, and, contrary to his usual custom, went to his own room to try to collect his thoughts and make out in what form he would deliver Miss Warden's message to his mother. It was very evident to him that the meshes into which his own sins had brought him were tightening around him. Turn which way he liked, there was no escape. At least only one that he could see, and that was, that if the secret came out, and the young violinist of the Black Forest were proved to be the grandchild of the Willoughbys, he should keep silence as to his ever having known anything of the matter. The more he thought of it, the more that seemed his wisest course; and even if it should come out that he had heard her play, that would tell nothing. Yet his conscience was ill at ease. Suppose he did so, what of his own self-respect? Could he ever regain it? Fortune would be lost, and all ease of mind gone for ever. Then again, if he told his story now, it would only be because he knew that in any case it would be disclosed, and shame would await him. How could he ever bear the reproaches of his kind friends the Willoughbys, and more than all, the deep grief such a disclosure would cause to his loved mother? In that hour Reginald Gower went through a conflict of mind which left a mark on his character for life. But, alas! once more evil won the day, and he resolved that not _yet_ would he tell all he knew; but some day _soon_ he might. But once again, as he rose to go downstairs, Bible words came into his mind: "_To-day_, while it is called to-day, harden not your hearts." O happy mother, to have so carefully stored the young heart with the precious words of God! Long they may be as the seed under ground, apparently forgotten and useless, yet surely one day they will spring up and bear fruit. True even in this application are the words of the poet,-- "The vase in which roses have once been distilled You may break, you may shiver the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will cling to it still." Well may we thank God for all mothers who carefully teach the words of Holy Scripture to their children. That day Reginald delivered Miss Warden's message to his mother, but did not mention the young girl who was to accompany her. "Oh, I will be delighted to see Miss Drechsler again," said his mother. "I liked her so much when she was governess at the Wardens'. We all did; indeed, she was more companion than governess, and indeed was younger than I was, and just about Mary Warden's own age. I remember well going one day with Mrs. Willoughby's daughter, Hilda, to a musical party at the Wardens', and how charmed Miss Drechsler was at the way Hilda played the violin, which was not such a common thing then as it is now." "The violin?" queried Reginald. "Did Miss Willoughby play on the violin?" "Oh yes! she was very musical, and that was one of the great attractions to her in the man she married. He, too, was a wonderful violinist--Herr Heinz they called him. He was, I believe, a much-respected man and of good family connections, but poor, and even taught music to gain a livelihood." "Heinz!" Reginald was repeating to himself. Then he had heard that name before first in connection with the child of the Black Forest; but he only said, "It is curious that I have lately heard that name from the young Wardens, who speak a great deal of a Dr. Heinz. He also is a good violinist. Can he be any relation, do you think, of the one you allude to?" "Possibly he may; but the name is not at all an uncommon German one. By the way, I heard a report (probably a false one) that Gertie Warden is engaged to be married to a Dr. Heinz--a very good man, they say. Have you heard anything of it?" "I never heard she was engaged, nor do I think it is likely; but I have heard both her and her sister speak of this Dr. Heinz, and I know it is only a Christian man that Gertie would marry." Having said so much, he quickly changed the subject and talked of something else. The mother's eye, however, was quick to notice the shade on his brow as he spoke, and she was confirmed in the opinion she had formed for some time that the very idea of Gertie Warden's engagement was a pain to him. As he rose to go out he turned to say, "Remember, mother, that I have given you Miss Warden's message." CHAPTER XIII. IN THE SLUMS. "In dens of guilt the baby played, Where sin and sin _alone_ was made The law which all around obeyed." The summer sunshine, of which we have written as glistening among the "leafy tide of greenery," and on the ripening corn-fields and gaily-painted flowers in the country, was penetrating also the close streets of one of the poorest parts of London, cheering some of the hearts of the weary toiling ones there, into whose lives little sunshine ever fell, and for a while, it may be, helping them to forget the misery of their lot, or to some recalling happier days when they dwelt not in a narrow, crowded street, but in a country village home, amidst grassy meadows and leafy trees, feeling, as they thought of these things, though they could not have put the feeling into words, what a poet gone to his rest says so beautifully,-- "That sorrow's crown of sorrow Is remembering happier things." But the very light that cheered revealed more clearly the misery, dirt, and poverty around. In one such street, where little pale-faced children, without the merriment and laughter of childhood, played in a languid, unchildlike way, sickness prevailed; for fever had broken out, and indoors suffering ones tossed on beds, if they could be so called, of sickness. At the door of a small room in one of the houses stood a girl of some ten or eleven years old, looking out anxiously as if in expectation of some one, turning every now and then to address a word to her mother, who lay in the small room on a bed in the corner. "He baint a-comin' yet," she said, "'cos I knows his step; but he'll be 'long soon--ye see if he don't! I knows as how he will, 'cos he's that kind; so don't ye fret, mother--the doctor 'ill be here in no time. There now! Susan Keats giv' me some tea for ye, and I'll get the water from her and bring you some prime and 'ot--ye see if I don't!" So saying, the child ran off and went into a room next door, and entering begged for some "'ot water." "Ye see," she said, addressing a woman poorly clad like herself, "she be a-frettin', mother is, for the doctor, for she's badly, is mother, to-day, and she thinks mayhap he'll do her good." When the child returned to her mother's room, she found Dr. Heinz (for it was he) sitting by her mother's side and speaking kindly to her. He turned round as the child entered. "Come along, Gussie," he said; "that's right--been getting mother some tea. You'll need to tend her well, for she's very poorly to-day." "Ay, ay," muttered the woman, "that's true, that's true. Be kind to Gussie, poor Gussie, when I am gone, doctor. The young lady--Miss Warden be her name--she said she'd look after her, she did." The doctor bent over the dying woman and said some comforting words, at which the woman's face brightened. "God bless ye," she said, "for promising that. Oh, but life's been weary, weary sin' I came 'ere--work, work, and that not always to be 'ad. But it's true, sir, what ye told me. He says even to the like o' me, 'Come unto me, and I will give you rest;' and He's done it, I think. Ye'll come again, sir, won't ye?" After a few moments of prayer with the poor woman, and giving her some medicine to allay her restlessness, Dr. Heinz left the room. From house to house in the fever-stricken street he went, ministering alike to body and soul, often feeling cast down and discouraged, overwhelmed at times by the vice and poverty of all around. The gospel had never reached these poor neglected ones. The very need of a Saviour was by the great majority of them unfelt. Love many of them had never experienced. The evil of sin they did not comprehend. Brought up from babyhood in the midst of iniquity, they were strangers to the very meaning of righteousness and virtue. No wonder that the heart of the doctor was oppressed as he went out and in amongst them. Yet he felt assured that by love they could be won to the God of love, and that only the simple gospel of Jesus Christ dying in their room and stead, told in the power of the Holy Ghost, could enlighten their dark souls and prove the true lever to raise them from their sin and misery. And so, whilst alleviating pain, he tried when possible to say a word from the book--God's revealed will, which alone "maketh wise unto salvation." More than once on the day we write of, as he went from house to house, the vision of a young girl whom he had often met going about doing good flitted before his eyes. Gertie Warden and Dr. Heinz had first met in one of those abodes of wretchedness, where she stood by a bed of sickness trying to comfort and help a dying woman. Only two years before that and Gertie was just ready to throw herself into the vortex of the gay society in which the other members of her family mingled; but ere she did so the voice of the Holy Ghost spake to her as to so many others, and showed her how true life was only to be found in Christ and lived in Him. Henceforth she lived no longer a life of mere worldliness, but a life spent in the service of Him who had loved her and given Himself for her; and then her greatest joy was found in visiting the poor, the afflicted, the tried--ay, and often the oppressed ones of earth. In her own family she found great opposition to her new mode of life; but the Lord raised up a kind helpful friend to her in the person of the gentle, sorely-tried Mrs. Willoughby of Harcourt Manor. To her Gertie confided all her difficulties as regarded her district visiting (or, as her sister called it, her slumming), and many a word of sympathy and wise counsel she got from her friend. One day she spoke of Dr. Heinz. "You cannot think how much the people love him," she said, "and trust him. 'Ah!' I heard a poor woman say the other day, 'if only all were like him, it's a better world it would be than it's now.' And do you know," she went on, "he is actually interesting my father and Aunt Mary in some of his poor patients. And he likes to come to our house sometimes in the evenings and play on the violin along with us; and he does play beautifully. I wish you knew him, dear Mrs. Willoughby, for I know you would like him. But, dear friend, are you not well?" For at the name of Heinz a deadly faintness had overcome Mrs. Willoughby. Was not that the name of her daughter's husband? and if he should prove to be in any way related to him, might he not be able to give some information regarding her loved one? But she composed herself, and in answer to Gertie's question she replied,-- "It is nothing, dear, only a passing weakness. I am all right now. Tell me something more of this Dr. Heinz and the Christian work he is engaged in. He must be a German, I fancy, from his name." "Yes, he is," replied Gertie; "he was speaking to me lately about his relations. He was born in Germany, and lived there till he was a boy of seven years old. Then his parents died, and he came to this country with an older brother who was a wonderful violinist, and he taught him to play; but many years ago this brother married and returned to Germany, leaving him here in the charge of some kind friends; and though at first he heard from him from time to time, he has ceased to write to him for some years, and he fears he is dead. He knows he had a child, for his last letter mentioned her, but he knows nothing more." Again that terrible pallor overcame Mrs. Willoughby, but this time she rose and said in an excited tone,-- "I must see this Dr. Heinz. Could you bring him to see me, Gertie, and soon? Say to him that I think, although I am not sure, that I knew a relation of his some years ago." "Oh yes, Mrs. Willoughby; I will gladly ask him to come and see you. Indeed, I was just going to ask if you would allow him to call--" Here the girl hesitated a moment, then said, "You see, it was only last night, but I am engaged to be married to Dr. Heinz, and do wish you to know and love him for my sake." Love one of the name of Heinz! Could she do so, the gentle lady was asking herself. What if he should prove to be the brother of the man who had caused her such bitter sorrow? But at that moment there rose to her remembrance the words of Scripture, said by Him who suffered from the hand of man as never man suffered, "Forgive, as ye would be forgiven," and who illustrated that forgiveness on the cross when He prayed for His deadly enemies, "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do." The momentary struggle was over. Mrs. Willoughby raised her head, and said in a calm, quiet tone,-- "God bless you, Gertie; and may your union be a very happy one. I should like to see Dr. Heinz." And so it came to pass that ere many days had elapsed, Dr. Heinz was ushered into Mrs. Willoughby's drawing-room in the London house which they had taken for the season. He was hardly seated before she said,-- "Yes, oh yes--there can be no mistake--you certainly are the brother of the man who married my daughter. Tell me, oh tell me," she added, "what you know of her and of him!" Dr. Heinz was strongly moved as he looked on the face of the agitated mother. "Alas!" he said, "I grieve to say I can tell you nothing. I have not heard for several years from my brother, and at times I fear he must be dead. My poor brother, how I loved him! for, Mrs. Willoughby, a gentler or more kind-hearted man never lived. You may be sure, however much your daughter was to blame in marrying any one against her parents' wishes, she found in my brother a truly loving, kind husband." "Thank God for that!" she replied. "But now tell me, was there a child? Gertie spoke as if you knew there was one." "Certainly there was. In the last letter I had from my brother, he spoke of the great comfort their little girl (who was the image of her mother) was to them--his little Frida he called her, and at that time she was three or four years old. Oh yes, there was a child. Would that I could give you more particulars! but I cannot; only I must mention that he said, 'I am far from strong, and my beloved wife is very delicate.'" "Ah," said the mother, "she was never robust; and who knows what a life of hardship she may have had to live! O Hilda, Hilda! Dr. Heinz, is there no means by which we may find out their whereabouts? I have lately had some advertisements put into various papers, praying them to let us know where they are; but no answer has come, and now I am losing all hope." "Would that I could comfort you!" he said; "but I also fear much that we have lost the clue to their whereabouts. I will not cease to do all I can to trace them; but, dear Mrs. Willoughby, we believe that there is One who knows all, whose eyes are everywhere, and we can trust them to Him. If I should in any way hear of our friends, you may be sure I shall not be long of communicating with you. In the meantime it has been a great pleasure to me to have made the acquaintance of one whom my dear Gertrude has often spoken to me of as her kindest of friends." Then Dr. Heinz told of the work in which he was engaged amongst the poor, sorrowful, and also too often sinful ones, in the East End of London. Before Dr. Heinz left, Mrs. Willoughby showed him the little brown English Bible which her daughter had given to her not long before her marriage, and told him about the German one, which looked exactly the same outwardly, which she had given to her daughter. "Strange," said Dr. Heinz, as he held the little brown book in his hand, "that in the last letter I ever received from my brother, he told me of the blessing which he had got through reading God's Word in a brown Bible belonging to his wife, adding that she also had obtained blessing through reading it." "Praise God!" said Mrs. Willoughby; "then my prayers have been answered, that Hilda, like her mother, might be brought to the knowledge of God. Now I know that if we meet no more on earth we shall meet one day in heaven.--I thank Thee, O my God!" It was with a heart full of emotion that Dr. Heinz found himself leaving Mrs. Willoughby's house. Oh, how he longed that he could hear tidings of his brother and his wife, and so be able to convey comfort to the heart of the sorrowful lady he had just left! As he was walking along, lost in thought, he came suddenly face to face with Reginald Gower, whom he had lately met several times at the Wardens', and to whom he suspected the news of his engagement to Gertrude Warden would bring no pleasure; but from the greeting which Reginald gave him he could not tell whether or not he knew of the circumstance. He accosted him with the words: "What are you doing, doctor, in this part of the town? I thought it was only in the narrow, dirty slums, and not in the fashionable part of the west of London, that you were to be found; and that it was only the sick and sorrowful, not the gay, merry inhabitants of Belgravia that you visited." "Do you think then," replied Dr. Heinz, "that the sick, sad, and sorrowful are only to be found in the narrow, dark streets of London? What if I were to tell you that although there is not poverty, there are sorrowful, sad, unsatisfied hearts to be found in as great numbers in these fashionable squares and terraces as in the places you speak of; and that the votaries of fashion, whom you style gay and merry, are too often the most wretched of mankind, and that beneath the robes of silk and satin of fashionable life there beats many a breaking heart? You see that splendid square I have just left. Well, in one of the handsomest houses there dwells one of the sweetest Christian ladies I have ever met. She has everything that wealth and the love of friends can give her, yet I believe she is slowly dying of a broken heart, longing to know if a dearly-loved daughter, who made a marriage which her parents did not approve of, years ago, is still alive; and no one can tell her whether she or any child of hers still survives. I know all the circumstances, and would give a great deal to be able to help her. He would be a man to be envied who could go to that sweet mother, Mrs. Willoughby, and say, I can tell you all about your daughter, or, if she is not alive, of her child. O Reginald Gower, never say that there are not sad hearts in the west part of London, though you may see only the smiling face and dry eyes. You remember the words of the gifted poetess,-- 'Go weep with those who weep, you say, Ye fools! I bid you pass them by, Go, weep with those whose hearts have bled What time their eyes were dry.' But I must go. Have you not a word of congratulation for me, Reginald?" "Why?" was the amazed reply; "and for what?" "Oh," said Dr. Heinz, somewhat taken aback, "do you not know that I am engaged to be married to Gertrude Warden?" "You are?" was the reply, with a look of amazement that Dr. Heinz could not fail to notice; "well, I rather think you are a lucky fellow. But"--and a look of deep sorrow crossed his face as he spoke--"I do believe you are worthy of her. Tell her I said so. And would you mind saying good-bye to her and her sister from me, as I may not be able to see them before starting for America, which I shall probably do in a week; and should you again see the Mrs. Willoughby you have been speaking of, and whom I know well, please tell her I could not get to say farewell to her, as my going off is a sudden idea. Good-bye, Dr. Heinz. May you and Miss Gertrude Warden be as happy as you both deserve to be;" and without another word he turned away. Dr. Heinz looked after him for a moment, then shook his head somewhat sadly, saying to himself, "There goes a fine fellow, if only he had learned of Him 'who pleased not himself.' Reginald is a spoiled character, by reason of self-pleasing. I must ask Gertrude how he comes to know Mrs. Willoughby, and why he is going off so suddenly to America, although I may have my suspicions as to the reason for his so doing." CHAPTER XIV. THE OLD NURSE. "It chanced, eternal God, that chance did guide." "How are you getting on with your packing, Frida?" said Miss Drechsler, as the girl, wearing a loose morning-dress, looked into the room where her friend was sitting. "Oh, very well," was the answer; "I have nearly finished. When did you say the man would come for the trunks?" "I expect him in about an hour. But see, here comes the post; look if there is one for me from Miss Warden. I thought I would get one to tell me if any of her friends would meet us at Dover." Frida ran off to meet the postman at the door, and returned in triumph, bearing two letters in her hand. "One for you, auntie" (she always now addressed Miss Drechsler by that name), "and one for myself. Mine is from Ada Stanford, and yours, I am sure, is the one you are expecting." A few minutes of silence was broken by Frida exclaiming,-- "O auntie, Ada has been very ill again, and is still very weak, and she asks, as a great favour, that I would come to visit them before going to the Wardens; and adds, 'If Miss Drechsler would accompany you, we would be so delighted; but in any case,' she writes to me, 'you would not lose your London visit, as my doctor wishes me to see a London physician as soon as I can be moved, specially as to settling whether or not I should go abroad again next winter. So in perhaps another month we may go to London, and then you can either remain with us or join your friend at Miss Warden's.'" "What do you think about it, auntie? Of course it is a great disappointment to me not to go with you; but do I not owe it to the Stanfords to go to them when I may be of use during Ada's convalescence?" Miss Drechsler looked, as she felt, disappointed, she had anticipated so much pleasure in having Frida with her in London; but after a few minutes' thought she said, "You are right, Frida: you must, I fear, go first to the Stanfords. We cannot forget all that they have done for you, and as they seem to be so anxious for you to go there, I think you must yield to their wishes; but I must go at once to Miss Warden, who is expecting me. You had better write at once and tell them we hope to be at Dover in four days. They live, as you know, not so far from there. I think that the train will take you to the station, not above a couple of miles from Stanford Hall, where I doubt not they will meet you; but I must write at once and let Miss Warden know that you cannot accompany me, and the reason why, though I hope that erelong, if convenient to her, you may join me there. Ah, Frida! 'man's heart deviseth his way: but God directeth his steps.'" And so it came to pass that Miss Drechsler arrived alone at Miss Warden's, whilst Frida went to Stanford Hall. When it became known in the Forest that the woodland child, as they still called her, was again about to leave them for some undefined time, there was great lamentation. "How then are we to get on without you?" they said. "_Ach!_ shall we have to do without the reading of the book again? True, Hans Hörstel reads it well enough; but what of that? He too has left us. _Ach!_ it is plain no one cares for the poor wood-cutters and charcoal-burners who live in the Forest, and some grand English gentleman will be getting our woodland child for a wife, and she will return to us no more." But Frida only laughed at these lamentations. "Why, what nonsense you speak!" she said. "It is only for a little while that I am going away. I hope to come back in about three months. And many of you can now read the Bible for yourselves. And as to the grand gentleman, that is all fancy; I want no grand gentleman for a husband. The only thing that would detain me in England would be if any of my relations were to find me out and claim me; but if that were to be the case, I am sure none of my friends in the Forest would grudge their child to her own people, and they may be assured she would never forget them, and would not be long in revisiting them." "_Ach!_ if the child were to find her own friends, her father or her mother's people, that would be altogether a different matter," they said simultaneously. "We would then say, 'Stay, woodland child, and be happy with those who have a right to you; but oh, remember the poor wood-cutters and workers in the Forest, who will weary for a sight of the face of the fair girl found by one of them in the Black Forest.'" Very hearty was the welcome which awaited Frida at Stanford Hall. Ada received her with open arms. "Ah, Frida, how glad I am to see you once again; and how good of you to give up the pleasure of a month in London to come to see and comfort us!--You will see how quickly I will get well now, mother.--And erelong, Frida, we shall take you to London ourselves, and father will show you all the wonders there." Frida answered merrily, but she felt much shocked to see how delicate-looking Ada had become. The girls had much to tell each other of all that had happened since last they met; and when dinner was over, and Frida went to see Ada as she lay on her couch in her prettily-fitted-up boudoir, Ada roused herself to have, as she said, "a right down delightful chat." "See, Frida, here is a charming easy-chair for you; please bring it quite close to my couch, and now tell me all about your Forest friends. How are Elsie and Wilhelm, and their little Gretchen and Hans? But, indeed, I believe I know more about them than you do; for only two days ago my father received a letter from Hans's music-teacher in Leipsic, giving him unqualified praise, and predicting a successful musical career for him." "Oh, I am glad!" said Frida. "How pleased his parents will be, and how grateful to Sir Richard Stanford for all he has done for him!" And so in pleasant talk the evening of the first day of Frida's visit to Stanford Hall drew to a close. As time passed on, Ada's health rapidly improved, and together the girls went about the beautiful grounds belonging to the Hall--Ada at first drawn in an invalid chair, and Frida walking by her side. But by-and-by Ada was able to walk, and together the girls visited in some of the cottages near the Hall--Frida finding out that Ada in her English home was conveying comfort and blessing to many weary souls by reading to them from her English Bible the words of life, even as she had done from her German one in the huts of the wood-cutters, carters, and charcoal-burners in the Black Forest. "Have you heard, Ada," said Lady Stanford one morning at breakfast, "that the old woman who has lately come to the pretty picturesque cottage at the Glen is very ill? I wish you and Frida would go and see her, and take her some beef-tea and jelly which the housekeeper will give you. I understand she requires nourishing food; and try and discover if there is anything else she requires." "Certainly, mother," answered Ada; "we will go at once and see what can be done for her.--That Glen is a lovely spot, Frida, and you have never been there. What say you--shall we set off at once? The poor woman is very old, and her memory is a good deal affected." "I shall be pleased to go, Ada; but I have a letter from Miss Drechsler, received this morning, which I must answer by the first post. She tells me that her friend Miss Warden is in great distress about the illness of a friend of hers. She wishes to know how soon I can join her in London; and now that you are so well, Ada, I really think I ought to go." "Ah, well," said Ada with a laugh, "time enough to think of that, Frida. We are not prepared to part with you yet; but seriously, mother talks of carrying us all off to London by another fortnight, and that must suffice you. But after you have written your letter we will set off to the Glen." It was a lovely walk that the girls took that summer day through green lanes and flowery meadows, till they came to a beautiful glen overshadowed with trees in their fresh summer foliage of greenery, through which the sunbeams found their way and touched with golden light the green velvety moss and pretty little woodland flowers which so richly carpeted the ground. "How beautiful it is here!" said Frida, "and yet how unlike the sombre appearance of the trees in the dear Black Forest!" "Ah," said Ada, "that Forest, where I do believe your heart still is, Frida, always seemed to me to be so gloomy and dark, so unlike our lovely English woods with their 'leafy tide of greenery.'" As they spoke they neared the cottage where dwelt the old woman they were going to see. It was thatch-covered and low, but up the walls grew roses and ivy, which gave it a bower-like appearance. "She is a strange old woman," said Ada, "who has only lately come here, and no one seems to know much about her. A grandchild of fourteen or fifteen years old lives with and takes care of her. Her memory is much impaired, but she often talks as if she had friends who if they knew where she lived and how ill-off she was would help her; but when questioned as to their name, she shakes her head and says she can't remember it, but if she could only see the young lady she would know her. They fancy the friends she speaks of must have been the family with whom she lived as nurse, for her grandchild says she used often to speak of having had the charge of a little girl to whom she was evidently much attached. But here we are, Frida, and yonder is little Maggie standing at the door." When they entered the room, Frida was amazed to see how small it was and how dark; for the ivy, which from the outside looked so picturesque, darkened the room considerably. Ada, who had seen the old woman before, went forward to the bed where she lay and spoke some kind words to her. The old woman seemed as if she hardly understood, and gave no answer. "Ah, madam," said the grandchild, "she knows nothing to-day, and when she speaks it is only nonsense." Frida now came forward and laid her hand kindly on the poor woman, addressing a few words of sympathy to her. The invalid raised her eyes and looked around her, giving first of all a look of recognition to Ada, and holding out her thin hand to her, but her eyes sought evidently to distinguish the face of the stranger who had last spoken. "She knows," explained Maggie, "yours is a strange voice, and wishes to see you, which she can't do, miss, for you are standing so much in the shade." Frida moved so that the glimmer of light which entered the little room fell on her face. As she did so, and the old woman caught a glimpse of her, a look of joy lit up the faded face, and she said in a distinct voice: "'Bless the Lord, O my soul;' my dear has come to see me. Oh, but I am glad! It's a long time since I saw you, Miss Hilda--a long, long time. I thought you were dead, or you would never have forgotten your old nurse you loved so dearly; but now you've come, my lamb, and old nurse can die in peace." And seizing Frida's hand, the old woman lay back as if at rest, and said no more. Frida was startled, and turning to her friend, said, "O Ada, whom does she take me for? Can it be that she knew my mother, whose name was Hilda, and that she takes me for her? Miss Drechsler says I am strikingly like the picture I have of her. Perhaps she can tell me where my mother lived, and if any of her relations are still alive;" and bending over the bed, she said in a low tone, "Who was Hilda, and where did she live? Perhaps she was my mother, but she is dead." The old woman muttered to herself, but looked up no more, "Dead, dead; yes, every one I loved is dead. But not Miss Hilda; you are she, and you have come to see your old nurse. But listen, Miss Hilda: there is the master calling on us to go in, and you know we must not keep the master waiting for even a minute;" and then the old woman spoke only of things and people of whom no one in the room knew anything. But through all Frida distinctly heard the words, "Oh, if only you had never played on that instrument, then he would never have come to the house. O Miss Hilda, why did you go away and break the heart of your mother, and old nurse's also? Oh, woe's the day! oh, woe's the day!" "Was his name Heinz?" asked Frida in a trembling voice. "Oh yes, Heinz, Heinz. O Miss Hilda, Miss Hilda, why did you do it?" and then the old woman burst out crying bitterly. "O miss, can you sing?" said Maggie, coming forward; "for nothing quiets grandmother like singing." "Yes, I can," replied Frida.--"And you, I am sure, Ada, will help me. I know now the woman, whoever she is, knows all about my mother." Together the two young girls sang the hymn, "Jesus, Lover of my soul." As they sang the dying woman became quieter, her muttering ceased, and presently she fell into a quiet sleep; the last words she uttered before doing so were, "Jesus, Lover of my soul." Much moved in spirit, Frida quitted the house; she felt as if now she stood on the verge of discovering the name and relations of her mother. She and Ada hastened their return home to confide to Lady Stanford all that had passed. She was much interested, and, as Sir Richard entered the room just then, she repeated the story to him. He listened eagerly, and said he would at once find out all he could about the woman and her friends; and so saying he left the house. He returned home cast down and discouraged. The woman had become quite delirious, and the names of Hilda and Heinz were often on her lips, but he could, of course, get nothing out of her. The grandchild could tell nothing of her former life; she never remembered hearing where she had been nurse, but her father, who was now in Canada, might know. Sir Richard could write and ask him. She had his address, and sometimes got letters from him. The doctor said he did not think that grandmother would live over the night. The only thing that had quieted her was the singing of the young lady whom she had called Miss Hilda, and who had come to the cottage that day with Miss Stanford. Maybe if she could come again and sing grandmother would be quieter. On hearing this Frida rose, and said if Lady Stanford would allow her, she would go and remain all night with the old woman, who she felt sure must have been her mother's nurse. She often, she said, watched a night by dying beds in the Black Forest, and had comforted some on their death-beds by reading to them portions of God's Word. The Stanfords could not refuse her request; and when Lady Stanford had herself filled a basket with provisions for Frida herself and little Maggie, the girl set off, accompanied by Sir Richard, who went with her to the door of the cottage. Finding the poor woman still delirious, Frida took off her cloak and bonnet and prepared to spend the night with her, and sitting down beside the bed she once more began to sing some sweet gospel hymns. In low and gentle tones she sang of Jesus and His love, and again the sufferer's restlessness and moaning ceased, and she seemed soothed. Hours passed, and the early summer morn began to dawn, and still the old woman lived on. Every now and then she muttered the name of Miss Hilda, and once she seemed to be imploring her not to vex her mother; and more than once she said the name of Heinz, and whenever she did so she became more excited, and moaned out the words, "Woe's me! woe's me!" Frida watched anxiously every word, in the hope that she might hear the name of Hilda's mother or the place where they lived; but she watched in vain. It was evident that though there was a look of returning consciousness, life was fast ebbing. A glance upward seemed to indicate that the dying woman's thoughts had turned heavenward. Frida opened her Bible and read aloud the words of the "shepherd psalm," so precious to many a dying soul, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me." To her amazement the sick woman repeated the words, "_thou_ art with me;" and as she finished the last word the soul fled, and Frida and Maggie were alone with the dead. The story of Frida's birth was still undisclosed, but God's word, as recorded in Holy Scripture, had again brought peace to a dying soul. Neighbours came in, and Frida turned away from the death-bed with a heart full of gratitude to the Lord that she had been allowed with His own words to soothe and comfort the old nurse, who she felt sure had tended and loved her own mother. When she returned to the Hall, the Stanfords were truly grieved to hear that the old woman was dead, and that there had been no further revelation regarding Frida's relations. Lady Stanford and Ada had just persuaded Frida to go to bed and rest awhile after her night of watching, when the door opened, and the butler came in bearing a telegram to Miss Heinz. Frida opened it with trembling hands, saw it was from Miss Drechsler, and read the words, "Come at once; you are needed here." What could it mean? Was Miss Drechsler ill? It looked like it, for who else would require her in London? Fatigue was forgotten; she could rest, she said, in the train; she must go at once. In a couple of hours she could start. Ada was disconsolate. Nevertheless, feeling the urgency of the case, she assisted her friend to pack her boxes; and erelong Frida was off, all unaware of what might be awaiting her in the great city. But ere we can tell that, we must turn for a while to other scenes, and write of others closely linked, although unknown to herself, with the life and future of the child found in the Black Forest. CHAPTER XV. THE POWER OF CONSCIENCE. "Being convicted by their own conscience." The day on which Reginald Gower met Dr. Heinz on the street, and sent through him a farewell message to Gertrude Warden, found him a couple of hours afterwards seated in his mother's boudoir, communicating to her his suddenly-formed plan of starting in a few days for America. It was no easy thing to do. The bond between mother and son was a very strong one, and her pleasure in having had him with her for some little time had been great. Her look of pleasure when he entered the room made it more difficult for him to break the news to her. "Earlier back to-day than usual, Reggie," she said, "but never too early for your old mother. But is anything amiss?" she said in a voice of alarm, as she noticed the grave look on his face. "Have you heard any bad news, or are you ill?" "No, mother, it is neither of these things--there is nothing the matter; only I fear, mother dear, that what I am going to say will vex you, but you must not let it do so. I am not worth all the affection you lavish on me. Mother, I have made up my mind to go to America, and to remain there for some time. I cannot stop here any longer. I am tired--not of my dear mother," he said, as he stooped over her and kissed her fondly, "but of the idle life I lead here; and so I mean to go and try and get work there, perhaps buy land if I can afford it, and see if I can make anything of my life as a farmer. Nay, mother, do not look so sad," he pleaded; "you do not know how hard it is for me to come to this resolution, but I must go. I cannot continue to live on future prospects of wealth that may--nay, perhaps ought never to be mine, but must act the man--try and earn my own living." "Your own living, Reginald!" interposed his mother; "surely you have enough of your own to live comfortably on even as a married man, and your prospects of succeeding to Harcourt Manor are, I grieve to say for one reason, almost certain. O Reginald, don't go and leave me so soon again!" But the young man, usually so easily led, fatally so indeed, stood firm now, and only answered, "Mother, it must be, and if you knew all you would be the first to advise me to go. Mother, you will soon hear that Gertie Warden is engaged to be married to a man worthy of her--a noble Christian doctor of the name of Heinz; but don't think that that circumstance is the reason of my leaving home. Fool though I have been and still am, I was never fool enough to think I was worthy of gaining the love of a high-principled girl like Gertie Warden. But, mother, your unselfish, God-fearing life, and that of Gertie and Dr. Heinz, have led me to see my own character as I never saw it before, and to wish to put right what has been so long wrong, and which it seems to me I can do best if I were away from home. Ask me no more, mother dear; some day I will tell you all, but not now. Only, mother, I must tell you that the words of the Bible which you love so well and have so early taught to me have not been without their effect, at least in keeping my conscience awake. And, mother, don't cease to pray for me that I may be helped to do the right. Oh, do not, do not," he entreated, as his mother began to urge him to remain, "say that, mother; say rather, 'God bless you,' and let me go. Believe me, it is best for me to do so." At these words Mrs. Gower ceased speaking. If, indeed, her loved son was striving to do the right thing, would she be the one to hold him back? Ah no! she would surrender her will and trust him in the hands of her faithful God. So with one glance upward for help and strength, she laid her hand on his head and said, "Go then, my son, in peace; and may God direct your way and help you to do the right thing, and may He watch between us when we are separate the one from the other." Just as Reginald was leaving the room Miss Drechsler entered. She greeted Mrs. Gower cordially, remembering her in old times; and she recognized Reginald as the young man who had spoken to Frida the day after the concert, though then she had not heard his name. As Reginald was saying good-bye, he heard his mother ask Miss Drechsler where her friend the young violinist was. "I thought you would have brought her to see me," she added. Her answer struck Reginald with dismay. "Oh! she did not accompany me to London after all. A great friend of hers was ill, and she had to go to her instead. It was a great disappointment to me." Reginald went to his room feeling as if in a dream. Then it might never come to pass, after all, that Frida's parentage would be found out; and Satan suggested the thought that therefore he need not disclose all he knew, but let things go on as they were. He hugged the idea, for not yet had he got the victory over evil; at all events he thought he would still wait a bit, but he would certainly carry out his intention of leaving the country for a while at least; and two days after the time we write of, his mother sat in her own room with a full heart after having parted from her only son. Well for her that she knew the way to the mercy-seat, and could pour out her sorrow at the feet of One who has said, "Call upon me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me." CHAPTER XVI. THE STORM. "More things are wrought by prayer Than the world dreams of." After Mrs. Willoughby's interview with Dr. Heinz of which we have written, her thoughts turned more than ever to the daughter she loved so well. It seemed certain from what Dr. Heinz had said that there had been a child; and if so, even although, as she feared, her loved daughter were dead, the child might still be alive, and probably the father also. The difficulty now was to obtain the knowledge of their place of residence. Mrs. Willoughby quite believed that if any news could be obtained of either mother or child, Mr. Willoughby's heart was so much softened that he would forgive and receive them thankfully. Once more advertisements were inserted in various papers, and letters written to friends abroad, imploring them to make every inquiry in their power. More than once Dr. Heinz called to see his new-made friend; but as Mr. Willoughby had returned to Harcourt Manor, whither his wife was soon to follow him, he never met him; and as Dr. Heinz was leaving town to take a much-needed holiday in the west Highlands of Scotland, nothing more could be done for the present to obtain information regarding the lost ones. It thus happened that although Dr. Heinz was a frequent visitor at Miss Warden's, he never met Miss Drechsler; but he heard from Gertie that she had not been able to bring the young girl violinist with her. It was to Mrs. Willoughby that Mrs. Gower went for sympathy and consolation at the time of her son's departure. Mrs. Willoughby heard of his sudden departure with surprise and deep sorrow for her friend's sake. "Reginald gone off again so soon!" she said. "Oh, I am sorry for you, dear friend! And does he speak of remaining long away? Making his own living, you say? Has he not enough to live comfortably on in the meantime? And then, you know," and her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, "his future prospects are very good, unless--" But here Mrs. Gower interrupted her. "Dear friend, from my heart I can say, if only dear Hilda or any child of hers could be restored to you, there is no one would more truly rejoice than I would; and I believe Reginald would do so also." But even as she said these words a pang of fear crossed her mind as to Reginald's feeling on the subject; but the mother's belief in her child refused to see any evil in him, and she added, "I am sure he would. But in any case the day of his succession as heir-at-law to Harcourt Manor is, we trust, far off, and so perhaps it is best for him that he should make his way in life for himself. I have been able now to trust him in God's hands, who doeth all things well." From that visit Mrs. Gower returned to her home comforted and strengthened. Alone she might be, yet, like her Saviour, "not alone, for the Father was with her." And ere many days had elapsed she was able to busy herself in making preparations for her return to her pleasant country home, which she had only left at Reginald's special request that for once they might spend the season together in London. One thing only she regretted--that she would be for some weeks separated from her friend Mrs. Willoughby, who was not to return to Harcourt Manor for some weeks. Ah! truly has it been said, "Man proposes, but God disposes." The very day that Mrs. Gower started for her home, Mrs. Willoughby received a telegram telling her that Mr. Willoughby was very ill at the Manor, and that the doctor begged she would come at once; and so it turned out that, unknown to each other, the friends were again near neighbours, and Mrs. Willoughby in her turn was to receive help and comfort from her friend Mrs. Gower. Long hours of suspense and anxiety followed the gentle lady's arrival at her country home. It soon became evident that Mr. Willoughby's hours were numbered, but his intellect remained clear. His eyes often rested with great sadness on his wife, and as he thought of leaving her alone and desolate, his prayer was that he might hear something definite regarding the child ere he died. Could he but have obtained that boon, he would have felt that that knowledge had been granted to him as a pledge of God's forgiveness. Not always does our all-wise God grant us signs even as an answer to our prayers. Still, He is a God who not only forgives as a king, royally, but also blesses us richly and fully to show the greatness of His forgiving power. And such a God He was to prove Himself in the case of Mr. Willoughby. * * * * * Whilst he lay on that bed of death, watched over and tended by loving friends, Reginald Gower was tossing on a stormy sea, a fair emblem of the conflict between good and evil, right and wrong, that was still raging within his breast. But that night, when the waves of the Atlantic were wellnigh overwhelming the vessel in which he sailed, when fear dwelt in every heart, when the captain trod the deck with an anxious gravity on his face, light broke on Reginald's heart. So his mother's prayers were answered at last. The Holy Spirit worked on his heart, and showed him as it were in a moment of time his selfishness and his sin; and from the lips of the self-indulgent young man arose the cry never uttered in vain, "God be merciful to me a sinner." And when the morning light dawned, and it was seen they were nearing in safety the harbour whither they were bound, Reginald Gower looked out on the sea, which was fast quieting down, and gave thanks that the conflict in his soul was ended, and that clear above the noise of the waters he heard the voice of Him who, while He tarried here below, had said, "Peace, be still," to the raging billows, say these same words to his soul. "Safe in port," rang out the captain's voice; and "Safe in port, through the merits of my Saviour," echoed through the soul of the young man. "Now," he said to himself, "let house, lands, and fortune go. I will do the just, right thing, which long ago I should have done--write to Mrs. Willoughby, and tell all I know about the child found in the Black Forest." At that resolution methinks a song of rejoicing was heard in heaven, sung by angel voices as they proclaimed the glad news that once more good had overcome evil--that the power of Christ had again conquered the power of darkness--that in another heart the Saviour of the world had seen of the travail of His soul and was satisfied. * * * * * In the meantime, the events we have written of were transpiring in Harcourt Manor. Mr. Willoughby still lay on a bed of sickness, from which the doctor said he would never rise, although a slight rally made it possible that life might yet be spared for a few days or even weeks. He was wonderfully patient, grieving only for the sorrow experienced by his wife, and the sad thought that his own unforgiving spirit was in great part the reason why now she would be left desolate without a child to comfort her. Daily Mrs. Gower visited her friend, and often watched with her by the bed of death. Dr. Heinz, at Mrs. Willoughby's request, came to see Mr. Willoughby, and obtained from his lips a message of full forgiveness if either his daughter, her husband, or any child should be found after his death; and together they prayed that if it were God's will something might be heard of the lost ones ere Mr. Willoughby entered into rest. "'Nevertheless,'" added the dying man, "'not my will but thine be done.'" CHAPTER XVII. THE DISCOVERY. "All was ended now--the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow." One day shortly after Dr. Heinz's visit, Mrs. Gower came to Harcourt Manor accompanied by Miss Drechsler, who had arrived from London the night before to remain with her for a couple of days. "You will not likely see Mrs. Willoughby," she said as they neared the manor-house, "as she seldom leaves her husband's room; but if you do not object to waiting a few minutes in the drawing-room whilst I go to see her, I would be so much obliged to you, as I am desirous of knowing how Mr. Willoughby is to-day. He seemed so low when I last saw him." "Oh, certainly," answered Miss Drechsler. "Don't trouble about me; I can easily wait. And don't hurry, please; I am sure to get some book to while away the time." They parted in the hall, Mrs. Gower turning off to the sick-room, while Miss Drechsler was ushered by the butler into the drawing-room. The room was a very fine one, large and lofty. It had been little used for some weeks, and the venetian blinds were down, obscuring the light and shutting out the summer sunshine. At first Miss Drechsler could hardly distinguish anything in the room, coming into it as she did from a blaze of light; but as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she made out first one object and then another clearly, and rising from the place where she had been seated, she began to look around her, turning to the pictures, which she had heard were considered very fine. She looked attentively at some of them. Then her eyes rested on a full-sized portrait of a beautiful girl, and with a start of astonishment Miss Drechsler uttered the word, "Frida! and with her curious necklace on, too. What does it mean?" she queried. In a moment the whole truth flashed on her mind. That, she felt sure, must be a picture of Frida's mother, and she must have been the missing child of Harcourt Manor. She sat down a moment, feeling almost stunned by the discovery she had made. What a secret she had to disclose! Oh, if Mrs. Gower would only come back quickly, that she might share it with her! Oh, if Frida had only been with her, and she could have presented her to her grandparents as the child of their lost daughter! At last the door opened, and her friend appeared, but much agitated. "Excuse me, dear Miss Drechsler, for having kept you so long waiting; but I found Mr. Willoughby much worse, and I must ask you kindly to allow me to remain here for a short time longer. Perhaps you would like to take a stroll about the beautiful grounds, and--" But Miss Drechsler could no longer keep silence. "O dear friend, do not distress yourself about me! Listen to me for a moment. I have made such a discovery. I know all about Mrs. Willoughby's daughter; but, alas, she is dead! She died some years ago; but her only child, the very image of that picture on the wall yonder, is living, and is now residing within a few hours of London. She is my _protégé_, my dearly-loved young violinist, Frida Heinz, the child I have told you of found in the Black Forest!" "Is it possible?" replied Mrs. Gower. "What a discovery you have made! thank God for it. Can she be got at once, I wonder, ere the spirit of her grandfather passes away? Oh, this is indeed an answer to prayer! The cry of the poor man's heart for days has been, 'Oh, if God has indeed forgiven me, as I fully believe He has, I pray He may allow me to know ere I go hence if my child, or any child of hers, is alive to come and comfort my dear wife in the sorrow that is awaiting her!'" "A telegram must be sent at once to Stanford Hall, where she is now living," said Miss Drechsler; "and another to Miss Warden, asking her to send off Frida, after she arrives at her house, at once to Harcourt Manor." And without loss of time the telegram was dispatched which summoned Frida to London, and from thence to the manor-house. The first sense of surprise having passed, Mrs. Gower's thoughts involuntarily turned to Reginald. How would he like this discovery? But again the mother's partiality, which already had too often blinded her to his faults, suggested the impossibility that he would receive the news with aught but pleasure, though there might be a momentary feeling of disappointment as regarded his future prospects. But now she must return to the sick-room, and try to see her friend for a minute or two alone, and tell her the glad tidings; also, if possible, let her hear the particulars of the story from the lips of Miss Drechsler herself. It was no easy matter now, under any pretence, to get Mrs. Willoughby to leave her husband's side even for a moment. The doctors had just told her that at most her husband had not more than two days to live, perhaps not so long, and every moment was precious; but Mrs. Grower's words, spoken with calm deliberation, "Dear friend, you must see me in another room for a few minutes about a matter of vital importance," had their effect. And she rose, and after leaving a few orders with the nurse, and telling her husband she would return immediately, she quietly followed Mrs. Gower into another room. She listened as if in a dream to the story which Miss Drechsler told. Incident after incident proved that the child found in the Forest was indeed her grand-daughter; and as she heard that her own child, her loved Hilda, was indeed dead, the mother's tears fell fast. The necklace which Frida still possessed, the same as that worn by the girl in the picture, the small portrait which had been found in her bag the night that Wilhelm Hörstel had discovered her in the Black Forest, all confirmed the idea that she was indeed the grandchild of the Manor; but it was not until Mrs. Willoughby heard the story of the "brown German Bible" that she sobbed out the words, "Oh, thank God, thank God, she is the child of my darling Hilda. Now, dear friend, this discovery must be communicated by me to my husband, and he will know that his last prayer for me has been granted." Mr. Willoughby was quite conscious, and evidently understood the fact that at last a child of his daughter's had been found. As regarded the death of the mother, he merely whispered the words, "I shall see her soon;" then said, "I thank thee, O my Father, that Thou hast answered prayer, and that now my sweet wife will not be left alone.--Give my fond love to the girl, wife, for I feel my eyes shall not see her. That is my punishment for so long cherishing an unforgiving spirit." And if God could act as a man, such might have been the case; but our God is fully and for ever a promise-keeping God, and He has declared, "If any man confess his sins, He is faithful and just to forgive him, and to cleanse him from all iniquity." And so it came to pass that ere the spirit of Mr. Willoughby passed away, he had pressed more than one kiss on the lips of his grandchild, and whispered the words, "Full forgiveness through Christ--what a God we have! Comfort your grandmother, my child, and keep near to Jesus in your life. God bless the kind friends who have protected and loved you when you were homeless.--And now, Lord, let Thy servant depart in peace.--Farewell, loved and faithful wife, who, by the reading to me God's word of life, hast led my soul to Christ." One deep-drawn breath, and his spirit fled, and his wife and grandchild were left alone to comfort each other. * * * * * "And now, Frida, my loved child, come and tell me all about those friends who were so kind to you in the Forest," said Mrs. Willoughby some days after Mr. Willoughby's funeral. "Ah, how little we thought that we had a grandchild living there, and that our darling Hilda was dead! When I look upon you, Frida, it almost seems as if all these long years of suffering had been a dream, and my daughter were again seated beside me, work in hand, as we so often sat in the years that have gone. You are wonderfully like her, and I believe that during the last four hours of his life, when his mind was a little clouded, my dear husband thought that Hilda really sat beside him, and that it was to her he said the words, 'I fully forgive, as I hope to be forgiven.' But comfort yourself, Frida; at the very last he knew all distinctly, and told us to console each other.--But now tell me what I asked you to do, and also if you ever met any one who recognized you as your mother's daughter." "Not exactly," replied Frida. "Still, one or two people were struck with my likeness to some one whom they had seen, but whose name they could not recall. Miss Drechsler was one of those, and now she says she wonders she did not remember that it was Miss Willoughby, although she had only seen her twice at the Wardens', and then amongst a number of people. And then a young man, a Mr. Gower (the same name as your friend), who had heard me play on the violin at the Stanfords' concert, told them that he was much struck with my resemblance to a picture he had seen. I wonder if he could be any relation to your Mrs. Gower?" "Was his name Reginald?" Mrs. Willoughby asked hurriedly. "Yes. Sir Richard Stanford used to call him Reginald Gower; but I seldom saw him. But, grandmother, is there anything the matter?" for as Frida spoke, Mrs. Willoughby's face had blanched. Was it possible, she asked herself, that Reginald Gower had known, or at least suspected, the existence of this child, and for very evident reasons concealed it from his friends? A terrible fear that it was so overcame her; for she liked the lad, and tenderly loved his mother. She felt she must betray herself, and so answered Frida's question by saying,-- "Oh, it is nothing, dear, only a passing faintness; but I shall lie on the sofa, and you shall finish your talk. Now tell me about the Forest." And Frida, well pleased to speak of the friends she loved so well, told of her childhood's life in the Forest, and the kindness shown to her by Elsie and Wilhelm, not forgetting to speak of Hans and the little blind Anna so early called to glory. "And, O grandmother, all the wood-cutters and charcoal-burners were so kind to me, and many amongst them learned to love the words of this little book;" and as she spoke she took from her pocket the little brown German Bible, her mother's parting legacy to her child. "It was no words of mine that opened their eyes (I was too young to have said them); but I could read the Word of God to them, and they did the deed." Mrs. Willoughby took the little book in her hands and pressed it to her lips. "It was often in the hands of my darling Hilda, you say? and those words in a foreign language became as precious to her as did the English ones to her mother in the little Bible she gave her ere they parted? Blessed book, God's own inspired revelation of Himself, which alone can make us 'wise unto salvation.'" Mrs. Willoughby listened with great pleasure to Frida's tale, glancing every now and again at the fair girl face, which was lit up as with sunshine as she spoke of her happy days and dear friends in the Forest. "I must write to a friend in Dringenstadt," she said, "to go to the Forest and tell them all the good news,--of how good God has been to me in restoring me to my mother's friends, and in letting me know that a brother of my father's was alive. But see, here comes the postman. I must run and get the letters." In a minute she re-entered bearing a number of letters in her hand. "Ah! here are quite a budget," she said. "See, grandmother, there is one for you bearing the New York mark, and another for myself from Frankfort. Ah! that must be from the uncle you spoke of, Dr. Heinz. You said he had gone there, did you not?" Whilst Frida was talking thus, her grandmother had opened her American letter, and saw that it was from Reginald Gower. "He has heard, of course, of my dear husband's death, and writes to sympathize with me. But no; he could hardly have heard of that event, nor of the discovery of our grandchild, and replied to it. He must be writing about some other subject." She then read as if in a dream the following words:-- "DEAR FRIEND--if indeed I may still dare to address you thus--I write to ask forgiveness for a sore wrong which I have done to you and Mr. Willoughby. I confess with deep shame that for some years I have had a suspicion, nay, almost a certainty, that a child of your daughter was alive. Miss Drechsler, now living with Miss Warden, can tell you all. I met the girl, who plays charmingly on the violin, at a concert in the house of Sir Richard Stanford. Her face reminded me of a picture I had seen somewhere, but at first I could not recall where, until the fact, told me by the Stanfords, of a peculiar necklace which the girl possessed, and which they described to me, brought to my remembrance the picture of your daughter at Harcourt Manor with a _fac-simile_ of the necklace on. Added to this, I had heard that the girl had been found by a wood-cutter in the Black Forest, and that of her birth and parentage nothing was known. It is now with deep repentance that I confess to having concealed these facts (though I had no doubt as to whose child she was), because I knew that by disclosing the secret my right to succeed to the property of Harcourt Manor would be done away with. I felt even then the shame and disgrace of so doing, and knew also the trouble and grief I was causing to you, whom (although you may find it difficult to believe) I really loved, and who had ever been such a kind friend to me. I now see that it was a love of self-indulgence which led me to commit so foul a sin. Conscience remonstrated, and the words of the Bible, so early instilled into my mind by my mother, constantly reproached me; but I turned from and stifled the voice of conscience, and deliberately chose the evil way. All these years I have experienced at times fits of the deepest remorse, but selfishness prevailed; and when I heard that Frida Heinz was coming to England, and that probably ere-long all might be disclosed, I resolved to leave my native land and begin a better life here. Ere I left I had reason to believe that she was unable to come to England, so even now I may be the first to reveal the secret of her existence. I do not know if even yet I would have gained strength to do this or not, had not God in His great mercy opened my eyes, during a fearful storm at sea, when it seemed as if any moment might be my last, to see what a sinner I was in His sight, and led me to seek forgiveness through the merits of Christ for all my past sins. _That_ I believe I have obtained, and now I crave a like forgiveness from you whom I have so cruelly wronged. Should you withhold it, I dare not complain; but I have hopes that you, who are a follower of our Lord Jesus Christ, will not do so. One more request, and I have done. Comfort, I beg of you, my mother when she has to bear the bitter sorrow of knowing how shamefully the son she loves so dearly has acted. By this post I write also to her. I trust to prove to both of you by my future life that my repentance is sincere. REGINALD GOWER." Mrs. Willoughby's grief on reading this letter was profound. To think that the lad whom she had loved, and whom in many ways she had befriended, had acted such a base, selfish part, overwhelmed her; and the thought that if he had communicated even his suspicions to her so long ago the child would have been found, and probably have gladdened her grandfather's life and heart for several years ere he was taken hence, was bitter indeed. But not long could any unforgiving feeling linger in her heart, and ere many hours were over she was able fully to forgive. Of Mrs. Gower's feelings we can hardly write. The shame and grief she experienced on reading the letter, which she received from her son by the same post as that by which Mrs. Willoughby received hers, cannot be expressed; but through it all there rang a joyful song, "This my son was dead, and is alive again." The prayers--believing prayers--of long years were answered, and the bond between mother and son was a doubly precious one, united as they now were in Christ. It was for her friend she felt so keenly, and to know how she had suffered at the hand of Reginald was a deep grief to her. Could she, she queried, as she set out letter in hand to Harcourt Manor--could she ever forgive him? That question was soon answered when she entered the room and met her friend. Ere then Mrs. Willoughby had been alone with her God in prayer, and had sought and obtained strength from her heart to say, "O Lord, as Thou hast blotted out my transgressions as a thick cloud, and as a cloud my sins, so help me to blot out from my remembrance the sorrow which Reginald has caused to me, and entirely to forgive him." After two hours spent together the two friends separated, being more closely bound together than ever before; Mrs. Willoughby saying she would write to Reginald that very night, and let him know that he had her forgiveness, and that without his intervention God had restored her grandchild to her arms. In the meantime letters had reached Dr. Heinz telling that the search for the missing ones was at an end. His short holiday was drawing to a close, and erelong Frida was embraced by the brother of the father she had loved so much and mourned so deeply. And ere another summer had gone she was present at her uncle's marriage with Gertie Warden, and was one of the bridesmaids. And a few days after that event it was agreed, with her grandmother's full consent--nay, at her special request--that she should accompany them on their marriage jaunt, and that that should include a visit to Miss Drechsler and a sight of her friends in the Black Forest. Many were the presents sent by Mrs. Willoughby to Elsie, Wilhelm, and others who had been kind to her grandchild in the Forest. "O grandmother," said Frida, as she was busy packing up the things, "do you know that I have just heard that my kind friend the German pastor has returned to Dringenstadt and settled there. He was so very kind to me when I was a little child, I should like to take him some small special remembrance--a handsome writing-case, or something of that kind." "Certainly, Frida," was the answer. "You shall choose anything you think suitable. I am glad you will have an opportunity of thanking him in person for all his kindness to you, and, above all, for introducing you to Miss Drechsler. And look here, Frida. As you say that Wilhelm and Elsie can read, I have got two beautifully-printed German Bibles, one for each of them, as a remembrance from Frida's grandmother, who, through the reading of those precious words, has got blessing to her own soul. See, I have written on the first page the words, 'Search the scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of me.'" It was settled that during Frida's absence Mrs. Gower should live at Harcourt Manor, and together Mrs. Willoughby and she bid adieu to Frida as she set off three days after the marriage to meet her uncle and his bride at Dover, from whence they were to start for the Continent. Tears were in Frida's eyes--tears of gratitude--as she thought of the goodness of God in restoring her, a lonely orphan, to the care of kind relations since she had crossed the Channel rather more than a year before. Frida endeared herself much to her uncle and his wife, and after a trip with them for some weeks, they left her with regret at Miss Drechsler's, promising to return soon and take her home with them after she had seen her friends in the Forest. "Ah, Frida," said Miss Drechsler, when they were seated in the evening in the pretty little drawing-room, "does it not seem like olden days? Do you not remember the first time when Pastor Langen brought you here a shy, trembling little child, and asked me to see you from time to time?" Ere Frida could reply, the door opened, and Pastor Langen entered, and Miss Drechsler introduced him to his _protégé_. "Frida Heinz! Is it possible? I must indeed be getting _ein Alter_ if this be the little girl who was found in the Black Forest." He listened with interest whilst Miss Drechsler told him the history of her past years, much of which was new to him, although he had heard of Frida's gift as a violinist; but when she told of the wonderful way in which her relations had been discovered, he could refrain himself no longer, but exclaimed,-- "_Lobe Herrn_, He is good, very good, and answers prayer." And ere they parted the three knelt at the throne of grace and gave thanks to God. On the next day it was settled that Frida should go to the Forest and see her old friends, taking her grandmother's present with her. CHAPTER XVIII. OLD SCENES. "God's world is steeped in beauty, God's world is bathed in light." It was in the leafy month of June that Frida found herself once more treading the Forest paths. The smaller trees were clothed in their bright, fresh, green lining-- "Greenness shining, not a colour, But a tender, living light;" and to them the dark, gloomy pines acted as a noble background, and once again the song of birds was heard, and the gentle tinkle, tinkle of the forest streams. Memory was very busy at work as the girl--nay, woman now--trod those familiar scenes. Yonder was the very tree under which Wilhelm found her, a lonely little one, waiting in vain for the father she would see no more on earth. There in the distance were the lonely huts of the wood-cutters who had so lovingly cared for the orphan child. And as she drew nearer the hut of the Hörstels, she recognized many a spot where she and Hans had played together as happy children, to whom the sighing of the wind amid the tall pines had seemed the most beautiful music in the world. As she recalled all these things, her heart filled with love to God, who had cared for and protected her when her earthly friends had cast her off. The language of her heart might have been expressed in the words of the hymn so often sung in Scottish churches:-- "When all Thy mercies, O my God! My rising soul surveys, Transported with the view, I'm lost In wonder, love, and praise." Words cannot depict the joy of Elsie and Wilhelm at the sight of their dear woodland child. They had already heard of her having found her English relations, and heartily they rejoiced at the good news, although well they knew that they would seldom see the child they loved so well. Many were the questions asked on both sides. Frida, on her part, had to describe Harcourt Manor and her gentle grandmother and her father's brother, Dr. Heinz, and his beautiful bride. She told also of the full-sized picture (which hung on the walls of Harcourt Manor) of her mother, which had been the means of the discovery of her birth, from her extraordinary likeness to it. When the many useful presents sent by Mrs. Willoughby were displayed, the gratitude of those poor people knew no bounds, and even the little girl looked delighted at the bright-coloured, warm frocks and cloaks for winter wear which had been sent for her. Hans was by no means forgotten: some useful books fell to his share when he returned home in a few weeks from Leipsic for a short holiday. It was with difficulty that Frida tore herself away from those kind friends, and went to the Dorf to see her friends there, and take them the gifts she had brought for them also. It was late ere she reached Dringenstadt, and there, seated by Miss Drechsler, related to her the doings of the day. To Pastor Langen was entrusted a sum of money to be given to the Hörstels, and also so much to be spent every Christmas amongst the wood-cutters and charcoal-burners in the Dorf. The two Bibles Frida had herself given to the Hörstels, who had been delighted with them. When, soon after that day, Dr. Heinz and his bride, accompanied by Frida, visited the Forest, they received a hearty welcome. Many of the wood-cutters recognized the resemblance Dr. Heinz bore to his brother who had died in the cottage in the Forest. Many a story did Dr. Heinz hear of the woodland child and her brown book. The marriage trip over, the Heinzes, accompanied by Frida, returned to their homes--they to carry on their work of love in the dark places of the great metropolis, taking with them not only comforts for the body, but conveying to them the great and only treasures of the human mind, the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ. And to many and many a sin-sick, weary soul the words of Holy Scripture spoken by the lips of those two faithful ambassadors of the Lord Jesus Christ brought peace and rest and comfort. And Frida, on her part, found plenty of work to do for the Master in the cottages near Harcourt Manor, in which her grandmother helped her largely. Three years had passed since Frida had become an inmate of her grandmother's home, and they had gone for the winter to London in order to be near Frida's relations the Heinzes, and at Frida's request Ada Stanford, who was now much stronger, had come to pay her a visit. Many a talk the two friends had about the past, recalling with pleasure the places they had visited together and the people they had seen. The beauties of Baden-Baden and the sunny Riviera were often dwelt on, and together they loved to review God's wonderful love as regarded them both. They spoke also of their visit to the dying woman in the Glen, whom Frida had long before found out to have been a faithful nurse to her mother, and for whose little grand-daughter Mrs. Willoughby had provided since hearing from Frida of the old woman's death. Then one day the girls spoke of a musical party which was to take place in Mrs. Willoughby's house that day, and in the arranging for which Ada and Frida had busied themselves even as they had done years before in Baden-Baden for the party at which Frida had played on the violin. A large party assembled that night, and Dr. Heinz and Frida played together; but the great musician of the night was a young German violinist who had begun to attract general attention in the London musical world. He was no other than Hans Hörstel, the playmate of Frida's childhood. Very cordial was the meeting between those two who had last seen each other in such different circumstances. And Sir Richard Stanford, who was also present, felt he was well repaid for what he had spent on young Hörstel's education by the result of it, and by the high moral character which the young man bore. It was a happy night. Frida rejoiced in the musical success of the companion of her early years, and together they spoke of the days of the past, and of his parents, who had been as father and mother to her. Long after the rest of the company had gone, Hans, by Mrs. Willoughby's invitation, remained on; and ere they parted they together gave thanks for all God's kindness towards them. All hearts were full of gratitude, for Mrs. Gower was there rejoicing in the news she had that day received from Reginald, that he was about to be married to a niece of Sir Richard Stanford's, whom he had met whilst visiting friends in New York; and she was one who would help in the work for Christ which he carried on in the neighbourhood of his farm. He was prospering as regarded worldly matters, and he hoped soon to take a run home and introduce his bride to his loved mother and his kind friend Mrs. Willoughby. He added, "I need hardly say that ere I asked Edith to marry me I told her the whole story of my sin in concealing what I knew of the birth of Frida Heinz; but she said, what God had evidently forgiven, it became none to refuse to do so likewise." So after prayer was ended, it was from their hearts that all joined in singing the doxology,-- "Praise God, from whom all blessings flow!" And with this scene we end the story of the child found in the Black Forest, and the way in which her brown German Bible was used there for the glory of God. THE END. PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN. Nelson's "Royal" Libraries. THE TWO SHILLING SERIES. RED DICKON. Tom Bevan. LAST OF THE SEA KINGS. David Ker. IN TAUNTON TOWN. E. Everett-Green. IN THE LAND OF THE MOOSE. Achilles Daunt. TREFOIL. Margaret P. Macdonald. WENZEL'S INHERITANCE. Annie Lucas. VERA'S TRUST. Evelyn Everett-Green. FOR THE FAITH. Evelyn Everett-Green. ALISON WALSH. Constance Evelyn. BLIND LOYALTY. E. L. Haverfield. DOROTHY ARDEN. J. M. Callwell. FALLEN FORTUNES. Evelyn Everett-Green. FOR HER SAKE. Gordon Roy. JACK MACKENZIE. Gordon Stables, M.D. IN PALACE AND FAUBOURG. C. J. G. ISABEL'S SECRET; or, A Sister's Love. IVANHOE. Sir Walter Scott. KENILWORTH. Sir Walter Scott. LEONIE. Annie Lucas. OLIVE ROSCOE. Evelyn Everett-Green. QUEECHY. Miss Wetherell. SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. Mrs. Charles. "SISTER." Evelyn Everett-Green. 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Annie Swan, etc. THE GOLD THREAD, & WEE DAVIE. Norman Macleod. FEATS ON THE FIORD. Harriet Martineau. ACADEMY BOYS IN CAMP. S. F. Spear. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. Miss Gaye. ESTHER REID. Pansy. TIMOTHY TATTERS. J. M. Callwell. AMPTHILL TOWERS. A. J. Foster. IVY AND OAK. ARCHIE DIGBY. G. E. Wyatt. AS WE SWEEP THROUGH THE DEEP. Dr. Gordon Stables. AT THE BLACK ROCKS. Edward Rand. AUNT SALLY. Constance Milman. CYRIL'S PROMISE. A Temperance Tale. W. J. Lacey. GEORGIE MERTON. Florence Harrington. GREY HOUSE ON THE HILL. Hon. Mrs. Greene. HUDSON BAY. R. M. Ballantyne. JUBILEE HALL. Hon. Mrs. Greene. LOST SQUIRE OF INGLEWOOD. Dr. Jackson. MARK MARKSEN'S SECRET. Jessie Armstrong. MARTIN RATTLER. R. M. Ballantyne. RHODA'S REFORM. M. A. Paull. SHENAC. The Story of a Highland Family in Canada. SIR AYLMER'S HEIR. E. Everett-Green. SOLDIERS OF THE QUEEN. Harold Avery. THE CORAL ISLAND. R. M. Ballantyne. THE DOG CRUSOE. R. M. Ballantyne. THE GOLDEN HOUSE. Mrs. Woods Baker. THE GORILLA HUNTERS. R. M. Ballantyne. THE ROBBER BARON. A. J. Foster. THE WILLOUGHBY BOYS. Emily C. Hartley. UNGAVA. R. M. Ballantyne. WORLD OF ICE. R. M. Ballantyne. YOUNG FUR TRADERS. R. M. Ballantyne. MARTIN'S INHERITANCE. OUR SEA-COAST HEROES. Achilles Daunt. GIBRALTAR AND ITS SIEGES. THE SECRET CAVE. Emilie Searchfield. LIZZIE HEPBURN. VANDRAD THE VIKING. J. Storer Clouston. "THE" BOOKS FOR BOYS. AT TWO SHILLINGS. Coloured Plates. By R. M. BALLANTYNE. =FREAKS ON THE FELL.= =ERLING THE BOLD.= =DEEP DOWN.= =WILD MAN OF THE WEST, THE.= =GOLDEN DREAM, THE.= =RED ERIC.= =LIGHTHOUSE, THE.= =FIGHTING THE FLAMES.= =CORAL ISLAND, THE.= The author of "Peter Pan" says of "The Coral Island": "For the authorship of that book I would joyously swop all mine." =DOG CRUSOE AND HIS MASTER.= A tale of the prairies, with many adventures among the Red Indians. =GORILLA HUNTERS, THE.= A story of adventure in the wilds of Africa, brimful of exciting incidents and alive with interest. =HUDSON BAY.= A record of pioneering in the great lone land of the Hudson's Bay Company. =MARTIN RATTLER.= An excellent story of adventure in the forests of Brazil. =UNGAVA.= A tale of Eskimo land. =WORLD OF ICE, THE.= A story of whaling in the Arctic regions. =YOUNG FUR TRADERS, THE.= A tale of early life in the Hudson Bay Territories. By W. H. G. KINGSTON. "The best writer for boys who ever lived." =WITH AXE AND RIFLE.= =CAPTAIN MUGFORD.= =SNOW-SHOES AND CANOES.= =HEIR OF KILFINNAN, THE.= =BEN BURTON.= =DICK CHEVELEY.= A stirring tale of a plucky boy who "ran away to sea." =IN THE EASTERN SEAS.= The scenes of this book are laid in the Malay Archipelago. =IN THE WILDS OF AFRICA.= The adventures of a shipwrecked party on the coast of Africa. =IN THE WILDS OF FLORIDA.= A bustling story of warfare between Red Men and Palefaces. =MY FIRST VOYAGE TO SOUTHERN SEAS.= A tale of adventure at sea and in Cape Colony, Ceylon, etc. =OLD JACK.= An old sailor's account of his many and varied adventures. =ON THE BANKS OF THE AMAZON.= A boy's journal of adventures in the wilds of South America. =SAVED FROM THE SEA.= The adventures of a young sailor and three shipwrecked companions. =SOUTH SEA WHALER, THE.= A story of mutiny and shipwreck in the South Seas. =TWICE LOST.= A story of shipwreck and travel in Australia. =TWO SUPERCARGOES, THE.= An adventurous story full of "thrills." =VOYAGE ROUND THE WORLD.= A young sailor's account of his adventures by land and sea. =WANDERERS, THE.= The adventures of a Pennsylvanian merchant and his family. =YOUNG LLANERO, THE.= A thrilling narrative of war and adventure. T. NELSON AND SONS, LTD., London, Edinburgh, and New York. 
45389	----	provided by the Internet Archive TWO YELLOW-BIRDS. By Anonymous [Illustration: 001] [Illustration: 003] [Illustration: 004] [Illustration: 005] [Illustration: 006] TWO YELLOW-BIRDS. |When Lucy Tracy was a very little girl, her mother had a beautiful yellow bird. He was quite tame, and would come out of his cage, and sit upon Mrs. Tracy's plants, and then fly upon the breakfast table, and pick the crumbs from the white cloth, while Lucy and her lather and mother were eating their breakfast. Little Lucy had no brother or sister to eat breakfast with her; so that she enjoyed very much having Black-pate, as she called him, from the black tuft on his head. She could chatter to him, as if he were no older than herself. And she would often give him lumps of sugar. He liked very much to fly into a basin of water and flatter his wings, bob his head in and out, and spatter Lucy's face Then she would laugh and clap her would peck at, while she held them in her fingers, and he would do it again, as if to make her laugh the more. She would stand by her mother, as she filled his glass cups, one with hemp-seed and the other with water, and brush all the old seeds from the bottom of his cage; for birds love a clean cage, as well as little girls love a clean house. [Illustration: 008] He was not a Canary bird; but one of the wild yellow birds, that fly about in the woods and fields. He did not seem to mourn his liberty, but appeared generally very happy in his wire house. His kind mistress took good care of him. She never trusted any one but herself to wash his cage or give him food. She knew poor birds often to suffer from hunger and thirst, by the neglect of those who are _told_ to take care of them. She would often say to Lucy, "It is a hard thing, my little girl, to be shut up in a cage, as this poor bird is; therefore, we ought to do all we can to make him comfortable. It is very wicked to let little birds want seeds, or water, either to drink, or wash themselves in." "But mother, if he don't like his cage, what makes him sing so sweetly, when he flies into it, after he has washed himself in the little basin you keep for him? That don't look as if he were unhappy." "I did not say that he was unhappy; but he has a feeling of confinement, when he flies against the wires of his cage, as if he wished to get out; just as you have when you find yourself shut up in a room, when _you_ wish to get out. He sings to show his gratitude for his food, and while he is eating, feels quite as happy as when he is in his native woods; but after he has done, he wants to fly about just as you want to run. Soon he is hungry again; and then goes to his seeds to eat; and again sings his thanks." "But, mother, if you think poor Black-pate is not happy, why don't you let him fly away, and go into the green woods again?" "Why, Lucy, look out of the window, ana see if there be any green woods where he _can_ fly?" Lucy ran to the window, but soon returned, exclaiming, "Oh dear! no, mother; the ground is all covered with snow; and the trees are all frost instead of leaves. Poor Black-pate! you are better where you are, for the cold snow would freeze your little, feet and you could find no seeds upon the frosty trees and bushes. Wait till spring comes; and then, mother, shan't you let him fly, if he chooses?" "Yes, I only bought him of the boys, who brought him here in the beginning of winter, to keep him until the warm spring comes, I told them I would take him at the price they named, if they would not catch any more, which they promised." In about a month from this time, the snow was all gone--the buds upon the trees began to swell, and some of them had burst into leaves. The sun was quite warm; and Lucy remembered her mother's promise to Black-pate. One morning, just before the sun rose. Mrs. Tracy called her little daughter to walk with her into the garden. "Come, Lucy, let us see if Black-pate would like to bid us good bye this fine morning." Mr. Tracy took the cage, and Mrs. Tracy and Lucy followed him into the garden; he hung it upon a tree, that was nearly covered with young leaves, and opened the door. The bird flew in and out several times. After breakfast, Lucy sat down with her mother, in a parlor, that led to a piazza, looking into the garden, to study her lesson. Often she started up from her book and ran out, to see if Black-pate was still there. Her mother did not speak to her, for some time. He at times, peeked at the leaves, flew from bough to bough, sung some of its sweetest notes, but did not fly out of the garden. They left the cage upon the tree, and Black-pate at liberty to go or stay, just as he pleased. [Illustration: 012] At last she said, "Lucy; how many words can you spell?" "I am afraid not one; for I am thinking all the time about dear Black-pate, and how sad I shall he tomorrow morning, when I don't see him on the table. And I keep looking out, to see if he has got back to his cage. I am afraid, mother, I am selfish; for every time I look out and see him flying about, I feel sorry. Is not that selfish?" "Yes, my dear, it certainly is; for it is preferring your own happiness to that of your little bird; which but a few weeks ago you begged me to set at liberty. I am glad you see it is selfish, for you will try not to indulge it, since you know it is wicked. Instead of thinking how sad _you_ will be to-morrow morning, think how happy your _bird_ will be, hopping about in the beautiful fresh air. And you may get up as early as you please, and go into the garden, and see if he will not give you a sweeter song than you ever heard in the house." The next morning, as soon as the day began to dawn, Lucy awoke, and called from her little bed. "Mother, do you think Black-pate is awake yet?" "I don't know, but you may get up and see." So up jumped Lucy, and put on her clothes, and away she ran into the garden. She found the cage empty, but soon heard Black-pate, and some other birds, singing most briskly. She strewed some seeds and crumbs of bread upon the ground for them, and had great pleasure in running about and hearing them sing, till breakfast was ready. She then went into the house, and after breakfast she sat down to sew with her mother. She finished all the work that her mother required, and repeated her lesson without missing one word. She was so good a girl, that in the afternoon her fond mother took her to ride with her, a few miles, to visit a friend, who had some children about her own age. They walked in the woods and saw and heard many little birds chirp and sing; and Lucy enjoyed very much a variety of plays with the children, and passed a part of the time very pleasantly in swinging. [Illustration: 015] At night she, returned home by the light of a beautiful moon, and went to bed very happy. In the morning she went into the garden to hear Black-pate sing; but no Black-pate was there! At first she felt a little sad; but she remembered how happy the little birds were, that she had seen the day before; and she soon sent her sad feelings away A few days after this, a gentleman, a friend of her father, came to dine with them. As he was very fond of children, he talked a great deal with Lucy; and she told him the story of her bird. Black-pate. He listened very kindly to her and when she had finished, he said, "And so, my little girl, then your fine cage is quite empty and useless now?" "Yes, sir," said Lucy. "Well," said he, "I have some young birds that were born in a cage; and they will not be unhappy to live in one, if they are taken good care of; for they have never known any other home. Now if your mother is willing, and you would like it, I will send you one to-morrow morning, to put into your empty cage. And I dare say you will never forget to feed him, and give him fresh water to drink and wash in every morning." Mrs. Tracy was quite willing; and Lucy promised she would not forget.--The next morning the gentleman sent the bird; for he always remembered his promises. [Illustration: 017] This bird was not so handsome as Black-pate; his color was not as brilliant, nor his neck so long and graceful; but he sung very sweetly; and Lucy soon found that she loved him quite as well as she had ever loved Black-pate Though only six years old, she never once forgot to give him fresh seeds and water, and to clean his cage every morning. She was so small that she could not take down the cage from the sunny window, where it hung, nor put it back, after she had cleaned it; but her father was so much pleased with her attention to her little favorite, that he was always ready to help her. For nearly two years, Lucy thought that her bird grew handsomer and sang more sweetly every day. She used to go to school in the morning, and when she came home, would often bring flowers to dress his cage with, or chickweed, and the long seed vessels of the plantain, which little birds love very much; and he always repaid her with a song. But the third spring, he began to droop and look sick; he left off singing, and almost left off eating. He would sit on his roost for a long time, hanging his head, as if he had not strength to hold it up. It grieved Lucy very much to see him so. She put saffron into the water; buds of saffron about his cage; gave him lump? of nice sugar; and spread, every morning, large branches cf fresh chick-weed over his cage; but all to no purpose. One morning, poor little Pet, for that was the name she gave him, looked more sick than ever. She changed the water and the seeds; though the seeds she had put in fresh the day before, had not been touched. She dressed his case with all the flowers she could find in the month of May, and then went to school with a heavy heart. At noon she came home, and her dear Pet lay on his hack upon the bottom of his cage. His sufferings were all ended. The little bird was dead! [Illustration: 019] Poor Lucy wept bitterly; this was the heaviest affliction she had ever known. She laid down upon her mother's bed, and sobbed aloud. Mrs. Tracy knew that the sorrows of children are not last ing, though they are severe for the time. She therefore did not, at first, think it best to endeavor to restrain her tears; but she found that if not checked, she would make herself ill. She would not eat any dinner; and she was unfit to go to school in the afternoon. Her mother, at length, said, "My dear child, you must not give way thus to your grief for the loss of a bird. I know that you loved Pet very much, and that he gave you a great deal of pleasure; but you must remember, that sorrow for the death of a bird ought not to unfit you for every thing. Now, by thus crying, you have been obliged to stay from school, and have lost several hours work upon the little frock you were making for your aunt; besides making your head ache so much, that you cannot study your lesson this evening. I feel very much for your grief; but you are old enough to understand that all sorrow which prevents us from doing our duty, is wrong--it is selfish While you were laying upon the bed crying and sobbing, do you think your father and I could enjoy our dinner? I assure you we did not. And your lather went to the store with a very sad countenance. I hope when he comes home, you will meet him with a smiling face, and let him see, that, though you loved your bird very much, you love him more. And I hope, my little girl, you will learn a lesson, from this first sorrow, which will be of use to you all your life, viz. not to feel so strong an attachment to any object, that the loss of it will unfit you to do any thing that it is your duty to do." Lucy was in general a good girl: and she loved her parents very much, for they were always kind to her; though they never indulged her in any thing they thought wrong. She attended to what her mother said, and was sorry she had grieved them so much. She got up from the bed, washed her face and eyes in cold water, combed her hair smooth, and when her father came home, he found her sewing with her mother She was a little sad; but she cried no more, and answered very pleasantly when any one spoke to her. A friend of her father passed the evening with them. He saw that Lucy was not so lively as usual, and inquired the cause. He told her he would paint her a likeness of her little bird. We have said that the bird was not handsome; but he was a very sweet songster. And we trust all our little readers know, that beauty of person alone will never recommend either little birds or little girls, to the affections of their friends. When Lucy became a woman, though she met with many heavy afflictions, she always kept in mind, that "all sorrow which makes us neglect our duty to our fellow-beings, is selfish, and of course wrong." MARIA |Come, Maria, my dear, said her mamma, let us take a walk, and I will show you some pretty things. Maria was quite pleased to hear this, and ran to fetch her bonnet and cloak. Her mamma then took her by the hand, and led her out at the door, and then out at the gate, and then they came into the road; and as they went to the place where her mamma meant to show her little girl the fine things, they saw a number of sheep and lambs sporting in the open fields. They soon came to the place, and there they saw very fine flowers, which smelled so sweetly that little Maria felt quite happy with the sights and scents. "Here, my dear," said the lady to her little girl, "this is a rose; what a fine pink hue it has got! Smell it my dear, for I am sure that you will like it;--did you ever smell any thing so sweet?--There is a bud of the rose: see what fine soft moss grows on it, and how close it is wrapped round with green leaves to guard it whilst it is young and tender." [Illustration: 024] "That, Maria, is a stalk; it is like a little bush of red flowers, of a very nice scent. It is so fine a one, it looks like a young tree. There is a wall flower: some like the smell of them very much, but some think they are too strong. "There is a pink; it is very sweet to smell of. "That is a heart's ease: it is a very pretty little flower. What a fine purple color on that leaf; it is like velvet; but it has no scent." [Illustration: 025] "Neither has the blue-bell, which you see there, though it looks very pretty." Maria's mamma shewed her a great many more flowers, and told her the names of them. "Oh! what flower is that, mamma," said little Maria, pointing with her finger to a very tall and large flower. "That, my dear, is a sun-flower." "Oh! how large it is," said Maria, "it is like a sun in this fine Garden." Her mamma then took her all over the garden, and Maria asked her what the name of this thing, and what the name of that thing was all the time they were there. Her mamma then picked her little girl a very pretty bunch of flowers, which Maria took home with great care, and then put them in one of the vases which was in the parlor, and put water to them, to keep them alive as long as she could. Her mamma took home a large bunch for herself, to put into the large China jar, to make the room look lively, and smell sweet with the scent of it, and a very fine flower-pot it was. 
43807	----	[Illustration: "They approached slowly, the little animal permitting them to come quite close, and then the children saw that it was indeed a squirrel."--p. 15.] THE MARTIN AND NELLY STORIES. LITTLE BESSIE, THE CARELESS GIRL, OR SQUIRRELS, NUTS, AND WATER-CRESSES. BY JOSEPHINE FRANKLIN, AUTHOR OF "NELLY AND HER FRIENDS," "NELLY'S FIRST SCHOOL-DAYS," "NELLY AND HER BOAT," ETC. BOSTON: PUBLISHED BY BROWN AND TAGGARD, 25 AND 29 CORNHILL. 1861. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by BROWN AND TAGGARD, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON. LIST OF THE "MARTIN AND NELLY STORIES." I. NELLY AND HER FRIENDS. II. NELLY'S FIRST SCHOOL-DAYS. III. NELLY AND HER BOAT. IV. LITTLE BESSIE. V. NELLY'S VISIT. VI. ZELMA. VII. MARTIN. VIII. COUSIN REGULUS. IX. MARTIN AND NELLY. X. MARTIN ON THE MOUNTAIN. XI. MARTIN AND THE MILLER. XII. TROUTING, OR GYPSYING IN THE WOODS. CONTENTS. PAGE CHAPTER I. GOING NUTTING 7 CHAPTER II. THE RIDE HOME 27 CHAPTER III. WATER-CRESSES 41 CHAPTER IV. HUNGRY FISHES 68 CHAPTER V. LOST 98 CHAPTER VI. THE NEST 122 LITTLE BESSIE; OR, SQUIRRELS, NUTS, AND WATERCRESSES. CHAPTER I. GOING NUTTING. BESSIE was the only child of a poor widow. The mother and daughter lived alone together in a small house, about half a mile from Nelly's home. Bessie's father died when she was quite young, so young that she did not remember him. There was a portrait of him, which her mother kept in her top bureau drawer in her own room. Occasionally the little girl was allowed to look at it. It made her feel very sad to do so, and the tears rose in her eyes whenever she thought of what her mother must have suffered in so great a loss. In the hard task which fell to that mother of supporting herself and her child, she did not murmur. Before her husband's death, she had lived in very comfortable circumstances, but this did not unfit her to work for her living afterwards. She gathered and sent fruit to market from her little place, she made butter and sold it to whomever cared to buy, she knit stockings for her neighbors' children, and, every winter, quilted to order at least one dozen patchwork counterpanes, with wonderful yellow calico suns in their centre. By these means she contrived to keep out of debt, and amass a little sum besides. At the commencement of our story, however, a severe fit of illness had so wasted her strength and devoured her little means, that the poor widow felt very much discouraged. The approach of winter filled her with dread, for she knew that it would be to her a time of great suffering. Still, feeble as she was, she managed to continue, but very irregularly, Bessie's reading and writing lessons. Bessie was not a promising scholar; she liked to do any thing in the world but study. She would look longingly out of the window a dozen times in the course of a single lesson, and when her mother reproved her by rapping her rather smartly on the head with her thimble, Bessie would only laugh, and say she guessed her skull must be thick, for the lesson _would not_ get through, and the thimble did not hurt a bit! Bessie, and Nellie Brooks, of whom my readers have heard in the former stories of this series, were very much attached to each other. Bessie was younger than Nellie, but that did not stand in the way of their affection. Nellie, imperfect as she was herself, used to try sometimes to teach Bessie how to improve her wild ways. Bessie would listen and listen, as grave as a cat watching a rat hole, but her little eyes would twinkle in the midst of the reproof, and she would burst into a merry shout, and say, "I do declare, Nell, it isn't any use at all to talk to me about being any better. I'm like the little birds; they're born to fly and sing, and I'm born to be horrid and naughty, and dance, and cry, and laugh, just when I shouldn't,--there! I can't be good, anyway. Sometimes I try, and mother looks as pleased as can be, and all at once, before I know it, I flounder straight into mischief again." One beautiful autumn day, Nellie and Bessie went nutting in the woods. Each of the little girls had a basket on her arm, and Bessie had a bag besides; for they had great hopes of coming home heavily loaded. It was early in October. The leaves of the trees had begun to fall, but those that remained were bright with many colors, the crimson of the maple trees particularly, making the whole woods look gay. A soft, golden mist, such as we only see at this season of the year, hung over every thing, and veiled even the glitter of a little river which flowed past the village and coursed onward to the ocean. At first the children met with very little success. The first few nut-trees they encountered had evidently been visited by some one before. The marks of trampling feet were visible on the damp ground beneath, and the branches had been stripped in such rude haste as to take away both the leaves and the fruit. "We'll meet better luck further back in the woods," said Nell; "this is too near home. The village people can come here too easily for us to expect to find any thing." They walked further on in very good spirits, climbing over rocks when they came to them, and swinging their empty baskets in time to snatches of songs which they sang together. They had gone in this way about a mile, when suddenly Bessie stopped, and fixed her eyes searchingly on something near them in the grass. "What is the matter?" said Nellie. "Hush, hush!" said Bessie, softly, "don't speak for a minute till I see! It's an animal!" "A bear?" exclaimed Nellie, in some alarm, quite unmindful of Bessie's request for silence, for Nelly was a little bit of a coward, and had a firm belief in all woods being full of wild animals. As she spoke, the noise seemed to startle whatever the creature was that Bessie was watching, for it ran quickly among the dried leaves that strewed the grass, and bounded on a high rock not far distant. "There!" said Bessie, in a vexed tone, "you've frightened him away. We might have tracked him to his hole if you had kept still." "I was afraid it was a bear," said Nelly, half ashamed. "A bear!" cried Bessie, in great scorn; "I'd like to see a bear in _these_ woods." "Would you? _I_ wouldn't," said Nelly. "I mean--well--I mean there isn't a bear around here for hundreds of miles. That was a squirrel you frightened away. Didn't he look funny springing up there?" "He's there now, looking at us. Don't you see his head sticking out of that bush? What bright eyes he has." Bessie found that it was so. There was the squirrel's head, twisted oddly on one side, in order to get a good view of his disturbers. His keen eyes were fixed anxiously on them, as though to discover the cause of their intrusion. Presently he leaped on a branch of a shrub, and sat staring solemnly at them. "It can't be a squirrel," said Bessie, "after all; its tail is not half bushy or long enough." "It jumps like one," said Nellie, "and its eyes and ears are just like a squirrel's too. See, it's gray and white!" They approached slowly, the little animal permitting them to come quite close, and then the children saw that it was indeed a squirrel, but that its tail had, by some accident, been torn nearly half away. "Perhaps it has been caught in a trap," suggested Nelly. "Or in a branch of a tree," said Bessie. "Well, anyway, little Mr. Squirrel, we shall know you again if we meet you." "I should say," exclaimed Nelly, "that there must be plenty of nuts somewhere near us, or that gray squirrel would not be likely to be here." The two girls now set about searching for a hickory nut-tree, quite encouraged in the thought that their walk was to be rewarded at last. Nelly was right in her conjecture. It was not long before they recognized the well-known leaf of the species of tree of which they were in quest. A small group of them stood together, not far distant, and great was the delight of the children to find the ground beneath well strewed with nuts, some of them lying quite free from their rough outer shells, others only partially opened, while many of them were still in the exact state in which they hung upon the tree. Of course the former were preferred by the little nut gatherers, but it was found that as these did not fill the bag and baskets, it was necessary to shell some of the remainder. Accordingly, Bessie selected a large flat stone, as the scene of operation, and providing herself with another small one, as a hammer, she began pounding the unshelled nuts, and by these means accumulated a second store; Nelly gathering them, and making a pile beside her, ready to be denuded of their hard green coverings. "There," triumphantly said Nelly, after a little while; "that dear little squirrel told the truth. Here is quite a pile of shells showing the mark of his teeth. See, Bessie, he has nibbled away the sides of all these, and eaten the meat. How neatly it is done, and what sharp little fangs he must have!" The bag and baskets were soon filled, and the two children turned homeward. The day was a warm one for that season of the year, and their burdens were very hard to carry on that account. Many a time they paused on the path to put down the baskets and rest. "I hope," said Nelly, "that when we get out to the open road, some wagon will come along that will give us a lift. Who would have thought that nuts could be so heavy? I am so warm and _so_ thirsty, I do not know how to get along, and there isn't a single brook about here that we can drink out of." "I'll tell you how we will fix it," said Bessie. "I remember, last year, when I came nutting, I saw a little house, a poor little concern,--not half as nice as ours, and dear knows that is poor enough,--standing in the edge of the wood, about half a mile below where we are now. We can stop when we get there, and I will go in and borrow a tin cup to drink out of the well." "A half mile!" echoed Nelly, in a tone of weariness; "I don't believe we shall get there in an hour, I am so very, very tired." They walked on slowly, the peculiar heaviness of the warm October day making each of them feel that to go nutting in such weather was very hard work. At last the little house presented itself. It was a poor place indeed. It was built of rough pine boards that had never been painted. A dog lay sleeping before the door, the upper half of which was open, and through which the sunshine poured into the room. The house stood, as Bessie had said, on the edge of the wood, large, fertile fields extending in the distance, on the opposite side from that by which the children had approached it. "You knock," said Bessie, getting struck with a fit of shyness, as the two walked up the path to the door. "No, _you_," said Nelly, "I don't know what to say." The dog got up, stretched himself, and gave vent to a low growl, as he surveyed the new comers. "Good fellow, nice fellow," said Bessie, coaxingly, putting out her hand towards him as she did so; but the good, nice fellow's growl deepened into a loud, savage bay. The children stood still, irresolute whether to retreat or not. Attracted by the noise, a pale, sickly girl about fifteen years of age, came to the door, and leaning over the lower half which was shut, seemed by looking at them to ask what they wanted. "Please," said Bessie, "would you mind lending me a tin dipper to drink out of at your well?" "Haven't got any well," said the girl; "but you can drink out of the spring if you've a mind to. There it is, down by that log: it runs right from under it. You'll find a mug lying 'long side. Do stop your noise, Tiger." The children set down their baskets, and moved towards the spring very gladly. They found the mug, and each enjoyed a drink of the pure, cold water. While doing so, they observed that near the little barn at the rear of the house, a man was harnessing a sleek, comfortable looking horse to a market wagon, laden with cabbages and potatoes. The man was thin and white looking, and it seemed to the children as if the proper place for him were his bed. He did not see the visitors, but went on with his work. The girls having finished drinking, returned to the front door, over which still leaned the sickly girl. "Much obliged to you," said Nelly, "it's a beautiful spring; clear and cold as ever I saw." "'Tisn't healthy though," said the girl; "leastways, we think it's that that brings us all down with the fever every spring and fall." "The fever!" echoed Bessie, "what fever?" "The fever'n nager," replied the girl. "Mother is in bed with it now, and though father is getting ready to go to town to market, the shakin' is on him right powerful. I'm the only one that keeps about, and that is much as ever, too." "What makes you drink it?" asked Bessie. "I wouldn't, if it made me so sick." "Have to," said the girl, "there is no other water hereabouts." "Can't your father _move_?" said Nelly. The girl shook her head. "Wouldn't he _like_ to, if he could?" continued Nelly. "I guess not," said the girl, "we mean to get used to it. We can't afford to move. Father owns the place, and he has no chance to sell it. The farm is good, too. We raise the best cabbages and potatoes around here. Guess you've been nutting, haven't you?" "Yes," said Bessie, with some pride, "we have those two baskets and this bag _full_." "Is it much fun?" asked the girl pleasantly. "Splendid," said Bessie; "don't you ever try it?" "No; I'm always too sick in nut season--have the shakes. But I do believe I should like to some time. Are you two little girls going soon again?" "I don't know," said Bessie, "may be so. If we do, shan't we stop and see if you are able to go along? Your house isn't much out of the way; we can stop just as well as not." The pale girl looked quite gratified at these words of Bessie, but said that she didn't know whether the "shakes" would allow her. "Well," said Bessie, "we will stop for you, anyway. My mother would say, I am sure, that the walk would do you good. Good-by. I hope you will all get better soon." "Stop a moment," said the girl, "don't you live somewhere down by the Brooks' farm?" "Yes," said Nelly, "that is my home, and Bessie lives only a little way beyond." "I thought so," said the girl, smiling, "I think I've seen you when I have been riding by with father. He's going that way, now: wouldn't you like to get in the wagon with him? He will pass your house." "Oh, I guess his load is heavy enough already," said Nelly. "Nonsense," said the girl; "you just wait here, while I go ask him." She darted off before they could detain her, and in a short time more, the horse and wagon appeared round the corner of the house, the man driving the fat horse (which, as far as the children could see, was the only fat living creature on the place), and the girl walking at the wagon side. "There they are," the children heard her say, as she neared them. The man smiled good naturedly, and bade Bessie and Nelly jump in. He arranged a comfortable seat for them on the board on which he himself sat. "But isn't your load very heavy already, sir?" asked Nelly. "Not a bit of it," said the farmer; "my horse will find it only a trifle, compared to what we usually take. It isn't full market day to-morrow is the reason. Jump in! jump in!" The children needed no other bidding, but clambered up by the spokes of the great wheels and seated themselves, one on each side of the farmer, who took their nuts, and placed them safely back among his vegetables. Then he cracked his whip, and called out, "Good-by, Dolly. I'll be home about eleven o'clock to-night. Take good care of your mother." The next moment the little girls were in the road, going homeward as fast as the sleek horse could carry them. CHAPTER II. THE RIDE HOME. "SO you've been nutting, eh?" said Mr. Dart (for that was the farmer's name), looking first on one side of him and then on the other, where his two companions sat. "Yes, sir," said Nelly, "and we have had real good luck too. Only see how full our baskets are." "Dolly told me you were going to stop for her some time, to go nutting with you," said the farmer, turning round as he spoke, and putting a cabbage that was jolting out of the wagon back into its place. "I am glad of that: I hope she will be able to accompany you. If you should chance to come on one of her well days, I guess she will." "Well days, sir?" asked Bessie. "Yes; she has the fever'n nager pretty bad, and that brings her a sick day and a well day, by turns. It's the natur' of the disease." "What! sick _every_ other day!" cried Bessie;--"well, if that is not too bad! And she seems so good too. Why, we owe this ride to her." "Yes," said the farmer, "Dolly is a pretty good little girl. Never had much trouble with Dolly in all her life. She's always willin' to help round the house as much as she can, and now that her mother is down with the nager, I couldn't get along without her, anyway. In the summer time Dolly makes garden with the best of us. Many is the field she's sowed with grain, after I've ploughed it up. Half of these ere cabbages Dolly cut and put in the wagon herself. You see that little basket back in the corner?" The children looked back in the wagon, and there, sure enough, was a small covered basket, jolting around among the potatoes. "That's Dolly's water cresses," said Mr. Dart. "I haven't taken a load to market for the last month without Dolly's basket of watercresses. She gathers them herself, down in our meadow, where the ground is wet and soft, and where they thrive like every thing. They seem to be getting poor now, and I don't believe Doll will be able to pick many more this year. Why, the money that girl has made off them cresses is wonderful. I always hand it right over to her, and she puts it by to save against a time of need. Cresses sell just like wildfire in our market-place,--I mean, of course, fine ones like my Dolly's are in their prime." "Cresses," said Bessie, with growing interest, "do people really pay money for _cresses_? Why, the field back of our house is full of 'em! They have great, thick, green leaves, and they look as healthy as possible." "Do they?" said the farmer, smiling at her kindly; "well, then I can just tell you your folks are fortunate. They ought to sell 'em and make money out of them." "I wish we could," said Bessie, clasping her hands at the thought, "how glad mother would be if we could! Mother is sick, sir, and cannot do all the work she used, to earn money." "Ah," said the former, with a look of concern; "I am sorry to hear that, my little girl. I know what it is to be sick, and have sick folks about me. What's the matter? has she got the nager too?" "No, sir," said Bessie, "we don't have that down our way. I don't know what _does_ ail mother. She sort o' wastes away and grows thin and pale." "Like enough it's the nager," said the farmer; "there is nothing like it for making a body thin and pale." "That's Bessie's house," cried Nelly, as a sudden turn in the road revealed their two homes, at the foot of the hill, "that white one with the smoke curling out of the left hand chimney." "And a nice little place it is too," said the farmer. "I pass right by it almost every day, and sometimes in the middle of the night, when all little girls are in their beds and asleep." Bessie looked at the kind-hearted farmer, and wondered to herself what could bring him so near her home in the nighttime. As her thoughts by this time were pretty well filled with what he called the "nager," she concluded that it must be for the purpose of getting the doctor for himself and his family. The farmer, however, who seemed fond of talking, soon undeceived her. "You see," he began, "that it is a very long drive from my house to town, say eight miles, at the least, and when I start as I have to-day, about sundown, it takes me, with a heavy load, generally, till half past eight o'clock to get to the market. Well, then I unload, and sell out to a regular customer I have, a man who keeps a stand of all sorts of vegetables, and who generally buys them over night in this way. Then I turn round and come back. It is often eleven o'clock when I reach home and go to bed. Sometimes, again, according to the orders I have from town, Dobbin and I start--" "Dobbin?" interrupted Bessie, "is Dobbin the horse, sir?" The farmer nodded smilingly, and continued, "Dobbin and I start at five o'clock in the morning, and we go rattling into market, just in time to have the things hurriedly sorted and in their places, before the buyers begin to throng about the stalls. I stop there a while, but I get home before noon, and Dolly always has my dinner ready to rest me, while Dobbin eats his to rest _him_." "I wish Dolly could go to our school," said Nelly, after a pause. "Miss Milly, our teacher, is so good to us all. She lives in this little house that we are passing." The farmer looked round at the school-house, and Nelly thought she heard him sigh as he did so. "Dolly is a smart girl, and a nice girl," said he, gravely, "but I am afraid her mother and I can't give her much book larnin'. Wish I could: but times are hard and money scarce. Dolly knows how to read and write, and I guess she will have to be content. Her health isn't strong, either, and she couldn't stand study." "Here we are, sir, this is our house," cried Nelly, as the wagon neared the farm-house gate. "I'm very much obliged to you for my lift." The farmer handed down her basket of nuts, and told her she was quite welcome. Bessie called out good-by, and the farmer drove on again. A short distance brought them to Bessie's house. As she in her turn was getting down, Mr. Dart asked her if she had any objections to show him the water-cress field of which she had spoken. Bessie was delighted to do it, so Dobbin was tied to a tree, and the little girl led the way to the back of the house. "Does the field belong to your mother?" asked the farmer. "Yes, sir," said Bessie, "this house and the garden and the wet meadow where the watercresses grow, mother owns them all. She's sick now, as I told you, sir, and oftentimes she lies in her bed and cries to think we can't get on better in the world. I'd help her, if I could, but I don't know any thing to do." It did not take long to reach the wet meadow, as Bessie called it. It lay only a stone's throw back of the house. It was called "wet," because a beautiful brook coursed through it, and moistened the ground so much as to render it unprofitable for cultivation. The watercresses had it all their own way. They grew wild over nearly the whole field, and extended down to the very edge of the brook, and leaned their beautiful bright leaves and graceful stems into the little stream, as it flowed over the pebbles. Bessie led the farmer to a large, flat stone, where they could stand with dry feet and survey the scene. The sun was just setting; they could see the glow in the west through the grove of trees that skirted the outer edge of the field; the birds were just chirping their mournful October songs, as they flew about, seeking for a shelter for the coming night; the murmur of the brook added not a little to the serenity of the hour. The farmer stooped, and reaching his hand among the wet earth where the cresses grew, plucked one, and tasted it. "It is as fine as any I ever ate," said he, "and, as far as I see, your mother's meadow is full of just such ones. The frost and the cold winds have spoiled ours, but yours are protected by that hill back there, and are first-rate." "Do you think we could get money for them?" cried Bessie, jumping up and down on the loose stone on which they stood, until it shook so as almost to make her lose her balance and fall into the water; "do you think people will _buy_ them?" "Certainly," said the farmer, giving his lips a final smack over the remnant of the cress, "certainly I do, and they are so clear from weeds it will be no trouble to gather them. What is your name, little girl?" "Bessie, sir, and my mother's name is that too. Wouldn't you like to come in and see her for a moment, to tell her about the cresses?" "Not to-day," said the farmer, shaking his head, and looking at the sinking sun; "it grows late, and I have a long journey to go, but I'll tell you what I _will_ do. I go to market again the day after to-morrow, and I leave home at five o'clock in the morning, or thereabouts. Now, I'm sorry to hear of your mother's troubles, and I want to help her if I can. You tell her all I have said about the cresses bringing a good price, and see if she has any objections to your gathering a big basket full, and having it ready to send to market when I pass by. I can take one for you just as well as not, three or four times a week. Leave it just inside the gate, and I will get it, for it will be too early for you to be up." "Yes, sir," said Bessie, her face perfectly radiant with smiles; "how good you are to take so much trouble--how good you are! I'll tell mother all about you, be sure of that." "And now I must be off," said the farmer, stepping from the flat stone into the moist grass and picking his way as well as he could towards the house, and thence to the gate. Bessie followed him to the road, and watched him untie old Dobbin. The tears came in her eyes as she called out, "Good-by, sir, good-by." The farmer turned, half smiled to see how grateful the poor child looked, and said kindly, "Good-by, Bessie." CHAPTER III. WATER-CRESSES. BESSIE'S mother was both surprised and rejoiced to hear of the kindness of the farmer. It seemed to her a great stroke of good fortune. The little sum of money which she had saved in more prosperous days was almost exhausted, and it had been a bitter thought to her to know, that when this should be gone, they would have nothing. The little house in which they lived could be sold, it is true, but the widow had always looked upon it in the light of a _home_, and not as an article to be disposed of for support. A ready consent was given that Bessie should try what she could do with the water-cresses. The little girl was delighted at the prospect, and already she saw herself the future possessor of a great deal of money. Her mother wanted her to gather the cresses the night previous to the morning on which the farmer was expected, but in her enthusiasm, Bessie insisted that they would be far fresher and nicer when they reached market if she should do so at daybreak; and she promised faithfully to rise in sufficient time to accomplish the feat. "But, my child," said her mother, "it will not be light enough for you to choose the best cresses, and the farmer may come before you get through, and of course we could not ask him to wait. No, gather them late in the afternoon, carefully select the poor ones, and the dead leaves and grasses that may be mingled with them, and the rest put in the oak pail and cover them with clean water. In the morning you can rise as early as you please, and fasten them up securely in the large basket, and be ready to give them to the farmer yourself, if you would like to do so when he passes." Bessie acknowledged that this was wisest. Accordingly, towards the latter part of the day before the appointed morning, she provided herself with a basket and the garden scissors, to go down to the brook and begin her undertaking. Previous to doing so, however, she put her head in her mother's room and called out with a gay laugh, "good-by, mother, I am going to make a fortune for you yet, see if I don't!" Her mother smiled, and when Bessie shut the door and jumped lightly down the stairs, two at a time, she felt as though her child's courage and hopefulness were really infusing courage and hopefulness into herself. [Illustration: "She was clipping at the cresses, when she heard some one call her name."--p. 45.] Singing at the top of her lungs, Bessie set to work. Never had she felt as light-hearted and happy. She tucked up her calico dress a little way, into the strings of her apron, in order to keep it out of the wet, and drew off her shoes and stockings. Then arming herself with the scissors, she cut vigorously among the cresses; taking care, however, to choose only those that presented a fine appearance, for she was determined that the first specimens the farmer took with him, should be so fine as to attract the attention of the buyers, and thus induce them to come again. A shrewd little business woman was Bessie! She had her basket sitting on some stones near her, and when she moved further up and down the brook, she was careful always to move that also. She was singing away as loudly and heartily as she could, and clipping at the cresses, when she heard some one call her name. She looked up, and there stood a boy about fourteen years old, named Martin, who lived on Nelly's father's farm. He looked as though he wanted very much to laugh at the odd figure which Bessie cut; her sun-bonnet hanging by its strings to her neck, her dress tucked up to the knees, a pair of shears in one hand, an enormous basket in the other, and both of her bare feet in the brook. "Why, Bessie," said Martin, "what a noise you have been making! I called you four or five times _real loud_, and I whistled too, and yet you went on singing 'Old folks at home,' and 'Little drops of water,' as though your ears were not made to hear any voice but your own!" "That's 'cause I'm _so_ happy," said Bessie. "Why, Martin, I'm beginning to earn my own living,--think of _that_. Isn't it fun though?" and she splashed through the stream to have a nearer talk with her visitor. "Earning your living!" repeated Martin; "well, I should call playing in the brook, as you seemed to be just now, any thing but that." "Playing!" echoed Bessie, with some indignation, "I am a big girl of nine now, and I am not going to play any more; I am going to _work_. Don't you see these cresses?" "Yes," said Martin, "but they're not good for much, are they?" "Good!" laughed Bessie, capering about, quite unmindful of bare ankles, "Good! I shouldn't wonder _much_ if they were. Why, Martin Wray, I'm to sell 'em, and get _money_ for 'em--plenty of it--till my pockets are so full that they cannot hold any more--there!" "Money!" said Martin, "you don't mean to say people buy cresses? What can they do with them?" "Eat 'em," replied Bessie, promptly; "mother says rich folks buy them to make into salads,--mustard, pepper, salt, vinegar, and all that sort of thing, you know. Mother says they are just in their prime now." Martin stooped and helped himself to a handful of the cresses. He did not seem to like their flavor, but made wry faces over them. "Dear, dear," he said, "how they bite! They will take my tongue off." "That's the beauty of 'em," said Bessie, coolly, "that's a proof that they are good. Mother says when they grow flat and insipid they don't bring a fair price." "But isn't this late in the year for them?" asked her visitor. "No," was the answer; "this is just the best of the fall crop, and they will last for a month or six weeks, and maybe all winter, if the season is mild. May is the great spring month for them, and October the one in the autumn. Mother told me she brushed the snow away from a little patch last Christmas, and there they were just as fresh and green as ever." "And who are you going to sell them to?" asked Martin. "A farmer," answered Bessie, "who lives up in the nutting woods has promised to take them to market." "Oh," said Martin, "that reminds me of what I came for. Nelly knew I had to pass by here to-day with a letter, and she asked me to inquire if you would go nutting with her and me to-morrow. She wants to stop for another little girl too, I believe." "Dolly?" said Bessie. "I don't know," replied Martin, "what her name was. She said it was a girl who had the fever and ague." "That's Dolly!" cried Bessie, joyfully, "Dolly has it _awful_. Just wait here a minute while I run ask mother if she can spare me." She went skipping in the house, and in a short time her bare feet were heard skipping out again. "Yes," she cried, triumphantly waving her sun-bonnet, "mother told me 'yes.'" Martin now said he must go on and deliver his letter, and Bessie bade him good-by, and went back to her cresses. In a little while the basket was filled with the very finest the brook afforded, and she carried them in the house to place in water as her mother had directed. The next morning, as the gray dawn came through the window of the room where she and her mother slept, Bessie awoke suddenly, and before she knew it she was sitting up in bed, drowsily rubbing her eyes. She had borne so well on her mind the appointment with the farmer, that she had awakened long before her usual time. She was a lazy girl generally, and liked very much to lie luxuriously in bed and _think about_ getting up, without making an effort to do so. It was at least three hours earlier than it was her habit to rise, yet she did not stop to think of that, but bounded out and began her morning's ablution; her mother having always striven to impress upon her the great fact that "cleanliness is next to godliness." It was but a short time when, leaving her mother, as she thought, soundly sleeping, Bessie crept noiselessly as possible down the stairs that led to the kitchen, and there carefully packed her cresses for market. When the basket was full, she wrapped hastily a shawl around her, to protect her from the chilly autumn air of the morning, and ran out to the gate to place it, ready for the farmer, when he should come along in his wagon. She stood on the cross bars of the gate, and looked eagerly up and down the road, but she saw nothing as yet. The thought crossed her mind that Mr. Dart might already have passed the house, and finding no basket prepared for him, had driven on without it. But when she looked around, and saw how early it still appeared, how the gray was not gone from the sky, and the sun had not risen, nor the soft white morning mists yet rolled away from the mountains that lay to the left of the village, she was quite sure that she was not too late. She went back to the open door sill of the kitchen, which, being built in a small wing, fronted on the road, and sat down quietly on the sill. Presently she thought she heard the rattle of wheels, and the snapping of a whip. She ran to the gate, and looked in the direction from which it was to be expected the farmer would come, and there he was, seated on top of a load of turnips, trotting down the road as fast as old Dobbin could go, under the circumstances. He saw Bessie, and shook his whip over his head as a sort of salutation. "Good morning," said Bessie, as soon as he was near enough to hear her voice. "Good morning," replied the farmer, holding Dobbin up, so as to stop. "Well now, this looks something like! I guess you're most as smart as my Dolly, who got up and fixed breakfast before I started. What does mother say about the water-cresses, eh?" "All right, sir," cried Bessie, joyfully, lugging into view the basket, "and here they are, sir, all ready,--beauties, _every one_ of 'em." The farmer raised the cover, looked in, and whistled. "Yes," said he, "this is the pick of the whole lot, I guess. But you haven't half big enough a basket. You must send more next time, for the frost may come and nip them a little, before you sell enough to be worth your while. Haven't you ever heard of making hay while the sun shines, Bessie?" He took the basket and packed it nicely among the turnips, so that it would not jostle out with the movement of the wagon. As he did so, Bessie's mother, with a shawl hastily thrown around her, opened the window of her bedroom, and said sufficiently loud to be heard, "Good morning, sir; I am afraid you are putting yourself to a great deal of trouble for us." "Not at all, ma'am," said the farmer, quite surprised at her sudden apparition, and taking off his hat as he spoke; "on the contrary, it's quite a pleasure." "I am very much obliged to you, I am sure," said the widow, "and Bessie is too. It is very kind of you to help us, poor people as we are, along in the world." "Well, ma'am," said the farmer with a smile, "as far as that goes, I'm poor myself--poor enough, dear knows, and that's the very thing that sometimes makes me feel for other poor folks, particularly poor _sick_ folks, for we 'most always have a spell of the nager at our house. But I must be off. I'll stop, ma'am, as I come back, about noon, to tell you what luck I have had with these ere cresses." He was just going to drive on when Bessie said, "Oh, sir, I almost forgot. Is to-day Dolly's _well_ day? Nelly and I thought of going nutting with her." "Yes," replied the farmer, "Doll is pretty smart to-day. Make no doubt she can go. Good morning, ma'am, good morning, Bessie;" and he touched up old Dobbin and trotted down the hill. Bessie stood with the shawl over her head to watch the wagon as it seemed to grow less and less in size, and finally was hid by a curve of the road. Then she pulled to the gate to keep out stray cows from the little garden which her mother prized so much, and reëntered the kitchen. She had a great many things to accomplish during the morning, because now that her mother was sick a number of household duties devolved upon her, with which she had nothing to do under ordinary circumstances. But, keep herself as busy as she could, the time still hung heavily. It seemed to her as if noon would never come. Her mother tried to hear her say her lessons in the intervals, when she had to sit up, but Bessie could not attend enough to repeat them well. She made many strange mistakes. The top of every page in her spelling-book was decorated with a picture which illustrated whatever word stood at the head of the column. Thus, _chandelier_, _work-box_, _bedstead_, were each represented in a pretty engraving. I suppose this was done in order to excite the interest of the scholar. Bessie's thoughts to-day were so far away with her water-cresses, however, that she could think of nothing else. At the head of her column for the morning was the word _ladle_, and at its side was the picture of a stout servant girl, ladling out a plate of soup from a tureen. The shape of the ladle so much resembled a skimmer which Bessie had often seen in use in her mother's kitchen, that with her thoughts following the farmer in his wagon, she spelled and pronounced in this wise: "L-a, skim, d-l-e, mer, _skimmer_!" "My patience," said her mother, "what nonsense is that, Bessie, which you are saying?" "L-a, skim, d-l-e, mer, skimmer," gravely repeated Bessie, quite unconscious of the droll mistake. Her mother could not but laugh, but she asked her if such inattention was kind to herself when she was so ill as scarcely to be able to speak, much less to question over and over again a girl who did not care whether she learned or not. "But I _do_ care, mother," cried Bessie, coloring. "Then why do you try me so? Take your book and study your spelling properly." Bessie did so, and this time, mastering her inclination to think of other things, soon accomplished her task. "It is not because you are a dull child," said her mother, "that you do not learn, but because you are a careless one. The least thing comes between you and your lessons. This morning, I suppose you are somewhat to be excused, but I cannot express to you how you weary me, day after day, by the same conduct." These words filled Bessie with shame. She really loved her mother, and there were few things she would not have done to please her. She did not realize how simple thoughtlessness can pain and annoy those whom we would not purposely wound. "Well, mother," said Bessie, casting down her eyes, "I _do_ wish I was good. Maybe I am not big enough yet, am I, mother?" Her mother smiled, saying, "You are plenty big enough, and plenty old enough too." Bessie smiled too, and was happy to see that her mother was not as vexed with her as she thought. She went up to her and gave her a little shy kiss on her cheek. "It is _such_ hard work to be good," she said, "and it does _so_ bother me to be thinkin' of it all the time. Wouldn't it be nice if we could be good without any trouble? When I am grown up I hope I'll be good, anyway." "Oh Bessie," said her mother, seriously, "do not wait till then. While you are young is the time to break yourself of bad habits and slothful ways. If you wait until you become a woman, they will have fastened themselves upon you so that you cannot shake them off." Just as Bessie's mother pronounced the last words, she heard a knock on one of the outer doors. Bessie heard it too, and ran down stairs to open it. It was now nearly time to expect Mr. Dart, and her heart beat with delight at the anticipation of the news she was so soon to hear. She opened the door, and saw, not the kind face of the farmer, but that of a small, ungainly boy, who lived in the next house. He was a sickly, spoiled child, and Bessie, never liking him much at the best of times, found him now rather an unwelcome visitor. "Our folks wants to know if your mother'll lend us some sugar," he said, at the same time handing out a cracked tea-cup. Bessie took the cup and invited the boy to go up and see her mother, while she brought the sugar. She had just filled the cup even full, when again she heard a knock. This time she felt sure it was the farmer, and indeed when she flew to the door, there he stood, smiling at her in the porch. One of his hands was extended towards her, and in its palm she saw three bright silver coins! "Take them, Bessie," he said, "they are your own. Them cresses o' your'n were the best in market. I'm coming along to-morrow morning at the same time, and if you like, you can have another lot for me. Here's your basket, but it isn't half big enough, as I told you before." Bessie stood holding the money in her hands, quite unable to utter a word. Her first thought was to dash up stairs and tell her mother, her next to run after the farmer and thank him. But he had already mounted into his seat and Dobbin, very glad to know that his nose was turned homeward, had taken the hint to start off at a pace that soon placed his driver out of hearing. "I am so sorry," said Bessie, gazing after the wagon in much the same way as she had done in the morning. "Mother will say I forgot my politeness _that_ time. And he so kind too!" She ran in the house again, and in a moment was in her mother's room. "Mother, mother," she cried, holding out the coins, "you can have every thing you want now! See, here's money, plenty of it! I don't believe I ever saw so much at once in all my life. How many goodies you shall have to make you well!" Her mother was lying partially dressed outside the bed-quilts, but she rose up slowly to share Bessie's joy. Bessie put the money in her hands and danced around the room like a wild girl, utterly regardless of the fire-tongs that she whirled out of place, and a couple of chairs, which she laid very neatly flat on their sides in the middle of the floor. Then she flew at her mother and gave her two monstrous, _sounding_ kisses on each cheek. Her mother gave them right straight back to her, and I can assure you Bessie wasn't at all sorry to have them returned. "Why, Bessie," said the little boy, who had been a silent spectator all this time, "what is the matter with you? You act real crazy." "I _am_ crazy," said Bessie, good-humoredly, "just as crazy as can be. This is my water-cress money. Didn't you know I can earn money for mother? How much is there, mother?" The widow spread out the three coins in her hand, and after a moment's pause, said, "Here are two twenty-five cent pieces, and a ten cent piece; that makes just sixty cents." Bessie sat perfectly still, and when her mother looked at her, attracted by an unusual sound, she had her apron up to her eyes, crying as peacefully as possible. "Why, my foolish little girl," said her mother, "I can't have any tears shed in this way. Jump up like a good child and get Nathan his sugar." "I couldn't help it," sobbed Bessie, "I didn't know I was agoin' to till I did." "What are you thinking of doing with it all?" asked Nathan, eyeing the money with some curiosity. "Save it," answered Bessie, promptly, "till mother gets ready to use it." She went to a table standing at the head of the bed, and from its drawer she took out a large-sized Madeira nut, that had been given to her by her uncle the previous Christmas. The two halves were joined together by a steel hinge, and when a small spring was touched on the opposite side, they opened. Bessie touched it now, and advancing to her mother, said, "Let's keep the money in this nut, mother, for a purse, until you want to spend it." Her mother dropped the silver in the open shell, and Bessie closed it and replaced it in the drawer. Then she and Nathan went down to get the sugar. CHAPTER IV. HUNGRY FISHES. IT was about two o'clock when Bessie, basket in hand, started to go on the nutting excursion which Nelly and Martin had planned for that day. She scarcely liked to be absent long, for she knew her mother was not quite as well as usual, and then, too, the water-cresses were to be gathered and prepared for the next day's market. At all events she made up her mind to get home early, long before the sun should set. It was but a short walk of a half mile to Nelly's home; Martin and Nelly were ready, so that no time was consumed in waiting. It was even a more beautiful day than the one on which the previous nutting had taken place. The woods were brighter colored than ever, and the golden autumn mist seemed to cover every thing with beauty. It hung in wreaths around the tops of the high trees, and swayed softly back and forth when the breeze stirred it. The boats on the river could scarcely be discerned through it, and the opposite shores were entirely hidden. "This is Dolly's _well_ day," said Bessie, "I asked her father and he told me so." "Martin says you are going to sell him some water-cresses," said Nelly; "at least, I suppose he was the one; did you?" "Yes," said Bessie; "that is, he sold them _for_ me, which is the same thing you know. He brought me three _big_ pieces of money for them at noon, and I put 'em in a nut-shell and shut 'em up." "A nut-shell?" repeated Martin, "that is a funny bank, I think." "It's a safe one," said Bessie, "and it will not break and keep the money like some of those I have heard of in town. Just look at those bitter-sweets, Nell, aren't they bright?" "I mean to get some," cried Nelly, as she paused to admire the red sprays of the berries that grew at the side of the short-cut path they were pursuing. "I will take them home to mother to put in her winter bouquets of dried grasses, that stand on the parlor mantle-shelf. They will enliven them and make them much handsomer." "Why not wait till we return?" said Martin; "you will have all the trouble of carrying them to the woods and back again, and perhaps lose them by the way." "I know too much for that," said Nelly, laughing; "we may not come back by this road, and then I should not get them at all. Last week I lost some in the same way: I went out walking with Miss Milly over the mountains, and we came to some beauties near Mulligan's little shanty. We thought to save ourselves trouble by leaving them till we returned. Something or other tempted us to strike into another path when we came back, so that our bitter-sweets are on the top of the mountain yet." "No," said Bessie, "I don't think they are. Did they grow over a big rock, and were there plenty of sumach bushes between them and the path?" "Yes," said Nelly, beginning to pull down the rich clusters of the bitter-sweets, and breaking them off, one by one. "Well," said Bessie, making a deep, mock courtesy, "I have the pleasure of having those berries in my own bedroom at this blessed minute. I went to Mulligan's on an errand of mother's, a few days ago, and I brought them down the mountain with me." "Her loss was your gain, wasn't it?" said Martin, as he aided Nelly to gather the berries. "I'll help too," said Bessie, "for I'm in a _dreadful_ hurry to get back, Nelly. I have all my cresses to pick for market," and she too broke off the bunches and laid them carefully in Nelly's basket. "What!" said Nelly, "_more_ cresses, Bessie?" "Yes," said Bessie, giving a joyful hop, and, as her mother called it, cutting a caper; "and that isn't all, for Dolly's father wants lots and lots _and_ lots more of 'em! Come, I guess you have plenty now, let's go on." Nelly consented to do so, but first Martin took out of his pocket a handful of tangled twine, and with a piece of it tied the bitter-sweet berries together by the stems, and suspended them in a bunch from her apron strings, so that her basket might be ready for the nuts. Martin was a farm boy who worked at Nelly's father's place. He was a good, steady lad, and the two girls liked very much to have his company in their excursions. It was not often, however, that he could be spared, and the present occasion was, therefore, quite a holiday in his estimation. [Illustration: "Martin told the girls that if they would place themselves with him on an old trunk of a tree, they would probably find it to be a better position from which to throw their lines."--p. 93.] When the children reached the little house near the wood, they were surprised to see Dolly standing in the gateway quite equipped for the ramble. She had a large basket on her arm, and a long hickory stick in her hands. Nelly introduced Martin, who stood a little aloof when the girls first met, and then Dolly asked them if they would not all come in and rest, but the children thought that it was best not to do so. Hearing voices, the farmer came to the door of the farm house to see them off. He looked pleased to find Dolly with the little girls. "That's right," he said, "I'm glad to have my Dolly tramping about like other folks' children. It will do her good. But don't stay late: the damp of the evening is very unwholesome for the nager." "Oh, we are coming back long before night, sir," said Bessie, cheerfully, "'cause I've got all my cresses to pick for to-morrow. Mother and I are _so_ much obliged to you, I can't really _tell_ how much!" "Quite welcome, quite welcome," said Mr. Dart; "I'll be on the look-out for another basket to-morrow then." As the four children walked briskly along the path through the woods, Nelly looked with some curiosity at Dolly's stick. She could not imagine for what purpose it was intended. It was not very stout, nor apparently very heavy; at the upper end it was a little curved. Dolly seemed to use it for a staff, and several times helped herself over some rough and stony places with it. When the walking was good she carried it carelessly over her shoulder, with her basket swinging at the crooked end. A short time brought the party to the place where they had found so many nuts only a day or two before. Much to their surprise and mortification the trees which were lately so loaded, were now perfectly bare. Some one had evidently been there during the time that intervened, and had carried away the prize. There were several large piles of the outer shells scattered about on the ground, but that was all. "What shall we do," asked Bessie, mournfully; "I don't think we can find another such spot as this was in the whole woods. This clump of trees was as full as it could be only the day before yesterday." Dolly took her stick and poked among the branches to see if any remained. She found about half a dozen, which she knocked down and put in her basket. "Now I know," said Nelly, "what Dolly brought that pole for,--to knock down the nuts." "Yes," said Dolly, surveying the stick in question with some pride, "it is splendid for that. I call it my cherry-tree hook, and I use it in cherry time to pull the branches towards me. But come, we must push on and seek our fortunes. Haven't an _idee_ of goin' home without my basket full." "I give up, for one," said Bessie, despondently, "I don't think we can find a thick place again." "Never mind, Bessie," said Martin, with good-nature, "we'll find a _thin_ one then. We'll do the best we can, you may be sure. Come, girls, I'll lead the way. Let us follow this little footpath and see where it will take us." He spoke in an encouraging tone, and suiting the action to the word, walked on ahead. The girls followed him in silence. The underbrush through which the path led was very thick and high, and for a short distance nothing could be discerned on either side. The thorns caught into the clothing of the little party, and they found this by no means an added pleasure. It was not long, however, before the track broadened into a wide, open space, something similar to the one they had just quitted, dotted here and there with trees, but, as fortune would have it, none of them were nut trees. They were on the point of penetrating still further towards the heart of the wood, when a loud rustling among the dead branches and dried leaves of the path made the children turn to discover what was the matter. A joyful barking followed, and a rough-looking dog bounded out, and began prancing about and leaping upon Dolly. "Oh, it's only our old Tiger," she exclaimed; "down, Tige, down, sir!" But Tiger was so delighted at having succeeded in finding his young mistress, that he did not cease indulging in his various uncouth gambols, until Dolly, stamping her foot and assuming an air of great severity, bade him _be quiet_, or she would send him immediately home. Tiger seemed to understand the threat, for he stopped barking and instantly darted several hundred feet in advance of the party. "He does that so that I cannot make him go back," cried Dolly, laughing at the sagacity of her favorite; "I never tell him I will send him home, but that he runs ahead so as to make it impossible for me to do as I say." They continued their wanderings for some distance further, but with very poor success. "I'll tell you what we can do," said Martin, with a laugh, as exclamations of vexation and disappointment were heard from the girls; "let's turn our nutting into a fishing excursion. Wouldn't it be nice if we should each go home with a string of fish?" "Fish!" cried Nelly, "what _do_ you mean, Martin?" "I never heard of anybody catchin' fish in the woods!" said Dolly. "There isn't a drop of water nearer than the pond the other side of Morrison's hill." "Well," said Martin, "I know there is not, but that is not so very far off. I was just thinking of the shortest way to get there." "I know every inch of the country," said Dolly, firmly, "and I'm _sure_ Morrison's pond is at least a good two mile from here." "Oh, we can't walk _that_, Martin," cried Bessie; "we should all be tired, and get home after dark besides." "Now," said Martin, smiling, "I do not wish to contradict anybody, but I am acquainted with a path, a rather rough one to be sure, that will bring us, in about twenty minutes, to the edge of the pond. You know it is not as far away as people think, the crooked, winding road making it appear a long way off, when in reality it lies in a straight line only about half a mile from the village." "But if we conclude to go, we can't _fish_," said Dolly. "Why not?" quietly asked Martin. "We haven't a line or a hook among us," put forth Nelly, "at least I am sure _I_ haven't." "Well _I_ have," replied Martin, "provided you will not despise bent pins for hooks, pieces of the twine that is left of that I tied your bitter-sweet berries with for lines, a hickory stick like Dolly's for a rod, and earth worms for bait. There now, haven't I furnished the whole party with tackle? Come, don't let us go home without having _something_ to take with us." Dolly sat down on the stump of a tree and began to laugh. "The idee," she said, "of going nutting and bringing home _fish_. Well, I'm willing, for one, if it's only to find out the path. I thought I knew all the ins and outs around here." "And I'd like to go too," said Nelly. "I should _like_ to go well enough," added Bessie, "if it wasn't that I feel sure the extra walk will just bring me home too late for my cresses. Mother is sick, too, and she cannot be left alone very long; and Dolly, you know your father said you must not stay out late." "Yes," said Dolly, "I know he did, and I don't mean to disobey, but it can't be very late _yet_; I should think not more than half past three." Martin looked up at the sun and then down to the shadows on the ground. "No," said he, "it is not more than half past three. I am in the habit of telling time by the sun, and I know it is not later than that. Come, Bessie, three to one is the way the case stands. I guess you will be home time enough." Bessie stood irresolute. She wished to go fishing, and she wished to return home. It was hard to choose. At last she said, "It will be four at least when I get back. I must go." "Then you break up the party," said Nelly, in a dissatisfied tone. "And you spoil the pleasure," added Dolly, leaning on her stick and looking at Bessie. "And you send us all home with empty baskets when we might each have a string of fish," continued Martin. "_Do_ stay!" The children surrounded Bessie, and tried to persuade her. At length she ceased to resist. She endeavored to assure herself that she was acting right, but she felt uneasy as she did so, and the picture of her mother, lying so long alone in her sick room, rose up to her mind. Still the temptation was before her, and she yielded to it. The truth was, that Bessie had great confidence in Martin, and when he said that he thought there was plenty of time, she reasoned with herself that he was a great deal older than she was, and probably knew best; so she consented to join the fishing party. The moment she said "yes," Martin exclaimed, "This way then; follow me, all of you, and we will soon reach the short-cut track. It is about here somewhere. Let us hurry so as to lose no time." The path was speedily found as he had said, and the children walked as rapidly after him as the rough stones which lay in the way, and the projecting branches of blackberry bushes would permit. When they reached the pond, Martin took out the pocket knife which he usually carried about him, and cut down four slender young trees which he found growing between the pond and the public wagon-road at its side. He gave these to Nelly and asked her if she would tie the strings securely fast to the smallest ends, while he and Bessie overturned stones in search of worms, and Dolly bent the points of the pins so as to resemble hooks. "Why will not my staff do for a pole?" asked Dolly, as she hammered at the pins with a large pebble; "you said it would, Martin." "That was before I saw these little trees," replied Martin. "The moment I came upon them, growing here in a group among the bushes, I knew they were just the things I wanted. They are thin and tapering, and your stick is not." "What difference does that make?" said Dolly; "a pole is only for the purpose of casting the line out a good distance into the water, isn't it?" "That is one use for it," said Martin, "but not all. If a pole is properly proportioned, that is, if it is the right size at the handle, and tapers gradually to the point, the fisherman can feel the least nibble, and know the exact moment when to draw up the line. If he could not feel the movement, the fish might, in the struggles occasioned by his pain, carry off bait and hook too." "In our case that wouldn't be a great loss," laughed Dolly, and she held up the pins, neatly bent into shape. "Martin," said Bessie, in a low voice, as she stooped to raise a stone at his side, "I guess I don't care to fish, after all." Martin saw something was amiss. Instead of giving utterance to a rude exclamation, or calling the attention of the others, he said in a kind tone, "Why, Bessie, what is the matter now? Don't you feel right?" Bessie shook her head. Martin saw there were tears in her eyes. "I am sorry I coaxed you," he said. "I feel now as if I had not behaved as I ought." "I never _did_ like to go fishing," said Bessie; "it _hurts_ me to see the poor little things pant and flounder when they are brought up. The moment I heard you speak of their struggling with the pain, I was sorrier than ever that I had come, and that made me think of mother, staying home alone with _her_ pain. I do believe I ought to go back at once." "But you cannot find the way," said Martin; "you have never been here before." "That is true," said Bessie, sighing. "Well, I do not wish to be a spoil-pleasure. Don't mind me, then, but you and the others begin your fishing, and if I see a wagon come by on the road that is going our way, I can jump in. I need not stop your sport if I do that." Martin looked perplexed. "I hardly like you to try it," he said, "and yet I do not wish you to stay against your will." "Well," said Bessie, "I don't like to act _mean_, Martin. Go on fishing for a little while, at all events. I can wait half an hour or so, I suppose." Nelly now called to Martin that the lines were ready, for Dolly had just finished tying on the last pin. He gathered up the bait he had found beneath the stones, and went towards the two other girls. He thought, on consideration, that he might fish for a short time, while waiting to see if a wagon approached on the road. If none did so within the allotted half hour, he made up his mind to go home. He blamed himself now for having changed the destination of the party. "Here's my line," cried Dolly, holding it out at the end of her pole, "and now all that I and the fishes wait for is a worm." Martin fastened one on Dolly's pin, one on Nelly's likewise, and one on the line he intended for himself. "Come, Bessie," said Nelly, as she flung her line into the water, "come try _your_ luck." "Bessie does not care about fishing," said Martin kindly, "do not press her if she does not wish it." The pond was well stocked with a variety of small fishes, many of which were considered good eating by the farmers in the neighborhood. As scarcely any one ever took the trouble, however, to go after them, they were hardly acquainted with hooks or lines, and they were, consequently, all the more easily caught. Martin said he had never seen such hungry fishes before. They snapped at the bait the moment it was lowered to them, oftentimes carrying it entirely off, hook and all. Once, and the children could scarcely believe it when they saw it, a fish called a bull-head leaped at least an inch above the water and tried to swallow the end of Dolly's line, which she was in the act of raising, to replace the pin and worm which some of his greedy kindred had just taken away. Martin told the girls that if they would place themselves with him on an old trunk of a tree that apparently had fallen years before into the edge of the pond, they would probably find it to be a better position from which to throw their lines than the shore on which they had stood at first. "For," said he, "the larger fish do not like to venture into such shallow water." The trunk, however, was covered with moist moss, which made it very slippery, and Nelly came so near losing her balance and falling in, as she walked up it, that she concluded to remain where she was. Martin and Dolly did not meet with the same difficulty, however, and very soon they discovered that the nibbles were far more frequent than before. Martin kept a twig on which he slipped the fish as soon as caught, and then hung it on a branch of the moss-covered trunk. Bessie had begun to look on the proceedings with interest, feeling almost as sorry as her companions as a ravenous bull-head occasionally carried off the hooks, when she heard a noise on the road as of wheels. She ran to the bushes which, divided it from the pond, and putting her little face through, saw that the miller who lived in the village was passing with three or four large sacks of meal in a wagon drawn by a pair of horses. He was going the wrong way, but the thought occurred to her to stop him and ask how long it would be before he should return, and if he should do so by the same road. The miller was a stout, good-natured looking man, with an old hat and coat as white as his meal bags. He seemed astonished enough at seeing Bessie's head pop so suddenly out of the bushes in that lonely place. "Why, Bessie," said he, laughing, "if I hadn't been as bold as a lion, perhaps I might have mistaken you for a mermaid that had just sprung out of the pond to have a little private conversation with me. Yes, I shall come back by this road. I have got to deliver my meal at the first house on the left, and then I turn towards home again. Is that your party that I catch a glimpse of on the pond?" "Yes," said Bessie, "they're fishing. You wouldn't mind giving us a ride as far as you go, Mr. Watson, would you?" Mr. Watson laughed, and said no he wouldn't, and telling her he should return in fifteen minutes, he drove on. Bessie hurried back to the children and related her news. She was careful not to be so selfish as to ask them to leave the pond to go with her, but she told them for their own benefit that the miller was willing to take the whole party. Enticing as the fishing was, the two girls were now far too tired to desire to walk home when they could ride very nearly all the way. Martin for his part would have liked to remain longer, but he saw that it would be ungenerous to refuse to accompany them, even if it had been early enough to do so, which it was not, for already the day was on the wane. So it was decided to leave the pond. Martin put Dolly's share of the fishes on a separate twig, and very proud she was of them. She said she should fry them for her father's breakfast the next morning, before he started for market. The fishing poles were left lying near the old tree. When the miller drove up to the place where Bessie had hailed him, he found the children awaiting him. Dolly and Martin, fish in hand, Nelly carrying her bitter-sweet berries, and Bessie with an empty basket, but a light heart at the thought that now she should reach home in good season to gather the cresses. CHAPTER V. LOST. "I CAN'T find it," said Bessie, about a month after the fishing party. "I have hunted high and low. I cannot find it anywhere." Her mother, whose health was now greatly improving, was sitting in the kitchen by the blazing fire, for the weather was gradually growing colder, and the logs were piled up a little higher on the hearth, day by day. She was busy finishing quilting a white counterpane for a neighbor who employed her frequently to sew for her family. It was full of quaint devices, stars and diamonds forming the border, while in the centre was a wonderful little lamb in the act of performing some very frisky gambols. "Cannot find what?" demanded Bessie's mother. "My Madeira nut!" exclaimed Bessie, in a tone of despair. "Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?" Her mother stopped quilting and turned to look at her. "Where did you put it last?" she asked. "Surely, Bessie, you ought to remember that." "I have never put it in but one spot," replied Bessie; "I left it in the drawer of my little table. When you grew better, and the table wasn't needed any more in your bedroom for you to stand your medicines on, I got Nathan to help me take it up stairs in the garret, just as you bade me, that day last week when he was here spending the afternoon. I thought I would still keep the nut there, for I had grown used to the place, and I liked to go to the drawer and pull it out to look at it sometimes. Oh dear, oh dear!" and Bessie burst into tears. "Perhaps you haven't searched well," said her mother; "come, I'll go up stairs with you. I shouldn't wonder if it had got caught in the top of the drawer. I have heard of such things. I lost a handkerchief that way myself once." "But," sobbed Bessie, "it couldn't get caught like that without being broken, because it was so thin shelled, and then I should have seen some of the pieces; or the money would have fallen back into the drawer, and I would have found _that_." "How much was in it?" asked her mother. "There could not have been a great deal more than the very first silver Mr. Dart brought you for the cresses, for the rest we have spent from time to time as fast as it was received. I was sorry enough to do it too." "I wasn't," said Bessie, brightening up a little through her tears, "I was glad and thankful, mother, to have it to spend. If it had not been for the cresses, what would have become of us all the while you were so sick?" "God always provides for the poor and needy," said her mother gravely, "and I am certain that He who knows even when sparrows fall would not let us suffer. If this help had not sprung up for us through Mr. Dart, something else would have presented itself. Come, now, let us go to the garret and look for the money." Bessie darted ahead of her mother as they went up the stairs, with a bound and a spring that brought her to the head of the flight when her mother was on the second step. She was young and agile, and besides she was greatly excited and in haste to begin the search. She did not gain any thing by her speed, however, for she had to wait at the landing until her mother had toiled slowly up. "Now let us look at the drawer," said her mother, when, after pausing a moment to breathe, she moved towards the table. It was a poor little shaky thing, and of a very dilapidated appearance. It was not to be wondered at that as soon as her recovery made its presence unnecessary in her room, she had banished it to the garret whence it had been brought. "You see there is no trace of it," said Bessie, mournfully, as she watched her mother remove the articles the drawer contained one by one. No, it was not there indeed. Bessie pulled out the drawer, and even took the trouble to examine the aperture which contained it, but all was in vain. "It is certainly very strange," said her mother. "I do not see how, if it were really in this drawer, it could have got out without help." "Nor I either," added Bessie, half laughing at the idea of a nut walking off of itself. "Oh, if I could only find it! I do not mind the nut so much, although dear uncle James gave it to me last Christmas, as I do the money, for you know, mother, I asked you if I might not keep it forever, that is as long as I lived, to remember Mr. Dart's kindness by, and to show, when I grew up, as my first earnings. Oh, I was so proud of those three pieces of silver!" "What were they?" asked her mother, looking over the contents of the drawer again. "_Don't you remember?_" exclaimed Bessie, in a tone of great surprise, as though it were really remarkable to have forgotten. "Don't you remember? There were two twenty-five cent pieces and a ten cent piece!" and Bessie broke into fresh weeping again. "Don't cry about it, Bessie," said her mother, "you know crying cannot bring them back." "I wouldn't care," said the little girl, "if it had been _yesterday's_ money, but it was the first, _the very first_ I ever earned of myself, and I meant to save it always!" "I think I can tell you exactly how it happened, my child. Just look at the untidy appearance of your drawer. There are scraps in it of a great many things that ought not to be there. Here is a broken slate, your worn-out work-basket, your summer sun-bonnet, empty bottles, spools of cotton, and last but not least, about a quart of hickory nuts,--a nice array, I am sure." Bessie hung her head. She was ashamed to have her disorderly ways remarked. A want of neatness was her greatest fault. "I was just going to clear it up to-morrow," she murmured, twitching rather uneasily at her apron strings. "Oh, my little girl, that 'just going' of yours is one of the saddest things I can hear you say. You are always '_just going_,' and yet the time seldom comes that you do as you intend. You are full of good intentions that you are either too lazy or too thoughtless ever to fulfil. If I did not watch over you very sharply, every thing you have would be like this miserable looking drawer, a complete mass of disorder." "Oh, I hope not!" cried Bessie, quite appalled at the news. "Now," continued her mother, "I can trace the losing of your money back to your want of neatness. In all probability, when you came to this drawer some time to get a few of your hickory nuts, you have caught up the Madeira among the others, carried it down stairs, and left the whole pile lying as you often do, somewhere around the garden till you feel in the humor for cracking them. I want to know, in the first place, why your hickory nuts were ever put in this drawer among your books and spools of cotton." Bessie had been growing warmer and warmer while her mother was speaking, until it seemed to her as though the tips of her ears were on fire. Conviction forced itself upon her mind that her Madeira nut must have gone in the way her mother described, for she remembered distinctly having often taken two or three handfuls of nuts and carried them in her apron down to the garden, leaving them lying carelessly about her favorite resorts, under the old apple-tree for instance, or on the big flat stone by the brook. She had many just such idle, unsystematic ways of managing. She felt she was in the wrong, so she scarcely knew how to defend herself. "I don't know why I put the nuts there, mother," she said, "unless it was to get them out of the way. They are those that are left of the basket full I found in the woods by Mr. Dart's farm, one day when Nelly and I went there together." "When _will_ you learn neatness, Bessie?" "I don't know," sobbed Bessie, "never, I 'spect. Seems to me I grow worse and worse. I don't believe I shall be half as good when I am ten as I am now when I'm only nine. I wish I had never gone nutting, and then this would not have happened." "No," said her mother, smiling, "it never would, for then in all probability you would not have met and become friendly with our good Mr. Dart. Don't make rash wishes, my little Bess, because you are vexed." "Oh, now I know," cried Bessie, as if struck with a sudden idea, "I put the nuts in that drawer, mother, for _safety_. Before that they were lying spread out to dry on the floor, over by that barrel. I remember thinking that they were thinning out pretty fast, and that the rats must have carried some away. I thought that if I put them in the drawer they would last until I used them up." "Well," said her mother, "that betters the case a little; but still I must insist that you could have found many more appropriate places. If you had put them in the barrel it would have been far better than among your spools, and I do not know but that it would have been quite as safe." Bessie's mother went up to the barrel in question, as she spoke, and scarcely knowing what she was doing, shoved it a little with her foot. It was empty, and yielded easily. This change in its position brought to view the space between it and the wall, and there, what did Bessie and her mother see but a nice little pile of hickory nut-shells! Bessie uttered an exclamation and sprang forward. She took up two or three, and found that a hole had been neatly nibbled in each and the meat subtracted. "I told you so," she said sorrowfully, letting the shells drop slowly back to the pile; "now I know why my nuts disappeared so fast. I thought at first that Nathan must have helped himself to a few, when he has been here. He often runs up stairs to get something or other to play with, when he stays the whole afternoon, and I guessed the nuts had tempted him. Poor Nathan! I ought to have known better." Bessie's mother stooped and examined every shell in the pile. "Perhaps," said she, "master rat has carried off the Madeira too." "Oh, I hope so," cried the little girl; "do you see any of the pieces of it, mother? He could not harm the money you know, and that is what I care most about getting back." "It is not here," said her mother, rising, "but perhaps we shall hear something of it yet. I want you to put on your sun-bonnet and look carefully about the garden. Take an hour, or two hours if necessary, but do it thoroughly. I must go down stairs now to my sewing." Bessie found it very tedious, sad work searching for her lost treasure that afternoon. She went to each of her favorite haunts, and examined them with great minuteness, but no trace of the nut was to be discovered. One thing seemed to her as very strange, however, and that was, that of all the small supplies of nuts which she had lately carried down to the garden, and of which she did not remember even to have cracked a single one, not so much as a fragment of a shell was now to be found. Only the day before she had left a little strawberry basket half filled, on the big stone by the brook, to which the reader remembers she once led Mr. Dart to survey the cresses. She had meant to sit there and crack and pick them out at once, at her leisure, but something attracting her attention as usual, she did not do so, but deserted both basket and nuts. The basket was there still, but to her surprise, it was quite empty. It lay on its side near where she had left it. No mark of any one having been there was to be seen in the muddy grass. Bessie took up the basket and gazed at it in silent astonishment. What could it mean? Who would help themselves to her nuts in this way? and why was the basket not carried off also? She was still sitting on the stone thinking the whole singular affair over, when she heard Nathan call to her from the next house, where he lived. She looked up, and there he was leaning over the fence. She had just been thinking of him, and it made her feel unpleasantly to see him. "Bess," cried he, "what do you think? father is going to give me a ride to town to-morrow." Bessie scarcely heard him as she rose, and holding up her empty basket, said reproachfully,-- "Oh, Nathan, how could you climb over the fence and take my nuts?" "Nuts!" echoed Nathan, "what nuts? I don't know any thing about your nuts." "Somebody does," said Bessie, "for this basket was half full yesterday, and now it is empty. I left it here on the stone all night." "I never saw it," said Nathan; "that's mighty pretty of you to accuse a fellow of stealing. You had better be a little careful." "I didn't say you _stole_, Nathan, I only--" "Who cares for your old nuts?" interrupted Nathan, "they're not worth the carrying off. Next thing you'll be saying I meddle with your cresses." "No," said Bessie, a little sadly, "I shouldn't say that. There are only two or three baskets-full of nice ones left, and by next week Mr. Dart will have taken them all to market. I don't _care_ about my nuts, Nathan, it isn't that, but I should like to know who took them." "Well, _I_ didn't, anyhow," said Nathan, "and since you are so cross about it, I shan't stay to talk to you." He clambered down from the fence and walked away whistling, with his hands in his pockets. Some way, Bessie felt a presentiment that Nathan knew more than he said about the nuts. She concluded to go in and ask her mother if it could possibly be that he had taken the missing money. Her mother listened in silence to all she had to utter on the subject. Bessie told her that Nathan was aware, and had been aware from the beginning, where the Madeira nut was kept. She said he was present when she first put it in the drawer, which was indeed true, as the reader knows, and that often since, they had looked at it together. "My dear," said her mother, when Bessie concluded, "I do not see that you have any thing more than _conjecture_ on which to found your suspicions. It is very wrong to act on conjecture only." "But everybody thinks Nat is a bad boy," said Bessie eagerly; "the neighbors say he will do almost any thing. Only last Sunday he pinned the minister's coat tails to the shade of the church window, as he stood talking to Deacon Danbury, after meeting was over. When the minister went to walk off, down came the shade on his head and smashed his new hat. _I_ think that a boy who will do that would take things that do not belong to him." "Perhaps he might," said her mother quietly. "Well, shall I ask him about it," demanded Bessie. "My dear child," said her mother gravely, "your ideas of justice are one-sided. The world would not thrive if every one acted on the principles you seem to advocate. Many an honest man might be imprisoned as a thief if people should take mere _conjecture_ for proof of guilt, while at the same time, many a thief would pass for an honest man. In law, all persons are supposed innocent, until they are _proved_ guilty. You did not _see_ Nathan take any thing belonging to you, nor do you know any one who did. It would be the height of cruelty then, to accuse him without absolute proof." "Yes," said Bessie, "but suppose he _did_ take the nut after all." "Then," said her mother, "we can only leave the case to that Judge who doeth all things well. It is better for us to suppose him innocent even while he may be guilty, than to suppose him guilty when he is innocent." "I wish I _knew_," said Bessie, as she took up her shears and basket to go out to get the cresses for the next day's market. "The cold weather will soon put a stop to the cresses, I am afraid," remarked her mother, after a pause. "Yes," said Bessie, "Mr. Dart says they are getting poor now; they do not grow fast after cutting, any more, on account of the frost." "Never mind," said her mother cheerfully, "in the spring, which after all is not so _very_ far off, they will become fine again, and then you can begin to sell as fast as ever. If I am well then, as I hope and trust I shall be, we must not touch a penny of your money, Bessie. It shall all be saved to send you regularly to Miss Milly's school, and buy books for you to learn out of, and perhaps, who knows, there will be something left to put in the bank besides. This fall the cresses have fed our poor, suffering bodies, but next spring, if nothing happens, they shall feed my Bessie's mind." "School!" cried Bessie, dropping both the basket and the scissors in her delight, "shall I _really_ go to school? And all through the water-cresses? Why, we never thought our dear little brook would make us so rich, did we, mother?" CHAPTER VI. THE NEST. ONE clear and cold morning in winter, as Bessie was passing along the road that led by Nelly's home, she heard Martin call her from the barn where he was at work. He saw her passing and beckoned to her to come to him. Bessie had the singular habit which most children possess of stopping to ask why she was summoned, when at the same time she fully intended to answer the call in person. So she stood still, and in a loud voice cried, "Mar-TIN, what _is_ it? What do you want of me?" "Come and see!" replied Martin, "I've something nice to show you!" and then he resumed his place at the hay-cutting machine, at which he had been busy when he espied her. He was mincing the hay for the cattle to eat. Bessie still stood irresolute. She meant to come, but she desired her curiosity to be gratified before she did so. "Mar-TIN?" "Well?" "Can't you tell me _now_ what it is?" "No," replied Martin, going on with his hay chopping; "I guess you will have to come and see for yourself. It almost splits my throat to be calling out to you so." "I think you might tell me," said Bessie, opening the gate and walking towards him; "you could have done it in half the time that you have been talking about it. Mercy! have you cut all that pile of hay this morning?" [Illustration: "A couple of white sheep came running eagerly up to Martin's outstretched hand."--p. 125.] "Yes," said Martin; "it's for the horses. I sprinkle a little water on it, and they like it a great deal better than when it is dry and uncut. It's healthier for them too." "I am glad I don't live on it," said Bessie. "I should be like the horse that his master fed on shavings,--just as I got used to it I should die." "Very likely," said Martin, laughing. "Come, and I'll show you what I spoke about." Bessie followed him as he led the way across the yard to the part of the barn where the large folding-doors were situated. They were wide open, and the clear winter sunshine streamed on the floor. An old wagon and a ladder were placed across this opening, so that no one could come in or go out without climbing over. "What is this for?" asked Bessie. "This wagon don't belong here, Martin. I never saw it here before." "That's to keep the cows out," said Martin, smiling. "We have treasures in this part of the barn that it would not do for the cattle to get at. Here Nanny, here Jinny!" A pattering of little hoofs was heard on the wooden floor, and a couple of white sheep came running eagerly up to Martin's outstretched hand. They rubbed themselves against it, and showed in various other ways how glad they were to see him. "Aren't they pretty?" said Bessie admiringly. "Come here, Nanny." But Nanny would not touch Bessie's hand, and backed up the barn, shaking her head at the sight of it, and kicking her delicate little heels in the air. "They don't know you yet," said Martin, "but they are very tame, and would soon become acquainted if you were with them every day as I am. We have had them two weeks, and already they let me play with them. They are cossets." "_Cossets_, Martin?" "Yes; that means the pets of the flock. The cosset lamb means the pet lamb." "Pet is a prettier word than cosset," said Bessie; "I should never call them that. I do wish mother had two such nice sheep. But why do you keep them shut up here?" "You haven't seen all yet," said Martin, smiling; "just creep through this place and round by these wheels, and we will go in and find out why the cows are kept out and the sheep kept in." Martin helped Bessie through the obstructions, and led her to the back of the barn where, nestled in a heap of clean hay that was piled against the opposite folding doors, she saw a little bundle of something white, in which she could just detect two small, glittering eyes. "It's a lamb," cried Bessie, skipping about as if she were one herself. "Two of 'em," said Martin. "Only look here!" and he pulled apart the loose whisps of hay, and there lay revealed two of the fattest, whitest, and prettiest lambs that ever were seen. They did not seem to like being admired, but gave utterance to a little sharp cry very much like a baby's. Hearing it, one of the sheep trotted up, and pushing between them and Martin, quietly began to lick them. "That's their mother," said Martin. "They are twins, and only two days old. The other old sheep is a twin of this old one, and they are so fond of each other that we cannot keep them separate. At first we were afraid the aunty would injure the young ones, and we shut her out in the barn-yard, but she came and stood at the door, there by the wagon, and cried so piteously that Mr. Brooks told me she might stay in with her sister and her baby nieces. We could not bear to hear her bleat so." "Don't she bite or tread on them?" asked Bessie. "No," said Martin, "I think she is very tender with them. This morning one of the men threw a handful of hay accidentally in a lamb's face, and when it tried to push it off but couldn't, what does old aunty do but walk up and eat it away, every whisp. I thought that was quite bright of her, and kind too. On the whole I think they are a happy family." "Does Nelly like 'em?" asked Bessie, as she patted the head of the one Martin called the "aunty." "Yes," said Martin, "she thinks they are the handsomest animals on the place. They grow fonder of her every day." "I hope her father don't mean to have them killed," remarked Bessie, a little sadly. "No indeed," cried Martin, "he bought them for pets, and to look pretty running about the meadow in the summer time. He says they are too tame and loving to be killed. I shouldn't like to think of such a thing, I am sure. There,--do see old Moolly poking her head over the wagon! How she does want to come in! She always was our pet before, and I suppose it makes her a little jealous. Poor Moolly,--good little Moolly." Martin picked up a corn-cob and rubbed the cow's ears. She stood quite still to let him do it, and when he stopped she stretched out her head for more and looked at him as if she had not had half her share. "Are the little lambs named?" asked Bessie, as she got up from the hay to go. "No," said Martin; "Nelly's father told her she might call them any thing she wanted, but she thinks they are such funny little long-legged things that she cannot find names pretty enough. When they grow stronger they will frisk about and be full of play." "I mean to run over to the house to see her and ask her about it," said Bessie. "I am real glad you called me, Martin, to look at them." Martin went back to his hay-cutting, and Bessie bade him good-by, and skipped along the path to the house. Bessie always skipped instead of walking or running, when she was particularly pleased with any thing. On knocking at the farm-house door, she was told to her great sorrow that Nelly was not within, but when she heard that she had just started to pay a visit to herself, that sorrow was changed to joy, and she turned to go home with a very light heart and a pair of very brisk feet. "Perhaps I can overtake her," she said to herself; but go as fast as she could, she saw nothing of Nelly on the road. When she reached home, she was so warm with the exercise that it seemed to her as though the day were a very mild one indeed. As she pushed open the door of the kitchen, her eyes were so bright and her cheeks so red from her little run, that her mother looked up from her work and asked what she had been doing. "Only racing down the hill to find Nelly," panted Bessie, sinking into a chair as she spoke. "Isn't she here? I didn't overtake her." "No," replied her mother, "Nelly has been here and gone. She was sorry you were out." "Gone!" echoed Bessie. "Well, if that is not too bad! Mrs. Brooks said she had just started. I am so sorry. Did she tell you which way she was going?" "No," said her mother, "she did not, but she said perhaps she would stop on her way back. Come, take off your hat and shawl and hang them up, and then begin hemming one of these towels. I am in a great hurry to get them done. They are Mrs. Raynor's, and I promised to send them home to-morrow." Bessie loved to romp and play much better than to sew, and these words of her mother's did not consequently fill her with satisfaction. She knew, however, that by sewing their living was to be gained, so she choked down the fretful words that rose to her lips. She felt that it was hard enough for her mother to work, without having her repinings to endure also. The glow and cheerful effect of her walk, however, faded away as she slowly untied her hood, and hung it with her shawl on a peg behind the door. She was deeply disappointed at Nelly's absence. "I wish she would have waited a little while," she said; "I don't see her so often now the winter has set in, that I can afford to miss her. Mother, have you seen my thimble?" "What!" said her mother, "lost _again_, Bessie? What shall I do with this careless girl? There is my old one, you can use that for a little while." "Oh, now I remember," cried Bessie, springing up, "I left it in the garret, in the drawer of the old table, the last time I was there. I'll get it, and be down again in a moment." She opened the door at the foot of the stairs, and ran quickly up them. She did not notice that she left the door wide open, and that the cold air rushed into the warm kitchen, nor did she know that her mother, sighing, was obliged to rise from her work and shut it after her. On went Bessie, and turning the landing, began the second flight, two steps at a time, as usual. She was very lightfooted, and owing to her disappointment about Nelly, she did not feel quite gay enough to hum the little tunes which she generally did when going about the house, so that altogether she scarcely made any noise. Perhaps it was owing to this that, as she reached the head of the garret stairs, she saw something run across the floor, evidently alarmed at her unexpected appearance. She stood still for a moment, hardly knowing what it was, and not wishing to go any further in the fear of frightening it away before she could get a good look at it. She decided at once, however, from its size, that it was not a rat, for it was far too large. It had taken refuge behind some old furniture in a corner, and in the hope that if she kept perfectly still, it would venture out again, she sat down on the top step, and fixed her eyes intently on the spot where she had beheld it disappear. She had remained thus but a short time when she heard hasty footsteps coming from the kitchen, and a voice that she recognized as that of Nelly, called her name. She did not answer, for she wanted to unravel the mystery, whatever it might be, and when Nelly, still calling, followed her up to the stairs on which she sat, she put her finger on her lip by way of enjoining silence, and beckoned to her to come to her. Nelly understood in a moment, and slipping off her heavy winter walking shoes, crept up and sat down beside her. "Hush!" whispered Bessie, "don't make a sound. There is some sort of a little animal concealed behind that old fire-board, and I want to see it come out." She spoke so low that Nelly had difficulty in getting at the sense of what she said, but when she did, she nodded slightly, and the two little girls began the watch together. They sat there a long, long time. Once or twice they thought they heard a movement behind the fire-board, but they saw nothing. At last, just as they were becoming very weary of remaining so long in the cold, Nelly caught sight of a small pointed nose, projecting from one side of the board. As this nose moved slowly forward, a pair of bright little eyes came into view also, rolling restlessly about, as if seeking to espy danger. It was with difficulty the children could repress the exclamations that were on their lips, but with an effort they did so, and remained just as quiet as before. Encouraged by the dead stillness, the animal advanced still further from its retreat, peering all the while about it. Its body, as near as they could see, was spotted gray and white, and so were its pretty ears, which were long, and in constant motion. It ran cautiously from its place of concealment, and at last, with a graceful, hurried spring, landed on the top of Bessie's table. Arrived there, it sat down and looked about it again. The children did not move. The drawer of the table, as usual, was partially open, according to Bessie's careless habit, and the little creature put its mites of paws carefully in the crack, bringing them out again almost immediately with a nut, at which at once it commenced to nibble. It was an odd sight as it sat there on its hind legs, holding the nut in its front paws, and twisting and turning it from side to side in order to find a good place to plant its sharp teeth. Nelly glanced at Bessie and longed to burst into a laugh, but Bessie signified to her by a movement of her eye-brows and lips that she must not. It was plain enough by this time that the little thief was a squirrel. Bessie was quite bewildered at the thought that it had been able to get in the house without her or her mother's knowledge. She did not know that the race to which the animal belonged is proverbial for its cunning, and that often it steals a way into the habitations of men for no other purpose than to find seeds and grains on which to live. Some accidental movement which Bessie made, at length startled the squirrel from its sense of security. It leaped lightly from the table to the floor, and disappeared behind some loose blocks of wood, near the fire-board. As it did so, Nelly saw that part of its tail was missing, looking as if torn off at about half its length. "Bessie!" she exclaimed eagerly, as her companion made a dart for the blocks of wood, "Bessie, as sure as you're alive, that's the same squirrel we saw in the woods, the day we went nutting." "I know it," cried Bessie; "at least I am as sure as I can be, for that one was like this, spotted white and gray, and each of them had only a part of a tail. To think of the little thing being so hungry as to come after my nuts! If I can only find its hole, I'll feed it regularly every day." "What _could_ bring it so far from the woods?" cried Nelly, laughing. "I never heard of any thing more strange, even in a book." "You stay here and watch if it comes out again," said Bessie, "and I'll run tell mother. Perhaps she can help find its hiding-place." Nelly went with her as far as the foot of the stairs to get her shoes, for her feet were now growing very cold. Then she returned to the garret, but nothing more had been seen of the squirrel when Bessie appeared with her mother. "It was here, just here, that it went out of sight," cried Bessie; "somewhere by these blocks and this old fire-board." Her mother laughed, and said if there were nothing worse than a squirrel in the house, she should be glad. "We must look," she added, "and perhaps we can discover its nest; that is, if it has one here, for, Bessie, it has just occurred to me that this is the way your Madeira nut disappeared. If we can find the nest we may find your money too," and she began to move out the furniture from the wall. At the mention of the Madeira nut, Bessie colored deeply, and really seemed struck with true shame. "Oh, mother," she said, "to think that I have never, all this while, cleaned out that drawer! Some of the nuts are still in it, and the other things too, just as they were that day when I lost my money. I have meant to clear it out so many times!" Her mother turned and looked at her sorrowfully. "Bessie," she said, "I have for years done all I could do, to make a careful, neat little girl, out of a careless, untidy one. I am beginning now to leave you to yourself, hoping that time will help you to see yourself as others see you. I have noticed often that your drawer remained in the same condition, but I did not speak of it." "Oh, mother," cried Bessie, frightened, "don't leave me to myself, _don't_. I shall never learn to be good at all, that way. Oh, don't give me up yet." "My poor child," said her mother, "if you will only _try_, so that I can _see_ you trying, my confidence in you will come back, but not otherwise. I want something more than empty promises. You forget them as soon as you make them." "But I will try, I will _really_ try _this_ time," said Bessie with tears in her eyes. "I'm _lazy_, mother, I'm _real_ lazy, but I am not as bad as I might be. I'll clean the drawer just as soon as we look for the nest, _sure_." "Well," said her mother, half smiling at the little girl's doleful tone, "well, I will give you this one more chance. We will take the drawer for a new starting point. Come, Nelly, let us search now for the squirrel's hole. It must be somewhere about here, for it would never come up by the stairs, I think." They began a thorough hunt, lifting up every light article in the out-garret, where they were, and dragging the more ponderous furniture from their places. It was a sort of store-away place for things not in every-day use, and therefore it took some time to examine every thing. An occasional pile of nibbled nut-shells was all that was brought to light. "Well," said Nelly, laughing, as she looked under the last article, a little broken chair belonging to Bessie. "Well, I don't see but that Madame Squirrel has escaped us. I can't meet with a trace of her, for my part, beyond these nut-shells." "Nor I either," wofully added Bessie. "Yet how could it have run away from us, since we can find no hole in the floor, and Nelly did not see it run into any of these other rooms?" asked Bessie's mother. "Perhaps it is hidden in the furniture itself," remarked Nelly. "Stop a moment," said Bessie's mother, as Nelly began to pull out the drawers of an old bureau, "here are some crossbeams in the wall by the fire-board, that look very much as though a set of sharp teeth had nibbled a hole in them,--yes, it is so! Well, I think we've tracked the squirrel now! The place is such a little way from the floor, that it could jump in and scamper off through the walls, before any one could molest it. Perhaps it is far away in the woods, laughing at us, at this minute." The children drew near the beams in question, with strong curiosity. It was indeed as Bessie's mother said; there were the marks of teeth in the wood, and just where the beams joined was a hole quite large enough for a squirrel to pass through. "It is the same one we saw in the woods, I know it is," said Nelly, "but what should bring it here?" "Perhaps, in time, we can tame it; that is if we have not already frightened it away. _May_ I try to tame it, mother?" "Yes," said her mother. "I think Bunny will make a pretty pet. We can strew a few grains of corn, or a few nuts about its hole every day, until it learns to regard us as its friends; but a little girl that I know must get into the good habit of putting her things in their proper places, and shutting her table drawers _tight_, or it will continue to help itself to more valuable things, and make itself a plague to us. I do not doubt that Bunny has your money in its nest at this minute. It thought, probably, that it was carrying off a good, sound nut." "Yes," said Bessie, "and I dare say it was it that ran off with those in my basket, and all the others in the garden. Poor, dear Nathan! I must tell him about it, and ask him to forget my cross words. One of my Sunday-school hymns says, 'Kind words can never die.' I wonder if the unkind words live forever too. Do they, mother?" "I hope not," was the answer, "but many an unkind word leaves a sting in the mind of the person to whom it is said, long after the one who uttered it has entirely forgotten it. I don't believe Nathan, for instance, will soon cease to remember that you asked him why he took your nuts. You acted too impulsively." "Too _what_, mother?" asked Bessie, curiously. "Too _impulsively_. That is, you did not wait to consider the matter, but spoke out just as you felt, as soon as you saw him. You must certainly ask him to excuse you. If you are always very gentle to him in future, perhaps your offence will be forgotten. There is no end to the soothing effect of those 'kind words that never die!'" "He was cross enough with _me_ about it," said Bessie, reflectively. "I think a few kind words would not hurt _him_ to say." "We have nothing to do with Nathan as to that," said her mother. "If he chooses to be ill-tempered, it is his own business, while it is ours to bear it from him patiently. It is only by such means that we can teach him how wrong he is." "I think that is pretty hard to do," said Bessie, shaking her head, "don't you, Nelly? _I_ always want to answer right straight back." "And if you do," said her mother, "you will find that you invariably make the case worse than before. A noble poet, whose works you may read when you are older, has said, 'Be silent and endure!' and experience will prove to you both, that this silence and this endurance is the true key to happiness. Now, run down stairs, Bessie, and bring me up the little saw. The idea has just come to me, to saw away some of the board at the side of these beams. That will give us a good view of what is going on in the wall, and will not hurt its appearance much, either." Bessie soon reappeared with the saw, which, as it was small, her mother had no difficulty in handling. She took it from her and began operations at once, inserting the sharp end of it in a crevice in the wood, and moving it gradually across the grain, until the end of the board fell on the floor, where the sawdust already lay. "Oh, let me see!" cried Bessie, in wild delight at this exposure of the squirrel's haunt. And "Oh, let _me_ see _too_!" cried Nelly. But Bessie's mother said she thought she had better take a peep first, so she lowered her eyes to the aperture and looked in. It was dark, and her eyes, accustomed to the sun-light, at first could distinguish nothing. Gradually, however, she found that she could see a little way around the hole with great distinctness, and it was not long before a small heap of rags, apparently, attracted her attention on one of the corner beams. "What is it, mother? what do you find?" cried Bessie, as her mother put in her hand to feel what this heap could be. Something warm met the touch of her fingers, and she drew back, slightly startled. On examining further, she found that this was indeed the animal's nest, and that these soft, warm objects, curled up in it so nicely, were probably her little young ones. "There!" she said, laughing, "come see, children, what I have found! Here is the squirrel's nest, and two of her little babies!" The girls peered eagerly through the hole at these newly discovered treasures. "The darlings!" cried Bessie, "we can surely tame these little creatures, mother, they are so young. It will be no trouble at all." "We must not take them from the nest," replied her mother. "If we can tame them by kindness, and by gradually accustoming them to our harmless visits, I am very willing to make pets of them." "Oh, how pleasant that will be," exclaimed Bessie, in an ecstasy. "Do look, Nelly, at their pretty eyes. I don't know but that I shall be just as well satisfied with my two little squirrels as you are with your two lambs." As she spoke, she put in her hand to touch the tiny animals on the head, and smooth them softly, but something at the side of the nest suddenly arrested her attention, and she did not do so. "Oh, mother," she cried, "I do believe here is my Madeira nut, among this rubbish and empty hickory shells about the nest. I do believe it,--I do believe it! It _looks_ like it, I am positive of that. It seems whole, too. I don't think it has been nibbled at all! How glad I am!" "Can you reach it?" asked her mother; "if you can, do so." Bessie made what she called "a long arm," and in a moment more she seized the nut and brought it into open daylight. "Oh, mother," she said, dancing around the garret joyfully, "it _is_ my nut! Here is a little place in the side where the squirrel has bitten, and you can see the money right through it! She found that there was nothing good to eat in it, so she stopped just in time not to spoil it entirely. I am so glad--I am so glad!" THE END. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. The varied hyphenation of "watercress" and "water-cress" was retained. Page 20, "lewer" changed to "lower" (the lower half which) 
28179	----	The Inglises, by Margaret Murray Robertson. ________________________________________________________________________ Margaret Robertson generally wrote about rather religion-minded people, and this is no exception. The women in her stories tend to moan on a good bit, and this book is also no exception to that. Having said that, don't say I didn't warn you. However, like all novels of the second half of the nineteenth century, they are about a bygone age, and things were different then. For that reason it is worth reading books of that period if you want to know more about how people lived in those days. One very big difference was illness. Nowadays, you go to the doctor, and very probably he or she will be able to cure you. In those days you either died or were confined to your bed for a long time. If you died but had been responsible for income coming into the house, in many cases that stopped, too. The women-folk and the children would be left without support. No wonder they moaned a lot, and turned to religion, to comfort themselves. It is hard for us to realise what huge progress has been made in social reforms. Reading this book, and others of that period (this book was published in 1872) will teach a lot about how lucky we are to live in the present age, despite all its other faults. ________________________________________________________________________ THE INGLISES, BY MARGARET MURRAY ROBERTSON. CHAPTER ONE. In the large and irregular township of Gourlay, there are two villages, Gourlay Centre and Gourlay Corner. The Reverend Mr Inglis lived in the largest and prettiest of the two, but he preached in both. He preached also in another part of the town, called the North Gore. A good many of the Gore people used to attend church in one or other of the two villages; but some of them would never have heard the Gospel preached from one year's end to the other, if the minister had not gone to them. So, though the way was long and the roads rough at the best of seasons, Mr Inglis went often to hold service in the little red school-house there. It was not far on in November, but the night was as hard a night to be out in as though it were the depth of winter, Mrs Inglis thought, as the wind dashed the rain and sleet against the window out of which she and her son David were trying to look. They could see nothing, however, for the night was very dark. Even the village lights were but dimly visible through the storm, which grew thicker every moment; with less of rain and more of snow, and the moaning of the wind among the trees made it impossible for them to hear any other sound. "I ought to have gone with him, mamma," said the boy, at last. "Perhaps so, dear. But papa thought it not best, as this is Frank's last night here." "It is quite time he were at home, mamma, even though the roads are bad." "Yes; he must have been detained. We will not wait any longer. We will have prayers, and let the children go to bed; he will be very tired when he gets home." "How the wind blows! We could not hear the wagon even if he were quite near. Shall I go to the gate and wait?" "No, dear, better not. Only be ready with the lantern when he comes." They stood waiting a little longer, and then David opened the door and looked out. "It will be awful on Hardscrabble to-night, mamma," said he, as he came back to her side. "Yes," said his mother, with a sigh, and then they were for a long time silent. She was thinking how the wind would find its way through the long-worn great coat of her husband, and how unfit he was to bear the bitter cold. David was thinking how the rain, that had been falling so heavily all the afternoon, must have gullied out the road down the north side of Hardscrabble hill, and hoping that old Don would prove himself sure-footed in the darkness. "I wish I had gone with him," said he, again. "Let us go to the children," said his mother. The room in which the children were gathered was bright with fire-light--a picture of comfort in contrast with the dark and stormy night out upon which these two had been looking. The mother shivered a little as she drew near the fire. "Sit here, mamma." "No, sit here; this is the best place." The eagerness was like to grow to clamour. "Hush! children," said the mother; "it is time for prayers. We will not wait for papa, because he will be very tired and cold. No, Letty, you need not get the books, there has been enough reading for the little ones to-night. We will sing `Jesus, lover of my soul,' and then David will read the chapter." "Oh! yes, mamma, `Jesus, lover;' I like that best," said little Mary, laying her head down on her mother's shoulder, and her little shrill voice joined with the others all through, though she could hardly speak the words plainly. "That's for papa," said she, when they reached the end of the last line, "While the tempest still is high." The children laughed, but the mother kissed her fondly, saying softly: "Yes, love; but let us sing on to the end." It was very sweet singing, and very earnest. Even their cousin, Francis Oswald, whose singing in general was of a very different kind, joined in it, to its great improvement, and to the delight of the rest. Then David read the chapter, and then they all knelt down and the mother prayed. "Not just with her lips, but with all her heart, as if she really believed in the good of it," thought Francis Oswald to himself. "Of course we all believe in it in a general way," he went on thinking, as he rose from his knees and sat down, not on a chair, but on the rug before the fire; "of course, we all believe in it, but not just as Aunt Mary does. She seems to be seeing the hand that holds the thing she is asking for, and she asks as if she was sure she was going to get it, too. She hasn't a great deal of what people generally are most anxious to have," he went on, letting his eyes wander round the fire-lighted room, "but then she is content with what she has, and that makes all the difference. `A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesses,' she told me the other day, and I suppose she believes _that_, too, and not just in the general way in which we all believe the things that are in the Bible. Fancy Aunt Ellen and my sister Louisa being contented in a room like this!" It was a very pleasant room, too, the lad thought, though they might not like it, and though there was not an article in it which was in itself beautiful. It was a large, square room, with an alcove in which stood a bed. Before the bed was a piece of carpet, which did not extend very far over the grey painted floor, and in the corner was a child's cot. The furniture was all of the plainest, not matching either in style or in material, but looking very much as if it had been purchased piece by piece, at different times and places, as the means of the owners had permitted. The whole was as unlike as possible to the beautifully furnished room in which the greater part of the boy's evenings had been passed, but it was a great deal pleasanter in his eyes at the moment. "I have had jolly times here, better than I shall have at home, unless they let me read again--which I don't believe they will, though I am so much better. I am very glad I came. I like Uncle and Aunt Inglis. There is no `make believe' about them; and the youngsters are not a bad lot, take them all together." He sat upon the rug with his hands clasped behind his head, letting his thoughts run upon many things. David had gone to the window, and was gazing out into the stormy night again, and his brother Jem sat with his face bent close over his book, reading by the fire-light. Not a word was spoken for a long time. Violet laid the sleeping little Mary in her cot, and when her mother came in, she said: "Don't you think, mamma, that perhaps papa may stay all night at the Gore? It is so stormy." "No, dear; he said he would be home. Something must have detained him longer than usual. What are you thinking about so earnestly Francis?" "Since you went up-stairs? Oh! about lots of things. About the chapter David was reading, for one thing." The chapter David had read was the tenth of Numbers--one not very likely to interest young readers, except the last few verses. It was the way with the Inglises, at morning and evening worship, to read straight on through the Bible, not passing over any chapter because it might not seem very interesting or instructive. At other times they might pick and choose the chapters they read and talked about, but at worship time they read straight on, and in so doing fell on many a word of wonderful beauty, which the pickers and choosers might easily overlook. The last few verses of the chapter read that night were one of these, and quite new to one of the listeners, at least. It was Moses' invitation to Hobab to go with the Lord's people to the promised land. "I wonder whether the old chap went," said Frank, after a pause. "What are you laughing at, Jem?" "He thinks that is not a respectful way to speak of a Bible person, I suppose," said Violet. "About the chapter David was reading," said Jem, mimicking his cousin's tone and manner. "That is for mamma. You don't expect me to swallow that. Give mamma the result of your meditations, like a good boy." "I said I was thinking of the chapter, for one thing," said Frank, not at all angry, though he reddened a little. "I was thinking, besides, whether that was a proper book for you to be reading to-night, `The Swiss Family,' is it not?" "Sold," cried Jem, triumphantly; "it is the `Pilgrim's Progress.'" "You have read that before," said Violet. "Lots of times. It will bear it. But what about Hobab, Frank? Much you care about the old chap, don't you? Davie, come here and listen to Frank." "If you would only give Frank a chance to speak," said his mother, smiling. "Did Hobab go, do you think, aunt?" asked Frank. "He refused to go," said Jem. "Don't you remember he said, `I will not go, but I will depart into my own land, and to my kindred?'" "Yes; but that was before Moses said, `Thou mayest be to us instead of eyes, forasmuch as thou knowest how we are to encamp in this wilderness.' You see, he had a chance of some adventures; that might tempt him. Do you think he went, aunt?" "I cannot tell; afterwards we hear of Heber the Kenite, who was of the children of Hobab; and his wife took the part of the Israelites, when she slew Sisera. But whether he went with the people at that time, we do not hear. Very likely he did. I can understand how the people's need of him as a guide, or a guard, might have seemed to him a better reason for casting in his lot with the people, than even the promise that Moses gave him, `Come with us and we will do thee good.'" "That is to say, mamma, he would rather have a chance to help others, than the prospect of a good time for himself. That is not the way with people generally," said Jem, shaking his head gravely. "It is not said that it was the way with Hobab," said his mother; "but I am inclined to think, with Francis, that perhaps it might have been so." "He must have been a brave man and a good man, or Moses would not have wanted him," said David. "And if he went for the sake of a home in the promised land, he must have been disappointed. He did not get there for forty years, if he got there at all," said Jem. "But if he went for the fighting he may have had a good time in the wilderness, for there must have been many alarms, and a battle now and then," said Frank. "But, mamma," said Violet, earnestly, "they had the pillar of cloud, and the pillar of fire, and the Angel of the Covenant going before. Why should we suppose they needed the help of Hobab?" "God helps them that help themselves, Letty, dear," said Jem. "Gently, Jem," said his mother; "speak reverently, my boy. Yes, Letty, they were miraculously guarded and guided; but we do not see that they were allowed to fold their hands and do nothing. God fought for them, and they fought for themselves. And as for Hobab, he must have been a good and brave man, as David says, and so the chances are he went with the people, thinking less of what he could get for himself than of what he could do for others, as is the way with good and brave men." "Like the people we read about in books," said Jem. "Yes; and like some of the people we meet in real life," said his mother, smiling. "The men who even in the eyes of the world are the best and bravest, are the men who have forgotten themselves and their own transitory interests to live or die for the sake of others." "Like Moses, when he pleaded that the people might not be destroyed, even though the Lord said He would make him the father of a great nation," said David. "Like Paul," said Violet, "who `counted not his life dear to him,' and who was willing `to spend and be spent,' though the more abundantly he loved the people, the less he was loved." "Like Leonidas with his three hundred heroes." "Like Curtius, who leapt into the gulf." "Like William Tell and John Howard." "Like a great many missionaries," said Violet. And a great many more were mentioned. "But, aunt," said Frank, "you said like a great many people we meet in real life. I don't believe I know a single man like that--one who forgets himself, and lives for others. Tell me one." "Papa," said David, softly. His mother smiled. "It seems to me that all true Christians ought to be like that--men who do not live to please themselves--who desire most of all to do God's work among their fellow-men," said she, gravely. Frank drew a long breath. "Then I am afraid I don't know many Christians, Aunt Inglis." "My boy, perhaps you are not a good judge, and I daresay you have never thought much about the matter." "No, I have not. But now that I do think of it, I cannot call to mind any one--scarcely any one who would answer to that description. It seems to me that most men seem to mind their own interests pretty well. There is Uncle Inglis, to be sure--But then he is a minister, and doing good is his business, you know." "Frank," said Jem, as his mother did not answer immediately, "do you know that papa might have been a banker, and a rich man now, like your father? His uncle offered him the chance first, but he had made up his mind to be a minister. His uncle was very angry, wasn't he, mamma?" But his mother had no wish that the conversation should be pursued in that direction, so she said, "Yes, Frank, it is his business to do God's work in the world, but no more than it is yours and mine, in one sense." "Mine!" echoed Frank, with a whistle of astonishment, which Jem echoed. "Yours, surely, my dear boy, and yours, Jem; and your responsibility is not lessened by the fact that you may be conscious that you are refusing that personal consecration which alone can fit you for God's service, or make such service acceptable." There was nothing answered to this, and Mrs Inglis added, "And being consecrated to God's service, we do His work well, when we do well the duty he has appointed us, however humble it may be." "But to come back to Hobab, mamma," said Jem, in a little while. "After all, do you really think it was a desire to do God's work in helping the people that made him go with them, if he did go? Perhaps he thought of the fighting and the possible adventures, as Frank says." "We have no means of knowing, except that it does not seem to have been so much with the thought of his being a protector, that Moses asked him, as of his being a guide. `Thou mayest be to us instead of eyes,' said he." "Yes," said Jem, hesitatingly, "I suppose so; but it must have been something to him to think of leading such a host." "But he would not have led the host," said David. "Yet it must have been a grand thing to follow such a leader as Moses." "Aunt Mary," said Frank, "if there is something for us all to do in the world, as you say, I, for one, would much rather think of it as a place to fight in than to work in." "The same here," said Jem. "Well, so it is," said Mrs Inglis. "`In the world's broad field of battle.' Don't you remember, Davie?" "Yes, I remember, `Be a hero in the strife,'" said David. "And Paul bids Timothy, `Fight the good fight of faith;' and in another place he says, `That thou mayest war a good warfare;' which is better authority than your poet, Violet." "Yes, and when he was an old man--Paul, I mean--he said, `I have fought the good fight; I have finished the course; I have kept the faith.'" "And is there not something about armour?" asked Frank, who was not very sure of his Bible knowledge. "Yes. `Put ye on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand in the evil day, and having done all to stand.' That is Paul, too." "Yes," said Jem, slowly. "That was to be put on against the wiles of the devil. `Ye wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers; against the rulers of the darkness of this world; against spiritual wickedness in high places.'" Frank uttered an exclamation. "They needed armour, I think." "Not more than we do now, my boy. We have the same enemies," said his aunt. It was her way at such times to let the conversation flow on according to the pleasure of the young people, only she put in a word now and then as it was needed for counsel or restraint. "It sounds awful, don't it?" said Jem, who was always amused when his cousin received as a new thought something that the rest of them had been familiar with all their lives. "And that isn't all. What is that about `the law in our members warring against the law in our minds?' What with one thing and what with another, you stand a chance to get fighting enough." His mother put her hand on his arm. "But, mamma, this thought of life's being a battle-field, makes one afraid," said Violet. "It need not, dear, one who takes `the whole armour.'" "But what is the armour?" said Frank. "I don't understand." Violet opened the Bible and read that part of the sixth chapter of Ephesians where the armour is spoken of; and the boys discussed it piece by piece. David, who had scarcely spoken before, had most to say now, telling the others about the weapons and the armour used by the ancients, and about their mode of carrying on war. For David had been reading Latin and Greek with his father for a good while, and the rest listened with interest. They wandered away from the subject sometimes, or rather in the interest with which they discussed the deeds of ancient warriors, they were in danger of forgetting "the whole armour," and the weapons which are "not carnal but spiritual," and the warfare they were to wage by means of these, till a word from the mother brought them back again. "`And having done all to stand,'" said Frank, in a pause that came in a little while. "That does not seem much to do." "It is a great deal," said his aunt. "The army that encamps on the battle-field after the battle, is the conquering army. To stand is victory." "Yes, I see," said Frank. "It means victory to stand firm when an assault is made, but they who would be `good soldiers of Jesus Christ' have more to do than that. His banner must be carried to wave over all the nations. The world must be subdued to Him. And when it is said, `Be strong,' it means be strong for conquest as well as for defence." And then, seeing that the boys were moved to eager listening, Mrs Inglis put aside her anxious thoughts about her husband, and went on to speak of the honour and glory of being permitted to fight under Him who was promised as a "Leader and Commander to the people"--and in such a cause--that the powers of darkness might be overthrown, the slaves of sin set free, and His throne set up who is to "reign in righteousness." Though the conflict might be fierce and long, how certain the victory! how high the reward at last! Yes, and before the last. One had not to wait till the last. How wonderful it was, she said, and how sweet to believe, that not one in all the numberless host, who were "enduring hardness as good soldiers of Jesus Christ," but was known to Him, and beloved by Him; known even by name; watched over and cared for; guided and strengthened; never forgotten, never overlooked. "Safe through life, victorious in death, through Him that loved them, and gave Himself for them," added the mother, and then she paused, partly because these wonderful thoughts, and the eager eyes fastened on hers, made it not easy to continue, and, partly, because she would fain put into as few words as might be, her hopes and desires for the lad who was going so soon to leave them. "Francis," said she, softly, "would it not be something grand to be one of such an army, fighting under such a leader?" "Yes, Aunt Mary, if one only knew the way." "One can always offer one's self as His soldier." "Yes, if one is fit." "But one can never make one's self fit. _He_ undertakes all that. Offer yourself to be His. Give yourself to Him. He will appoint you your place in the host, and make you strong to stand, patient to endure, valiant to fight, and He will ensure the victory, and give you the triumph at the end. Think of all this, Francis, dear boy! It is a grand thing to be a soldier of the Lord." "Yes, Aunt Mary," said Frank, gravely. Then they were all silent for a long time. Indeed, there was not a word spoken till Mr Inglis' voice was heard at the door. Jem ran out to hold old Don till David brought the lantern, and both boys spent a good while in making the horse comfortable after his long pull over the hills. Mrs Inglis went to the other room to attend to her husband, and Violet followed her, and Frank was left alone to think over the words that he had heard. He did think of them seriously, then and afterwards.--He never quite forgot them, though he did not act upon them and offer himself for a "good soldier of Jesus Christ" for a long time after that. In a little while Mr Inglis came in and sat down beside him, but after the first minute or two he was quite silent, busy with his own thoughts it seemed, and Frank said nothing either, but wondered what his uncle's thoughts might be. The discomfort of cold and wind and of the long drive through sleet and rain, had nothing to do with them, the boy said to himself, as, with his hand screening his weak eyes from the light and heat of the fire, he watched his changing face. It was a very good face to watch. It was thin and pale, and the hair had worn away a little from the temples, making the prominent forehead almost too high and broad for the cheeks beneath. Its expression was usually grave and thoughtful, but to-night there was a brightness on it which fixed the boy's gaze; and the eyes, too often sunken and heavy after a day of labour, shone to-night with a light at once so peaceful and so triumphant, that Frank could not but wonder. In a little while Violet came in, and she saw it too. "Has anything happened, papa?" asked she, softly. He turned his eyes to her, but did not speak. He had heard her voice but not her question, and she did not repeat it, but came and sat down on a low stool at his feet. "Are you very tired, papa?" she asked at last. "Not more so than usual. Indeed, I have hardly thought of it to-night, or of the cold and the sleet and the long drive, that have moved my little girl's compassion. But it is pleasant to be safe home again, and to find all well." "But what kept you so long, papa?" said Jem, coming in with the lantern in his hand. "Was it Don's fault? Didn't he do his duty, poor old Don?" "No. I was sent for to see Timothy Bent. That was what detained me so long." "Poor old Tim!" said Violet, softly. "`Poor old Tim' no longer, Violet, my child. It is well with Timothy Bent now, beyond all fear." "Has he gone, papa?" "Yes, he is safe home at last. The long struggle is over, and he has gotten the victory." The boys looked at one another, thinking of the words that had been spoken to them a little while ago. "It is Timothy Bent, mamma," said Violet, as her mother came in. "He is dead." "Is he gone?" said her mother, sitting down. "Did he suffer much? Were you with him at the last?" "Yes, he suffered," said Mr Inglis, a momentary look of pain passing over his face. "But that is all past now forever." "Did he know you?" "Yes, he knew me. He spoke of the time when I took him up at the corner, and brought him home to you. He said that was the beginning." There was a pause. "The beginning of what?" whispered Frank to Violet. "The beginning of a new life to poor Tim," said Violet. "The beginning of the glory revealed to him to-day," said Mr Inglis. "It is wonderful! I cannot tell you how wonderful it seemed to me to-night to see him as he looked on the face of death. We speak about needing faith in walking through dark places, but we need it more to help us to bear the light that shines on the death-bed of a saved and sanctified sinner. How glorious! How wonderful! For a moment it seemed to me beyond belief. Now with us in that poor room, sick and suffering, and sometimes afraid, even; then, in the twinkling of an eye, in the very presence of his Lord--and like him--with joy unspeakable and full of glory! Does it not seem almost past belief? `Thanks be to God, who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ!'" There was silence for a good while after that, and then David first, and afterwards the others, answered the mother's look by rising and saying softly, "Good-night," and then they went away. CHAPTER TWO. "Papa does not feel it to-night," said Jem, as they went up-stairs; "but he'll be tired enough to-morrow, when he has time to think about it. And so poor old Tim has gone!" "`Poor old Tim, no longer,' as your father said," said Frank, gravely. "It does seem almost beyond belief, doesn't it?" "What?" asked Jem. But Frank did not answer him directly. "I wonder what battles old Tim had to fight," said he. "Your father said he had gotten the victory." "Oh! just the battles that other people have to fight with the world, the flesh, and the devil, and a hard time he has had, too, poor old chap," said Jem. "Jem," said David, "I think old Tim Bent was the very happiest old man we knew." "Well, perhaps he was, after a fashion; but I am sure he had trouble, of one kind or another--sickness, poverty, and his people not very kind to him--tired of him, at any rate. However, that don't matter to him now." "He has gotten the victory," repeated Frank. The words seemed to have a charm for him. "It is wonderful, isn't it?" All this was said as the boys were undressing to go to bed. There were two beds in the room they occupied, the brothers had one, and Frank had the other. After the lamp was blown out, David reminded the others that they must be up early in the morning, and that the sooner they were asleep, the readier they would be to rise when the right time came; so there was nothing said for a good while. Then Frank spoke: "What was all that you said about your father's being a banker and a rich man? Are you asleep already, Jem?" Jem had been very near it. "Who? Papa? Oh! yes, he might have been; but you see he chose `the better part.' I sometimes wonder whether he's ever sorry." "Jem," said David, "it's not right--to speak in that way, I mean. And as for papa's being sorry--not to-night, at any rate," added David, with a sound that was like a sob in his voice. "And why not to-night? Ah! I understand. It was through him that old Tim got the victory;" and both the boys were surprised to see him suddenly sit up in bed in the dark; and after a long silence he repeated, as if to himself, "I should think not to-night, indeed!" and then he lay down again. "Papa has never been sorry--never for a single moment," said David. "He has helped a great many besides old Tim to win the victory. And besides, I dare say, he has had as much real enjoyment in his life as if he had been a rich man like your father. He is not sorry, at any rate, nor mamma." "Oh! that is all very well to say," interposed Jem; "I dare say he is not sorry that he is a minister, but I say it is a shame that ministers should always be poor men--as they always are!" "Oh! well. People can't have everything," said David. "You've got to be very contented, all at once," said Jem, laughing. "You have said as much about it as ever I have, and more, too. Don't you remember when the Hunters went away to M--, to school, and you and Violet couldn't go? You wanted to go, didn't you?" "Nonsense, Jem. I never thought of such a thing seriously. Why, it would have taken more than the whole of papa's salary to send us both!" "But that is just what I said. Why should not papa be able to send you, as well as Ned Hunter's father to send him?" "It comes to the same thing," said David, loftily. "I know more Latin and Greek, too, than Ned Hunter, though he has been at M--; and as for Violet--people can't have everything." "And you have grown humble as well as contented, it seems," said Jem; "just as if you didn't care! You'll care when mamma has to send Debby away, and keep Violet at home from school, because she can't get papa a new great coat, and pay Debby's wages, too. You may say what you like, but I wish I were rich; and I mean to be, one of these days." "But it is all nonsense about Debby, Jem. However, mamma would not wish us to discuss it now, and we had better go to sleep." But, though there was nothing more said, none of them went to sleep very soon, and they all had a great many serious thoughts as they lay in silence in the dark. The brothers had often had serious thoughts before; but to Francis they came almost for the first time--or rather, for the first time he found it difficult to put them away. He had been brought up very differently from David and Jem. He was the son of a rich man, and the claims of business had left their father little time to devote to the instruction of his children. The claims of society had left as little to his mother--she was dead now--and, except at church on Sundays, he had rarely heard a word to remind him that there was anything in the world of more importance than the getting of wealth and the pursuit of pleasure, till he came to visit the Inglises. He had been ill before that, and threatened with serious trouble in his eyes, and the doctor had said that he must have change of air, and that he must not be allowed to look at a book for a long time. Mr Inglis had been at his father's house about that time, and had asked him to let the boy go home with him, to make the acquaintance of his young people, and he had been very glad to let him go. Mr Inglis was not Frank's uncle, though he called him so; he was only his father's cousin, and there had never been any intimacy between the families, so Francis had been a stranger to them all before he came to Gourlay. But he soon made friends with them all. The simple, natural way of life in the minister's house suited him well, and his visit had been lengthened out to four months, instead of four weeks, as was at first intended; and now, as he lay thinking, he was saying to himself that he was very sorry to go. This last night he seemed to see more clearly than ever he had seen before what made the difference between their manner of life here in his uncle's house, and the life they lived at home. It was a difference altogether in favour of their life here, though here they were poor, and at home they were rich. The difference went deeper than outward circumstances, and must reach beyond them--beyond all the chances and changes time might bring. And then he thought about all his aunt had said about "the good fight" and "the whole armour," the great Leader, and the sure victory at last. But strangely enough, and foolishly enough it seemed to him, his very last thought was about Debby's going away; and before he had satisfactorily computed the number of weeks' wages it would take to make the sum which would probably be enough to purchase an overcoat, he fell asleep, and carried on the computation in his dreams. The next morning was not a very pleasant one to travel in. It was cloudy and cold, and the ground was covered with snow. Mr Inglis had intended to take Frank on the first stage of his journey--that was to the railway station in D--, a town eleven miles away. But, as Jem had foretold, the weariness which he had scarcely felt when he first came home, was all the worse now because of that, and he had taken cold besides; so David and Jem were to take his place in conveying their cousin on the journey. The good-byes were all said, and the boys set off. They did not mind the cold, or the snow, or the threatening rain, but were well pleased with the prospect of a few more hours together. The roads were bad, and their progress was slow; but that mattered little, as they had the day before them, and plenty to say to one another to pass the time. They discussed trees and fruits, and things in general, after the fashion of boys, and then the last stories of hunters and trappers they had read; and in some way which it would not be easy to trace, they came round to Hobab and the battles he might have fought, and then to "the whole armour" and the warfare in which it was intended to aid them who wore it. "I wish I understood it all better," said Frank. "I suppose the Bible means something when it speaks about the warfare, and the armour, and all that; but then one would not think so, just to see the way people live, and good people too." "One can't tell by just seeing the outside of people's lives," said David. "The outside of people's lives!" repeated Frank. "Why, what else can we see?" "I mean you are thinking of something quite different from mamma's idea of battles, and warfare, and all that. She was not speaking about anything that all the world, or people generally, would admire, or even see." "But you spoke of your father, David, and I can understand how he in a certain way may be said to be fighting the battles of the Lord. He preaches against sin, and bad people oppose him, and he stands up for his Master; and when he does good to people, wins them over to God's side, he may be said to make a conquest--to gain a victory, as he did when he rescued poor Tim. I can understand why he should be called a soldier, and how his way of doing things may be called fighting; and that may be the way with ministers generally, I suppose; but as for other people, they ought to be the same, as the Bible says so; but I don't see that they are, for all that. Do you, Jem?" "It depends on what you mean by fighting," said Jem. "But whatever it is, it is something that can be seen," said Frank impatiently, "and what I mean is that I don't see it." "But then the people you know most about mayn't be among the fighting men, even if you were a good judge of fighting," said Jem. "Your eyes mayn't be the best, you know." "Well, lend me your eyes, then, and don't mind the people I know. Take the people _you_ know, your father's right hand men, who ought to be among the soldiers, if there are any. There is Mr Strong and old Penn, and the man who draws the mill logs. And all the people, women as well as men, ought to be wearing the armour and using the weapons. There is your friend, Miss Bethia, Davie; is she a warrior, too?" "Aunt Bethia certainly is," said Jem decidedly. "She is not afraid of-- well, of principalities and powers, I tell _you_. Don't she fight great--eh, Davie?" "Aunt Bethia is a very good woman, and it depends on what you call fighting," said David, dubiously. "Yes, Miss Bethia is a soldier. And as for old Mr Penn, I've seen him fight very hard to keep awake in meeting," said Jem, laughing. "It is easy enough to make fun of it, but Aunt Mary was in earnest. Don't you know about it, Davie?" "About these people fighting, do you mean? Well, I once heard papa say that Mr Strong's life was for many years a constant fight. And he said, too, that he was using the right weapons, and that he would doubtless win the victory. So you see there is one of them a soldier," said David. "It must be a different kind of warfare from your father's," said Frank. "I wonder what Mr Strong fights for?" "But I think he is fighting the very same battle, only in a different way." "Well," said Frank, "what about it?" "Oh! I don't know that I can tell much about it. It used to be a very bad neighbourhood where old Strong lives, and the neighbours used to bother him awfully. And that wasn't the worst. He has a very bad temper naturally, and he got into trouble all round when he first lived there. And one day he heard some of them laughing at him and his religion, saying there was no difference between Christians and other people. And they didn't stop there, but scoffed at the name of our Lord, and at the Bible. It all happened down at Hunt's Mills, and they didn't know that Mr Strong was there; and when he rose up from the corner where he had been sitting all the time, and came forward among them, they were astonished, and thought they were going to have great fun. But they didn't that time. Mr Hunt told papa all about it. He just looked at them and said: `God forgive you for speaking lightly that blessed name, and God forgive me for giving you the occasion.' And then he just turned and walked away. "After that it didn't matter what they said or did to him, he wouldn't take his own part. They say that for more than a year he didn't speak a word to a man in the neighbourhood where he lives; he couldn't trust himself. But he got a chance to do a good turn once in a while, that told better than words. Once he turned some stray cattle out of John Jarvis's grain, and built up the fences when there was no one at Jarvis's house to do it. That wouldn't have been much--any good neighbour would have done as much as that, you know. But it had happened the day before that the Jarvis's boys had left down the bars of his back pasture, and all his young cattle had passed most of the night in his own wheat. It was not a place that the boys needed to go to, and it looked very much as if they had done it on purpose. They must have felt mean when they came home and saw old Strong building up their fence." Then Jem took up the word. "And once, some of those fellows took off the nut from his wagon, as it was standing at the store door, and the wheel came off just as he was going down the hill by the bridge; and if it hadn't been that his old Jerry is as steady as a rock the old man would have been pitched into the river." "The village people took that up, and wanted him to prosecute them. But he wouldn't," said David. "It was a regular case of `turning the other cheek.' Everybody wondered, knowing old Strong's temper." "And once they sheared old Jerry's mane and tail," said Jem. "And they say old Strong cried like a baby when he saw him. He wouldn't have anything done about it; but he said he'd be even with them some time. And he was even with one of them. One day when he was in the hayfield, Job Steele came running over to tell him that his little girl had fallen in the barn and broken her arm and hurt her head, and he begged him to let him have Jerry to ride, for the doctor. Then Mr Strong looked him right in the face, and said he, `No, I can't let you have him. You don't know how to treat dumb beasts. I'll go myself for the doctor.' And sure enough, he unyoked his oxen from the cart, though it was Saturday and looked like rain, and his hay was all ready to be taken in, and went to the pasture for Jerry, and rode to the village himself, and let the doctor have his horse, and walked home." "And did he know that it was Job Steele who had ill-treated his horse," asked Frank. "He never said so to anybody; and Job never acknowledged it. But other people said so, and Job once told papa that Mr Strong's way of doing `good for evil,' was the first thing that made him think that there must be something in religion; and Mr Steele is a changed character now." "And how did it all end with Mr Strong?" asked Frank, much interested. "Oh, it isn't ended yet," said David. "Mr Strong is fighting against his bad temper as hard as ever. It has ended as far as his trouble with his neighbours is concerned. He made them see there is something in religion more than they thought, as Job Steele said, and there is no more trouble among them. But the old man must have had some pretty hard battles with himself, before it came to that." "And so old Mr Strong is a soldier, anyway," said Frank. "Yes, and a conqueror," said Jem. "Don't you remember, `He that ruleth his spirit is greater than he that taketh a city.'" "Yes," said David, thoughtfully. "Mr Strong is a soldier, and, Frank, he is fighting the very same battle that papa is fighting--for the honour of Christ. It is that they are all fighting for in one way or other. It is that that makes it warring a good warfare, you know." "No," said Frank, "I am afraid I don't know much about it. Tell me, Davie." "Oh, I don't pretend to know much about it, either," said David, with a look at Jem. But Jem shrugged his shoulders. "You should have asked papa," said he. "Go ahead, Davie," said Frank. "Well," said David, with some hesitation, "it is supposed that all Christians are like their masters--more or less. He was `holy, harmless, undefiled, and separate from sinners;' and that is not an easy thing for any man or boy to be, and so all have to fight with themselves, and the world--" "And with the devil," said Jem. "The principalities and powers, you know." "I suppose so, but we don't know much about that, only the end of it all is that they may become like Christ--so that they may make Him known to the world." "I've heard papa speak about it," said Jem. "Yes, it is one of papa's favourite themes. I have often heard him," said David. And then they went back to the discussion of old Mr Strong again, and then of others; and there was scarcely one of their acquaintances but they discussed in the new character of a soldier. Sometimes they went quite away from the subject, and sometimes they said very foolish things. It is not to be supposed that boys like them would judge very justly, or discuss very charitably the character of people with the outside of whose lives they were alone acquainted, and besides, as David at last gravely acknowledged they could not understand all that was implied in "warring a good warfare," not being soldiers themselves. There was silence for a good while after this, and then they went on again, saying a good many things that could hardly be called wise; but the conclusion to which they came was right and true in the main. It was against `the world, the flesh, and the devil' that Christians were to fight, and victory meant to become like Christ, and to win over others to be like him, too. That was victory here, and afterwards there would be glory, and the crown of righteousness that Paul spoke about, in Heaven. They were all very grave by the time they got thus far. "Nothing else in the world seems worth while in comparison, when one really thinks about it," said David. "The only wonder is that there are not more soldiers, and that they are not more in earnest," said Frank. "All may be soldiers of Christ Jesus," said David, softly. "Even boys?" said Frank. "Papa says so. Boys like you and me and Jem. Papa was a soldier in the army of the Lord, long before he was my age. He told me all about it one day," said David, with a break in his voice. "And he said the sooner we enlist the better `soldiers' we would be, and the more we would accomplish for Him." "Yes," said Frank, "if one only knew the way." "It is all in the Bible, Frank," said David. "Yes, I suppose so. It is a wonder you have not become a `soldier' long ago, David. How glad your mother would be. It is the _only_ thing, she thinks." All this last was said while Jem had gone to ask at a farm-house door whether they had not taken the wrong turning up above, and nothing more was said when he came back. Indeed, there was not time. The next turn brought the station in sight, and they saw the train and heard the whistle, and had only time for hurried good-byes before Frank took his place. Jem and Davie stood for a little while looking after the train that bore their friend away so rapidly, and then they turned rather disconsolately to retrace their steps over the muddy roads in the direction of home. CHAPTER THREE. If any one had suddenly asked David Inglis to tell him what had been the very happiest moments during all the fourteen happy years of his life, he would probably have gone back in thought to the day, when on the banks of a clear stream among the hills, his very first success as a fisherman had come to him. Or the remembrance of certain signal triumphs on the cricket ground, or at base-ball, might have come to his mind. But that would only have been in answer to a sudden question. If he had had time to think, he would have said, and truly too, that the very happiest hours of all his life had been passed in their old wagon at his father's side. So when he found, next day, that instead of sitting down to his lessons in a corner of the study, he was to drive his father over to the Bass Neighbourhood, to attend old Mr Bent's funeral, you may be sure he was well pleased. Not that he objected to books as a general thing, or that any part of his pleasure rose out of a good chance to shirk his daily lessons. Quite the contrary. Books and lessons were by no means ignored between him and his father at such times. Almost oftener than anything else, books and lessons came into their discussions. But a lesson from a printed page, not very well understood, and learned on compulsion, is one thing, and seldom a pleasant thing to any one concerned. But lessons explained and illustrated by his father as they went slowly through fields and woods together, were very pleasant matters to David. Even the Latin Grammar, over whose tedious pages so many boys have yawned and trifled from generation to generation, even declensions and conjugations, and rules of Syntax, and other matters which, as a general thing, are such hopeless mysteries to boys of nine or ten, were made matters of interest to David when his father took them in hand. And when it came to other subjects--subjects to be examined and illustrated by means of the natural objects around them--the rocks and stones, the grass and flowers and trees--the worms that creep, and the birds that fly--the treasures of the earth beneath, and the wonders of the heavens above, there was no thought of lesson or labour then. It was pure pleasure to David, and to his father, too. Yes, David was a very happy boy at such times, and knew it--a circumstance which does not always accompany to a boy, the possession of such opportunities and advantages. For David firmly believed in his father as one of the best and wisest of living men. This may have been a mistake on his part, but, if so, his father being, what he was--a good man and true--it was a mistake which did him no harm but good, and it was a mistake which has never been set right to David. So that day was a day to be marked with a white stone. Don got a more energetic rubbing down, and an additional measure of oats, on the strength of the pleasant prospect, for David was groom, and gardener, and errand boy, and whatever else his mother needed him to be when his younger brothers were at school, and all the arrangements about his father's going away might be safely trusted to him. It was a beautiful day. The only traces that remained of the premature winter that had threatened them on Sunday night, were the long stretches of snow that lingered under the shadows of the wayside trees and fences, and lay in patches in the hollows of the broken pastures. The leafless landscape, so dreary under falling rain or leaden skies, shone and sparkled under sunshine so warm and bright, that David thought the day as fine as a day could be, and gave no regrets to the faded glories of summer. They set out early, for though the day was fine, the roads were not, and even with the best of roads, old Don took his frequent journeys in a leisurely and dignified manner, which neither the minister nor David cared to interfere with unless they were pressed for time. They were not to go to the house where old Tim had died, for that was on another road, and farther away than the red school-house where the funeral services were to be held, but the school-house was full seven miles from home, and they would need nearly two full hours for the journey. David soon found that these hours must be passed in silence. His father was occupied with his own thoughts, and by many signs which his son had learned to interpret, it was evident that he was thinking over what he was going to say to the people that day, and not a word was spoken till they came in sight of the school-house. On both sides of the road along the fences, many horses and wagons were fastened, and a great many people were standing in groups about the door. "There will be a great crowd to hear you to-day, papa," said David, as they drew near. "Yes," said his father. "God give me a word to speak to some poor soul to-day." He went in and the people flocked in after him, and when David, having tied old Don to his place by the fence, went in also, it was all that he could do to find standing-room for a while, there were so many there. The plain coffin, without pall or covering, was placed before the desk upon a table, and seated near to it were the few relatives of the dead. Next to them were a number of very old people some of whom could look back over all old Tim's life, then the friends and neighbours generally, all very grave and attentive as Mr Inglis rose to speak. There were some there who probably had not heard the Gospel preached for years, some who, except on such an occasion, had not for all that time, heard the Bible read or a prayer offered. "No wonder that papa wishes to have just the right word to say to them," thought David, as he looked round on them all. And he had just the right word for them, and for David, too, and for all the world. For he set before them "The glorious Gospel of the blessed God." He said little of the dead, only that he was a sinner saved by grace; and then he set forth the glory of that wondrous grace to the living. "Victory through our Lord Jesus Christ" was his theme--victory over sin, the world, death. The Gospel of Christ full, free, sufficient, was clearly set before the people that day. David listened, as he was rather apt to listen to his father's sermons, not for himself but for others. He heard all that was said, and laid it up in his mind, that he might be able to tell it to his mother at home, as she generally expected him to do; but, at the same time, he was thinking how all that his father was saying would seem to this or the other man or woman in the congregation who did not often hear his voice. There was less wonder that he should do that to-day because there were a great many strangers there, and for the most part they were listening attentively. In the little pauses that came now and then, "you might have heard a pin fall," David said afterwards to his mother, and the boy felt proud that his father should speak so well, and that all the people should be compelled, as it were, to listen so earnestly. This was only for a minute, however. He was ashamed of the thought almost immediately. For what did it matter whether the people thought well of his father or not? And then he tried to make himself believe that he was only glad for their sakes, that, listening so attentively to truths so important, they might get good. And then he thought what a grand thing it would be, and how happy it would make his father, if from this very day some of these careless people should begin a new life, and if the old school-house should be crowded every Sunday to hear his words. But it never came into his mind until the very end, that all that his father was saying was just as much for him as for any one there. All through the sermon ran the idea of the Christian life being a warfare, and the Christian a soldier, fighting under a Divine Leader; and when, at the close, he spoke of the victory, how certain it was, how complete, how satisfying beyond all that heart of man could conceive, David forgot to wonder what all the people might be thinking, so grand and wonderful it seemed. So when a word or two was added about the utter loss and ruin that must overtake all who were not on the side of the Divine Leader, in the great army which He led, it touched him, too. It was like a nail fastened in a sure place. It could not be pushed aside, or shaken off, as had happened so many times when fitting words had been spoken in his hearing before. They were for him, too, as well as for the rest--more than for the rest, he said to himself, and they would not be put away. As was the custom in these country places at that time, there was a long pause after the sermon was over. The coffin was opened, and one after another went up and looked on the face of the dead, and it seemed to David that they would never be done with it, and he rose at last and went out of doors to wait for his father there. It was but a few steps to the grave-yard, and the people stood only a minute or two round the open grave. Then there was a prayer offered, and poor old Tim was left to his rest. "`Poor old Tim,' no longer," said David to himself, when they were fairly started on their homeward way again. "Happy Tim, I ought to say. I wonder what he is doing now! He is one of `the spirits of just men made perfect' by this time. I wonder how it seems to him up there," said David, looking far up into the blue above him. "It does seem past belief. I can't think of him but as a lame old man with a crutch, and there he is, up among the best of them, singing with a will, as he used to sing here, only with no drawbacks. It _is_ wonderful. Think of old Tim singing with John, and Paul, and with King David himself. It is queer to think of it!" He had a good while to think of it, for his father was silent and preoccupied still. It had often happened before, that his father being busy with his own thoughts, David had to be content with silence, and with such amusement as he could get from the sights and sounds about him, and he had never found that very hard. But he had not been so much with him of late because of Frank's visit, and he had so looked forward to the enjoyment he was to have to-day, that he could not help feeling a little aggrieved when half their way home had been accomplished without a word. "Papa," said he, at last, "I wish Frank had been here to-day--to hear your sermon, I mean." "I did not know that Frank had an especial taste for sermons," said his father, smiling. "Well, no, I don't think he has; but he would have liked that one--about the Christian warfare, because we have been speaking about it lately." And then he went on to tell about the reading on Sunday night, and about Hobab and all that had been said about the "good warfare" and "the whole armour," and how interested Frank had been. He told a little, too, about their conversation on the way to the station, and Mr Inglis could not but smile at their making "soldiers" of all the neighbours, and at their way of illustrating the idea to themselves. By and by David added: "I wish Frank had heard what you said to-day about victory. It would have come in so well after the talk about the `soldiers' and fighting. He would have liked to hear about the victory." "Yes," said his father, gravely; "it is pleasanter to hear of the victory than the conflict, but the conflict must come first, Davie, my boy." "Yes, papa, I know." "And, my boy, the first step to becoming a `soldier' is the enrolling of the name. And you know who said `He that is not for me is against me.' Think what it would be to be found on the other side on the day when even Death itself `shall be swallowed up in victory.'" David made no answer. It was not Mr Inglis's way to speak often in this manner to his children. He did not make every solemn circumstance in life the occasion for a personal lesson or warning to them, till they "had got used to it," as children say, and so heard it without heeding. So David could not just listen to his father's words, and let them slip out of his mind again as words of course. He could not put them aside, nor could he say, as some boys might have said at such a time, that he wished to be a soldier of Christ and that he meant to try. For in his heart he was not sure that he wished to be a soldier of Christ in the sense his father meant, and though he had sometimes said to himself that he meant to be one, it was sometime in the future--a good while in the future, and he would have been mocking himself and his father, too, if he had told him that he longed to enrol his name. So he sat beside him without a word. They had come by this time to the highest point of the road leading to Gourlay Centre, at least the highest point where the valley through which the Gourlay river flowed could be seen; and of his own accord old Don stood still to rest. He always did so at this point, and not altogether for his own pleasure, for Mr Inglis and David were hardly ever so pressed for time but that they were willing to linger a minute or two to look down on the valley and the hills beyond. The two villages could be seen, and the bridge, and a great many fine fields lying round the scattered farm-houses, and, beyond these, miles and miles of unbroken forest. David might travel through many lands and see no fairer landscape, but it did not please him to-night. There was no sunshine on it to-night, and he said to himself that it always needed sunshine. The grey clouds had gathered again, and lay in piled-up masses veiling the west, and the November wind came sweeping over the hills cold and keen. Mr Inglis shivered, and wrapped his coat closely about him, and David touched Don impatiently. The drive had been rather a failure, he thought, and they might as well be getting home. But he had time for a good many troubled thoughts before they reached the bridge over the Gourlay. "To enrol one's name." He had not done that, and that was the very first step towards becoming a soldier. "He that is not for me is against me." He did not like that at all. He would have liked to explain that so as to make it mean something else. He would have liked to make himself believe that there was some middle ground. "He that is not against me is for me." In one place it said that, and he liked it much better. He tried to persuade himself that he was not against Christ. No, certainly he was not against Him. But was he for Him in the sense his father meant--in the sense that his father was for Him, and his mother, and a good many others that came into his mind? Had he deliberately enrolled his name as one of the great army whom Christ would lead to victory? But then how could he do this? He could not do it, he said to himself. It was God's work to convert the soul, and had not his father said within the hour, "It is God that giveth the victory?" Had he not said that salvation was all of grace from beginning to end--that it was a gift--"God's gift." What more could be said? But David knew in his heart that a great deal more could be said. He knew great as this gift was--full and free as it was, he had never asked for it--never really desired it. He desired to be saved from the consequences of sin, as who does not? but he did not long to be saved from sin itself and its power in the heart, as they must be whom God saves. He did not feel that he needed this. If he was not "for Christ" in the sense his father and mother were for Him, still the thought came back--surely he was _not_ against Him; even though it might not be pleasant for him to think of giving up all for Christ--to "take up his cross and follow Him," still he was not "against Him." Oh! if there only were some other way! If people could enlist in a real army, and march away to fight real battles, as men used to do in the times when they fought for the Cross and the possession of the holy Sepulchre! "Or, rather, as they seemed to be fighting for them," said David, with a sigh, for he knew that pride and envy and the lust for power, too often reigned in the hearts of them who in those days had Christ's name and honour on their lips; and that the cause of the Cross was made the means to the winning of unworthy ends. Still, if one could only engage sincerely in some great cause with all their hearts, and labour and strive for it for Christ's sake, it would be an easier way, he thought. Or if he could have lived in the times of persecution, or in the times when Christian men fought at once for civil and religious freedom! Oh! that would have been grand! He would have sought no middle course then. He would have fought, and suffered, and conquered like a hero in such days as those. Of course such days could never come back again, but if they could! And then he let his mind wander away in dreams, as to how if such times ever were to come back again, he would be strong and wise, and courageous for the right--how he would stand by his father, and shield his mother, and be a defence and protection to all who were weak or afraid. Bad men should fear him, good men should honour--his name should be a watchword to those who were on the Lord's side. It would never do to write down all the foolish thoughts that David had on his way home that afternoon. He knew that they were foolish, and worse than foolish, when he came out of them with a start as old Don made his accustomed little demonstration of energy and speed as they came to the little hill by the bridge, not far from home. He knew that they were foolish, and he could not help glancing up into his father's face with a little confusion, as if he had known his thoughts all the time. "Are you tired, papa?--and cold?" asked he. "I am a little cold. But here we are at home. It is always good to get home again." "Yes," said David, springing down. "I am glad to get home." He had a feeling of relief which he was not willing to acknowledge even to himself. He could put away troubled thoughts now. Indeed they went away of themselves without an effort, the moment Jem hailed him from the house. They came again, however, when the children being all in bed, and his father not come down from the study, his mother asked him about old Tim's funeral, and the people who were there, and what his father had said to them. He told her about it, and surprised her and himself too, by the clearness and accuracy with which he went over the whole address. He grew quite eager about it, and told her how the people listened, and how "you might have heard a pin fall" in the little pauses that came now and then. And when he had done, he said to her as he had said to his father: "I wish Frank had been there to hear all that papa said about victory," and then, remembering how his father had answered him, his troubled thoughts came back again, and his face grew grave. "But it was good for you to hear it, Davie," said his mother. "Yes," said David, uneasily, thinking she was going to say more. But she did not, and he did not linger much longer down-stairs. He said he was tired and sleepy with his long drive in the cold, and he would go to bed. So carrying them with him, he went up-stairs, where Jem was sleeping quite too soundly to be wakened for a talk, and they stayed with him till he went to sleep, which was not for a long time. They were all gone in the morning, however. A night's sleep and a morning brilliant with sunshine are quite enough to put painful thoughts out of the mind of a boy of fourteen--for the time, at least, and David had no more trouble with his, till Miss Bethia Barnes, coming to visit them one afternoon, asked him about Mr Bent's funeral and the bearers and mourners, and about his father's text and sermon, and then they came back to him again. CHAPTER FOUR. Miss Bethia Barnes was a plain and rather peculiar single woman, a good deal past middle age, who lived by herself in a little house about half way between the two village's. She was generally called Aunt Bethia by the neighbours, but she had not gained the title as some old ladies do, because of the general loving-kindness of their nature. She was a good woman and very useful, but she was not always very agreeable. To do just exactly right at all times, and in all circumstances, was the first wish of her heart; the second wish of her heart was, that everybody else should do so likewise, and she had fallen into the belief, that she was not only responsible for her own well-being and well-doing, but for that of all with whom she came in contact. Of course it is right that each individual in a community should do what may be done to help all the rest to be good and happy. But people cannot be made good and happy against their own will, and Miss Bethia's advances in that direction were too often made in a way which first of all excited the opposition of the person she intended to benefit. This was almost always the case where the young people of the village were concerned. Those who had known her long and well, did not heed her plain and sharp speaking, because of her kindly intentions, and it was known besides that her sharpest words were generally forerunners of her kindest deeds. But the young people did not so readily take these things into consideration, and she was by no means a favourite with them. So it is not surprising, that when she made her appearance one afternoon at the minister's house, David, who was there alone with little Mary, was not very well pleased to see her. Little Mary was pleased. Even Aunt Bethia had only sweet words for the pet and baby; and happily the child's pretty welcome, and then her delight over the little cake of maple sugar that Miss Bethia had brought her, occupied that lady's attention till David had time to smooth his face again. It helped him a little to think that his father and mother being away from home, their visitor might not stay long. He was mistaken, however. "I heard your father and mother had gone over to Mrs Spry's; but I had made my calculations for a visit here just now, and I thought I'd come. They'll be coming home to-night, I expect?" added she, as she untied her bonnet, and prepared herself to enjoy her visit. "Yes," said David, hesitating. "They are coming home to-night--I think." He spoke rather doubtfully. He knew they had intended to come home, but it seemed to him just as if something would certainly happen to detain them if Miss Bethia were to stay. And besides it came into his mind that if she doubted about the time of their return, she would go and visit somewhere else in the village, and come back another time. That would be a much better plan, he thought, with a rueful glance at the book he had intended to enjoy all the afternoon. But Miss Bethia had quite other thoughts. "Well, it can't be helped. They'll be home to-morrow if they don't come to-night; and I can have a visit with you and Violet. I shall admire to!" said Miss Bethia, reassuringly, as a doubtful look passed over David's face. "Violet is at school," said he, "and all the rest." "Best place for them," said Miss Bethia. "Where is Debby?" "She has gone home for a day or two. Her sister is sick." "She is coming back, is she? I heard your mother was going to try and get along without her this winter. That won't pay. `Penny wise and pound foolish' that would be," said Miss Bethia. David said nothing to this. "Better pay Debby Stone, and board her, too, than pay the doctor. Ambition ain't strength. Home-work, and sewing-machine, and parish visiting--that's burning the candle at both ends. That don't _ever_ pay." "Mamma knows best what to do," said David, with some offence in his voice. "She knows better than you, I presume," said the visitor. "Ah! yes. She knows well enough what is best. But the trouble is, folks can't always do what they know is best. We've got to do the best we can in _this_ world--and there's none of us too wise to make mistakes, at that. She got the washing done and the clothes sprinkled before she went, did she? Pretty well for Debby, so early in the week. Letty ought to calculate to do this ironing for her mother. Hadn't you better put on the flats and have them ready by the time she gets home from school?" "Mamma said nothing about it," said David. "No, it ain't likely. But that makes no difference. Letty ought to know without being told. Put the flats on to heat, and I'll make a beginning. We'll have just as good a visit." David laughed. He could not help it. "A good visit," said he to himself. Aloud he said something about its being too much trouble for Miss Bethia. "Trouble for a friend is the best kind of pleasure," said she. "And don't you worry. Your mother's clothes will bear to be looked at. Patches ain't a sin these days, but the contrary. Step a little spryer, can't you! We can visit all the same." It was Miss Bethia's way to take the reins in her own hand wherever she was, and David could not have prevented her if he had tried, which he did not. He could only do as he was bidden. In a much shorter time than Debby would have taken, David thought, all preliminary arrangements were made, and Miss Bethia was busy at work. Little Mary stood on a stool at the end of the table, and gravely imitated her movements with a little iron of her own. "Now this is what I call a kind of pleasant," said Miss Bethia. "Now let's have a good visit before the children come home." "Shall I read to you?" said David, a little at a loss as to what might be expected from him in the way of entertainment. "Well--no. I can read to myself at home, and I would rather talk if you had just as lief." And she did talk on every imaginable subject, with very little pause, till she came round at last to old Mr Bent's death. "I'd have given considerable to have gone to the funeral," said she. "I've known Timothy Bent for over forty years, and I'd have liked to see the last of him. I thought of coming up to ask your papa if he wouldn't take me over when he went, but I thought perhaps your mamma would want to go. Did she?" No, David said; he had driven his father over. "Your papa preached, did he?" and then followed a great many questions about the funeral, and the mourners, and the bearers, and then about the text and the sermon. And then she added a hope that he "realised" the value of the privileges he enjoyed above others in having so many opportunities to hear his father preach. And when she said this, David knew that she was going to give him the "serious talking to" which she always felt it her duty to give faithfully to the young people of the families where she visited. They always expected it. Davie and Jem used to compare notes about these "talks," and used to boast to one another about the methods they took to prevent, or interrupt, or answer them, as the case might be. But when Miss Bethia spoke about Mr Bent and the funeral, it brought back the sermon and what his father had said to him on his way home, and all the troubled thoughts that had come to him afterwards. So instead of shrugging his shoulders, and making believe very busy with something else, as he had often done under Miss Bethia's threatening lectures, he sat looking out of the window with so grave a face, that she in her turn, made a little pause, of surprise, and watched him as she went on with her work. "Yes," she went on in a little, "it is a great privilege you have, and that was a solemn occasion, a very solemn occasion--but you did not tell me the text." David told her the text and a good part of the sermon, too. He told it so well, and grew so interested and animated as he went on, that in a little Miss Bethia set down the flat-iron, and seated herself to listen. Jem came in before he was through. "Well! well! I feel just as if I had been to meeting," said Miss Bethia. "Well done, Davie!" said Jem. "Isn't our Davie a smart boy, Aunt Bethia? I wish Frank could have heard that." "Yes, so I told papa," said David, gravely. "It is a great responsibility to have such privileges as you have, boys--" began Miss Bethia. "As Davie has, you mean, Miss Bethia," said Jem. "He goes with papa almost always--" "And as you have, too. Take care that you don't neglect them, so that they may not rise up in judgment against you some day--" But Miss Bethia was obliged to interrupt herself to shake hands with Violet, who came in with her little brother and sister. Jem laughed at the blank look in his sister's face. "Miss Bethia has commenced your ironing for you," said he. "Yes--I see. You shouldn't have troubled yourself about it, Miss Bethia." "I guess I know pretty well by this time what I should do, and what I should let alone," said Miss Bethia, sharply, not pleased with the look on Violet's face, or the heartiness of her greeting. "It was your mother I was thinking of. I expect the heft of Debby's work will fall on her." "Debby will be back to-morrow or next day, I hope," said Violet. "But it was very kind of you to do it, Miss Bethia, and I will begin in a minute." "You had better go to work and get supper ready, and get that out of the way; and by that time the starched clothes will be done, and you can do the rest. I expect the children want their supper by this time," said Miss Bethia. "Yes, I dare say it would be better." Violet was very good-tempered, and did not feel inclined to resent Miss Bethia's tone of command. And besides, she knew it would do no good to resent it, so she went away to put aside her books, and her out-of-door's dress, and Miss Bethia turned her attention to the boys again. "Yes, that was a solemn sermon, boys, and, David, I am glad to see that you must have paid good attention to remember it so well. I hope it may do you good, and all who heard it." "Our Davie won't make a bad preacher himself, will he, Miss Bethia?" said Jem. "He has about made up his mind to it now." "His making up his mind don't amount to much, one way or the other," said Miss Bethia. "Boys' minds are soon made up, but they ain't apt to stay made up--not to anything but foolishness. That's my belief, and I've seen a good many boys at one time and another." "But that's not the way with our Davie," said Jem. "You wouldn't find many boys that would remember a sermon so well, and repeat it so well as he does. Now would you, Aunt Bethia?" "Nonsense, Jem, that's enough," said Davie. "He's chaffing, Aunt Bethia." "He's entirely welcome," said Miss Bethia, smiling grimly. "Though I don't see anything funny in the idea of David's being a minister, or you either, for that matter." "Funny! No. Anything but funny! A very serious matter that would be," said Jem. "We couldn't afford to have so many ministers in the family, Miss Bethia. I am not going to be a minister. I am going to make a lot of money and be a rich man, and then I'll buy a house for papa, and send Davie's boys to college." They all laughed. "You may laugh, but you'll see," said Jem. "I am not going to be a minister. Hard work and poor pay. I have seen too much of that, Miss Bethia." He was "chaffing" her. Miss Bethia knew it quite well, and though she had said he was entirely welcome, it made her angry because she could not see the joke, and because she thought it was not respectful nor polite on Jem's part to joke with her, as indeed it was not. And besides this was a sore subject with Miss Bethia--the poverty of ministers. She had at one time or another spent a great many of her valuable words on those who were supposed to be influential in the guidance of parish affairs, with a design to prove that their affairs were not managed as they ought to be. There was no reason in the world, but shiftlessness and sinful indifference, to prevent all being made and kept straight between the minister and people as regarded salary and support, she declared, and it was a shame that a man like their minister should find himself pressed or hampered, in providing the comforts-- sometimes the necessaries of life--for his family. That was putting it strong, the authorities thought and said, but Miss Bethia never would allow that it was too strong, and she never tired of putting it. "The labourer is worthy of his hire." "They that serve the temple must live by the temple." And with a house to keep up and his children to clothe and feed, no wonder that Mr Inglis might be troubled many a time when he thought of how they were to be educated, and of what was to become of them in case he should be taken away. There was no theme on which Miss Bethia was so eloquent as this, and she was eloquent on most themes. She never tired of this one, and answered all excuses and expostulations with a force and sharpness that, as a general thing, silenced, if they did not convince. Whether she helped her cause by this assertion of its claims, is a question. She took great credit for her faithfulness in the matter, at any rate, and as she had not in the past, so she had made up her mind that she should not in the future be found wanting in this respect. But it was one thing to tell her neighbours their duty with regard to their minister, and it was quite another thing to listen to a lad like Jem making disparaging remarks as to a minister's possessions and prospects. "Hard work and poor pay," said Jem, and she felt very much like resenting his words, as a reflection on the people of whom she was one. Jem needed putting down. "Your pa wouldn't say so. He ain't one to wish to serve two masters. He ain't a mammon worshipper," said Miss Bethia, solemnly. "No!" said Jem, opening his eyes very wide. "And I don't intend to be one either. I intend to make a good living, and perhaps become a rich man." "Don't, Jem," said Violet, softly. She meant "Don't vex Miss Bethia," as Jem very well knew, but he only laughed and said: "Don't do what? Become a rich man? or a worshipper of mammon? Don't be silly, Letty." "Jem's going to be a blacksmith," said Edward. "You needn't laugh. He put a shoe on Mr Strong's old Jerry the other day. I saw him do it." "Pooh," said Jem. "That's nothing. Anybody could do that. I am going to make a steam-engine some day." "You're a smart boy, if we are to believe you," said Miss Bethia. "Did Mr Strong know that the blacksmith let you meddle with his horse's shoes? I should like to have seen his face when he heard it." "One must begin with somebody's horse, you know. And Peter Munro said he couldn't have done it better himself," said Jem, triumphantly. "Peter Munro knows about horseshoes, and that's about all he does know. He ought to know that you might be about better business than hanging about his shop, learning no good." "Horseshoes no good!" said Jem, laughing. "Jem, dear!" pleaded Violet. "But it's dreadful to hear Miss Bethia speak disrespectfully of horseshoes," said Jem. "I think there's something more to be expected from your father's son than horseshoes," said Miss Bethia. "But horseshoes may do for a beginning," said David. "And by and by, perhaps, it may be engines, and railways; who knows?" "And good horseshoes are better than bad sermons, and they pay better than good ones," said Jem. "And I'm bound to be a rich man. You'll see, Miss Bethia." Then he went on to tell of the wonderful things that were to happen when he became a rich man. Old Don was to be superannuated, and his father was to have a new horse, and a new fur coat to wear when the weather was cold. His mother and Violet were to have untold splendours in the way of dress, and the children as well. Davie was to go to college, and there should be a new bell to the church, and a new fence to the grave-yard, and Miss Bethia was to have a silk gown of any colour she liked, and a knocker to her front door. There was a great deal of fun and laughter, in which even Miss Bethia joined, and when Violet called them to tea, Jem whispered to David that they had escaped her serious lecture for that time. After tea, they all went again to the kitchen, which, indeed, was as pleasant as many parlours, and while Violet washed the tea-dishes, Miss Bethia went on with the ironing, and the boys went on with their lessons. Just as they were all beginning to wonder what could be delaying the return home of their father and mother, there came a messenger to say that they had been obliged to go much farther than Mr Spry's, to see a sick person, and that as they might not be home that night, the children were not to wait for them past their usual time of going to bed. There were exclamations of disappointment from the younger ones, and little Mary, who was getting sleepy and a little cross, began to cry. "I had a presentiment that we should not see them to-night," said David, taking his little sister on his lap to comfort her. "Never mind, Polly. Mamma will be home in the morning, and we must be able to tell her that we have all been good, and that nobody has cried or been cross, but quite the contrary." "I wish your mother knew that I had happened along. It would have set her mind at rest about you all," said Miss Bethia. The young people were not so sure of that, but there would have been no use in saying so. "Oh! mamma knows we can get on nicely for one night. But she will be sorry to miss your visit, Miss Bethia," said Violet. "She won't miss it. I shall have a visit with her when she gets home. And now hadn't you better put the children to bed before you set down?" But the children, except little Mary, were in the habit of putting themselves to bed, and were not expected to do so till eight o'clock, as they declared with sufficient decision. So nothing more was said about it. If it had been any other child but little Mary. Miss Bethia would have counselled summary measures with her, and she would have been sent to bed at once. As it was the little lady had her own way for a while, and kept her eyes wide open, while David comforted her for the absence of mamma. He played with her and told her stories, and by and by undressed her gently, kissing her hands and her little bare feet, and murmuring such tender words, that baby grew good and sweet, and forgot that there was any one in the world she loved better than Davie. As for Miss Bethia, as she watched them she was wondering whether it could be the rough, thoughtless schoolboy, to whom she had so often considered it her duty to administer both instruction and reproof. She was not, as a general thing, very tolerant of boys. She intended to do her duty by the boys of her acquaintance in the matter of rebuke and correction, and in the matter of patience and forbearance as well, and these things covered the whole ground, as far as her relations with boys were concerned. And so when she saw David kissing his little sister's hands and feet, and heard him softly prompting her in her "good words" as the eyelids fell over the sleepy little eyes, she experienced quite a new sensation. She looked upon a boy with entire approval. He had pleased her in the afternoon, when he had told her so much about his father's sermon. But she had hardly been conscious of her pleasure then, because of the earnestness of her desire to impress him and his brother with a sense of their responsibility as to the use they made of their privileges and opportunities. It came back to her mind, however, as she sat watching him and his little sister, and she acknowledged to herself that she was pleased, and that David was not a common boy. David would never have guessed her thoughts by the first words she spoke. "Put her to bed," said she. "She'll take cold." "Yes, I will," said David, but he did not move to do it. "Miss Bethia," said he in a little, "if wee Polly were to die to-night and go to Heaven, do you suppose she would always stay a little child as she is now?" Miss Bethia set down her flat-irons and looked at him in surprise. "What on earth put that into your head?" said she, hastily. "Look at her," said David. "It doesn't seem as though she could be any sweeter even in Heaven, does it?" Violet came and knelt down beside her brother. "Is she not a precious darling?" said she, kissing her softly. "It isn't much we know about how folks will look in heaven," said Miss Bethia, gravely. "No," said David. "Only that we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is." "If we ever get there," said Miss Bethia. "Yes, if we ever get there," said David. "But if our little Polly were to die to-night, she would be sure to get there, and what I would like to know is, whether she would always be little Polly there, so that when the rest of us get there, too, we should know her at once without being told." "She would have a new name given her," said Violet. "Yes, and a crown and a harp, and a white robe, and wings, perhaps. But she might have all that and be our little Polly still. I wonder how it will be. What do you think, Miss Bethia?" "I haven't thought about it. I don't seem to remember that there is anything said about it in the Bible. And there is no other way of knowing anything about it--as I see." "No. Still one cannot but think of these things. Don't you remember, Violet? "Not as child shall we again behold her, But when with rapture wild. In our embraces we again enfold her, She will not be a child." "Yes." Violet remembered the words, and added: "But a fair maiden in our Father's mansion." "I don't like to think that may be the way." "But that ain't in the Bible," said Miss Bethia. "No," said David. "And I like best the idea of there being little children there. Of course there are children now, because they are going there every day. But if they grow up there--afterwards, when the end comes, there will be no little children." "How you talk!" said Aunt Bethia. "I don't more than half believe that it's right for you to follow out such notions. If the Bible don't say any thing about it, it is a sign it's something we needn't worry about, for we don't need to know it." "No, we don't need to worry about it," said David. "But one cannot help having such thoughts in their minds sometimes." There was nothing more said for some time. Violet still knelt by her brother's side, and the eyes of both were resting on the baby's lovely face. It was Miss Bethia who spoke first. "I was a twin. My sister died when she was three years old. I remember how she looked as well as I remember my mother's face, and she didn't die till I was over forty. I should know her in a minute if I were to see her. It would seem queer to see us together--twins so--wouldn't it?--she a child and me an old woman," said Miss Bethia, with something like a sob in her voice. "It will be all in her favour--the difference, I mean." "`Whom the gods love die young,'" said David. "But that is a Pagan sentiment. Papa said, the other day, that victory must mean more to the man who has gone through the war, than to him who has hardly had time to strike a blow. Even before the victory it must be grand, he said, to be able to say like Paul, `I have fought the good fight; I have kept the faith.' And, perhaps, Miss Bethia, your crown may be brighter than your little sister's, after all." "It will owe none of its brightness to me," said Miss Bethia, with sudden humility. "And I don't suppose I shall begrudge the brightness of other folks' crowns when I get there, if I ever do." In the pause that followed, David went and laid the baby in her cot, and when he returned the children came with him, and the talk went on. They all had something to say about what they should see and do, and the people they should meet with when they got there. But it would not bear repeating, all that they said, and they fell in a little while into talk of other things, and Jem, as his way was, made the little ones laugh at his funny sayings, and even Violet smiled sometimes. But David was very grave and quiet, and Miss Bethia, for a good while, did not seem to hear a word, or to notice what was going on. But by and by something was said about the lessons of the next day, and she roused herself up enough to drop her accustomed words about "privileges and responsibilities," and then went on to tell how different every thing had been in her young days, and before she knew it she was giving them her own history. There was not much to tell. That is, there had been few incidents in her life, but a great deal of hard work, many trials and disappointments--and many blessings as well. "And," said Aunt Bethia, "if I were to undertake, I couldn't always tell you which was which. For sometimes the things I wished most for, and worked hardest to get, didn't amount to but very little when I got them. And the things I was most afraid of went clear out of sight, or turned right round into blessings, as soon as I came near enough to touch them. And I tell you, children, there is nothing in the world that it's worth while being afraid of but sin. You can't be too much afraid of that. It is a solemn thing to live in the world, especially such times as these. But there's no good talking. Each one must learn for himself; and it seems as though folks would need to live one life, just to teach them how to live. I don't suppose there's any thing I could say to you that would make much difference. Talk don't seem to amount to much, any way." "I am sure you must have seen a great deal in your life, Miss Bethia, and might tell us a great many things to do us good," said Violet, but she did not speak very enthusiastically, for she was not very fond of Miss Bethia's good advice any more than her brothers; and little Jessie got them happily out of the difficulty, by asking: "What did you use to do when you were a little girl, Aunt Bethia?" "Pretty much what other little girls did. We lived down in New Hampshire, then, and what ever made father come away up here for, is more than I can tell. I had a hard time after we came up here. I helped father and the boys to clear up our farm. I used to burn brush, and make sugar, and plant potatoes and corn, and spin and knit. I kept school twenty-one seasons, off and on. I didn't know much, but a little went a great way in those days. I used to teach six days in the week, and make out a full week's spinning or weaving, as well. I was strong and smart then, and ambitious to make a living and more. After a while, my brothers moved out West, and I had to stay at home with father and mother, and pretty soon mother died. I have been on the old place ever since. It is ten years since father died. I've stayed there alone most of the time since, and I suppose I shall till my time comes. And children, I've found out that life don't amount to much, except as it is spent as a time of preparation--and for the chance it gives you to do good to your neighbours; and it ain't a great while since I knew that, only as I heard folks say it. It ain't much I've done of it." There was nothing said for a minute or two, and then Ned made them all laugh by asking, gravely: "Miss Bethia, are you very rich?" Miss Bethia laughed, too. "Why, yes; I suppose I may say I am rich. I've got all I shall ever want to spend, and more, too. I've got all I want, and that's more than most folks who are called rich can say. And I have earned all I've got. But it ain't what one has got, so much as what one has done, that makes life pleasant to look back upon." "It is pleasant to have plenty of money, too, however," said Jem. "And people can do good with their money," said Violet. "Yes, that is true; but money don't stand for everything, even to do good with. Money won't stand instead of a life spent in God's service. Money, even to do good with, is a poor thing compared with that. Money won't go a great ways in the making of happiness, without something else." "Would you like to live your life over again, Miss Bethia?" asked Violet. "No--I shouldn't. Not unless I could live it a great deal better. And I know myself too well by this time to suppose I should do that. It wouldn't pay, I don't believe. But oh! children, it is a grand thing to be young, to have your whole life before you to give to the Lord. You can't begin too young. Boys, and you, too, Violet--you have great privileges and responsibilities." This was Miss Bethia's favourite way of putting their duty before them. She had said this about "privilege and responsibility" two or three times to-night already, as the boys knew she would. It had come to be a by-word among them. But even Jem did not smile this time, she was so much in earnest, and Violet and David looked very grave. "`Fight the good fight of faith, lay hold on eternal life.' That's what you've got to do. `Take the whole armour of God,' and fight His battles." The boys looked at each other, remembering all that had been said about this of late. "Your father said right. It is a grand thing to come to the end of life and be able to say, `I have fought the good fight; I have kept the faith.'" "Like Mr Great Heart in the Pilgrim's Progress," said Ned. "Yes. Sometimes it's lions, and sometimes it's giants, but it's fighting all the way through, and God gives the victory. Yes," continued Miss Bethia, after a pause, "it's fighting all the way through, and it don't so much matter how it looks to other folks. Horseshoes or sermons, it don't matter, so that it is done to the Lord. Your father, he is a standard-bearer; and your mother, she helps the Lord's cause by helping him, and so she fights the good fight, too. There's enough for all to do, and the sooner you begin, the more you can do, and the better it will be--And I'm sure it's time these children were in bed now." Yes, it was more than time, as all acknowledged, but they did not go very willingly for all that. "Obedience is the first duty of a soldier, Ned, boy," said Jem. "If we could only know that we were soldiers," said David, gravely; and then he added to himself, "The very first thing is to enrol one's name." "I wonder all the girls don't like Aunt Bethia more," said Jessie, when Violet came up to take her candle in a little. "I'm sure she's nice-- sometimes." "Yes, she is always very good, and to-night she is pleasant," said Violet. "And I'm not at all sorry that she came, though mamma is away. Good-night, dear, and pleasant dreams." Upon the whole, Miss Bethia's visit was a success. Mr and Mrs Inglis came home next day to find her and little Mary in possession of the house. David was waiting to receive them at the gate, and all the others had gone to school. Violet had proposed to stay at home to entertain their guest, but this Miss Bethia would not hear of. The baby and she were quite equal to the entertainment of one another, to say nothing of David, upon whom Miss Bethia was evidently beginning to look with eyes of favour. They had not got tired of one another when mamma came to the rescue, and nothing mattered much either to David or his little sister when mamma was at hand. Mr Inglis was almost ill with a cold; too ill to care to go to his study and his books that day, but not too ill to lie on the sofa and talk with--or rather listen to, Miss Bethia. This was a great pleasure to her, for she had a deep respect for the minister, and indeed, the respect was mutual. So they discussed parish matters a little; and all the wonderful things that were happening in the world, they discussed a good deal. There was a new book, too, which Miss Bethia had got--a very interesting book to read, but of whose orthodoxy she could not be quite sure till she had discussed it with the minister. There were new thoughts in it, and old thoughts clothed in unfamiliar language, and she wanted his help in Comparing it with the only standard of truth in the opinion of both. So the first day was successful, and so were all the other days of her visit, though in a different way. There were no signs of Debby's return, but Mrs Inglis had, in the course of her married life, been too often left to her own resources to make this a matter of much consequence for a few days. The house was as orderly, and the meals were as regular; and though some things in the usual routine were left undone because of Debby's absence and Miss Bethia's presence in the house, still everything went smoothly, and all the more so that Miss Bethia, who had had a varied experience in the way of long visits, knew just when to sit still and seem to see nothing, and when to put forth a helping hand. Her visits, as a general thing, were not without some drawbacks, and if Mrs Inglis had had her choice, she would have preferred that this one should have taken place when Debby's presence in the kitchen would have left her free to attend to her guest. But this was a visit altogether pleasant. There was not even the little jarring and uncomfortableness, rather apt to arise out of her interest in the children, and her efforts in their behalf. Not that she neglected them or their affairs. David, of whom she saw most, had a feeling that her eye was upon him whenever he was in the house, but her observation was more silent than usual, and even when she took him to task, as she did more than once, he did not for some reason or other, feel inclined to resent her sharp little speeches as he had sometimes done. She did not overlook him by any means, but asked a great many questions about his books, and lessons, and amusements, and about when he was going to college, and about what he was to be afterwards, and behind his back praised him to his mother as a sensible, well-behaved boy, which, of course, pleased his mother, and made David himself laugh heartily when he heard of it. Still, though her visit had been most agreeable, it was pleasant to be alone again, when it came to an end, and little Jessie expressed what the others only thought when she said: "It's nice to have Miss Bethia come once in a while, and it's nice to have her go away, too." Debby did not come back, but everything went on as nearly as possible as usual in her absence. They hoped to have her again, by and by, so no effort was made to supply her place. If she could not come back, Violet would possibly have to stay at home after the Christmas holidays to help in the house, and in the meantime, David did what "a sensible, well-behaved boy" might be expected to do, to supply her place. And that was a great deal. David was a manly boy, and he was none the less manly that he did a great many things for his mother, that boys are not generally supposed to like to do. What those things were, need not be told, lest boys not so sensible, should call his manliness in question, and so lose their interest in him. Indeed, it must be confessed that, sensible boy as he was, David himself had some doubts as to the manliness of some of the work that fell to him to do about this time, and did not care that his morning's occupations should be alluded to often, before Jem and Ned. But he had no doubt as to the help and comfort he was to his mother during these days, when she needed both even more than he knew. It is a manly thing in a boy to be his mother's "right hand," and David was that, and more than that, during these happy days, when they were so much alone together. For they were happy days to them all. In spite of work and weariness, and anxiety, and a sudden sharp dread of something else harder to bear than these, that came now and then to one at least of the household, they were very happy days to them all. CHAPTER FIVE. Winter came early this year. Even before November was out, the sleigh-bells were merrily ringing through all the country, and during December more snow fell than had fallen during that month at any time within the memory of "the oldest inhabitant." And after the snow came the wind, tossing it hither and thither, and piling up mountainous drifts in the hollows through which the North Gore road passed, before it crossed Hardscrabble hill. It piled it up on Hardscrabble, too, and on all the hills, so that even if Mr Inglis had been quite well, he could hardly have made it the busiest season of the year in the way of visiting his parishioners, as it was his custom to do. For usually, at this time, the farmers may enjoy something besides work, the busy season being over; and usually, too, the new farms and back settlements are easy of access, when the ground is frozen and just enough of snow has fallen to cover the roughness of the way. But this year, too much snow had fallen, so that for weeks, there were in some places, no roads at all; and over others, what with the drifts, and what with the difficulty in the sleighs passing one another where the roads were narrow, it would not have been pleasant, or even safe, to go. Mr Inglis would have tried it, doubtless, if he had been quite well, but the cold he had taken on the stormy night when old Mr Bent died, had never quite left him. He did not call himself ill, though his nights were restless, and his days languid, and if the weather had been fine, he would have gone out as usual; but the snow that had fallen, and was still falling, and the wind that roared and whistled, as it piled it up in the hollows and on the hill-sides, helped to make him content to stay at home and rest. It was rest he needed. He was not ill--only tired, so tired that he did not care during this time of leisure, to pursue the studies that he loved so well, and, for the most part, David read to him. These were happy days to David. Generally in the quiet afternoons, when the children were at school, they were down-stairs in mamma's room, and mamma listened to the reading, too, with little Mary playing out and in of the room beside them. But on the long evenings they usually sat up-stairs in the study, with mamma coming up to see them only now and then. Sometimes there was no reading, and David went on with his lessons as usual, while his father lay on the sofa with closed eyes, thinking over the wonderful truths he wished to speak to the people when the Sabbath came round again. Sometimes when the children, and even the mother, weary with the day's cares and labours, had gone to rest, David sat with his father far into the night. A prey to the restless wakefulness which, for the time, seems worse to bear than positive illness, Mr Inglis dreaded his bed, and David was only too glad to be allowed to sit with him. Sometimes he read to him, but oftener they talked, and David heard a great many things about his father's life, that he never would have heard but for this time. His father told him about his early home, and his brothers and sisters, and their youthful joys and sorrows--how dearly they had loved one another, and how he had mourned their loss. He told him about his mamma in her girlhood, as she was when he first knew her, how they had loved one another, and how she had blessed all his life till now, and nothing that his father told him filled David's heart with such wonder and pleasure, as did this. And when he added, one night, that to him--her first-born son--his mother must always trust, as her strength and "right hand," he could only find voice to say "Of course, papa," for the joyful throbbing of his heart. David used to tell Violet and Jem some things that his father spoke about, at such times, but this he never told. He mused over it often in the dark, with smiles and happy tears upon his face, and told himself that his mother's strength and "right hand," he would ever be, but it never came into his mind that the time might be drawing near which was to give significance to his father's words. And so the last weeks of the year passed slowly away. Mr Inglis preached on Sunday as usual, every Sunday at the village, and every alternate Sunday at the Mills and at North Gore. He was quite able to do it, he thought, and though he had restless nights and languid days still, he called himself much better at the beginning of the year, and everything went on as usual in the house. In the village there began to be whispers that it was time for the annual "Donation Visit" to the minister's family, and certain worthy and wise people, upon whom much of the prosperity of the town was supposed to depend, laid their heads together to consult as to how this visit might be made successful in every respect--a visit to be remembered beyond all other visits, for the pleasure and profit it was to bring. But before this--before the old year had come to an end, something else had happened--something that was considered a great event in the Inglis family. They had had several letters from Frank Oswald since his going home, but one day there came a parcel as well, and this, when opened, was found to contain a good many things which were to be accepted by the young Inglises as Christmas gifts. These were very nice, and very satisfactory, as a general thing, but they need not be specified. That which gave more satisfaction to each than all the other things put together, was marked, "With Frank's love to Aunt Mary." And if he had searched through all the city for a gift, he could have found nothing that would have pleased her half so well. For added to her pleasure in receiving was the better pleasure of giving. The present was what she had been wishing for two or three winters past--a fur coat for her husband. It was not a very handsome coat. That is, it was not one of those costly garments, which sometimes rich men purchase and wear, quite as much for appearance as for comfort. It was the best of its kind, however; well made and impervious to the cold, if a coat could be made so; and when papa put it on and buttoned it round him, there were many exclamations of admiration and delight. "We need not be afraid of Hardscrabble winds any more, papa," said David. "I should think not. `Blow winds and crack your cheeks,'" said Jem, laughing. Little Mary was more than half inclined to be afraid of her papa in his unaccustomed garb, but Ned laughed at her, and made her look at Violet, who was passing her hand over the soft fur, caressing it as if she loved it; and Jessie made them all laugh by telling them that when she became a rich woman, she meant to send a fur coat to all the ministers. It is possible that some young people, and even some people not young, may smile, and be a little contemptuous over the idea of so much interest and delight in so small a matter. It can only be said of them, that there are some things happening every day in the world, that such people don't know of, and cannot be supposed to understand. That a good woman should have to plan and wait one season, and then another, for the garment much desired--absolutely necessary for the health and comfort of her husband, need not surprise any one. It has happened to other than ministers' wives many a time, I suppose. I know it has happened to some of _them_. It happened once, certainly, in the experience of Mrs Inglis, and her delight in Frank's present was as real, though not so freely expressed, as was that of her children. It came with less of drawback than usually comes with the receiving of such a present. It came from one whom they believed quite able to give it, and from one whom they knew to be speaking the thought of his heart, when he said that the pleasure of his son Frank--whose present he wished it to be considered--was greater in giving it than theirs could possibly be in receiving it. Then there were thanks for their kindness to his boy, and hopes expressed that the two families would come to know more of each other in the future than had seemed possible in the past, and, altogether, it was a nice letter to send and to receive in the circumstances. But few pleasures are quite unmixed in this world. Even while Mrs Inglis was rejoicing over her husband's future comfort, and the removal of her own anxiety with regard to it, she could not but say to herself, as she watched his flushed face and languid movements, "If it had only come a little sooner!" But she did not spoil the enjoyment of the rest by uttering her thoughts. Indeed, she was displeased with herself, calling herself unthankful and unduly anxious, and sought with earnestness to put them out of her mind. There was something else in the letter sent by Mr Oswald, which, for the present, the father and mother did not think it necessary to discuss with the children. This was the offer made to them for David, of the situation as junior clerk in the bank of which Mr Oswald was managing director. There was no immediate necessity of deciding about the matter, as the place would not be vacant till spring, and the father and mother determined to take time to look at the matter in all its lights, before they said anything about it to David. He was already nearly fitted to enter the university, and they hoped that some time or other, means would be found to send him there; but he was too young to enter at once, and, also, he was too young and boyish-looking, to hope for a long time yet to be able to earn means to help himself, as so many students are able to do, by teaching in the public schools. So it seemed likely that this situation might be the very thing they could wish for him for the next few years. However, there were many things to be considered with regard to it. It might unsettle him from his eager pursuit of his studies, and from the cheerful doing of his other duties, were anything to be said about his leaving home just now. So they were silent, and the old year went out, and the new year came in, and everything went on as usual, till the time for the donation visit drew near. Donation visits ought to be pleasant occasions to all concerned, for we have the very highest authority as to the blessedness of giving, and only mean and churlish natures will refuse to accept graciously what is graciously bestowed. That they often fail to be so, arises less frequently from the lack of "graciousness" on the part of either pastor or people, than from the fact that the principle on which they are often undertaken is a mistaken one--the design to thus supplement some acknowledged deficiency in the matter of the minister's salary. It often happens that the people regard as a gift, what their pastor and his family accept as their right, and thus both parties are defrauded of the mutual benefits which are the result of obligations cheerfully conferred and gratefully received. The parish of Gourlay was very much like other parishes, in regard to these matters. They were not a rich people. The salary of their minister was moderately liberal, considering their means, but it was scant enough considering the requirements of the minister's family. It was not very regularly, nor very promptly paid; still, in one form or other, the stipulated amount generally found its way to the minister's house in the course of the year. So that the donation visit was not made for the purpose of making up a deficiency in the salary agreed on, but rather as an acknowledgment on the part of some of the people that the salary agreed upon was not sufficient, and as a token of good-will on the part of all. If it had occurred to the people to put their expression of good-will in the form of increased salary, it would doubtless have been more agreeable to Mr Inglis. Still, he knew that more could be done on an occasion of this kind, with less inconvenience to that part of the people who were most liberal, than could be done in the legitimate way of annual subscriptions, and he had, on the whole, sufficient confidence in their kindly feeling to prevent any very painful sense of obligation in receiving their gifts, and no expression of any such feeling was ever permitted to mar the enjoyment of the occasion, as far as the people were concerned. In short, the minister and his wife had come to consider the annual donation visit, as one of those circumstances in life out of which pain or pleasure may be gotten, according as they are made the worst or the best of by those most concerned; and as they had been making the best of them for a good many years now, they were justified in looking forward to a reasonable amount of enjoyment from this one. As for the children, they did not think of anything but enjoyment in connection with it. To them the overturning of all things in the house, up-stairs and down, which was considered a necessary part of the preparations, was great fun. Some overturning was absolutely necessary for the entertainment of about a third more people than the house could conveniently hold. So there was the putting aside all brittle articles, the shoving of tables and bureaus into corners, the taking down of beds, and the arranging of seats over all the house. For all the house must be thrown open, and the result was confusion, certainly not so delightful to the mother as to the children. The prospect of the crowd was delightful to them, too, and so were the possibilities in the way of presents. Besides the staples, butter, cheese, flannel, oats, and Indian meal, there was a possibility of something particular and personal to every one of them--chickens, or mittens, or even a book. Once Jem had got a jack-knife, and David a year of "The Youth's Companion." Last year Violet had got a new dress from Mrs Smith, and Jem a pair of boots. Very good boots they had been--they were not bad yet, but the thought of them was not altogether agreeable to Jem. However nice the boots, the being reminded of the gift by Master Smith, and that before all the boys at school, and more than once, was not at all nice; and Jem had to look back with mingled shame and triumph on a slight passage of arms that had been intended to put an end to that sort of thing on Master Smith's part. There was no danger, he thought, of getting any more boots from Mrs Smith, and all the people were not like her and her son. Out of this trouble about the boots had arisen in Jem's mind some serious misgivings as to the entire desirableness of donation visits. David and Violet had had them before, but they were not so ready to speak of these things as Jem was; or rather as Jem would have been if his conscience had been quite clear as regarded the matter of Master Smith. "There would be no good in troubling mamma with it," said Jem, and so there had been no exciting of one another by foolish talking; and, indeed, their misgivings had neither been of a depth nor of a nature to spoil the prospect of the visit to them. Great fun was anticipated as usual. Debby, though her sister was by no means well yet, came back to assist in the general confusion. "There shall be no talk of `allowances' this time," said Debby; and cellar and garret, pantry, cupboard, and closet, were all put through such a process of purifying and arranging, that not the neatest house-keeper in Gourlay could have the least chance or excuse for hinting that any "allowances" were needed. Debby's honour as a house-keeper was at stake, to say nothing of the honour of Mrs Inglis. "It seems as natural as possible to get back to the old spot," said Debby; "and I wish to goodness sister Serepta would get well, or do something else. I mean, I wish she would go and stay to Uncle Jason's, or have Aunt Myra come and stay with her. I'm thankful your ma's got along so far, without any of those shiftless Simmses or Martins in to help her. But she's looking a kind of used up, ain't she? And it beats all how your pa's cold hangs on, don't it?" "Oh! papa is much better," said David, eagerly, "and mamma is quite well. She is tired, but now you are here, she just lets things go, and rests. She knows it will be all right." "That's so," said Debby, "and she can't do better." And, indeed, she could not. Her affairs were in good hands. Debby was "as smart as a trap," and capable of anything in the way of house-keeping duties. And though not blessed with the mildest temper-- people "as smart as traps" seldom are--she had the faculty of adapting herself to circumstances, and of identifying herself with the family in which she lived, in a way that stood in stead of a good deal. She was quite too smart for the patient endurance of the whims of a nervous invalid, and found positive refreshment in the present bustle and hurry, and was inclined not only to be agreeable, but confidential on the occasion. "It's to be hoped it will amount to something this time," said she. "All this fuss and worry ought not to go for nothing, that's a fact. It would suit better all round, if they'd pay your pa at first, and have done with it. I don't believe in presents myself--not till folks' debts are paid at any rate," said Debby, looking at the subject from the minister's family's point of view. "But I ain't going to begin on that. Miss Bethia--she's been letting in the light on some folks' mind, but as this visit has got to be, I only hope we'll get enough to pay us for our trouble; and I wish it were well over." The eventful evening came at last. It would be quite impossible to give here a full and clear account of all that was said and done, and given and received that night. It was a very successful visit, whether considered socially, or with reference to the results in the way of donations. Afterwards--a good while afterwards--they all used to think and speak of it as a delightful visit indeed. It was not without its little drawbacks, but on the whole, it was a delightful visit even at the time, and afterwards all drawbacks were forgotten. Jem had a little encounter with Mrs Smith, which he did not enjoy much at the moment, but which did not spoil the remembrance of it to him. She did not seem to resent his conduct about the boots. On the contrary, she placed him under still further obligations to her by presenting him with the "makings" of a jacket, which Jem accepted shamefacedly, but still gratefully enough, quite forgetting the dignified resolution he had confided to David, to decline all further favours from her with thanks. David enjoyed the evening for the same reasons that all the rest enjoyed it, and so did Violet, and for another reason besides. For the very first time, she was spoken to, and treated as if she were a grown-up young lady, and a little girl no longer. This was delightful to Violet, who, though she was nearly sixteen, was small of her age, and had always been one of the children like all the rest. It was old Mrs Kerr, from the Gore Corner, who spoke to her about it first. "A great help you must be to your mother with the house-keeping, and with the children and all," said that nice old lady. "It's a fine thing to have a grown-up daughter in the house. Only the chances are you'll just go and leave her, as mine have done." Violet smiled, and blushed, and was conscience-stricken, not at the thought of going away to leave her mother one day, as Mrs Kerr's daughters had done, but because she knew she had never really been much help to her mother either at the sewing or the house-keeping--not half so much as Davie had been since Debby went away. For Letty was very fond of her books, and, indeed, her duty as well as her inclination had encouraged her devotion to them, at least until lately; but she was inclined to confess her faults to the old lady, lest she should think of her what was not true. "Never mind. It will come in good time. And there's small blame to you for liking the books best, since you're your father's child, as well as your mother's," said Mrs Kerr, kindly. "And, indeed, they say folk can make hard work at the books, as well as at other things, and there's no fear of you, with your mother to teach you the other things, and you growing so womanly and big withal." It was a very successful visit in every way. There never had been so many people present on such an occasion before; there never had been so many nice things brought and eaten. The coffee was good, and so was the tea, and the singing. The young people had a good time together, and so had the old people. The donations were of greater value than usual, and when he presented the money part of it to Mr Inglis, Mr Spry made a speech, which would have been very good "if he had known when he had done, and stopped," Debby said, and the rest thought it was not bad as it was. And the minister certainly made a good speech when he received it. He did not use many words in thanking the people for their gifts, but they were just the right words, and "touched the spot," Debby said to Miss Bethia, who agreed. And then he went on to say what proved to these two, and to them all, that there was something for which he cared more than he cared for what they had to give. And they all remembered afterwards, though no one missed them at the time, that the few playful words that he was wont to address to the young men and maidens of the congregation on such occasions, were not spoken, but the words he did speak to them were such as some of them will never forget while they live. It was all over at last, and the tired household was left to rest, and they awoke to a comfortless house next day. The boys helped to take out the boards and benches that had been used as seats, and to move back to their places the furniture that had been removed, and then the children went to school. Violet offered to stay at home and help to arrange the house, but Debby declared herself equal to the clearing up, and was not complimentary in her remarks as to her skill and ability in such matters, so Letty, nothing loth, went away with the rest. It was an uncomfortable day. Mr Inglis had taken more cold, at least his cough was worse, and he stayed up-stairs in his study, and David was glad when the time came that he could stay there too. However, there came order out of the confusion at last. It was a good job well over, Debby declared, and all agreed with her. "I hate to go as bad as you hate to have me," said she, in answer to Letty's lamentations over her departure. "I don't know but your mother had better have one of those shiftless Simmses than nobody at all. There's considerable many steps to be taken in this house, as nobody knows better than me; and I hadn't the responsibility of mother's meetings, and worrying over your pa, as she has. If I were you, I'd take right hold and help, and never mind about going to school, and examination, and such, for your ma's got more than she ought to do. I must try and doctor Serepta up, so as to get back again, or there'll be something to pay. Well, good-bye! I'll be down next week, if I can fix it so, to see how you're getting along." Letty stood looking after her disconsolately. To stay at home from school, and give up all thoughts of prizes at the coming examination, were among the last things she would like to do, to say nothing of the distasteful housework. Still, if her mother needed her, she ought to do it, and she made up her mind to do it cheerfully if it must be. But she did not need to do it. It was of more importance that she should get on with her studies, so as to be ready to do her duty as a teacher by and by, than that she should help at home just now, her mother thought, and so for a few weeks longer, everything went on as before. David helped his mother still, doing with skill and success a great many things which at first he had not liked to do at all. He did not get on with his studies as he would have wished, partly because he had less time than usual, and partly because his father was less able to interest himself in what he was doing. David sometimes grumbled a little to Jem about it, because he feared he should not find himself so far before Ned Hunter at the end of the year, as he wished to be; and once he said something of the kind to his mother. But that was a very small matter, in her opinion. "For after all, Davie, my boy, the Greek, and Latin, and mathematics you are so eager for, are chiefly valuable to you as a means of discipline-- as a means of preparing you for the work that is before you in the world. And I am not sure but that the discipline of little cares and uncongenial work that has come upon you this winter, may answer the purpose quite as well. At any rate, the wish to get on with your studies for the sake of excelling Ned Hunter, is not very creditable." "No, mamma. But still I think it is worth something to be able to keep up with one who has had so much money spent on him, at the best schools, and I here at home all the time. Don't you think so, mamma?" "Well!--perhaps so. But the advantages are not all on Ned's side. Your father's help and interest in all you have been doing, has been worth more to you than any school could have been." "That's true, mamma," said Davie, heartily. "And it is not like having lessons--tasks, I mean--to study with papa. It is pure pleasure. And that is more than Ned can say, I am afraid," added he, laughing. "And, besides, I don't think these things would have troubled you much under any circumstances; and, as I said before, the self-denial you have had to exercise, may be better for you than even success in your studies would be." "Self-denial, mamma! Why, I think we have had a very happy winter, so far!" "Indeed, we have! even with some things that we might have wished different. And, Davie, you must not think you have been losing time. A boy cannot be losing time, who is being a comfort to his father and mother. And self-denial is a better thing to learn even than Greek. If you live long, you will have more use for the one than for the other, I have no doubt." David laughed, and blushed with pleasure at his mother's words. "I am glad that you think so--I mean that I have been a comfort. But as for the self-denial, I don't believe any of the boys have had a better time than I have had this winter. If papa were only well! But he is better now, mamma?" "Yes; I hope so. If it were May instead of January, I should not be afraid." "Have you been afraid, mamma? Are you afraid?" asked David, startled. "No--not really afraid, only anxious, and, indeed, I am becoming less so every day." And there seemed less cause. Wrapped in his wonderful coat of fur and driven by David, the minister went here and there among his people, just as usual, and had a great deal of satisfaction in it, and was not more tired at such times than he had often been before. He preached on Sunday always at the village, and generally at his other stations as well, and David might well say these were happy days. Yes, they were happy days, and long to be remembered, because of the sorrowful days that came after them. Not but that the sorrowful days were happy days, too, in one sense; at least, they were days which neither David nor his mother would be willing ever to forget. Young people do not like to hear of sorrowful days, and sometimes think and say, that at least all such should be left out of books. I should say so, too, if they could also be kept out of one's life, but sorrowful days will not be kept away by trying to forget them. And besides, life itself would not be better by their being left out, for out of such have come, to many a one, the best and most enduring of blessings. It does not need any words of mine to prove that God does not send them in anger to his people, but in love. We have His own word for that, repeated again and again. And if we did but know it, there are many days to which we look forward--which we hail with joyful welcome, of which we have more cause to be afraid, than of the days of trouble that are sent us by God. CHAPTER SIX. February came in with wind and rain--a sudden thaw, levelling the great drifts, and sending down through all the hollows swift rushes of snow-water to cover the ice on the river--to break it up in some places, to fill the channel full till all the meadows above the millpond were quite overflowed. It did not last long. It cleared the third night, and so sudden and sharp was the coming of the cold, that not a murmur of water was to be heard where it had rushed in torrents the day before, and the millpond, and the meadows above, lay in the sunshine like a sheet of molten silver. In this sudden change, Mr Inglis took cold. It had been like that all winter. His illness had been very severe, but just as he seemed ready to throw it off and be himself again, he always seemed to take more cold, and went back again. It was very trying--very discouraging. This was what David and Jem were saying to one another one afternoon, as they took their way down to the mill-dam where many of their companions had gone before them. It quite spoiled David's pleasure to think about it, and even Jem looked grave as they went on together. However, there are few troubles that a pair of skates, and a mile, more or less, of shining ice, have not power to banish, for a time, at least, from the minds of boys of twelve and fourteen; and so when they came home, and their mother met them at the door, telling Jem that he was to go and ask Dr Gore to come up again, it gave them both a new shock of pain, and David asked, "Is papa worse, mamma?" with such a sinking of the heart, as he had never felt before. "Not seriously worse, I hope," said his mother. "Still the doctor may as well come up. It will be safest." Just a little fresh cold, the doctor said, and Mr Inglis must take care of himself for a few days. The remedies which he prescribed had the desired effect. In a day or two he was as well as usual; but on Sunday, when he was nearly through with the morning service, his voice failed so utterly that his last words were lost to all. Of course there was no possibility of his going to the Gore in the afternoon. He could only rest at home, hoping and believing that he would be well in a little while. Indeed, the thought of the disappointment to the congregation who would assemble in the afternoon, was more in his thoughts than any future danger to himself. There need be no disappointment--at least, the people need not be made to wait; and David and Jem were sent to tell them that their father was not able to come, and that they were to read a sermon, and Mr Spry was to conduct the service as he had sometimes done before. They took with them a sermon chosen by their father; but Mr Spry was not there, nor Mr Fiske, nor any one who thought himself capable of reading it as it ought to be read. "Suppose you give them Miss Bethia's sermon, Davie," said Jem, laughing. "Don't, Jem," said David, huskily. Something rising in his throat would hardly let him say it, for the remembrance of old Tim, and that fair day, and of his father's face, and voice, and words, came back upon him with a rush, and the tears must have come if he had spoken another word. "Is there no one here that can read? Papa will be disappointed," said he, in a little. No. There seemed to be no one. One old gentleman had not brought his glasses; another could not read distinctly, because of the loss of his front teeth; no one there was in the habit of reading aloud. "Suppose you read it, David? You will do it first-rate," said old Mr Wood. "We'll manage the rest." David looked grave. "Go ahead, Davie," said Jem. "What would papa say?" said David. "He would be pleased, of course. Why not?" said Jem, promptly. So when the singing and prayers were over, some one spoke to him again, and he rose and opened the book with a feeling that he was dreaming, and that he would wake up by and by, and laugh at it all. It was like a dream all through. He read very well, or the people thought he did; he read slowly and earnestly, without looking up, and happily forgot that Jem was there, or he might have found it difficult to keep from wondering how he was taking it, and from looking up to see. But Jem had the same dreamy feeling on him, too. It seemed so strange to be there without his father, and to be listening to Davie's voice; and nothing was farther from his mind than that there was anything amusing in it all. For sitting there, with his head leaning on his hands, a very terrible thought came to Jem. What if he were never to hear his father's voice in this place again? What if he were never to be well?--what if he were going to die! He was angry with himself in a minute. It was a very foolish thought, he said; wrong even, it seemed to him. Nothing was going to happen to his father. He was not very ill. He would be all right again in a day or two. Jem was indignant with himself because of his thoughts; and roused himself, and by and by began to take notice how attentively all the people were listening, and thought how he would tell them all about it at home, and how pleased his father and mother would be. He did not try to listen, himself, but mused on from one thing to another, till he quite forgot his painful thoughts, and in a little the book was closed and David sat down. They hurried away as quickly as they could, but not before they had to repeat over and over again to the many who crowded round them to inquire, that their father was not ill, at least not worse than he had been, only he had taken cold and was hoarse and not able to speak--that was all. But the thought that perhaps it might not be all, lay heavy on their hearts all the way home, and made their drive a silent one. It never came into Jem's mind to banter Davie about the new dignity of his office as reader, as at first he had intended to do, or, indeed, to say anything at all, till they were nearly home. As for David, he was going over and over the very same things that had filled his mind when he drove his father from old Tim's funeral--"A good soldier of Jesus Christ," and all that was implied in the name, and his father's words about "the enrolling of one's name;" and he said to himself that he would give a great deal to be sure that his name was enrolled, forgetting that the whole world could not be enough to buy what God had promised to him freely--a name and a place among His people. "I hope we shall find papa better," said Jem, as old Don took his usual energetic start on the hill near the bridge. "Oh! he is sure to be better," said David. But he did not feel at all sure of it, and he could not force himself to do anything for old Don's comfort till he should see what was going on in the house. The glimpse he got when he went in was re-assuring. Violet was laying the table for tea, and singing softly to herself as she went through the house. His father and mother were in the sitting-room with the rest of the children, and they were both smiling at one of little Polly's wise speeches as he went in. "Well, Davie, you are home again safely," said his mother. "All right, mamma. I will tell you all about it in a minute," said David. "All right," he repeated, as he went out again to Jem, lifting a load from his heart, and from his own, too, with the word. But was it really "all right?" Their father's face said it plainly, they thought, when they went in, and their mother's face said it, too, with a difference. A weight was lifted from Jem's heart, and his spirits rose to such a happy pitch that, Sunday as it was, and in his father's presence, he could hardly keep himself within quiet bounds, as he told them about the afternoon, and how David had read so well, and what all the people had said. David's heart was lightened, too, but he watched the look on his mother's face, and noticed that she hardly spoke a word--not even to check Jem, when the laughter of the children and Letty grew too frequent, and a little noisy, as they sat together before the lamp was lighted. "It is all right, I hope," said he, a little doubtfully. "It would be all right for papa, whichever way it were to end--and for mamma, too,-- in one sense--and for all of us," added he, with a vague idea of the propriety of submission to God's will under any circumstances. "But papa is not worse--I think he is not worse, and it will be all right by and by when summer comes again." But he still watched his mother's face, and waited anxiously for her word to confirm his hope. It _was_ all right, because nothing which is God's will can be otherwise to those who put their trust in Him. But it was not all right in the sense that David was determined to hope. Though he found them sitting so calmly there when he came home that night, and though the evening passed so peacefully away, with the children singing and reading as usual, and the father and mother taking interest in it all, they had experienced a great shock while the boys were away. Gradually, but very plainly, the doctor had for the first time spoken of danger. Absolute rest for the next three months could alone avert it. The evidence of disease was not very decided, but the utter prostration of the whole system, was, in a sense, worse than positive disease. To be attacked with serious illness now, or even to be over-fatigued might be fatal to him. It was not Dr Gore who spoke in this way, but a friend of his who was visiting him, and whom he had brought to see his patient. He was a friend of the minister, too, and deeply interested in his case, and so spoke plainly. Though Dr Gore regretted the abruptness of his friend's communication, and would fain have softened it for their sakes, he could not dissent from it. But both spoke of ultimate recovery provided three months of rest--absolute rest, as far as public duty was concerned, were secured. Or it would be better still, if, for the three trying months that were before him, he could go away to a milder climate, or even if he could get any decided change, provided he could have rest with it. The husband and wife listened in silence, at the first moment not without a feeling of dismay. To go away for a change was utterly impossible, they put that thought from them at once. To stay at home in perfect rest, seemed almost impossible, too. They looked at one another in silence. What could be said? "We will put it all out of our thoughts for to-day, love," said Mr Inglis, in his painful whisper, when they were left alone. "At least we will not speak of it to one another. We must not distrust His loving care of us, dear, even now." They did not speak of it to one another, but each apart spoke of it to Him who hears no sorrowful cry of his children unmoved. He did not lift the cloud that gloomed so darkly over them. He did not by a sudden light from Heaven show them a way by which they were to be led out of the darkness, but in it He made them to feel His presence. "Fear not, for I am with thee. Be not dismayed, for I am thy God!" and lo! "the darkness was light about them!" So when the boys came home the father's face said plainly what both heart and lip could also say, "It is all right." And the mother's said it, too, with a difference. Of course, all that the doctors had said was not told to the children. Indeed the father and mother did not speak much about it to each other for a good many days. Mr Inglis rested, and in a few days called himself nearly well again, and but for the doctor's absolute prohibition, would have betaken himself to his parish work as usual. It was not easy for him to submit to inactivity, for many reasons that need not be told, and when the first Sabbath of enforced silence came round, it found him in sore trouble, _knowing_, indeed, where to betake himself, but _feeling_ the refuge very far away. That night he first spoke to David of the danger that threatened him. They were sitting together in the twilight. The mother and the rest were down-stairs at the usual Sunday reading and singing, which the father had not felt quite able to bear, and now and then the sound of their voices came up to break the stillness that had fallen on these two. David had been reading, but the light had failed him, and he sat very quiet, thinking that his father had fallen asleep. But he had not. "Davie," said he, at last, "what do you think is the very hardest duty that a soldier may be called to do?" David was silent a minute, partly from surprise at the question, and partly because he had been thinking of all that his father had been suffering on that sorrowful silent day, and he was not quite sure whether he could find a voice to say anything. For at morning worship, the father had quite broken down, and the children had been awed and startled by the sight of his sudden tears. All day long David had thought about it, and sitting there beside him his heart had filled full of love and reverent sympathy, which he never could have spoken, even if it had come into his mind to try. But when his father asked him that question, he answered, after a little pause: "Not the fighting, papa, and not the marching. I think perhaps the very hardest thing would be to stand aside and wait, while the battle is going on." "Ay, lad! you are right there," said his father, with a sigh. "Though why you should look on it in that way, I do not quite see." "I was thinking of you, papa," said David, very softly; and in a little he added: "This has been a very sad day to you, papa." "And I have not been giving you a lesson of trust and cheerful obedience, I am afraid. Yes, this has been a sad, silent day, Davie, lad. But the worst is over. I trust the worst is over now." David answered nothing to this, but came closer, and leaned over the arm of the sofa on which his father lay, and by and by his father said: "My boy, it is a grand thing to be a soldier of Jesus Christ, willing and obedient. And whether it is marching or fighting, or only waiting, our Commander cannot make a mistake. It ought to content us to know that, Davie, lad." "Yes, papa," said David. "Yes," added his father, in a little. "It is a wonderful thing to belong to the great army of the Lord. There is nothing else worth a thought in comparison with that. It is to fight for Right against Wrong, for Christ and the souls of men, against the Devil--with the world for a battle ground, with weapons `mighty through God to the pulling down of strongholds'--under a Leader Divine, invincible, and with victory sure. What is there beyond this? What is there besides?" He was silent, but David said nothing, and in a little while he went on again: "But we are poor creatures, Davie, for all that. We grow weary with our marching; turned aside from our chosen paths, we stumble and are dismayed, as though defeat had overtaken us; we sit athirst beside our broken cisterns, and sicken in prisons of our own making, believing ourselves forgotten. And all the time, our Leader, looking on, has patience with us--loves us even, holds us up, and leads us safe through all, and gives us the victory at the end. `Thanks be to God who giveth us the victory!'" said Mr Inglis, and in a minute he repeated the words again. Then he lay still for a long time, so long that it grew dark, except for the light of the new moon, and David, kneeling at the head of the sofa, never moved, thinking that his father slumbered now, or had forgotten him. But by and by he spoke again: "When I was young, just beginning the conflict, I remember saying to myself, if God will give me twenty years in which to fight His battles, I will be content. The twenty years are almost over now. Ah! how little I have gained for Him from the enemy! Yet I may have to lay down my armour now, just as you are ready to put it on, Davie, my son." "Papa! I am not worthy--" said David, with a sob. "Worthy? No. It is a gift He will give you--as the crown and the palm of the worthiest will be His free gift at last. Not worthy, lad, but willing, I trust." "Papa--I cannot tell. I am afraid--" He drew nearer, kneeling still, and laid his face upon his father's shoulder. "Of what are you afraid, Davie? There is nothing you need fear, except delay. You cannot come to Him too soon. David, when you were the child of an hour only, I gave you up to God to be His always. I asked Him to make you a special messenger of His to sinful men. His minister. That may be if He wills. I cannot tell. But I do know that He will that you should be one of His `good soldiers.'" There was a long silence, for it tired him to speak, and David said nothing. By and by his father said: "How can I leave your mother to your care, unless I know you safe among those whom God guides? But you must give yourself to Him. Your mother will need you, my boy, but you may fight well the battles of the Lord, even while working with your hands for daily bread. And for the rest, the way will open before you. I am not afraid." "Papa," said David, raising himself up to look into his father's face, "why are you saying all this to me to-night?" "I am saying it to you because you are your mother's first-born son, and must be her staff and stay always. And to-night is a good time to say it." "But, papa," said the boy with difficulty, "it is not because you think you are going to die? Does mamma know?" "I do not know, my son. Death has seemed very near to me to-day. And it has been often in your mother's thoughts of late, I do not doubt. My boy! it is a solemn thing to feel that death may be drawing near. But I am not afraid. I think I have no cause to be afraid." He raised himself up and looked into the boy's face with a smile, as he repeated: "David--I have no cause to fear--since Jesus died." "No, papa," said David, faintly. "But mamma--and--all of us." "Yes, it will be sad to leave you, and it will be sad for you to be left. But I am not afraid. `Leave thy fatherless children; I will preserve them alive, and let thy widow trust in me.' He has said it, and He will bring it to pass. The promise is more to me, to-night, than untold wealth could be. And Davie, I leave them to your care. You must take my place with them, and comfort your mother, and care for your brothers and sisters. And David you must be a better soldier than I have ever been." David threw himself forward with a cry. "Oh papa! how can I? how can I? I am afraid, and I do not even know that my name is enrolled, and that is the very first--" "My boy! But you may know. Have you ever given yourself to our great leader? Have you asked him to enrol your name? Ask Him now. Do not I love you? His love is greater far than mine!" There had been moments during that day when the Lord had seemed very far away from His servant, but he felt Him to be very near Him now, as he poured out his heart in prayer for his son. He did not use many words, and they were faintly and feebly uttered, but who shall doubt but they reached the ear of the Lord waiting to hear and answer. But they brought no comfort to David that night. Indeed he hardly heard them. There was only room in his heart for one thought. "Death may be drawing near!" his father had said, and beyond that he could not look. It was too terrible to believe. He would not believe it. He would not have it so. By and by when there came the sound of footsteps on the stairs, he slipped unseen out of the room, and then out of the house, and seeking some place where he might be alone, he went up into the loft above old Don's crib, and lay down upon the hay, and wept and sobbed his heart out there. He prayed, too, asking again for the blessing which his father had asked for him; and for his father's life. He prayed earnestly, with strong crying and tears; but in his heart he knew that he cared more for his father's life and health than for the better blessing, and though he wept all his tears out, he arose uncomforted. The house was still and dark when he went in. His mother had thought that he had gone to bed, and Jem that he was sitting in the study as he often did, and he was fast asleep when David lay down beside him, and no one knew the pain and dread that was in his heart that night. But when he rose in the morning, and went down-stairs, and heard the cheerful noise of the children, and saw his mother going about her work as she always did, all that had happened last night seemed to him like a dream. By and by his father came among them, no graver than in other days, and quite as well as he had been for a long time, and everything went on as usual all day, and for a good many days. Nobody seemed afraid. His mother was watchful, and perhaps a little more silent than usual, but that was all. As for his father, the worst must have been past that night, as he had said, for there was no cloud over him now. He was cheerful always--even merry, sometimes, when he amused himself with little Polly and the rest. He was very gentle with them all, more so than usual, perhaps, and David noticed that he had Violet and Jem alone with him in the study now and then. Once when this happened with Jem, David did not see him again all day, and afterwards--a long time afterwards--Jem told him that he had spent that afternoon in the hay-loft above old Don's crib. At such times he used to wonder whether their father spoke to them as he had spoken to him that night, when he told him how "Death might be drawing near." But they never spoke to one another about it. And, indeed, it was not difficult during those cheerful quiet days, to put such thoughts out of their minds. The people came and went, looking grave sometimes, but not as though they had any particular cause for fear. The minister went out almost every fine day with David or his mother, or with Jem if it was Saturday, for the children were growing almost jealous of one another, as to opportunities for doing things for papa, and Jem must have his turn, too. How kind all the people were! Surely there never was anything like it before, the children thought. Some among them whom they had not much liked, and some whom they had hardly known, came out in a wonderful way with kind words and kinder deeds, and if kindness and thoughtfulness, and love that was almost reverence, would have made him well, he would soon have been in his old place among them again. His place on Sunday was supplied as often as possible from abroad, and when it could not be, the people managed as well as they could, and that was better than usual, for all hearts were softened and touched by the sorrow that had come on them as a people, and nothing was allowed to trouble or annoy the minister that could be prevented by them. They would have liked him to go away as the doctor had advised, and the means would have been provided to accomplish it, but the minister would not hear of being sent away. He felt, he said, that he would have a better chance for recovery at home. Not that there was any chance in that, according to his thought. It was all ordered, and it would all be well, whichever way it was to end, and he was best and happiest at home. And so the time passed on, and then, and afterwards, no one ever thought or spoke of these days but as happy days. And yet, in the secret heart of every one of them, of the mother and the children, and of the kind people that came and went, there was a half-conscious waiting for something that was drawing near. It was a hope, sometimes, and sometimes it was a dread. The neighbours put it into words, and the hopeful spoke of returning health and strength, and of the lessons of faith and love they should learn by and by, through the experience of the minister in the sick room; and those who were not hopeful, spoke of other lessons they might have to learn through other means. But in the house they only waited, speaking no word of what the end might be. At last there came a day, when no words were needed, to tell what messenger of the King was on his way. The hushed voices of the children, the silence in the house, told it too plainly. The laboured breathing of the sick man, the feverish hand, the wandering eye, were visible tokens that death was drawing near. The change came suddenly. They were not prepared for it, they said. But there are some things for which we cannot make ourselves ready, till we feel ourselves shuddering under the blow. Ah! well. He was ready, and the rest mattered little. Even the mother said that to herself and to him, with the sobbing of their children in her ears. She did not sob nor cry out in her pain, but kept her face calm and smiling for him till the very last. And because, with his laboured breathing, and the pain which held him fast, he could not say to her that which was in his heart, she said it all to him--how they had loved one another, and how God had cared for them always, and how happy they had been, and how, even in the parting that was before them, God's time was best, and she was not afraid. And she was _not_ afraid! Looking into those triumphant eyes, glad with the brightness of something that she could not see, how could she be afraid? "For neither life nor death, nor principalities nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord," she murmured, comforting him with her words. He was dying! He was leaving her and their children alone, with God's promise between them and poverty, and nothing else. Nothing else! Is not that enough? Think of it! God's promise! "I am not afraid!" She said the words over and over again. "Why should I be afraid? There are things far worse than poverty to bear. `Our bread shall be given us, and our water sure.' I might be afraid for our children without you, had they the temptations of wealth to struggle with. Their father's memory will be better to them than lands or gold. Put it all out of your thoughts, dear love. I am not afraid." Afterwards the doubt might come--the care, the anxiety, the painful reckoning of ways and means, to her who knew that the roof that covered them and the daily bread of her children, depended on the dear life now ebbing so fast away. But now, seeing--not Heaven's light, indeed, but the reflection of its glory on his face, she no more feared life than he feared death, now drawing so near. The children came in, at times, and looked with sad, appealing eyes from one face to the other to find comfort, and seeing her so sweet and calm and strong, went out to whisper to one another that mamma was not afraid. All through these last days of suffering the dying father never heard the voice of weeping, or saw a token of fear or pain. Just once, at the very first, seeing the sign of the coming change on his father's face, David's heart failed him, and he leaned, for a moment, faint and sick upon his mother's shoulder. But it never happened again till the end was near. Seeing his mother, he grew calm and strong, trying to stand firm in this time or trouble that she might have him to lean on when the time of weakness should come. The others came and went, but David never left his mother's side. And she watched and waited, and took needful rest that she might keep calm and strong to the very end; and the dying eyes never rested on her face but they read there, "God is good, and I am not afraid." And so the time wore on till the last night came. They did not know it was the last night; and the mother lay down within call, for an hour or two, and David watched alone. Will he ever forget those hours, so awful yet so sweet? "It is `the last evening,' Davie, lad!" said his father, in gasps, between his hard-drawn breaths. "Strong, but not invincible! Say something to me, dear." "`He, also, Himself likewise took part of the same, that through death He might destroy him that hath the power of death--.'" David paused. "Go on, dear," said his father. "`And deliver them who through fear of death were all their life-time subject to bondage.'" "I am not--afraid! Tell me more." "`I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day, and not to me only, but to all them also that love His appearing.'" "His gift, dear boy, His gift! Say something more." "`In all these things we are more than conquerors through Him that loved us--'" went on David, but he had no power to add another word, and his father murmured on: "Loved us! Wonderful!--wonderful! And gave--Himself--for us." And then he seemed to slumber for awhile, and when he awoke David was not sure that he knew him, for his mind seemed wandering, and he spoke as if he were addressing many people, lifting his hand now and then as if to give emphasis to his words. But his utterance was laboured and difficult, and David only caught a word here and there. "A good fight"--"the whole armour"--"more than conquerors." Once he said, suddenly: "Are you one of them, Davie? And are you to stand in my place and take up the weapons that I must lay down?" David felt that he knew Him then, and he answered: "Papa, with God's help, I will." And then there came over his father's face a smile, oh! so radiant and so sweet, and he said: "Kiss me, Davie!" And then he murmured a word or two--"Thanks!" and "Victory!" and these were the very last words that David heard his father utter; for, when he raised himself up again, his mother was beside him, and the look on her face, made bright to meet the dying eyes, was more than he could bear. "Lie down a little, Davie. You are quite worn out," said she, softly, soothing him with hand and voice. But he could not go away. He sat down on the floor, and laid his face on the pillow of little Mary's deserted cot, and by and by his mother came and covered him with a shawl, and he must have fallen asleep, for when he looked up again there were others in the room, and his mother's hand was laid on his father's closed eyes. Of the awe and stillness that filled the house for the next three days of waiting, few words need be spoken. "I must have three days for my husband, and then all my life shall be for my children," said their mother. "Davie, you and Letty must help one another and comfort the little ones." So for the most part she was left alone, and David and Letty did what they could to comfort the rest, through that sorrowful time. The neighbours were very kind. They would have taken the little ones away for awhile, but they did not want to go, and David and Violet said to one another it was right that even the little ones should have these days to remember afterwards. How long the days of waiting seemed! Sudden bursts of crying from the little ones broke now and then the stillness too heavy to be borne, and even Violet sometimes gave way to bitter weeping. But they thought of their mother, and comforted one another as well as they could; and David stood between her closed door and all that could disturb her in her sorrow, with a patient quiet at which they all wondered. Just once it failed him. Some one came, with a trailing mass of black garments, which it was thought necessary for her to see, and Violet said so to her brother, very gently, and with many tears. But David threw up his hands with a cry. "What does it matter, Letty? What can mamma care for all that now? She shall not be troubled." And she was not. Even Miss Bethia could not bring herself to put aside the words of the boy who lay sobbing in the dark, outside his mother's door. "He's right," said she. "It don't matter the least in the world. There don't anything seem to matter much. She sha'n't be worried. Let it go," said Miss Bethia, with a break in her sharp voice. "It'll fit, I dare say, well enough--and if it don't, you can fix it afterwards. Let it go now." But David came down, humble and sorry, in a little while. "I beg your pardon, Miss Bethia," said he. "I don't suppose mamma would have cared, and you might have gone in. Only--" His voice failed him. "Don't worry a mite about it," said Miss Bethia, with unwonted gentleness. "It don't matter--and it is to you your mother must look now." But this was more than David could bear. Shaking himself free from her detaining hand, he rushed away out of sight--out of the house--to the hay-loft, the only place where he could hope to be alone. And he was not alone there; for the first thing he heard when the sound of his own sobbing would let him hear anything, was the voice of some one crying by his side. "Is it you, Jem?" asked he, softly. "Yes, Davie." And though they lay there a long time in the darkness, they did not speak another word till they went into the house again. But there is no use dwelling on all these sorrowful days. The last one came, and they all went to the church together, and then to the grave. Standing on the withered grass, from which the spring sunshine was beginning to melt the winter snow, they listened to the saddest sound that can fall on children's ears, the fall of the clods on their father's coffin-lid, and then they went back to the empty house to begin life all over again without their father's care. CHAPTER SEVEN. Mr Oswald, Frank's father, came home with them. He had been written to when Mr Inglis died, and had reached Gourlay the day before the funeral, but he had not stayed at their house, and they had hardly seen him till now. They were not likely to see much of him yet, for he was a man with much business and many cares, and almost the first words he said when he came into the house, were, that he must leave for home that night, or at the latest the next morning. "And that means whatever you want to say to me, must be said at once, and the sooner the better," said Miss Bethia, as she took Mrs Inglis's heavy crape bonnet and laid it carefully in one of the deep drawers of the bureau in her room. "I haven't the least doubt but I know what he ought to say, and what she ought to say, better than they know themselves. But that's nothing. It ain't the right one that's put in the right spot, not more than once in ten times--at least it don't look like it," added she, with an uncomfortable feeling that if any one were to know her thoughts he might accuse her of casting some reflections on the Providential arrangement of affairs. "They don't realise that I could help them any, and it will suit better if I leave them. So I'll see if I can't help Debby about getting tea." There was not much said for a time, however. Mrs Inglis evidently made a great effort to say something, and asked about Frank and the family generally, and then said something about his journey, and then about the sudden breaking-up of the winter roads. Mr Oswald felt it to be cruel to make her speak at all, and turned to the children. "Which is Davie?" asked he, in a little. David rose and came forward. "I thought you had been older. Frank seemed to speak as if you were almost a man," said he, holding out his hand. "I am past fourteen," said David. "And are you ready for the university, as Frank thought, or is that a mistake of his, too?" "Yes," said David. "I am almost ready." "Oh! he was ready long ago," said Jem, coming to the rescue. "Frank said he was reading the same books that his brother read in the second year." "Indeed!" said Mr Oswald, smiling at his eagerness. "And you are Jem? You are neither of you such giants as I gathered from Frank, but perhaps the mistake was mine. But when one hears of horse-shoeing and Homer-- you know one thinks of young men." "And this is Violet, only we call her Letty; and this is Ned, and I am Jessie, and this is wee Polly," said Jessie, a sturdy little maiden of eight, looking with her honest grey eyes straight into Mr Oswald's face. He acknowledged her introduction by shaking hands with each as she named them. "I find I have made another mistake," said he. "I thought Letty was a little girl who always stood at the head of her class, and who could run races with her brothers, and gather nuts, and be as nice as a boy. That was Frank's idea." "And so she can," said Ned. "And so she is," said Jem. "That was so long ago," said Violet, in confusion. It seemed ages ago to all the children. "And Violet has grown a great deal since then," said Jem. "And are Frank's eyes better?" "They are no worse. We hope they are better, but he cannot use them with pleasure, poor fellow." And so they went on talking together, till they were called to tea. Miss Bethia was quite right. He did not in the least know how to begin to say what he knew must be said before he went away. After tea, the younger children went to bed, and Miss Bethia betook herself to the kitchen and Debby, thinking, to herself, it would be well for all concerned if it should fall to her to straighten out things after all; for Mr Oswald had been walking up and down the room in silence for the last half-hour, "looking as black as thunder," Miss Bethia said, in confidence, to Debby, and no one else had spoken a word. It was a very painful half-hour to Mr Oswald. He had only begun his walk when it seemed to him impossible that he could sit and look at the pale, patient face and drooping figure of the widow a single moment more. For he was in a great strait. He was in almost the saddest position that a man not guilty of positive wrong can occupy. He was a poor man, supposed to be rich. For years, his income had scarcely sufficed for the expenses of his family; for the last year it had not sufficed. It was necessary for the success of his business, or, he supposed, it was necessary that he should be considered a rich man; and he had harassed himself and strained every nerve to keep up appearances, and now he was saying to himself that this new claim upon him could not possibly be met. He was not a hard man, though he had sometimes been called so. At this moment, his heart was very tender over the widow and her children; and it was the thought that, in strict justice, he had no right to do for them as he wished to do, that gave him so much pain. Waiting would not make it better, however, and in a little while he came and sat down by Mrs Inglis, and said: "It seems cruel that I should expect you to speak about--anything to-night. But, indeed, it is quite necessary that I should return home to-morrow, and I might be able to advise you, if you would tell me your plans." But, as yet, Mrs Inglis had no plans. "It came so suddenly," said she, speaking with difficulty; "and--you are very kind." "Will you tell me just how your affairs stand? Unless there is some one else who can do it better, I will gladly help you in your arrangements for the future." There was no one else, and it was not at all difficult to tell him the state of their affairs. They were not at all involved. There were no debts. The rent of the house was paid till the next autumn; there were some arrears of salary, and Mrs Inglis had a claim on a minister's widow's fund in connection with the branch of the church to which her husband had belonged, but the sum mentioned as the possible annual amount she would receive was so small, that, in Mr Oswald's mind, it counted for nothing. And that was all! Mr Oswald was amazed. "Was there not something done at one time--about insuring your husband's life?" asked he, gently. "Yes; a good many years ago. He could not manage it then--nor since. Our income has never been large." And she named the sum. Mr Oswald rose suddenly, and began his walk about the room again. It was incredible! A scholar and a gentleman like his cousin to rest contented all these years with such a pittance! He knew that he had been earnest and full of zeal in the cause to which he had devoted his life--more than content. Valuing money for the sake of what it could do, he had yet envied no man who had more than fell to his lot. He must have known that his children must be left penniless! How could he have borne it? "And how should I leave mine, if I were to die to-night?" said Mr Oswald to himself, with a groan. "I who have lived a life so different." He came and sat down again. But what could he say? Mrs Inglis spoke first. "I have made no plans as yet. There has been no time. But I am not afraid. The way will open before us." "Yes, you must have good courage. And you will tell me in what way I can be of use to you." "You are very kind," said Mrs Inglis, speaking quickly. "You may be sure I shall gladly avail myself of your advice. I am not afraid. My boys are strong and willing to work. We love one another, and there are worse things than poverty." "And, for the present, you will remain here at any rate. In a few weeks I shall see you again; and, in the meantime, you must permit me to supply anything you may require." "You are very kind. You may be quite sure we shall apply to you if it be necessary. Just now it is not; and when we have had time to consider our plans, we shall write to you--if you cannot come." Mrs Inglis paused; and, perhaps, becoming conscious that she had spoken with unnecessary decision, she added, gently: "You are very kind. I believe you are a true friend, and that you will do what you can to enable us to help ourselves. That will be the best-- the only way to aid us effectually. With my two brave boys and God's blessing, I don't think I need fear." She spoke, looking, with a smile, at her sons, who were leaning over her chair. Somehow her smile moved Mr Oswald more than her tears could have done, and he said nothing for a minute or two. There was nothing clearer than that she did not intend to lay the burden of her cares on him or anyone. But what could a delicate woman, unused to battle with the world, do to keep the wolf from the door, let her courage be ever so high? "Will you promise me one thing?" said he, rising to prepare to go. "Will you promise me to let me know how I can help you--when your plans are made--either by advice or by money? I have a right. Your husband was my relative as well as my friend." "I promise faithfully you shall be the first person to whom I shall apply in any strait," said Mrs Inglis, rising also, and offering her hand. "And what did your husband think of my proposal to take his son into my office?" "He thought well of it, as he wrote to you. But nothing has been said about it yet. Can you give us a little time still? and I will write. Believe me, I am very grateful for your kindness." "If you will only give me an opportunity to be kind. Certainly, I can wait. A month hence will be time enough to decide." And then, when he had bidden them all good-bye, he went away. "What did he mean by a situation, mamma?" asked Jem. "Is it for Davie? Did papa know?" But Mrs Inglis could enter into no particulars that night. She had kept up to the end of her strength. "I am very tired. I will tell you all about it another day. We must have patience, and do nothing rashly. The way will open before us. I am not afraid." All the sadness of the next few weeks need not be told. They who have suffered the same loss, and lived through the first sorrowful days of bereavement, will know how it was with the mother and her children, and they who have not could never be made to understand. Anxieties as to the future could not but press on the heart of the mother, but they could scarcely be said to deepen her sadness. She was not really afraid. She knew they would not be forsaken--that their father's God would have them in His keeping. But the thought of parting from them-- of sending any of them away--was very hard to bear. If she could have seen it possible to stay in Gourlay, she would have had fewer misgivings; but there was nothing in Gourlay she could do to help to keep her children together. There was no room in so small a place for any but the public schools, long established, and, at present, prosperous; and teaching seemed the only thing in which she could engage with even moderate hopes of success. If "a multitude of counsellors" could have helped her, she would have been helped. Every one had something to say, which proved that the earnest desire of all was that she should stay in Gourlay; but no one was so happy as to suggest a way in which she could do so without involving some measure of dependence on the kindness of friends; and though this might do for a little while, it could not do long, and they would have to go at last. Still she was in no haste to go, or very eager to make plans for the future. "The way will open before us! I am not afraid!" was the end of many an anxious discussion during these days; and thought of sending David away from her, gave her more real pain through them all than did the consideration of what might befall them in the future; for David was going away to be junior clerk in the bank of Singleton, at a salary which seemed very large to him. It was more than a third of what his father's salary had been when it was at the best. There would not be much left for his mother and the rest by the time he had clothed and kept himself; but it was a beginning, and David was glad to begin, Jem would fain have done something, too, but his mother justly felt that the next six months at school would be of greater value to him than all he would be likely to earn, and he was to stay at home for the present. But the mother did not have to send David away alone. The way, for which she had so patiently and confidently waited, opened to them sooner than she had dared to hope. It did not open very brightly. An opportunity to let their house to one of the new railway people made her think first of the possibility of getting away at once; and various circumstances, which need not be told, induced her to look to the town of Singleton as their future place of residence. David was to be there for a year, at least, and they could all be together, and his salary would do something toward keeping the house, and, in a place like Singleton, there might be more chance for getting for herself and Violet such employment as might suit them than they could have in Gourlay. It was not without some doubts and fears that this arrangement was decided upon; but there seemed nothing better to do, and delay would make departure none the easier. But the doubts and fears came only now and then--the faith in God was abiding; and if she was sorrowful in those days, it was with a sorrow which rose from no distrust of Him who had been her confidence all her life-long. She knew that help would come when it was needed, and that He would be her confidence to the end. Towards the end of April, they had a visit from a gentleman, who announced himself as Mr Caldwell, senior clerk in the bank where David was to be junior. He had come to transact business at the quarries, several miles beyond Gourlay, and had called at the request of Mr Oswald, and also because he wished to make the acquaintance of the Inglis family, especially of David, whom he expected soon to have under his immediate care. He had known Mr Inglis when he was a boy, having been then in the employment of his uncle. The children had heard of him often, and their mother had seen him more than once in the earlier years of her married life, and they were not long in becoming friendly. He was a small, dark man, slow of speech, and with some amusing peculiarities of manner, but, evidently, kindly-disposed toward them all. His first intention had been to go on to the quarries that night, but he changed his mind before he had been long in the house, and accepted Mrs Inglis's invitation to stay to tea; and soon, to her own surprise, the mother found herself telling their plans to a very attentive listener. He looked grave, when he heard of their determination to leave Gourlay, and go and live in Singleton. It was a warm, bright afternoon, and they were sitting on the gallery in front of the house. The snow was nearly all gone; a soft green was just beginning to make itself visible over the fields and along the roadsides, and buds, purple and green and brown, were showing themselves on the door-yard trees. The boys were amusing themselves by putting in order the walks and flower-borders in the garden, where there were already many budding things, and the whole scene was a very pleasant one to look on. "Singleton is very different from this place," said he. "You will never like to live there." But there are many things that people must endure when they cannot like them; and there seemed to be no better way, as he acknowledged, when he had heard all. He entered with kindly interest into all their plans, and it was arranged that, when David went to Singleton, he should go directly to his house, and, between them, no doubt, a suitable house for the family would be found. And Mrs Inglis thanked God for the new friend He had raised up for them, and took courage. The next day, Mr Caldwell went to the quarries, and David and Jem went with him, or rather, it should be said, Mr Caldwell went with the boys, for they had old Don and the wagon, and made a very pleasant day of it, going one way and coming home the other, for the sake of showing the stranger as much of the beautiful country as possible in so short a time. They all enjoyed the drive and the view of the country, and Mr Caldwell enjoyed something besides. He was a quiet man, saying very little, and what he did say came out so deliberately that any one else would have said it in half the time. But he was a good listener, and had the faculty of making other people talk, and the boys had a great deal to say to him and to one another. Unconsciously they yielded to the influence of the sweet spring air and the sunshine, and the new sights that were around them, and the sadness that had lain so heavily on them since their father's death lightened, they grew eager and communicative, and, in boyish fashion, did the honours of the country to their new friend with interest and delight. Not that they grew thoughtless or seemed to forget. Their father's name was often on their lips,--on Jem's, at least,--David did not seem to find it so easy to utter. They had both been at the quarries before with their father, and Jem had a great deal to say about what he had heard then, and at other times, about the stones and rocks, the formations and strata; and he always ended with "That was what papa said, eh, Davie?" as though that was final, and there could be no dissent; and David said, "Yes, Jem," or, perhaps, only nodded his head gravely. He never enlarged or went into particulars as Jem did; and when once they were fairly on their way home, Jem had it all to do, for they came home by the North Gore road, over which David had gone so many, many times; and even Jem grew grave as he pointed out this farm and that, as belonging to "one of our people;" and the grave-yard on the hill, and the red school-house "where papa used to preach." And when they came to the top of the hill that looks down on the river, and the meadows, and the two villages, they were both silent, for old Don stood still of his own accord, and David, muttering something about "a buckle and a strap," sprang out to put them right, and was a long time about it, Mr Caldwell thought. "We will let the poor old fellow rest a minute," said Jem, softly; and David stood with his face turned away, and his arm thrown over old Don's neck. There was not much said after that, but they all agreed that they had had a very pleasant day; and Mr Caldwell said to Mrs Inglis, in his slow way, that he had enjoyed the drive, and the sight of the fine country, and the quarries, but he had enjoyed the company of her two boys a great deal more than all. And you may be sure it was a pleasure to her to hear him say it. CHAPTER EIGHT. The breaking-up of what has been a happy home, is not an easy or pleasant thing under any circumstances. It involves confusion and fatigue, and a certain amount of pain, even when there is an immediate prospect of a better one. And when there is no such prospect, it is very sad, indeed. The happy remembrances that come with the gathering together, and looking over of the numberless things, useless and precious, that will, in the course of years, accumulate in a house, change to regrets and forebodings, and the future seems all the more gloomy because of the brightness of the past. There were few things in Mrs Inglis's house of great value; but everything was precious to her, because of some association it had with her husband and their past life; and how sad all this was to her, could never be told. The children were excited at the prospect of change. Singleton was a large place to them, which none of them, except David and Violet, had ever seen. So they amused one another, fancying what they would see and do, and what sort of a life they should live there, and made a holiday of the overturning that was taking place. But there was to the mother no pleasing uncertainty with regard to the kind of life they were to live in the new home to which they were going. There might be care, and labour, and loneliness, and, it was possible, things harder to bear; and, knowing all this, no wonder the thought of the safe and happy days they were leaving behind them was sometimes more than she could bear. But, happily, there was not much time for the indulgence of regretful thoughts. There were too many things to be decided and done for that. There were not many valuable things in the house, but there were a great many things of one kind and another. What was to be taken? What to be left? Where were they all to be bestowed? These questions, and the perplexities arising out of them, were never for a long time together suffered to be out of the mother's thoughts; and busy tongues suggesting plans, and busy hands helping or hindering to carry them out, filled every pause. The very worst day of all, was the day when, having trusted Jem to drive the little ones a few miles down the river to pay a farewell visit, Mrs Inglis, with David and Violet, went into the study to take down her husband's books. And yet that day had such an ending, as to teach the widow still another lesson of grateful trust. It was a long time before they came to the books. Papers, magazines, pamphlets--all such things as will, in the course of years, find a place on the shelves or in the drawers of one who interests himself in all that is going on in the world--had accumulated in the study; and all these had to be moved and assorted, for keeping, or destroying, or giving away. Sermons and manuscripts, hitherto never touched but by the hand that had written them, had to be disturbed; old letters--some from the living and some from the dead--were taken from the secret places where they had lain for years, and over every one of these Mrs Inglis lingered with love and pain unspeakable. "Never mind, Davie! Take no notice, Violet, love!" she said, once or twice, when a sudden cry or a gush of tears startled them; and so very few words were spoken all day. The two children sat near her, folding, arranging and putting aside the papers as she bade them, when they had passed through her hands. "Wouldn't it have been better to put them together and pack them up without trying to arrange them, mamma?" said David, at last, as his mother paused to press her hands on her aching temples. "Perhaps it would have been better. But it must have been done some time; and it is nearly over now." "And the books? Must we wait for another day? We have not many days now, mamma!" "Not many! Still, I think, we must wait. I have done all I am able to do to-day. Yes, I know you and Violet could do it; but I would like to help, and we will wait till to-morrow." "And, besides, mamma," said Letty, from the window, "here is Miss Bethia coming up the street. And, mamma, dear, shouldn't you go and lie down now, and I could tell her that you have a headache, and that you ought not to be disturbed?" But Mrs Inglis could hardly have accomplished that, even if she had tried at once, for almost before Violet had done speaking, Miss Bethia was upon them. Her greetings were brief and abrupt, as usual; and then she said: "Well! There! I _was_ in hopes to see this place once more before everything was pulled to pieces!" and she surveyed the disordered room with discontented eyes. "Been looking them over to see what you can leave behind or burn up, haven't you? And you can't make up your mind to part with one of them. I know pretty well how _that_ is. The books ain't disturbed yet, thank goodness! Are you going to take Parson Grantly's offer, and let him have some of them?" Mrs Inglis shook her head. "Perhaps I ought," said she. "And yet I cannot make up my mind to do it." "No! of course, not! Not to him, anyhow! Do you suppose he'd ever read them? No! He only wants them to set up on his shelf to look at. If they've got to go, let them go to some one that'll get the good of them, for goodness sake! Well! There! I believe I'm getting profane about it!" said Miss Bethia catching the look of astonishment on David's face. "But what I want to say is, What in all the world should you want to go and break it up for? There ain't many libraries like that in this part of the world." And, indeed, there was not. The only point at which Mr Inglis had painfully felt his poverty, was his library. He was a lover of books, and had the desire, which is like a fire in the bones of the earnest student, to get possession of the best books of the time as they came from the press. All his economy in other things had reference to this. Any overplus at the year's end, any unexpected addition to their means, sooner or later found its way into the booksellers' hands. But neither overplus nor unexpected addition were of frequent occurrence in the family history of the Inglises; and from among the best of the booksellers' treasures only the very best found their way to the minister's study except as transitory visitors. Still, in the course of years, a good many of these had been gathered, and he had, besides, inherited a valuable library, as far as it went, both in theology and in general literature; and once or twice, in the course of his life, it had been his happy fortune to have to thank some good rich man for a gift of books better than gold. So Miss Bethia was right in saying that there were in the country few libraries like the one on which she stood gazing with regretful admiration. "_I_ can't make it seem right to do it," continued she gravely. "Just think of the book he thought so much of lying round on common folks' shelves and tables? Why! he used to touch the very outsides of them as if they felt good to his hands." "I remember. I have seen him," said David. "And so have I," said Violet. "If you were going to sell them all together, so as not to break it up, it would be different," said Miss Bethia. "But I could not do that, even if I wished. Mr Grantly only wants a small number of them, a list of which he left when he was here." "The best-looking ones on the outside, I suppose. He could tell something about them, it's likely, by looking at the names on the title-page," said Miss Bethia, scornfully. "But, Miss Bethia, why should you think he would not care for the books for themselves, and read them, too?" asked Violet, smiling. "Mr Grantly is a great scholar, they say." "Oh, well, child, I dare say! There are books enough. He needn't want your pa's. But, Mrs Inglis," said Miss Bethia, impressively, "I wonder you haven't thought of keeping them for David. It won't be a great while before he'll want just such a library. They won't eat anything." "It will be a long time, I am afraid," said David's mother. "And I am not sure that it would not be best to dispose of them,--some of them, at least,--for we are very poor, and I scarcely know whether we shall have a place to put them. They may have to be packed up in boxes, and of that I cannot bear to think." "No. It ain't pleasant," said Miss Bethia, meditatively. "It ain't pleasant to think about." Then rising, she added, speaking rapidly and eagerly, "Sell them to _me_, Mrs Inglis. I'll take good care of them, and keep them together." Mrs Inglis looked at her in astonishment. The children laughed, and David said: "Do you want them to read, Miss Bethia? Or is it only for the outside, or the names on the first page, like Mr Grantly?" "Never you mind. I want to keep them together; and I expect I shall read some in them. Mrs Inglis, I'll give you five hundred dollars down for that book-case, just as it stands. I know it's worth more than that, a great deal; but the chances are not in favour of your getting more here. Come, what do you say?" If Miss Bethia had proposed to buy the church, or the grave-yard, or the village common, or all of them together, it would not have surprised her listeners more. "Miss Bethia," said Mrs Inglis, gently, "I thank you. You are thinking of the good the money would do to my children." "No, Mrs Inglis, I ain't--not that alone. And that wasn't my _first_ thought either. I want the books for a reason I have." "But what could you do with them, Miss Bethia?" asked Violet. "Do with them? I could have the book-case put up in my square room, or I could send them to the new theological school I've heard tell they're starting, if I wanted to. There's a good many things I could do with them, I guess, if it comes to that." "But, Aunt Bethia, five hundred dollars is a large sum," said David. "It ain't all they're worth. If your ma thinks so, she can take less," said Miss Bethia, prudently. "O, I've got it--if that's what you mean-- and enough more where that came from! Some, at any rate." David looked at her, smiling and puzzled. "I've got it--and I want the books," said Miss Bethia. "What do you say, Mrs Inglis?" "Miss Bethia, I cannot thank you enough for your kind thoughts toward me and my children. But it would not be right to take your money, even if I could bear to part with my husband's books. It would be a gift from you to us." "No, it wouldn't. It would cost me something to part with my money, I don't deny; but not more--not so much as it would cost you to part with your books. And we would be about even there. And I would take first-rate care of them--and be glad to." Mrs Inglis sat thinking in silence for a minute or two. "Miss Bethia, you are very kind. Will you let me leave the books awhile in your care? It is quite possible we may have no place in which to keep them safely. Children, if Miss Bethia is willing, shall we leave papa's precious books a little while with her?" "I shouldn't feel willing to get the good of your books for nothing." Mrs Inglis smiled. "You would take care of them." Miss Bethia hesitated, meditating deeply. "There would be a risk. What if my house were to take fire and burn down? What should I have to show for your books, then?" "But the risk would not be greater with you than with me, nor so great. Still, of course, I would not wish to urge you." "I should like to have them, first-rate, if I could have them just in the way I want to--risk or no risk." Violet and David laughed; even Mrs Inglis smiled. That was so exactly what was generally asserted with regard to Miss Bethia. She must have things in just the way she wanted them, or she would not have them at all. "We could fix it as easy as not, all round, if you would only take my way," said she, with a little vexation. They all sat thinking in silence for a little. "See here! I've just thought of a plan," said she, suddenly. "Let me take the books to take care of, and you needn't take the five hundred dollars unless you want to. Let it be in Mr Slight's hands, and while I have the books you will have the interest. I don't suppose you know it, but he had that much of me when he built his new tannery, eight years ago, and he has paid me regular ten per cent, ever since. It looks like usury, don't it? But he says it's worth that to him; and I'm sure, if it is, he's welcome to it. Now, if you'll take that while I have the books, I'll call it even--risk or no risk; and you can give it up and have the books when you want them. I call that fair. Don't you?" Did ever so extraordinary a proposal come from so unexpected a quarter? The mother and children looked at one another in astonishment. "Miss Bethia," said Mrs Inglis, gravely, "that is a large sum of money." "Well--that's according as folks look at it. But don't let us worry any more about it. There is no better way to fix it that I know of than that." Mrs Inglis did not know how to answer her. "Mrs Inglis," said Miss Bethia, solemnly, "I never thought you was a difficult woman to get along with before." "But, Miss Bethia," said Violet, "mamma knows that you wish to do this for our sakes and not at all for your own." "No she doesn't, neither! And what about it, any way? It's my own, every cent." "Miss Bethia," said David, "are you very rich?" Miss Bethia gave a laugh, which sounded like a sob. "Yes; I'm rich, if it comes to that! I've got more than ever I'll spend, and nobody has got any claim on me--no blood relation except cousin Ira Barnes's folks--and they're all better off than I be, or they think so. Bless you! I can let your ma have it as well as not, even if I wasn't going to have the books, which I am, I hope." "Miss Bethia, I don't know what to say to you," said Mrs Inglis. "Well, don't say anything, then. It seems to me you owe it to your husband's memory to keep the books together. For my part, I don't see how you can think of refusing my offer, as you can't take them with you." "To care for the books--yes--" "See here, David!" said Miss Bethia, "what do you say about it? You are a boy of sense. Tell your ma there's no good being so contrary--I mean--I don't know what I mean, exactly," added she. "I shall have to think it over a spell." David turned his eyes toward his mother in wonder--in utter perplexity, but said nothing. "There! I'll have to tell it after all; and I hope it won't just spoil my pleasure in it; but I shouldn't wonder. The money ain't mine--hasn't been for quite a spell. I set it apart to pay David's expenses at college; so it's his, or yours till he's of age, if you're a mind to claim it. Your husband knew all about it." "My husband!" repeated Mrs Inglis. "Yes; and now I shouldn't wonder if I had spoiled it to you, too. I told him I was going to give it for that. As like as not he didn't believe me," said Miss Bethia, with a sob. "I've had my feelings considerably hurt, one way and another, this afternoon. There wouldn't any of you have been so surprised if any one else had wanted to do you a kindness--if you will have that it's a kindness. I know some folks have got to think I'm stingy and mean, because--" "Aunt Bethia," said David, taking her hand in both his, "that is not what we think here." "No, indeed! We have never thought that," said Violet, kissing her. Then David kissed her, too, reddening a little, as boys will who only kiss their mothers when they go to bed, or their very little sisters. "Miss Bethia," said Mrs Inglis, "my husband always looked upon you as a true friend. I do not doubt but that your kindness in this matter comforted him at the last." "Well, then, it's settled--no more need be said. If I were to die to-night, it would be found in my will all straight. And you wouldn't refuse to take it if I were dead, would you? Why should you now? unless you grudge me the pleasure of seeing it. Oh! I've got enough more to keep me--if that's what you mean--if I should live for forty years, which ain't likely." So what could Mrs Inglis do but press her hand, murmuring thanks in the name of her children and her husband. Miss Bethia's spirits rose. "And you'll have to be a good boy, David, and adorn the doctrine of your Saviour, so as to fill your father's place." "Miss Bethia, I can never do that. I am not good at all." "Well, I don't suppose you are. But grace abounds, and you can have it for the asking." "But, Miss Bethia, if you mean this because--you expect me to be a minister, like papa, I am not sure, and you may be disappointed--and then--" "There ain't much one _can_ be sure of in this world," said Miss Bethia, with a sigh. "But I can wait. You are young--there's time enough. If the Lord wants you for His service, He'll have you, and no mistake. There's the money, at any rate. Your mother will want you for the next five years, and you'll see your way clearer by that time, I expect." "And do you mean that the money is to be mine--for the university-- whether I am to be a minister or not? I want to understand, Miss Bethia." "Well, it was with the view of your being a minister, like your father, that I first thought of it, I don't deny," said Miss Bethia, gravely. "But it's yours any way, as soon as your mother thinks best to let you have it. If the Lord don't want you for his minister, I'm very sure _I_ don't. If He wants you, He'll have you; and that's as good a way to leave it as any." There was nothing more to be said, and Miss Bethia had her way after all. And a very good way it was. "And we'll just tell the neighbours that I am to take care of the books till you know where you are to put them--folks take notice of everything so. That'll be enough to say. And, David, you must make out a list of them,--two, indeed,--one to leave with me and one to take, and I'll see to all the rest." And so it was settled. The book-case and the books were never moved. They stand in the study still, and are likely to do so for a good while to come. This is as good a place as any to tell of Miss Bethia's good fortune. She was disposed, at first, to think her fortune anything but good; for it took out of her hands the house that had been her home for the last thirty years of her life--where she had watched by the death-bed of father, mother, sister. It destroyed the little twenty-acre farm, which, in old times, she had sowed and planted and reaped with her own hands, bringing to nothing the improvements which had been the chief interest of her life in later years; for, in spite of her determined resistance, the great Railway Company had its way, as great companies usually do, and laid their plans, and carried them out, for making the Gourlay Station there. So the hills were levelled, and the hollows filled up; the fences and farming implements, and the house itself, carried out of the way, and all the ancient landmarks utterly removed. "Just as if there wasn't enough waste land in the country, but they must take the home of a solitary old woman to put their depots, and their engines, and their great wood-piles on," said Miss Bethia, making a martyr of herself. But, of course, she was well paid for it all, and, to her neighbours, was an object of envy rather than of pity; for it could not easily be understood by people generally, how the breaking-up of her house seemed to Miss Bethia like the breaking-up of all things, and that she felt like a person lost, and friendless, and helpless for a little while. But there, was a bright side to the matter, she was, by and by, willing to acknowledge. She knew too well the value of money--had worked too hard for all she had, not to feel some come complacency in the handsome sum lodged in the bank in her name by the obnoxious company. It is a great thing to have money, most people think, and Miss Bethia might have had a home in any house in Gourlay that summer if she chose. But she knew that would not suit anybody concerned long; so, when it was suggested to her that she should purchase the house which the departure of Mrs Inglis and her children left vacant, she considered the matter first, and then accomplished it. It was too large for her, of course, but she let part of it to Debby Stone, who brought her invalid sister there, and earned the living of both by working as a tailoress. Miss Bethia did something at that, too, and lived as sparingly as she had always done, and showed such shrewdness in investing her money, and such firmness in exacting all that was her due, that some people, who would have liked to have a voice in the management of her affairs, called her hard, and a screw, and wondered that an old woman like her should care so much for what she took so little good of. But Miss Bethia took a great deal of good out of her money, or out of the use she made of it, and meant to make of it; and a great many people in Gourlay, and out of it, knew that she was neither hard nor a screw. And the book-case still stood up-stairs, and Miss Bethia took excellent care of the books, keeping the curtains drawn and the room dark, except when she had visitors. Then the light was let in, and she grew eloquent over the books and the minister, and the good he had done her in past days; but no one ever heard from her lips how the books came to be left in her care, or what was to become of them at last. CHAPTER NINE. May has come again, and the Inglises had been living a whole year in Singleton; or, rather, they had been living in a queer little house just out of Singleton. The house itself was well enough, and the place had been a pretty place once; but Miss Bethia's enemies--the great Railway Company--had been at work on it, and about it, and they had changed a pretty field of meadow-land, a garden and an orchard, into a desolate-looking place, indeed. There was no depot or engine-house in the immediate neighbourhood, but the railway itself came so close to it, and rose so high above it, that the engine-driver might almost have looked down the cottage chimney as he passed. Just beyond the town of Singleton, the highway was crossed by the railway, and, in one of the acute angles which the intersection made, the little house stood. On the side of the house, most distant from the crossing, were two bridges (one on the railway and the other on the high road), both so high and so strong as to seem quite out of place over the tiny stream that, for the greater part of the year, ran beneath them. It was a large stream at some seasons, however, and so was the Single River into which it fell; and the water from the Single sometimes set back under the bridges and over the low land till the house seemed to stand on an island. The Single River could not be seen from the house, although it was so near, because the railway hid it, and all else in that direction, except the summit of a distant mountain, behind which, at midsummer-time, the sun went down. From the other side, the road was seen, and a broken field, over which a new street or two had been laid out, and a few dull-looking houses built; and to the right of these streets lay the town. It was not a pretty place, but it had its advantages. It was a far better home to which to bring country-bred children than any which could have been found within their means in the town. They could not hesitate between it and the others which they went to see; and, as Mr Oswald had something to do with the Railway Company, into whose hands it had fallen, it was easily secured. There were no neighbours very near, and there was a bit of garden-ground--the three-cornered piece between the house and the crossing, and a strip of grass, and a hedge of willows and alders on the other side, on the edge of the little stream between the two bridges, and there was no comparison between the house and any of the high and narrow brick tenements with doors opening right upon the dusty street. And so the mother and the children came to make a new home there, and they succeeded. It was a happy home. Not in quite the same way that their home in Gourlay had been happy. No place could ever be quite like that again; but when the first year came to an end, and the mother looked back over all the way by which they had been led, she felt that she had much cause for gratitude and some cause for joy. The children had, in the main, been good and happy; they had had all the necessaries and some of the comforts of life; they had had no severe illness among them, and they had been able to keep out of debt. To some young people, all this may not seem very much in the way of happiness, but, to Mrs Inglis, it seemed much, and to the children too. Mrs Inglis had not opened a school. The house was too small for that, and it was not situated in a part of the town where there were likely to be many pupils. She had taught three or four little girls along with her own children, but the number had not increased. During the first six months of their stay in Singleton, Violet had been house-keeper. The change had not been altogether pleasant for her, but she had submitted to it cheerfully, and it had done her good. She had become helpful and womanly in a way that would have delighted old Mrs Kerr's heart to see. To her mother and her brothers she was "one of the children" still, but strangers were beginning to look upon her as a grown-up young lady, a good many years older than David or Jem. To Jem, for whom his mother had feared most, the change had been altogether advantageous. He had come to Singleton with the avowed intention of going regularly to school, as his mother wished, for six months, and then he was going to seek his fortune. But six months passed, and the year came to an end, and Jem was still a pupil in the school of Mr Anstruther--a man among a thousand, Jem thought. He was a great mathematician, at any rate, and had a kind heart, and took interest and pleasure in the progress of one who, like himself, went to his work with a will, as Jem certainly did in these days. Jem's wish to please his mother brought him this reward, that he came to take great pleasure in his work, and all the more that he knew he was laying a good foundation for success in the profession which he had chosen, and in which he meant to excel. For Jem was going to be an engineer, and work with his hands and his head too; and though he had no more chances of shoeing horses now, he had, through a friend of his, many a good chance of handling iron, both hot and cold, in the great engine-house at the other side of the town. So Jem had made great advance toward manliness since they had come to Singleton. Greater than David had made, some of the Gourlay people thought, who saw both the lads about this time. Even his mother thought so for a while. At least she thought that Jem had changed more than Davie, and more for the better. To be sure, there had been more need, for Davie had always been a sensible, well-behaved lad, and even the most charitable and kindly-disposed among the neighbours could not always say that of Jem. Davie was sensible and well-behaved still, but there was none of the children about whom the mother had at first so many anxious thoughts as about David. To none of them had the father's death changed everything so much as to him. Not that he had loved his father more than the others, but for the last year or two he had been more with him. Both his work and his recreation had been enjoyed with him, and all the good seemed gone from everything to him since his father died. His new work in Singleton was well done, and cheerfully, and the knowledge that he was for the time the chief bread-winner of the family, would have made him do any work cheerfully. But it was not congenial or satisfying work. For a time he had no well defined duty, but did what was to be done at the bidding of any one in the office, and often he was left irritable and exhausted after a day, over which he could look back with no pleasure because of anything that he had accomplished. He could not fall back for recreation on his books, as his mother suggested. He tried it oftener than she knew, but the very sight of the familiar pages, over which he used to ponder with such interest, brought back the "study," and the old happy days, and his father's face and voice, and made him sick with longing for them all. There was no comfort to be got from his books at this time. Nor from anything else. The interest in which the little ones took in their new home and their new companions, Jem's enthusiasm over his new master and his school work, Violet's triumphs in her little house-keeping successes, filled him with wonder which was not always free from anger and contempt. Even his mother's gentle cheerfulness was all read wrong by Davie. He said to himself that his father had been more to him than to the other children, and that he missed him more than they, but he could not say this of his mother; and daily seeing her patient sweetness, her constant care to turn the bright side of their changed life to her children, it seemed to him almost like indifference--like a willingness to forget. He hated himself for the thought, and shrunk from his mother's eye, lest she should see it and hate him too. But all this did not last very long. It must have come to an end soon, in one way or other, for youth grows impatient of sorrow, and lays it down at last, and thanks to his mother's watchful care, it ended well for David. He had no hay-loft to which he could betake himself in these days when he wished to be alone; but when he felt irritable and impatient, and could not help showing it among his brothers and sisters, he used to go out through the strip of grass and the willows into the dry bed of the shrunken stream that flowed beneath the two bridges, and sitting down on the large stones of which the abutment of the railroad bridge was made, have it out with himself by the bank of the river alone. And here his mother found him sitting one night, dull and moody, throwing sticks and stones into the water at his feet. She came upon him before he was aware. "Mamma! you here? How did you come? On the track?" "No; I followed you round by the willows and below the bridge. How quiet it is here!" The high embankment of the railway on one side, and the river on the other, shut in the spot where David sat, and made it solitary enough to suit him in his moodiest moments, and his mother saw that he did not look half glad at her coming. But she took no notice. The great stones that made the edge of the abutment were arranged like steps of stairs, and she sat down a step or two above him. "Did the sun set clear? Or were there clouds enough about to make a picture to-night?" asked she, after a little. "Yes, it was clear, I think. At least not very cloudy. I hardly noticed," said Davie, confusedly. "I wish we could see the sun set from the house." "Yes, it is very pretty sometimes. When the days were at the longest, the sun set behind the highest part of the mountain just in a line with that tall elm on the other side of the river. It sets far to the left now." "Yes, the summer is wearing on," said his mother. And so they went on talking of different things for a little while, and then there was silence. "Mamma," said David, by and by, "are you not afraid of taking cold? It is almost dark." "No. I have my thick shawl." And moving down a step, she so arranged it that it fell over David too. "Ah! never mind me. I am not so delicate as all that, mamma," said David, laughing, but he did not throw the shawl off, but rather drew a little nearer, and leaned on her lap. "See the evening star, mamma. I always think--" David stopped suddenly. "Of papa," said his mother, softly. "Yes, and of the many, many times we have seen it together. We always used to look for it coming home. Sometimes he saw it first, and sometimes I did; and oh! mamma, there don't seem to be any good in anything now," said he, with a breaking voice. Instead of speaking, his mother passed her hand gently over his hair. "Will it ever seem the same, mamma?" "Never the same, Davie! never the same! We shall never see his face, nor hear his voice, nor clasp his hand again. We shall never wait for his coming home in all the years that are before us. It will never, never be the same." "Mamma! how can you bear it?" "It was God's will, and it is well with him, and I shall see him again," said his mother, brokenly. But when she spoke in a minute her voice was clear and firm as ever. "It will never be the same to any of us again. But you are wrong in one thing. All the good has not gone out of life because of our loss." "It seems so to me, mamma." "But it is not so. We have our work in the world just as before, and you have your preparation for it." "But I cannot make myself care for anything as I used to do." "There must be something wrong then, Davie, my boy." "Everything is wrong, I think, mamma." "If _one_ thing is wrong, nothing can be right, David," said his mother, stooping down and kissing him softly. "What did your father wish first for his son?" "That I should be a good soldier of Jesus Christ. I know that, mamma." "And you have been forgetting this? That hast not changed, Davie." "No, mamma--but--I am so good for nothing. You don't know--" "Yes, I know. But then it is not one's worth that is to be considered, dear. The more worthless and helpless we are, the more we need to be made His who is worthy. And Davie, what do we owe to `Him who loved us, and gave Himself for us?'" "Ourselves, mamma, our life, our love--" "And have you given Him these?" "I don't know, mamma." "And are you content not to know?" "I am not content--but how am I to know, mamma," said David, rising and kneeling down on the broad stone beside her. "May I tell you something? It was that night--at the very last--papa asked me if I was ready to put on the armour he was laying down; and I said yes; and, mamma, I meant it. I wished to do so, oh, so much!--but everything has been so miserable since then--" "And don't you wish it still, my son?" "Mamma, I know there is nothing else that, is any good, but I cannot make myself care for it as I did then." "David," said his mother, "do you love Jesus?" "Yes, mamma, indeed I love Him. I know Him to be worthy of my love." "And you desire to be His servant to honour Him, and do His will?" "Yes, mamma, if I only knew the way." "David, it was His will that papa should be taken from us; but you are angry at our loss." "Angry! oh, mamma!" "You are not submissive under His will. You fail to have confidence in His love, or His wisdom, or in His care for you. You think that in taking him He has made a mistake or been unkind." "I know I am all wrong, mamma." "David, my boy, perhaps it is this which is standing between you and a full consecration to His service." And then she spoke to him of his father, and of his work, and how blessed he had been in it, and of the rest and reward to which he had gone. "A little sooner than we would have chosen for our own sakes, Davie, but not too soon for him, or for his Master." A great deal more she said to him of the life that lay before him, and how he might help her and his brothers and sisters. Then she spoke of his work for Christ, and of his preparation for it, and how hopeful-- nay, how sure she was, that happy and useful days were before him--all the more happy and useful because of the sorrow he had been passing through. "As one whom his mother comforteth," came into David's mind as he listened. "And it is I who ought to be comforting you, mamma. I know I am all wrong--" said he, with tears. "We will comfort one another. And indeed, it is my best comfort to comfort you. And, Davie, my love, we will begin anew." There was more said after that--of the work that lay ready at his hand, of how he was to take out his books again, lest he should fall back on his studies, and do discredit to his father's teaching, and of how he was to help his brothers and sisters, especially Violet and Jem. "Only, mamma, I think they have been getting on very well without me all this time," said Davie, ruefully. "Not so well as they will with you, however," said his mother. "Everything will go better now." Everything did go better after that with David. His troubles were not over. His books gave him pain rather than pleasure, for a while, and it needed a struggle for him to interest himself in the plans and pursuits of Jem, and even of Violet. But he did not grow moody over his failures, and by and by there came to be some good in life to him again, and his mother's heart was set at rest about him, for she began to hope that it was well with David in the best sense now. During the first summer they saw very little of the Oswalds. They lived quite at the other end of the town, in a house very different from the "bridge house," as their cottage was called, and for the greater part of the summer, the young people of the family had been away from home. But in the autumn it was so arranged that Violet at least, was to see a great deal of some of them. Mr Oswald had six children, four daughters and two sons. His eldest daughter Ame had been mistress of the house since her return from school, at the time of her mother's death. This had happened several years ago. She was twenty-four years of age, very clever and fond of society. She was engaged to be married, but she did not intend to leave home immediately, from which indeed she could not easily have been spared. They had much company always, and she had a great deal to do in entertaining them, and led a very busy and, as she thought, a very useful life in her father's house. The next in age was Philip, but he was not at home. He was in his last year at M-- University, and was to be home in the Spring. Selina came next. She was one year younger than Violet, and would fain have considered herself a grown-up young lady, and her education finished, if her father and sister had agreed. Then came Frank, who was not very strong, and whose eyes were still weak, and then Charlotte and Sarah, girls of ten and twelve. It was to teach these two that Violet was to go to Mr Oswald's house. Mrs Inglis felt that the proposal had been made by Mr Oswald quite as much with the thought of helping them as of benefiting his children, who had before this time gone to a day-school in the neighbourhood. But she did not refuse to let Violet go on that account. She believed her to be fitted for the work. She knew her to be gentle and affectionate, yet firm and conscientious, that she would be faithful in the performance of her duties towards the little girls, and that they would be the gainers in the end by the arrangement. And so it proved. The first intention was that Violet should return home every night, but as the season advanced and the weather broke, the distance was found to be too great, and besides, Violet's slumbering ambition was awakened by the proposal that she should share in the German and French lessons which Selina received from Professor Olendorf, and so she stayed in the house with her pupils, only going home on Friday night to spend the Sunday there. She had very little share in the gay doings for which Miss Oswald was ambitious that her father's house should be distinguished. For Miss Oswald had strong opinions as to the propriety of young girls like Violet and Selina keeping themselves to their lessons and their practising, and leading a quiet life, and so had her father. Even if he had not, it is likely that Miss Oswald's opinion would have decided the matter. As it was, Selina became content to stay at home in Violet's company when her sister went out, and Violet was more than content. She enjoyed her work both of teaching and learning, and the winter passed happily and profitably away. Of course she was missed at home, but not painfully so. There were no pupils for her mother to teach in the winter. Ned went to school, and there was only Jessie to teach, and a good many of the lessons she received was in the way of household work, and she soon began to take pride and pleasure in it as Violet had done before. And so the winter passed quietly and happily to them all. There was need for constant carefulness, for rigid economy even, but want never came near them. How to make the most of their small means, was a subject at this time much in Mrs Inglis's thoughts. How to obtain the necessary amount of the simplest and most wholesome food, at the smallest cost, was a problem solved over and over again, with greater or less satisfaction, according to the circumstances at the moment. There was a certain amount of care and anxiety involved, but there was pleasure too, and all the more that they knew the exact amount of their means, and what they had "to come and go" upon. They had some pleasant surprises in the shape of kind gifts of remembrance from Gourlay friends, gladly given and gladly received, less because of present necessities than because of old friendship. Want! no, it never came near them--never even threatened to come near them. When the winter was over, they could look back to what Jem called "a tight spot" or two in the matter of boots and firewood, but on nothing very serious after all. The boots and the firewood were the worst things. No one can tell till she has really tried, how much beyond the natural turn of existence almost any garment may be made to last and wear to preserve an appearance of respectability by a judicious and persevering use of needle and thread. But boots, especially boys' boots, are unmanageable in a woman's hands, and, indeed, in any hands beyond a certain stage of dilapidation; and every one knows, that whatever else may be old, and patched, and shabby, good boots are absolutely indispensable to the keeping up of an appearance of respectability, and, indeed, one may say, with some difference, to the keeping of a lad's self-respect. The boots were matters of serious consideration. As to the firewood, there is a great difference as to the comfort to be got out of the same quantity of firewood, depending on the manner in which it is used, but even with the utmost care and economy, it will consume away, and in a country where during seven months of the year fires are needed, a great deal must consume away. Even more than the consideration given to the boots, the wood had to be considered, and it was all the more a matter of difficulty, as economy in that direction was a new necessity. Boots had always been a serious matter to the Inglises, but wood had been plentiful at Gourlay. However, there were boots enough, and wood enough, and to spare, and things that were vexing to endure, were only amusing to look back upon, and when Spring came, none of the Inglises looked back on the winter with regret, or forward to the summer with dread, and so their first year in Singleton came happily to an end. CHAPTER TEN. It was Saturday afternoon and a holiday with the schoolboys, of course. It was a holiday to them all, for Mrs Inglis and Violet were out of doors too, sitting on the gallery in the sunshine, and Davie was coming home. He was at the moment crossing the bridge at a great pace, and so eager to be among them, that instead of going soberly round by the gate, as he was accustomed to do, he took Jem's fashion and swung himself first over the side of the bridge, and then over the fence into the garden. They might well look surprised, and all the more so that it was high water, and he had to scramble along the unsteady fence and through the willows before he could get to the grass dry shod. "Well done, Davie! you are growing young again," said Jem. David sat down on the steps at his mother's feet laughing and breathless. "Is it a half holiday?" asked his mother. "Yes; Frank came to the bank and begged Mr Caldwell to let me go out in the boat with him and his brother this afternoon." "And he was willing to let you go, I suppose?" "Yes; he was not quite sure about the boat, and he said I must come first and ask you, mamma." "A long walk and a short sail. It won't pay, Davie," said Jem. "You would not have cared, would you, mamma?" "But I must have come at any rate to change my clothes. We shall very likely get wet." "How very prudent!" said Jem. "Very proper," said his mother. "Well, be quick, or you'll keep them waiting. It is well to be you," said Jem. "I wish the high and mighty Phil Oswald would ask me to sail with him." "Perhaps he may; he is bringing the boat here. Mamma, I have some good news." The children gathered round to listen. "That is why you came jumping over the fence, instead of coming round by the gate," said Ned. "Violet knows it!" said Jessie; "look at her face." "No, I don't know it. I might, perhaps, guess it." It was no very wonderful news. Only that Mr Caldwell had reminded David that he had that day been a year in the office, and that next year his salary was to be raised. Not much. It did not seem a great sum even to Ned and Jessie. But it was worth a great deal more than the mere money value, because it implied that David was getting to understand his work, and that his employer knew it, and had confidence in him. The mother said something like this to him and to them all, and she was very much pleased. "Our Davie will be a rich man some day!" said Jem. "I thought I was to be the rich man of the family, but it don't look like it now." "It will be a while first," said David. "You will be a banker," said Ned. "I am afraid I ought to be gardener this afternoon," said David, looking round on the garden. "No use. The water is rising. We shall be flooded yet," said Jem. "There is no time lost yet," said his mother. "It is better that we should be a little late, than that the water should cover the earth after the seeds are sown." The broad, shallow channel at the end of the garden was full, and the willows that fringed the bit of green grass were far out into the water. The water almost touched the bridge across the road, and filled the hollow along the embankment. "And, besides, you are going to sail," said Jem. "I think it would be quite as pleasant to stay here." They were all sitting on the little gallery before the house. It must have been a charming place once, when the river could be seen from it, and the pretty view beyond. At present, nothing could be seen on that side but the high embankment, and the few rods of garden-ground. On the other side were the willows, already green and beautiful, and some early-budding shrubs and the grass. Then there was the water, flowing down between the two bridges, and, over all, the blue sky and the sweet spring air. It was a charming place still, or it seemed so to David and them all. The garden-beds had already been made, and a great many green things were springing here and there, and, on a rugged old apple-tree and on some plum and cherry trees, the buds were beginning to show themselves. The children were eager to be at work, but, for the present, that was not to be thought of. However, there was much to be said about the garden, and about the seeds which were to be sown, and Jessie was eager about a plan for covering the high embankment with squash-vines and scarlet-runners. Fred wanted to keep bees, and ducks if they could have them, but bees certainly; and amid the happy clamour which their voices made there came a shout, and, from under the railway bridge from the river, a boat was seen advancing. "Here we are at last!" called out Frank Oswald; "and it looks very much as if here we must stay. We cannot get any further, Phil." The Inglis children were soon as near the boat as the willows and the water would permit. There seemed to be no way of getting the boat to the bank, for the willows were far out into the water, and through them it could not be forced. "You'll have to land on the other side and go round by the bridge," said Jem. They were not using oars. That would have been impossible in a channel so narrow. They were pushing the boat through the water by means of a long pole, but it was not very easily managed, because of the shallowness of the water and the bushes that grew on the margin. "Jem is right; we must go to the other side," said Frank. "Not I," said his brother, as he planted his pole firmly on the bank, measuring the distance with his eye. Then throwing himself forward with a sudden spring, he was over the willows and over the water beyond, landing safely on the nicely-prepared onion-bed. "Well done!" cried Jem. "Not at all well done," said Frank, who had only saved himself from being overturned into the water by grasping a branch near him. Philip only laughed, as he shook hands with Mrs Inglis and Violet. "Take my place in the boat and have a row on the river," said he, as he sat down on the steps near them. "I have had enough of it for awhile." Jem was nothing loth, but he looked at his mother for permission. "Is it quite safe, do you think?" asked she hesitating. "Oh! quite safe. Frank understands all about it; and so does Jem, I dare say." "Mamma!" entreated Ned. "And mamma!" entreated Jessie. On the Gourlay river the boys had paddled about at their own pleasure, and their mother was not inclined to be unreasonably anxious about them. She knew it would be a great delight to them all to be permitted to go. "But there is not room for all; and Mr Oswald will not care to be troubled with so many children." "Let them go with the boys--there is no danger, and I will wait here," said Philip. "Only you must promise to come back within a reasonable time, Jem." "All right!" said Jem. "I promise. Come along Violet. There is room for you, and Polly too." But Mr Philip thought there was not room for all, and Mrs Inglis would not trust little Mary with them, so they went without them. This was Mr Philip's first visit to the bridge house. Mrs Inglis had seen him at church, and David had seen him a good many times at the bank. He had been at home a week or two, and Violet had, of course, seen him every day. David had acknowledged that he did not like him very much, and Jem called him "a swell," and spoke contemptuously of his fine clothes and fine manners. Violet had taken his part, and said he was just like other people. He was very kind to his little sisters, she said. There had been a good deal said about him in one way or another, and Mrs Inglis regarded him with curiosity and interest. He was a good-looking lad, with a pleasant face and manner. "Just like other people," did not quite do him justice. Mrs Inglis could not help thinking Jem's idea of "a swell" did not suit him certainly. He was not "fine," on the present occasion, either in dress or manners. David had said very little about about him, but he had not approved of him, and, seeing the young man now so frank and friendly, she could not but wonder why. They did not go into the house, and by and by they all crossed the garden and went up on the railway track to watch the boat; and, being a little behind the others, leading little Mary between them, his mother asked David what was the reason of his dislike. "Dislike! mamma," said David, in surprise. "I don't dislike him. I don't know him very well. He has had very little to say to me. Why should you think that I dislike him?" "Perhaps dislike is too strong a word. But I fancied that you did not quite approve of him, David." "Approve of him! Well--he is not one of us--of our kind of people, I mean. He does not look at things as we do. I don't dislike him, mamma, but I don't care about him." "Which means he doesn't care about you?" said his mother, smiling. David laughed. "He certainly does not. He is much too great a man to have anything to say to me. But I don't think that is the reason that I don't `approve' of him, as you say. He is not in earnest about anything. He is extravagant--he spends a great deal of money foolishly. But I ought not to speak of that. Mr Caldwell told me, and he seemed quite as well pleased that we should have little to say to one another. He said Frank was the better companion for Jem and me." "I dare say that is true," said his mother. But all this did not prevent the young people from having a very pleasant afternoon together. The boat came back after "a reasonable time," and then the others went for a sail, and David acknowledged that Mr Philip was in earnest about his rowing, at any rate, and permitted himself to admire his activity and skill. When the boat was brought in among the willows again, it was almost dark. "Suppose we leave it here?" said Frank. "It will be quite safe, and we can send for it on Monday." "It would not be a bad place to leave it here altogether," said his brother. Jem was delighted with the idea, and said so; but David gave his mother a doubtful look. "Come in to tea," said she, "and you can decide about it afterwards." The Oswalds had not dined, but they did not refuse the invitation, as, for a single minute, Violet hoped they might. The simple arrangements of her mother's table were not at all like those which Miss Oswald considered necessary in her father's house, but they were faultless in their way, and Violet was ashamed of her shame almost as soon as she was conscious of it. "Aunt Mary," said Frank, after they were seated at the table, "won't you ask me to spend the afternoon here to-morrow? I like your Sundays." Mrs Inglis did not answer for a moment, but Jem answered for her. "All right, Frank! Come straight from church. Your father will let you, won't he?" "If Aunt Mary were to ask me, he would. I am not sure, otherwise," said Frank. "What do you say, Aunt Mary?" Philip looked at him in astonishment. "Never mind, Phil," said Frank. "Aunt Mary and I understand." "We are old friends," said Mrs Inglis, smiling. "I think he is very bold," said his brother. "What if I were to insist on being invited in that persistent way?" "That would be quite different," said Frank. "You are a stranger. I was often here last winter. I am one of the children when I am here. Aunt Mary does not make a stranger of me." "But, Frank," said Jessie, "David is away now on Sunday afternoon, and Violet and Jem. And, perhaps, mamma will let us all go, and go herself, if there are any more children." "Where?" asked Frank. "At Sunday-school--down on Muddy Lane. Mr Caldwell's Sunday-school." "Old Caldwell!" said Frank. "That's the way, is it? How do you like it, Davie?" "Sunday-school is not a new thing to us, you know," said David. "But it is a new thing for you to be a teacher," said Jem. "Oh! he likes it. Davie's a great man on Sunday, down in Muddy Lane." "Nonsense, Jem!" "I went once," said Jessie, "and it is very nice. Letty sings, and the children sing too. And one of the girls broke Letty's parasol--" And Mrs Inglis's attention being occupied for the moment, Jessie gave other particulars of the school, quite unmindful of her sister's attempts to stop her. Ned had something to tell, too, and entered into minute particulars about a wager between two of the boys, as to whether Mr Caldwell wore a wig or not, and the means they took to ascertain the truth about it. "They must be rather stupid not to know that," said Frank. "Do you like it?" asked Philip of Violet. "Yes, indeed! I like it very much. But I don't like Ned's telling tales out of school, nor Jessie, either." "But mine are not bad tales. I like it too," said Jessie. "But I should think it would be very unpleasant. And what is the good of it? Muddy Lane of all places!" said Philip, making an astonished face. "That shows that you don't know Aunt Mary and her children," said Frank, laughing. "You would never ask what is the good, if you did." "I know, of course, there must be good to the children, but I should think it would be decidedly unpleasant for you. Muddy Lane cannot be a nice place at any time, and now that the warm weather is coming--" "You don't suppose Violet is one of the people who is afraid of a little dust, or bad odours, and all that, do you?" asked Frank. "She rather likes it--self-denial and all that," said Jem. "And as for Davie--" "Nonsense, Jem! Self-denial indeed! There is very little of that," said David. "You know better than that, if Frank does not." "And old Caldwell, of all people in the world," said Philip, laughing; "I did not suppose he could speak to any one younger than fifty--except Davie. What can he have to say to children, I wonder?" "Oh, he has enough to say. You ought to hear him," said Jem. "Thank you. I'll come and hear him--to-morrow, perhaps." "Mr Caldwell did not like the new hymn-book at first," said Jessie. "But the children like them, and Letty teaches them to sing, and it is very nice. I hope we can go to-morrow." "I hope so," said Mr Philip. "But you don't care about such things, do you?" asked Jessie. "I ought to care, ought I not?" "Yes; but you ought not just to make believe care." Mr Philip laughed a little. "There is no make believe about it. I shall like to go to-morrow very much." They were all away from the table by this time, and Frank sat down with David on the window seat. He put his arm round his shoulder, boyish fashion, and laid his head down upon it. "Is it military duty you are doing, Davie, down in Muddy Lane?" said he, softly. All the talk that had been going on had put David out a good deal, and he did not answer for a minute. It seemed to him that a great deal had been made of a little matter, and he was not well pleased. "Don't you remember about the `armour,'" said Frank. "Don't Frank?" said David. It hurt him to think that Frank should make a jest of that. "Indeed I am not jesting, Davie. That is one way of fighting the good fight--is it not? And I want to have a good long talk about it again." "With mamma, you mean." "Yes, and with you. Don't you remember Hobab and old Tim?" David did not answer in words, and both the boys sat silent, while the others grew eager in discussing quite other things. It was growing dark, and Philip decided that it would be better to leave the boat and walk home. Then something was said about future sails, and then Philip told them of a friend of his who was going to be one of a party who were to explore the country far west. He was going to try and persuade his father to let him join it. It was an exploring company, but a good many were to join it for the sake of the hunting and fishing, and the adventures that might fall in their way. They were to be away for months, perhaps for the whole summer, and a great deal of enjoyment was anticipated. Jem listened intently. "That would just suit me, mamma," said he, with a sigh. "I dare say it would be pleasant for a while," said she, smiling. "It would hardly suit you to lose a summer out of your life, Jem," said David, sharply. Jem whistled. "You are there! are you, David? No, that wouldn't suit me, exactly." "Lose a year out of his life! What can you mean?" said Mr Philip, in astonishment. "What would come out of such a summer, except just the pleasure of it?" said David. "Well! there would be a great deal of pleasure. What else would you have?" David made no answer. "Davie means that there is something besides one's pleasure to be considered in this world," said Frank. "David means that Jem can find pleasure and profit without going so far for them," said Mrs Inglis. "David is a young prig," said Mr Philip to himself, and as they were going home he said it to his brother in decided terms. "That's your idea of it, is it?" said Frank. "You know just about as much of Davie and Aunt Mary, and that sort of people, as I know about the Emperor of China. I know there _is_ such a person, and that is all I do know." Philip laughed. "It is never too late to learn, and if they have no objection, I mean to know them better." "They are not your kind of people," said Frank, decidedly. "You mean they are very good and religious and all. I am not a heathen or a Turk, Frank, my boy." "I could never make you understand the difference," said Frank, gravely. "Never make you understand!" said Philip, mimicking his voice and manner. "I think I can understand them pretty well without your help. Don't trouble yourself. They are just like other people. It is true that Mrs Inglis looks just as much of a lady in her plain gown and in that shabby room as she could in any of the fine drawing-rooms, and that is more than could be said of some of the ladies I know. She is a good woman, too, I am sure. As for Davie, he is a young prig--though he is good, too, I dare say. Violet is a little modest flower. They are very nice, all of them, but they are not beyond my powers of comprehension, I fancy, Frank, lad." "All right, if you think so," said Frank. Philip was amused and a little vexed at his brother's persistency. "Do you know them, Frank,--`understand' them, as you call it?" "I know they are very different from us, and from all the people we know most about, and I think I know what makes the difference, though I don't quite understand it. You would know what I mean if you had seen Mr Inglis and knew the kind of life he lived." "I have seen, and I know what his character was. He was an unworldly sort of man, I believe." "He did not live for his own pleasure," said Frank, gravely. "He wasn't his own. He lived to serve his Master. I can't tell you. You should speak to Davie or Violet about him, or to Aunt Mary." "Well, so I will, some day," said Philip. Frank made no reply. In the meantime Mr Philip was being just as freely discussed by the young people they had left. Jem was delighted with their new friend. He was a fine fellow, not at all "swell," as he had supposed. Jem grew enthusiastic over his friendliness, his boat, his rowing, and hoped he might come often. So did the little ones. "David does not like him," said Violet. "I liked him this afternoon well enough," said David. "Yes, he was nice this afternoon; but he is not always nice with his sisters. He is good to the little ones," said Violet. "I dare say his sisters are not very good to him. I can easily believe it," said Jem. "He is not like the people we have been taught to admire," said David. "He always thinks of himself first," said Violet. "And he is not really in earnest about anything." "Mamma, listen to Davie and Letty speaking evil of their neighbours," said Jem. "Not speaking evil, I hope," said Mrs Inglis, "but still not speaking with charity, I am afraid." "I was not speaking evil of him, mamma," said Violet. "I only meant that he does not care for anything very much, except to amuse himself. I think he is rather foolish, but I would not speak evil of him." "See that you don't, then," said Jem. "He made himself very agreeable this afternoon, that is all we need say," said Mrs Inglis. "We are not likely to see very much of him in future." Nothing more was said at that time. They saw a good deal of both brothers during the next few weeks. But they saw nothing for a good while that inclined either Violet or Davie to change their opinion of the elder one. The next day Frank came home with them from church. He was the only one of the family at church that day, for it had rained in the morning, and they were not very regular churchgoers at the best of times. "Papa said I might go home with you, if Aunt Mary asked me," said Frank, as he joined them at the door. "Come on, then," said Jem. "Mamma doesn't approve of Sunday visiting, as a general thing, but you are one of ourselves by this time. Mamma, ask Frank to come." Mrs Inglis smiled. "Come and read with the children, Frank," said she. Frank was only too happy to go. He did not go to the Sunday-school with the others, but chose to stay at home with Mrs Inglis and little Mary. But the first person the others saw when they came to Muddy Lane was Mr Philip, waiting for them at the corner, as though it were the most natural and proper thing in the world for him to be there. "I came to hear what your friend Mr Caldwell has to say to-day, Jem," said he. "All right!" said Jem. "He will have something appropriate to say about Sabbath-breaking, I dare say." "I am sure I don't know why," said Philip, laughing. "He'll tell you why," said Jem. David did not say it was all right, nor think it. Indeed, it proved to his mind to be all wrong, for Mr Caldwell did not make his appearance at all. "To think of his failing to-day, of all days," said David. They waited for him a long time, till the children became restless and impatient. "We ought to begin, Davie," said Violet. "Yes. I wouldn't mind if we were by ourselves." "Why should you mind now? Go ahead, Davie. If he laughs, I'll knock him down," said Jem. It was very foolish in Violet to laugh, and very wrong, too, she knew; but she could not help it. Jem's idea of the way to keep order was so absurd. David did not laugh. He looked anxious, and at a loss, and a little indignant at his sister's amusement. "I beg your pardon, Davie. Let us just go on us usual," she entreated. "Why should you mind?" And so they did go on. They sung a hymn very well; at least, they sung with a great deal of spirit. There were some clear, sweet voices among the children, and they all seemed to enjoy singing so much it could not be otherwise than agreeable to those who were listening, and Violet did her best. Then David, very reverently, but not very firmly, took Mr Caldwell's duty upon himself, and offered a few words of prayer; and then the children repeated together the Lord's Prayer, and after that everything went well enough. David and Violet took their usual places, with their classes round them, and Jem suggested to Mr Philip that he should take Mr Caldwell's rough-looking boys in hand "and give them a talk." "Hear them repeat their verses, and tell them a story. You can do it as well as Mr C. Shall I tell them that you are the new minister?" "Thank you. I will introduce myself. I ought to be able to say something to these young rascals. I hope they won't find me out." He seemed to get on very well. Jem would have liked to get rid of the three little fellows for whom he was responsible, so as to hear what he was saying. The boys liked it, evidently; at least they listened with great interest; and one would have thought that Mr Philip was quite accustomed to the work, he did it so easily. The boys laughed more than once, and grew eager and a little noisy; but their teacher was perfectly grave and proper, and did not give Jem the shadow of an excuse for wishing to "knock him down." He congratulated him when it was all over. "Yes; I flatter myself it was the right man in the right place this time," said Mr Philip. "You didn't think I could do as well as old Caldwell, did you." Jem shrugged his shoulders. "Yes, you could do it, once in a way, after a fashion, at any rate." But though Jem spoke so coldly to Philip himself, he was enthusiastic in his praises of him when they were giving their mother the history of the afternoon after Frank had gone home. "He can do anything, I think," said he. "He was not at a loss for a moment. I believe, if he had been put to it, he could have done the whole business as well as Davie did, and he did it very well." David said nothing, but Violet repeated her opinion as to their new friend's want of earnestness. "If it had been the most foolish thing in the world, he would have done it just as well, and just as willingly, if he had thought it was expected of him to do it." "Are you not a little severe on him?" said her mother. "No, mamma; I don't mean to be severe. He would think it a great compliment paid to him, though you don't think it nice. He does not look seriously at life. He amuses himself with everything. Just compare him with our Davie." David had gone out before she said this. "Nonsense! Letty. Our Davie is a boy still, and Mr Philip is a man. He has completed the course at the university, you know quite well." "Our Davie is far more manly than he, for all that. And so are you, Jem. Davie is worth two of him." "A great deal more than two of him to us, Letty," said her mother, laughing. "Still, I am inclined to think with Jem, that you are a little hard on him." "Yes, she does not like him," said Jem. "And it is odd, too, for he likes her, and you, mamma, and all of us." "Oh! yes; I dare say he does. We amuse him for the moment. I know him better than you do, Jem. I have seen him every day for a fortnight, you know. I like him very well, but I don't think he is reliable. He is not in earnest," repeated Violet, solemnly. "And Sunday-school teaching is not a proper thing to amuse one's self with. It would spoil all the pleasure of it to have him come there always. However, there is no danger. He will find something else to amuse him." Violet was right, as far as Philip's coming to Muddy Lane was concerned. He did not make his appearance there again for a very long time after that Sunday. But, having nothing better to do, he seemed quite inclined to cultivate the acquaintance of the young Inglises, and came to the bridge house a good deal. Once or twice he brought his little sisters and Violet down in the boat to tea, and several times he came there after having been down the river fishing. Once or twice David, coming home earlier than the others, found him sitting quietly with his mother and little Mary, to all appearance perfectly satisfied with the entertainment he was receiving; and his entertainers seemed satisfied too. David began to consider these frequent visits as an infliction to be borne patiently, and Violet adhered to her first opinion; but, with Jem and the children, he was a great favourite. Even the mother was inclined to make excuses for his faults, and was very kind to him when he came. The mother knew more about him than the rest did, for he told her a great deal about himself and his past life during the quiet afternoons he passed with her and little Mary. And having seen more, and suffered more, she was inclined to have more patience with his weaknesses than they. It had been understood all along, that, as soon as Philip's course at the university was over, he was to take his place in his father's office, and to give all his time and thoughts to his father's business. He had never been quite pleased with the idea, and had all along hoped that something might happen to render unnecessary a step so distasteful to him. Nothing had happened, and he was inclined to fancy that he was making a sacrifice to his father's business and his father's desire for wealth, and to claim sympathy because of this. "And would you be a great help to your father?" asked Mrs Inglis, one day, when he had got thus far. "I don't know. I am sure I don't think so, hating business as I do. But he must think so, or he would not be so bent on my coming to the office and tying myself down. It will come to that, I dare say," said he, with a sigh. Mrs Inglis smiled. "Is it not possible that he may wish it for your sake rather than his own? And how do you know that you hate business? You have never given it a fair trial, have you?" "No, I have not tried it steadily," said he, answering her last question first. "But then one can tell what one does not like without trying it very long. I dare say my father thinks it would be a good thing for me to fix myself at the bank. But a man must judge for himself before he submits to be tied down for life." "But is it not possible that it is the tying down which is distasteful? And every man must submit to be tied down to something. What would you like to do better." "Oh! almost anything. I should like the profession of the law better." And then he added, after a little, "I should like it better for one thing. I need not enter an office till the autumn." "I am afraid it is the tying down that is the trouble, after all," said she. "No, I assure you--not altogether--though, I acknowledge, it would be a fine thing to let business slide--to have nothing at all to do." "I do not agree with you. I think it would be the very worst thing that could happen to you to have nothing to do," said Mrs Inglis, gravely. "To me, especially, do you mean? Well, I don't quite mean that; but I think Mr Caldwell was right when he told my father that, if he had meant me for business, he should have put me to it long ago." "Do you mean that you regret having been sent to the university?" "I mean that I should have been fit for my work by this time, and, probably, content with it. A university is not needed there." "You must not be angry with me if I say you are talking foolishly," said Mrs Inglis, "and, indeed, ungratefully, when you say that. Do you mean that your education will be a disadvantage to you?" "No; except by making business distasteful to me. I mean, it has given me other interests and other tastes--something beyond the desire to make money." "Doubtless, that was your father's intention--to make you an intelligent man as well as a banker--not a mere money-maker. And his wish ought to decide you to give the business of his office a fair trial, since you do not seem to have a preference for any other." "I have a very decided preference for a trip across the country. Don't look grave, Aunt Mary. These are my holidays. By and by will be time to settle down to work." "I thought you were no longer a schoolboy?" "No, I am not; but I should like to go--to the Red River, perhaps. It would be a fine trip for Davie in his vacation, too, and its cost would be little--comparatively." "Davie does not expect a vacation--or only a week or two." "Davie is quite a steady old gentleman," said Philip. Mrs Inglis smiled. "I don't suppose you mean that quite as a compliment to my boy. I am very glad it is true, nevertheless." "You don't suppose I would venture to say anything not complimentary to your boy to you, do you? Or that I would wish to say it to any one? But he _does_ take life so seriously. He is so dreadfully in earnest. One would think that Davie was years and years older than I am." "Yes, in some things." "But, Aunt Mary, such precocious sobriety and wisdom are unnatural and unwholesome. Davie is too wise and grave for his years." "He is not too wise to do very foolish things sometimes; and he is the merriest among the children at home, though we don't hear his voice quite so often as Jem's. And you must remember that Davie's experience has been very different from yours." "Yes, Aunt Mary, I know. Frank has told me how happy you all were, and how Davie was always so much with his father. It must have been very terrible for you all." "And, Philip, Davie has tried to take his father's place among us. Davie is our bread-winner, in a measure. We have had many cares and anxieties together. No wonder that he seems to you to be grave and older than his years." "Aunt Mary, what an idle, good-for-nothing fellow you must think me," said Philip, putting down little Mary, who had been sitting on his knee, and standing before his aunt. "Not good-for-nothing, certainly. Perhaps, a little idle and thoughtless. There is time for improvement and--room. Let us hope you will know your own mind soon, which you certainly do not now." "Let us hope so," said Philip, with a sigh. "Here comes Davie! Now, observe him! He will not look in the least glad to see me." "Where are all the rest?" said Davie, coming in. "Davie, do you know, I have been persuading your mother to let you go with me to the Red River," said Philip. "Wouldn't you like it?" "It is very good of you. Yes, I dare say I would like it. What does mamma say?" "She thinks you are too useful a man to be spared so long. What would Mr Caldwell do without you?" "When are you coming to help him?" said David. "After I come home in the autumn. I cannot bring myself to Davie's standard of steadiness all at once, Aunt Mary. I must have a little time." "There is none to lose," said Mrs Inglis gravely. CHAPTER ELEVEN. About this time it was announced to the world in general, that Miss Oswald's marriage was to take place immediately. Her friends thought she had been very kind and considerate to stay with her father and her brothers and sisters so long. Miss Oswald was a discreet young lady, and knew how to manage her own affairs to her own satisfaction. Perhaps the knowledge that her own establishment must be in a different style from that of her father's, helped her considerateness a little, and made her more willing to continue at home. However that might be, when her father set before her certain reasons for economy in household matters, for decided retrenchment indeed, she very considerately suggested that her Aunt Livy would be a very suitable person to see her father's wishes in this direction carried out, and advised that she should be sent for, and then she set about her own preparations. With these, of course, no one at the bridge house had anything to do, except Violet. But for the glimpses that she had behind the scenes, she might have been a little dazzled and unsettled by the gaiety and splendour in the midst of which she found herself. For Miss Oswald's arrangements were on the grandest scale. Everything that she considered "proper" on the occasion, she exacted to the uttermost, with no thoughts of necessary economy. There were fine clothes, fine presents, a fine wedding breakfast, and the proper number of fine brides-maids, of whom Violet was one. Even the wise and sensible Letty was not above a feeling of girlish delight in being prettily dressed and admired as one of the gay company; but the knowledge that she was only chosen at the last minute to supply the place of a young lady whose illness had disarranged Miss Oswald's plans, and a few other drawbacks, kept her from being unduly elated with the honour and pleasure, and she was very glad when it was all over, and so was everybody concerned. So Miss Oswald went away. Mrs Mavor and Miss Livy came to the big house to reign in her stead, and all in it were beginning to settle down to a quiet and happy summer again. But trouble came first. Scarlet fever had broken out in the neighbourhood of the bridge house, and in other parts of the town, and first little Polly took it, and then Jessie and Ned, and Violet came home to help her mother to nurse them. They were not very ill--that is, the fever did not run very high, and at no time did the doctor suppose them to be in danger, but there was much anxiety and fatigue in taking care of them. The weather was very hot, too, and the bridge house stood too low to catch the infrequent breeze, and though they were soon able to be up and even to be out of doors, the children did not get strong. In the meantime both Charlotte and Sarah Oswald had taken the disease, and Mr Oswald himself came to the bridge house to entreat that Violet might be permitted to come to them. Their sister Selina had gone away after the wedding to visit in a distant city, and as she had never had the disease, her father did not like to send for her to come home. The children did not take to their aunt. It had been possible to get on when they were very ill, but when they began to be better they were peevish and fretful, and Aunt Livy could not please them, and nothing would do but Violet must come to them again. It did not seem possible that she could leave home, but David was to be spared as much as possible to help with the little ones, and so she went. But between her anxiety for the children at home, and her weariness with the little Oswalds, she had rather a hard time of it. Frank helped her for a while, but he was not very well, and was threatened with the old trouble in his eyes, so that he was not a very cheerful companion, either for her or the children. Mr Philip had commenced an irregular sort of attendance at the bank, but he had a good deal of time still at his disposal, and kindly bestowed a share of it on his little sisters. "Philip could be very nice when he liked," they agreed, and he very often "liked" about this time. He went sometimes to the bridge house, too, and was as popular as ever among the little people there. They were not getting well very fast. Charlotte and Sarah were up and out in the garden, and able to amuse themselves with their dolls and their games, when Violet, going home one day, found Jessie and Ned languid and fretful, and poor wee Polly lying limp and white in her cot. Her mother looked worn and anxious, David came home with a headache, and Jem was the only one among them whose health and spirits were in a satisfactory condition. "I cannot stay to-night, mamma, because they expect me back," said Violet. "But I shall come home to-morrow. They don't need me half as much as you do, and I must come. You are sick yourself, mamma." "No, I am tired, that is all; and the weather is so warm. Don't come till the children are well. It is your proper place there, and even you cannot help us here while the weather is so warm." It was very hot and close, and Violet fancied that from the low fields beyond, where there was water still standing, a sickly odour came. "No wonder they don't get strong," said she. Mr Oswald had spoken in the morning about sending his little girls to the country, or to the seaside. The doctor had suggested this as the best thing that could be done for them. Violet thought of their large house, with its many rooms, and of the garden in which it stood, and looked at her little sisters and brothers growing so pale and languid in the close air, which there was no hope of changing, with a feeling very like envy or discontent rising in her heart. "Mamma," said she, "it is a dreadful thing to be poor;" and then she told of the plan for sending the Oswalds away for change of air, and how they were already well and strong in comparison to their own poor darlings, and then she said, again, "It is a dreadful thing to be so poor." "We are not so poor as we might be?" said her mother, gravely. "Think how it would have been if we had lost one of them, dear. God has been very good to us, and we must not be so ungrateful as to murmur because we have not all that others have, or all that we might wish for." "I know it, mamma. But look at these pale cheeks. Poor wee Polly! she is only a shadow of our baby. If we could only send her to Gourlay for a little while." "Do you think her looking so poorly? I think it is the heat that is keeping them all so languid. Don't look so miserable. If it is necessary for them to go to the country, we shall manage to send them in some way. But we are quite in the country here, and when we have had rain the air will be changed, and the heat may be less, and then they will all be better." "Have you made any plan about going to the country?" asked Violet, eagerly. "No, my dear. I trust it will not be necessary. It could not be easily managed," said Mrs Inglis, with a sigh. "If we were only not quite so poor," said Violet. "I say, Letty, don't you think mamma has trouble enough without your bother?" said Jem, sharply, as his mother went out of the room. Violet looked at him in astonishment. "If we were only not quite so poor!" repeated Jem, in the doleful tone she had used. "You have said that three times within half an hour. You had better stay up at the big house, if that is all the good you can do by coming home." "That will do, Jem! Don't spoil your sermon by making it too long," said David, laughing. "Sermon! No, I leave that to you, Davie. But what is the use of being so dismal? And it isn't a bit like Letty." "But, Jem, it is true. The children look so ill, and if they could only get a change of air--" "And don't you suppose mamma knows all that better than you can tell her? What is the good of telling her? She has been looking all day for you to come and cheer us up and brighten us a little, and now that you have come you are as dismal as--I don't know what. You have been having too easy times lately, and can't bear hardness," said Jem, severely. "Have I?" said Violet, with an uncertain little laugh. "Softly, Jem, lad!" said his mother, who had come in again. "I think she has been having a rather hard time, only it will not do her much good to tell her so." "I dare say Jem is right, mamma, and I am cross." "Not cross, Letty, only dismal, which is a great deal worse, I think," said Jem. "Well, I won't be dismal any more to-night, if I can help it. Davie, take Polly, and, mamma, lie down on the sofa and rest while I make the tea. Jem, you shall help me by making up the fire. We will all have tea to-night, because I am a visitor." "All right!" said Jem. "Anything to please all round; and the hot tea will cool us nicely, won't it?" "It will refresh us at any rate." And so the little cloud passed away, and Violet's cheerfulness lasted through the rest of the visit, and up to the moment that she bade Jem good-bye at Mr Oswald's gate. It did not last much longer, however. It was nearly dark, and Mr Oswald and his sister and Frank were sitting on the lawn to catch the faint breeze that was stirring among the chestnut trees. "I thought you were not coming home to-night," said Miss Livy, in an aggrieved tone. "I was detained," said Violet. "How are the children?" "They are in bed at last. You should not have told them that you would be home before their bed-time, unless you had intended to come. However, they are in bed now. Pray don't go and disturb them again. Philip had to go to them at last. He is up-stairs now. They are dreadfully spoiled." Violet dropped down in the nearest chair. "How are the children at home?" asked Mr Oswald, kindly. "They are--not better." "I hope they are not spoiled," said Frank, laughing. "Did they cry when you came away, Violet?" "They were rather fretful. They are not strong." "You are not very well yourself, to-night," said Mr Oswald. "The change will do you as much good as any of them." "I am quite well," said Violet. "We have been speaking about sending the girls to the country for a change of air," went on Mr Oswald. "Will you go with them? Betsey will go too, of course, but they will scarcely be happy without you, and the change will do you good." "Thank you. You are very kind. But the children need me at home. I could not think of leaving mamma while they are so poorly to go away for pleasure." "It would not be quite all pleasure, I fancy," said Mr Philip. "They are asleep at last. It cannot be a very easy thing to keep them amused all day, as they are just now." "They are quite spoiled," said Aunt Livy. "Oh! no. Not quite. They are good little things in general, as children go. You can't judge now, aunt," said Philip. "Miss Inglis, are you not a little dismal to-night?" "So Jem told me. I am tired. I think I shall say good-night and go up-stairs." "It should be settled at once about the children, where they are to go, and who is to go with them," said Aunt Livy. "There is no haste," said Mr Oswald. "Perhaps the children at home may be better able to spare you in a day or two, Miss Violet." "Thank you. It would be very pleasant, but--" "Why not send all together?" said Philip. "Ned and Jessie and wee Polly, with Charlotte and Sarah? I dare say they would all be better of a change, poor little souls!" "I dare say they can do without it, thank you," said Violet, stiffly. "For what? My suggestion? They would like it, I am sure." "People cannot get all they like in this world." "Violet," said Frank, solemnly, "I believe you are cross." "I am almost afraid I am," said Violet, laughing uneasily. "For the first time in your life. Something dreadful must have happened at the bridge house to-day!" "No; nothing happened." "The children are not better, that is what is the matter," said Philip; "though it ought not to make you cross, only sorry. Depend on it, it is change they want," said Philip, with the air of a doctor. "It is worth thinking about; and it would be very nice if they could all go together, with you to take care of them," said Mr Oswald. "Very nice for our little girls, I mean. Think of it, and speak to your mother." "Thank you; I will," said Violet. "Much they know about it," said she to herself, as she went up-stairs in the dark. "An extra orange or a cup of strawberries for the little darlings has to be considered in our house, and they speak of change as coolly as possible. And I didn't know better than to trouble mamma with just such foolish talk. We must try and have mamma and Polly go to Gourlay for a week or two. June not half over, and how shall we ever get through the two not months! Oh, dear! I am so tired!" Violet was so tired in the morning that she slept late, and a good many things had happened next morning before she came down-stairs. When she opened the dining-room door she thought, for a minute, she must be sleeping still and dreaming; for, instead of the usual decorous breakfast-table, Aunt Livy seemed to be presiding at a large children's party. Everybody laughed at her astonished face, and little Mary held out her arms to be taken. "My precious wee Polly! Have you got a pair of wings?" said she, clasping and kissing her little sister. "We are to stay all day, if we are good. You are to tell mamma how we behave," said Jessie. "We came in a carriage, with Mr Philip and Jem." Violet looked a little anxiously from Aunt Livy to Mr Oswald, and saw nothing to make her doubt the children's welcome. Mr Oswald smiled; Miss Livy nodded. "They seem very well-behaved children," said she. "Not at all spoiled." "We haven't been here long," said Jessie, gravely. "But we are going to be good, Letty. We promised mamma." And they were very good, considering all things. Still, it was a fatiguing day to Violet. She followed them out and she followed them in; and when they grew tired, and their little legs and their tempers failed, she beguiled them into the wide gallery, shaded by vines, and told them stories, and comforted them with toys and picture-books and something nice to eat. It would have been a better day, as far as the visitors were concerned, if there had been less to see and to admire. But the great house and garden were beautiful and wonderful to their unaccustomed eyes, and they had tired themselves so utterly that they grew fretful and out of sorts, and were glad when it came night and time to go home; and so was Violet. The next day they came they were stronger and better, but they needed constant attention, lest mischief should happen among them; and, on the third morning, Violet was not sorry to hear the rain pattering on the window. Not that she would have minded ten times the trouble for herself, so that the children were the better for it, but it was as well not to try Miss Livy's forbearance too far. Miss Livy had had very little to do with children since she was a child herself, and that little led her decidedly to agree with the generally-received opinion that the children of the present day are not so well brought up as children used to be. This opinion did not make her more patient with them, but rather less so; and so Violet was not sorry for the rain that kept her little sisters at home. At breakfast, the subject of sending the little girls, Charlotte and Sarah, to the country for awhile was again brought up by their aunt, and, in the afternoon, Violet, at Mr Oswald's request, went home to speak to her mother about it; but she had fully determined beforehand how the matter was to be decided, as far as she was concerned. However, everything was put out of her mind by the surprise that awaited her; for, at the bridge house, they were entertaining an angel unawares, in the person of Miss Bethia Barnes. And was not Violet glad to see her? So glad that she put her arms round her neck and kissed her, and then laughed and then cried a little, not quite knowing what she did. "It is good to see you, Aunt Bethia," said she. "You are the only one of the family who looks better for Singleton," said Miss Bethia, regarding her with pleased wonder. Miss Bethia had considered Violet a little girl when she left Singleton; but she was a little girl no longer, but a young woman, and a very pretty young woman, too, Miss Bethia acknowledged. If Violet had not been so glad to see her, and shown it so plainly as to disarm her, she must, even at the first moment, have uttered some word of counsel or warning, for to be pretty, and not aware of it, or vain of it, was a state of things that she could not believe in. However, she reserved her advice for a future occasion, and, in the meantime, drew her own conclusions from the brightening of the mother's face at the coming of her eldest daughter, and from the eager way in which little Mary clung to her, and the others claimed her attention. "You must stay at home to-night, Letty," said Jem. "May I, mamma? I am to be sent for later; but may I not send a message that Miss Bethia has come, and that you cannot spare me?" "But I can spare you all the better that Miss Bethia is here," said her mother, smiling. "Yes, I know mamma; but I want to stay so much." "You would not think it polite in her to go away to-night? Now, would you? Aunt Bethia," said Jem. "Politeness ain't the only thing to think of," said Miss Bethia. "Violet is not quite at our disposal just now," said Mrs Inglis; "and I am afraid you will be missed up there, dear, by the children. They have had the fever, too, poor little things, and their sister is away, and they hardly know this aunt yet, and Violet has charge of them. They are fond of Violet." "Oh, yes! they are all fond of Violet up there; but so are we," said Jem. "Let her stay, mamma." "And how do you like earning your living?" asked Miss Bethia. Violet laughed. "Oh, I like it. When did you come, Miss Bethia? You are not looking very well." "I haven't been well--had a sharp turn of rheumatism. I had some business, and I came yesterday." "And how are all the Gourlay people? And you live in our house now. How strange it must seem! And what a shame that your old place is spoiled!" "I thought so at the time, but it might have been worse." And then Violet had a great many questions to ask, and listened with many exclamations of wonder and pleasure to all that she heard; and Miss Bethia, pleased with the interest she displayed, made no pause till Ned called out that young Mr Oswald was driving Davie over the bridge, and that now Violet would have to go. "Mamma," said Violet, "I have not told you why I came yet. Mr Oswald sent me, and I cannot tell it all at once. Let me stay till after tea, and Jem can take me home." "All right," said Jem. "I have no objections, if nobody else has none." There was a little pleasant confusion after Mr Philip and David came in, two or three speaking at once, and all eager to be heard, and then Mr Philip was introduced to the visitor. There was no mistaking the look she bent upon him. It was searching and critical, admiring, but not altogether approving. "You have never been out Gourlay way?" said she. "No, I never have, as yet." "He did not know what nice people the Gourlay people are, or he would have been," said Jem. "I expect so," said Miss Bethia. "It ain't too late to go yet." "Thank you, Miss Barnes. I shall be happy to accept your kind invitation," said Philip. In the meantime, Violet had been telling her mother of Mr Oswald's proposal. It was a matter of too great importance to be dismissed with a single word of refusal, as Violet would have liked, and time must be taken to consider it. "Violet is not going with you, Mr Philip," said Jessie. "She is going to stay and take tea with Miss Bethia." "I am sorry you should have had the trouble of coming round this way for nothing, Mr Philip," said Mrs Inglis. "We want Violet a little while to-night. Miss Barnes does not know how soon she may go, and Violet thinks she can be spared to-night, perhaps." "Of course, she can be spared. And it was no trouble, but a pleasure, to come round. Shall I come back again?" "Pray, do not. Jem will go with me. I shall like the walk." "All right!" said Jem. "I consider myself responsible for her. She will be up there at the proper time." "All right!" said Philip cheerfully. "Aunt Mary, you might ask me to have tea too." "You haven't had your dinner yet," said Jessie. "And you could not keep your horse standing so long," said Ned. "And, besides, I am not to be invited," said Philip, laughing. They all watched him and his fine horse as they went over the bridge and along the street. Then Violet said: "Now, mamma, you are to sit down and I am to get tea. I can do all quite well." And, so tying on an apron over her dress, she made herself very busy for the next half-hour, passing in and out, pausing to listen or put in her word now and then, sometimes claiming help from Jem or Davie in some household matter to which she put her hand. At last, with an air of pride and pleasure that Miss Bethia thought pretty to see, she called them to tea. "You have got to be quite a house-keeper," said Miss Bethia, as they sat down to the table. "Hasn't she?" said Jem and Davie in a breath. "I mean to be, at any rate," said Violet, nodding and laughing gaily. "I like it a great deal better than teaching children, only, you know, it doesn't pay quite so well." "I guess it will, in the long run," said Miss Barnes. "I am going to be house-keeper for the next two months. Sarah and Charlotte are to have no lessons for that time, and Betsey can take care of them in the country quite as well as I--better, indeed. Mamma needs me at home. Don't you think so, Davie? I can find enough to do at home; can't I?" "But, as you say, it wouldn't pay so well." "In one way, perhaps, it wouldn't, but in another way it would. But mamma doesn't say anything," added Violet, disconsolately. "We must sleep upon it, mamma thinks," said Jem. "We need not be in haste to decide upon it for a day or two," said Mrs Inglis. "I am afraid we must, mamma. The sooner the better, Mr Oswald says; and that is why I came to-day." "I wish you would come and keep house for me. I am getting tired of it," said Miss Bethia. "I should like it well--with mamma and the children." "Of course, that is understood," said Miss Bethia. "And you could take these others with you, couldn't you? And what their father would pay for them would help your house-keeping." "Miss Bethia spoke as coolly as if she had been speaking about the stirring up of a Johnny cake," Jem said. Violet looked eagerly from her to her mother. There was a little stir and murmur of excitement went round the table, but all awaited for their mother to speak. But she said nothing, and Miss Bethia went on, not at all as if she were saying anything to surprise anybody, but just as she would have told any piece of news. "I've thought of it considerable. Serepta Stone has concluded to go away to a water-cure place in the States. If Debby should conclude to go to another place, I shouldn't care about staying in that big house alone. I can let it next fall, I expect. But this summer, Mrs Inglis, if you say so, you can have the house as well as not. It won't cost you a cent, and it won't be a cent's loss to me. And I don't see why that won't suit pretty well all round." A chorus of "ohs," and "ahs," and "dear mammas," went round the table. "It wouldn't cost more than living here," said David. "Not so much," said Miss Bethia. "And I am sure Mr Oswald would be delighted to have Charlotte and Sarah go, mamma," said Violet. "He would pay you the same as he'd pay to them at the other place, and he might be sure he would get the worth of his money," said Miss Bethia. "And I would keep house, and save you the trouble, mamma," said Violet. "You and Debby Stone," said Miss Bethia, who seemed to consider that it was as much her affair as theirs, and so put in her word between the others. "Davie, you'll have to lend me your fishing rod, to take to Gourlay with me," said Ned. "Bless the child! there's fishing rods enough," said Miss Bethia. "It's mamma's turn to speak now," said Jessie. And "yes, mamma!" and "oh! dear mamma!" were repeated again, eagerly. There would be no use in telling all that Mrs Inglis said, or all that Miss Bethia and the rest said. It was not quite decided that night that they were to pass a part of the summer in Gourlay, but it looked so much like it that Violet held a little private jubilation with little Polly, as she undressed her for bed, before she went away, promising her, with many kisses and sweet words, that she would be rosy and strong, and as brown as a berry before she should see the bridge house again. Before she was done with it, Jem called out. "It is time to be going, Letty, if I am to be responsible for you at the big house." "Perhaps if you wait, Mr Philip will come for you. He said he would," said Jessie. "And, just at the minute, he meant it, but we won't put him to the trouble, even if he remembers, which is doubtful," said Violet. "Come, Jem, I am ready." "He seems a pretty likely young man, don't he?--young Mr Oswald, I mean," said Miss Bethia. The question was not addressed to any one in particular. Jem looked at Letty, and Letty looked at Davie, and they all laughed merrily. "Likely," in Miss Bethia's vocabulary, meant well-intentioned, agreeable, promising, all in a moderate degree, and the description fell so far short of Mr Philip's idea of himself and his merits, and indeed of their idea of him that they could not help it. "He seems to be a pleasant-spoken youth, and good-natured," said Miss Bethia. "Oh, yes! he is very good-natured," said Violet. Everybody had something to say in his praise. The little ones were quite enthusiastic. Jem said he was "smart" as well as good-natured, and David, though he said less, acknowledged that he was very clever, and added Mr Caldwell's opinion, that Mr Philip had all his father's talent for business, and would do well if he were really in earnest about it, and would settle down to it. Several instances of his kindness to the children and to his own little sisters were repeated, and Mrs Inglis spoke warmly in his praise. "Only, mamma," said Violet, with some hesitation, "all these things are agreeable to himself. He does such things because he likes to do them." "And ain't that to be put to his credit," said Miss Bethia. "It is well when one does right things and likes to do them, ain't it?" "Yes; but people ought to do right things because they are right, and not just because they are pleasant. If very different things were agreeable to him, he would do them all the same." "Stuff, Letty! with your buts and your ifs. Mr Phil, is just like other people. It is only you and Davie that have such high-flown notions about right and wrong, and duty, and all that." "Our ideas of `duty and all that' are just like other people's, Jem, I think," said David. "They are just like Miss Bethia's, at any rate, and mamma's." "And like Jem's own ideas, though not like Mr Philip's" said Violet. "Violet means that if he had to choose between what is right and what is pleasant, the chances are he would choose to do what is pleasant," said Davie. "He would not wait to choose," said Violet, gravely. "He would just do what was pleasant without at all thinking about the other." "Mamma, do you call that charitable?" said Jem. "I think Violet means--and Davie--that his actions are, as a general thing, guided and governed by impulse rather than by principle," said Mrs Inglis; "and you know, Jem, the same reliance cannot be placed on such a person as on--" "On a steady old rock, like Mr Caldwell or our Davie," said Jem. "Yes, I know; still I like Phil." "So we all like him," said Violet. "But, as mamma says, we do not rely on him. He likes us and our ways, and our admiration of him, and he likes to come here and talk with mamma, and get good advice, and all that. But he likes to go to other places, and to talk with other people, who are as different from mamma as darkness is from daylight. He is so careless and good-tempered that anything pleases him for the moment. He has no stability. One cannot help liking him, but one cannot respect him." Everybody looked surprised. Jem whistled. "Why don't you tell him so? It might do him good." "It wouldn't change his nature," said Violet, loftily. And then she bade them all good-night, and she and Jem went away, and Miss Bethia improved the occasion. "I expect that his nature has got to be changed before he amounts to much that is good. I hope, David, you will not let this frivolous young man lead you away from the right path." Mrs Inglis had gone out of the room, and David prepared himself for what he knew would come sooner or later, Miss Bethia's never-failing good advice. "You are none too wise to be drawn away by a pleasant-spoken, careless youth like that. His company might easily become a snare to you, and to Jem too." "Oh! he has very little to say to me, Miss Bethia. He is older than Jem or I. He likes to talk to mamma, and you mustn't think ill of him from what was said to-night." "I suppose the trouble is in his bringing up," said Miss Bethia. "From all I hear, I should fear that his father hasn't a realising sense of the importance of religion for himself or his family, and what can be expected of his son?" David did not like the turn the conversation had taken, and he did not like the next better. "There is a great responsibility resting on you, David, with regard to the people among whom your lot is cast. It is to be hoped they'll be led to think more, and not less, of the Master you serve from your walk and conversation." David made no answer. "David," said Miss Bethia, "have you been living a Christian life since you came here? Such a life as would have given comfort to your father, if he had been here to see it? Have you been keeping your armour bright, David?" "I have been trying, Miss Bethia," said David. "Well, it is something to have been trying. It is something not to be led away. But have you been content with that? You have a battle to fight--a work to do in just the spot you stand in, and if you are faithful, you may help that unstable youth to stand on firmer ground than his feet have found yet." David shook his head. "You don't know me, Miss Bethia, nor him, or you would not say that." "Your father would have made it his business to do him good." "But I am not like my father, very far from that." "Well, your father was nothing by himself. You are bound to do the same work, and you can have the same help. And it will pay in the long run. Oh, yes! it will pay!" "I have been telling David that he may do that pleasant-spoken youth much good, if he is faithful to him and to himself," added she, as Mrs Inglis came into the room. "And I have been telling Miss Bethia that she does not know me, or him, or she wouldn't say that, mamma," said David. "She must know you by this time, I think, Davie," said his mother, smiling. "I used to know him pretty well, and he seems to be getting along pretty much so. I don't know as I see any change for the worse in him. He has had great privileges, and he has great responsibility." "Yes," said his mother, gravely; "and I quite agree with you, Miss Bethia, he may do Mr Philip good by a diligent and faithful performance of his daily duties, if in no other way. He has done so already." "Oh, mamma!" said David, "Miss Bethia will think you are growing vain." "No, I sha'n't. But he must be faithful in word as well as in deed. Oh! I guess he'll get along pretty well--David, I mean, not young Mr Oswald." Jem came home while they were still talking. "Mamma," said he, as he followed his mother out of the room, "we saw Philip going into Dick's saloon as we were going up the street and Violet said he'd be just as pleased and just as popular there as in our own home among the children, and she said he was as weak as water. That is all she knows! Violet is hard on Phil." "She cannot think it right for him to spend his evenings in such a place," said his mother. "But he sees no harm in it, and I don't suppose there is much." "I should think it great harm for one of my boys," said his mother, gravely. "All right, mamma!" said Jem. "But, then, as Miss Barnes says, our bringing up has been different." CHAPTER TWELVE. When it was fairly decided that Miss Bethia's pleasant plan for the summer was possible, there was little time lost in preparation. Miss Bethia went away at once, to have all things ready for their coming, and in a few days Mrs Inglis and Violet and the children followed. The little Oswalds went with them, and Jem and possibly Frank Oswald were to follow when their holidays commenced. Whether David was to go or not, was to be decided later, but he did not let the uncertainty with regard to his own prospects of pleasure interfere with his in all that the others were to enjoy. He helped cheerfully in all the arrangements for their departure, and made light of his mother's anxiety and doubts as to the comfort of those who were to be left behind. But when they were gone, and Jem and David left in the deserted house alone, they were neither of them very cheerful for a while. They were quite alone, for Mrs Lacy, the neighbour whom Mrs Inglis had engaged to care for their comfort, had a home of her own and little children to care for, and could only be there a part of the day. The unwonted silence of the house pressed heavily upon their spirits. "It's queer, too," said Jem, who had been promising himself great enjoyment of the quiet time so that he might the better prepare for the school examinations that were coming on. "I used to think the children bothered with their noise and their chatter, but the stillness is ten, times more distracting, I think." David nodded assent. "They will be in Gourlay long ago," said he. "I wonder how it will seem to mamma to go back again." Jem looked grave. "It won't be all pleasure to her, I am afraid." "No; she will have many things to remember; but I think she would rather have gone to Gourlay than anywhere else. I wish I could have gone with her." "Yes; but she has Violet and the children; and mamma is not one to fret or be unhappy." "She will not be unhappy; but all the same it will be a sorrowful thing for her to go there now." "Yes; but I am glad she is there; and I hope I may be there, too, before the summer is over." Jem's examinations passed off with great credit to himself; but he did not have the pleasure of telling his triumph, or showing his prizes to his mother and the children till after their return to Singleton; for Jem did not go to Gourlay, but in quite another direction. When an offer was made to him, through one of his friends at the great engine-house, to accompany a skillful machinist to a distant part of the country where he was to superintend the setting up of some valuable machinery in a manufacturing establishment, he gave a few regretful thoughts to his mother and Gourlay, and the long anticipated delights of boating and fishing; but it did not take him long to decide to go. Indeed, by the time his mother's consent reached him, his preparations were far advanced, and he was as eager to be gone as though the sole object of the trip had been pleasure, and not the hard work which had been offered him. But, besides the work, there was the wages, which, to Jem seemed magnificent, and there was the prospect of seeing new sights far from home; so he went away in great spirits, and David was left alone. He was not in great spirits. Jem had left him no earlier than he must have done had it been to join his mother and the children in Gourlay. But, somehow, when he thought of his brother out in the wonderful, strange world, about which they had so often spoken and dreamed, David had to struggle against a feeling which, indulged, might very easily have changed to discontent or envy of his brother's happier fortune. Happier fortune, indeed! How foolish his thoughts were! David laughed at himself when he called up the figure of Jem, with bared arms and blackened face, busy amidst the smoke and dust of some great work-shop, going here and there--doing this and that at the bidding of his master. A very hard working world Jem would no doubt find it; and, as he thought about him, David made believe content, and congratulated himself on the quiet and leisure which the summer evenings were bringing, and made plans for doing great things in the way of reading and study while they lasted. But they were very dull days and evenings. The silence in the house grew more oppressive to him than even Jem had found it. The long summer evenings often found him listless and dull over the books that had been so precious to him when he had only stolen moments to bestow on them. There had been something said at first about his going to the Oswald's to stay, when the time came when he should be alone in the house. Mr Philip had proposed it at the time when they were making arrangements for the going away of his little sisters. But the invitation had not been repeated. Mr Philip had gone away long before Jem. He had, at the last moment, joined an exploring party who were going--not, indeed, to Red River, but far away into the woods. Mr Oswald had forgotten the invitation, or had never known of it, perhaps, and David went home to the deserted house not very willingly sometimes, and, with a vague impatience of the monotony of the days, wished for something to happen to break it. Before Jem had been gone a week, something did happen. Indeed, it had happened a good while before, but it only came to David's knowledge at that time. Mr Caldwell had just returned from one of his frequent business journeys, and one night David lingered beyond the usual hour that he might see him and walk down the street with him as far as their way lay in the same direction; and it was while they were going towards home together that Mr Caldwell told him of something very unpleasant that had occurred in the office. A small sum of money had been missed, and the circumstances connected with its loss led Mr Caldwell to believe that it had been taken by some one belonging to the office. Mr Caldwell could not give his reasons for this opinion, nor did he say much about it, but he questioned David closely about those who had been coming and going, and seemed troubled and annoyed about the affair. David was troubled, too, and tried to recall anything that might throw light upon the painful matter. But he did not succeed. The circumstances, as David learned them then and afterwards, were these: Mr Oswald, as treasurer for one of the benevolent societies of the town, had, on a certain day of the preceding month, received a sum of money, part of which could not be found or accounted for. The rest of the sum paid into his hands was found in that compartment of his private safe allotted to the papers of the society. A receipt for the whole sum was in the hands of the person who had paid the money, and an entry in the society's books corresponded to the sum named in this receipt. Mr Oswald was certain that he had not made use of any part of it, because such was never his custom. The accounts of the society were kept quite distinct from all others, and all arrangements with regard to them were made by Mr Oswald himself. It did not make the loss a matter of less importance that the sum missed was small. Nor did it make Mr Oswald and Mr Caldwell less anxious to discover what had become of it. The loss had not been discovered until some time after it had taken place, when the quarterly making up of the society's accounts had been taken in hand, and Mr Oswald could not remember much about the circumstances. The date of the receipt showed the time. The person who paid the money remembered that part of it had been in small silver coins, made up in packets, and this was the part that had disappeared. All this was not told by Mr Caldwell that first afternoon. It came to David's knowledge, little by little, as it was found out. The matter was not, at first, discussed by the clerks in the office. Mr Caldwell had asked David not to speak of it to them, or to any one. When Mr Caldwell told him that nothing had been said to them of the loss, he thought it was strange; but it never came into his mind that the reason was that Mr Oswald feared that he was the person guilty, and wished to keep it from the knowledge of the rest. But, as time went on, he began to notice a change in Mr Oswald's manner toward him. He had never said many words to him in the course of the day. It was not his way with those in his employment, except with Mr Caldwell. He said less than ever to him now, but David fancied that he was more watchful of him, that he took more note of his comings and goings, and that his manner was more peremptory and less friendly when he gave him directions as to his work for the day. Mr Caldwell did not remain long in Singleton at this time, and having no one to speak to about the mysterious affair of the missing money, David, after a day or two, began to think less about it than he might otherwise have done. Once he ventured to speak to Mr Oswald about it. "Have you heard anything about the lost money, sir?" said he, one night, when there were only they two in the office. Mr Oswald answered him so briefly and sharply that David was startled, changing colour and looking at him in astonishment. "No, I have not. Have _you_ anything to tell me about it? The sooner the better," said Mr Oswald. "I know only what Mr Caldwell has told me," said David. "You may go," said Mr Oswald. And David went away, very much surprised both at his words and his manner. He did not think long about it, but every day he became more certain that all was not right between them. He had no one to speak to, which made it worse. He could not write to his mother or even to Violet, because there was nothing to tell. Mr Oswald was sharp and short in his manner of speaking to him, that was all, and he had never said much to him at any time. No; there was nothing to tell. But he could not help being unhappy. The time seemed very long. The weather became very warm. All that he had to do out of the office was done languidly, and he began to wish for the time of his mother's return. He received little pleasure from his books, but he faithfully gave the allotted time to them, and got, it is to be hoped, some profit. He made himself busy in the garden, too, and gave little Dick Lacy his accustomed lesson in writing and book-keeping as regularly as usual. But, through all his work and all his amusements, he carried with him a sense of discomfort. He never could forget that all was not right between him and his master, though he could not guess the reason. He seemed to see him oftener than usual these days. He sometimes overtook him on his way home; and, once or twice, when he was working in the garden, he saw him cross the bridge and pass the house. Once he came at night to the house about some business, which, he said, had been forgotten. David was mortified and vexed, because he had not heard him knock, and because, when he entered, he found him lying asleep with his head on his Greek dictionary, and he answered the questions put to him stupidly enough; but he saw that business was only a pretence. Next day, kind, but foolish Mrs Lacy told him that Mr Oswald had been at her house asking all manner of questions about him; what he did, and where he went, and how he passed his time; and though David was surprised, and not very well pleased to hear it, it was not because he thought Mr Oswald had begun to doubt him. Indeed, it came into his mind, that, perhaps, he was going to be asked at last to pass a few days at the big house with Frank, who had returned home not at all well. He was, for a moment, quite certain of this, when he carried in the letters in the morning, for Mr Oswald's manner was much kinder, and he spoke to him just as he used to do. But he did not ask him, and Frank did not come down to see him at the bank, as David hoped he might. That night, Mr Caldwell returned to Singleton. He did not arrive till after the bank was closed, but he came down to see David before he went home. The first words he spoke to him were concerning the lost money; and, how it came about, David could never very well remember. Whether the accusation was made in words, or whether he caught the idea of suspicion in his friend's hesitating words and anxious looks, he did not know, nor did he know in what words he answered him. It was as if some one had struck him a heavy blow, and then he heard Mr Caldwell's voice, saying: "Have patience, David. You are not the first one that has been falsely accused. Anger never helped any one through trouble yet. What would your mother say?" His mother! David uttered a cry in which there was both anger and pain. Was his mother to hear her son accused as a thief? "David," said his friend solemnly, "it is at a time like this that our trust in God stands us in stead. There is nothing to be dismayed at, if you are innocent." "If!" said David, with a gasp. "Ay! `if!' Your mother herself might say as much as that. And you have not said that the charge is a false one yet." "I did not think I should need to say so to you!" "But you see, my lad, I am not speaking for myself. I was bidden ask you the question point blank, and I must give your answer to him that sent me. My word is another matter. You must answer to him." "To Mr Oswald, I suppose? Why should he suspect me? Has he been suspecting me all these weeks? Was that the reason he wished nothing said about it in the office?" "That was kindly meant, at any rate; and you needna' let your eyes flash on me," said Mr Caldwell, severely. "Don't you think it has caused him much unhappiness to be obliged to suspect you?" "But why should he suspect _me_?" "There seemed to be no one else. But he must speak for himself. I have nothing to say for him. I have only to carry him your answer." "I will answer him myself," said David, rising, as though he were going at once to do it. But he only walked to the window and stood looking out. "David," said Mr Caldwell, "put away your books, and come home with me." "No, I cannot do that," said David, shortly. He did not turn round to answer, and there was not another word spoken for a while. By and by Mr Caldwell rose, and said, in his slow way: "David, my lad, the only thing that you have to do in this matter is to see that you bear it well. The accusation will give but small concern to your mother, in comparison with the knowledge that her son has been indulging in an angry and unchristian spirit." And then he went away. He did not go very far, however. It was getting late, and, in the gathering darkness, and the unaccustomed silence of the place, the house seemed very dreary and forsaken to him, and he turned back before he reached the gate. "David," said he kindly, opening the door, "come away home with me." But David only answered as he had done before. "No, I cannot do that." He said it in a gentler tone, however, and added: "No, I thank you, Mr Caldwell, I would rather not." "It will be dreary work staying here with your sore and angry heart. You need not be alone, however. You don't need me to tell you where you are to take all this trouble to. You may honour _Him_ by bearing it well," said his friend. "Bear it well!" No, he did not do that; at least, he did not at first. When Mr Caldwell had gone, and David had shut the doors and windows to keep out the rain that was beginning to fall, the tears, which he had kept back with difficulty when his friend was there, gushed out in a flood. And they were not the kind of tears that relieve and refresh. There was anger in them, and a sense of shame made them hot and bitter as they fell. He had wild thoughts of going that very night to Mr Oswald to answer his terrible question, and to tell him that he would never enter his office again; for, even to be questioned and suspected, seemed, to him, to bring dishonour, and his sense of justice made him eager to defend himself at whatever cost. But night brought wiser counsels; and David knew, as Mr Caldwell had said, where to betake himself with his trouble; and the morning found him in quite another mind. As for Mr Caldwell, he did not wait till morning to carry his answer to Mr Oswald. He did not even go home first to his own house, though he had not been there for a fortnight. "For who knows," said he to himself, "what that foolish lad may go and say in his anger, and Mr Oswald must hear what I have to say first, or it may end badly for all concerned." He found Mr Oswald sitting in the dining-room alone, and, after a few words concerning the business which had called him away during the last few weeks, he told him of his visit to David, and spoke with decision as to the impossibility of the lad's having any knowledge of the lost money. "It seems impossible, certainly," said Mr Oswald; "and yet how can its disappearance be accounted for? It must have been taken from the table or from the safe on the very day it was brought to me, or I must have seen it at night. There can be no doubt it was brought to me on that day, and there can be no doubt it was after all the others, except young Inglis and yourself were gone. I was out, I remember, when it was time to go home. When I came in, there was no one in the outer office. You had sent David out, you said. He came in before I left--" And he went over the whole affair again, saying it was not the loss of the money that vexed him. Though the loss had been ten times as great, it would have been nothing in comparison with the vexation caused by the loss of confidence in those whom he employed. "For some one must have taken the money, even if David Inglis be not guilty." Here they were both startled by a voice from the other end of the room. "David Inglis, papa! What can you mean?" and Frank came hurriedly forward, stumbling against the furniture as he shaded his eyes from the light. "My boy! are you here? What would the doctor say? You should have been in bed long ago." "But, papa, what is it that is lost? You never could blame Davie, papa. You could not think Davie could take money, Mr Caldwell?" "No, I know David Inglis better," said Mr Caldwell, quietly. "And, papa, you don't think ill of Davie? You would not if you knew him. Papa! you have not accused him? Oh! what will Aunt Mary think?" cried the boy in great distress. "Papa, how could you do it?" Mr Oswald was asking himself the same question. The only thing he could say was that there was no one else, which seemed a foolish thing to say in the face of such perfect confidence as these two had in David. But he could not go over the whole matter again, and so he told Frank it was something in which he was not at all to meddle, and in his discomfort and annoyance he spoke sharply to the boy, and sent him away. "But I shall go to Davie the first thing in the morning, papa. I would not believe such a thing of Davie, though a hundred men declared it. I would sooner believe it of--of Mr Caldwell," said Frank, excitedly. "Be quiet, Frank," said his father; but Mr Caldwell laughed a little and patted the boy on the shoulder as he passed, and then he, too, said good-night and went away. And Mr Oswald was not left in a very pleasant frame of mind, that is certain. True to his determination to see David, Frank reached the bank next morning before his father. He reached it before David, too, and he would have gone on to meet him, had it not been that the bright sunshine which had followed the rain had dazzled his poor eyes and made him dizzy, and he was glad to cover his face and to lie down on the sofa in his father's office for a while. He lay still after his father came in, and only moved when he heard David's voice saying-- "Mr Caldwell told me you wished to see me, sir." Then Frank started up and came feeling his way towards his friend. "He does not mean it, Davie!" he cried. "Papa knows you never could have done such a thing. Don't be angry, old fellow." And then he put out his hand to clasp David's, and missed it partly because of their natural dimness and partly because of the tears that rushed to them. David regarded him in dismay. "Are they so bad as that, Frank? Are they worse again?" said David, forgetting his own trouble in the heavier trouble of his friend. They were bad enough, and there was more wrong with the boy besides his eyes. He was ill and weak, and he burst out crying, with his head on David's shoulder, but his tears were not for himself. "You were wrong to come out to-day, Frank," said his father, surprised and perplexed at his sudden break-down; "you must go home immediately." "Papa, tell Davie that you do not believe he took the money," cried the boy. "He _could_ not do it, papa." "Indeed, I did not, sir," said David. "I know nothing about the matter except what Mr Caldwell has told me. You may believe me, sir." "I do not know what to believe," said Mr Oswald. "It seems unlikely that you should be tempted to do so foolish and wrong a thing. But I have been deceived many a time. Who could have taken it?" "It was not I," said David, quietly, and while he said it he was conscious of a feeling of thankfulness that he had not seen Mr Oswald in the first angry moment after he had known of his suspicion. An angry denial, he felt now, would have availed little. "Papa, begin at the beginning and tell Davie all about it. Perhaps he will think of something you have forgotten--something that may help you to find out where the money has gone," said Frank, earnestly. But Mr Oswald would do nothing of the sort. He was tired and perplexed with the matter, and he had come to the determination to pay the lost money, and wait till time should throw light on the circumstances of its loss, or until the guilty person should betray himself. "You must go, Frank. You are not fit to be here," said he. "I want to hear you tell Davie that you don't believe he is a thief." A thief! That is a very ugly word, and David winced as it was spoken. Mr Oswald winced too. "Money has been taken from this room, and until the manner of its disappearance be discovered, all who had access to the place must, in a sense, be open to suspicion. Let us hope that the guilty person will be found out, and in the meantime, let nothing more be said about it." "But why did you not tell me at once that you suspected me?" said David, in some excitement. "It was not a pleasant thing to tell." "No, but it is not pleasanter to hear it now. There is less chance that the guilty person may be traced now, than if the loss had been declared at once. And must I lie under the suspicion always? I do not think you have been just to me." "That will do. The less said the better," said Mr Oswald. "Frank, you must go home." "You will not go away, Davie?" said Frank. "Not if I may stay. Where could I go?" said David. "You will stay, of course. Let us hope the truth about this unpleasant business may come out at last. We must all be uncomfortable until it does." "If you had only spoken to David about it sooner," said Frank, again. But Mr Oswald would neither say nor hear more. Entreated by Frank, however, he asked David to go and stay at his house, till his mother returned home. But David refused to go even for a day, and no entreaties of Frank could move him. "I don't wonder that you will not come," said Frank. "I don't blame you for refusing. And oh! what will Aunt Mary think of us all?" "She will know that _you_ are all right, Frank," said David, trying to look cheerful as he bade his friend good-bye at the door. He did not succeed very well, nor did Frank; and David, thinking of it afterwards, was by no means sure that he had been right in refusing to go to stay with him for a while, and thinking of his friend's troubles did him some good, in that it gave him less time to think of his own. But he could not make up his mind to go to Mr Oswald's house, and he did not see Frank again for a good while after that. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. David had rather a hard time for the next few days. A great trouble had fallen on him. He could have borne anything else better he sometimes thought. His good name was in danger, for even a false accusation must leave a stain on it, he thought. Every day that passed made it less likely that the mysterious matter of the lost money could be cleared up, and until this happened, Mr Oswald would never perfectly trust him again; and David said to himself, sometimes sadly and sometimes angrily, that he could not stay where he was not trusted. Nor was it likely that Mr Oswald would wish him to stay. They might have to leave the bridge house and Singleton, and where could they go? Of course a constant indulgence in such thoughts and fears was very foolish on David's part, and almost always he knew it to be foolish. He knew that all this trouble had not fallen on him by chance, and that out of it some good must come. He said to himself that he had been growing proud of his good name, of being his mother's right hand, and of having the confidence of Mr Oswald, and perhaps this had been permitted to happen to him to remind him that he must be watchful and humble, and that he could do nothing good of himself. Gradually David came to see how right Mr Caldwell had been when he said that it was a very great matter how he bore his trial, and he grew ashamed of his anger and impatience and distrust. Just as if the Lord who loved him, and whom he loved, were not caring for him all this time! Just as though this were a matter that could not be committed to His care--trusted altogether to Him! Yes, he acknowledged himself very foolish and wrong. A great many times every day he asked that his good name might be cleared from the stain that seemed to rest on it; but as often he asked, that whether it was to be so or not, he might have grace and strength given to bear his trouble well. He did bear it pretty well, Mr Caldwell thought, and he watched him closely through these days. Mr Oswald thought so, top, and wondered a little. He could not really believe David Inglis to be guilty of theft, but it seemed strange to him that he should be so cheerful and patient under a false accusation. The only way in which he showed that he resented his suspicion, was by being firm in continuing to refuse the invitation to his house, which he again renewed. Frank told his father that he did not wonder at the refusal; he tried all the same to shake David's resolution, but he did not succeed. David did not think he bore his trial well. In his heart, he was angry and desponding often. And, oh! how he wanted his mother! It would not have been half so bad if she had been at home, he thought, and yet he could not bring himself to write to her about it. When it should be made clear where the lost money had gone--so clear that even Mr Oswald would not have a doubtful thought, then he would tell his mother, and get the sympathy which would be so ready and so sweet. It would spoil her happy summer to know that he was in trouble, he thought, and, besides, he could not bear that she should know that any one had dared to speak of him as dishonest. This was foolish, too, but he could not tell her till afterwards. His mother was not quite at ease about him. She knew he was in trouble. She had gathered that from the changed tone of his weekly letter, and an inadvertent word, now and then, led her to believe that there was something more the matter than the loneliness to which he confessed after Jem went away. So, when an opportunity occurred for Violet to go to Singleton for a day or two, she was very glad that she should go, to see how Davie was getting on, and to give him an account of their manner of life in Gourlay. And when David came home one night, to find Violet making tea instead of Mrs Lacy, was he not glad to see her! He was more glad to see her than he would have been to see his mother. He knew he never could have talked half an hour with his mother without telling her all that was in his heart, and he could keep it from Violet. At least, so he said to himself. But when tea was over, and Violet had told him all they were doing at Gourlay, and all they were enjoying there, she began to ask him questions in return, and, before he knew it, he was telling all the sad story of the last few weeks, and was looking with wonder at his sister's astonished and indignant face. For astonishment was Violet's first feeling--astonishment that such a thing could have happened to Davie, and for a little, it was stronger even than her indignation. "And haven't you the least idea what may have become of the money, Davie? Don't you have any suspicion of any one?" asked she, after she had said a good many angry words that need not be repeated. "Have they not been trying to discover something?" "They have been trying, I suppose." "And what do _you_ think, Davie? There must be some clue, surely." But David was silent. "You do suspect some one?" said Violet, eagerly. "No," said he, slowly; "I have no sufficient reason for suspecting any one." "Tell _me_, Davie." "No; I have no right to tell my suspicions, or to suspect any one. It came into my head one night; but I know it is foolish and wrong, and I have nothing to tell." "When did it happen?" asked Violet, after a little. David could not tell her the exact time. He had never been told the date of the receipt which Mr Oswald had given; but he thought it could not have been very long after his mother went away, though he had not heard of the loss till after Jem had gone. Violet went here and there putting things to rights in the room, and said nothing for a good while. By and by she came and leaned over the chair in which David was sitting, and asked: "David, when did Philip Oswald go away?" David turned round and looked at her uneasily. "A good while ago. Soon after you all went away to Gourlay. No, Violet--don't say it," said he, eagerly, as he met her look. "He could not do it. Why should he? He has all the money he wants. And, besides, he _could_ not do such a thing." "David," said Violet, gravely, "was it Philip that you were thinking about?" "Don't, Violet! It came into my mind--I couldn't help that, but it is wrong to speak of it. It could not have been he." "I don't know. It does not seem possible. He is foolish and frivolous--and not to be relied on; but I do not think he would do such a thing as--take money--unless--" "Violet! Don't speak of it. A false accusation is a terrible thing." "I am not accusing him. There does not seem to be a sufficient motive for such an act. The sum was so small--and then--" "Dear Violet!" said David, in great distress, "don't speak of it any more." "Well, I will not--but Mr Oswald accused you. You are a great deal better than I am, Davie," said his sister, softly. David laughed an uncertain laugh. "That is all you know about it," said he. When Violet went up next day to speak to Miss Oswald about the little girls, the first word that Frank said to her was: "Has Davie told you? Oh! Violet, what will Aunt Mary think of papa?" But Violet could not trust herself to speak of Davie's trouble to him. She was too angry with his father; and, besides, she was too startled by Frank's pale looks to be able to think, for the moment, of any one but him. "Are you ill, Frank? Are your eyes worse? What have you been doing to them?" For Frank had dropped his head down on his hands again. "Yes, they are worse. I was out in the rain, and caught cold. I was not strong enough to go, I suppose. Phil, sent me back with some people who were coming down. He would have come himself, but, of course, I couldn't let him." "You would have done better to come to Gourlay with us," said Violet. "Yes, even without Jem or Davie. I wish I had gone." "Come with me to-morrow," said Violet, earnestly. "Mamma will be very glad to see you." But Frank shook his head sadly. "I cannot, Violet. I should be ashamed to look Aunt Mary in the face-- after--" "You need not, Frank. Mamma will know. And you don't suppose that anything they say can really hurt our Davie?" "No; not in the end. But--there's no use in talking." "I am not afraid!" said Violet. "And mamma will not fret about it; I am sure of that?" There was nothing more said for some time, and then Violet asked: "Where is your brother now?" "He must be far across the country by this time. He was enjoying the trip very much when I left him." "And when will he be home?" "I don't know. Not for a good while yet. Why are you asking?" Frank raised himself up, and peered with his dim eyes into Violet's face. "Why are you asking?" he repeated. But Violet did not answer him. As she looked at his poor, pale face, the tears started in her eyes. "Frank, dear boy, you must come home with me. You want mamma again. She will do you more good than the doctor." "Violet, tell me one thing! Does Davie blame Phil--about the missing money, I mean. Tell me!" "Davie blame your brother! Why should you say so? Davie would be shocked at such a question from you. What reason could he have to blame Philip?" But Violet was very glad that he did not pursue the subject, for she was afraid to let him know all her thoughts about Davie's trouble. She did not give him an opportunity to return to the subject. She wished very much for Frank's sake that he should return to Gourlay with her, and she hastened to propose the plan to his aunt. Miss Oswald was, by no means, disposed to hinder him, though she doubted if his father would let him go. She was not very much accustomed to the society of young people, and she had been at a loss what to do with the boy, who, though not very ill, was disinclined, and, indeed, unable to amuse himself, or to enter into any of the plans which were made for his pleasure, so she promised to speak to his father, and to have his things ready should he be permitted to go. Violet took care to avoid being alone with Frank while she stayed in the house, and nothing more was said about Philip. It was all arranged as Violet desired it might be. Mr Oswald made no serious objections to his son's going to Gourlay. Frank himself objected, but the prospect of going with Violet was too pleasant to make his refusal very firm, and the thought of the loneliness of his own home decided him to go. "Violet," said David, when the time came to say good-bye, "you must not tell mamma about all this vexation. It would only make her unhappy, and do no good." But Violet would not promise. "I cannot, Davie. I cannot keep anything from mamma when she wishes to know it; and she will be sure to ask everything about you. But you need not be afraid. Mamma will not fret. She will know that it will all be right in the end." And the "end" of David's trouble, as far as the missing money was concerned, was nearer than either of them thought when they bade each other good-bye. He had a few days more of anxiety and discomfort, in the midst of which came a letter from his mother, which made it seem to him a very small trouble indeed. He read it over and over again, and laughed at himself for supposing that he was acting wisely in keeping the knowledge of all that was making him so unhappy from his mother. "Mamma always knows just what to say and how to say it," said he to himself; "and, of course, she is not going to fret about a matter which is sure to come right in the end." And so the days that followed were better days, though the hot weather, and the close confinement in the office through the day, and the loneliness of the deserted house at home, were beginning to tell on him, and he was by no means well. He did his best to do well all that was given him to do, but the days were long and dull and the evenings lonely, and he began to count the days that must pass before they should all come home. There was something going on in the town one afternoon, a cricket match or a match at football, and all the clerks had left the bank at the earliest possible moment, intent on seeing all that was to be seen of it. David would have gone with, the rest, but Mr Caldwell, who was at the moment engaged with Mr Oswald in his private room, had asked him to remain till he came out to him again. David waited, not caring that he lost the amusement that the others sought, not caring very much for anything just at that moment, for he was tired and getting a little unhappy again, and very much ashamed of himself because of it. For when he had read his mother's letter only the other day, he had taken all the comfort of her cheerful, trustful words, and acknowledged how foolish and wrong it had been for him to let Mr Oswald's doubts and suspicions dismay him. He had said then that it was all past now, and that he could wait God's time for the clearing of his name, without being unhappy or afraid again. And now here he was wondering anxiously whether Mr Oswald and Mr Caldwell were speaking about the lost money, and whether any thing more was known that he had not heard. He was tired waiting, and wanted to go home, and yet the thought of the empty house and the long dull evening was not pleasant, and he was saying to himself that it did not matter whether he stayed or went, when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a familiar voice said-- "Well, Davie, my boy, have you been standing here ever since I went away?" David turned and saw Philip Oswald. In his surprise, and because of the many thoughts that came upon him at the sight of him, he did not utter a word. He forgot to take the hand which Philip held out to him. "Have you, Davie? I declare you look as if you had not seen the light of the sun for a month! What is the matter with you, Davie?" He might well ask it, for David had grown very pale, and his heart was beating fast. In spite of his judgment, he had, since his talk with Violet, associated Philip with the thought of the lost money, and now as he looked at his frank, handsome face, he said how impossible it was that he should have taken it, or that he should know anything about it. No, Philip Oswald could not help him out of his trouble. "When did you come, Philip?" said he. "I should scarcely have known you, if you hadn't spoken." Philip had changed more than seemed possible in two months' time. He was brown with the sun and much more manly-looking. He even seemed to David to have grown taller in these two months. "I have improved, haven't I? I can't say as much for you. What is the trouble, Davie?" Philip laid his hand on his shoulder again, and brought his laughing brown face close to David's. But David drew himself away. He hated himself for the feeling of anger and envy that rose in his heart as he looked at Philip. Why should life be so easy to him? Why should the summer have passed so differently to them? At the moment he was very miserable, tired of his trouble and of his laborious life, faithless and afraid. So he withdrew from the young man's touch, and turned away saying nothing. "Is it as bad as that? Can't I help you? Frank seemed to think I might, though I could not make out from his letter what was the trouble or how I could help you out of it. Is it about money, Davie? Have you got into a scrape at last?" "A scrape!" repeated David. "No you cannot help me, I am afraid. I should be sorry to trouble you." "Trouble! Nonsense! I have come a fortnight sooner than I wanted to come, because of Frank's letter. He seemed to think I could put you through. What has my father to do with it? Halloo! Here is old Caldwell. Must it be kept dark, Davie?" David made him no answer. Unconsciously he had been looking forward to the time of Philip's coming home, with hope that in some way or other light might be thrown on the matter that had darkened all the summer to him, but Philip evidently knew nothing of it, and all must be as before. If he could have got away without being questioned, he would have gone, for he was by no means sure that he might not disgrace himself by breaking into angry words, or even into tears. He certainly must have done one or other if he had tried to speak, but he did not need to answer. "So you have come home!" said Mr Caldwell, as he came forward. "You have not been in haste." "I beg your pardon. I _have_ been in haste. I did not intend to come home for ten days yet, if I had been allowed to have my own way about it." "And what hindered you? Matters of importance, doubtless." "You may be sure of that. Has my father gone home? I will just see him a minute, and then I'll go home with you, Davie," said Philip, turning towards his father's door. "David has important business with me," added he, looking over his shoulder with his hand on the door-handle. David shook his head. "Your father will tell you all about it," said he, hoarsely. Philip whistled and came back again. "That is the way, is it?" "Or I will tell you," said Mr Caldwell, gravely. "Young man, what did your brother Frank say to you in the letter he wrote to you a while ago?" Philip looked at him in surprise. "What is that to you, sir? He said--I don't very well know what he said. It was a mysterious epistle altogether, and so blurred and blotted that I could hardly read it. But I made out that Davie was in trouble, and that I was expected home to bring him through." Searching through his many pockets, he at last found his brother's letter and held it out to David. "Perhaps you can make it out," said he. Blurred and blotted it was, and the lines were crooked, and in some places they ran into each other, and David did not wonder that Philip could not read it very well. He saw his own name in it and Violet's, and he knew of course that what Frank had to say was about the lost money, but he could see also that the story was only hinted at, and the letter was altogether so vague and indefinite, that it might well seem mysterious to Philip. "Can you make it out?" Philip asked. "I know what he means, though perhaps I should not have found it out from this. Your father will tell you, or Mr Caldwell." "All right! Fire away, and the sooner the better, for I am tired. If I can help you out of the scrape, I will." "That is to be seen yet," said Mr Caldwell. Then he told the story of the lost money, using as few words as possible, as was his way. He only told the facts of the case, how the money had been brought to Mr Oswald and its receipt acknowledged by him, and how a part of it had never been found or accounted for, and how Mr Oswald had first suspected, and then openly accused David Inglis of having taken it. He did not express any opinion as to whether Mr Oswald was right or wrong, nor offer any suggestion as to what might have become of the missing money, and one might not have thought from his way of telling it, that he was particularly interested in the matter. But he never removed his eyes from Mr Philip's face, and his last words were-- "And it seems your brother thought you might have some knowledge of the matter. Is that what he says in his letter?" Philip's face was well worth looking at as the story went on. At first he whistled and looked amused, but his amusement changed to surprise, and then to consternation, as Mr Caldwell proceeded. When he ceased speaking he exclaimed without heeding his question-- "What could my father mean? To blame Davie, of all people!" "There was no one else, he thought," said David. "No one else!" repeated Philip. "Nonsense! There was Mr Caldwell and all the rest of them in the office, and there was _me_. I took the money." "If you had acknowledged it a little sooner, it would have been a wiser thing for yourself, and it would have saved your father much vexation, and a deal of unhappiness to David Inglis and the rest of them," said Mr Caldwell, severely. "You had best tell your father about it now," added he, as Mr Oswald came out of his room. "Acknowledge it! Of course, I acknowledge it. Papa, did you not get the note I left on your table for you the day I went away?" "The note!" repeated his father. "I got no note from you." "David, my man," whispered Mr Caldwell, "do you mind the word that says, `He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment as the noonday?' The Lord doesna forget." The story as they gathered it from Philip's explanations and exclamations was this: He had come to the office to see his father directly from the train that had brought him home from C--. He had not found him in, but he had written a note to explain that through some change of plan the company of explorers were to set out immediately, and that he must return to C-- without a moment's delay, in order that all arrangements might be completed by the time that the boat sailed. He was almost sure he had acknowledged taking the small rolls of silver that were on the table; he was quite sure that he had left the full value in paper money in exchange. There could be no mistake about it, and he had never doubted but his father had received it. "And, papa! the absurdity of suspecting Davie," said Philip, not very respectfully, when his story was done. "And now the matter lies between him and you," said his father. "For the money is not forthcoming. You may have neglected to leave it after all." But Philip was certain as to that point. He had enclosed it with his note and closed the envelope, leaving it on an open ledger that was lying on the table. There could be no mistake about that. "And we are just where we were before," said Mr Caldwell. "But don't be cast down, David. There must be a way out of this." "But nothing astonishes me so much as that my father should have doubted Davie. That was too absurd, you know. If I had been you, Davie, I would have cut the whole concern," said Philip. "There would have been much wisdom in that," said Mr Caldwell dryly. "There is no fear of David Inglis." David said nothing. He stood folding and unfolding the letter that Philip had given him, struck dumb by the thought that nothing had really been discovered of the missing money, and that the suspicion of Mr Oswald might still rest on him "I wonder you did not think of me, father," went on Philip. "Frank did, I dare say, though I could not make out what he meant. But the money must be somewhere. Let us have a look." He went into his father's room, and the others followed. Philip looked about as though he expected everything might be as he left it two months ago. There were loose papers on the table, and some letters and account-books. The morning paper was there, and Mr Oswald's hat and cane, and that was all. "The big book lay just here," said Philip. "I laid my note on it, so that it need not be overlooked." "There are more big books in the office than one," said Mr Caldwell, crossing the room to a large safe, of which the doors were still standing open. One by one he lifted the large account-books that were not often disturbed, and turned over the leaves slowly, to see whether any paper might have been shut in them. As soon as Philip understood what he was doing, he gave himself to the same work with a great deal more energy and interest than Mr Caldwell displayed. But it was Mr Caldwell who came upon that for which they were looking--Philip's note to his father--safe between the pages of a great ledger, which looked as though it might not have been opened for years. "I mind well; I was referring back to Moses Cramp's account of past years on the very day that brought us all our trouble. And now, David Inglis, your trial is over for this time," and he handed the note to Mr Oswald. "Provided Mr Philip has made no mistake," added he, cautiously, as the note was opened. The interest with which David looked on may be imagined. It took Mr Oswald a good while to read the note; at least, it was a good while before he laid it down, and Mr Caldwell, claiming Mr Philip's help, set about putting the big books in their places again. David never thought of offering to help. "It has been a very unfortunate mistake," said Mr Oswald, at last. "All's well that ends well," said his son lightly. "I am very sorry that you should have been made unhappy about it, David. I might have known that _you_ were not to blame, but there seemed to be no one else. I beg your pardon sincerely," said Mr Oswald. "I am very glad it is all right, sir," said David, quietly. "I should like to know one thing," said Philip. "How came Frank to write to me? He must have thought I was the thief--the young rascal. Did you think so, Davie?" "No," said David, "I never thought you took it. I don't know what Frank thought. I never spoke to him about it, nor to any one," added David, after a moment's hesitation. "Well! never mind. I'll sift that matter by and by. Come up to the house with me, Davie. I am very sorry for all the pain you have had about this business. Come home with me to-night." "No; I am going home by myself. I have a headache. You were not to blame." "Yes, he was to blame," said Mr Oswald. "It was a very unbusiness-like way of doing things, and it might have ended badly for all concerned." "It has been bad enough all through for David Inglis. Mr Philip, if you wish to make amends to him, you should offer to take his place and let him go to the country to amuse himself with the rest for a few days." Philip opened his eyes. "I am afraid I could not fill David's place in the office," said he. "I am afraid of that, too. But you would be better than nobody, and we would have patience with you. And David must go for awhile, whether you take his place or no." "Yes," assented Mr Oswald, rather absently. "He might as well have a holiday now as any time. And, Philip, I expect you to take your own place in the office after this regularly." Philip shrugged his shoulders, when his father was not looking to see. "I'll give it a trial," said he. "And can I go to-morrow, Mr Caldwell?" said David. "I have no preparations to make, and I should like to take them by surprise." "By all means. I should like to go with you and see it," said Philip. "But, I suppose, that would hardly do--just at present." David bade them good-night, and went down the street with Mr Caldwell. "I am much obliged to you, sir. I am very glad to get away from the office for awhile, to say nothing of going to Gourlay and seeing them all." David's eyes sparkled at the thought. "Well! You have borne your trouble not so ill," said Mr Caldwell; "and you may tell your mother I said so." David laughed; but he looked grave in a moment. "I don't think you would say I bore it well, if you knew all the angry thoughts I had. But I am very glad and thankful now, and I am sure mamma will thank you for all your kindness. I know now you never thought me capable of doing so wrong a thing." "We are all poor creatures, David, my man. There is no saying what we mightna' do if we were left to ourselves. Be thankful and humble, and pray for grace to keep in the right way; and mind that yon young man's eyes are upon you, and that you are, in a measure, responsible for his well-doing or his ill-doing, for awhile, at least; and may the Lord guide you," said Mr Caldwell, solemnly, and then he went away. David stood gazing after him with astonished eyes. "I responsible for him! That can hardly be. I am nothing to him. I wonder what mamma would say? I shall have nothing to do with him for awhile, at least. I like Frank much the best. Oh! isn't it good to be going home!" David had one thing to do with Philip Oswald before he went away. He came to the station with a parcel which he wished him to take to his little sisters, and to see him off. He was merry and good-humoured, though he pretended to be dreadfully afraid of not being able to fill David's place in the office to the satisfaction of Mr Caldwell. "If Aunt Mary will ask me, I will come to Gourlay and spend some Sunday with you," said he. "I have a settlement to make with Master Frank. I did not think that he and Violet would have called me a dishonest person, even to clear you. I am very angry with them both." He did not look very angry, for he said it with laughing lips. But David was shocked. "Violet never thought that of you. She only said that--that--" "Well! What did she say?" demanded Philip. "She said it was quite impossible," went on David. "She said there was no motive--I mean--She said you were foolish, and frivolous, and thought first of your own pleasure--but--" There was not time for another word, if David would not lose the train. He was indignant with himself. Why could he not have kept silence for two minutes longer? And yet, as he caught a glimpse of Philip's astonished face as the train swept past him on the platform, he could not help laughing a little, and hoping that the truth might do him good. For it was true, and Philip did not hear unpleasant truths too often for his welfare. "At any rate, I am not going to vex myself about it now," said David. And he was quite right. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. And were they not glad to see David in Gourlay? Almost always something happens to mar, a little, the pleasure of a surprise that has been planned beforehand; but nothing happened to mar David's. He travelled to Gourlay in a late train; and as he went up the familiar road, and saw the lights gleaming through the trees, as he had seen them so often in the old days, a great many thoughts crowded upon him, and, if the truth must be told, there were tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, too, when he opened the door and went in among them. They were all there. Even little Polly, by some happy chance, was up at the unusual hour. Was there ever music so sweet, as the glad cry that greeted him? There were tears on more cheeks than David's; but his mother did not ask if his trouble was over; she knew by his face,-- though it was wet,--that he was at peace with himself, and troubles from without, do not hurt much, when the heart's peace is undisturbed. The words that rose to Violet's lips were kept back, as she looked from her mother's face to David's. But Frank could see nobody's face, and his own was very pale and anxious, as he listened to the happy tumult of voices around him. "Has Philip come home?" asked he, after a little. "Did he get my letter? Is it all right, Davie?" David laughed. "Oh, yes! it's all right. He got your letter, but I am afraid he couldn't read it very well. It brought him home a fortnight sooner than he meant to come, however." "And is it all right?" asked Frank, anxiously. "All right! Only I am afraid he will be sorry he came, for he has taken my place in the office for ten days at least, and he will be very sick of it before that time is over. Oh, yes! it is all right as right can be. Mamma, you were right. I need never have fretted, about it at all. But Philip has something to say to you, Frank, and to Violet," added David, laughing a little at the remembrance of his last glimpse of Philip's astonished face. But there was no more said then. Of course, the story of David's troubled summer was all told afterwards, to his mother first, and then to Frank and Violet. It was told to his mother before he slept, when she went to say "good-night" and take his lamp, as she used to do, long ago, in that very room. If David had had to tell the story of Mr Oswald's suspicions, before Philip's return had proved their injustice, he might have grown angry as he went on with it, and indulged in bitter words, as he had sometimes indulged in bitter thoughts. He had no temptation now to do this, and he did not seek to conceal from her how angry he had been at first, and how faithless and unhappy afterwards. He ended by giving Mr Caldwell's message to her, "that he had borne his trouble not so ill," and his mother agreed with Mr Caldwell, though she said less than she felt with regard to the whole matter. "You should have written to me, Davie," said she. "I wished you were there a thousand times, mamma, but I thought it would only make you unhappy to know about my trouble, since you couldn't help it. And for a long time there was nothing to tell. When I got your letter, after Violet came, I was sorry I hadn't told you before." There was a good deal more said before Mrs Inglis went down-stairs, but not much more about this matter. Sitting in the dark, with now and then a quiver in her voice, and tears on her cheeks, the mother told her son how it had been with her since they parted. The coming back to the old home and to her husband's grave had not been altogether sorrowful. Indeed, after the very first, it had been more joyful than sorrowful. "The memory of the just is blessed." "They rest from their labours, and their works do follow them." How clear this had been made to her during these days! The results of her husband's teaching and influence and example were visible now, as they had not been in former days. That which then had been as the hidden seed, or the shooting germ, had in some lives sprung up to blossom, or bear fruit an hundred fold. She told David of one and another who had spoken to her of his father, blessing his memory, because of what he had done for them and theirs, in the service of his Master, and then she said-- "It is the only true and worthy life, Davie--a life of work for the Master. Is it to be yours, my boy?" "Yes, mamma. In one way or another, it is to be mine. Whether it is to be as papa's was, I cannot tell." "That may come, dear. It is so blessed to feel that our times are in His hands. It would be great happiness to know that my son might give himself to the work of preaching the Gospel as his father did. But that must be as God wills. You may be his soldier and servant, whatever may be your calling; but we gave you to His work as soon as He gave you to us, and I pray God you may yet stand in your father's place." "A soldier of Christ--to gird on the armour that my father has laid down," said David, softly. "I _do_ wish it, mamma, if only it might be. But it must be a long time first." "Who knows? And it does not matter whether the time may be long or sort, if it is God's time. And all your life till it comes may be made a preparation." It was not often that Mrs Inglis spoke on this subject to her son. She had not done so more than once or twice since his father died. But it was, as she told him, the cherished wish of her heart, and the burden of her prayers for him that he should live and die in the work that had been his father's. The fulfillment of her hope did not seem very near, or possible, but David was young and she could wait, and, in the meantime, it was her pleasure and her duty to encourage him. Afterwards, when David looked back on this time, it was of his mother and these quiet talks with her that he always thought. Not that these two had much of these pleasant weeks to themselves or many opportunities to indulge in conversation which all could not share. Once they went to the North Gore together, and oh, how vividly came back to David the many times which during the last year of his father's life he had gone there with him! The memories awakened were sad, but they were sweet, for all the bitterness had gone out of his grief for his father, and he told his mother many things about those drives, and of all his father had said, and of the thoughts and feelings his words had stirred in his heart. And she had some things to tell as well. Once they lingered behind the others on their way home from church, and turned aside into the grave-yard for a little while. The moonlight was brightening in the east, and the evening star shone clear in the west, and in the soft uncertain light, the white grave-stones, and the waving trees, and the whole place looked strangely beautiful and peaceful to the boy's eyes. There were not many words spoken. There was no need of many words between these two. In the heart of the widow, as she sat there in the spot dearest to her on earth, because of the precious dust it held, was no forgetfulness of past sorrow, but there was that perfect submission to God's will, which is the highest and most enduring happiness. There was trust for the future, such as left no room for doubt or for discouragement; and so there was peace for the present, which is better than happiness. She did not speak of all this to David, but he knew by many tokens what was passing in her heart, and he shared both the sadness and the gladness of the peaceful hour. There was a great deal of enjoyment of another kind crowded into the time of David's stay in Gourlay. There was only one thing to regret, and that was the absence of Jem. There were few familiar faces or places that he did not see. Sometimes Frank went with him, and sometimes Violet, and sometimes they all went together, but neither Frank nor Violet quite filled Jem's place to his brother. Though David had generally been regarded as much wiser and steadier than his brother, when they lived in Gourlay, they had had enough interests and amusements and tastes in common to make David miss him and regret him at every turn. And he missed him and wished for him all the more that he himself was regarded and treated by the people now as a man of business and a person of consideration. Of course, he could not object to the respect and deference shown to him in this character, but they were sometimes embarrassing, and sometimes they interfered with his plans for passing his much prized holiday. Jem would have made all things right, David thought, and it would have been far more agreeable to follow his leadership in the way of seeking amusement, as he used to do, than to have to sustain his reputation for gravity and steadiness among his elders. Still they all enjoyed these weeks thoroughly, though not in the way they would have done in Jem's company. Miss Bethia was paying a visit to a friend in a neighbouring town when David first came to Gourlay, which was upon the whole a circumstance not to be regretted, he thought, as they had a few days to themselves just at first. He was very glad to see her, when she came, however, and she was as glad to see him. Of course, she manifested her interest in him in the old way, by giving him good advice, and reminding him of his privileges, but to his mother she very decidedly signified her approval of him, and her satisfaction in regard to his walk and conversation generally, and spoke of his future profession--of his entering upon his father's work, as if it were a settled matter accepted by them all. But David was shy of responding to her expressions of interest on this subject. It was one thing to speak to his mother of his hopes, and quite another to listen to Miss Bethia's plans and suggestions, especially as she did not confine the discussion to themselves, but claimed the sympathy and congratulations of friends and neighbours, in view of his future work and usefulness. They did not fall out about it, however, and there was one matter of interest and discussion which they enjoyed entirely. This was the minister's much valued library. It was to be David's at some future time. That was quite settled, and in the meantime it had to be looked over and dusted and re-arranged, or rather arranged exactly as it had been left, and David handled the books "just as his father used to do," Miss Bethia said, "just as if he liked the feel of them in his hands," which he doubtless did. He liked them altogether, and no day of that happy month passed without at least one hour passed in the quiet of his father's study. David's coming home was especially good for Frank. He had been more anxious and unhappy about David's affairs than he had confessed, and about Philip's possible share in them--more anxious than he was able to believe possible, after he had talked it all over with David and Violet. That he had been really afraid that Philip had done any wrong, he would not allow to himself. To the others he never spoke of what his fears had been. But it was a great relief and satisfaction that it was all past, and no one worse for it, and as far as Frank was concerned, there was nothing to interfere with the enjoyment of the days as they passed. There had been one thing very terrible to him before he came to Gourlay to tell it to Aunt Mary--the fear of blindness. It had been all the worse for him at home, because he never spoke of his fears there--no one could bear to think of anything so sad, and fears brooded over in silence increase in power. But he could speak of it to Mrs Inglis, and the mere telling his fears had done something to allay them. Mrs Inglis's judicious words did more. It was foolish and wrong, she said, to go half way to meet so great a trouble. And since the physicians all declared that only time and an improved state of health were needed to restore perfectly his sight, to wait patiently and hopefully was his duty. It was easier for him to do so than it had been at home, and something better than patient waiting, better even than the hope of fully restored sight, came to Frank as the summer days went on. He and David enjoyed much, after the manner of lads of their age, in the agreeable circumstances in which they were placed; but their chief enjoyment was of a kind which lads of their age do not usually prize very much. David was boyish in many ways still, but the discipline of the last two years had wrought well with him, and Frank saw a great difference in him in one respect, at least. He had always been thoughtful, and he had always been earnest in the grave discussions into which they had sometimes fallen during his first visit, but there was this difference in him now, Frank saw. He spoke now, not doubtfully and wistfully as they all used to do, about "the whole armour" and the Christian's "weapons" and "warfare," but with firmness and assurance, as of something with which he had to do; and, though he said little about himself at such times, it gradually became clear to Frank that David was no longer his own--that his name had been enrolled among the names of those whose honour and glory it is that they are the soldiers of the Lord Jesus. It sometimes happens that young persons who have been carelessly brought up, or whose religious teaching has been merely formal, have less hesitation in speaking about personal religion than others who have had their consciences, if not their hearts, touched by the earnest and loving appeals of those who watch for their souls as they who must give account. And so, when David, sometimes unconsciously, and sometimes with intention, made it clear to him how the aim and purpose of his life were changed, and how he longed and meant to live in future as the servant and soldier of Christ, Frank listened and questioned with interest. And when David went further, and ventured on a gentle word or two of entreaty or counsel to him personally, he not only listened patiently, but responded frankly to all. And it was not always David who was first to turn the conversation to serious subjects. Frank had never forgotten the lessons learned during his first visit. He had often, in his own mind, compared the life his father was living with the life Mr Inglis had lived, and he did not think his father's life was the wisest or the happiest. "Labour for that which satisfieth not," told best the story of his father's life to him. He had thought that often during the last year, for he knew a little of his sister's exacting demands, of his brother's careless expenditure, and of the anxieties which troubled his father's days and nights because of them, and because of other things. And now, when in Gourlay he heard of the fruit already gathered and still to gather from the good seed sown in past years by the minister, he thought it still the more. Even for this life, the minister had had the best portion. True, he had lived and died a poor man; but, to Frank, it seemed that more was to be enjoyed in such poverty than ever his father had enjoyed from his wealth. Frank had many unhappy thoughts about his father and the rest, and some about himself. For himself and for them he desired nothing so much as that they might all learn the secret of perfect contentment which Mr Inglis had known, which made Mrs Inglis cheerful and not afraid, though there was little between her and utter poverty--the secret which David knew and Violet. And so, when David, in his not very assured way, spoke to him of the true riches, and of how they were to be obtained, he was more than willing to listen, and pleased and surprised his friend by his eagerness to learn. It was with no design or expectation of teaching on David's part, but it happened because they both cared about those things, that whenever they were alone together--on their way to or from any of their many visiting-places, or in the fields or woods, or while sailing on the river, the conversation almost always turned on graver matters than young lads usually care to discuss. It was often the same when Violet was with them or the mother, and Frank had reason to remember this time; for out of all these earnest talks and happy influences, there sprang up in his heart a strong desire to be, as they were, a follower of Christ-- a wish to give himself to Him and to His service--to be His in life and His in death. And by and by the desire was granted. He who never refuses to receive those who come to Him in sincerity, received him, and henceforth he and David were more than friends--they were brothers, by a bond stronger than that of blood, being joined in heart to Him, of whom it is said, "He is not ashamed to call" His people "brethren." Philip did not come to Gourlay, though an invitation was sent him by Mrs Inglis, and accepted by him. He was very busy in the office in David's absence, he wrote, but he would avail himself of the first leisure to come to them. He did not come, however, and they could only suppose that he was too useful in the office to be spared. They were very sorry, of course, for his sake and theirs, but the days passed happily with them. The time to leave came only too soon. Mrs Inglis decided that it would be better for them all to return to Singleton together, as the autumn days were becoming short, and it was time to be thinking of winter arrangements in many things. The last night came. It was not a night like the last one of Frank's former visit; but Frank was reminded of that night all the same. Instead of the rain, and wind, and sleet, that had made that night so dismal without, and the lights and the fire so pleasant within, there was a cloudless sky, flooded with the light of the harvest moon, and the air was so still that it did not stir the leaves of the trees beneath which they lingered. And yet Frank was in some way reminded of the night when they read about Hobab, and waited so long for Mr Inglis to come home. David must have been reminded of it, too, for, by and by, they heard him speaking to Miss Bethia of old Tim, and about his going with his father when he preached his funeral sermon at the North Gore. "And an excellent sermon it was," said Miss Bethia. "Don't you remember telling me about it that night when I was helping Letty to do the week's ironing when Debby was away?" "Yes," said David, laughing a little, "I remember it quite well." But, he added, gravely in a minute, "I think that must have been the very last time my father preached when he was quite well." "I am afraid he was not quite well then," said Miss Bethia, "though the sermon was good enough to have been his last. The night you repeated it to me was the first time I thought you had better be a minister. You might tell it over now, if you haven't forgotten it." David said to himself that he would be past remembering most things when he should forget what his father had said that day, and all that grew out of it. But he did not tell Miss Bethia so. He would not speak of the sermon, however--he would not go over it as a mere trial of memory; and, besides, it was not to be supposed that the children would listen patiently on this last night, when there was so much to be said. So, after that, the talk was mostly left to the little ones, and wandered away in various directions. Sometimes it was guided past week-day subjects by the mother, and sometimes it was gently checked, but, for the most part, this was not needed. The feeling that it was the last night was on them, and they were very quiet and a little sad. Miss Bethia was sad, too, and said little. She did not so far forget her duty as to omit her usual words of caution and counsel to each and all; but she did not mete it with her usual decision, and very nearly broke down in the middle of it. "Aunt Bethia, why don't you come home with us?" said Polly. "Mamma, why don't you ask Aunt Bethia to come home and stay with us till next summer?" "Where should we put her? There is no room in our house," said the practical Jessie, before her mother could answer. "That's so," said Miss Bethia. "Old as I have got to be, there ain't room for me in anybody's house but my own. I guess Debby and I will have to get along the best way we can till next summer, and then you must all come back again." "We don't know what may happen before next year," said Jessie. "And it is no good making plans so far ahead," said Ned. "And we shall hope to see Miss Bethia before summer, and then we can make our plans. Our house is not very large, Aunt Bethia, but there will always be room enough in it for such a friend as you have been to us all." "And you have promised to come, Aunt Bethia," said Violet. "If all is well," said Miss Bethia, gravely. "But we are poor creatures, at the best, as I don't need to tell you; and I don't feel as if I could count on much time or strength for my part. But it ain't best to worry." "We have had a good time here this summer, whether we come again or not," said Sarah Oswald. "I would like to stay here all winter, if Violet would stay too. It would be a great deal pleasanter than going back to Aunt Livy." "Only it is not quite the right thing to say so, Sally," said Frank. "It would be pleasant to stay for some things," said Violet. "But I am glad we are going home now. We shall come again in the summer, if Aunt Bethia will have us." "You are glad you came, mamma?" said David. "Very glad. It has been a happy summer to us all. The leaving you alone was the only thing to be regretted; but I don't think you are really the worse for being left." "No," said David, with a long breath. "But I am very glad we are all going home together. I only wish Aunt Bethia was not going to be left behind." In her heart Miss Bethia knew that it was quite as well for all concerned that she was to be left behind, still it pleased her to hear David's wish. She had had a pleasant summer as well as the rest; but she was not so strong as she used to be, and needed quiet. "Debby and I will tough it out together through the winter," said she; "and, like as not, those of us who are spared will have to make all their plans all over again. It will be all right, whichever way it is." Violet and David looked at Miss Bethia and at each other in surprise, not so much at her words, as at her manner of saying them. She looked as though it needed an effort to speak calmly, and she was very pale; and when she put up her hands to gather her shawl closer about her, they both noticed that they were trembling and uncertain. "Miss Bethia is growing old," whispered David. "And there is something more the matter with her than she will acknowledge, I am afraid," said Violet. "It is time to go into the house. The dew is beginning to fall. Come, children," said the mother, rising. David and Violet came last with Miss Bethia. She smiled, well pleased, when, with boyish gallantry, David offered her his arm. "I've gone alone all my life," said she, "and now I am most at the end of it. I've taken a great many steps, too, at one time and another, but they don't seem to amount to much to look back upon." "And you have a good many more to take, I hope," said Violet, hardly knowing how to answer her. But Miss Bethia shook her head. "It ain't likely. But the next six months seem longer to look forward to than a great many years do to look back upon. It is all right, anyhow. And, children, if I should never see you again--I want you to remember to consider your mother always. You must never forget her." "No," said David, wondering a little at her earnestness. "And, David, and you too, Violet, don't you get to thinking too much about property. It is a good thing to have, I'll allow, but it ain't the best thing by considerable. Some get to love it, by having too much, and some by having too little; but it ain't a satisfying portion any way that it can be fixed, and the love of it makes one forget everything else. And be sure and be good children to your mother, if I shouldn't ever see you again. I don't suppose I need to tell you so; but it's about as good a thing to say for a last word as any, except this--Follow the Lord always, and keep your armour bright." They answered her gravely and earnestly, as she seemed to expect, but it was with no thought that they were listening to her last words. They would see her, doubtless, many a time again; and they said so to her, as she repeated them in the morning when it was time to go. But Violet never saw her again; David saw her, when she was almost past words, and then she could only, with labouring breath, repeat the very same to him. It would have been a very sorrowful leave-taking if the children could have known that it was their last "Good-bye" to Miss Bethia. But it never came into the minds of any of them that the next time they saw the pleasant house in Gourlay, she would be sleeping by their father's side in the grave-yard over the hill. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. The next winter passed at the bridge house very much as former winters had done. Violet was in her old place at Mr Oswald's. It was much quieter there than it had ever been before, for Selina was spending the winter with her sister, and Mr Philip had gone to a situation in the city of M--, his father hoping that the stricter and more constant attention to his duties, that would be required from him there, would tell better in his business education than irregular work in the office at home could be supposed to do. Frank's eyes were better, but he was not permitted to use them much yet. It was part of Violet's duty to read to him, and a judicious selection of a course of historical reading made the winter pleasant and profitable to both. Jem was at school no longer. There is no royal road to the attainment of knowledge and skill in the profession he had chosen, even when the means and appliances of wealth are at one's disposal; and, having no money, there was nothing for Jem but to work with his hands as well as his head, and so he was adding his quota to the clamour made all day in the great engine-house at the other side of the town. Indeed, he worked a good deal more with his hands than his head for a time, and it needed some persuasion on his mother's part, and the exercise of some authority to keep him, during a reasonable time, every evening at his books. For Jem was a little unsettled by the new circumstances in which he found himself. His friendly ways and bright good temper made him popular among his fellow-workmen, and his popularity and his love of fun, together, the more exposed him to the power of temptations inseparable from the place, and but for his mother's kindness and firmness, judiciously mingled, it might have gone ill with Jem that winter. But he settled down after a little, and, with Mr Anstruther's help, devoted himself as zealously as ever to those branches of study absolutely necessary to advancement in the profession of an engineer. It was rather an anxious winter to Mrs Inglis on Jem's account, but it was, on the whole, a satisfactory winter to look back on, as far as he was concerned. Affairs were not going on so smoothly in the bank as they used to do. There were changes there. One clerk was removed to another branch of the concern, and the services of another were dispensed with altogether. David gained a step or two in consequence, and worked hard in acquiring the knowledge necessary for a right performance of his higher duties. Mr Oswald was away often, and did not seem to be in good health or spirits when he was at home. In spring, he resigned his office of acting director of the bank, and another was appointed in his place. Mr Caldwell, who had come into the bank with him, left with him--not because his services were no longer required there, but because Mr Oswald needed him, and he chose to give his services to him. For there were signs of coming trouble to the Oswalds. It began to be whispered in the town that the affairs of Mr Oswald were not in a prosperous condition, and that the resignation of his position in the bank had not been voluntary on his part, but demanded of him by those who were responsible for the successful carrying on of its affairs. Not that anything had gone wrong as yet, but he was extensively engaged in other business, and had other interests. He had to do with the quarries, and with lumbering affairs, and he had had something to do with the building of a railway, and had not prospered in all these things; and it could not be doubted that trouble was before him. There had been some anxiety lest David's place in the bank might not be permanent in the midst of so many changes, but no change was made in his case, and except that his work was somewhat different, and that more responsibility rested on him with regard to some matters, all went on as before. He missed Mr Oswald's face in the inner office, and he greatly missed the comings and goings of Mr Caldwell; but all went on in the bank with the same system and order as it had ever done. But troubles were thickening around the Oswalds. Mrs Mavor was ill and Selina was sent for to be with her. Mr Philip lost his situation in M--, and came home. Rumours had reached David, before this time, that his manner of life had not been satisfactory to his employers or to his friends, and Jem had heard more than David about him. Except to their mother, neither of them had spoken of this, but no one seemed surprised at his return. Before his return, Mr Oswald had been taken very ill, and his inability to attend to his business involved it in difficulties, which threatened to hasten the unhappy crisis, which even Mr Caldwell acknowledged must have come sooner or later on him. There was trouble in the house, it may well be supposed. Violet had many cares, for Miss Oswald was entirely occupied with her brother in his illness, and Frank devoted himself to his father in a way that was a help and a comfort to them all. As for Mr Philip, it was very difficult to believe that it could have come to this pass with his father. It seemed impossible to him that, after so many years of successful business-life, his father should be in danger of being left penniless; and he insisted to Frank and David, and even to Mr Caldwell, that there must have been mismanagement--probably dishonesty--on the part of some of those with whom he held business relations; and that this unhappy illness had been taken advantage of to bring matters to the painful crisis they had reached. So fully was he convinced of this, that it was, with difficulty, he could be prevented from applying to his father to obtain information with regard to certain affairs. But the doctor was imperative as to his not being disturbed by allusions to business now, or for some time to come. "It might cost his life or his reason, Dr Ward says," repeated Frank. "And even if he could be spoken to, it would do no good while he is unable to leave his room or even his bed. We must wait patiently. I don't suppose it will make any real difference in the end." Even Frank knew more about his father's affairs than Philip did. "If I had only staid in the office, instead of going to M-- last year," said he. "I don't suppose it would have made much difference. You would have known something about the books, perhaps, and papa might not have had to pay out so much money for you. I don't know, though. It is easy enough to spend money anywhere." Philip walked about impatiently. "What I have spent is not a drop in the bucket," said he. But the thought of the money he had spent and the money he owed made him very miserable. "You know best about that," said Frank. "Here is something that Mr Caldwell left to-day. It is addressed to papa, so he opened it, but he found that it is meant for you. I am very glad papa did not see it." Philip glanced at the paper his brother put in his hand. "Have you examined it?" asked he, sharply. "I looked at the sum total, not at the items." "Well! a gentleman must spend something on such things, if he is in society." "If he have it of his own to spend, you mean. I don't see the necessity. I'll venture to say that some of these items did not make you more like a gentleman, but less," said Frank. "That is for me to decide," said Philip, angrily. "I don't know that. However, you'll have to consult Mr Caldwell about it--the paying of it, I mean. Though the chances are, he will neither be able nor inclined to help you." "It is no great affair, anyway." "The helping you? or the sum total? It is more than half of David Inglis's yearly salary, and Aunt Mary has only that to keep house for them all--at least, she can't have much besides. It depends on how you look at a sum of money, whether it seems large or small." Philip had no answer ready. He walked about the room angry and miserable. Frank went on: "If you had not lost your situation, you might have paid it yourself, in time, I suppose. As it is you will have to fail too, or your creditor must make up his mind to wait. Are there more of them?" Frank asked the question coolly, as though it were a trifling matter they were discussing, and his manner throughout the whole discussion seemed intended, Philip thought, to exasperate him. "And it is not like Frank, the least in the world," said he to himself, as he uttered an exclamation at his words. "However," repeated Frank, "it is only a drop in the bucket, as you say." Philip stood still and looked at him, vexation and astonishment struggling with some other feeling, showing in his face. "Frank," said he, "it isn't like you to hit a fellow when he is down." "You need not be so very far down. I would not be down, if I were like you and could do anything," said Frank, with something like a sob in his voice. "It is precious little I can do, even if I knew what were needed." "Talk with Mr Caldwell." "Mr Caldwell! The thought of him gives me a chill; and I don't suppose he would talk with me. He hasn't a very high opinion of me,--in the way of business, or in any way." "He'd talk with you fast enough, if you would talk reasonably. Try him. He wants some one to go to Q-- about the timber that has been lying there some weeks now. Papa spoke about it too. It would have paid well, if he had been able to attend to the sale of it himself. But he has not perfect confidence in Donnelly the agent, and the time is passing. It must be sold soon, and Mr Caldwell can't be everywhere. I told him to send Davie Inglis, but he must not take him from the bank he thinks; and, besides he is so young and so boyish-looking. You would do quite as well, I dare say. At any rate, you would be better than no one." Philip looked as though he thought he was being "hit" again, but he said nothing. "One thing is certain," continued Frank, "if you are going to do any good in our present fix, you can only do it by knuckling down to old Caldwell. Nobody knows so much about papa's affairs as he does." Whether Philip "knuckled down" to Mr Caldwell or not, he never told Frank, but he did tell him that he was going in a day or two to Q--, to make arrangements for the sale of timber accumulated there for ship-building purposes, or for exportation. He did not know much about the matter and did not speak very hopefully. The sting of it was that he might have known if he had done as his father had had a right to expect him to do. However, Mr Caldwell sent him away none the less willingly because of his low spirits. "You will do better than nobody," said he, as Frank had said before. "You can have an eye on the books and on all the papers. Don't let Donnelly be too much for you." It would not do to enter into all the particulars of Philip's first business venture. It is enough to say, he was successful in circumstances where failure would not have been surprising; and the very first time he saw his father after he was a little better, he had the satisfaction of hearing Mr Caldwell telling him of the successful termination of the sale of the timber. He had the greater satisfaction of prompting that slow-spoken gentleman where his memory or his information failed, and of giving all details to his father, who was both relieved and pleased with the turn this affair had taken. But success in this his first independent attempt at doing business could not avert the troubles that had been long hanging over his father. If Mr Oswald had been in perfect health, it might have been different. With time granted to continue his business relations, or even to settle up his own affairs, he might have been able to give every man his own. But his health came very slowly back, and affairs in the meantime wrought to a crisis. Philip strove hard to obtain time, and pledged himself to the full payment of all his father's liabilities within a limited period. Even Mr Caldwell was influenced by his earnestness and hopefulness, and by the good sense and business ability manifested by him in several transactions with which he had had to do, and joined with him in representing Mr Oswald's affairs to be in such a condition that care and time, and close attention alone were needed to set them right, and to satisfy all just claims at last. But Philip was young and inexperienced, and those of his father's creditors who knew him best, knew nothing in his past life to give them confidence either in his principles or his judgment, and they could not be induced to yield to him in this matter. So it only remained for Mr Oswald to give up all that he possessed, to satisfy as far as possible all just demands. It was a very bitter experience for him to pass through, but he was in a state of health too weak and broken fully to realise all that it involved. For the time it was worse for his sons than for him. Frank devoted himself all the more earnestly to his father's care and comfort, and his doing so made this time of trouble more endurable for both. Philip saw little of his father. His place was to act for him wherever he could do so, so as to spare him as much as possible the details of the painful business. It was a very miserable time to him. He made up his mind to get away as soon as possible to California or British Columbia, or anywhere else, so that it was far enough away. But he did not go. He did far better than that would have been. He staid at home, not very willingly, still he staid, and tried to do his duty as he had never tried before, and there were times when it was not easy to do. Mr Caldwell, as one in whom the creditors had perfect confidence, both as to his conscientiousness and his knowledge of affairs, was appointed by them to settle up Mr Oswald's business, and with their permission Philip Oswald was requested to act as his assistant for the time. It was not the thing he would have chosen for himself, but if he had gone away now, it must have been without his father's consent, and if he staid at home it was absolutely necessary that he should earn money for the payment of his own debts. There was nothing better offered for his acceptance, and Mr Caldwell's terms were such as even Philip considered liberal. "Though I know quite well he would much rather have had Davie Inglis," said he to Frank, when it was quite settled that he was to stay. "I don't believe he thinks I shall be much good. However, I must take it and make the best of it." "You are quite wrong. Davie wouldn't suit him half so well as you in this business, though of course he has perfect confidence in Davie, and you have to be tried yet. But he knows you will make it a point of honour to do your best in the circumstances." "If these people in M-- had not been such fools as to force matters on, there might have been some inducement to do one's best in straightening out things. And it would have been better for them and for us too. I wish I were a thousand miles away from it all." "No, you don't, unless you could take the rest, of us out of it too. For my part, I think you have a grand opportunity to exercise courage and patience, and to win honour and glory as a true hero. Just you go down and speak to Aunt Mary and Violet about it." "I think I see myself doing it!" said Philip, as though it were a thing utterly impossible and not to be considered for a moment. However, before many days were over, he found himself at the bridge house, enjoying Mrs Inglis's kindly sympathy, and the delighted welcome of the children, more than he would have imagined possible. He had seen very little of any of them for a long time, and was ashamed of his defection, conscious as he was of the cause. It was not comfortable for him to talk with Mrs Inglis, or to share in the pursuits and amusements of her young people, with the consciousness of wrong-doing upon him. Wrong-doing according to _their_ standard of right and wrong, he meant, of course. According to _his_ standard, there were many things he could do, and many things he could leave undone, quite innocently, of which they would not approve. Several of such questionable incidents had occurred in his manner of life about the time of their return from Gourlay last year, and he had kept away from them. He had been too busy since his coming back from M-- to see much of any of his friends, and this was his first visit to the bridge house for a long time. "Why did you not come before?" said little Mary. "I have been very busy. Are you glad to see me now?" "Yes, very glad, and so is mamma and all of us. I want to show you something." And the child went on to make confidences about her own personal affairs, into which Mr Philip entered with sufficient interest, as his manner was. He had only time for a word or two with the mother before Jem and David came in. "Your father is really improving, I am glad to hear," said Mrs Inglis when the children left them. Philip's face clouded. "Is he better? It hardly seems to me that he gains at all. He is very much discouraged about himself." "Frank thinks him better. It is a great relief to him, he says, that you are here." "I ought never to have gone away," said Philip, sighing. "But your father wished it, did he not? Perhaps it would have been better had you been here. However, you are here now. Frank says he begun to improve the very day you consented to assist Mr Caldwell in the settlement of his affairs." Philip hung his head. "Don't be hard on me, Aunt Mary." "Am I hard on you? I am sure I don't know how. That is Frank's idea of the matter." "Aunt Mary! if you only knew what a good-for-nothing fellow I have been! I am sure I cannot see why my father should have confidence in me." "In whom should he have confidence, if not in you?" said Mrs Inglis, smiling. Philip had nothing to answer. A feeling of shame, painful but wholesome, kept him silent. Even according to his own idea of right, he had been undutiful in his conduct to his father. He had accepted all from him, he had exacted much, and he had given little in return, except the careless respect to his wishes in little things, which he could not have refused to any one in whose house he was a guest. They had been on friendly terms enough, as a general thing, but there had been some passages between them which he did not like to remember. That his father should have had any satisfaction in him or his doings, except indeed in the case of the transaction of the timber at Q--, was not a very likely thing. The very supposition went deeper than any reproaches could have gone and filled him with pain and regret. "Frank is a good fellow, but he does not know everything," said he, dolefully. "I think he must know about your father, however, he is with him so constantly, and he says he is better. It will be some time before he is able for business again, I am afraid. In the meantime he has perfect confidence in Mr Caldwell and in you, which must be a comfort to him." Philip shook his head. "Aunt Mary, the business is no longer his, and what we are doing is for the benefit of others. He has lost everything." "He has not lost everything, I think," said Mrs Inglis, smiling, "while he has you and Frank and your sisters. He would not say so." Philip rose and came and stood before her. "Mrs Inglis, I cannot bear that you should think of me as you do. It makes me feel like a deceiver. I have not been a good son to my father. I am not like your Davie." Mrs Inglis smiled as though she would have said, "There are not many like my Davie." But she looked grave in a minute and said-- "There is one thing in which you differ. Davie is an avowed servant of the Lord Jesus Christ. He professes to desire to live no longer to himself, but to Him." "And you think that is everything, Aunt Mary?" "I think it is the chief thing." "Well, I am not like that. I am very far from that." "But this ought to be the chief thing for you as well as for David, ought it not?" "I have not thought about it, Aunt Mary." "You have not taken time. You have fallen on easy days hitherto. It would have been difficult to convince you that, to be a servant of God, a follower of the Lord Jesus is the chief thing--the only thing, while each day brought with it enough to satisfy you. This trouble, which has come upon you all, may have been needed--to make you think about it." Philip answered nothing, but sat gazing at the clouds, or at the leaves which rustled at the window, with his cheek upon his hand. There is a time to keep silence and a time to speak, and Mrs Inglis could not be sure on which of these she had fallen. She longed to say just the right word to him, but hitherto her words had fallen like water on the rock, which, in the first gleam of sunshine, disappears. He always listened, grave or smiling, as the occasion seemed to demand. He listened with eagerness, pleased at her interest in him, pleased to be treated like one of the children, to be praised or chidden, and, for all that she could see, as well pleased with the one as with the other. As she sat watching him in silence, Mrs Inglis thought of Violet's complaint against him. "He is not in earnest. He cares only for his own pleasure." "Ah! well! The Master knows how to deal with him, though I do not," she said to herself. Aloud, she said, "You must not suppose that I mean that religion is for a time of trouble, more than for a time of prosperity. It is the chief thing always--the only thing. But, in a time of trouble, our need of something beyond what is in ourselves, or in the world, is brought home to us. Philip, dear lad, it is a wonderful thing to be a soldier and servant of the Lord Jesus. It is a service which satisfies--which ennobles. All else may fail us, or fetter us, or lead us astray. But, belonging to Christ--being one with Him--nothing can harm us truly. Are you to lose all this, Philip? Letting it pass by you--not _thinking_ about it?" She had no time to add more, nor had he time to answer her, even if he could have found the words. For first David came in, and then Jem, all black and dirty from the forge, and, proud of it, evidently. His greeting was rather noisy, after the free-and-easy manner which Jem affected about this time. David's greeting was quiet enough, but a great deal more frank and friendly, than his greetings of Philip had usually been, his mother was pleased to see. Jem made a pretence of astonishment at the sight of him, meaning that he might very well have come to see his mother sooner; but David fell into eager discussion of some matter interesting to both, and then Jem went away to beautify himself, as he called the washing off the marks of his day's work. When tea-time came, Philip hesitated about accepting Mrs Inglis's invitation to remain. "You may as well," said Ned; "for I saw Violet up-town and I told her you were here, so they will be sure not to wait." So he staid, and made good his place among them after his long absence. Something had been said in the early spring about Mrs Inglis and the children going to spend the summer in Gourlay again. But there was not the same necessity for a change that there had been last year, and the matter was not at once decided. While Mrs Inglis hesitated, there came tidings that decided it for her. There came, from Miss Bethia, a letter, written evidently with labour and difficulty. She had been poorly, "off and on by spells," she said, all winter; and now, what she had long feared, had become evident to all her friends. A terrible and painful disease had fastened upon her, which must sooner or later prove fatal. "Later," she feared it might be; for, through long months, which grew into years before they were over, she had nursed her mother in the same disease, praying daily that the end might come. "I am not afraid of the end," she wrote; "but remembering my poor mother's sufferings, I _am_ afraid of what must come before the end. It would help pass the time to have you and the children here this summer; but it might not be the best thing for them or you, and you must judge. I should like to see David, but there will be time enough, for I am afraid the end is a long way off. I am a poor creetur not to feel that the Lord knows best what I can bear. It don't seem as though I could suffer much more than I used to, seeing my mother's suffering. And I _know_ the Lord is kind and pitiful, though I sometimes forget." Mrs Inglis's answer to this letter was to go to Gourlay without loss of time. At the first sight of Miss Bethia, she did not think her so very ill. She thought her fears had magnified her danger to herself. But she changed her opinion when she had been there a day or two. The Angel of Death was drawing near, and all that made his coming terrible was that he came so slowly. At times she suffered terribly, and her sufferings must increase before the end. The coming of the children was not to be thought of, Mrs Inglis could see. She would fain have staid to nurse her, but this could not be while they needed her at home. She promised to return if she were needed, and begged to be sent for if she could be a comfort to her. All that care and good nursing could do to alleviate her suffering, Miss Bethia had. Debby Stone was still with her, and Debby's sister Serepta, whose health had much improved during the year. The neighbours were very kind and considerate, and Mrs Inglis felt that all that could be done for her would be done cheerfully and well. So she went home; but through the summer they heard often how it was with their old friend. But first one thing and then another hindered Mrs Inglis from going to see her till September had well begun. Then there came a hasty summons for David and his mother, for there were signs and tokens that the coming of the King's messenger was to be "sooner," and not "later," as she had feared. So Violet came home because they could not tell how long the mother might have to stay, and their departure was hastened. But the King's messenger had come before them. They saw his presence in the changed face of their friend. They did not need her whispered assurance, that she need not have been afraid--that it was well with her, and the end was come. "David," she said, brokenly, as her slow, sobbing breath came and went, "you'll care for your mother always, I know; and you must follow the Lord, and keep your armour bright." She fell into a troubled sleep, and waking, said the same words over again, only with more difficult utterance. She spoke to his mother now and then in her painful whisper, sending messages to Violet and Jem and all the rest; and once she asked her if she had a message for the minister, whom she was sure so soon to see. But the only words that David heard her speak were these, and he answered: "I will try, Aunt Bethia;" but he had not voice for more. It was like a dream to him to be there in the very room where he had watched that last night with his father. It seemed to be that night again, so vividly did it all come back. "Mamma," he whispered, "can you bear it?" By and by they went up-stairs, and into the study, which was still kept as they had left it two years ago. "Mamma," said David, again, "it is like a dream. Nothing in the whole world seems worth a thought--standing where we stood just now." "Except to keep one's armour bright, my David," said his mother. "Happy Miss Bethia! She will soon be done with all her trouble now." They watched that night and the next day, scarcely knowing whether she recognised them, or whether she were conscious of what seemed terrible suffering to those who were looking on; and then the end came. It was all like a dream to David, the coming and going of the neighbours, the hush and pause that came at last, the whispered arrangements, the moving to and fro, and then the silence in the house. He seemed to be living over the last days of his father's life, so well remembered--living them over for his mother, too, with the same sick feeling that he could not help or comfort her, or bear her trouble for her, or lighten it. And yet, seeing her there so calm and peaceful in every word and deed; so gentle, and helpful, and cheerful, he knew that she was helped and comforted, and that it was not all sorrow that the memory of the other death-bed stirred. When he went out into the air again, he came to himself, and the dazed, dreamy feeling went away. It was their good and kind old friend who had gone to her rest, and it would be wrong to regret her. There were many who would remember her with respect and gratitude, and none more than he and his mother and the children at home. But her death would leave no great gap, that could never be filled as his father's had done. She had been very kind to them of late years, and they would miss her; and then--it suddenly came into David's mind about his father's books, and about the sum that had three times been paid to his mother since they had been in Miss Bethia's care. He was ashamed because of it; but he could not help wondering whether it would be paid still, or whether they would take the books away or leave them where they were. He did not like to speak to his mother. It seemed selfish and ungrateful to think about it even; but he could not keep it out of his mind. There was another day of waiting, and then the dead was carried away to her long home. There were none of her blood to follow her thither. The place of mourners was given to Mrs Inglis and David, and then followed Debby and her sister. A great many people followed them; all the towns-folk joined in doing honour to Miss Bethia's memory, and a few old friends dropped over her a tear of affection and regret. But there was no bitter weeping--no painful sense of loss in any heart because she had gone. David sat in the church, and walked to the grave, and came back again to the empty house, with the same strange, bewildered sense upon him of having been through it all before. It clung to him still, as one after another of the neighbours came dropping in. He sat among them, and heard their eager whispers, and saw their curious and expectant looks, and vaguely wondered what else was going to happen that they were waiting to see. Debby and her sister were in the other room, seemingly making preparations for tea; and once Debby came and looked in at the door, with a motion as if she were counting to see how many places might be needed, and by and by Serepta came and looked, too, and David got very tired of it all. His mother had gone up-stairs when she first came in, and he went in search of her. "Mamma, I wish we could have gone home to-night," said he, when, in answer to his knock, she had opened the door. "It was late, dear, and Mr Bethune said he would like to see me before we went away." "About the books, mamma? I wish I knew about them." "You will know soon. I have no doubt they will be yours, as Miss Bethia intimated before we left them here. There may be some condition." "I wonder what all the people are waiting for? Are you not very tired, mamma? Debby is getting tea ready." Debby came in at the moment to make the same announcement. "Tea is ready now," said she. "I'd as lief get tea for the whole town once in a while as not. But it ain't this tea they're waiting for, and if I was them I'd go." "What are they waiting for?" asked David. "Don't you know? Oh, I suppose it's to show good-will. Folks generally do at such times. But I'll ring the tea-bell, and that'll scare some of them home may be. Some of them'll have to wait till the second table, if they all stay, that's one thing. And I hope they'll think they've heard enough to pay them before they go." They did not hear very much, certainly. Mr Bethune from Singleton was there, but the interest of the occasion was not in his hands. Deacon Spry had it all his own way, and opened and read with great deliberation a paper which had been committed to him. It was not Miss Bethia's will, as every one hoped it might be, but it was a paper written by her hand, signifying that her will, which was in Mr Bethune's keeping, was to be opened just a year from the day of her death. In the meantime Deborah Stone was to live in her house and take care of it and what property there was about it. Her clothes and bedding were in part for Debby, and the rest to be divided among certain persons named. Mrs Inglis was requested to leave her late husband's library where it was for one year, unless she should see some good reason for taking it away. And that was all. Everybody looked surprised, except Debby, who had known the contents of the paper from Miss Bethia. "I suppose it'll be Mr Bethune's business to look up Bethia's relations within the year. Folks generally _do_ leave their property to their relations, even if they don't know much about them. But I rather expected she'd do something for the cause among us," said Deacon Spry, in a slightly aggrieved tone. "I thought she'd at least new paint the meeting house," said Sam Jones. "Or put a new fence round the grave-yard." "Well! may be she has! We'll see when the year's out." "No, folks most always leave their property to their own relations. They seem nearest, come toward the end." "I don't suppose she's left a great deal besides the house, anyway. I wonder just how much Debby Stone knows?" It was not pleasant to listen to all this. Debby had nothing to tell, not knowing anything; nor Mr Bethune, though he doubtless knew all. So there was nothing better to do than just wait till the right time came. "I suppose we may count upon the books, mamma, or she would not have asked you to leave them here?" said David. "Yes, I think so. She never called them hers, you know. She will have explained it to Mr Bethune, I suppose. I think you may count on the books." CHAPTER SIXTEEN. Another year passed quietly over the Inglis household. Jem and David both did good service, each in his special calling, and made some progress in other things besides. David kept the plan of his life steadily before him, but this year did not, to all appearance, bring its fulfillment any nearer. It did not seem impossible to him that their life should go on in the same quiet routine, without break or change, for a long time, nor did this seem impossible to his mother. There was this difference in their thoughts, however. While Davie, with the impatience of youth, grew anxious now and then, as though the sowing time were passing with no seed being put in, his mother knew that there was nothing lost to his future work as yet, that the discipline of early care and self-denial, the constant and willing giving of himself to work, which in itself was not congenial, was a better preparation than he knew. She felt that if the Master had a special work for him to do, He would provide a way for special preparation, and that His time was best. David knew this too, and was on the whole content to look forward a good way yet, for the change that must come, when his wish with regard to this one thing should be granted. He was more than content. Life went very quietly and happily with them this year, and it was a profitable time in many ways. Jem's work agreed with him, it seemed, for he was growing tall and strong. His gay and careless temper brought him into some difficulties this year, and being at that age when a young lad making his own way is apt to become tenacious about little things which concern his dignity, and impatient of the open exercise of restraint acknowledged to be lawful and right, he needed to be gently and carefully managed. But happily this uncomfortable period did not last long with Jem. He grew manly in character as well as in appearance, and grew more, rather than less, open to home influence as he grew older. David's fair face and quiet manner gave Jem an appearance of advantage over him as far as manliness was concerned, and strangers often took Jem to be the eldest of the brothers. Jem himself, in a laughing way, claimed to be beyond him in a knowledge of the world--on its hard side-- and made merry pretence and promise of advising and protecting him in certain supposed circumstances of difficulty or danger. But in his heart he deferred to his brother, as in all things far wiser and better than he. As to David's plans and their carrying out, Jem saw neither doubt nor difficulty. In a few years--not very distinctly specified--Jem was to become the head and bread-winner of the house, and David was to go his own way to honour and usefulness. Jem was still to be the rich man of the family, though the time and manner of winning his wealth he could not make very clear; and David laughed and accepted his freedom from care and his brother's gifts very gratefully, and professed to have no scruples as to his future claims upon him. When Mr Oswald's household was broken up, Violet returned home. But happily an opportunity occurred for her to obtain what she had long secretly coveted, a chance to improve herself, in some branches of study, under better masters than Singleton could afford. She passed the greater part of the year as pupil-teacher in a superior school in M--, and returned home in the end of June. The year was of great advantage to her in many ways, though the children at home could not see it. She "was just the same as ever," they said, which was a high compliment, though not intended as such. She had not changed, but she had made advances in several directions her mother was pleased to discover. Her return was a great pleasure to her brothers, but Jem was critical now and then, and spoke of "airs and graces," and "fine manners," as though she were not quite innocent of those on occasion. David was indignant, but Violet laughed at them both, and proved that whatever change had come to her manners, none had come to her temper, "which was a blessing," Jem acknowledged. Mr Oswald's household was broken up about the time of Miss Bethia's death. Selina remained with her sister, and the little girls went with their aunt to her former home. Mr Oswald had been induced to take the sea voyage, and the entire rest from business, which his physicians declared absolutely necessary to his entire restoration to health. Frank accompanied him to England, where they both remained during the year. His health had improved, and there was some expectation that they would return at the close of the summer. His house had been sold, and was now used as a hospital for the poor and sick of the town. The extensive grounds around it had been cut up by the opening of several new streets in that direction, and one could scarcely have recognised the place that used to be so beautiful in the eyes of the Inglis children. However, the only Oswald left in Singleton took the sale of the house, in which he had been born and brought up, very philosophically. The opening of the new streets had increased the value of the land immensely, and under the careful hands of Mr Caldwell, that and all other property belonging to Mr Oswald was being so disposed of that his creditors had a good prospect of losing nothing by him. Philip Oswald still asserted, that but for the faint-heartedness which illness had brought upon his father, and the untimely pressure of the creditors because of it, there needed have been no failure. He asserted it indignantly enough some-times, but he did not regret the disposal of the house or the spoiling of the beautiful grounds as he might have been supposed to do. The sudden change in the circumstances of the family had not hurt Philip. The year's discipline of constant employment, and limited expenditure, had done him good, and, as he himself declared to Jem and David, not before it was time. The boyish follies which had clung to him as a young man, because of the easy times on which he had fallen, must have grown into something worse than folly before long, and but for the chance of wholesome hard work which had been provided for him, and his earnest desire to work out the best possible result for his father's good name, he might have gone to ruin in one way or other. But these things, with the help of other influences, had kept him from evil, and encouraged him to good, and there were high hopes for Philip still. He had not been in Singleton all the year, but here and there and everywhere, at the bidding of the cautious, but laborious and judicious, Caldwell, who had daily increasing confidence in his business capacity, and did not hesitate to make the utmost use of his youthful strength. When he was in Singleton, his home was in Mr Caldwell's house. He had gone there for a day or two, till other arrangements could be made. But no other arrangements were needed. He stayed there more contentedly than he could at the beginning of the year have supposed possible, and it grew less a matter of self-denial to Mr and Mrs Caldwell to have him there as time went on. He had a second home in the house of Mrs Inglis; and this other good had come to him out of his father's troubles, and the way he had taken to help them, that he made a friend of David Inglis. He had supposed himself friendly enough with him before, but he knew nothing about him. That is to say, he knew nothing about that which made David so different from himself, so different from most of the young men with whom he had had to do. "In one thing he is different," Mrs Inglis had said, "He is a servant of God. He professes to wish to live no longer to himself." With this in his thought, he watched David at home and abroad, at first only curiously, but afterwards with other feelings. David was shy of him for a time, and kept the position of "mere lad," which Philip had at first given him, long after his friendship was sought on other terms. But they learned to know each other in a little, and they did each other good. Mrs Inglis saw clearly how well it was for David to have some one more ready and better fitted to share his pleasures and interests than Jem, because of his different tastes and pursuits, could possibly do. And she saw also that David's influence could not fail to have a salutary effect on his friend, and she encouraged their intercourse, and did all in her power to make it profitable to them both. Violet and the children spent a month in Gourlay; but Mrs Inglis, not liking to leave David and Jem alone, only went for a day or two. They returned early in August. Mr Oswald and Frank were expected soon. Mr Philip's spirits did not rise as the time of their coming drew near. He dreaded for his father the coming back to find no home awaiting him. He consulted with Mrs Inglis as to the preparations he should make for him; but, when it was talked over among them, it was found that he did not know enough about his father's future plans to make it possible for him to make arrangements for more than a day or two. He did not even know whether he was to remain in Singleton. He did not even know whether he should remain in Singleton himself. He could decide nothing till they came. He was altogether too anxious and troubled, Mrs Inglis told him; he had not been like himself for some time. "Well, it ought to be all the more agreeable to the rest because of that," said he, laughing. "It has not been. And you must let me say that I think you are troubling yourself more than enough with regard to the coming of your father." "But it is about myself, partly, you know." "Well, I think the trouble is uncalled for in either case. It will not be so bad for your father as you fear." "Do you know what is the news in town to-day, Philip?" asked Jem. "That you and old Caldwell are going into the produce business together. A queer team you would make!" "We have drawn very well together for the last year," said Philip. Jem shrugged his shoulders, and made a grimace. "Singleton might suit Mr Caldwell to do business in, but I wouldn't fix myself in Singleton if I were you." "Nonsense, Jem," said David. "There is no better place than Singleton for that business, everybody knows." "And, besides, Philip is well-known here," said Mrs Inglis. "I am not sure that it is a better place for me because of that, Aunt Mary; but it is as good a place as any, I suppose, in which to begin with a small capital." "Pooh! about capital! The only men in the country worth their salt began life without a dollar. Which of us has capital? And we are all bound to be rich men before we die," said Jem. "Yes, I dare say. If I were a boy of fifteen, I might say the same," said Philip, with a sigh. "Hear him! You would think him fifty, at least. And if you mean me," said Jem loftily, "I am nearly seventeen. I only wish I were twenty-three, with the world before me." They all laughed at his energy. "There is no hurry, Jem. You will need all the years that are before you. Violet, put away your work, and play, and the children will sing." Violet rose and opened the piano, and there was no more said at that time. While the children were singing, David went out, and, in a little, called Philip from the window. Philip rose and went out also, and they passed down the garden together. By and by they had enough of music, and Violet shut the piano, and sat down beside the window with her work again. Jem had the grace to wait till the children went out, and then he said: "Mamma, you said I was to tell you the next time, and here it is. You must have noticed yourself--Violet's manner, I mean. Philip noticed it, I could see. She was as stiff and dignified as Mrs Mavor herself. I wouldn't put on airs with Phil, when he is down as he is to-night, if I were you." Violet looked from him to her mother in astonishment. "Do you know what he means, mamma?" "You don't need mamma to tell you." "Tell me, then, Jem. What did I say or do?" "You didn't say or do anything. You were stiff and stupid. Mamma must have seen it." "No, Jem, I did not. If you mean that Violet's manner to Mr Philip is not the same as to you and Davie--why, you know, it can't quite be that." "No, because Violet made up her mind long ago that Philip Oswald was a foolish young man--`not in earnest,' as she used to say. Letty can't bear people that are not quite perfect," said Jem. Letty laughed, and so did her mother. "Thank you, Jem. That is as much as saying that I consider myself quite perfect." "Oh! you may laugh," said Jem, loftily; "but if Phil, hasn't proved himself steady enough by this time, I don't know what you would have! There are not many would have staid it out, under old Caldwell, and have done as he has done. To say nothing about the business not being a very pleasant one." "He has improved very much," said Mrs Inglis. "And, now, when he and Davie are such friends," went on Jem, who did not know when he had said enough. "I think if Davie approves of him, that ought to be enough for Violet." "Quite enough, I acknowledge, Jem," said Violet. "I wonder where Davie has gone;" and she rose and went to the door as if to see. She did not find him, if she looked for him, for David and Philip, after walking up and down the railway track for some time, went down to David's favourite seat on the stones of the abutment of the bridge close by the water. They were silent for some time after they went there. David sat gazing at the bright clouds that lingered after the sunset, while his friend moved up and down and flung stones into the water. By and by he sat down by David's side, saying-- "And so I am all at sea again." "I don't see why you should be `at sea again,' as you call it," said David. "Mr Caldwell's offer was made without any reference to me, and my refusal can make no real difference." "It will make all the difference in the world to me." "Philip, promise me one thing. Don't decide till your father comes and Frank. I don't know when I was so glad. See how pleased your father will be." "Nonsense, Davie! It is no such great thing as all that--a partnership with old Caldwell." "Hear what your father will say. I can't say how fine a thing it will be to be his partner, but your father will think it a high compliment that he should have wished it. It will be good for you--and for him too. I don't know which I congratulate most." David was growing enthusiastic. "It would do, I think, if you were coming with us. A clerkship now, and a partnership afterwards. There is no hope of making you change your mind, Davie?" "Would you wish me to change my mind, Philip?" said David laying his arm over his friend's shoulder, in a way that would have satisfied Violet of his interest and affection. "I don't know. I am not sure. I don't understand it." "Yes, you do, Philip--or you will sometime. I mean, you will understand why this should be the best thing for me to do. You cannot quite understand all I feel about it, because you never knew my father." "Tell me about him," said Philip. "It is not what I could tell you that would make you understand. But-- we speak about aspirations and ambitions, Philip; but if I had my choice what I should do, or what I should be, I should choose the life, and work, and character of my father." David's voice faltered. "Since when has that been your choice?" asked Philip. "Always! I mean, always since he died. And, before that, he was my ideal of wisdom and goodness, though I did not particularly wish or try to be like him then?" "And it was his wish that you should choose his profession, and live his life, and do his work?" "He wished it,--yes. And now I wish it, not merely because of his wish, but because--I love my Lord and Master, and because I wish to honour Him as His soldier and servant--" David did not find it easy to say all this to Philip, and there was silence for a minute or two. "But haven't you been losing time?" said Philip. "No. Mamma does not think so. Time should try a decision so important, she thinks. I am young yet, and I have been keeping up my reading pretty well. And, besides, she thinks the care, and the steady work, and our life altogether,--having to manage with just enough, you know,-- has been good discipline for me, and a sort of preparation." "I see! And when is the other sort of preparation to begin?" "I don't know. The way will open, mamma always says. When we came here first, mamma and Violet meant to keep a school; but, after Violet went to teach your sisters, we could get on without it, and it was so much better for us to have mamma all to ourselves. She may think of it again, and Violet is better able to help her now." "It is a slave's life." "No; I don't think mamma objects to it on that ground. But there is no haste about it. I always remember what mamma said to me once--`If your master has a special work for you to do, He will provide the means for special preparation.'" "What a wonderful woman your mother is!" said Philip. David laughed, such a happy laugh. "Is she? She does not think so." "I wonder if she would be on my side if I were to tell her all about old Caldwell's plans, and how much good you could do with us--and a future partnership, and all that. Why, Davie, you might, when you are a rich man, educate any number of ministers. Wouldn't that do as well as to be one yourself?" "That will be something for you to do. No; I don't think mamma would be on your side." "But you are her bread-winner, as I have heard her say. How can she spare you?" "And I shall always be so while she needs me. I can wait a long time patiently, I think. But I cannot give it up now. It would be `looking back,' after putting my hand to the plough." They were silent for a good while, and then Philip said: "Tell me about your father." David doubted whether he had anything new to tell, for, as they had come to care more for each other's company, he had often spoken to Philip of his father. But if he had nothing new to tell, he told it all over in a new way--a way that made Philip wonder. He told him all that I have told you, and more,--of his father's life and work--how wise and strong he was--how loving and beloved. He told him of his love for his Master, of his zeal for His service. He told him of his own lessons with him, of how he used to go with him to the North Gore and other places, and of what he used to say, and how happy the days used to be. He told him of his last days, and how, when it came to the end, he was so joyful for himself and so little afraid for them, though he was going to leave them alone and poor--how sure he was that God would care for them and keep them safe until they all should meet again. Sometimes he spoke with breaking voice, and sometimes, though it had grown dark by this time, Philip could see that his cheeks flushed and his eyes shone as he went on, till he came to the very last, and then he said: "He told me then, at the very last--even after he had spoken about mamma, that I was to take up the armour that he was laying down. And, God helping me, so I will," said David, with a sob, laying down his face, to hide his tears, on the shoulder of his friend. But, in a little, he raised it again, and said, quietly: "I couldn't go back after that, Philip." "No," said Philip; and he said nothing more for a long time, nor did David. Philip spoke first: "And so it must be `Good-bye,' Davie?" "Good-bye?" repeated David. "I don't understand?" "You are to take one way and I another; so we part company." David was silent from astonishment. "As our fathers did," said Philip. "They were friends once, as we are, Davie, but their paths divided, as ours must, I fear." "It need not be so." "It is curious to think of it," went on Philip. "If my father were to die to-night, he would leave his children as poor as your father left his when he died. Not that it would matter; but then my father has lost his whole life, too. No, Davie, I fear the end will be that we must go different ways." "Dear Philip," said David, standing before him, and speaking with much earnestness, "there is only one thing that can separate us--your serving one master and I another; and that need not be. Your work may be as much for Him as mine. Philip, dear friend--is He your Lord and Master, as He is mine?" Philip shook his head. "I do not know. I fear not, Davie. What am I saying? I know He is not. I have never done a stroke of work for Him, or for any one at His bidding, or for His sake, and that is the whole truth, Davie." "But that is not to be the end! His soldier and servant! There is nothing in all the world to be compared with that! Have you offered yourself to Him? Will you not offer yourself to Him? Oh, Philip! there is nothing else." "Davie," said Philip, hoarsely, "you don't begin to know what a bad fellow I have been." "No; nor do you. But He knows, and the worse you are the more you need to come to Him. Have you never asked Him to forgive you and take you for His own? It is for Him to do it. Ask Him now!" David threw his arms round the neck of his friend. It was a sudden act, boyish and impulsive--not at all like David. Philip was much moved. "Ask Him, Davie," said he, huskily. Kneeling beside him on the stone, David did ask Him, using simple words and few--such words as Philip never forgot--words that he uttered in his own heart many a time afterwards, and not in vain. They lingered a good while, but there was not much said between them after that, and when David went into the house, where his mother and Violet were waiting for him, he told them that Philip had gone home. By and by he said: "The story Jem heard was true, mamma. Mr Caldwell wants Philip to become his partner in a new business. It seems he has saved something, and he is willing to put his capital against Philip's youth and energy and business talents. It will be very good for Philip and for Mr Caldwell too." "It shows great confidence on Mr Caldwell's part," said Mrs Inglis. "Yes; but, mamma, you said it as if you were surprised, as if his confidence might be misplaced." "I am surprised, dear, but the other idea I did not mean to convey. My surprise was because of Mr Caldwell's well-known deliberation and caution." "Yes; the offer, even if it go no further, is a feather in Phil's cap," said Jem. "But Mr Caldwell is a shrewd old gentleman, though he be a little slow. He knows what he is about." "You look as though you expected to be contradicted, Jem," said Violet, laughing. "Is Philip pleased with the prospect? Will the thing go on?" asked Mrs Inglis. "I think so. I hope so. It will be decided when Mr Oswald returns. Philip would have liked me to go with them--into their service, I mean, with the prospect of something better by and by." "And what did you say to him?" asked his mother. "Of course you refused?" said Violet. "I don't know about that," said Jem. "Davie had better think twice before he refuses such an offer. But Davie never did appreciate Philip." David laughed at Jem, and answered his mother. "I told him all about it, mamma. He was disappointed, but he understood, I think." There was no more said that night. Jem would gladly have entered into a discussion of the subject, but David did not stay to listen, and Violet would not respond, and what he had to say would not have been the best thing to say to his mother, so he kept his opinion for the hearing of Philip against the time he should see him again. When Philip came, which was not for a day or two, the first words he said to Mrs Inglis were-- "I think you ought to be a very happy woman, Aunt Mary." "I think so too. But what has given you new light on the subject?" asked Mrs Inglis, smiling. "And you ought all to be very happy children," said Philip, lifting little Mary, who was not so very little now, to his knee. "And so we are," said Violet. "And you ought to be very good, too." "And so we are," said Jem. "Well, then, no more need be said on the subject at present, except that I wish that I were one of you." "Tell us about the new partnership," said Jem. "It is not to be spoken of yet. It is a secret." "Davie told us," said Violet. "Oh, I don't mean it is to be a secret here! But it is not to be decided till my father comes home. Though I suppose he will let me do as I like." "If you are quite sure that you know what you would like." "I am quite sure I know what _I_ would like, but I am not to have _that_, it seems." "Is it Davie?" said Violet. "But you don't mean that you would like him to change his mind and his plans, I hope?" "It would be selfish, wouldn't it, and wrong? No, upon the whole I wouldn't like Davie to be different, or to do differently. But I should like to be more like him." "But you are pretty good now, aren't you," said Mary. "Davie is very fond of you and mamma and all of us. I suppose you are not quite so good as our Davie." They all laughed. "I will try to be good, indeed I will, Polly," said Philip. "Well that is right," said Mary. "You should speak to mamma. She would help you." "Yes, I think she would. I mean to speak to her." And so they chatted on till David came in. Philip had made good a place among them. It was quite clear that they all liked him, as little Polly had said. They had always liked him from the very first, but he was more worthy of their liking now. Mr Oswald and Frank came home in due time. There was nothing in Mr Oswald's plans for his son to prevent the carrying out of the plan for the new partnership, as proposed by Mr Caldwell. He was greatly pleased with the compliment to his son, which Mr Caldwell's proposal implied, and entered into the discussion of preliminaries with great, interest. As for himself he had returned home with no design of engaging immediately in business, except the business of an Insurance Company of which he had been made the agent. He was to wait for a year or two at least. Frank, whose health and eyesight were quite restored, was offered the place in the new business, which Philip would so gladly have given to David. Of course he was as yet not so well qualified to perform the duties of the position as David would have been, but he possessed some qualities likely to insure success that David did not have, and he had that which was the source and secret of David's goodness, so firmly believed in by little Mary and them all. He was learning to live, not to himself, but to his Master--to do His will and make known His name, and in all things to honour Him in the eyes of the world, and so he had also David's secret of peace. But for a time he had little to do, as the new firm was not publicly announced till later in the year, and in the meantime he accepted Mrs Inglis's invitation, and made himself one of the children of the bridge house, to his great pleasure and theirs. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. One morning as Mr Philip sat at breakfast reading the paper, as was his custom, he heard Mr Caldwell say-- "This is the twenty-second of September." "The days and nights are of equal length," said Mrs Caldwell. "Dear! dear! how soon the days will be drawing in!" "This day last year Miss Bethia Barnes died." "Well, she was a good body. I trust she went to a better place." "And to-day her will is to be read," went on Mr Caldwell. "Is it indeed? Had she much property? She was a decent saving body. And who is to get it? Not that you can know, however, till the will is opened." "I know, having been consulted about the making of it; but that is neither here nor there at the present moment. What I mean to say is this: Being one of the executors of that will, I shall have to be in Mr Bethune's office this morning, and so, Mr Philip, you will need to attend to the business we were speaking of last night yourself, in case I should be detained beyond my time." "All right!" said Philip, looking up from his paper. "And you were consulted about the making of the poor body's will, were you?" said Mrs Caldwell, who was by no means so silent a member of the family as her husband. "And you were made executor, and all--and you never mentioned it. Not that _that_ is a matter for surprise, however," added she, reconsidering the subject. "I dare say he will be ready to tell us all about it by dinner time, though no mortal power could make him open his lips this morning. Well, I hope whoever gets the money will get the good of it, though why they should have been kept out of it a whole year, I cannot see. I hope that was not by your advice. But dear! dear! money often does more harm than good, for all so hard as we strive for it." "It will do good this time--there is no fear," said Mr Caldwell, rising. "It has not been striven for, nor expected, and there is not too much of it just for comfort, and--it will open the way." The last words struck Philip as familiar, and looking up he caught the eye of Mr Caldwell, who nodded and smiled, as though he ought to understand the whole matter by this time. "There need be no more waiting now," said he, but whether he meant for himself or for Mr Philip, or for some one else, he did not say. "All right!" said Philip, at a venture; and though he heard no more of the matter, and was too busy all day to give it a thought, he was not surprised, when he went, at night, to the bridge house, to hear that there was news awaiting him; but he was a little surprised at the nature of the news. It was Violet who told him. The children were gone out, and David was, for the moment, in his mother's room, and only Frank was with Violet when Philip came in. For this time she was quite free from the "proper" and "dignified" air of which Jem used to accuse her where Philip was concerned. She was smiling and eager when, prompted by Frank, she told him there was something he would like to hear. "It is about Davie, isn't it?" said Philip. "Davie is Miss Bethia's heir?" But it was not Davie. Davie had his father's library and the five hundred dollars which Miss Bethia had offered for it as well, to do what he liked with; there were some legacies to relatives, "to remember her by," Miss Bethia had written, and there was something to Debby Stone. But the house and garden in Gourlay, and all else that had been Miss Bethia's, she had bequeathed unconditionally to Mrs Inglis. It was not a large property, but it was a good deal more than Miss Bethia could have been supposed to possess, considering her way of life. It was not quite independence to Mrs Inglis and her children, but it would be a great help toward it. "And," said Violet, with a smile and a sigh, "it opens the way to Davie." "Yes; that is what Mr Caldwell said this morning. But you don't seem so delighted as he was at the thought." "I am very glad for Davie. But it will be a sad breaking-up for the rest of us to have him go away. And it will be at once, I suppose, if, at this late day, arrangements can be made for his going this year to the university." "But the sooner the better, I should think, Violet," said Frank, cheerfully. "Yes--the sooner the better for him; but think of mamma and the rest of us. However, I know it is very foolish to look at that side of the matter, and, indeed, I am very glad." "And, besides, if you go to M-- you will see him often," said Frank. "We shall be rather dismal without you both, I am afraid." "Dismal enough!" echoed Mr Philip. "And if you all go to Gourlay to live, as Miss Bethia seemed to think you would, what will become of us?" "What, indeed!" said Philip. "That is the plan, is it? It is cruel of Aunt Mary, and I shall tell her so." "We have made no plans as yet. I hope it will be all for the best. We have been very happy here. It could not have lasted much longer for Davie. He is very glad, and so is mamma; and, I suppose, we shall all be glad, when we have time to think about it." Philip was not so sure of that, nor Frank either, as far as their going away to Gourlay was concerned. But mamma was glad and Davie. There was no doubt of that, Philip saw, as soon as they appeared. They were rather silent for a time, and Philip saw, what he had never seen before in all his intercourse with her, the traces of tears on Mrs Inglis's face. He was not sure that there was not the shine of tears in David's eyes too. His congratulations were given very quietly, and as quietly received. "But I am afraid it is the beginning of bad days to us, Aunt Mary, if we have to say good-bye to you all." "It would be bad days for us, too, if that were to happen; but I hope nothing so sad as that is to follow our good fortune." "Good-bye!" exclaimed Frank. "That is the last thing we shall think of, Aunt Mary. But, I suppose, we shall lose Davie for awhile. Eh, Davie?" "I shall be away for awhile, if you call that losing me; but I shall be home soon, and often." "It happened just at the right time, didn't it?" said Ned. "Just as Davie is ready to go to college." "Davie has been ready for that any time these three years; and what I wonder is, that mamma did not hear of this at once," said Jem. "This is the right time, I think," said Mrs Inglis. "I am very glad it did not happen this time last year," said Philip. "Why?" said Violet. "I will tell you another time," said Philip. "After all, mamma, money is a very good thing to have," said Ned, after there had been more discussion of Miss Bethia's will, and all that was to be done in consequence of it. "A very good thing, in certain circumstances." "But, mamma, you have always spoken as if it did not matter whether we had money or not--much money, I mean. And now see how pleased everybody is because Miss Bethia gave her's to you. I don't think anything ever happened before that pleased every one of us so well." "I cannot say that for myself," said his mother. "And there is not _much_ money of it," said Frank. "And everybody is glad because of Davie," said Jessie. "I think Miss Bethia meant it for Davie to go to college and be a minister like papa, and that is why mamma is so glad, and all of us." "Nonsense! Miss Bethia meant it for mamma and all of us. She would have said it was for Davie, if she had meant it for him. Do you think Miss Bethia meant it for you, Davie? Do you, mamma?" said Ned, as he saw a smile exchanged between them. "She meant it for mamma, of course," said David. "Davie," said his mother, "read Miss Bethia's letter to Philip and the children." David looked at his mother, and round on the rest, then back again to his mother, a little surprise and hesitation showing in his face. "Do you think so, mamma?" said he, colouring. "They will like to hear it, and I shall like them to hear it. Shall I read it for you?" said his mother, smiling. David rose and went into his mother's room, and came back with the letter in his hand. Giving it to her without a word, he sat down in a corner where the light could not fall on his face. Mrs Inglis opened the letter and read: "Dear David Inglis,--It is a solemn thing to sit down and write a letter which is not to be opened till the hand that holds the pen is cold in death; and so I feel at this time. But I want you to know all about it, and I must put it in as few words as possible. I will begin at the beginning. "I never had much hope of your father after that first hard cold he took about the time that Timothy Bent died. I worried about him all winter, for I couldn't make it seem right that his life and usefulness should be broken off short, just when it seemed he had got ready to do the most good. I would have put it right, in my way, if I could have done it. But it was not the Lord's way, and I had to give it up. It never was easy for me to give up my own way, even to the Lord. But He is long-suffering and slow to anger; and by and by He showed me how I might help make up your father's loss to the church and the world. "But I wasn't in any hurry about it, because I didn't know just how it would be with you, and whether you would keep your armour bright, and stand in the day of trial. So I waited, and went to Singleton, and talked with Mr Caldwell, and came home feeling pretty well; and all the more when I heard from your mother how she and you felt about your taking up your father's work. Still I was not in any hurry, for I thought you were not losing your time. You seemed to be learning, what many a minister gets into trouble for not knowing, how business is done, and how far a little money may be made to go. And I thought, if it were just a notion of yours to be a minister, because you had thought so much of your father, and to please your mother, you would find it out pretty soon, and get into other business. But I knew, if the Lord had called you to the work, you wouldn't be tired waiting, and you weren't losing time. "Well, I have thought of it, and planned for it considerable, one way and another; and, lately, I have begun to think that I shall not have much more time for planning or doing either. This summer, I have seemed to see my way clear. There are not many women in the world like your mother, I can tell you, David; and she will know how to go to work better than I can tell her. So I have made up my mind to leave what I have got to her. The time you have been working to keep the family together has not been lost, so far. But, when your mother don't need you, you will be free to help yourself. I thought first I would leave you money enough to take you through college, and all that; but, as far as I have had a chance to judge, those who have had to work hard to get an education, have come out best in the end. Your mother will know what to do, as one thing follows another in your life, better than I could put it down on paper. She'll help you all you need, I am not afraid; and if the Lord shouldn't have called you to His work after all, I would rather your mother had the property I have worked for than that you should have it to put into other business. I hope it will come all round right in the end. "There is a good deal more I wanted to say to you, but I don't seem to know just how to put it down on paper as I want to, so I shall not try. When you read this, I shall be where your father is; and I pray the Lord to lead you in the way you should go, and make you a faithful minister of His word, as he was. Amen." There was nothing said for several minutes, after she had ceased reading; then she only said: "And so, now, children, you see what it was that our old friend wished." "Mr Caldwell must have known it all along," said Philip. "Well, he told me there was not much chance of Davie's accepting my offer. I should think not!" "Are you sorry?" asked Violet. "I am not sure. I must think about it." "I sha'n't seem to care so much about being a rich man now," said Jem, "since Davie is provided for." "There are plenty more of us, Jem," said Ned. "And mamma, too," went on Jem dolefully. "If Miss Bethia had given it all to Davie, I might have done for mamma." They all laughed at Jem's trouble, and they grew eager and a little noisy and foolish after that, laughing and making impossible plans, as though Miss Bethia's money had been countless. David said nothing, and Mrs Inglis said little, and the confusion did not last long, for, beneath all their lightness, there was among the children a deeper and graver feeling than they wished to show, and they grew quiet in a little while. There were no plans made that night, however; but, by degrees, it was made plain to Mrs Inglis what it was best for them to do. David went almost immediately to M--, and was admitted into the university, passing the examinations for the second year; and Violet went back to her place in Mrs Lancaster's school. Mrs Inglis decided to remain in Singleton for the winter, partly for Jem's sake, and partly that Ned might still have the benefit of school. Frank was also to be with them. Mr Oswald was not to be in Singleton constantly, and Miss Oswald was to remain at her own home all winter, and the little girls were to remain with her. So Frank took David's place, though he did not quite fill it, and Mr Philip came and went almost as often as when the others were at home. His visits were for the pleasure of all, and for his own profit; and when the time came that they were to say "good-bye" for a little while, it was spoken by Mrs Inglis with feelings far different from those she would have had a year ago; for she knew that the discipline of changed circumstances, of care, and of hard work that had fallen upon him, had strengthened him in many ways; and, better still, she could not but hope that the influence and teaching to which he had so willingly submitted during the last year and more, had wrought in him for good, and that now he was being taught by Him who teacheth to profit, and guided by Him in the right way. Jem had an opportunity to play at being "head of the house" for once; and it was, by no means, all play, for the care and responsibility of acting for his mother in all that pertained to making necessary arrangements, to the disposal of such things as they did not care to take with them, and to the removal of such things as they wished to keep, fell on him. He did his work well and cheerfully, though with a little unnecessary energy, and he would gladly have staid to settle them all in Gourlay. But he was needed for his legitimate work; and amid much cause for gratitude, Mrs Inglis had this cause for anxiety, that Jem must henceforth be removed from the constant happy influence of home life, and left to prove the strength and worth of his principles among strangers. If he had been more afraid for himself, it is likely his mother would have been less afraid for him. But there was no help for it. It is the mother's "common lot." "The young birds cannot always stay in the parent nest, mother, dear," said Jem; "and I must go as the rest do. But I shall come home for a week in the summer, if it be a possible thing; and, in the meantime, I am not going to forget my mother, I hope." "Nor your mother's God, I trust, dear Jem," said Mrs Inglis, as she let him go. Who could tell all the labour and pains bestowed on the arrangement and adornment of the house they had never ceased to love? David came home early in May, and did his part. Ten times a day Jessie wished for Violet to help with her willing and skillful hands. They had Debby for all that required strength. She had fallen very easily into her old place, and was to stay in it, everybody hoped. Sarah and Charlotte Oswald were to form part of their family for the next year, and Violet's work was to be to teach them and her sisters, and two little orphan girls who had been committed by their guardian to Mrs Inglis's care. But Violet's work was not to be begun till September, and after the house was in perfect order, ready to receive expected visitors, there were two months for happy leisure before that time came. Violet and Jem were coming home together, and Sarah and Charlotte were expected at the same time. Jem was to stay for ten days only. By dint of some planning on their part, and much kindness on the part of Mr Caldwell, Philip and Frank were to have their holiday together, and they were to accompany the rest to Gourlay. At first it was intended to make their coming a surprise, but mindful of certain possible contingencies in Debby's department, Violet overruled this, and the people at home were permitted to have the pleasure of expecting and preparing for them, as well as the pleasure of receiving them, and wonderful things were accomplished to that end. The last night had come. The children had gone away to the woods to get some sprigs from a beautiful vine, without which Jessie did not consider her floral decorations perfect, and Mrs Inglis and David were awaiting them alone. They were in the garden, which was a very pretty place, and never prettier than on that evening, David thought. Ned's gardening was a great improvement on his of the old days, he willingly acknowledged. Indeed, since their coming back to Gourlay, Ned had given himself to the arranging and keeping of the garden, in a way that proved the possession of true artistic taste, and also of that which is as rare, and as necessary to success in gardening and in other things--great perseverance. His success was wonderful, and all the more so that for the last few years the flower-garden, at least, had been allowed to take its own way as to growing and blossoming, and bade fair when they came to be a thicket of balsam, peonies, hollyhocks, and other hardy village favourites. But Ned saw great possibilities of beauty in it, compared with the three-cornered morsel that had been the source of so much enjoyment in Singleton, and having taken Philip into his confidence, there came from time to time seeds, roots, plants and cuttings to his heart's content. He had determined to have the whole in perfect order by the time of the coming of Violet and the rest, and by dint of constant labour on his part, and the little help he got from David or any one else who could be coaxed into his service for the time, he had succeeded wonderfully, considering all things. It was perfect in neatness, and it was rich in flowers that had never opened under a Gourlay sun till now. It was to be a surprise to Violet and Jem, and looking at it with their eyes, David exclaimed again and again in admiration of its order and beauty. "But they won't see it to-night, unless they come soon," said he. "However, it will look all the better with the morning sun upon it. Does it seem like home to you, mamma?--the old home?" "Yes--with a difference," said his mother. "Ah, yes! But you are glad to be here, mamma? You would rather have your home in Gourlay than anywhere else?" "Yes, I am glad our home is here. God has been very good to us, Davie." "Mamma, it is wonderful! If our choice had been given us, we could not have desired anything different." His mother smiled. "God's way is best, and this will seem more like home than any other place could seem to those who must go away. I cannot expect to keep my children always." "Any place would be home to us where you were, mamma. But I am glad you are here--and you don't grudge us to our work in the world?" "No, truly. That would be worse than ungrateful. May God give you all His work to do, and a will and strength to do it!" "And you will have the children a long time yet; and Violet--" David hesitated and looked at his mother with momentary embarrassment. "Only mamma," added he, "I am afraid Philip wants Violet." Mrs Inglis started. "Has he told you so, Davie?" said she, anxiously. "No--not quite--not exactly. But I think--I know you wouldn't be grieved, mamma? Philip is just what you would like him to be now. Philip is a true Christian gentleman. I expect great things from Philip. And mamma, you can never surely mean that you are surprised." "Not altogether surprised, perhaps. But--we will not speak of it, Davie, until--" "Until Philip does. Well, I don't think that will be very long. But, mamma, I cannot bear that you should be unhappy because of this." "Unhappy? No, not unhappy! But--I could never make you understand. We will not speak about it." They went on in silence along the walk till they came to the garden gate, and there they lingered for a while. "Mamma," said David, "do you remember one night, a very stormy night, when you and I watched for papa's coming home? I don't know why I should always think of that night more than of many others, unless it was almost the last time he ventured forth to meet the storm. I think you were afraid even then, mamma?" "I remember. Yes, I was afraid." David stood silent beside her. The voices of the children on their homeward way came through the stillness. In a minute they could see them, moving in and out among the long shadows, which the last gleam of sunshine made, their hands and laps filled with flowers and trailing green--a very pretty picture. The mother stood watching them in silence till they drew near. Then the face she turned to David was bright with both smiles and tears. "David," she said, "when I remember your father's life and death, and how gently we have been dealt with since then, how wisely guided, how strongly guarded, and how the way has opened before us, my heart fills full and my lips would fain sing praises. I do not think there can come into my life anything to make me afraid any more." David's answer was in words not his own: "Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee." THE END. 
61803	----	Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 61803-h.htm or 61803-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/61803/61803-h/61803-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/61803/61803-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/talesofshipwreck00bingrich TALES OF SHIPWRECKS AND OTHER DISASTERS AT SEA. by THOMAS BINGLEY, Author of "Stories about Dogs," etc. Embellished with Engravings. Boston: Tappan & Dennet, 114 Washington Street. [Illustration: LOSS OF THE FORFARSHIRE. _Grace Darling and her father proceeding to the rescue of the survivers._--P. 184.] CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAGE. Uncle Thomas tells about the Adventures of Captain Richard Falconer, 7 CHAPTER II. Uncle Thomas continues his Narrative of Captain Falconer's Adventures, 28 CHAPTER III. Uncle Thomas tells about the Wreck of the Vryheid, 51 CHAPTER IV. Uncle Thomas tells about the Mutiny of the Bounty, 75 CHAPTER V. Uncle Thomas tells about the Loss of the Kent East Indiaman, 104 CHAPTER VI. Uncle Thomas tells about the Wreck of the Medusa, 126 CHAPTER VII. Uncle Thomas tells about the Loss of the Winterton East Indiaman, 141 CHAPTER VIII. Uncle Thomas tells about the Loss of the Royal George, 153 CHAPTER IX. Uncle Thomas tells about the Wreck of the Steamers Killarney and Forfarshire, 164 CHAPTER X. Uncle Thomas tells about the Wreck of the Albion New York Packet, 189 CHAPTER XI. Uncle Thomas tells of the Loss of the Doddington East Indiaman, 202 TALES OF SHIPWRECKS CHAPTER I. UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT THE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN RICHARD FALCONER. "Shipwrecks, Uncle Thomas! oh yes, we shall be delighted!" exclaimed three or four voices, as the boys crowded round the fire, each striving who should sit nearest their kind old Uncle, who delighted to amuse them by telling them the nicest little stories in the world, of which, in the course of his reading, he had gathered together a great store. He had already related to them, with much applause, a variety of "Stories about Dogs," as well as "Stories about the Instinct of Animals," and now proposed to commence a series of narratives, "Tales of Shipwrecks, and other Disasters at Sea," a proposal which his little audience, as we have above stated, received with unbounded delight. I am glad you have chosen Shipwrecks, Uncle Thomas, I am so very fond of such stories. I have just finished Robinson Crusoe, and almost wish I was, like him, cast away on a desert island, that I might have my man Friday, and my goat, and my gun!--It would be delightful! I am afraid, Frank, you would not find it so delightful as you seem to think. However, as you like it so much, I will begin my tales by relating the adventures of Captain Richard Falconer, who was cast away on a desert island, and show you how he fared. Falconer was a native of Bruton, England. His mother died when he was very young, and being thus thrown on his father's care, he was his constant companion. Having been a great traveller in his youth, the elder Falconer delighted to recount his adventures, and his son thus acquired an ardent desire to follow in his steps. With this view, as he grew up, he often begged that his father would allow him to become a sailor. His father knew better, however, and always replied to his solicitations by saying, "Stay where you are; you know not the hazards and dangers that attend the life of a sailor: think no more of going to sea, for I know that it is only the desire of youth, fond of change, which now actuates you; and if I were to give you leave, one week's voyage would make you wish you were at home!" Young Falconer, however, was not satisfied with this reasoning, and again and again besought his father to comply with his request. All his entreaties were, however, unavailing, till at length an event happened which put an end to his father's scruples. The elder Falconer held the situation of collector of taxes, and having collected a large amount of revenue, he was unfortunately robbed of it, before he could pay it over to government. Fearful that some negligence, of which he had no doubt been guilty, would expose him to punishment, and being thus a ruined man, he resolved to retire to some place where he was unknown, and thus escape the vigilance of his enemies. One morning he called his son to him, and said, "Richard, you have often been desirous of going to sea, and I have always endeavored to dissuade you from it; but as what has happened makes it impossible for me to remain any longer in the place of my birth, I must now recommend you to the way of life which I should never have chosen for you, but that my circumstances will not now allow me to provide for you in any other way. Here," continued he, "take this money, which I can ill spare out of my little fortune; but since it is all I can do for you, take it, and may Heaven prosper you! May the blessing of a father, whose prayers shall ever be sent to the Almighty Creator for your welfare, always be with you. Here is a letter to Captain Pultney, of Bristol, whose friendship, I am sure, will be of service to you." Then, with tears in his eyes, he embraced his son, and once more gave him his blessing, and took his leave forever. They never saw each other again! Having packed up a few things in a portmanteau, Falconer gave them to an old servant of his father's, who, to show his gratitude in the only way he had in his power, determined to see him as far as Bristol. They set out in the morning, and reached it by noon. Captain Pultney received him with great cordiality, and promised to do everything in his power to promote his views, and when, by his advice, Falconer had studied the mathematics, and he thought him capable of performing the duties of mate, he sent him on board the Albion frigate, commanded by Captain Wise; and, on the 2nd of May, they set sail for Jamaica, with a fair wind. As soon as they lost sight of land, Falconer began to be extremely sea-sick, and he bore the rough jokes of the sailors very indifferently. One cried out, "There's an excellent master's-mate; he'll hit Jamaica to a hair, if the island was no bigger than the bung-hole of a cask!" However, in a day or two, he perfectly recovered, and was never afterwards troubled with sea-sickness. Nothing material happened till they entered the Bay of Biscay, when they encountered a dreadful storm; the billows ran very high, and the vessel seemed to be the sport of the waves. So high did these run, that a ship, that overtook the Albion the day before, and accompanied it, was sometimes altogether lost sight of, though they were not half a furlong distant from each other: this continued for three days, when the storm abated something of its fierceness, though it still blew very hard. The other vessel, by firing a gun and showing a signal, made it appear that she was in distress; but the sea ran so high, that it was impossible to afford her any assistance; yet, the Albion, being to windward, bore down upon her, to be as near as possible without endangering her own safety. They found that she had sprung a leak, and though they had all hands by turns at the pump, yet the water gained upon them. They begged the crew of the Albion to hoist out a boat, as their own was stove. They accordingly sent out their long-boat, with two men, but the rope that held her to the ship unfortunately broke, and she drove away with the two men in her, who were never afterwards heard of. They undoubtedly were either swallowed up by the sea, or perished of hunger, as they were then twenty leagues from shore. The ship sunk in less than ten minutes afterwards, with fifty-seven men on board, of whom four only were saved by clinging to the ropes which had been thrown out to them by the crew of the Albion. From the four men who were thus saved, they learned that the vessel, which had sunk, was a pirate, which, but a short time before, had attacked a French ship, murdered the captain, and such of the crew as would not agree to join them, and that they were only waiting for the abating of the storm in order to attack the Albion. They also said, they were forced, with several others, to become pirates; but whether this was true or false, they behaved with great propriety during the remainder of the voyage. On the 28th of May they made the Canaries, and saw the peak of Teneriffe. On the 4th of July, they anchored in Carlisle Bay, Barbadoes, after a desperate action with a pirate, who boarded them, but was beat off. On the 20th of July they sailed for Jamaica, on the 1st of August anchored at Nevis, and on the 7th of September arrived in Port Royal harbor. Finding that the affairs of the ship would detain it about half a year in Jamaica, Falconer obtained leave of the captain to go in a sloop, with some of his companions, to obtain logwood, at the Bay of Campeachy, on the South American coast; and on the 25th of September, they set out on this expedition. For six days they sailed merrily on their course, with a fair wind, towards the Bay; but on the seventh, the clouds darkened, and the welkin seemed all on fire with lightning, and the thunder roared with frightful violence. In short, a dreadful hurricane approached. The sailors had furled their sails and lowered their topmasts, waiting for it under a double-reefed foresail. At length it came with extreme violence, which lasted three hours, until, as if exhausted, it insensibly abated, and was followed by a complete calm. On the 6th of October they anchored at Trist Island, in the Bay of Campeachy, and sent their men ashore at Logwood Creek, to seek for the logwood cutters, who immediately came on board. The bargain was soon struck; and, in exchange for rum and sugar, and a little money, they got in their cargo in eight days, and again set sail for Jamaica. During the homeward voyage, Falconer one day went down into the hold to bottle off a small parcel of wine which he had there: on coming upon deck again, wanting to wash himself, he went into the boat astern, which had been hoisted out in the morning to look after a wreck. Having washed and dressed himself, he took a book out of his pocket, and sat reading in the boat; when, before he was aware, a storm began to rise, and finding that he could not get up at the ship's side as usual, he called for the ladder of ropes that hangs over the ship's quarter, in order to get up that way. Whether it broke through rottenness, it being seldom used, is uncertain, but down he fell into the sea; and though the ship immediately tacked about to take him up, yet, as evening was now coming on, and the storm had considerably increased, they soon lost sight of him. For some time he swam boldly in the direction in which he expected to see the vessel, but at length he was forced to drive with the wind, which, fortunately, set in with the current; and having managed to keep himself above water for about four hours, he felt his feet touch the ground; and at last, by a great wave, was thrown upon the sand. It being now quite dark, he knew not what to do; but got up and walked as well as his numbed limbs would let him, and every now and then was overtaken by the waves, which were not high enough, however, to wash him away. When he had got far enough, as he thought, to be out of danger, he began to examine what sort of place it was upon which he had been thrown: he could not, however, discover anything of land, and conjectured that it was but some bank of sand, that the sea would overflow at high tide. He now sat down to rest his weary limbs, and prepare himself for death, which, it was evident, was now staring him in the face. At last he fell asleep, though he tried all he could to prevent it, by getting up and walking, till he was obliged, through weariness, to lie down again. When he awoke in the morning, he found that he was on a low, sandy island, surrounded by several others of the same description, and separated from each other, about half a mile or more, by the sea. Finding that things were thus not quite so bad as he had anticipated, he became a little cheerful, and walked about to see if he could discover anything that was eatable, as he now began to get very hungry; but, to his great grief, he found nothing but a few eggs, which he was obliged to eat raw. The fear of starving seemed now to be worse than that of drowning; and often did he wish that the sea had swallowed him, rather than have thrown him on this desolate island; for he could perceive, from their flatness, that they were not inhabited either by man or beast, being only resorted to by sea-fowl. To complete his misery, there was not to be found one drop of fresh water on the island, so that he was forced to drink sea-water for two or three days, which caused his skin to peel off, and made him very ill. At last his misery so increased, that he frequently resolved to terminate his existence, but desisted, in the expectation that some alligator, or other voracious creature, would come and do it for him. One day he discovered a bird, called a booby, sitting upon a bush, and ran immediately, as fast as he could, and knocked it down with a stick. Without for a moment considering whether it was proper food, he sucked the blood and ate the flesh with such a pleasure, as none can express but those who have felt the pain of hunger to the same degree. He afterwards discovered many more of these birds, which he killed. Being now pretty well off for food, he began to consider whether he could not with two sticks make a fire, as he had seen the blacks do in Jamaica, and at last, after many trials, happily accomplished it. He then plucked several of the boobies which he had caught, and broiled them as well as he could. At night, he was exposed to a great storm of rain and thunder, with the reddest lightning he had ever seen, and was completely drenched; his clothes, which consisted of a pair of thin shoes and thread stockings, and a canvass waistcoat and trowsers, were thoroughly wet; but he had the happiness to find in the morning several cavities of rain-water. Having already suffered so much from using sea-water, he now thought of making a deep well, that he might have water continually by him. He took a piece of wood, and pitched upon a place under a bush, where, with his hands and the stick together, he dug a hole, big enough to contain a hogshead of water; then he put in stones and paved it, and got in and stamped them down hard all round, and, with his stick, beat the sides close, so as to make it completely water-tight. But the great difficulty was how to get the water there: this, however, he at length effected, by means of a sort of bucket made from a part of his clothing. Having been so successful in this matter, he now felt greatly elated, and thought he should not be very badly off for a long while; for, besides the store of water, he had, ready broiled, forty boobies, designing to allow himself half a one a-day. Fortunately, he remained always in good health, being only a little troubled with headache, from the sun beating on his head, having lost his hat in the water, in falling down from the vessel's side. For a time he remedied this as well as he could, by gathering a parcel of chicken-weed, which grew in plenty around, and strewing it over the bushes under which he sat; but at last, finding that he might be longer there than he expected, he tore off one of the sleeves of his shirt, and made himself a cap, which he covered with green sprigs, twisted with bark. By the time he had been a month on the island, his skin became as brown, by constant exposure, as if it had been rubbed over with walnut shells. He several times thought of swimming to one of the other islands; but as they looked only like heaps of sand, he felt convinced that he had got the best berth, so contented himself with his station. He began, however, to feel very lonely, and was so wicked as to wish to have companions in his misfortune, and every day hoped either to see some vessel come that way, or a wreck, where, perhaps, he might find some necessaries which he wanted. He used to fancy, that if he should be forced to stay there long, he should lose his speech; so he used to talk aloud, asking himself questions, and answering them. If anybody had been by to have heard him, they would certainly have thought him crazy, he often asked himself such strange questions. He was destined to be visited by companions in misfortune sooner than he expected; but I must tell you how this happened on some other occasion. I am afraid I have already detained you too long this evening. Oh no, Uncle Thomas! Very well, boys, to-morrow evening I will go on with Captain Falconer's adventures, and we will see how Frank likes this sort of life on a desert island. Ah, but Uncle Thomas, this was not a nice island, like Robinson Crusoe's! There were no large trees to make a canoe of, or any goats; and I don't see very well where Friday is to come from! I understand you, Frank; you would like it only if you had the choosing of your place, with plenty of conveniences of every kind. Good night. CHAPTER II. UNCLE THOMAS CONTINUES HIS NARRATIVE OF CAPTAIN FALCONER'S ADVENTURES. One morning, during Falconer's residence on the sandy island, of which I told you last evening, a violent storm arose, which continued till noon. In the meantime, Falconer discovered a ship laboring with the waves, and having watched it earnestly for several hours, he at last saw it tossed by the violence of the tempest completely out of the water upon the shore. He ran to see if there were anybody whom he could assist, when he found four men (being all there were in the vessel) busy saving what they could. When he hailed them in English, they seemed mightily surprised; and asked him how he came there, and how long he had been on the island. When he told them his story, and described the barrenness of the place, they were very much concerned for themselves, for they feared there was no possibility of getting their bark off the sands, the wind having forced her so far; and began to bemoan each other's misfortunes. To Falconer, however, their mishap afforded a source of secret satisfaction, for he soon found that they had on board plenty of everything. They now set to work in order to secure such provisions as were in the ship, as well as such utensils as they would find useful, including a fowling-piece and some gunpowder. They then took off the sails from the yards, and, with some pieces of timber, raised a hut big enough to hold twenty men, under which they put the beds which they got from the bark. It is true they had no shelter from the wind, for the bushes were so low they were of no use; but for all this, Falconer now thought himself in a palace, and was as merry as if he had been once more at Jamaica, or even at home in his own country. In short, when they had been there some time, they began to be very easy, and having plenty of food, were content to wait patiently till God should send them assistance. Though they had plenty of fishing tackle, they found it of little use, as they had no boat to go a little way from shore to catch fish; they therefore set their wits to work, in order to make a float, and at last they hit upon this odd project: they took six casks, and tarred them all over, then stopped up the bung-holes with corks, and nailed them close down with a piece of tarred canvass. These six casks they tied together with some of the cordage of the vessel, and upon them they placed the moveable hatches from the deck, and fixed them, and made the float so strong, that two men might sit upon it; but for fear a sudden storm should arise, while they happened to be at sea, they tied to one end of it a coil or two of small rope, of 500 fathoms long, which they fixed to a stake on the shore. Two of the party then went out, in order to see what success they should have; but returned with only one fish, about two feet long, something like a shark. Next day, however, they were more successful, returning with two of the same kind of fish, and a young shark about two feet long, which were dressed for dinner, and proved excellent eating. They now began to consider what could be done to enable them to escape from their confinement. On examining their ship carefully, they found that it was all sound; and though the violence of the storm had carried it considerably beyond the reach of ordinary tides, and though nearly buried by the drifting of the sand, that there was nothing to prevent their being able to launch it into deep water once more. They therefore set determinedly to work, and after sixteen days' hard labor, they at last succeeded. At length, on the 31st of December, they launched their vessel, and designing to set sail on the following day, they resolved to celebrate their deliverance by a carousal. They accordingly got very merry, and when their punch was all done, they went to bed. Instead of sleeping in the tent, however, Falconer remained on board the bark, while his companions, as usual, slept on shore. During the night, one of the sudden storms, so common in these latitudes, arose, and tore the bark from its moorings, and carried it out to sea, Falconer all the time sleeping soundly below, quite unconscious of the danger to which he was exposed. By the time he awoke in the morning, the storm had so much abated, that he remained unconscious of what had happened, till going on deck to call his companions, he found that he was in the middle of the ocean, far out of sight of land. For fourteen days, he continued tossed about at the mercy of the winds and waves. During the whole time, he saw but one ship, but it was at such a distance, and bore away so fast, that no succor could be expected. At length his vessel was driven so close in shore as to attract notice. He was then boarded by two canoes, containing one Spaniard and six Indians, to whom, by means of broken French, he explained his condition. They carried him on shore, and introduced him to the governor, by whom he was kindly received. The place happened to be a Spanish settlement on the coast of South America. By the kindness of the governor, the ship was once more fitted out, and manned, to go in search of Falconer's companions, who had been left on the island. In fifteen days they reached the island, where they found them in a most pitiable condition. They had consumed all their provisions, and had no means of getting more; indeed, for some days they had subsisted on the most filthy and revolting food. Having received them on board, they again set sail; and it now occurred to Falconer that, in order to complete his equipment, five of the men who composed his crew had been released from prison, where they had been confined on suspicion of piracy. A thought came into his head, which had escaped him before. He considered if these were really pirates, being five to four, they might be too powerful for him and the rest of his crew, and perhaps murder them. One day, as they all dined together upon deck, under an awning, it being very calm weather, he asked the five men, what was the reason that they were taken for pirates by the Spaniards. At first they seemed nonplussed; but one of them, named Warren, soon recovered himself, and answered for the others, saying that they embarked on board the ship Bonaventure, in the Thames, bound for Jamaica, whither they made a prosperous voyage; but after taking in their cargo, on their way home, they were overtaken by a storm, in which their ship was lost, and all the men perished, except himself and four companions, who were saved in the long-boat; and that as they were making to shore to save themselves, they saw a bark riding at anchor without the port of Campeachy, which they approached in order to inquire where they were, and to beg some provisions, their own being gone. On entering the vessel, however, they found but two people in it; the third, jumping into the water, swam on shore, and brought three boats, filled with Spanish soldiers, which came on board before they could make off. "Make off!" said Falconer. "What, did you design to run away with the vessel!" "No," answered Warren, with some confusion; "we only intended to weigh anchor, and go farther in shore, that we might land in the morning, it being late at night." The fact of the fellow being nonplussed now and then, Falconer did not at all like, but, upon consideration, he thought it might be for want of words to express himself better; so he took no more notice of it. In the evening, however, Middleton, one of their crew, came to him with a face of concern, and told him that he did not like these fellows' tale. "Why so?" said Falconer. "Because they herd together," answered he, "and are always whispering and speaking low to one another. If a foreboding heart may speak, I am sure we shall suffer something from them, that will be of danger to us." Upon this, Falconer began to stagger in his opinion of their honesty, and, therefore, he and his friends resolved to be upon their guard. They took no notice of their conversation to their two other companions, but resolved to wait till night, having a better opportunity then, as they slept together in the cabin. When suppertime arrived, the five sailors excused themselves from joining the rest of the crew, by saying they had dined so lately that they were not hungry, which gave the others an opportunity to converse together sooner than they expected. They, therefore, opened the matter to their two companions, and they agreed immediately that they were in danger; so they resolved in the middle watch of the night to seize them in their sleep. It had been previously arranged that Falconer and his friends were to have the first watch, which was at eight o'clock; the others were to watch till twelve; and then, in the third watch, between one and two, Falconer and his companions had determined to seize upon the pirates as they slept. It having previously been found convenient that one of the pirates should form part of the captain's watch, they agreed, before commencing operations, to seize and bind him fast, and to threaten him with death if he offered to make the least noise. As soon as the first watch was set, one of the party proceeded to prepare their arms. In about half an hour, or thereabouts, Warren, who had acted as spokesman, called to Hood, the man who had joined the captain's watch, to get him a little water; whereupon he went down immediately with some water to him. As soon as he was gone below, Falconer drew as near the hatchway as he could, to hear the conversation. Hood having been employed that day looking over the provisions, that he might know how long they would last, the others had not an opportunity to disclose their design to him. As soon as he was gone down, he could hear Warren say to him, "Hark ye, Frank, we had like to have been smoked to-day; and though we had contrived the story that I told you, yet I was a little surprised at their asking me, because then I did not expect it; but we intend to be even with them in a very little time; for, hark ye--" said he, and spoke so low that he could not be overheard. Upon which, the other said, "There is no difficulty in the matter; but we need not be in such haste, for you know, as we ply it to windward, a day or two can break no squares, and we can soon bear down to leeward to our comrades, that we left on shore; for I fancy," added he, "that they have some small suspicion of you now, which in time will sleep, and may be on their guard: therefore, it is better to wait a day or two." "No; we'll do it to-night when they are asleep," replied Warren; whereupon there were many arguments for and against both plans. A little while afterwards, Hood came up again; and after walking up and down for some time, fixing his eyes often upon Falconer, he said very softly, "If you please, Mr. Falconer, I have a word or two to say to you, that much concerns you all." "What is it?" asked he. "Why," answered the other, "let us retire as far from the scuttle as we can, that we may not be heard by any below deck." So they went into the cabin, and opened the hatchway above, that Musgrave, who steered, might hear what was said. Hood then began as follows,--"My four companions below have a wicked design upon you; that is, to seize you, and set you adrift in the boat, and to run away with the vessel; but as I think it is an inhuman action, not only to any one, but to you in particular, who have been the means of their freedom, I have thought it best to give you warning." Finding from this conversation that he was sincere, Falconer told him that he was provided against it already, and informed him of their design to seize his companions in the third watch. "But," said he, "they intend to put their project in practice next watch; therefore, I think it will be necessary to counterplot them, and seize them at once." "As they have no arms," said Falconer, "and we have, we need not fear them." They had several debates about the proper time to carry their scheme into effect, which, unfortunately, took up so much time, that Warren, distrusting Hood, it seems, got up, and stealing softly, came so close that he overheard everything that was said. As soon as he understood what was going forward, he went and informed his companions, upon which they resolved to attack the crew at once. In the midst of this consultation, Falconer and his companions were, therefore, surprised by the pirates, who seized them, which they did with such quickness that they were all confounded and overpowered before they had time to make the least resistance. They then handcuffed them and tied their legs together so as completely to prevent their moving. In this state the mutineers left them till it was broad day, when they came and unbound their legs, and gave them leave to walk upon deck; whereupon Falconer began to expostulate with them, particularly with Warren, as he seemed to have a sort of command over the others. "And what," asked he, "do you intend to do with us, now you have secured us?" "Do with you? why, by-and-bye, we intend to put you into the boat, and turn you adrift; but, for that Hood, we'll murder him without mercy! The scoundrel! to betray us! But as you have not so much injured us, we'll put you immediately into the boat, with a week's provisions, and a small sail, and you shall seek your fortune, as I suppose you would have done by us." "No," answered Falconer, "we only designed to confine you till we came to Jamaica, and there to have given you your liberty to go where you thought fit. Put us ashore on any land that belongs to the English, and we will think you have not done us an injury." "No," said he, "we must go to meet our captain and fifty men, upon the mainland of Yucatan, where our vessel was stranded. Our first design," continued he, "when we were taken in our boat, was to get us a vessel to go buccaneering, which we had done at Campeachy, if it had not been for the Indian who swam on shore, unknown to us, and brought help too soon." [Illustration: _Warren, therefore, ordered him to be tied to the mast of the vessel, and loaded a pistol to shoot him through the head._--P. 47.] When the conspirators had got everything ready, that is to say, a barrel of biscuit, another of water, about half a dozen pieces of beef, and as much pork, a small kettle, and a tinder-box, and were about to commit their unfortunate companions to the mercy of the sea, a sudden accident changed the face of affairs. Before they departed, the mutineers determined to let them witness the death of Hood. Warren, therefore, ordered him to be tied to the mast of the vessel, and loaded a pistol to shoot him through the head, not knowing that it was charged before. They all entreated for the poor fellow, and he himself fell upon his knees, and begged them to spare him; but Warren swore bitterly that nothing should save him: with these words he cocked his pistol and levelled it at Hood, but in firing, it split into several pieces, and one struck Warren into the skull so deep, that he fell upon deck. One of the bullets grazed the side of Falconer's temple, and did but just break the skin: Hood, however, escaped unhurt; but he was so alarmed at the noise of the pistol, that he broke the cords which tied him. Finding himself unhurt, he ran to Falconer and his companions and unbound their arms, unperceived by the other two, who were busy about their unfortunate companion. Before the man that steered could come to their assistance, Hood had unbound Falconer, and stopped the interference of the steersman by giving him a blow with his fist, that knocked him down. In the meantime, the rest of the crew were released, and they speedily secured the other two pirates. After they had bound them in turn, they went to see what assistance could be given to Warren, when they found that a piece of the barrel of the pistol had sunk into his skull, and that he was just expiring. "You have overpowered us," said he, "and I see the hand of Heaven is in it. I was born of good, honest parents, whose steps if I had followed, would have made my conscience easy at this time; but I forsook all religion, and now, too late, I find that to dally with Heaven is fooling one's self: but yet, in this one moment of my life which is left, I heartily repent of all my past crimes." With that he crossed himself and expired. Falconer and his companions now made sail for Jamaica, where, after a variety of adventures, and being again taken by pirates, they at length arrived. From thence they sailed for England, which they reached in safety. [Illustration] CHAPTER III. UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT THE WRECK OF THE VRYHEID. To-night, boys, I am going to give you an account of perhaps one of the most heart-rending shipwrecks with which I am acquainted; the more so that upwards of four hundred and fifty lives were lost, in all probability, entirely in consequence of the obstinacy of the captain. Four hundred and fifty lives, Uncle Thomas! The very number is appalling. It is indeed, John; but it is nevertheless true, that if the captain had taken the advice of those who warned him of the danger into which he was running, he and his crew might have escaped, as you shall hear. The shipwreck I refer to, is that of the Vryheid, which took place near Dover, in the beginning of the present century. The Melville Castle, a British East Indiaman, after having performed the usual number of voyages, was sold by the East India Company to an agent of the merchants of Amsterdam, trading to the East Indies. She was carried to Amsterdam, where she underwent a tolerable repair in her upper works, and was new sheathed and coppered, but her knees and timbers remained in a very decayed state. Thus patched up, the Company tendered her to the Dutch government, which was then in want of a vessel to carry out troops and stores to Batavia. A surveyor was immediately ordered on board, who reported that the ship was in perfect repair, and wanted nothing but the necessary stores to equip her for the intended voyage. She was accordingly furnished with all the requisite stores, was painted throughout, and received the name of the Vryheid. Having received on board the troops, consisting of three hundred and twenty men, the flower of the regiment, who were selected out of nearly one thousand, to form the second battalion of marines in the service of the Batavian republic, the ship got under way on the morning of the 21st November, 1802, and proceeded with a favorable breeze till early in the morning of the following day, when it began to blow a heavy gale from a contrary direction. The captain immediately ordered the top-gallant masts and yards to be struck, when the vessel appeared to ride easier than before. As the day opened, however, the wind blew with increased violence, and every exertion of the crew to render the ship manageable, proved ineffectual. The most serious apprehensions soon began to be entertained for the safety of the vessel; and the state of the ladies on board was particularly distressing. Some embraced their helpless offspring and wept over them in speechless agony, while others in vain implored their husbands to procure the means of landing them in safety on their native shore, and to give up the voyage. The commander, Captain Scherman, was himself in a very trying situation. His wife was on board, with an infant only three months old; and her affliction was aggravated by being surrounded with so many females, fondly weeping over their little ones, and earnestly entreating assistance of the captain, who had the utmost difficulty to prevail on them to leave him, so that he might attend to the duties of his station. The ship continued to drive before the wind till about three o'clock in the afternoon, when the storm increased to a perfect hurricane. Soon after that hour, the mainmast went by the board, with a tremendous crash, and, in its fall, swept overboard several of the crew, besides wounding four or five others. This disaster greatly augmented the fears of all on board. The captain himself, the admiral, and the other officers, now seemed to consider their lives in the most imminent danger; for though they were so near the Kentish shore, that they could discern objects on land, yet the waves, which then rolled mountains high, totally precluded the possibility of their receiving assistance. In this emergency they hoisted a signal of distress, and after very great exertion, they managed to bring the ship to anchor at the entrance of Hythe Bay; but as it was now quite dark, they could obtain no assistance from the shore, though the wind was not quite so tempestuous. By the captain's orders the crew were plentifully regaled, and a beam of hope illumined every countenance; but, alas! it was but of momentary duration. The ship was found to have sprung a leak: all hands were ordered to the pumps; and while they were thus employed, the storm again came on with redoubled violence. Universal consternation now prevailed, and the piercing shrieks of the women and children, at each successive blast of wind, were sufficient to unman the stoutest heart. Every relief that circumstances would admit was afforded by the ship's company and the troops, to the unfortunate ladies, many of whom were, by this time, clinging round their husbands and fainting in their arms. They remained in this dismal situation for several hours, during which the greatest order and sobriety reigned on board, till about six o'clock on the succeeding morning, when the vessel parted from her best bower-anchor, and drifted towards Dymchurch Wall, about three miles to the westward of Hythe. They continued to fire guns of distress, and kept the signal flying during the whole of the morning. At day-break, a pilot-boat put off from Dover, and coming near, recommended the captain to put back to Deal or Hythe, and to remain till the weather became more moderate. "If you proceed," said the boatman, "all hands will be lost; you are evidently unacquainted with the coast, and if the gale should continue, no power on earth can save you." The captain, however, conceiving the danger to be less imminent than was represented, neglected this advice, hoping that, as the day opened, the wind would abate, when he should be enabled to put into some bay or port, without being obliged to comply with the demands of the Dover pilots, or pay the Downs fees for coming to anchor there. The pilot-boat had scarcely left the ship, when the commodore at Deal despatched two boats to endeavor to board the ship, when the unaccountable and fatal obstinacy of the captain was again strikingly displayed; the crew were ordered to let the vessel drive before the wind, and to pay no attention to the recommendations of the commodore. The boats then fired several shots as a further signal to bring to, but these were equally disregarded. A few minutes afterwards, one of the boats passed close under the stern, and as the ship had lost her mainmast, desired she would immediately put about and stand for the first port. But to this, like the former solicitations, they gave no reply, and the gale increasing, they soon lost sight of both the boats. The ill-fated captain was now in a state of the greatest agitation, and bitterly repented his refusal to take a pilot on board, but it was now too late; the roar of the sea was terrific, and such a tremendous swell, that the chance of any relief being afforded from the shore was completely prevented. The wind now blew a perfect hurricane from the south and south-west; the signal-guns they continued to fire incessantly, and the captain twice attempted to put the ship about, but all his exertions proved fruitless. She was now near Dymchurch Wall, where the coast, for the space of above two miles, is protected from the encroachment of the sea by overlaths and immense piles, and is further secured by large wooden jetties stretching far into the sea. On the first of these jetties the unfortunate vessel struck. In this desperate situation, with the wind becoming more and more boisterous, the captain ordered the mizenmast to be cut away, and all the water in the hold to be started, by staving the casks; while a part of the crew, under the direction of the officers, were incessantly employed at the pumps. They also threw nearly the whole of the ballast overboard; but in spite of all their exertions, the danger seemed every moment to increase. So maddening was the reflection of what might have been their situation had a pilot not been refused, that the officers could not refrain from reproaching the captain with having slighted the advice of the English in the boats: he appeared to be deeply sensible of his error, but it was now too late. The admiral recommended the sheet anchor to be cut away, which was accordingly done, but, notwithstanding this precaution, the unfortunate ship continued to beat upon the piles, and the sea to break over her with such violence, that the men were no longer able to remain in the hold. The pumps had now become so completely choked with sand and mud, that they were rendered totally useless, and a speedy destruction of the vessel and all on board appeared to be inevitable. The foremast soon afterwards went over the ship's side, carrying along with it about twelve of the crew, who were soon swallowed up by the waves. The ladies now began to prepare for the worst, and several of them, for greater security, were handed to the bowsprit, attended by their husbands. The others chose to wait their fate on the quarter-deck, where stood the miserable Captain Scherman, in silent despair at the unavailing cries for assistance of those around him; while his unfortunate wife, in all the bitterness of maternal anguish, was clinging to his feet. About eight o'clock, the rudder was discovered to be unshipped, while the tiller was tearing up the gun-deck, and the water rushing in with fearful rapidity at the port-holes. At this moment most of the passengers and crew joined in solemn prayer to the Almighty; and while engaged in this act of devotion, the sea, foaming dreadfully, made a breach completely over them, so that they were obliged to exert every effort to prevent their being swept out of the ship. From the uncommon fury and roaring of the waves, the signal-guns, which they continued to fire from time to time, could scarcely be heard even on board; and no hope remained of their obtaining assistance from the shore. As a last expedient, the captain gave orders to cut away the anchors from the bows, when a violent swell immediately parted them, and the ship drifted with irresistible force farther on the piles. The morning was unusually dark, and to aggravate the horrors of the terrific scene, the ship was not more than four or five cables' lengths from the shore; so that the crew could see that there were several people on the Wall, but who were unable to afford them any assistance. It was now half past eight, when a tremendous sea dashed with such force against the ill-fated vessel, that, after rocking like a cradle for two or three seconds, her timbers split, and she immediately broke in pieces. About one hundred and seventy persons were instantly overwhelmed by the furious element, and not one of them ever reached the land. The wreck, thus torn asunder, still presented nearly three hundred miserable objects clinging to the various parts that remained above water; while the tremendous noise of the foaming billows was drowned by the piercing shrieks and cries of the hapless women and children. At the earnest request of the admiral, the jolly-boat, which was hanging over the stern, was now launched; and he, together with the colonel and eight females, were helped into it. They had not, however, proceeded far when a dreadful sea broke over them, and the boat instantly disappeared. In a few moments the colonel was observed endeavoring to support his wife above water, when a wave overwhelmed them, and they also sank to rise no more. As the ship was now settling rapidly, each determined to risk some experiment to reach the shore. The captain proposed to his wife that they should make themselves fast to a large hen-coop, and commit their lives to the mercy of the waves. A few of the crew having cut away the coop, they with great difficulty made fast the captain and Mrs. Scherman, and after an affectionate parting, lowered them down over the stern. They had nearly reached the Wall, followed by the anxious looks of those who had remained on board the wreck, when a large piece that had been detached from it, was violently dashed against them, and they were never seen to rise again. Painful as this spectacle must necessarily have been to the remaining survivers, their attention was completely absorbed in contriving means for their own preservation. A lieutenant, his wife, and two female domestics of the unfortunate admiral, still remained on the wreck, and the men agreed to make one more effort to save them. Seizing one of the hatches which had been torn asunder, they fastened it to a piece of the quarter-galley, and lashed the females to the planks, while the lieutenant, who was a good swimmer, stripped himself, and having taken a rope round his waist, the raft was lowered into the water. They had scarcely been a few seconds upon the water, when a violent gust of wind overset the raft, and every soul on it was hurried into eternity. Thus perished all the officers and females who had remained on the stern of the wreck. About this time, the bowsprit was torn asunder from the other parts of the wreck. I have already told you that many of the females and officers had taken refuge upon it, and the number of persons about the rigging and various parts of the bows was now above a hundred, who were driven towards the Wall by the violence of the surf. Those who were upon the stern watched the progress of their companions with the utmost solicitude, and just as they supposed them to be beyond the reach of further danger, a tremendous sea broke over them, and whelmed them all in one general destruction. The surface of the ocean was instantly covered with their bodies, and many of the unhappy creatures had almost reached the shore; but wave upon wave succeeded each other with fearful rapidity, and finally triumphed over all their exertions. Among the most distressing instances of individual suffering, was that of a captain of the marines, who was swimming with one hand, and with the other endeavoring to support his wife by the hair of her head; till, overcome by cold and fatigue, he turned round, clasped her in his arms, and both sank amid the waves. The wreck, meanwhile, was gradually disappearing, and many of the seamen and marines, successively seizing on various timbers, precipitated themselves into the danger they were so anxious to avoid; but it may naturally be supposed, that after so many dreadful examples, those who still remained on the wreck should not be willing to attempt similar experiments. Of these there were now not more than forty-five on both parts of the wreck, which frequently became so entangled, that the men were near enough to hold a conversation with each other. Their fate, however, was now rapidly approaching to a crisis; from all parts, the planks were being torn away, and each succeeding wave was fatal to two or three of the wretched survivers. At length, two of the seamen determined to lash themselves to a large hog-trough, and endeavor to reach the land: they were handed over the larboard side, and after a miraculous escape from coming in contact with a fragment of the drifting wreck, they fortunately succeeded in reaching the shore in safety, being the first out of all the adventurers who had quitted the ship that were successful. Their success greatly contributed to animate the exertions of those whom they had left behind, and who instantly fell to work to construct a raft, which, in a few minutes, was sufficiently compact for them to make the attempt. To this frail structure did the survivers commit their lives; and they had scarcely got clear of the wreck, when a heavy sea struck it with such violence, that it was dashed into a thousand pieces. The situation of those on the raft was now peculiarly awful, from the numerous fragments of the wreck, which were floating about in every direction, and by the violence of their motions threatening instant destruction. They continued, however, to drift nearer the Wall, when they were run foul of by a piece of the wreck, which swept off eighteen out of the thirty-three who were upon the raft, and wounded most of the others in a greater or less degree; at the same time they were driven forward with such velocity, that it was impossible to afford any relief to those who were struck off. About ten minutes after this fatal accident the survivers succeeded in reaching the long-wished-for shore, half dead with fatigue and the severe bruises which they had received. Thus, of four hundred and seventy-two persons, who, but a few days before had left the city of Amsterdam, and who were but a few hours before on board the Vryheid, in full health and confidence of security, not more than eighteen escaped. This wretched remnant of the crew of that ill-fated vessel received from the inhabitants of the adjacent coast, such generous attention, as not only contributed to their recovery, but amply relieved all their necessities. The bodies of the unfortunate sufferers, which were scattered along the coast for many miles, were likewise collected, and decently interred. The bodies of Captain Scherman and his wife, and many of the officers and their ladies, were committed to the grave with every mark of respect. Oh dreadful, Uncle Thomas! Poor, poor Captain Scherman; what shocking reflections must have been his when he found what fearful effects were resulting from his obstinacy! They must have been shocking indeed, Frank. Let us gather wisdom from his experience, dreadful as it was, and learn from it that an obstinate and self-willed adherence to our own opinions, in opposition to those whose experience leads them to take a different view from us, is not only culpable, but highly dangerous--how dangerous, in this instance, may perhaps be gathered from the fact, that a small merchant vessel, which left the Texel on the same day as the Vryheid, took a pilot on board off Margate, and was brought safe into port, without losing a single hand during the storm. Good night, boys; to-morrow I have a long and interesting tale to tell you about the Mutiny of the Bounty. Good night, Uncle Thomas! CHAPTER IV. UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT THE MUTINY OF THE BOUNTY. Good evening, Uncle Thomas! we are come to hear about the Mutiny of the Bounty. Very well, boys, it is a long story, so I shall begin at once. In the year 1787, it having been represented to the British Government, that the introduction of the Bread-fruit tree into the West India islands would be of great benefit to the inhabitants, a vessel was fitted up, in the most commodious manner, for the reception of the plants, and placed under the command of Lieutenant Bligh, who had previously sailed with Captain Cook on his voyage round the world. Her crew consisted of thirty-four persons, besides two intelligent botanists, who were added to the expedition for the purpose of managing the plants during the voyage, as well as undertaking their transplantation on board the vessel, and on their arrival at the place of destination. On the 23d December, the Bounty sailed from Spithead, and on the 26th encountered a severe storm from the eastward, which continued for three days, during which the ship suffered considerably. They therefore found it necessary to touch at Teneriffe, in order to refit. Having put everything to rights, they again sailed, on the 10th January, 1788. For nearly a month they struggled hard against the tempestuous weather which they encountered on their attempts to reach the Society Islands, where the plants were to be procured, by the route of Cape Horn, but at length, finding all their efforts ineffectual, they bore away for the Cape of Good Hope, where they once more found it necessary to replenish their stock of provisions and water. At length, on the 26th of October, they came to anchor in Matavai Bay, in the island of Otaheite. The ship was soon crowded by natives, and two messengers arrived from Otoo, the chief of Matavai, each bringing a small pig and a young plantain-tree, as a token of friendship. Captain Bligh now went on shore, accompanied by a chief named Poeenoo, and was everywhere received in the most friendly manner, the women clothing him in the Otaheitan fashion, and afterwards accompanying him to the boat. In a few days the most friendly relations were established with the natives, and presents of small articles were bestowed on the chief, who was told that the king of England had sent him these on account of the kindness of his people to Captain Cook, as well as from a desire to serve him and his countrymen. At the same time he was asked if there was nothing he would like to send to the king in return. "Yes," said he, "I will send him anything I have," and immediately began enumerating such articles as the island afforded, and among others mentioned the bread-fruit. He was immediately told that this was what would please the king very much, and a number of young trees were promised to be sent on board. For upwards of five months the Bounty remained at Matavai, when, having at length obtained upwards of one thousand plants, she set sail on the 4th of April, after bidding a most affectionate farewell to these kind and simple-hearted islanders. On the 23d, they reached the island of Annamooka, where they remained till the 26th, carrying on a brisk trade with the natives in yams, plantains, hogs, fruits, &c. From thence the ship stood northward all night, and at noon on the following day they were between the islands of Tofoa and Kotoo. So far the voyage had been one of uninterrupted prosperity. They had hitherto succeeded in the object of their mission, and to all appearance it was likely to result in the most complete success. These fair prospects were, however, destined to be suddenly overclouded by one of the most systematic, as well as cautious and deliberate mutinies, upon record. [Illustration: _They pulled Captain Bligh out of bed, forced him upon deck, and placed him under a guard._--P. 81.] About sunrise of the morning of the 28th April, Captain Bligh was awoke by Fletcher Christian, one of the mates, and three others, who tied his hands behind his back, and threatened him with instant death if he spoke or made the least resistance. They then pulled him out of bed, forced him on deck in his shirt, and placed him under a guard with Christian, who seemed to be the ringleader at their head. To all his entreaties and enquiries as to the reason for this violence, their only answer was a command to hold his tongue, with threats of having his brains blown out if he did not instantly comply. The mutineers then ordered the boatswain to hoist the launch out, and several of the officers were ordered into it. As Captain Bligh now saw the fate that awaited him and the obnoxious members of his crew, he once more made an effort to reason with those around him, but was immediately checked, and again threatened with instant death. When they had succeeded in getting rid of such of the crew as they disliked, the mutineers forced the captain over the ship's side into the boat, and after subjecting their victims to much ridicule, and making sport of their situation, they at length cast them adrift on the open sea! As the vessel sailed away, they could hear the mutineers shouting "Huzza for Otaheite!" It was therefore supposed that the enticements of a delightful climate and the allurements of a continuance of the life of unrestrained indulgence which they had recently led on that island, had tempted them to the commission of the crime of which they had been guilty. The launch (a boat twenty-three feet in length) contained nineteen persons; and the quantity of provisions which they had been permitted to secure, amounted to only one hundred and fifty pounds weight of bread, about thirty pounds of pork, six quarts of rum, six bottles of wine, and twenty-eight gallons of water. Thus abandoned, Captain Bligh and his companions directed their course to Tofoa, in the hope of there obtaining a supply of bread-fruit and water. They had at first great difficulty in finding any of the natives; at length, however, having fallen in with two of them, several others soon collected, from whom they obtained a small supply of such articles as they wanted. By degrees the number of natives increased, and they began to show symptoms of some hostile design; but they were, for the time, overawed by the undaunted behavior of Captain Bligh. As the evening advanced, however, they continued to congregate, all carrying stones in their hands, which they continued knocking together in token of attack, and on the party proceeding to embark with the provisions which they had accumulated, the attack commenced. They had all got in safety to the boat, and one of the men jumped on shore in order to untie the rope by which it was fastened, when he was instantly knocked down and murdered in the most inhuman manner. Finding that there was no hope of lending assistance to their unfortunate companion, they hastily pushed off. Some of the natives got into their canoes, and gave chase, throwing the stones with which they were armed, with such power and effect as nearly to disable every person on board. Fortunately, it occurred to Captain Bligh to drop some clothes overboard, when the canoes stopping to pick them up, allowed them to get a little ahead of their pursuers, and it being now almost dark, they gave up the chase. Seeing that there was now no hope of relief until they reached Timour, a distance of full twelve hundred leagues, where there was a Dutch settlement, Captain Bligh and his companions bent their course across an ocean whose navigation was then little known, exposed as well to the dangers of the deep as to famine, their little store only allowing them to serve out one ounce of bread and a quarter of a pint of water per day. Captain Bligh has left a very interesting journal of their sufferings during this long and hazardous voyage, from which I will read you a few of the daily entries. It was about eight o'clock at night on the 2nd of May, that they bore away from Tofoa, and having divided the people into watches, and put the boat somewhat in order, they returned thanks to God for their miraculous preservation. On the 3d, it blew a violent storm, and the sea ran so high, that they were obliged to keep constantly bailing, and were in great apprehension that the bread, which was in bags, would be spoiled; to prevent this they threw overboard all superfluous clothes, with some spare sails and ropes, in order to lighten the boat, and emptying the carpenter's chest, stowed the tools at the bottom of the boat, and put the bread into the chest. On the morning of the 5th, the gale had abated, and the boat was running among some islands; but after their reception at Tofoa, they did not venture to land. Upon examining the state of their bread, they found that a great part of it was damaged; but even this was carefully preserved for use. The next day they still continued to see islands at a distance; and for the first time, to their great joy, they hooked a fish, but were miserably disappointed by losing it, as they were trying to get it into the boat. They were dreadfully cramped from the want of room, which they endeavored to remedy by putting themselves at watch and watch; one half sitting up, while the others lay down in the bottom of the boat, with nothing to cover them, and so constantly wet, that after a few hours' sleep, they were scarcely able to move. On the 7th, they passed close to some rocky isles, from which they were pursued by two large sailing canoes, but in the afternoon they gave over the chase. Soon after, it began to rain very heavily, when every person on board did his utmost to catch some water, by which they increased their stock to thirty-four gallons, besides quenching their thirst for the first time since they had been in the boat. The following day they had an allowance of an ounce and a half of pork, a tea-spoonful of rum, half a pint of cocoa-nut milk, and an ounce of bread. The afternoon was employed in cleaning out the boat, and getting everything dry and in order. Hitherto Captain Bligh had issued the allowance by guess, but he now made a pair of scales with two cocoa-nut shells, and finding some pistol balls in the boat, which weighed twenty-five to the pound, he adopted one of these as the weight of bread to be served to each person at one time. On the 9th they experienced a violent storm of thunder and lightning. They collected about twenty gallons of water; but were so miserably wet and cold, that a tea-spoonful of rum was served to each. The weather continued extremely bad, and the wind so increased, that hardly one of them got any sleep that night. The morning of the 10th brought no relief except its light. The sea broke over the boat so much, that two men were kept constantly bailing; and it was necessary to keep the boat before the wind to prevent its filling. The allowance was now one bullet-weight of bread and a quarter of a pint of water, at eight in the morning, at noon, and at sunset, with the addition of half an ounce of pork for dinner. The weather had not at all improved on the following day, and their situation was becoming extremely dangerous from the constant running of the sea over the stern, which kept them baling with all their strength; but at noon they were much enlivened by the appearance of the sun, which gave them great pleasure. On the 12th it rained towards the evening, and they again experienced a dreadful night. When the day came, they were in no way refreshed by the little sleep they had, as they were constantly drenched by the sea and rain; and though the men were shivering with wet and cold, the captain was under the disagreeable necessity of informing them, that he could no longer afford them the scanty pittance of a tea-spoonful of rum. The stormy weather and heavy seas continued unabated on the 13th and 14th, and on these days they saw distant land and passed several islands, the sight of which increased, rather than alleviated the misery of their situation; as an attempt to procure relief was considered to be attended with so much danger, that it was thought advisable to remain as they were, rather than encounter the risk. The 15th, it was still rainy, both day and night; it was so dark that not a star could be seen by which steerage could be directed, and the sea was continually breaking over the boat: this continued on the 16th, when they passed a truly horrible night, with storms of thunder, lightning, and rain. The dawn of the 17th brought no relief; and the suffering from wet and cold had been so severe, that they were obliged to break their rule, and serve a tea-spoonful of rum to each. The night was again dark and dismal, and nothing but the winds and waves to direct their steering. On the 18th the rain abated, when they stripped and wrung their clothes, which greatly refreshed them; but every one of them complained of violent pains in their bones. At night the rain re-commenced, with thunder and lightning, which continued without intermission till the 21st, when they were so drenched with rain and salt water during the whole of the afternoon, that they could scarcely see; and on the following day their situation was extremely calamitous. They were obliged to run right before the storm and keep a strict watch, as the slightest error in the helm would have instantly caused their destruction. During the night the misery they endured was excessive, so much so that they expected another such a night would put an end to the sufferings of several of them; but on the 24th the wind moderated towards the evening, and the night was fair. In the morning they experienced relief, from the warmth of the sun, for the first time during the last fifteen days. As the sea now began to run fair, Captain Bligh took the opportunity to examine their stock of bread, and found there was sufficient, according to their present rate of allowance, to last twenty-nine days, which was about the time they expected to be able to reach Timor: but as this was uncertain, and it was possible they might be obliged to go to Java, they determined to reduce their present scanty rate, so as to make the stock hold out six weeks. This was effected by continuing the same quantity for breakfast and dinner as usual, and discontinuing the supper allowance. At noon of the 25th, some noddies came so near to the boat, that they caught one of them, about the size of a small pigeon. This was divided, with its entrails, into eighteen portions, and distributed by the following method:--one man stood with his back to the object, while another, pointing separately to each portion, asked aloud, "Who shall have this?" to which the first answered by naming somebody, until the whole number had been served. By this impartial method, each man stood the same chance of obtaining an equal share. They had also an allowance of bread and water. In the evening several boobies came near them, and they were fortunate enough to catch one about as large as a duck. This they killed for supper, and, giving the blood to three of the people who were most distressed, the body, with the entrails, feet, and beak, were divided into eighteen shares, and distributed as before; and having with it an allowance of bread, the whole made an excellent supper. On the 28th, at one o'clock in the morning, the man at the helm heard the sound of breakers. It was the barrier reef which runs along the eastern coast of New Holland, through which it now became their anxious object to discover a passage. The sea broke furiously over the reef, but within was so smooth and calm, that they already anticipated the heartfelt satisfaction they should experience, as soon as they should pass the barrier. At length they discovered a break in the reef, about a quarter of a mile in width, through which they passed rapidly with a strong stream running to the westward, and came almost immediately into smooth water. They offered up their thanks to the Almighty for his merciful protection of them, and then, with more contentment than they had yet been able to feel, took their miserable allowance of a bullet-weight of bread and a quarter of a pint of water for dinner. They now began to see the coast very distinctly, and in the evening they landed on the sandy point of an island, where they soon discovered that there were oysters: they also found plenty of fresh water. By the help of a small magnifying glass, a fire was made; and they discovered among the things that had been thrown into the boat a tinder-box and a piece of brimstone, so that in future they had the ready means of making a fire. One of the men had been provident enough to bring with him from the ship a copper pot, in which they made a stew of oysters, bread and pork, and each person received a full pint. They now enjoyed a few luxurious meals of oysters and palm-tops stewed, without consuming any of their bread. They also collected a quantity of oysters, which they put on board the boat, and filled their vessels with fresh water, to the amount of nearly sixty gallons. Upon examining the bread, they found about thirty-eight days' allowance remaining. Being now ready for sea, every person was ordered to attend prayers; and just as they were on the point of embarking, about twenty naked savages made their appearance, and beckoned them to come near; but as they were armed with spears and lances, it was thought advisable to decline the invitation, and proceed on their voyage. At length, after a variety of adventures, and the endurance of privations almost unexampled, on the 11th of June Captain Bligh announced the pleasing intelligence to his companions, that an observation of longitude appeared to indicate that they had passed the meridian of the eastern part of Timor. This joyful news filled every heart with exultation, and all eyes were intently directed to the quarter in which land was expected to appear. Evening fell, however, without their being able to discover any trace of it; but by day-break on the following morning, a cultivated coast, finely diversified with hill and dale, appeared, stretching in a wide extent before them.--This was Timor! It is almost impossible to describe the wild tumult of joy, the intense and inexpressible delight, which filled their hearts at the sight of land! Their thoughts rapidly reverted to the varied events of their fearful passage, till it appeared scarcely credible, even to themselves, that in an open boat, so poorly provided, and under circumstances every way so calamitous, they should have been able to reach the coast of Timor in forty-one days after leaving Tofoa, having in that time run, by their log, a distance of three thousand six hundred and eighteen nautical miles: and this, notwithstanding their extreme distress, without the loss of a single individual. The governor of the island received them with the greatest hospitality. After remaining a short time at Timor, they proceeded to Batavia. Here Captain Bligh was seized with a fever; and as his life was in danger from the heat of the climate, he was obliged to leave the island without loss of time. He accordingly sailed in a packet, and arrived in England in March, 1790. The crew were accommodated with passages home as opportunity offered, but though apparently all in good health when Captain Bligh left, they did not all live to quit Batavia. The hardships which they had undergone had so undermined the constitutions of several, as rendered them unable to support the rigor of such an unhealthy climate; but of the nineteen who were forced into the launch by the mutineers, it pleased God that twelve should surmount the difficulties and dangers of this unparalleled voyage, and live to visit their native land. But, Uncle Thomas, what became of the mutineers? Another vessel, boys, was fitted out by the British Government to proceed in search of them. Several of them were taken and brought to England, where, after being tried, three of them were executed. Some of the others who had been forced to join the mutiny were pardoned. From the statements of these men, it appeared that quarrels soon sprang up among them after Captain Bligh's departure, and several of them suffered violent deaths--among the rest, Christian, who you will recollect was the most active among them, was murdered by one of the natives. The death of Christian was the signal for a general rising among the natives, who, by this time, had become tired of the English; some of them were killed, and others, among whom was a man named John Adams, escaped, wounded, to the woods. They were joined by several females, to whom they had formed attachments, with whom they escaped and established themselves on what has since been called Pitcairn's Island. For twenty years nothing was heard of them, till two British vessels, happening to touch at the island, the crews were astonished to find it inhabited, and more so when they were accosted in their native tongue by the inhabitants. Matters were soon explained. They found Adams, a fine-looking old man, of nearly sixty years of age. He was revered as the father of the colony, and ruled with a paternal sway over his little kingdom. He died in 1829. But I must stop. I fear I have already detained you too long to-night, boys,--So good night! Good night, Uncle Thomas. CHAPTER V. UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT THE LOSS OF THE KENT EAST INDIAMAN. Good evening, Uncle Thomas! We were very much interested with the account you gave us of the Mutiny of the Bounty. As we came along we were thinking what a shocking thing it would be for a ship to take fire at sea. Do such misfortunes ever take place, Uncle Thomas? Yes, boys, they do, though much less frequently than one would expect. The sailors are very careful, and are prohibited from using lights after certain hours. I can tell you about the loss of a large East Indiaman, which caught fire in the Bay of Biscay, and was completely destroyed. Oh! do let us hear it, Uncle Thomas! On the 19th February, 1825, the Kent, a fine new vessel, commanded by Captain Henry Cobb, bound for Bengal and China, left the Downs. She had on board a crew of one hundred and forty-eight men, including officers, with twenty military officers, three hundred and forty-four soldiers, forty-three women, and sixty-six children, belonging to the 31st regiment, and twenty private passengers; making in all six hundred and forty-one persons. The Kent proceeded prosperously on her voyage until the night of the 28th February, when her progress was arrested by a violent gale from the west, which gradually increased during the following morning. So violent was the storm, that at every lurch the main chains of the vessel were considerably under water, and the various articles of furniture were dashed about the cabin with such noise and violence, as to excite the liveliest apprehensions of danger. The utmost activity of the officers and crew of the Kent was called into exercise, and everything was done in order to secure the safety of the vessel. In the course of his duty, one of the officers went into the hold, accompanied by a couple of sailors, in order to see that all was fast. They carried with them a patent lantern, and seeing that the lamp burned dimly, the officer took the precaution to hand it up to the deck to be trimmed. Having discovered that one of the spirit casks had broken loose from its fastenings, he sent the sailors for some billets of wood to secure it; but the ship in their absence having made a heavy lurch, the officer unfortunately dropped the lamp, and letting go his hold of the cask, in his eagerness to recover the lantern, it suddenly stove, and the spirits communicating with the flame, the whole place was instantly in a blaze. So long as the flames appeared to be confined to the spot where the fire originated, which was surrounded on all sides by water casks, hopes were entertained that it might be subdued; but no sooner was the light blue vapor, that at first arose, succeeded by volumes of thick dingy smoke, which, speedily ascending through all the four hatchways, rolled over every part of the ship, than almost all hope of saving the vessel was abandoned. "The flames have reached the cable tier!" was exclaimed by some individuals; and the strong pitchy smell that pervaded the deck, soon confirmed the truth of the exclamation. In these awful circumstances, Captain Cobb, with an ability and decision of character that seemed to increase with the imminence of the danger, resorted to the fearful experiment of ordering the lower decks to be scuttled, and the lower port-holes of the vessel to be opened, for the free admission of the waves. These orders were speedily executed, but not before several of the unhappy passengers had perished from suffocation. So dense and oppressive was the smoke, that it was with the greatest difficulty any person could remain long enough below deck to execute the captain's wishes, but no sooner were they accomplished, than the sea rushed in with extraordinary force, carrying before it the largest chests, bulk-heads, and other weighty articles. The immense quantity of water thus introduced, had the effect of checking the fury of the flames for a time, but a new source of danger suddenly opened upon them--the ship becoming water-logged, and seemed in danger of going down. The scene of horror that now presented itself almost baffles description. The upper deck was covered with between 600 and 700 human beings, many of whom, from previous sea-sickness, were forced, on the first alarm, to flee from below, in a state of absolute nakedness, and were now running about in quest of husbands, children or parents. While some were standing in silent resignation, or in stupid insensibility, to their impending fate, others were yielding themselves up to frantic despair. Some on their knees were earnestly imploring the mercy of Him whose arm, they exclaimed, was at length outstretched to smite them; others were to be seen hastily crossing themselves, and performing various external acts required by their particular persuasion; while a number of the older and more stouthearted soldiers and sailors took their seats directly over the powder magazine,--hoping, as they stated, that by means of the explosion which they every instant expected, a speedier termination might be put to their sufferings. All hope had departed, and the employment of the different individuals indicated an utter despair of rescue. One was to be seen thoughtfully removing a lock of hair from his writing-desk to his bosom, and another officer, procuring paper, addressed a short communication to his father, which he afterwards carefully enclosed in a bottle, in the hope that it might eventually reach its destination, and relieve him from the long years of fruitless anxiety and suspense, which the melancholy fate which hung over him might awaken. At this appalling instant, when all hope of being saved was taken away, it occurred to Mr. Thompson, the fourth mate, to send a man to the fore-top, rather with the ardent wish that some friendly sail might be descried on the face of the waters, than with any expectation that it would be realized. For a moment the sailor who ascended threw his eyes around the horizon--a moment of unutterable suspense--and then, waving his hat, exclaimed, "A sail, on the lee bow!" The joyful announcement was received with heartfelt thanksgivings, and answered by three loud cheers from those on deck; the signals of distress were instantly hoisted, minute-guns fired, and endeavors made, under three topsails and foresail, to bear down upon the stranger, which proved to be the Cambria, a small brig of two hundred tons burthen, commanded by Captain Cook, and bound to Vera Cruz, having on board twenty or thirty Cornish miners, and some agents of the Anglo-Mexican company. For ten or fifteen agonizing minutes, the crew of the Kent were in doubt whether the brig perceived their signals, or, perceiving them, was either disposed or able to give them any assistance. From the violence of the gale, as they afterwards learned, the report of the guns was not heard, but the ascending volumes of smoke from the ship sufficiently announced the dreadful nature of their distress; and after a short period of the greatest suspense, they saw the brig hoist British colours, and crowd all sail to hasten to their relief. While the vessel was approaching, arrangements were made for getting out the boats, so as to have all in readiness so soon as she came within a reasonable distance. Before hoisting out the boat, it was filled with the officers' ladies and the female passengers, and as many of the soldiers' wives as it could safely carry. They hurriedly wrapped themselves in whatever articles of clothing they could first lay their hands on; and, at about half past two o'clock, a most mournful procession advanced from the after-cabins to the starboard cuddy-port, from the outside of which the cutter was suspended. Not a sound was heard--not a syllable was uttered--even the infants ceased to cry, as though conscious of the unspoken anguish that was rending the hearts of their parting parents; nor did aught occur to break the solemn stillness of the scene, save in one or two instances, when the ladies plaintively entreated to be left behind with their husbands; but being assured that every moment's delay might occasion the sacrifice of life, they successively suffered themselves to be torn from the tender embrace; and, with a fortitude which never fails to characterize and adorn their sex on occasions of overwhelming trial, were placed, without a murmur, in the boat, which was immediately lowered into so tempestuous a sea, as to leave them only to hope against hope, that it should live in it for a single moment. Twice the cry was heard from those on the chains that the boat was swamping; but He who enabled the apostle Peter to walk on the face of the deep, was graciously attending to the silent, but earnest, aspirations of those on board, and had decreed its safety. Although every precaution was taken to diminish the danger of the boat's descent--a man having been stationed at each end, with an axe, ready to cut the ropes, in case of any difficulty occurring in unhooking it from the tackle by which it was lowered--yet the extreme difficulty of the operation had nearly proved fatal to the whole of its precious cargo. After one or two unsuccessful attempts had been made to place the little frail bark fairly upon the surface of the water, the command was given to unhook: the stern tackle was immediately cleared, but the ropes at the bow having got foul, the sailors there found it impossible to obey the order. In vain was the axe applied to the entangled tackle. The moment was inconceivably critical, as the boat, necessarily following the motions of the ship, was gradually rising out of the water, and must in another instant have been hanging perpendicularly by the bow, and its helpless passengers precipitated into the sea, had not a wave providentially struck the stern and lifted it up, so as to enable the seamen to clear the tackle; and the boat, being dexterously disentangled from the ship, was soon seen battling with the billows in its progress to the brig--one instant like a speck upon their summit, and then disappearing for several seconds, as if engulfed in the horrid vale between them. The Cambria having prudently lain at some distance from the Kent, lest she should be involved in her explosion, or exposed to the fire of the guns, which, being all shotted, afterwards went off as they were successively reached by the flames, the boat had a considerable distance to row. The interval of its leaving the Kent, and its arrival at the side of the Cambria, was a time of most intense interest; at length, however, it reached her in safety, and the inmates, one after another, arrived on board. It being impossible for the boats, after the first trip, to come alongside the Kent, a plan was adopted for lowering the women and children by ropes from the stern, by tying them two-and-two together. But from the heaving of the ship, and the extreme difficulty of dropping them at the instant the boat was underneath, many of the poor creatures were unavoidably plunged repeatedly under water: all the women, from their superior strength, were happily able to endure this rough usage, but, unfortunately, several children fell victims. Amid the conflicting feelings and dispositions manifested by the numerous actors in this melancholy drama, many affecting proofs were elicited of parental and filial affection, or of disinterested friendship, that seemed to shed a momentary halo around the gloomy scene. Two or three soldiers, to relieve their wives of a part of their families, sprang into the water with their children, and perished in their endeavors to save them. One young lady, who had resolutely refused to leave her father, whose sense of duty kept him at his post, was very near falling a sacrifice to her filial devotion, not having been picked up by those in the boats until she had sunk five or six times. Another individual, who was reduced to the frightful alternative of losing his wife or his children, hastily decided in favor of his duty to the former: his wife accordingly was saved, and four fine children, alas! left to perish. One fine fellow, a soldier, who had neither wife nor child of his own, but who evinced the greatest solicitude for the safety of those of others, insisted on having three children lashed to him, with whom he plunged into the water; but not being able to reach the boat, he was drawn back again into the ship, yet not before two of the children had expired. One man fell down the hatchway into the flames. But the numerous instances of individual loss and suffering were not confined to the commencement of the perilous voyage between the two vessels: one man, who fell between the boat and the brig, had his head literally crushed; while some were lost in their attempts to ascend the sides of the Cambria. As the day was drawing to a close, and the flames were now slowly, but perceptibly, extending, the gallant commanders felt increased anxiety for the safety of the remainder of the brave men under their charge. To facilitate this object a rope was suspended from the extremity of the spanker-boom, which projects from sixteen to eighteen feet over the stern, and, in such a large ship as the Kent, on ordinary occasions rests about nineteen or twenty feet above the water. In order more readily to reach the boats, and to prevent the danger of their being stove by approaching too close to the vessel, the men were directed to proceed along the boom and slide down by the rope. But as from the great swell of the sea, it was impossible for the boats to retain their station for a moment, most of those who adopted this course, were either left for a time swinging in mid-air, or plunged into the sea, and perhaps violently flung against the boat as it once more approached to their rescue. At length, when nearly every person was removed, and when those only remained whom fear had so overcome as to prevent their availing themselves of the means of escape, even at the urgent request of those in the boats, Captain Cobb quitted the ill-fated vessel, and shortly after the boat in which he was reached the Cambria, the flames, which had spread along the upper deck of the Kent, ascended with the rapidity of lightning to the masts and rigging, forming one general conflagration, and illuminating the heavens to an immense distance, until the masts, one by one successively, fell like stately steeples over the ship's side. At last, about half-past one in the morning, the fire communicated to the powder magazine, the long-threatened explosion took place, and the fragments of the magnificent Kent were instantly hurried, like so many rockets, high into the air. The Cambria now made all sail to the nearest port, and, though the violence of the gale continued, she arrived at Falmouth shortly after midnight on the 3d of March, when her unfortunate crew were received with the utmost kindness by the inhabitants, and their wants instantly attended to. Were those that remained on board the Kent all lost, Uncle Thomas? No, not the whole of them, boys. Wonderful to relate, the flames and the explosion attracted the notice of the crew of another ship, named the Caroline, on her passage from Alexandria to Liverpool, who immediately set their sails and bore down upon the wreck. They were fortunately in time to save twelve persons whom they found floating about on a mast. The captain of the Caroline, with the greatest humanity, remained in the neighborhood all night, in the hope of assisting any who might have taken refuge on other parts of the wreck. In the morning they rescued two more of the unfortunate survivers, being all that they could discover, from the floating masses of wreck. But the sky beginning to assume a stormy aspect, the boat which had been sent out was forced to return to the ship, which once more proceeded on her voyage. Was rum the cause of this sad disaster, Uncle Thomas? Yes, my boys, rum did all the mischief. Then we will have no rum on board of our ship, when we are men, will we, John? for it is of no use, father says. CHAPTER VI. UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT THE WRECK OF THE MEDUSA. Good evening, boys. The tale which I am going to tell you this evening, so far exceeds in misery and crime all of those which I have already told you, that it is almost necessary for me, before I begin, to assure you that it really happened. I question indeed, if the wildest imagination could have contrived to conjure up such a complication of disasters. It must be something very terrible indeed, Uncle Thomas! It is, boys;--but you shall judge for yourselves. On the restoration of the general peace, in the year 1814, the French possessions on the west coast of Africa, which had been taken by the British forces, were agreed to be given up. An expedition, consisting of a frigate and three other vessels, having on board nearly four hundred persons, men of science, artisans, agriculturists, &c, was accordingly despatched, in June, 1816, to take possession of them. The naval part of the expedition was entrusted to an officer named Lachaumareys, who commanded the Medusa, of forty-four guns. In consequence of the ignorance of the officers of the ship of the navigation of the coast, the Medusa unfortunately run aground on the bank of Arguin, on the coast of Africa. After in vain trying every means of getting her off, and finding that all hope of saving the vessel was useless, they took measures to secure the safety of the crew and passengers. Finding that the boats did not afford sufficient accommodation for the whole, a raft was hastily constructed; but in the tumult of abandoning the wreck, it happened that the raft, which was destined to carry the greatest number of persons, had on board the smallest quantity of provisions. When all was ready, the boats pushed off, towing the raft, those on board assuring the passengers on the raft that they would conduct them in safety to land. They had not proceeded above a couple of leagues, however, when, one after another, the boats cast off the tow-lines, and left the raft to its fate, each striving to make off with all possible speed. By this time it was discovered that the raft was completely overloaded, and the articles of which it was composed becoming saturated with water, it sunk below the surface, so as to immerse every person on board nearly up to the middle in water. Finding themselves thus abandoned, and threatened every instant with being swallowed up in the deep, the most horrible ideas took possession of their imaginations; they gave themselves up to despair. With some difficulty, the officers who were on board succeeded in restoring their men to a certain degree of tranquillity. Their own confidence had well nigh given way when they found that they were in the middle of the ocean, without chart or compass on the raft. It was discovered that one of the men had preserved a pocket-compass, but in their anxiety to secure this invaluable little instrument, it fell from the hands of the person who held it, and disappeared between the openings of the raft. As night came on, the breeze freshened and the sea began to swell. By midnight the weather had become very stormy, the waves breaking over them in every direction. During the whole night the unhappy wretches struggled against death, holding firmly by the spars to prevent themselves from being swept away, tossed by the waves from one end to the other, sometimes precipitated into the sea, floating between life and death; "mourning over our misfortunes," says one of the survivers, "certain of perishing, yet contending for the remains of existence with that cruel element which threatened to swallow us up. Such was our situation till break of day--horrible situation! How shall we convey an idea of it which will not fall far short of the reality?" In the morning the wind abated and the sea subsided a little, but the day-light displayed a scene scarcely less appalling than the storm of the night. Ten or twelve of the unhappy men had their limbs jammed between the spars of the raft, and exhausted by fatigue and hunger, and unable to extricate themselves, had perished in this situation. Several had been swept away altogether, so that when they came to count their number, it was found that twenty had disappeared. The day turned out beautiful, and they flattered themselves with the hope that in the course of it some of the boats would come to their rescue. Evening approached, however, and none was to be seen. As the night advanced, the storm again rose; the waves broke over them, many were swept away, and the crowding to the centre of the raft became so oppressive, that several were crushed to death. Firmly persuaded that they were on the point of being swallowed up by the sea, the soldiers and sailors, abandoning themselves to despair, resolved to sooth their last moments by drinking to intoxication. They bored a hole in the head of a large cask, and continued to suck till the salt water, mixing with the wine, rendered it no longer palatable. Excited by the wine acting on empty stomachs and on bodies weakened by hunger and fatigue, they now became deaf to the voice of reason, and openly declared their intention to murder their officers and to cut the ropes which bound the raft together. One wretch, indeed, seizing an axe, actually began the dreadful work. The officers rushed forward, and their interference was a signal for a general revolt. The mutineers, for the most part, were fortunately badly armed, and the sabres and bayonets of the opposite party kept them at bay. One fellow was discovered secretly cutting the ropes which bound their frail raft together. He was instantly flung into the sea. Others cut the ropes which supported the mast, and it fell on one of the officers and broke his thigh. He was instantly seized by the mutineers and thrown overboard, but was saved by his friends. Finding that it was necessary to make a desperate effort to put an end to the mutiny, the officers once more rushed forward, and many of the mutineers fell. By-and-by, the effects of the wine which they had drank wore off, and they sank into calmness and servility, crying out for mercy, and begging forgiveness on their knees. It was now midnight, and tranquillity appeared once more to be restored; but scarcely an hour had elapsed when the mutineers, as if once more seized with sudden frenzy, rushed on the officers, tearing them with their teeth. A new scene of slaughter again took place, and the raft was once more strewed with dead bodies. When day dawned, it was found that in the night of horror which had just elapsed, no fewer than sixty-five of the mutineers had perished, as well as two of the other party. The scanty stock of provisions which they at first possessed, was now exhausted. A single cask of wine only remained. They began to experience the most violent cravings of hunger, and in the extremity of their distress were forced to devour the dead bodies of their unfortunate companions. Some, who, even in the extremity to which they were reduced, revolted from this horrible repast, tried to stay the pangs of hunger by gnawing their sword-belts, cartridge-boxes, &c; but from them they found little relief. A third night of horror approached. Fortunately, the weather was now calm, and they were disturbed only by the piercing cries of those who were hourly falling victims to hunger and thirst. The morning's sun showed the survivers the lifeless bodies of ten or a dozen more of their unfortunate companions, who had died during the night. They were all committed to the deep except one, who was kept to satisfy the cravings of his unhappy comrades. A shoal of flying-fish, in passing the raft, left a great number entangled between the spars. This afforded them a momentary relief from the shocking repast to which they had of late been accustomed. The fourth night was marked by another revolt. It was, however, soon quelled; two lives only being lost in the scuffle. Their number was now reduced to thirty; and it was calculated that the wine and fish which remained would be just enough to last four days; but in these four days they also calculated that ships might arrive from St. Louis to save them. Soon after this intimation was made, two soldiers were discovered behind the cask of wine, through which they had bored a hole for the purpose of drinking it. It having been determined that the punishment of death should be inflicted on any one who should be guilty of such a crime, they were immediately tossed into the sea. [Illustration: _At length the raft was discovered by a small brig, which was sent out in search of her._--P. 137.] Their number was thus reduced to twenty-eight; and, as nearly one half of them were so worn out and emaciated, that it was in vain to expect their surviving till assistance could arrive, (but, as long as they did live, they consumed part of the scanty stock of provisions,) a council was held, and after deliberation, it was decided to throw overboard the weak and the sickly. This shocking resolution was immediately carried into effect. At length the raft was discovered by a small brig, which had been sent out in search of it. Of the 150 who embarked, fifteen only were received on board the brig; and of these, six died shortly after their arrival at St. Louis. Oh dreadful, Uncle Thomas! It is indeed the most awful tale you have yet told us. Did the parties in the boats reach land safely? Yes, Harry, they all reached the shore in safety, though several of them afterwards fell victims to the combined effects of hunger, thirst, and the oppression of a burning sun. Shortly after their arrival, the governor, recollecting that the Medusa, at the time of her wreck, had on board a large sum of money, despatched a vessel to try to recover it. From various causes, the ship was twice put back; and when she reached the wreck, fifty-two days after it was abandoned, she found three miserable wretches still on board, and so reduced as to be just on the point of expiring! Where did they come from, Uncle Thomas? Why, John, they had never quitted the ship. You will recollect that, when the boats left it, such was the scene of confusion, that the fewest provisions were put on board the raft, where there were the most passengers. Well, these men, along with fourteen others, had either concealed themselves, or refused to leave the ship. They managed to secure a quantity of provisions; and so long as these lasted, there appearing no danger of the wreck going to pieces, they remained quietly awaiting the arrival of assistance; but finding their provisions begin to run short, twelve of the most determined constructed a raft; but, setting off without either sail or oars, they were all drowned. Another, who had refused to embark with them on the raft, resolved, a day or two after, to try to reach the shore, and, lowering a hen-coop from the deck, placed himself on it; but, before he had sailed half a cable's length, he sank, to rise no more. The other four determined to stick by the wreck; and one of them died before assistance reached them. Did the other three arrive in safety, Uncle Thomas? I believe they did, Frank; one of them was, however, shortly afterwards found murdered in his bed. But I dare say you have had enough of horrors for the evening; so, I believe I must stop. Oh yes, Uncle Thomas, quite enough for one evening. We will therefore bid you good night. Good night, boys: I will be glad to see you again to-morrow. CHAPTER VII. UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT THE LOSS OF THE WINTERTON EAST INDIAMAN. Good evening, boys. I am glad to see you so early. I have "a long yarn to spin" to-night, as the sailors say; though fortunately it contains fewer horrors than that of last evening. The strife of the elements is in deed as strong, but the angry passions of man--more dreadful than the fiercest storm--form no part of the tale. I am glad of it, Uncle Thomas. The shocking conduct of the mutineers on board the raft, after leaving the Medusa, of which you told us last night, makes me shudder when I think of it. Intoxicating drinks, my boys, often make men mad. The tale which I am going to tell you this evening, is that of the loss of the Winterton, an East Indiaman, which was wrecked on the Island of Madagascar, on her passage to India. The Winterton sailed from England in the spring of 1792, and arrived at the Cape of Good Hope in safety. On leaving the Cape, it was Captain Dundas's intention to have taken what is called the outer passage to India, but, encountering light, variable winds, he was obliged to abandon his original design, and bore away for the Mozambique Channel. In order to avoid a shoal, which he knew to be somewhat incorrectly laid down in the charts, Captain Dundas steered east. Thinking he had sufficiently accomplished this, he altered his course; but had scarcely sailed in this new direction for three hours, when the ship, which they supposed to be sixty miles distant from land, struck. The boats were instantly got out, and on sounding they found deep water within fifty yards of the stern of the vessel. Every exertion was made to get her off, but without avail. Day-light soon disclosed to them the dangers of their situation. The ship had struck on a reef of rocks, about six miles from land. As the tide ebbed, the ship beat violently, and began to leak, and by-and-by the rudder was broken off, and the copper sheathing of the vessel came up alongside her; but as she lay comparatively quiet, hopes were entertained that they might succeed in getting her off next tide. With this view they proceeded to lighten her by every means, throwing the guns overboard--carrying them to such a distance as to prevent their injuring the ship as she again rose with the tide. When, however, they had succeeded in removing about half the number, the sea-breeze set in fresh, and prevented the boats from approaching the ship's side. They continued, notwithstanding, to relieve her as much as possible, by throwing overboard such heavy articles as the tide would carry away. At high water they renewed their exertions to heave the ship off; but were again unsuccessful. The leak had by this time gained on the pumps, in spite of their utmost exertions. It being evident that the ship was irrecoverably lost, the great object now was to secure the safety of the passengers and crew. The masts were cut away, in order to relieve the vessel, and such spars as the surf prevented being borne away by the tide, were secured for the purpose of making rafts to assist in conveying the passengers on shore. In order to prevent such scenes of drunkenness as have sometimes disgraced shipwrecks, every cask of spirits which could be reached was staved. Towards evening, a party was sent on shore in the yawl, to prepare a convenient place for landing; and the captain addressed the crew, directing them as to the proper course of procedure on reaching the shore, and stating his determination to abide by the ship till the safety of every person on board was secured. This manly address reanimated the drooping courage of the crew. During the night the wind increased, and several of the boats were dashed in pieces by the violence of the surf. Thus deprived of the means of transporting themselves on shore, and the ship, in the meantime, beating with such frightful violence against the rocks, as threatened every instant to break her in pieces, they passed a night of the greatest consternation and anxiety. As soon as daylight set in, they began to construct rafts, of such materials as they could procure. Three or four of these constructions left the ship, carrying about eighty persons, all of whom succeeded in reaching the shore. In the meantime the breeze continued to freshen, till at length it became so violent, that the hawser which held the ship's stern to the wind parted, and she drove with her broadside on the rocks, the sea making a complete breach over her. She soon began to break up, when every one crowded to the-quarter-deck and poop, as the only place which afforded any chance of safety: in a short time this retreat also failed, the vessel going completely in pieces. Some of these were driven on shore in various places, bearing with them such of the crew as had managed to secure a footing upon them; but the gallant captain fell a victim to the waves. For several days, portions of the wreck continued to drift on shore, generally bringing with them some part of the crew. On gathering the survivers together, it was found that the captain, the first mate, three young ladies, and forty-eight seamen, had perished. But the trials of the survivers were not at an end. The natives, attracted by the wreck, flocked to the shore, and, seizing on everything of value that had either been saved or was cast on shore, threatened every one who opposed them with instant death. At length they reached Tulliar, the residence of the king of Baba, by whom they were kindly received. The yawl, which you will recollect had been sent on shore on the evening previous to the breaking up of the vessel, was then equipped and despatched to Mozambique, to endeavor to procure a ship to come to their rescue. After sailing for some days, they reached the coast of Africa; but being unable to make head against the northerly winds, they were forced to steer for Sofala, a Portuguese settlement, where they arrived in safety. Unfortunately, but a single vessel touched at the settlement in the course of the year; and it had sailed about a month before. Finding that there was here no hope of obtaining relief for their companions, they again set sail, intending to proceed to Delagoa bay, in the expectation of falling in with some of the South Sea ships, which touch there annually in considerable numbers. Contrary winds, however, and the leaky state of their boat, soon forced them to return to Sofala. The governor received them, this time, in a very different manner from that which he had shown to them on their former visit, and with little ceremony insisted on the whole party proceeding with his messengers to Senna, an inland settlement. For five weeks they travelled through a miserable country, very thinly inhabited, and exposed to the intense heat of the sun, and many dangers from the wild beasts with which the country abounds. The fatigue which they underwent on this journey was too much for several of the party, who died shortly after their arrival. At length, five months after leaving Madagascar, two of the forty reached Mozambique. Here they freighted a vessel, and proceeded to the rescue of their unfortunate comrades in misfortune. They found them in a most melancholy plight. Disease and despair had been at work among them; nearly one half of those who were saved from the wreck had perished. The others, emaciated and worn out, were embarked, and, with the exception of seven, who expired on the passage, reached Mozambique, where, in spite of every attention which was lavished on them by the governor and the inhabitants, about thirty of them died within two months of their arrival. When the others were so far recovered as to be able to proceed, they again hired a vessel to carry them to Madras; but, before they reached it, the ship was captured by a French privateer. Part of the crew the privateer took on board their own ship, and put a number of their men into the captured vessel, with orders to proceed to the Mauritius with all possible speed. The privateer then continued her cruise, and in a few days falling in with a Dutch East Indiaman, engaged with her; but the Dutchmen proving victors, the remains of the crew of the unfortunate Winterton were once more set at liberty. They at length reached Madras; whence they sailed for England in the Scorpion sloop-of-war. Poor fellows! they seem to have been very unlucky, Uncle Thomas. The rest of the crew, who were carried to the Mauritius, did they get home in safety also, Uncle Thomas? Oh, I had almost forgotten to tell you about them, Frank. They never reached England; nor could the least intelligence be heard of them, though the East India Company caused the most diligent inquiries to be made after them. Do you think they were again shipwrecked, Uncle Thomas? That I won't say: but I rather fear there was foul play somewhere. Without some certain grounds to go upon, however, it is useless to conjecture. So I must bid you good night. Good night, Uncle Thomas! CHAPTER VIII. UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. Perilous as is the life of a sailor, boys, during the raging of the storm, or when far at sea in the middle of the trackless ocean, he is still exposed to danger even when his ship rides at anchor in the fancied security of some friendly port. I dare say you have all heard of the loss of the Royal George, one of the first-rate ships in the British navy, which sank off Spithead, fifty-six years ago. The sudden and unexpected event, and the vast number of persons who fell victims, caused the greatest excitement at the time. I have often heard of the loss of the Royal George, Uncle Thomas, but I never could get any information about it. Will you have the goodness to tell us about it? With pleasure, boys. The vessel had just returned from a cruise, in which it was found that she leaked more than usual, and as the leakage continued even after she came into harbor, an order was issued by the Admiralty that she should go into dock to repair. After a strict survey, however, by the carpenter and others, it was found that the leak was not more than two feet below the watermark, and supposing it to be occasioned by the rubbing off of the copper sheathing, it was resolved, in order to save time, to lay her down at Spithead, by what is called a parliament heel; that is, by means of ropes attached to the masts, to pull her over so much to one side as to expose the other above water. In the meantime it was discovered that the pipe, which occasionally admitted the water to cleanse and sweeten the ship, was out of order, and that it was necessary to replace it with a new one. As the vessel required to be heeled very much for this purpose, the greater part of the guns were removed from one side to the other; but as she was not expected to heel so much as she did, they neglected to stop the scuppers of the lower decks, so that the water coming in on deck, gradually gained upon them, and the vessel thus for some time stole down imperceptibly. During this time the greater part of the crew were at dinner; but the carpenters and caulkers continued at their work, and had almost finished it, when a sudden squall took the ship on the raised side, and the lower deck ports to leeward being open, the water rushed in. As soon as the dangerous situation of the vessel was discovered, they beat to arms to right the ship, but in vain: in less than eight minutes she fell flat on one side, filled with water, and the guns, shot, &c., falling from the other side, accelerated her descent. She sunk to the bottom so rapidly that no signal of distress could be made; nor indeed could any assistance have availed if there had, for after her lower ports were fairly in the water, no power on earth could have prevented her from going to the bottom. At this fatal moment there were nearly twelve hundred persons on board, including about two hundred and fifty women and several children, chiefly belonging to the seamen, who had been permitted to remain on board until the order for sailing arrived. The people who formed the watch upon deck, including their friends, amounting in all to about two hundred and thirty, were mostly saved by the boats, which the ships lying near the Royal George manned and sent to their assistance, with the utmost expedition, when they observed the vessel was sinking. Their assistance was, however, for some time necessarily delayed, as the swell occasioned by the sinking of such a large body produced a temporary whirlpool, which rendered approach impossible; a victualling sloop indeed, which lay alongside the Royal George, was drawn into the vortex, and seven of her crew were drowned. The boats also picked up about seventy more, who rose to the surface after the ship had disappeared, among whom were four lieutenants, eleven women, and the remainder seamen. Among the officers thus snatched from the brink of eternity, was Lieutenant Durham, who, being officer of the watch, was upon deck at the time when he observed the vessel going down. He had just time to throw off his coat and scramble on the beam, from which he was washed as the ship sunk, and left floating about among men and hammocks. A drowning marine caught him by the waistcoat, and held him so fast, that several times he was drawn under water. It was in vain to reason with a man struggling for life; and conscious of the certainty of neither being saved, if he did not disentangle himself from his burden, he clung with his legs round a hammock, and with one hand unbuttoning his waistcoat and sloping his shoulder, committed it, with the unfortunate marine, to the remorseless deep. He then got to some of the top rigging, where a boat soon afterwards came to him, but he nobly declined the assistance offered, and pointing out to them where Captain Waghorne was in great danger, he desired them to go to his relief: the gallant youth was at length taken up and conveyed in safety to the shore. The preservation of another young man, named Henry Bishop, was effected in a very extraordinary manner. He was on the lower deck at the time of the fatal accident, and as the vessel filled, the force of the water hurried him, almost insensibly, up the hatchway, when, at the instant, he was met by one of the guns which fell from the middle deck, which striking him on his left hand, broke three of his fingers; in a few seconds, however, he found himself floating on the surface of the water, and was providentially picked up by one of the boats. Every effort was made by the boats of the fleet to save the crew; but they were able to pick up only Captain Waghorne, a few officers, and about three hundred people. By this dreadful and unlooked-for accident, nearly nine hundred persons lost their lives; among whom was Admiral Kempenfelt, whose flag was then flying on board the Royal George, and whose loss was universally lamented. Besides the Admiral, who was in his cabin writing when the sudden disaster happened, every one who was between the decks perished with her. Captain Waghorne, the Admiral's first captain, was, fortunately, on deck; but his son, who was a lieutenant on board, was drowned. The water must have been very deep, Uncle Thomas, to cover such a large vessel. But I suppose she lay on her side. No, Harry, she did not: a great number of persons were saved by climbing on the topsail yards, which remained above water after the vessel reached the bottom. She very soon righted herself, and the tops of her masts were visible so late as 1799; part of her hull even might then be seen at low water. Could not the Royal George be got up again, Uncle Thomas? I should have thought that, being quite sound and in still water, she might have been weighed. Several attempts were made to weigh her, Frank; but they were all unsuccessful. Her anchor and some of her guns were, however, recovered by means of diving bells. Her anchor was the heaviest ever made--it weighed ninety-eight hundred weight. In the churchyard at Portsea, an elegant monument was erected to the memory of the brave Admiral Kempenfelt and his fellow-sufferers. On it is engraved this impressive admonition:-- "Reader! with solemn thought survey this grave, and reflect on the untimely death of thy fellow-mortals; and whilst, as a man, a Briton, and a patriot, thou readest the melancholy narrative, drop a tear for thy country's loss. On the twenty-ninth day of August, 1782, his Majesty's ship, the Royal George, being on the heel at Spithead, overset and sunk: by which fatal accident about nine hundred persons were instantly launched into eternity; among whom was that brave and experienced officer, Rear Admiral Kempenfelt. Nine days after, many of the bodies of the unfortunate floated; thirty-five of whom were interred in one grave, near this monument, which is erected by the parish of Portsea, as a grateful tribute to the memory of that great commander and his fellow-sufferers." Good night, Uncle Thomas. CHAPTER IX. UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT THE WRECK OF THE STEAMERS KILLARNEY AND FORFARSHIRE. Good evening, boys! The sudden and unexpected disappearance of the Royal George, though, from the size of the vessel, and the number of lives which were lost on the occasion, an event sufficiently appalling, is yet frequently outdone, in intensity of suffering, by cases of shipwreck which happen on our coasts. To-night, I am going to tell you about the loss of two steam vessels, both of which afford remarkable instances of extreme suffering. The first is that of the Killarney, a small steamer of about two hundred tons burthen, which sailed between Cork and Bristol. She left the quay at Cork, on the morning of Friday, January 19, 1838, having on board twenty-one passengers, and twenty-two persons belonging to the vessel. Her cargo consisted of about one hundred tons of goods, and six hundred and fifty pigs, part of which were in the fore hold, and the rest on deck. Soon after she had left the harbor she encountered a gale, and the number of pigs causing her to dip considerably, she shipped several seas, which alarmed the passengers so much, that they prevailed on the captain to put back. In the evening, the wind having somewhat moderated, the captain, contrary to the wishes of the passengers, resumed his voyage. The vessel had, however, scarcely left the harbor, when the wind again rose, and kept increasing till it blew a gale. This continued until midnight, the vessel rolling dreadfully, and every wave that struck her causing her to dip so deeply, that she shipped several seas. A great quantity of water poured down into the fore hold, the hatches having been left open in order to admit the air to the pigs which were confined in it. As matters began to wear a threatening aspect, the captain requested that every person on board would assist in throwing overboard the pigs which were on deck, which crowded to the lee-side of the vessel so as almost to render her unmanageable. They found this, however, a matter of great difficulty, and were able thus to dispose of a very small number only. The sea, in the meantime, continued to wash over the deck, and to pour into the hold. Up to four o'clock, on Saturday morning, they managed, by means of pumps which were worked by the engine, to get rid of this water; but about that hour some small coal got into the pumps and choked them. The water then rose rapidly, until it reached the level of the engine-fire, when it rushed in, and at once extinguished it. The engine no longer moved, and all was given up for lost. After a few minutes of abandonment to despair, the sailors, and part of the passengers, seizing buckets, began to endeavor to lighten the vessel of some of the water in the hold, and after several hours of hard labor, they so far gained upon it as to enable them once more to light the fire, and to get the steam partly up again. They were at this time utterly ignorant of where they were, or whither they were going, for the fog was so dense that no object was visible. They endeavored to keep the vessel's head to the wind, but, after some time, they found they were going to leeward. The jibsail was then set, in order to keep her steady, but no sooner was it run out than it was blown into ribbons. About three o'clock the fog cleared away, and they saw land behind them, but no one could tell with certainty what part of the coast it was. It was then blowing a complete hurricane; the shore was covered with rocks, and they saw that, if they drifted towards it, destruction was inevitable. By the captain's orders, the mainsail was set, and the engine-men were directed to do their utmost to get up the steam, in order to keep her off. The steam, unfortunately, was so weak as to be of no assistance--it scarcely moved the crank; and the sail had to be hauled down, lest it should throw the vessel on her beam ends. The staysail was then tried, in the hope that it would enable them to round the point; but the storm was so violent that they could not haul it out. The vessel was in the meantime drifting nearer to the rock on which she ultimately struck. After great exertions they succeeded in turning her round, to endeavor to make for a bay which promised a place of safety. Just as they had succeeded in getting her before the wind, she was, however, pooped by a tremendous sea, which carried away the taffrail, the wheel, and the two men who worked it, the companion, the binnacle, and the breakwater. The men fortunately caught part of the rigging, and were saved; but the sea carried away the bulwarks, with some of the steerage passengers who were standing near the funnel, and at once cleared the deck of all the pigs. When the vessel was nearing the rock, and before she put about, the steward went down to call the cabin passengers on deck. They were on their way up when the sea passed over the vessel. A second wave succeeded almost immediately, and scarcely had two of them stepped on the quarter-deck when they were hurried overboard. These two seas had the effect of bringing the head of the vessel somewhat to windward again, when a third wave rapidly succeeded, and drove her on the rock. It was then between four and five o'clock. The first stroke she gave, the carpenter jumped on the rock; he was followed by one of the passengers, but the landing-place was so narrow that there was not room for both, and the latter fell into the water and was drowned. After striking, the vessel receded; she soon struck again, and continued receding and striking for some time, during which some of the sailors, the first mate, and the captain landed. When the latter got on the rock, a rope was thrown to him and the mate, that they might endeavor to keep the vessel to the rock. Most of the sailors and some of the passengers were saved in this way, one only landing at a time. Before leaving the vessel, the steward scrambled along the deck to look for Mrs. Lawe, one of the passengers, who had distinguished herself by her calmness, and the firm reliance she placed on a protecting Providence. He found her near the funnel, calm and collected; with some difficulty he brought her to the quarter-gallery, and loosing the rope, he handed it to her, directing her to take hold of it, and, when the vessel next struck, to leap into the sea, and they would drag her to the rock. She did so, and was drawn up part of the way, but having quitted her hold of the rope, she was carried away by the receding wave, and never seen again. The steward leaped almost at the same moment, and was saved. The last persons who left the vessel were a sailor and a woman--the latter supposed to be the stewardess. She appeared to be insensible; and the sailor, who seemed to have brought her from the cabin, had her in his arms. He leaped from the vessel, and reached the rock, the woman under one arm; but the footing was narrow, and the rock was shelving. He had room for little more than his toes, and was obliged to endeavor to hold on with the fingers of one hand, but the weight of the woman inclining him backwards, they fell into the sea, and both were drowned. The manner in which some of the lives were lost was peculiarly affecting. A medical gentleman, one of the passengers, had his little son in his arms, soothing and supporting him, and when the vessel struck, he flung him with all his strength towards the rock. The child reached it in safety, though the violence of the effort nearly carried the father overboard. When the latter gained the rock, he again took him in his arms, and, by clasping him closely, endeavored to keep him warm. "Kiss me, papa," said the little fellow, "we shall soon meet no more." The child was right. In a few minutes he got on his feet, ventured a short distance from his father's side, and slipping from the rock, was at once swallowed up by the raging deep. As soon as the steward loosed the rope to give it to Mrs. Lawe, the vessel having nothing to confine her, swung round, and the next sea that struck her drove her against the rock; her deck opened, she divided into two, fore and aft, and every one who remained on board perished. In an hour after, with the exception of the engine and the paddle-wheel, not a vestige of the vessel or of her machinery was visible. There were now about twenty-five persons on the rock. The sailors had contrived to clamber to a sheltered side, but the situation of the passengers was pitiable in the extreme. One who had on but a shirt and waistcoat, was seated astride on a projection of the rock, his face towards the sea. Under him was another, his back to the sea, his toes resting on a narrow ledge, and his fingers clinging in a crevice; while close beside them were others equally exposed and equally helpless. The persons on the side next the land observing some country people--about eighteen or twenty--on the shore, shouted to them, hoping to attract their attention, but there was no answer. The probability is, that the sound never reached the land, as they saw the people subsequently descend and carry off some of the pigs that had been washed ashore. Night came on. About eleven o'clock the wind rose and blew terrifically, but, even amid the raging of the storm, a startling shriek was now and then heard, as one after another, unable longer to maintain their hold, fell into the sea. When morning broke, the survivers clambered to the sheltered side of the rock. As they had now been discovered by the people on shore, great exertions were made to relieve them; but, as the storm continued unabated, it was found impossible to reach the rock. Ducks with ropes fastened to them were sent out; only one arrived, and that they were unable to catch. Wire was attached to bullets, and rope to the wire, and sundry shots were fired; but this means also was unsuccessful. The whole of Sunday was spent in a variety of experiments to convey a rope to the rock, without success. The feelings of the sufferers it would be impossible to describe, and their agony, when they saw the attempt to rescue them abandoned--when darkness settled down upon the deep, and they could no longer distinguish the figures of the persons on the cliff above them, it would not be easy to imagine. Their sole sustenance, during the two tedious days and nights which they had passed since the wreck, was a little salt water and the few scraps of seaweed that they could gather from one of the bleakest and most barren rocks on the coast. The night, however, was not so tempestuous as the preceding, and at daylight the shore was once more crowded by persons, all anxious to lend their assistance. On Monday morning, Captain Manby's life-preserving apparatus was brought to their assistance, but the same difficulty was experienced in reaching the rock with the rope. Shots were again fired from guns and small cannon brought for the purpose, but without success. At length, a plan, which had been unsuccessful on the preceding day, succeeded, and about eleven o'clock two loaves of bread, and a little wine and spirits, were lowered to them--the first they had partaken of since Friday. After refreshing themselves, they were hauled up, one by one. Of the forty-three persons who embarked on Friday morning, thirteen only escaped, and of these one died soon after their rescue. Dreadful, Uncle Thomas! I wonder they were not all starved to death, exposed as they were to the cold of two January nights. It was indeed surprising, Harry, that any of them escaped. Some of them were nearly destitute of clothing. I told you of one of the passengers who was all but naked, and the woman who escaped passed the time on the rock with only her night-dress and a small handkerchief to cover her. The other wreck, of which I promised to tell you this evening, is that of the Forfarshire, also a steamer, which sailed between Hull and Dundee. She left Hull on the evening of Wednesday, September 5th, 1838, having on board a valuable cargo, and upwards of forty passengers. Her crew consisted of twenty-one persons; the captain's wife accompanied him on the voyage. The Forfarshire had not proceeded far when a leak was discovered in the boiler. This rendered it necessary to extinguish two of the fires, which were, however, relighted when the boiler had been partially repaired. The vessel continued her course until the following evening, by which time she had proceeded as far as Berwick Bay, when the leak again appeared. It had now become so great, that the greatest difficulty was experienced in keeping the boilers filled, the water escaping through the leak as fast as it was pumped in. The wind was blowing strong and the sea running high, and the leak increased so much from the motion of the vessel, that the fires were extinguished, and the engines, of course, became entirely useless. It was now about ten o'clock at night, and they were off St. Abbs' Head, a bold promontory on the Scottish coast. There being great danger of drifting ashore, the sails were hoisted fore and aft, and the vessel put about in order to get her before the wind, and keep her off the land. She soon became unmanageable, and the tide setting strong to the south, she proceeded in that direction. It rained heavily during the whole time, and the fog was so dense that it became impossible to tell the situation of the vessel. At length breakers were discovered close to leeward, and the Ferne Lights, which about the same period became visible, put an end to all doubt as to the imminent peril of the unfortunate vessel. An attempt was made to run her between the Ferne Islands, but she refused to obey the helm, and at three o'clock on Friday morning, she struck with tremendous force against the outer or Longstone Island. At the moment the vessel struck, most of the passengers were below, and many of them asleep in their berths. One, alarmed by the shock, started up, and seizing his trousers only, rushed upon deck. When he reached it, he found everything in confusion, and seeing part of the crew hoisting out a boat, he sprang into it. The raging of the sea instantly separated it from the vessel, and though several of the other passengers attempted to reach it, they were unsuccessful, and perished in the attempt. The boat itself escaped by something little short of a miracle. There was but one outlet by which it could avoid being dashed in pieces on the breakers by which it was surrounded. This outlet it providentially took without its crew being aware of it; and after being exposed to the storm all night, it was picked up by a sloop and carried into Shields. In less than five minutes after the vessel struck, a second shock separated her into two parts--the stern, quarter-deck, and cabin being instantly borne away, through a passage called the Piper Gut, by a tremendous current, which runs with considerable violence even in temperate weather--with a rapidity of about six miles an hour--but which, when the weather is tempestuous, flows with a force truly terrific. The fore part of the vessel, in the meantime, remained fast on the rock, and to it still clung the few passengers who remained, every instant expecting to share the fate of their unfortunate companions, whom they had seen swept away by the raging element. In this dreadful situation their cries attracted the notice of Grace Darling, the daughter of the keeper of the Outer Ferne Lighthouse. With a noble heroism, she immediately determined to attempt their rescue, in spite of the raging of the storm, and the all but certain destruction which threatened to attend it. Having hastily awakened her father, he launched his boat at day-break, and, with a generous sympathy worthy of the father of Grace Darling, prepared to proceed to their rescue. The gale, in the meantime, continued unabated, and the boiling of the waves threatened a speedy destruction to their frail boat. It was therefore with a heart full of the most fearful forebodings, that he undertook the perilous enterprise. After watching the wreck for some time, they discovered that living beings were still clinging to it, and the gallant young woman, with matchless intrepidity, seized an oar and entered the boat. This was enough--her father followed; and, with the assistance of his daughter, conducted the frail skiff over the foaming billows to the spot where the wreck appeared. By a dangerous and desperate effort he was landed on the rock, and to preserve the frail boat from being dashed to pieces, it was rapidly rowed back among the awful abyss of waters, and kept afloat by the skilfulness and dexterity of this noble-minded young woman. At length the whole of the survivers, consisting of five of the crew and four of the passengers, were taken from the wreck, and conveyed to the light-house, where she ministered to their wants, and anxiously, for three days and three nights, waited on the sufferers, and soothed their afflictions. This perilous achievement, unexampled in the feats of female fortitude, was witnessed by the survivers in silent wonder. The weather continued so tempestuous that the mainland could not be reached till Sunday, when the nine persons, saved by the gallant heroism of the Darlings, were landed in safety; thus making the entire number of persons saved from the wreck eighteen. All the others perished. Those who found refuge on the rock on which the vessel struck, suffered severely during the night from the cold and the heavy seas which, at intervals, washed over them. The female passenger, who escaped, sat with her two children, a boy and a girl, the one eight and the other eleven years of age, firmly grasped in each hand, long after the buffetings of the waves had deprived them of existence. The captain and his wife were washed from the wreck, clasped in each other's arms, and both drowned. It was indeed a noble act, Uncle Thomas! I wonder she was not afraid that her boat would share the fate of the steam-vessel, and be dashed in pieces on the rock. It was an act of heroism, boys, to which you will find few parallels; nor has it been without its reward. Besides the satisfaction of saving nine fellow-creatures from certain destruction, the fame of the heroic act has spread far and wide, and its praise been on every tongue. Painters, of no mean power, have portrayed the scene, and its memory will be thus preserved. Presents have besides poured in upon her and her father, and everything been done to mark the public sympathy and approbation of the daring and disinterested deed. A coroner's inquest was held on the bodies of four of the sufferers, which were washed ashore. The jury returned a verdict "Wrecked on board the Forfarshire steam-packet, by the imperfection of her boilers, and the culpable negligence of the captain in not putting back to port." Was the vessel completely destroyed, Uncle Thomas? The only part of the vessel which remained, Harry, consisted of the forecastle, part of the engine, the paddle-wheels, and part of the rigging. One of the boilers was thrown upon the rock, the other disappeared in the sea. Of the valuable cargo, a few boxes of soap only were recovered. CHAPTER X. UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT THE WRECK OF THE ALBION NEW YORK PACKET. Many of the tales of shipwrecks which have happened on our shores, are extremely distressing; none more so, perhaps, than that of the Albion packet, which was wrecked on the Irish coast, in 1822. The Albion was one of the first-class packet ships between New York and Liverpool, and sailed from the former place on the first of April, having on board twenty-three cabin and six steerage passengers, her crew consisting of twenty-five persons; making the entire number who embarked fifty-four. For the first twenty days the voyage was prosperous and pleasant. About two o'clock on Sunday the 21st, they made Cape Clear, and the weather, which had, during the earlier part of the voyage, been moderate and favorable, now became thick and foggy, the wind blowing fresh, with heavy squalls from the southward. The ship had been carrying all her canvass, but as the gale increased they were obliged to shorten sail. At four o'clock, they were under double-reefed topsails, foresail, and mainsail, when a sudden squall carried away the fore-yard and split the fore-topsail. They therefore got the broken yard down, and prepared to replace it by another. As night came on, the decks were cleared for working the ship; the wind, however, lulled, and it was supposed that the storm of the day was over. As they were near the coast, all hands flattered themselves they should, in a short time, reach their destined harbor, and be once more secure from the dangers of the deep. About nine o'clock, the ship was struck by a tremendous sea, which threw her on her beam-ends, and carried away the mainmast by the board, the heads of the mizenmast and fore-topmast, sweeping the deck clear of everything, including boats, caboose-house, and bulwarks, and staving in all the hatches, and state-rooms, and nearly filling the cabin with water. It also carried away six of the crew and one of the cabin passengers, and, in short, so destructive was its influence, that it left the Albion in the state of a wreck. As the ship now became unmanageable, and the sea continued to make a complete breach over her, both crew and passengers were obliged to lash themselves to the pumps, in order to keep themselves from being washed away while working them. All who were unnecessary or unable to afford assistance on deck retired below, but the water was knee-deep in the cabin, and the furniture floating about rendered their situation dangerous and dreadful. On deck they were in total darkness, and having no correct compasses, they could not tell how the ship's head lay. About one o'clock in the morning of the 22d, they made the light of the Old Head of Kinsale, a light-house on the Irish coast, but could not ascertain its bearing, and at two o'clock they found the ship embayed. All night long the wind had blown directly on shore, towards which the vessel was drifting at the rate of about three miles an hour. The complete hopelessness of their situation was known to few on board; but to Captain Williams the coast was familiar, and he must have seen, in despair and horror, throughout the night, the certainty of their fate. At length the noise of the ocean roaring and dashing upon the rocky and precipitous shore, spoke too plainly of the fate that awaited them. The captain, seeing that the crisis was now close at hand, and that the wreck of the vessel was inevitable, summoned all the passengers on deck, and briefly told them that each must prepare to save himself, as the ship must soon strike--it was impossible to preserve her. The scene was one of the most touching description; many of them had received considerable injury when the sea first struck the ship, and were scarcely able to come on deck; others were completely exhausted from having been incessantly assisting at the pumps; and one gentleman, who had been extremely ill during the voyage, Mr. William Everhart, of Chester, Pennsylvania, was too feeble to crawl to the deck without assistance, though, strange to say, he was the only cabin passenger who was saved. The situation of the passengers on board the Albion was, at this moment, one of peculiar agony, as they watched, without the power of resistance, the deadly and relentless blast impelling them to destruction--the ship a wreck--and the raging of the billows against the precipice on which they were driving, sending back from the rocky caverns the hoarse and melancholy warnings of death. In such a situation, the stoutest heart must have quailed with utter despair. As the morning dawned, the Albion struck on a reef, her upper-works beat in over the rocks, and in about half an hour she parted midships, her quarter-deck drifting on the top of the inside ledge, immediately under the cliffs. The perpendicular precipice of rocks, under which the unfortunate vessel struck, is nearly two hundred feet in height, in the base of which, the sea beating for ages, has worn large caverns, into which the waves rush violently, sending back a deep and hollow sound; after striking against the rock, they are thrown back in various directions, forming whirlpools of great violence. For some distance from the precipice, rocks rise out of the water, broad at bottom, and sharp at top: on one of these the Albion first struck; the next wave threw her farther on the rock, the third farther still, until, nearly balanced, she swung round, and her stern was driven against another, closer in shore. In this perilous situation, every wave making a complete breach over her, many of the passengers and crew were drowned on deck. Captain Williams, worn out with the extraordinary exertions which, up to the last moment, he continued to make for the preservation of the lives of the unfortunate passengers and crew, was, with several others, swept away soon after the vessel struck. A short time before she parted, the mate and six of the crew managed to gain a rock, but so exhausted were they by their previous exertions, and by the dashing of the waves, which every instant washed over them, that the mate was washed off; fortunately, however, he regained his position before the return of the sea. So exhausted was he, that before he could attempt to climb the rock, which was nearly perpendicular, he was obliged to lie down to recover strength from the severe bruises and contusions which he had received. One of the passengers also reached the rock alive, but, together with one of the stewards, he was washed off and drowned. Perceiving that the stern was higher out of water than the fore part of the wreck, and the sea had less power in its sweep over it, Mr. Everhart went aft. He now saw that the bottom had been broken out of the ship. The heavy articles must have sunk, and the cotton and lighter articles were floating around, dashed by every wave against the rocks. Presently the ship broke in two, and all who remained near the bow were lost. Several had got on the side of the precipice from the stern of the ship, and were hanging by the crags. Although weakened by previous sickness and present suffering, Mr. Everhart made an effort and got upon the rock, and stood upon one foot, which was the only hold he could obtain. He saw several of his fellow-sufferers around him, and, among the rest, Colonel Prevost, who, on seeing him take his station, remarked, "Here is another poor fellow," But the waves rolling heavily against them, and often dashing the spray fifty feet above their heads, gradually swept them away, one after another. One of the sailors, losing his hold, attempted to grasp Mr. Everhart's leg, and nearly pulled him from his place. Weak and ill as he was, however, he contrived to retain his position, and stood for several hours on one foot on a little crag, the billows dashing over him, and quite benumbed with cold. By day-light, the wreck having been discovered, as soon as the ebbing of the tide rendered it practicable, the country people descended the rocks as far as they could, and dropped Mr. Everhart a rope, which he fastened round his body, and was drawn up to a place of safety. Of twenty-three cabin passengers he alone escaped. Many of the passengers who were lost in this melancholy shipwreck, held distinguished stations in society. The most eminent sufferer was Gen. Lefebvre Desnouettes, who, during a long series of years, had braved death in the field of battle, and escaped to perish at last in this catastrophe, when his mind was, perhaps, less than at any other period of his life, reconciled to the stroke of fate. His situation was every way peculiar. It is well known that he had been one of the favorite and most distinguished of Napoleon's military generals, and that he took part in the combination against Louis XVIII. On the landing of his old commander from Elba, with headlong enthusiasm he joined him in his last campaign, and being proscribed by the royal government, took refuge in the United States. Here his misfortunes, reputation, intelligence, and manly, unexceptionable deportment, rendered him an object of universal esteem. To escape, as he used to remark, pity and curiosity, and to gratify the natural activity of his mind, he retired to the territory granted to the French exiles in the State of Alabama, where he labored in the fields, under the burning sun, with a reckless exertion, which proved very injurious to his health. His wife, an amiable and accomplished woman, remained behind in France to look after his interests there. Having begun his agricultural toil, he never quitted it until his final departure from the country, except to visit Washington on business. At length, he addressed a petition to the French government, praying to be allowed to return home. He received directions to proceed to Holland, and there wait the final pleasure of the king; and, on his way to Liverpool, met with a watery grave on the Irish coast. It is a very affecting tale indeed, Uncle Thomas! How shocking to think that, after crossing the Atlantic ocean in safety, they should perish when almost within sight of home! CHAPTER XI. UNCLE THOMAS TELLS OF THE LOSS OF THE DODDINGTON EAST INDIAMAN. This evening, boys, I am going to tell you of the loss of the Doddington, which was wrecked on a barren, uninhabited rock, when nearly two hundred persons lost their lives. The Doddington sailed from the Downs, April 23d, 1755, in company with four others of the East India Company's ships. On the 20th of May, they made Bonavista, one of the Cape de Verd Islands, and on the 21st got into Port Prior Bay, for the purpose of taking in a supply of fresh water. On the 27th, she proceeded on her voyage, in company with three of the vessels with which she had at first set out, leaving the other, which had not yet completed her refitment, in the roads. They continued together until the following day, when the Captain, thinking that their course was too easterly, ordered the Doddington to be kept south; and after a fine run of seven weeks, she made the land of the Cape of Good Hope. On the 5th of July, they took their departure from Cape Needles, and the vessel having steered eastward about twenty-four hours, the Captain ordered her to be kept E. N. E. In this course she continued till about a quarter before one on the morning of Thursday the 17th of July, when she struck. The officer whose journal furnishes materials for the following narrative, was, at the time of the accident, asleep in his cabin; but being suddenly awakened by the shock, he started up in the utmost consternation, and hurried upon deck. He found the sea rolling over the ship with the utmost violence, and sweeping the men overboard, while the beating of the surge upon the vessel threatened, every instant, to dash her in pieces. On reaching the larboard side of the deck, which lay highest out of the water, he encountered the Captain, who told him in a very little time they must all perish; in a few minutes a sea parted them, and he saw him no more. He managed, by dint of great exertion, to get back to the quarter-deck, though he was much bruised and had the small bone of his left arm broken; the other portion of the ship was, in the meantime, overwhelmed by the waves and completely shattered in pieces. In this dreadful situation, when every minute he expected would be the last of all who still clung to the wreck, he heard the welcome cry of "Land!" and looked eagerly about him; but though he saw something which he supposed had been taken for land, he believed that it was only the bursting of the surge on the other side of the breakers. At this instant, the sea broke over him with such fury, that it not only forced him from his hold, but such was the violence of the blow, that he was stunned, and lay insensible till after daylight. On recovering, he found himself fixed to a plank by a nail that had been forced into his shoulder. Besides the pain of his wound, and the many bruises which he had sustained, he was so benumbed with cold that he could scarcely move. He now observed that several of the crew had got on the rocks which were near, and called out to them as loud as he could; but they were not able to give him any assistance, so that a considerable time elapsed before he was able to disengage himself from the wreck and get on shore. On reaching the rock, he found twenty-three of his companions, which were all that had been able to save themselves out of two hundred and twenty individuals that were on board when the ship struck. Their first care was to search among the things that had been thrown on the rocks from the wreck, for something to cover them from the weather, and in this they succeeded almost beyond their expectations; but the attainment of fire was not so easily accomplished. Some of them made an unsuccessful attempt to kindle two pieces of wood by rubbing them together, while others diligently searched the rocks in anxious endeavors to find a substitute for flint and steel. After some time they found a box containing a couple of gun-flints and a broken file, which was a most joyful acquisition, though they still wanted tinder. After a further search, they discovered a cask of gunpowder, which, to their great disappointment, proved to be wet; but, on a more narrow inspection, they found a small quantity at the bottom that had suffered no damage. Some of this bruised on a linen rag, served their purpose very well. Having at length succeeded in lighting a fire, the bruised and wounded collected round it, while the others went in search of further necessaries. A box of wax candles and a case of brandy were the first brought in, and soon afterwards another party returned, stating that they had discovered a cask almost full of fresh water, which was of greater consequence than the spirits, as there was no fresh water to be found on the island. They could also see at some distance several casks of water, flour, and beer; but it was not possible to get at them over the rocks. It now became necessary to provide some shelter for the approaching night; all hands were therefore employed in making a tent of some canvass that had been cast ashore; but the quantity was so small that the tent would not hold them all, and for fear of being overflowed, they were obliged to erect it on the highest part of the island. Here they were so much exposed to the storm that their frail encampment was in danger of being blown away; their fire was scattered, and before they could collect the embers the rain extinguished them. On renewing their search in the morning, they found, to their great mortification, that all the casks which they had seen the preceding night, with the exception of one of flour and another of beer, had been staved against the rocks. These, however, they secured; but the tide flowing up soon after, interrupted their proceedings. As, in their desolate and forlorn situation, their thoughts naturally hurried from one subject to another in quest of some source of comfort, it was suggested by one of them that, as the carpenter was among them, he might build a vessel to carry them to a port of safety, provided they could obtain some tools and materials. The attention of every one was immediately directed towards the carpenter, who declared his belief that if tools and materials could be found, he should be able to build a bark; and though at that time there was no prospect of procuring either, yet no sooner had they thought their deliverance but one remove beyond total impossibility, than they seemed to think it neither impossible nor difficult. The boat engrossed their whole conversation, and they not only debated on her size and rigging, but to what port they should steer when she was fairly afloat. Some of them immediately dispersed in search of materials for their projected vessel, but they did not succeed in finding any. On the following day, however, they secured four butts of water, one cask of flour, one hogshead of brandy, and a small boat, which had been thrown up by the tide in a shattered condition; but no tools were found, with the exception of a scraper. Next day they had the good fortune to discover a box containing files, gimlets, sail-needles, and an azimuth compass-card; they also found two quadrants, a carpenter's adze, a chisel, three sword-blades, and a chest of treasure. On Monday, the 20th of July, they recovered some more provisions, and also some timber-plank, canvass, and cordage, which they joyfully secured for their projected vessel, though still in want of many implements indispensable for the carpenter to proceed with his work. It happened, however, that one of the seamen, Hendrick Scanty, a native of Sweden, who had originally been a smith by profession, having picked up an old pair of bellows, told his companions that, by the aid of a forge, which they could build by his directions, he could furnish the carpenter with all necessary tools as well as nails, as plenty of iron could be obtained by burning it out of pieces of the wreck driven ashore. He began immediately to mend the bellows, and the three following days were occupied in building a tent and forge, and in collecting timber for the use of the carpenter, who was also employed in preparing the few tools already in his possession, that the boat might be begun as soon as possible. In a few days the carpenter began to work on the keel of the vessel, which, it was determined, should be a sloop, thirty feet in length by twelve in width. The smith also finished his forge, and he and the carpenter continued thenceforward to work with indefatigable diligence, except when prevented by the weather. The smith, having fortunately found the ring and nut of a bower-anchor, which served him for an anvil, supplied chisels, axes, hammers and nails, as they were required, and the carpenter used them with great dexterity and despatch. After having been nearly seven weeks upon the rock, during which time they had frequently seen a great smoke upon the main land, they determined to send the boat which had been recovered from the wreck, which the carpenter had so patched up as to fit it for sea, to ascertain what assistance could be obtained. For this purpose, three men set out on a voyage of discovery, the people making a great fire at night on the highest part of the rock, as a signal to them. After waiting three days, the return of the boat was impatiently expected; but nothing being seen of it by noon they became very uneasy. At length, however, they discovered it approaching, but it was rowed by only one man, who plied both oars, and they consequently concluded that the other two had been lost or detained. Presently, however, another was seen to rise from the bottom of the boat, and their speed was a little increased. Their interest and curiosity were wound up to the highest pitch, when the two men, jumping from the boat, threw themselves on the ground, and returned thanks to the Almighty for their deliverance. They were, however, so exhausted by the exertions which they had made, that they now sank on the ground and could not rise without assistance. When sufficiently recovered, they related their adventures since they left the island. On the day of their departure, after sailing about six leagues to the eastward, they got round a point of land, and ventured to pull for the shore; but the moment they got into the surf, the boat was upset, by which their companion was unfortunately drowned. They managed, however, to reach the land, though in a very exhausted condition. On recovering a little, they crawled along the shore in search of the boat, as they had no other shelter from wild beasts, which might be expected to come abroad in the night, and after some search found her; but they were too weak to get her up, and were obliged to lie down on the sand, with no other covering than the branches of a tree. In the morning they again searched for the boat, which the surf had driven from the place where they left her, and in walking along the coast saw a man, who, on their approach, ran away into the woods. Soon afterwards they discovered the body of their unfortunate companion, which had been dragged some distance from the shore, and mangled by some wild beast, which so terrified them, that rather than undergo the dread of passing another night on shore, they resolved to return immediately. Encountering a gale from the west, the boat was once more upset, but after much struggling and swimming, they got safe to land, exhausted by their exertions and faint with hunger. Having managed to get the boat on shore, they turned it keel upwards and crept under it to sleep. Wearied by their late exertions, they slept till the dawn of day, when, peeping out from under the edge of the boat, they saw the feet of several animals, which they supposed to be tigers, which induced them to remain under the boat till the day had well broke, when once more looking out they saw the feet of a man. On this discovery, they crept out, to the great amazement of a poor savage and two other men and a boy, who were at some distance. When they were a little recovered from their surprise, the savages made signs for them to go away, which they endeavored to do, though they began to move very slowly: but they had not got far when a considerable number of the natives ran down upon them with their lances, and took them prisoners. They then rifled the boat, and took away all the rope they could find, and began to knock the boat in pieces, for the iron which they saw about it. With the exception of absolute destruction to these hapless mariners, this was the greatest calamity they could sustain; and, rough as they were, they burst into tears, and entreated the savages to desist, with such agony and distress, that they suffered the boat to remain without further injury. On the following morning, taking an opportunity of eluding the vigilance of the savages, they launched the boat for the third time, and returned to their companions on the rock. This narrative was far from encouraging; nevertheless the carpenter continued his work with the greatest assiduity, and with such success, that, imperfect as were the tools with which he worked, on the 17th February 1756, they launched their little vessel, and bade adieu to the rock on which they had lived seven months. They weighed anchor at one in the afternoon, and set sail, with a light breeze from the west, for the river St. Lucia, on the coast of Natal; but misfortune still seemed to attend them. For twenty-five days they met with nothing but adversity; their provisions were almost exhausted, and the rapid currents carried them so far out of their course, that a favorable wind was of but little service to them. Despairing at last of being able to make the river St. Lucia, they resolved to change their course for the Cape of Good Hope, and accordingly, on the 2d of March, bore away for the west. The three following days the wind increased to such prodigious violence that it blew a furious storm, and their frail bark shipped such heavy seas, that they expected each wave, as it rolled over, to dash her in pieces. On the morning of the 5th, however, fine weather ensued, and on the 7th it was a perfect calm, when they cast anchor about three quarters of a mile from the shore, where they observed several natives coming down from the mountains towards them. Encouraged by this sight, they attempted to land, and Arnold, the black servant, was sent on shore, accompanied by two seamen, with a string of amber beads as a present to the Indians. After a mutual interchange of civilities, he obtained some Indian corn, fruit, and water, in a calabash, with a promise of sheep, oxen, and other necessaries; but the wind continuing westerly, the boat returned with a supply only sufficient for four days. They continued to coast along, occasionally landing to barter with the natives, who everywhere thronged to the shore and received them with kindness. At length, on the 6th April, they arrived at St. Lucia. Having landed, they signified to the natives their wish to trade with them; but the Indians intimated that they wanted nothing but small beads: however, on being shown some copper buttons, they brought bullocks, fowls, potatoes, gourds, and other provisions. No bullocks could be purchased; for the natives wanted copper rings large enough for collars, in exchange. Of the fowls, they gave five or six for a small piece of linen, and the other things in proportion. They remained here three weeks, being engaged in traversing the country, and endeavoring to obtain such articles as they wanted. The Indians set a great value on copper, and on being shown the handle of an old box, offered two bullocks for it, which were immediately accepted and driven on board the vessel. On the 18th of May, a favorable breeze springing up from the west, attended with good weather, they weighed anchor at seven in the morning and set sail. Two days afterwards they arrived in Lagoa Bay, where they found the Rose, a trading vessel, in which some of them requested a passage to Bombay. On the 25th of May, the Rose sailed for Madagascar, where, happening to fall in with one of the East India Company's ships, bound for Madras, the packets of treasure were transferred to it, and in about a month arrived in safety at their destination. I must now bid you good bye, boys--not that I have exhausted my "Tales of Shipwrecks," but my space being filled up, I must stop for the present. I hope we shall soon meet again. Our present meetings have not, I trust, been without profit as well as amusement. The various narratives of suffering have awakened our sympathies, and taught us to feel how much we owe to the intrepidity of the adventurous seamen, who, bidding defiance to the perils of the deep, bear the blessings of commerce and civilization to the farthest corners of the earth. Nor ought our conversations to have been void of instruction--opening up to us, as they have done, the mighty works of God and his mysterious dealings with mankind. "They that go down to the sea in ships," says the Psalmist, "that do business in great waters--these see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep. For he commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount up to the heavens, they go down again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wit's end. Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad because they be quiet; so he bringeth them unto their desired haven. O, that men would praise the Lord for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the children of men!" Good bye, Uncle Thomas! 
39567	----	scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print archive. Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). [Illustration: Book Cover] TWO LITTLE WAIFS [Illustration: "Well, dears," she said, "and what are you playing at?"--Page 4.] TWO LITTLE WAIFS BY MRS. MOLESWORTH AUTHOR OF 'CARROTS,' 'CUCKOO CLOCK,' 'TELL ME A STORY' [Illustration: Two small figures, hurrying along hand-in-hand, caught the attention of several people.--Page 166.] ILLUSTRATED BY WALTER CRANE London MACMILLAN AND CO. 1883 CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAPA HAS SENT FOR US 1 CHAPTER II. POOR MRS. LACY 17 CHAPTER III. A PRETTY KETTLE OF FISH 33 CHAPTER IV. "WHAT IS TO BE DONE?" 52 CHAPTER V. IN THE RUE VERTE 72 CHAPTER VI. AMONG THE SOFAS AND CHAIRS 90 CHAPTER VII. THE KIND-LOOKING GENTLEMAN 109 CHAPTER VIII. A FALL DOWNSTAIRS 128 CHAPTER IX. FROM BAD TO WORSE 148 CHAPTER X. "AVENUE GÉRARD, NO. 9" 165 CHAPTER XI. WALTER'S TEA-PARTY 183 CHAPTER XII. PAPA AT LAST 200 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. "WELL, DEARS," SHE SAID, "AND WHAT ARE YOU PLAYING AT?" _Frontispiece_ IN ANOTHER MOMENT THE LITTLE PARTY WAS MAKING ITS WAY THROUGH THE STATION _To face page_ 48 SHE PLACED THE WHOLE ON A LITTLE TABLE WHICH SHE DREW CLOSE TO THE BED 82 "OH DON'T, DON'T CROSS THAT DREADFUL STREET," GLADYS EXCLAIMED 112 ANNA OPENED THE DOOR SHARPLY, AS SHE DID EVERYTHING, AND IN SO DOING OVERTHREW THE SMALL PERSON OF ROGER 156 "GO ALONG THERE," SHE SAID, "AND THEN TURN TO THE LEFT, AND YOU WILL SEE THE NAME 'AVENUE GÉRARD' AT THE CORNER" 170 WALTER WAS HAVING A TEA-PARTY! 185 "It would both have excited your pity, and have done your heart good, to have seen how these two little ones were so fond of each other, and how hand-in-hand they trotted along." _The Renowned History of Goody Two-Shoes._ CHAPTER I. PAPA HAS SENT FOR US. "It's what comes in our heads when we Play at 'Let's-make-believe,' And when we play at 'Guessing.'" CHARLES LAMB. It was their favourite play. Gladys had invented it, as she invented most of their plays, and Roger was even more ready to play at it than at any other, ready though he always was to do anything Gladys liked or wanted. Many children would have made it different--instead of "going over the sea to Papa," they would have played at what they would do when Papa should come over the sea to them. But that was not what they had learnt to look forward to, somehow--they were like two little swallows, always dreaming of a sunny fairyland they knew not where, only "over the sea," and in these dreams and plays they found the brightness and happiness which they were still too young to feel should have been in their everyday baby life. For "Mamma" was a word that had no real meaning to them. They thought of _her_ as of a far-away beautiful angel--beautiful, but a little frightening too; cold and white like the marble angels in church, whose wings looked so soft, till one day Roger touched them, and found them, to his strange surprise, hard and icy, which made him tell Gladys that he thought hens much prettier than angels. Gladys looked a little shocked at this, and whispered to remind him that he should not say that: had he forgotten that the angels lived up in heaven, and were always good, and that Mamma was an angel? No, Roger had not forgotten, and that was what made him think about angels; but they _weren't_ pretty and soft like Snowball, the little white hen, and he was sure he would never like them as much. Gladys said no more to him, for she knew by the tone of his voice that it would not take very much to make him cry, and when Roger got "that way," as she called it, she used to try to make him forget what had troubled him. "Let's play at going to Papa," she said; "I've thought of such a good way of making a ship with the chairs, half of them upside down and half long-ways--like that, see, Roger; and with our hoop-sticks tied on to the top of Miss Susan's umbrella--I found it in the passage--we can make such a great high pole in the middle. What is it they call a pole in the middle of a ship? I can't remember the name?" Nor could Roger; but he was greatly delighted with the new kind of ship, and forgot all about the disappointment of the angels in helping Gladys to make it, and when it was made, sailing away, away to Papa, "over the sea, over the sea," as Gladys sang in her little soft thin voice, as she rocked Roger gently up and down, making believe it was the waves. Some slight misgiving as to what Miss Susan would say to the borrowing of her umbrella was the only thing that interfered with their enjoyment, and made them jump up hastily with a "Oh, Miss Susan," as the beginning of an apology, ready on Gladys's lips when the door opened rather suddenly. But it was not Miss Susan who came in. A little to their relief and a good deal to their surprise it was Susan's aunt, old Mrs. Lacy, who seldom--for she was lame and rheumatic--managed to get as far as the nursery. She was kind and gentle, though rather deaf, so that the children were in no way afraid of her. "Well, dears," she said, "and what are you playing at?" "Over the sea, Mrs. Lacy," said Gladys. "Over the sea," repeated Roger, who spoke very plainly for his age. "Going over the sea to Papa; that's what we're playing at, and we like it the best of all our games. This is the ship, you see, and that's the big stick in the middle that all ships have--what is it they call it? I can't remember?" "The mast," suggested Mrs. Lacy. "Oh yes, the mast," said Gladys in a satisfied tone; "well, you see, we've made the mast with our hoop-sticks and Miss Susan's umbrella--you don't think Miss Susan will mind, do you?" with an anxious glance of her bright brown eyes; "_isn't_ it high, the--the mart?" "Mast," corrected Mrs. Lacy; "yes, it's taller than you, little Gladys, though you are beginning to grow very fast! What a little body you were when you came here first," and the old lady gave a sigh, which made Roger look up at her. "Has you got a sore troat?" he inquired. "No, my dear; what makes you think so?" "'Cos, when my troat was sore I was always breaving out loud like that," said Roger sympathisingly. "No, my throat's not sore, dear, thank you," said the old lady. "Sometimes people 'breathe' like that when they're feeling a little sad." "And are you feeling a little sad, poor Mrs. Lacy?" said Gladys. "It's not 'cos Miss Susan's going to be married, is it? _I_ think we shall be very happy when Miss Susan's married, only p'raps it wouldn't be very polite to say so to her, would it?" "No, it wouldn't be kind, certainly," said the old lady, with a little glance of alarm. Evidently Miss Susan kept her as well as the children in good order. "You must be careful never to say anything like that, for you know Susan has been very good to you and taken great care of you." "I know," said Gladys; "but still I like you best, Mrs. Lacy." "And you would be sorry to leave me, just a little sorry; I should not want you to be _very_ sorry," said the gentle old lady. Gladys glanced up with a curious expression in her eyes. "Do you mean--is it that you are sad about?--_has_ it come at last? Has Papa sent for us, Mrs. Lacy? Oh Roger, listen! Of course we should be sorry to leave you and--and Miss Susan. But is it true, can it be true that Papa has sent for us?" "Yes, dears, it is true; though I never thought you would have guessed it so quickly, Gladys. You are to go to him in a very few weeks. I will tell you all about it as soon as it is settled. There will be a great deal to do with Susan's marriage, too, so soon, and I wouldn't like you to go away without your things being in perfect order." "I think they are in very nice order already," said Gladys. "I don't think there'll be much to do. I can tell you over all my frocks and Roger's coats if you like, and then you can think what new ones we'll need. Our stockings are getting _rather_ bad, but Miss Susan thought they'd do till we got our new winter ones, and Roger's second-best house shoes are----" "Yes, dear," said Mrs. Lacy, smiling, though a little sadly, at the child's business-like tone; "I must go over them all with Susan. But not to-day. I am tired and rather upset by this news." "Poor Mrs. Lacy," said Gladys again. "But can't you tell us just a _very_ little? What does Papa say? Where are we to go to? Not all the way to where he is?" "No, dear. He is coming home, sooner than he expected, for he has not been well, and you are to meet him somewhere--he has not quite fixed where--in Italy perhaps, and to stay there through the winter. It is a good thing, as it had to be, that he can have you before Susan leaves me, for I am getting too old, dears, to take care of you as I should like--as I took care of _him_ long ago." For Mrs. Lacy was a very, very old friend of the children's father. She had taken care of him as a boy, and years after, when his children came to be left much as he had been, without a mother, and their father obliged to be far away from them, she had, for love of her adopted son, as she sometimes called him, taken his children and done her best to make them happy. But she was old and feeble, sometimes for days together too ill to see Gladys and Roger, and her niece Susan, who kept house for her, though a very active and clever young lady, did not like children. So, though the children were well taken care of as far as regarded their health, and were always neatly dressed, and had a nice nursery and a pleasant garden to play in, they were, though they were not old enough to understand it, rather lonely and solitary little creatures. Poor old Mrs. Lacy saw that it was so, but felt that she could do no more; and just when the unexpected letter from their father came, she was on the point of writing to tell him that she thought, especially as her niece was going to be married, some new home must be found for his two little waifs, as he sometimes called them. Before Mrs. Lacy had time to tell them any more about the great news Miss Susan came in. She looked surprised to see her aunt in the nursery. "You will knock yourself up if you don't take care," she said rather sharply, though not unkindly. "And my umbrella--my best umbrella! I declare it's too bad--the moment one's back is turned." "It's the mast, Miss Susan," said Gladys eagerly. "We thought you wouldn't mind. It's the mast of the ship that's going to take us over the sea to Papa." Some softer feeling came over Susan as she glanced at Gladys's flushed, half-frightened face. "Poor little things!" she said to herself gently. "Well, be sure to put it back in its place when you've done with it. And now, aunt, come downstairs with me, I have ever so many things to say to you." Mrs. Lacy obeyed meekly. "You haven't told them yet, have you, aunt?" said Susan, as soon as they were alone. "Yes, I told them a little," said the old lady. "Somehow I could not help it. I went upstairs and found them playing at the very thing--it seemed to come so naturally. I know you will think it foolish of me, Susan, but I can't help feeling their going, even though it is better for them." "It's quite natural you should feel it," said Susan in a not unkindly tone. "But still it is a very good thing it has happened just now. For you know, aunt, we have quite decided that you must live with us----" "You are very good, I know," said Mrs. Lacy, who was really very dependent on her niece's care. "And yet I could not have asked Mr. Rexford to have taken the children, who, after all, are no _relations_, you know." "No," said Mrs. Lacy. "And then to give them up to their own father is quite different from sending them away to strangers." "Yes, of course," said the old lady, more briskly this time. "On the whole," Miss Susan proceeded to sum up, "it could not have happened better, and the sooner the good-byings and all the bustle of the going are over, the better for you and for me, and for all concerned, indeed. And this leads me to what I wanted to tell you. Things happen so strangely sometimes. This very morning I have heard of such a capital escort for them." Mrs. Lacy looked up with startled eyes. "An escort," she repeated. "But not yet, Susan. They are not going yet. Wilfred speaks of 'some weeks hence' in his letter." "Yes; but his letter was written three weeks ago, and, of course, I am not proposing to send them away to-day or to-morrow. The opportunity I have heard of will be about a fortnight hence. Plenty of time to telegraph, even to write, to Captain Bertram to ensure there being no mistake. But anyway we need not decide just yet. He says he will write again by the next mail, so we shall have another letter by Saturday." "And what is the escort you have heard of?" asked Mrs. Lacy. "It is a married niece of the Murrays, who is going to India in about a fortnight. They start from here, as they are coming here on a visit the last thing. They go straight to Marseilles." "But would they like to be troubled with children?" "They know Captain Bertram, that is how we came to speak of it. And Mrs. Murray is sure they would be glad to do anything to oblige him." "Ah, well," said Mrs. Lacy. "It sounds very nice. And it is certainly not every day that we should find any one going to France from a little place like this." For Mrs. Lacy's home was in a rather remote and out-of-the-way part of the country. "It would save expense too, for, as they have no longer a regular nurse, I have no one to send even as far as London with them." "And young Mrs. ----, I forget her name--her maid would look after them on the journey. I asked about that," said Susan, who was certainly not thoughtless. "Well, well, we must just wait for Saturday's letter," said Mrs. Lacy. "And in the meantime the less said about it the better, _I_ think," said Susan. "Perhaps so; I daresay you are right," agreed Mrs. Lacy. She hardly saw the children again that day. Susan, who seemed to be in an unusually gracious mood, took them out herself in the afternoon, and was very kind. But they were so little used to talk to her, for she had never tried to gain their confidence, that it did not occur to either Gladys or Roger to chatter about what nevertheless their little heads and hearts were full of. They had also, I think, a vague childish notion of loyalty to their old friend in not mentioning the subject, even though she had not told them not to do so. So they trotted along demurely, pleased at having their best things on, and proud of the honour of a walk with Miss Susan, even while not a little afraid of doing anything to displease her. "They are good little things after all," thought Susan, when she had brought them home without any misfortune of any kind having marred the harmony of the afternoon. And the colour rushed into Gladys's face when Miss Susan sent them up to the nursery with the promise of strawberry jam for tea, as they had been very good. "I don't mind so much about the strawberry jam," Gladys confided to Roger, "though it _is_ very nice. But I do like when any one says we've been very good, don't you?" "Yes," said Roger; adding, however, with his usual honesty: "I like _bofe_, being praised _and_ jam, you know, Gladdie." "'Cos," Gladys continued, "if we _are_ good, you see, Roger, and I really think we must be so if _she_ says so, it will be very nice for Papa, won't it? It matters more now, you see, what we are, 'cos of going to him. When people have people of their own they should be gooder even than when they haven't any one that cares much." "Should they?" said Roger, a little bewildered. "But Mrs. Lacy cares," he added. Roger was great at second thoughts. "Ye--s," said Gladys, "she cares, but not dreadfully much. She's getting old, you know. And sometimes--don't say so to anybody, Roger--sometimes I think p'raps she'll soon have to be going to heaven. I think _she_ thinks so. That's another reason, you see," reverting to the central idea round which her busy brain had done nothing but revolve all day, "why it's _such_ a good thing Papa's sent for us now." "I don't like about people going to heaven," said Roger, with a little shiver. "Why can't God let them stay here, or go over the sea to where it's so pretty. _I_ don't want ever to go to heaven." "Oh, Roger!" said Gladys, shocked. "Papa wouldn't like you to say that." "Wouldn't he?" said Roger; "then I won't. It's because of the angels, you know, Gladdie. Oh, do you think," he went on, his ideas following the next link in the chain, "_do_ you think we can take Snowball with us when we go?" "I don't know," said Gladys; and just then Mrs. Lacy's housemaid, who had taken care of them since their nurse had had to leave them some months before, happening to bring in their tea, the little girl turned to her with some vague idea of taking her into their confidence. To have no one but Roger to talk to about so absorbing a matter was almost too much. But Ellen was either quite ignorant of the great news, or too discreet to allow that she had heard it. In answer to Gladys's "feeler" as to how hens travelled, and if one might take them in the carriage with one, she replied matter-of-factly that she believed there were places on purpose for all sorts of live things on the railway, but that Miss Gladys had better ask Miss Susan, who had travelled a great deal more than she, Ellen. "Yes," replied Gladys disappointedly, "perhaps she has; but most likely not with hens. But have you stayed at home all your life, Ellen? Have you never left your father and mother till you came here?" Whereupon Ellen, who was a kindly good girl, only a little too much in awe of Miss Susan to yield to her natural love of children, feeling herself on safe ground, launched out into a somewhat rose-coloured description of her home and belongings, and of her visits as a child to the neighbouring market-town, which much amused and interested her little hearers, besides serving for the time to distract their thoughts from the one idea, which was, I daresay, a good thing. For in this life it is not well to think too much or feel too sure of _any_ hoped-for happiness. The doing so of itself leads to disappointment, for we unconsciously paint our pictures with colours impossibly bright, so that the _real_ cannot but fall short of the imaginary. But baby Gladys--poor little girl!--at seven it is early days to learn these useful but hard lessons. She and Roger made up for their silence when they went to bed, and you, children, can better imagine than I can tell the whispered chatter that went on between the two little cots that stood close together side by side. And still more the lovely confusion of happy dreams that flitted that night through the two curly heads on the two little pillows. CHAPTER II. POOR MRS. LACY. "For the last time--words of too sad a tone." AN OLD STORY AND OTHER POEMS. Saturday brought the expected letter, which both Mrs. Lacy and Susan anxiously expected, though with different feelings. Susan hoped that nothing would interfere with the plan she had made for the children's leaving; Mrs. Lacy, even though she owned that it seemed a good plan, could not help wishing that something would happen to defer the parting with the two little creatures whom she had learnt to love as much as if they had been her own grandchildren. But the letter was all in favour of Susan's ideas. Captain Bertram wrote much more decidedly than he had done before. He named the date at which he was leaving, a very few days after his letter, the date at which he expected to be at Marseilles, and went on to say that if Mrs. Lacy could possibly arrange to have the children taken over to Paris within a certain time, he would undertake to meet them there at any hour of any day of the week she named. The sooner the better for him, he said, as he would be anxious to get back to the south and settle himself there for the winter, the doctor having warned him to run no risks in exposing himself to cold, though with care he quite hoped to be all right again by the spring. As to a maid for the children--Mrs. Lacy having told him that they had had no regular nurse for some time--he thought it would be a good plan to have a French one, and as he had friends in Paris who understood very well about such things he would look out for one immediately he got there, if Mrs. Lacy could find one to take them over and stay a few days, or if she, perhaps, could spare one of her servants for the time. And he begged her, when she had made her plans, to telegraph, or write if there were time, to him at a certain hotel at Marseilles, "to wait his arrival." Susan's face had brightened considerably while reading the letter; for Mrs. Lacy, after trying to do so, had given it up, and begged her niece to read it aloud. "My sight is very bad this morning," she said, and her voice trembled as she spoke, "and Wilfred's writing was never very clear." Susan looked at her rather anxiously--for some time past it had seemed to her that her aunt was much less well than usual--but she took the letter and read it aloud in her firm distinct voice, only stopping now and then to exclaim: "_Could_ anything have happened better? It is really most fortunate." Only at the part where Captain Bertram spoke of engaging a maid for the journey, or lending one of theirs, her face darkened a little. "Quite unnecessary--foolish expense. Hope aunt won't speak of it to Ellen," she said to herself in too low a voice for Mrs. Lacy to hear. "Well, aunt?" she said aloud, when she had finished the letter, but rather to her surprise Mrs. Lacy did not at once reply. She was lying on her couch, and her soft old face looked very white against the cushions. She had closed her eyes, but her lips seemed to be gently moving. What were the unheard words they were saying? A prayer perhaps for the two little fledglings about to be taken from her wing for ever. She knew it was for ever. "I shall never see them again," she said, loud enough for Susan to hear, but Susan thought it better not to hear. "Well, aunt," she repeated, rather impatiently, but the impatience was partly caused by real anxiety; "won't you say what you think of it? _could_ anything have happened better than the Murrays' escort? Just the right time and all." "Yes, my dear. It seems to have happened wonderfully well. I am sure you will arrange it all perfectly. Can you write to Wilfred at once? And perhaps you had better see Mrs. Murray again. I don't feel able to do anything, but I trust it all to you, Susan. You are so practical and sensible." "Certainly," replied Susan, agreeably surprised to find her aunt of the same opinion as herself; "I will arrange it all. Don't trouble about it in the least. I will see the Murrays again this afternoon or to-morrow. But in the meantime I think it is better to say nothing more to the children." "Perhaps so," said Mrs. Lacy. Something in her voice made Susan look round. She was leaving the room at the moment. "Aunt, what is the matter?" she said. Mrs. Lacy tried to smile, but there were tears in her eyes. "It is nothing, my dear," she said. "I am a foolish old woman, I know. I was only thinking"--and here her voice broke again--"it would have been a great pleasure to me," she went on, "if he could have managed it. If Wilfred could have come all the way himself, and I could have given the children up into his own hands. It would not have seemed quite so--so sad a parting, and I should have liked to see him again." "But you will see him again, dear aunt," said Susan; "in the spring he is sure to come to England, to settle probably, perhaps not far from us. He has spoken of it in his letters." "Yes, I know," said Mrs. Lacy, "but----" "But what?" "I don't want to be foolish; but you know, my dear, by the spring I may not be here." "Oh, aunt!" said Susan reproachfully. "It is true, my dear; but do not think any more of what I said." But Susan, who was well-principled, though not of a very tender or sympathising nature, turned again, still with her hand on the door-handle. "Aunt," she said, "you have a right to be consulted--even to be fanciful if you choose. You have been very good to me, very good to Gladys and Roger, and I have no doubt you were very good to their father long ago. If it would be a comfort to you, let me do it--let me write to Wilfred Bertram and ask him to come here, as you say, to fetch the children himself." Mrs. Lacy reflected a moment. Then, as had been her habit all her life, she decided on self-denial. "No, my dear Susan," she said firmly. "Thank you for proposing it, but it is better not. Wilfred has not thought of it, or perhaps he has thought of it and decided against it. It would be additional expense for him, and he has to think of that--then it would give _you_ much more to do, and you have enough." "I don't mind about that," said Susan. "And then, too," went on Mrs. Lacy, "there is his health. Evidently it will be better for him not to come so far north so late in the year." "Yes," said Susan, "that is true." "So think no more about it, my dear, and thank you for your patience with a silly old woman." Susan stooped and kissed her aunt, which from her meant a good deal. Then, her conscience quite at rest, she got ready to go to see Mrs. Murray at once. "There is no use losing the chance through any foolish delay," she said to herself. Two days later she was able to tell her aunt that all was settled. Mrs. Murray had written to her niece, Mrs. Marton, and had already got her answer. She and her husband would gladly take charge of the children as far as Paris, and her maid, a very nice French girl, who adored little people, would look after them in every way--not the slightest need to engage a nurse for them for the journey, as they would be met by their father on their arrival. The Martons were to spend two days, the last two days of their stay in England, with Mrs. Murray, and meant to leave on the Thursday of the week during which Captain Bertram had said he could meet the children at any day and any hour. Everything seemed to suit capitally. "They will cross on Friday," said Susan; "that is the Indian mail day, of course. And it is better than earlier in the week, as it gives Captain Bertram two or three days' grace _in case_ of any possible delay." "And will you write, or telegraph--which is it?" asked Mrs. Lacy timidly, for these sudden arrangements had confused her--"at once, then?" "Telegraph, aunt? No, of course not," said Susan a little sharply, "he will have left ----pore several days ago, you know, and there is no use _telegraphing_ to Marseilles. I will write to-morrow--there is _plenty_ of time--a letter to wait his arrival, as he himself proposed. Then _when_ he arrives he will telegraph to us to say he has got the letter, and that it is all right. You quite understand, aunt?" "Oh yes, quite. I am very stupid, I know, my dear," said the old lady meekly. A few days passed. Gladys had got accustomed by this time to the idea of leaving, and no longer felt bewildered and almost oppressed by the rush of questions and wonderings in her mind. But her busy little brain nevertheless was constantly at work. She had talked it all over with Roger so often that he, poor little boy, no longer knew what he thought or did not think about it. He had vague visions of a ship about the size of Mrs. Lacy's drawing-room, with a person whom he fancied his father--a tall man with very black whiskers, something like Mrs. Murray's butler, whom Miss Susan had one day spoken of as quite "soldier-like"--and Roger's Papa was of course a soldier--standing in the middle to hold the mast steady, and Gladys and he with new ulsters on--Gladys had talked a great deal about new ulsters for the journey--waving flags at each side. Flags were hopelessly confused with ships in Roger's mind; he thought they had something to do with making boats go quicker. But he did not quite like to say so to Gladys, as she sometimes told him he was really too silly for a big boy of nearly five. So the two had become rather silent on the subject. Roger had almost left off thinking about it. His little everyday life of getting up and going to bed, saying his prayers and learning his small lessons for the daily governess who came for an hour every morning, eating his breakfast and dinner and tea, and playing with his toy-horses, was enough for him. He could not for long together have kept his thoughts on the strain of far-away and unfamiliar things, and so long as he knew that he had Gladys at hand, and that nobody (which meant Miss Susan in particular) was vexed with him, he asked no more of fate! And when Gladys saw that he was much more interested in trying to catch sight of an imaginary little mouse which was supposed to have been nibbling at the tail of his favourite horse in the toy-cupboard, than in listening to her wonderings whether Papa had written again, and _when_ Miss Susan was going to see about their new ulsters, she gave up talking to him in despair. If she could have given up _thinking_ so much about what was to come, it would have been better, I daresay. But still it was not to be wondered at that she found it difficult to give her mind to anything else. The governess could not make out why Gladys had become so absent and inattentive all of a sudden, for though the little girl's head was so full of the absorbing thought, she never dreamt of speaking of it to any one but Roger. Mrs. Lacy had not told her she must _not_ do so, but somehow Gladys, with a child's quick delicate instinct of honour, often so little understood, had taken for granted that she was not to do so. "Everything comes to him that has patience to wait," says the Eastern proverb, and in her own way Gladys had been patient, when one morning, about a week after the day on which Susan had told her aunt that everything was settled, Miss Fern, the daily governess, at the close of lessons, told her to go down to the drawing-room, as Mrs. Lacy wanted her. "And Roger too?" asked Gladys, her heart beating fast, though she spoke quietly. "Yes, I suppose so," said Miss Fern, as she tied her bonnet-strings. The children had noticed that she had come into the schoolroom a little later than usual that morning, and that her eyes were red. But in answer to Roger's tender though very frank inquiries, she had murmured something about a cold. "That was a story, then, what she said about her eyes," thought sharp-witted Gladys. "She's been crying; I'm sure she has." But then a feeling of pity came into her mind. "Poor Miss Fern; I suppose she's sorry to go away, and I daresay Mrs. Lacy said she wasn't to say anything about it to us." So she kissed Miss Fern very nicely, and stopped the rest of the remarks which she saw Roger was preparing. "Go and wash your hands quick, Roger," she said, "for we must go downstairs. _Mine_ are quite clean, but your middle fingers are all over ink." "Washing doesn't take it away," said Roger reluctantly. There were not many excuses he would have hesitated to use to avoid washing his hands! "Never mind. It makes them _clean_ anyway," said Gladys decidedly, and five minutes later two very spruce little pinafored figures stood tapping at the drawing-room door. "Come in, dears," said Mrs. Lacy's faint gentle voice. She was lying on her sofa, and the children went up and kissed her. "_You_ has got a cold too--like Miss Fern," said Roger, whose grammar was sometimes at fault, though he pronounced his words so clearly. "_Roger_," whispered Gladys, tugging at her little brother under his holland blouse. But Mrs. Lacy caught the word. "Never mind, dear," she said, with a little smile, which showed that she saw that Gladys understood. "Let him say whatever comes into his head, dear little man." Something in the words, simple as they were, or more perhaps in the tone, made little Gladys suddenly turn away. A lump came into her throat, and she felt as if she were going to cry. "I wonder why I feel so strange," she thought, "just when we're going to hear about going to Papa? I think it is that Mrs. Lacy's eyes look so sad, 'cos she's been crying. It's much worse than Miss Fern's. I don't care so much for her as for Mrs. Lacy," and all these feelings surging up in her heart made her not hear when their old friend began to speak. She had already said some words when Gladys's thoughts wandered back again. "It came this morning," the old lady was saying. "See, dears, can you read what your Papa says?" And she held out a pinky-coloured little sheet of paper, not at all like a letter. Gladys knew what it was, but Roger did not; he had never seen a telegram before. "Is that Papa's writing?" he said. "It's very messy-looking. _I_ couldn't read it, I don't think." "But I can," said Gladys, spelling out the words. "'Ar--arrived safe. Will meet children as you prop--' What is the last word, please, Mrs. Lacy?" "Propose," said the old lady, "as you propose." And then she went on to explain that this telegram was in answer to a letter from Miss Susan to their father, telling him all she had settled about the journey. "This telegram is from Marseilles," she said; "that is the town by the sea in France, where your dear Papa has arrived. It is quite in the south, but he will come up by the railway to meet you at Paris, where Mr. and Mrs. Marton--Mrs. Marton is Mrs. Murray's niece, Gladys--will take you to." It was a little confusing to understand, but Mrs. Lacy went over it all again most patiently, for she felt it right that the children, Gladys especially, should understand all the plans before starting away with Mr. and Mrs. Marton, who, however kind, were still quite strangers to them. Gladys listened attentively. "Yes," she said; "I understand now. But how will Papa know us, Mrs. Lacy? We have grown so, and----" she went on, rather reluctantly, "I am not _quite_ sure that I should know him, not just at the very first minute." Mrs. Lacy smiled. "No, dear, of course you could not, after more than four years! But Mr. Marton knows your Papa." Gladys's face cleared. "Oh, that is all right," she said. "That is a very good thing. But"--and Gladys looked round hesitatingly--"isn't anybody else going with us? I wish--I wish nurse wasn't married; don't you, Mrs. Lacy?" The sort of appeal in the child's voice went to the old lady's heart. "Yes, dear," she said. "But Susan thinks it will be quite nice for you with Léonie, young Mrs. Marton's maid, for your Papa will have a new nurse all ready. She wrote to tell him that we would not send any nurse with you." Gladys gave a little sigh. It took some of the bloom off the delight of "going to Papa" to have to begin the journey alone among strangers, and she saw that Mrs. Lacy sympathised with her. "It will save a good deal of expense too," the old lady added, more as if thinking aloud, and half forgetting to whom she was speaking. "Will it?" said Gladys quickly. "Oh, then, I won't mind. We won't mind, will we, Roger?" she repeated, turning to her little brother. "No, we won't," answered Roger solemnly, though without a very clear idea of what he was talking about, for he was quite bewildered by all he had heard, and knew and understood nothing but that he and Gladys were going somewhere with somebody to see Papa. "That's right," said Mrs. Lacy cheerfully. "You are a sensible little body, my Gladys." "I know Papa isn't very rich," said Gladys, encouraged by this approval, "and he'll have a great lot more to pay now that Roger and I are going to be with him, won't he?" "You have such very big appetites, do you think?" "I don't know," said Gladys. "But there are such lots of things to buy, aren't there? All our frocks and hats and boots. But oh!" she suddenly broke off, "won't we have to be getting our things ready? and _do_ you think we should have new ulsters?" "They are ordered," said Mrs. Lacy. "Indeed, everything you will need is ordered. Susan has been very busy, but everything will be ready." "When are we to go?" asked Gladys, suddenly remembering this important question. The sad look came into Mrs. Lacy's eyes again, and her voice trembled as she replied: "Next Thursday, my darling." "Next Thursday," repeated Gladys; and then catching sight of the tears which were slowly welling up into Mrs. Lacy's kind eyes--it is so sad to see an aged person cry!--she suddenly threw her arms around her old friend's neck, and, bursting out sobbing, exclaimed again: "Next Thursday. Oh, dear Mrs. Lacy, next Thursday!" And Roger stood by, fumbling to get out his pocket-handkerchief, not quite sure if he should also cry or not. It seemed to him strange that Gladys should cry just when what she had wanted so much had come--just when it was all settled about going to Papa! CHAPTER III. A PRETTY KETTLE OF FISH. "The cab-wheels made a dreamy thunder In their half-awakened ears; And then they felt a dreamy wonder Amid their dream-like fears." LAVENDER LADY. Gladys said something of the same kind to herself when, looking round her in the railway carriage on that same Thursday morning, she realised that the long, long looked-forward-to day had come. She and Roger had actually started on their journey to Papa! Yet her eyes were red and her face was pale. Little Roger, too, looked subdued and sober. It had never been so in their plays; in their pretence goings to Papa they were always full of fun and high spirits. It was always a beautiful sunny day to begin with, and to-day, the real day, was sadly dull and dreary, and cold too; the children, even though the new ulsters were in all their glory, shivered a little and drew closer together. The rain was falling so fast that there was no use trying to look out of the window, when fields and trees and farmhouses all seem to fly past in a misty confusion. Mr. Marton was deep in his _Times_; Mrs. Marton, after settling the children in the most comfortable places and doing all she could think of, had drawn a book out of her travelling-bag and was also busy reading. Roger, after a while, grew sleepy, and nodded his head, and then Mrs. Marton made a pillow for him on the arm of the seat, and covered him up with her rug. But Gladys, who was not at all sleepy, sat staring before her with wide open eyes, and thinking it was all very strange, and, above all, not the very least bit like what she had thought it would be. The tears came back into her eyes again when she thought of the parting with Mrs. Lacy. She and Roger had hardly seen their kind old friend the last few days, for she was ill, much more ill than usual, and Susan had looked grave and troubled. But the evening before, she had sent for them to say good-bye, and this was the recollection that made the tears rush back to the little girl's eyes. Dear Mrs. Lacy, how very white and ill she looked, propped up by pillows on the old-fashioned sofa in her room--every article in which was old-fashioned too, and could have told many a long-ago tender little story of the days when their owner was a merry blooming girl; or, farther back still, a tiny child like Gladys herself! For much of Mrs. Lacy's life had been spent in the same house and among the same things. She had gone from there when she was married, and she had come back there a widow and childless, and there she had brought up these children's father, Wilfred, as she often called him even in speaking to them, the son of her dearest friend. All this Gladys knew, for sometimes when they were alone together, Mrs. Lacy would tell her little stories of the past, which left their memory with the child, even though at the time hardly understood; and now that she and Roger were quite gone from the old house and the old life, the thought of them hung about Gladys with a strange solemn kind of mystery. "I never thought about leaving Mrs. Lacy when we used to play at going," she said to herself. "I never even thought of leaving the house and our own little beds and everything, and even Miss Susan. And Ellen was very kind. I wish she could have come with us, just till we get to Papa," and then, at the thought of this unknown Papa, a little tremor came over the child, though she would not have owned it to any one. "I wonder if it would have cost a very great deal for Ellen to come with us just for a few days. I would have given my money-box money, and so would Roger, I am sure. I have fifteen and sixpence, and he has seven shillings and fourpence. It _could_ not have cost more than all that," and then she set to work to count up how much her money and Roger's added together would be. It would not come twice together to the same sum somehow, and Gladys went on counting it up over and over again confusedly till at last it all got into a confusion together, for she too, tired out with excitement and the awakening of so many strange feelings, had fallen asleep like poor little Roger. They both slept a good while, and Mr. and Mrs. Marton congratulated themselves on having such very quiet and peaceable small fellow-travellers. "They are no trouble at all," said young Mrs. Marton. "But on the boat we must of course have Léonie with us, in case of a bad passage." "Yes, certainly," said her husband; "indeed I think she had better be with us from London. They will be getting tired by then." "They are tired already, poor pets," said Mrs. Marton, who was little more than a girl herself. "They don't look very strong, do they, Phillip?" Mr. Marton took the cigarette he had just been preparing to enjoy out of his mouth, and turned towards the children, examining them critically. "The boy looks sturdy enough, though he's small. He's like Bertram. The girl seems delicate; she's so thin too." "Yes," agreed Mrs. Marton. "_I_ don't mind, and no more does Léonie; but I think it was rather hard-hearted of Susan Lacy to have sent them off like that without a nurse of their own. If she had not been so worried about Mrs. Lacy's illness, I think I would have said something about it to her, even at the last. Somehow, till I saw the children, I did not think they were so tiny." "It'll be all right once we get to Paris and we give them over to their father," said Mr. Marton, who was of a philosophical turn of mind, puffing away again at his cigarette. "It will have saved some expense, and that's a consideration too." The children slept for some time. When they awoke they were not so very far from London. They felt less tired and better able to look about them and ask a few modest little questions. And when they got to London they enjoyed the nice hot cup of tea they had in the refreshment room, and by degrees they began to make friends with Léonie, who was very bright and merry, so that they were pleased to hear she was to be in the same carriage with them for the rest of the journey. "Till you see your dear Papa," said Léonie, who had heard all the particulars from her young mistress. "Yes," said Gladys quietly--by this time they were settled again in another railway carriage--"our Papa's to be at the station to meet us." "And we're to have a new nurse," added Roger, who was in a communicative humour. "Do you think she'll be kind to us?" "I'm sure she will," said Léonie, whose heart was already won. "She's to teach us French," said Gladys. "That will be very nice," said Léonie. "It is a very good thing to know many languages." "Can you speak French?" asked Roger. Léonie laughed, "Of course I can," she replied, "French is my tongue." Roger sat straight up, with an appearance of great interest. "Your tongue," he repeated. "Please let me see it," and he stared hard at Léonie's half-opened mouth. "Is it not like our tongues then?" Léonie stared too, then she burst out laughing. "Oh, I don't mean tongue like that," she said, "I mean talking--language. When I was little like you I could talk nothing but French, just like you now, who can talk only English." "And can't everybody in France talk English too?" asked Gladys, opening her eyes. "Oh dear no!" said Léonie. Gladys and Roger looked at each other. This was quite a new and rather an alarming idea. "It is a _very_ good thing," Gladys remarked at last, "that Papa is to be at the station. If we got lost over there," she went on, nodding her head in the direction of an imaginary France, "it would be even worse than in London." "But you're not going to get lost anywhere," said Léonie, smiling. "We'll take better care of you than that." And then she went on to tell them a little story of how once, when she was a very little girl, she had got lost--not in Paris, but in a much smaller town--and how frightened she was, and how at last an old peasant woman on her way home from market had found her crying under a hedge, and had brought her home again to her mother. This thrilling adventure was listened to with the greatest interest. "How pleased your mother must have been to see you again!" said Gladys. "Does she still live in that queer old town? Doesn't she mind you going away from her?" "Alas!" said Léonie, and the tears twinkled in her bright eyes, "my mother is no longer of this world. She went away from me several years ago. I shall not see her again till in heaven." "That's like us," said Gladys. "We've no Mamma. Did you know?" "But you've a good Papa," said Léonie. "Yes," said Gladys, rather doubtfully, for somehow the idea of a real flesh-and-blood Papa seemed to be getting more instead of less indistinct now that they were soon to see him. "But he's been away such a very long time." "Poor darlings," said Léonie. "And have you no Papa, no little brothers, not any one like that?" inquired Gladys. "I have some cousins--very good people," said Léonie. "They live in Paris, where we are now going. If there had been time I should have liked to go to see them. But we shall stay no time in Paris--just run from one station to the other." "But the luggage?" said Gladys. "Mrs. Marton has a lot of boxes. I don't see how you can _run_ if you have them to carry. I think it would be better to take a cab, even if it does cost a little more. But perhaps there are no cabs in Paris. Is that why you talk of running to the station?" Léonie had burst out laughing half-way through this speech, and though she knew it was not very polite, she really could not help it. The more she tried to stop, the more she laughed. "What is the matter?" said Gladys at last, a little offended. "I beg your pardon," said Léonie; "I know it is rude. But, Mademoiselle, the idea"--and here she began to laugh again--"of Monsieur and Madame and me all running with the boxes! It was too amusing!" Gladys laughed herself now, and so did Roger. "Then there are cabs in Paris," she said in a tone of relief. "I am glad of that. Papa will have one all ready for us, I suppose. What time do we get there, Léonie?" Léonie shook her head. "A very disagreeable time," she said, "quite, quite early in the morning, before anybody seems quite awake. And the mornings are already so cold. I am afraid you will not like Paris very much at first." "Oh yes, they will," said Mrs. Marton, who had overheard the last part of the conversation. "Think how nice it will be to see their Papa waiting for them, and to go to a nice warm house and have breakfast; chocolate, most likely. Do you like chocolate?" "Yes, very much," said Gladys and Roger. "I think it is not you to be pitied, anyway," Mrs. Marton went on, for the half-appealing, half-frightened look of the little things touched her. "It's much worse for us three, poor things, travelling on all the way to Marseilles." "That's where Papa's been. Mrs. Lacy showed it me on the map. What a long way! Poor Mrs. Marton. Wouldn't Mr. Marton let you stay at Paris with us till you'd had a rest?" "We'd give you some of our chocolate," said Roger hospitably. "And let poor Phillip, that's Mr. Marton," replied the young lady, "go all the way to India alone?" The children looked doubtful. "You could go after him," suggested Roger. "But Léonie and I wouldn't like to go so far alone. It's nicer to have a man to take care of you when you travel. You're getting to be a man, you see, Roger, already--learning to take care of your sister." "I _have_ growed a good big piece on the nursery door since my birthday," agreed Roger complacently. "But when Papa's there he'll take care of us both till I'm quite big." "Ah, yes, that will be best of all," said Mrs. Marton, smiling. "I do hope Papa will be there all right, poor little souls," she added to herself. For, though young, Mrs. Marton was not thoughtless, and she belonged to a happy and prosperous family where since infancy every care had been lavished on the children, and somehow since she had seen and talked to Gladys and Roger their innocence and loneliness had struck her sharply, and once or twice a misgiving had come over her that in her anxiety to get rid of the children, and to waste no money, Susan Lacy had acted rather hastily. "Captain Bertram should have telegraphed again," she reflected. "It is nearly a week since he did so. I wish I had made Phillip telegraph yesterday to be sure all was right. The Lacys need not have known anything about it." But they were at Dover now, and all these fears and reflections were put out of her head by the bustle of embarking and settling themselves comfortably, and devoutly hoping they would have a good passage. The words meant nothing to Gladys and Roger. They had never been on the sea since they were little babies, and had no fears. And, fortunately, nothing disturbed their happy ignorance, for, though cold, the sea was very smooth. They were disappointed at the voyage being made in the dark, as they had counted on all sorts of investigations into the machinery of the "ship," and Roger had quite expected that his services would be required to help to make it go faster, whereas it seemed to them only as if they were taken into a queer sort of drawing-room and made to lie down on red sofas, and covered up with shawls, and that then there came a booming noise something like the threshing machine at the farm where they sometimes went to fetch butter and eggs, and then--and then--they fell asleep, and when they woke they were being bundled into another railway carriage! Léonie was carrying Roger, and Gladys, as she found to her great disgust--she thought herself far too big for anything of the kind--was in Mr. Marton's arms, where she struggled so that the poor man thought she was having an attack of nightmare, and began to soothe her as if she were about two, which did not improve matters. "Hush, hush, my dear. You shall go to sleep again in a moment," he said. "But what a little vixen she is!" he added, when he had at last got Gladys, red and indignant, deposited in a corner. "I'm too big to be carried," she burst out, half sobbing. "I wouldn't even let _Papa_ carry me." But kind Mrs. Marton, though she could hardly help laughing, soon put matters right by assuring Gladys that lots of people, even quite big grown-up ladies, were often lifted in and out of ships. When it was rough only the sailors could keep their footing. So Gladys, who was beginning to calm down and to feel a little ashamed, took it for granted that it had been very rough, and told Mr. Marton she was very sorry--she had not understood. The railway carriage was warm and comfortable, so after a while the children again did the best thing they could under the circumstances--they went to sleep. And so, I think, did their three grown-up friends. Gladys was the first to wake. She looked round her in the dim morning light--all the others were still asleep. It felt chilly, and her poor little legs were stiff and numb. She drew them up on to the seat to try to warm them, and looked out of the window. Nothing to be seen but damp flat fields, and trees with a few late leaves still clinging to them, and here and there a little cottage or farmhouse looking, like everything else, desolate and dreary. Gladys withdrew her eyes from the prospect. "I don't like travelling," she decided. "I wonder if the sun never shines in this country." A little voice beside her made her look round. "Gladdie," it said, "are we near that place? Are you _sure_ Papa will be there? I'm so tired of these railways, Gladdie." "So am I," said Gladys sympathisingly. "I should think we'll soon be there. But I'm sure I shan't like Paris, Roger. I'll ask Papa to take us back to Mrs. Lacy's again." Roger gave a little shiver. "It's such a long way to go," he said. "I wouldn't mind if only Ellen had come with us, and if we had chocolate for breakfast." But their voices, low as they were, awakened Léonie, who was beside them. And then Mrs. Marton awoke, and at last Mr. Marton, who looked at his watch, and finding they were within ten minutes of Paris, jumped up and began fussing away at the rugs and shawls and bags, strapping them together, and generally unsettling everybody. "We must get everything ready," he said. "I shall want to be free to see Bertram at once." "But there's never a crowd inside the station here," said his wife. "They won't let people in without special leave. We shall easily catch sight of Captain Bertram if he has managed to get inside." "He's sure to have done so," said Mr. Marton, and in his anxiety to catch the first glimpse of his friend, Mr. Marton spent the next ten minutes with his head and half his body stretched out of the window long before the train entered the station, though even when it arrived there the dim light would have made it difficult to recognise any one. Had there been any one to recognise! But there was not. The train came to a stand at last. Mr. Marton had eagerly examined the faces of the two or three men, _not_ railway officials, standing on the platform, but there was no one whom by any possibility he could for a second have taken for Captain Bertram. Mrs. Marton sat patiently in her place, hoping every instant that "Phillip" would turn round with a cheery "all right, here he is. Here, children!" and oh, what a weight--a weight that all through the long night journey had been mysteriously increasing--would have been lifted off the kind young lady's heart had he done so! But no; when Mr. Marton at last drew in his head there was a disappointed and perplexed look on his good-natured face. "He's not here--not on the platform, I mean," he said, hastily correcting himself. "He must be waiting outside; we'll find him where we give up the tickets. It's a pity he didn't manage to get inside. However, we must jump out. Here, Léonie, you take Mrs. Marton's bag, I'll shoulder the rugs. Hallo there," to a porter, "that's all right. You give him the things, Léonie. Omnibus, does he say? Bless me, how can I tell? Bertram's got a cab engaged most likely, and we don't want an omnibus for us three. You explain to him, Léonie." [Illustration: In another moment the little party was making its way through the station.] Which Léonie did, and in another moment the little party was making its way through the station, among the crowd of their fellow-passengers. Mr. Marton first, with the rugs, then his wife holding Gladys by the hand, then Léonie and Roger, followed by the porter bringing up the rear. Mrs. Marton's heart was not beating fast by this time; it was almost standing still with apprehension. But she said nothing. On they went through the little gate where the tickets were given up, on the other side of which stood with eager faces the few expectant friends who had been devoted enough to get up at five o'clock to meet their belongings who were crossing by the night mail. Mr. Marton's eyes ran round them, then glanced behind, first to one side and then to the other as if Captain Bertram could jump up from some corner like a jack-in-the-box. His face grew graver and graver, but he did not speak. He led his wife and the children and Léonie to the most comfortable corner of the dreary waiting-room, and saying shortly, "I'm going to look after the luggage and to hunt up Bertram. He must have overslept himself if he's not here yet. You all wait here quietly till I come back," disappeared in the direction of the luggage-room. Mrs. Marton did not speak either. She drew Gladys nearer her, and put her arm round the little girl as if to protect her against the disappointment which she _felt_ was coming. Gladys sat perfectly silent. What she was expecting, or fearing, or even thinking, I don't believe she could have told. She had only one feeling that she could have put into words, "Everything is _quite_ different from what I thought. It isn't at all like going to Papa." But poor little Roger tugged at Léonie, who was next him. "What are we waiting here in this ugly house for?" he said. "Can't we go to Papa and have our chocolate?" Léonie stooped down and said something to soothe him, and after a while he grew drowsy again, and his little head dropped on to her shoulder. And so they sat for what seemed a terribly long time. It was more than half an hour, till at last Mr. Marton appeared again. "I've only just got out that luggage," he said. "What a detestable plan that registering it is! And now I've got it I don't know what to do with it, for----" "Has he not come?" interrupted his wife. Mr. Marton glanced at Gladys. She did not seem to be listening. "Not a bit of him," he replied. "I've hunted right through the station half a dozen times, and it's an hour and a half since the train was due. It cannot be some little delay. It's a pretty kettle of fish and no mistake." Mrs. Marton's blue eyes gazed up in her husband's face with a look of the deepest anxiety. "What _is_ to be done?" she said. CHAPTER IV. "WHAT IS TO BE DONE?" "That is the question." HAMLET. Yes, "what was to be done?" That was certainly the question. Mr. Marton looked at his wife for a moment or two without replying. Then he seemed to take a sudden resolution. "We can't stay here all the morning, that's about all I can say at present," he said. "Come along, we'd better go to the nearest hotel and think over matters." So off they all set again--Mr. Marton and the rugs, Mrs. Marton and Gladys, Léonie and Roger--another porter being got hold of to bring such of the bags, etc., as were not left at the station with the big luggage. Gladys walked along as if in a dream; she did not even wake up to notice the great wide street and all the carriages, and omnibuses, and carts, and people as they crossed to the hotel in front of the station. She hardly even noticed that all the voices about her were talking in a language she did not understand--she was completely dazed--the only words which remained clearly in her brain were the strange ones which Mr. Marton had made use of--"a pretty kettle of fish and no mistake." "No mistake," that must mean that Papa's not coming to the station was not a mistake, but that there was some reason for it. But "a kettle of fish," what _could_ that have to do with it all? She completely lost herself in puzzling about it. Why she did not simply ask Mrs. Marton to explain it I cannot tell. Perhaps the distressed anxious expression on that young lady's own face had something to do with her not doing so. Arrived at the hotel, and before a good fire in a large dining-room at that early hour quite empty, a slight look of relief came over all the faces. It was something to get warmed at least! And Mr. Marton ordered the hot chocolate for which Roger had been pining, before he said anything else. It came almost at once, and Léonie established the children at one of the little tables, drinking her own coffee standing, that she might attend to them and join in the talking of her master and mistress if they wished it. Roger began to feel pretty comfortable. He had not the least idea where he was--he had never before in his life been at a hotel, and would not have known what it meant--but to find himself warmed and fed and Gladys beside him was enough for the moment; and even Gladys herself began to feel a very little less stupefied and confused. Mr. and Mrs. Marton, at another table, talked gravely and in a low voice. At last Mr. Marton called Léonie. "Come here a minute," he said, "and see if you can throw any light on the matter. You are more at home in Paris than we are. Mrs. Marton and I are at our wits' end. If we had a few days to spare it would not be so bad, but we have not. Our berths are taken, and we cannot afford to lose three passages." "Mine too, sir," said Léonie. "Is mine taken too?" "Of course it is. You didn't suppose you were going as cabin-boy, did you?" said Mr. Marton rather crossly, though I don't think his being a little cross was to be wondered at. Poor Léonie looked very snubbed. "I was only wondering," she said meekly, "if I could have stayed behind with the poor children till----" "Impossible," said Mr. Marton; "lose your passage for a day or two's delay in their father's fetching them. If I thought it was more than that I would send them back to England," he added, turning to his wife. "And poor Mrs. Lacy so ill! Oh no, that would never do," she said. "And there's much more involved than our passages," he went on. "It's as much as my appointment is worth to miss this mail. It's just this--Captain Bertram is either here, or has been detained at Marseilles. If he's still there, we can look him up when we get there to-morrow; if he's in Paris, and has made some stupid mistake, we must get his address at Marseilles, he's sure to have left it at the hotel there for letters following him, and telegraph back to him here. I never did know anything so senseless as Susan Lacy's not making him give a Paris address," he added. "He was only to arrive here yesterday or the day before," said Mrs. Marton. "But the friends who were to have a nurse ready for the children? We should have had _some_ address." "Yes," said Mrs. Marton self-reproachfully. "I wish I had thought of it. But Susan was so _sure_ all would be right. And certainly, in case of anything preventing Captain Bertram's coming, it was only natural to suppose he would have telegraphed, or sent some one else, or done _something_." "Well--all things considered," said Mr. Marton, "it seems to me the best thing to do is to leave the children here, _even_ if we had a choice, which I must say I don't see! For I don't know how I could send them back to England, nor what their friends there might find to say if I did--nor can we----" "Take them on to Marseilles with us?" interrupted Mrs. Marton. "Oh, Phillip, would not that be better?" "And find that their father had just started for Paris?" replied her husband. "And then think of the expense. Here, they are much nearer at hand if they have to be fetched back to England." Mrs. Marton was silent. Suddenly another idea struck her. She started up. "Supposing Captain Bertram has come to the station since we left," she exclaimed. "He may be there now." Mr. Marton gave a little laugh. "No fear," he said "Every official in the place knows the whole story. I managed to explain it, and told them to send him over here." "And what are you thinking of doing, then? _Where_ can we leave them?" Mr. Marton looked at his watch. "That's just the point," he said. "We've only three hours unless we put off till the night express, and that is running it too fine. Any little detention and we might miss the boat." "We've run it too fine already, I fear," said Mrs. Marton dolefully. "It's been my fault, Phillip--the wanting to stay in England till the last minute." "It's Susan Lacy's fault, or Bertram's fault, or both our faults for being too good-natured," said Mr. Marton gloomily. "But that's not the question now. I don't think we _should_ put off going, for--another reason--it would leave us no time to look up Bertram at Marseilles. Only if we had had a few hours, I could have found some decent people to leave the children with here, some good 'pension,' or----" "But such places are all so dear, and we have to consider the money too." "Yes," said Mr. Marton, "we have _literally_ to do so. I've only just in cash what we need for ourselves, and I couldn't cash a cheque here all in a minute, for my name is not known. But something must be fixed, and at once. I wonder if it would be any good if I were to consult the manager of this hotel? I----" "Pardon," said Léonie, suddenly interrupting. "I have an idea. My aunt--she is really my cousin, but I call her aunt--you know her by name, Madame?" she went on, turning to Mrs. Marton. "My mother often spoke of her"--for Mrs. Marton's family had known Léonie's mother long ago when she had been a nurse in England--"Madame Nestor. They are upholsterers in the Rue Verte, not very far from here, quite in the centre of Paris. They are very good people--of course, quite in a little way; but honest and good. They would do their best, just for a few days! It would be better than leaving the dear babies with those we knew nothing of. I think I could persuade them, if I start at once!" She began drawing her gloves on while she was speaking. And she had spoken so fast and confusedly that for a moment or two both Mr. and Mrs. Marton stared at her, not clearly taking in what she meant. "Shall I go, Madame?" she said, with a little impatience. "There is no time to lose. Of course if you do not like the idea--I would not have thought of it except that all is so difficult, so unexpected." "Not like it?" said Mr. Marton; "on the contrary I think it's a capital idea. The children would be in safe hands, and at worst it can't be for more than a couple of days. If Captain Bertram has been detained at Marseilles by illness or anything----" "That's not likely," interrupted Mrs. Marton, "he would have written or telegraphed." "Well, then, if it's some stupid mistake about the day, he'll come off at once when we tell him where they are. I was only going to say that, at worst, if he _is_ ill, or anything wrong, we'll telegraph to Susan Lacy from Marseilles and she'll send over for them somehow." "Should we not telegraph to her at once from here?" Mr. Marton considered. "I don't see the use," he said at last. "We can tell her nothing certain, nothing that she should act on yet. And it would only worry the old lady for nothing." "I'm afraid she's too ill to be told anything about it," said Mrs. Marton. "Then the more reason for waiting. But here we are losing the precious minutes, and Léonie all ready to start. Off with you, Léonie, as fast as ever you can, and see what you can do. Take a cab and make him drive fast," he called after her, for she had started off almost with his first words. "She's a very good sort of a girl," he added, turning to his wife. "Yes, she always has her wits about her in an emergency," agreed Mrs. Marton. "I do hope," she went on, "that what we are doing will turn out for the best. I really never did know anything so unfortunate, and----" "Is it all because of the kettle of fish? Did Papa tumble over it? Oh, I _wish_ you'd tell me!" said a pathetic little voice at her side, and turning round Mrs. Marton caught sight of Gladys, her hands clasped, her small white face and dark eyes gazing up beseechingly. It had grown too much for her at last, the bewilderment and the strangeness, and the not understanding. And the change from the cramped-up railway carriage and the warm breakfast had refreshed her a little, so that gradually her ideas were growing less confused. She had sat on patiently at the table long after she had finished her chocolate, though Roger was still occupied in feeding himself by tiny spoonfuls. He had never had anything in the way of food more interesting than this chocolate, for it was still hot, and whenever he left it for a moment a skin grew over the top, which it was quite a business to clear away--catching now and then snatches of the eager anxious talk that was going on among the big people. And at last when Léonie hurried out of the room, evidently sent on a message, Gladys felt that she must find out what was the matter and what it all meant. But the topmost idea in her poor little brain was still the kettle of fish. "If Papa has hurt himself," Gladys went on, "I think it would be better to tell me. I'd so much rather know. I'm not so very little, Mrs. Marton, Mrs. Lacy used to tell me things." Mrs. Marton stooped down and put her arms round the pathetic little figure. "Oh, I wish I could take you with me all the way. Oh! I'm so sorry for you, my poor little pet," she exclaimed girlishly. "But indeed we are not keeping anything from you. I only wish we had anything to tell. We don't know ourselves; we have no idea why your father has not come." "But the kettle of fish?" repeated Gladys. Mrs. Marton stared at her a moment, and then looked up at her husband. He grew a little red. "It must have been I that said it," he explained. "It is only an expression; a way of speaking, little Gladys. It means when--when people are rather bothered, you know--and can't tell what to do. I suppose it comes from somebody once upon a time having had more fish than there was room for in their kettle, and not knowing what to do with them." "Then we're the fish--Roger and I--I suppose, that you don't know what to do with?" said Gladys, her countenance clearing a little. "I'm very sorry. But I think Papa'll come soon; don't you?" "Yes, I do," replied Mr. Marton. "Something must have kept him at Marseilles, or else he's mistaken the day after all." "I thought you said it was 'no mistake!'" said Gladys. Mr. Marton gave a little groan. "Oh, you're a dreadful little person and no--there, I was just going to say it again! That's only an expression too, Gladys. It means, 'to be sure,' or 'no doubt about it,' though I suppose it is a little what one calls 'slang.' But you don't know anything about that, do you?" "No," said Gladys simply, "I don't know what it means." "And I haven't time to tell you, for we must explain to you what we're thinking of doing. You tell her, Lilly. I'm going about the luggage," he added, turning to his wife, for he was dreadfully tender-hearted, though he was such a big strong young man, and he was afraid of poor Gladys beginning to cry or clinging to them and begging them not to leave her and Roger alone in Paris, when she understood what was intended. But Gladys was not the kind of child to do so. She listened attentively, and seemed proud of being treated like a big girl, and almost before Mrs. Marton had done speaking she had her sensible little answer ready. "Yes, I see," she said. "It is much better for us to stay here, for Papa might come _very_ soon, mightn't he? Only, supposing he came this afternoon he wouldn't know where we were?" "Mr. Marton will give the address at the station, in case your Papa inquires there, as he very likely would, if a lady and gentleman and two children arrived there from England this morning. And he will also leave the address _here_, for so many people come here from the station. And when we get to Marseilles, we will at once go to the hotel where he was--where he is still, perhaps; if he has left, he is pretty sure to have given an address." "And if he's not there--if you can't find him--what will you do then?" said Gladys, opening wide her eyes and gazing up in her friend's face. Mrs. Marton hesitated. "I suppose if we really could not find your father at once, we should have to write or telegraph to Miss Susan." Gladys looked more distressed than she had yet done. "Don't do that, please," she said, clasping her hands together in the way she sometimes did. "I'd much rather stay here a little longer till Papa comes. It would be such a trouble to Miss Susan--I know she did think we were a great trouble sometimes--and it would make Mrs. Lacy cry perhaps to have to say good-bye again, and she's so ill." "Yes, I know she is," said Mrs. Marton, surprised at the little girl's thoughtfulness. "But you know, dear, we'd have to let them know, and then most likely they'd send over for you." "But Papa's _sure_ to come," said Gladys. "It would only be waiting a little, and I don't mind much, and I don't think Roger will, not if I'm with him. Will they be kind to us, do you think, those friends of Léonie's?" "I'm sure they will; otherwise you know, dear, we wouldn't leave you with them. Of course it will only be for a day or two, for they are quite plain people, with quite a little house." "I don't mind, not if they're kind to us," said Gladys. "But, oh! I do wish you weren't going away." "So do I," said Mrs. Marton, who felt really very nearly breaking down herself. The sort of quiet resignation about Gladys was very touching, much more so than if she had burst out into sobs and tears. It was perhaps as well that just at that moment Mr. Marton came back, and saying something in a low voice to his wife, drew her out of the room, where in the passage stood Léonie. "Back already," exclaimed Mrs. Marton in surprise. "Oh yes," Léonie replied, "it was not far, and the coachman drove fast. But I thought it better not to speak before the children. It is a very little place, Madame. I wonder if it will do." She seemed anxious and a little afraid of what she had proposed. "But can they take them? That is the principal question," said Mr. Marton. "Oh yes," said Léonie. "My aunt is goodness itself. She understands it all quite well, and would do her best; and it would certainly be better than to leave them with strangers, and would cost much less; only--the poor children!--all is so small and so cramped. Just two or three little rooms behind the shop; and they have been used to an English nursery, and all so nice." "I don't think they have been spoilt in some ways," said Mrs. Marton. "Poor little Gladys seems to mind nothing if she is sure of kindness. Besides, what else _can_ we do? And it is very kind of your aunt to consent, Léonie." "Yes, Madame. It is not for gain that she does it. Indeed it will not be gain, for she must find a room for her son, and arrange his room for the dear children. They have little beds among the furniture, so that will be easy; and all is very clean--my aunt is a good manager--but only----" Léonie looked very anxious. "Oh I'm sure it will be all right," said Mr. Marton. "I think we had better take them at once--I've got the luggage out--and then we can see for ourselves." The children were soon ready. Gladys had been employing the time in trying to explain to poor little Roger the new change that was before them. He did not find it easy to understand, but, as Gladys had said, he did not seem to mind anything so long as he was sure he was not to be separated from his sister. A few minutes' drive brought them to the Rue Verte. It was a narrow street--narrow, at least in comparison with the wide new ones of the present day, for it was in an old-fashioned part of Paris, in the very centre of one of the busiest quarters of the town; but it was quite respectable, and the people one saw were all well-dressed and well-to-do looking. Still Mr. Marton looked about him uneasily. "Dreadfully crowded place," he said; "must be very stuffy in warm weather. I'm glad it isn't summer; we _couldn't_ have left them here in that case." And when the cab stopped before a low door leading into a long narrow shop, filled with sofas and chairs, and great rolls of stuffs for making curtains and beds and mattresses in the background, Mr. Marton's face did not grow any brighter. But it did brighten up, and so did his wife's, when from the farther end of the shop, a glass door, evidently leading into a little sitting-room, opened, and an elderly woman, with a white frilled cap and a bright healthy face, with the kindliest expression in the world, came forward eagerly. "Pardon," she said in French, "I had not thought the ladies would be here so soon. But all will be ready directly. And are these the dear children?" she went on, her pleasant face growing still pleasanter. "Yes," said Mrs. Marton, who held Gladys by one hand and Roger by the other, "these are the two little strangers you are going to be so kind as to take care of for a day or two. It is very kind of you, Madame Nestor, and I hope it will not give you much trouble. Léonie has explained all to you?" "Oh yes," replied Madame Nestor, "poor darlings! What a disappointment to them not to have been met by their dear Papa! But he will come soon, and they will not be too unhappy with us." Mrs. Marton turned to the children. "What does she say? Is she the new nurse?" whispered Roger, whose ideas, notwithstanding Gladys's explanations, were still very confused. It was not a very bad guess, for Madame Nestor's good-humoured face and clean cap gave her very much the look of a nurse of the old-fashioned kind. Mrs. Marton stooped down and kissed the little puzzled face. "No, dear," she said, "she's not your nurse. She is Léonie's aunt, and she's going to take care of you for a few days till your Papa comes. And she says she will be very, very kind to you." But Roger looked doubtful. "Why doesn't she talk p'operly?" he said, drawing back. Mrs. Marton looked rather distressed. In the hurry and confusion she had not thought of this other difficulty--that the children would not understand what their new friends said to them! Gladys seemed to feel by instinct what Mrs. Marton was thinking. "I'll try to learn French," she said softly, "and then I can tell Roger." Léonie pressed forward. "Is she not a dear child?" she said, and then she quickly explained to her aunt what Gladys had whispered. The old lady seemed greatly pleased. "My son speaks a little English," she said, with evident pride. "He is not at home now, but in the evening, when he is not busy, he must talk with our little demoiselle." "That's a good thing," exclaimed Mr. Marton, who felt the greatest sympathy with Roger, for his own French would have been sadly at fault had he had to say more than two or three words in it. Then Madame Nestor took Mrs. Marton to see the little room she was preparing for her little guests. It was already undergoing a good cleaning, so its appearance was not very tempting, but it would not have done to seem anything but pleased. "Anyway it will be _clean_," thought Mrs. Marton, "but it is very dark and small." For though it was the best bedroom, the window looked out on to a narrow sort of court between the houses, whence but little light could find its way in, and Mrs. Marton could not help sighing a little as she made her way back to the shop, where Mr. Marton was explaining to Léonie about the money he was leaving with Madame Nestor. "It's all I can possibly spare," he said, "and it is English money. But tell your aunt she is _sure_ to hear in a day or two, and she will be fully repaid for any other expense she may have." "Oh dear, yes," said Léonie, "my aunt is not at all afraid about that. She has heard too much of the goodness of Madame's family to have any fears about anything Madame wishes. Her only trouble is whether the poor children will be happy." "I feel sure it will not be Madame Nestor's fault if they are not," said Mrs. Marton, turning to the kind old woman. It was all she could say, for she felt by no means sure that the poor little things would be able to be happy in such strange circumstances. The tears filled her eyes as she kissed them again for the last time, and it was with a heavy heart she got back into the cab which was to take her husband and herself and Léonie to the Marseilles station. Mr. Marton was very little happier than his wife. "I wish to goodness Susan Lacy had managed her affairs herself," he grumbled. "Poor little souls! I shall be thankful to know that they are safe with their father." Léonie was sobbing audibly in her pocket-handkerchief. "My aunt will be very kind to them, so far as she understands. That is the only consolation," she said, amidst her tears. CHAPTER V. IN THE RUE VERTE. "The city looked sad. The heaven was gray." SONGS IN MINOR KEYS. "Gladdie, are you awake?" These were the first words that fell on Gladys's ears the next morning. I cannot say the first _sounds_, for all sorts of strange and puzzling noises had been going on above and below and on all sides since _ever_ so early, as it seemed to her--in reality it had been half-past six--she had opened her eyes in the dark, and wondered and wondered where she was! Still in the railway carriage was her first idea, or on the steamer--once she had awakened enough to remember that she was _not_ in her own little bed at Mrs. Lacy's. But no--people weren't undressed in the railway, even though they did sometimes lie down, and then--though the sounds she heard were very queer--she soon felt she was not moving. And bit by bit it all came back to her--about the long tiring journey, and no Papa at the station, and Mr. and Mrs. Marton and Léonie all talking together, and the drive in the cab to the crowded narrow street, and the funny old woman with the frilled cap, and the shop full of chairs and sofas, and the queer unnatural long afternoon after their friends went away, and how glad at last she and Roger were to go to bed even in the little stuffy dark room. _How_ dark it was! It must still be the middle of the night, Gladys thought for some time, only that everybody except herself and Roger seemed to be awake and bustling about. For the workroom, as Gladys found out afterwards, was overhead, and the workpeople came early and were not particular about making a noise. It was very dull, and in spite of all the little girl's courage, a few tears _would_ make their way up to her eyes, though she tried her best to force them back, and she lay there perfectly quiet, afraid of waking Roger, for she was glad to hear by his soft breathing that he was still fast asleep. But she could not help being glad when through the darkness came the sound of his voice. "Gladdie, are you awake?" "Yes, dear," she replied, "I've been awake a long time." "So have I," said Roger in all sincerity--he had been awake about three minutes. "It's very dark; is it the middle of the night?" "No, I don't think so," Gladys replied. "I hear people making a lot of noise." "Gladdie," resumed Roger half timidly--Gladys knew what was coming--"may I get into your bed?" "It's _very_ small," said Gladys, which was true, though even if it had not been so, she would probably have tried to get out of Roger's proposal, for she was not half so fond of his early morning visits as he was. In the days of old "nurse" such doings were not allowed, but after she left, Gladys had not the heart to be very strict with Roger, and now in spite of her faint objection, she knew quite well she would have to give in, in the end. "So's mine," observed Roger, though Gladys could not see what that had to do with it. But she said nothing, and for about half a minute there was silence in the dark little room. Then again. "Gladdie," came from the corner, "mayn't I come? If we squeezed ourselves?" "Very well," said Gladys, with a little sigh made up of many different feelings. "You can come and try." But a new difficulty arose. "I can't find my way in the dark. I don't 'amember how the room is in the light," said Roger dolefully. "When I first waked I _couldn't_ think where we were. Can't you come for me, Gladdie?" "How can I find my way if you can't," Gladys was on the point of replying, but she checked herself! She felt as if she could not speak the least sharply to her little brother, for he had nobody but her to take care of him, and try to make him happy. So she clambered out of her bed, starting with the surprise of the cold floor, which had no carpet, and trying to remember the chairs and things that stood in the way, managed to get across the room to the opposite corner where stood Roger's bed, without any very bad knocks or bumps. "I'm here," cried Roger, as if that was a piece of news, "I'm standing up in my bed jigging up and down. Can you find me, Gladdie?" "I'm feeling for you," Gladys replied. "Yes, here's the edge of your cot. I would have found you quicker if you had kept lying down." "Oh, then, I'll lie down again," said Roger, but a cry from Gladys stopped him. "No, no, don't," she said. "I've found you now. Yes, here's your hand. Now hold mine tight, and see if you can get over the edge. That's right. Now come very slowly, round by the wall is best. Here's my bed. Climb in and make yourself as little as ever you can. I'm coming. Oh, Roger, what a squeeze it is!" "I think it's littler than my bed," said Roger consolingly. "It's not any bigger anyway," replied Gladys, "we might just as well have stayed in yours." "Is it because they're poor that the beds is so _very_ little?" asked Roger in a low voice. "Oh, no, I don't think so," said Gladys gravely. "They've very nice beds; I think they're almost quite new." "Mine was very comfitable," said Roger. "Do you think all poor childrens have as nice beds?" "I'm afraid not," said Gladys solemnly. "I'm _afraid_ that some haven't any beds at all. But why do you keep talking about poor children, Roger?" "I wanted to know about them 'cos, you see, Gladys, if Papa wasn't never finded and we had to stay here, _we'd_ be poor." "Nonsense," said Gladys rather sharply, in spite of her resolutions, "it _couldn't_ be like that; of course Papa will come in a few days, and--and, even if he didn't, though that's quite nonsense, you know, I'm only saying it to make you see, _even_ if he didn't, we'd not stay here." "Where would we go?" said Roger practically. "Oh, back to Mrs. Lacy perhaps. I wouldn't mind if Miss Susan was married." "_I_ would rather go to India with _them_," said Roger. Gladys knew whom he meant. "But we can't, they've gone," she replied. "Are they _gone_, and Léonie, that nice nurse--are they _gone_?" said Roger, appalled. "Yes, of course. They'll be nearly at India by now, I daresay." Roger began to cry. "Why, you _knew_ they were gone. Why do you cry about it now--you didn't cry yesterday?" said Gladys, a little sharply it must be confessed. "I thought," sobbed Roger, "I thought they'd gone to look for Papa, and that they'd come to take us a nice walk every day, and--and----" He did not very well know _what_ he had thought, but he had certainly not taken in that it was good-bye for good to the new friends he had already become fond of. "I'm _sure_ you said they were gone to look for Papa," he repeated, rather crossly in his turn. "Well, dear," Gladys explained, her heart smiting her, "they _have_ gone to look for Papa. They thought they'd find him at the big town at the side of the sea where the ships go to India from, and then they'd tell him where we were in Paris, and he'd come quick for us." "Is this Paris?" asked Roger. "Yes, of course," replied Gladys. "I don't like it," continued the little boy. "Do you, Gladys?" "It isn't like what I thought," said Gladys; "nothing's like what I thought. I don't think when we go home again, Roger, that I'll ever play at pretend games any more." "How do you mean when we go home?" said Roger. "Where's home?" "Oh, I don't know; I said it without thinking. Roger----" "What?" said Roger. "Are you hungry?" asked Gladys. "A little; are you?" "Yes, I think I am, a little," replied Gladys. "I couldn't eat all that meat and stuff they gave us last night. I wanted our tea." "And bread and butter," suggested Roger. "Yes; at home I didn't like bread and butter much, but I think I would now. I daresay they'd give it us if I knew what it was called in their talking," said Gladys. "It wouldn't be so bad if we knew their talking," sighed Roger. "It wouldn't be so bad if it would get light," said his sister. "I don't know what to do, Roger. It's _hours_ since they've all been up, and nobody's come to us. I wonder if they've forgotten we're here." "There's a little tiny, weeny _inch_ of light beginning to come over there. Is that the window?" said Roger. "I suppose so. As soon as it gets more light I'll get up and look if there's a bell," decided Gladys. "And if there is?" "I'll ring it, of course." "But what would Miss---- Oh, Gladys," he burst out with a merry laugh, the first Gladys had heard from him since the journey. "Isn't I silly? I was just going to say, 'What would Miss Susan say?' I quite forgot. I'm not sorry _she's_ not here. Are you, Gladdie?" "I don't know," the little girl answered. Truth to tell, there were times when she would have been very thankful to see Miss Susan, even though she was determined not to ask to go back to England till all hope was gone. "I'm not----" but what she was going to say remained unfinished. The door opened at last, and the frilled cap, looking so exactly the same as yesterday that Gladys wondered if Madame Nestor slept in it, only if so, how did she keep it from getting crushed, appeared by the light of a candle surrounding the kindly face. "_Bon jour_, my children," she said. "_That_ means 'good-morning,'" whispered Gladys, "I know that. Say it, Roger." Why Roger was to "say it" and not herself I cannot tell. Some unintelligible sound came from Roger's lips, for which Gladys hastened to apologise. "He's trying to say 'good-morning' in French," she explained, completely forgetting that poor Madame Nestor could not understand her. "Ah, my little dears," said the old woman--in her own language of course--"I wish I could know what you say. Ah, how sweet they are! Both together in one bed, like two little birds in a nest. And have you slept well, my darlings? and are you hungry?" The children stared at each other, and at their old hostess. "Alas," she repeated, "they do not understand. But they will soon know what I mean when they see the nice bowls of hot chocolate." "Chocolate!" exclaimed both children. At last there was a word they could understand. Madame Nestor was quite overcome with delight. "Yes, my angels, chocolate," she repeated, nodding her head. "The little servant is bringing it. But it was not she that made it. Oh, no! It was myself who took care it should be good. But you must have some light," and she went to the window, which had a curtain drawn before it, and outside heavy old-fashioned wooden shutters. No wonder in November that but little light came through. It was rather a marvel that at eight o'clock in the morning even a "tiny weeny _inch_" had begun to make its way. With some difficulty the old woman removed all the obstructions, and then such poor light as there was came creeping in. But first she covered the two children up warmly, so that the cold air when the window was opened should not get to them. [Illustration: She placed the whole on a little table which she drew close to the bed.] "Would not do for them to catch cold, that would be a pretty story," she muttered to herself, for she had a funny habit of talking away about everything she did. Then, when all was air-tight again, there came a knock at the door. Madame Nestor opened it, and took from the hands of an invisible person a little tray with two steaming bowls of the famous chocolate and two sturdy hunches of very "hole-y" looking bread. No butter; that did not come within Madame Nestor's ideas. She placed the whole on a little table which she drew close to the bed, and then wrapping a shawl round the children, she told them to take their breakfast. They did not, of course, understand her words, but when she gave Roger his bowl and a preliminary hunch of bread into his hands, they could not but see that they were expected to take their breakfast in bed. "But we're not ill," exclaimed Gladys; "we never stay in bed to breakfast except when we're ill." Madame Nestor smiled and nodded. She had not a notion what Gladys meant, and on her side she quite forgot that the children could not understand her any better than she understood them. "We never stay in bed to breakfast unless we're _ill_," repeated Gladys more loudly, as if that would help Madame Nestor to know what she meant. "Never mind, Gladdie--the chocolate's very good," said Roger. As before, "chocolate" was the only word Madame Nestor caught. "Yes, take your chocolate," she repeated; "don't let it get cold," and she lifted Gladys's bowl to give it to her. "Stupid old thing," murmured Gladys, "why doesn't she understand? I should like to throw the chocolate in her face." "Oh, Gladdie," said Roger reproachfully, "_think_ what a mess it would make on the clean sheets!" "I was only in fun--you might know that," said Gladys, all the same a little ashamed of herself. Madame Nestor had by this time left the room with a great many incomprehensible words, but very comprehensible smiles and nods. "I think breakfast in bed's very good," said Roger. Then came a sadder exclamation. "They've given me a pudding spoon 'stead of a teaspoon. It's _so_ big--it won't hardly go into my mouth." "And me too," said Gladys. "How stupid French people are! We'll have to drink it out of the bowls, Roger. How funny it is not to have tea-cups!" "_I_ think it's best to take it like soup," said Roger; "you don't need to put the spoon so much in your mouth if you think it's soup." "I don't see what difference that makes," returned Gladys. But anyhow the chocolate and the bread disappeared, and then the children began to wonder how soon they might get up. Breakfast in bed wasn't so bad as long as there was the breakfast to eat, but when it was finished and there was no other amusement at hand they began to find it very tiresome. They had not so very long to wait, however, before Madame Nestor again made her appearance. "Mayn't we get up?" cried both children, springing up in bed and jumping about, to show how ready they were. The old lady seemed to understand this time, but first she stood still for a moment or two with her head on one side admiring them. "The little angels!" she said to herself. "How charming they are. Come now, my darlings, and get quickly dressed. It is cold this morning," and she took Roger in her arms to lift him down, while Gladys clambered out by herself. Their clothes were neatly placed in two little heaps on the top of the chest of drawers, which, besides the two beds and two or three chairs, was the only furniture in the room. Madame Nestor sat down on one of the chairs with Roger on her knee and began drawing on his stockings. "Well done," she said, when one was safely in its place; "who would have thought I was still so clever a nurse!" and she surveyed the stockinged leg with much satisfaction. Roger seemed quite of her opinion, and stuck out the other set of pink toes with much amiability. He greatly approved of this mode of being dressed. Miss Susan had told Ellen he was big enough, at five years old, to put on his stockings himself, and she had also been very strict about sundry other nursery regulations, to which the young gentleman, in cold weather especially, was by no means partial. But he was not to get off as easily as he hoped. His silence, which with him always meant content, caught Gladys's attention, which till now had been taken up with her own stockings, as she had a particular way of her own of arranging them before putting them on. "Roger," she exclaimed when she turned round and saw him established on Madame Nestor's motherly lap; "what are you thinking of? You haven't had your bath." Roger's face grew red, and the expression of satisfaction fled. "Need I----?" he was beginning meekly, but Gladys interrupted him indignantly: "You dirty little boy," she said. "What would Miss Susan say?" at which Roger began to cry, and poor Madame Nestor looked completely puzzled. "We didn't have a bath last night, you know, because in winter Miss Susan thinks once a day is enough. But I did think we should have had one, after the journey too. And anyway this morning we _must_ have one." But Madame Nestor only continued to stare. "What shall I say? How _can_ I make her understand?" said Gladys in despair. "Where's the little basin we washed our faces and hands in yesterday, Roger?" she went on, looking round the room. "Oh, I forgot--it was downstairs. There's _no_ basin in this room! What dirty people!" then noticing the puzzled look on Madame Nestor's face, she grew frightened that perhaps she was vexed. "Perhaps she knows what 'dirty' means," she half whispered to herself. "Oh dear, I don't mean to be rude, ma'am," she went on, "but I suppose you don't know about children. How _can_ I explain?" A brilliant idea struck her. In a corner of the room lay the carpet-bag in which Miss Susan had packed their nightgowns and slippers, and such things as they would require at once. There were, too, their sponges; and, as Miss Susan had been careful to point out, a piece of _soap_, "which you never find in French hotels," she had explained to Gladys. The little girl dived into the bag and drew out the sponges and soap in triumph. "See, see," she exclaimed, darting back again to the old lady, and flourishing her treasure-trove, "that's what I mean! We must have a _bath_," raising her voice as she went on; "we must be washed and _sponged_;" and suiting the action to the word she proceeded to pat and rub Roger with the dry sponge, glancing up at Madame Nestor to see if the pantomime was understood. "Ah, yes, to be sure," Madame Nestor exclaimed, her face lighting up, "I understand now, my little lady. All in good time--you shall have water to wash your face and hands as soon as you are dressed. But let me get this poor little man's things on quickly. It is cold this morning." She began to take off Roger's nightgown and to draw on his little flannel vest, to which _he_ would have made no objection, but Gladys got scarlet with vexation. "No, no," she cried, "he must be washed _first_. If you haven't got a bath, you might anyway let us have a basin and some water. Roger, you _are_ a dirty boy. You might join me, and then perhaps she'd do it." Thus adjured, Roger rose to the occasion. He slipped off Madame Nestor's knee, and stepping out of his nightgown began an imaginary sponging of his small person. But it was cold work, and Madame Nestor seeing him begin to shiver grew really uneasy, and again tried to get him into his flannels. "No, no," said Roger, in his turn--he had left off crying now--even the cold wasn't so bad as Gladdie calling him a dirty boy. Besides who could tell whether, somehow or other, Miss Susan might not come to hear of it? Gladys might write her a letter. "No, no," repeated Roger valorously, "we must be washed _first_." "You too," said Madame Nestor in despair; "ah, what children!" But her good-humour did not desert her. Vaguely understanding what they meant--for recollections began to come back to her mind of what Léonie's mother used to tell her of the manners and customs of _her_ nurseries--she got up, and smiling still, though with some reproach, at her queer little guests, she drew a blanket from the bed and wrapped it round them, and then opening the door she called downstairs to the little servant to bring a basin and towel and hot water. But the little servant did not understand, so after all the poor old lady had to trot downstairs again herself. "My old legs will have exercise enough," she said to herself, "if the Papa does not come soon. However!" "I'm sure she's angry," whispered Roger to Gladys inside the blanket, "we needn't have a bath _every_ day, Gladdie." "Hush," said Gladys sternly. "I'm _not_ going to let you learn to be a dirty boy. If we can't have a bath we may at least be _washed_." "But if Papa's coming for us to-day or to-morrow," Roger said, "the new nurse could wash us. I don't believe Papa's coming for us," he went on as if he were going to cry again. "I believe we're going to stay here in this nugly little house _always_--and it's all a trick. I don't believe we've got any Papa." Poor Gladys did not know what to say. Her own spirits were going down again, for she too was afraid that perhaps Madame Nestor was vexed, and she began to wonder if perhaps it would have been better to let things alone for a day or two--"If I was sure that Papa would come in a day or two," she thought! But she felt sure of nothing now--everything had turned out so altogether differently from what she had expected that her courage was flagging, and she too, for the first time since their troubles had begun, followed Roger's example and burst into tears. CHAPTER VI. AMONG THE SOFAS AND CHAIRS. "They wake to feel That the world is a changeful place to live in, And almost wonder if all is real." LAVENDER LADY. So it was rather a woe-begone looking little couple, crouching together in the blanket, that met old Madame Nestor's eyes when, followed by the little servant with the biggest basin the establishment boasted of, and carrying herself a queer-shaped tin jug full of hot water and with a good supply of nice white towels over her arm, she entered the room again. "How now, my little dears?" she exclaimed; "not crying, surely? Why, there's nothing to cry for!" Gladys wiped her eyes with the skirt of her little nightgown, and looked up. She did not know what the old woman was saying, but her tone was as kind as ever. It was very satisfactory, too, to see the basin, small as it was, and still more, the plentiful hot water. "Thank you, ma'am," said Gladys gravely, and nudging Roger to do the same. Everybody, she had noticed the day before, had called the old lady "madame," but that was the French for "ma'am" Léonie had told her, so she stuck to her native colours. "Thank you," repeated Roger, but without the "ma'am." "It sounds so silly, nobody says it but servants," he maintained to Gladys, and no doubt it mattered very little whether he said it or not, as Madame Nestor didn't understand, though she was quick enough to see that her little guests meant to say something civil and kind. And the washing was accomplished--I cannot say without difficulty, for Roger tried to stand in the basin and very nearly split it in two, and there was a great splashing of water over the wooden floor--on the whole with success. Poor Madame Nestor! When she had at last got her charges safely into their various garments, she sat down on a chair by the bed and fairly panted! "It's much harder than cooking a dinner," she said to herself. "I can't think how my cousin Marie could stand it, if they have this sort of business every morning with English children. And five, six of them as there are sometimes! The English are a curious nation." But she turned as smilingly as ever to Gladys and Roger; and Gladys, seeing that she was tired, and being sensible enough to understand that the kind old woman was really giving herself a great deal of trouble for their sake, went and stood close beside her, and gently stroked her, as she sometimes used to do--when Miss Susan was not there, be it remarked--to Mrs. Lacy. "I wish I knew how to say 'thank you' in French," said Gladys to Roger. But Madame Nestor had understood her. "Little dear," she said in her own language, "she thinks I am tired." The word caught Gladys's ear--"fatigued," she interrupted, "I know what that means. Poor Mrs. Nest," she explained to her little brother, "she says she's fatigued. I think we should kiss her, Roger," and both children lifted up their soft fresh rosy lips to the old woman, which was a language that needed no translation. "Little dears," she repeated again, "but, all the same, I hope we shall soon have some news from the Papa. Ah!" she interrupted herself; "but there is the clock striking nine, and my breakfast not seen to. I must hasten, but what to do with these angels while I am in the kitchen?" "Take them with you; children are very fond of being in a kitchen when they may," would have seemed a natural reply. But not to those who know what a Paris kitchen is. Even those of large grand houses would astonish many English children and big people, too, who have never happened to see them, and Madame Nestor's kitchen was really no better than a cupboard, and a cupboard more than half filled up with the stove, in and on which everything was cooked. There could be no question of taking the children into the kitchen, and the tiny room behind the shop was very dark and dull. Still it was the only place, and thither their old friend led them, telling them she must now go to cook the breakfast and they must try to amuse themselves; in the afternoon she would perhaps send them out a walk. Two words in this were intelligible to Gladys. "We are to be amused, Roger," she said, "and we are to promenade, that means a walk where the band plays like at Whitebeach last summer. I wonder where it can be?" The glass door which led into the shop had a little curtain across it, but one corner was loose. This Gladys soon discovered. "See here, Roger," she said, "we can peep into the shop and see if any one comes in. Won't that be fun?" Roger took his turn of peeping. "It aren't a pretty shop," he said, "it's all chairs and tables. I'd like a toy-shop, Gladdie, wouldn't you?" "It wouldn't be much good if we mightn't play with the toys," Gladys replied. "But I'll tell you what, Roger, we might play at beautiful games of houses in there. We could have that corner where there are the pretty blue chairs for our drawing-room, and we might pay visits. Or I might climb in there behind that big sofa and be a princess in a giant's castle, and you might come and fight with the giant and get me out." "And who'd be the giant?" asked Roger. "Oh, we can _pretend_ him. I can make a dreadful _booing_ when I see you coming, and you can pretend you see him. But you must have a sword. What would do for a sword?" she went on, looking round. "They haven't even a poker! I wish we had Miss Susan's umbrella." "Here's one!" exclaimed Roger, spying the umbrella of Monsieur Adolphe, Madame Nestor's son, in a corner of the room. It was still rather damp, for poor Adolphe had had to come over in the heavy rain early that morning from the neighbouring inn where he had slept, having, as you know, given up his room to the two little strangers, and his mother would have scolded him had she noticed that he had put it down all dripping, though as the floor was a stone one it did not much matter. And the children were not particular. They screwed up the wet folds and buttoned the elastic, and then shouldering it, Roger felt quite ready to fight the imaginary giant. There was a little difficulty about opening the door into the shop, and rather _too_ little about shutting it, for it closed with a spring, and nearly snapped Roger and his umbrella in two. But he was none the worse save a little bump on his head, which Gladys persuaded him not to cry about. It would never do to cry about a knock when he was going to fight the giant, she assured him, and then she set to work, planning the castle and the way Roger was to come creeping through the forest, represented by chairs and stools of every shape, so that he grew quite interested and forgot all his troubles. It really turned out a very amusing game, and when it was over they tried hide-and-seek, which would have been famous fun--there were so many hiding-holes among the bales of stuffs and pillows and uncovered cushions lying about--if they had had one or two more to play at it with them! But to playfellows they were little accustomed, so they did not much miss them, and they played away contentedly enough, though quietly, as was their habit. And so it came about that Madame Nestor never doubted that they were in the little back-room where she had left them, when a ring at the front door of the shop announced a customer. This door was also half of glass, and when it was opened a bell rang. Gladys and Roger were busy looking for new hiding-places when the sudden sound of the bell startled them. "Somebody's coming in," whispered Gladys; "Roger, let's hide. Don't let them see us; we don't know who they are," and quick as thought she stooped down in a corner, drawing her little brother in beside her. From where they were they could peep out. Two ladies entered the shop, one young and one much older. The face of the older one Gladys did not distinctly see, or perhaps she did not much care to look at it, so immediately did the younger one seize her fancy. She was very pretty and pleasant-looking, with bright brown hair and sweet yet merry eyes, and as she threw herself down on a seat which stood near the door, Gladys was able to see that she was neatly and prettily dressed. "Aren't you tired, Auntie?" she said to the other lady. "A little. It is farther than I thought, and we have not much time. I wonder what colour will be prettiest for the curtains, Rosamond?" "The shade of blue on that sofa over in the corner is pretty," said the young lady. Gladys pinched Roger. It was precisely behind the blue-covered sofa that they were hiding. "I wish they would be quick," said the elder lady. "Perhaps they did not hear the bell." "Shall I go to the door and ring it again?" asked the one called Rosamond. "I don't know; perhaps it would be better to tap at the glass door leading into the house. Madame Nestor sits in there, I fancy. She generally comes out at that door." "I don't fancy she is there now," said the young lady. "You see we have come so early. It has generally been in the afternoon that we have come. Madame Nestor is probably busy about her 'household avocations' at this hour," she added, with a smile. "I wonder what that means," whispered Gladys. "I suppose it means the dinner." Just at that moment the door opened, and Madame Nestor appeared, rather in a flutter. She was so sorry to have kept the ladies waiting, and how unfortunate! Her son had just gone to their house with the patterns for the curtains. He would have sent yesterday to ask at what hour the ladies would be at home, but they had all been so busy--an unexpected arrival--and Madame Nestor would have gone on to give all the story of Léonie's sudden visit to beg a shelter for the two little waifs, had not the ladies, who knew of old the good dame's long stories, cut her short as politely as they could. "We are very hurried," said the one whom the young lady called "auntie." "I think the best thing to be done is to get home as quickly as we can, and perhaps we shall still find your son there; if not, he will no doubt have left the patterns, so please tell him to try to come this evening or to-morrow morning before twelve, for we must have the curtains this week." Of course--of course--Madame Nestor agreed to everything as amiably as possible, and the ladies turned to go. "Are you much troubled with mice?" said the younger lady as they were leaving. "I have heard queer little noises two or three times over in that corner near the blue sofa while we were speaking." Old Madame Nestor started. "Mice!" she exclaimed. "I hope not. It would be very serious for us--with so many beautiful stuffs about. I must make them examine, and if necessary get a cat. We have not had a cat lately--the last was stolen, she was such a beauty, and----" And on the old body would have chattered for another half-hour, I daresay, had not the ladies again repeated that they were very hurried and must hasten home. The idea of mice had taken hold of Madame Nestor's mind; it made her for the moment forget the children, though in passing through the little room where she had left them she had wondered where they were. She hurried into the workroom to relate her fears, and Gladys and Roger, as soon as she had left the shop, jumped up, not sorry to stretch their legs after having kept them still for nearly a quarter of an hour. "I wonder if she'd be angry at our playing here," said Gladys. "What fun it was hiding and those ladies not knowing we were there! I think they were nice ladies, but I wish they had kept on talking properly. I liked to hear what they said." "Why doesn't everybody talk properly here if some does?" asked Roger. "I suppose," said Gladys, though she had not thought of it before, it had seemed so natural to hear people talking as she had always heard people talk--"I suppose those ladies are English. I wish they had talked to _us_, Roger. Perhaps they know Papa." "They couldn't talk to us when they didn't know us was there," said Roger, with which Gladys could not disagree. But it made her feel rather sorry not to have spoken to the ladies--it would have been very nice to have found some one who could understand what they said. "I wish we hadn't been hiding," she was going to say, but she was stopped by a great bustle which began to make itself heard in the sitting-room, and suddenly the door into the shop opened, and in rushed Madame Nestor, followed by the servant and two or three of the workpeople. "Where are they, then? Where can they have gone, the poor little angels?" exclaimed the old lady, while the servant and the others ran after her repeating: "Calm yourself, Madame, calm yourself. They cannot have strayed far--they will be found." Though the children could not understand the words, they could not _mis_understand the looks and the tones, and, above all, the distress in their kind old friend's face. They were still half hidden, though they were no longer crouching down on the floor. Out ran Gladys, followed by Roger. "Are you looking for us, Mrs. Nest?" she said. "Here we are! We've only been playing at hiding among the chairs and sofas." Madame Nestor sank down exhausted on the nearest arm-chair. "Oh, but you have given me a fright," she panted out. "I could not imagine where they had gone," she went on, turning to the others. "I left them as quiet as two little mice in there," pointing to the sitting-room, "and the moment my back was turned off they set." "It is always like that with children," said Mademoiselle Anna, the forewoman. She was a young woman with very black hair and very black eyes and a very haughty expression. No one liked her much in the workroom--she was so sharp and so unamiable. But she was very clever at making curtains and covering chairs and sofas, and she had very good taste, so Madame Nestor, who was, besides, the kindest woman in the world, kept her, though she disliked her temper and pride. "Poor little things--we have all been children in our day," said Madame Nestor. "That is possible," replied Mademoiselle Anna, "but all the same, there are children and children. I told you, Madame, and you will see I was right; you do not know the trouble you will have with these two little foreigners--brought up who knows how--and a queer story altogether it seems to me," she added, with a toss of her head. Gladys and Roger had drawn near Madame Nestor. Gladys was truly sorry to see how frightened their old friend had been, and she wished she knew how to say so to her. But when Mademoiselle Anna went on talking, throwing disdainful glances in their direction, the children shrank back. They could not understand what she was saying, but they _felt_ she was talking of them, and they had already noticed her sharp unkindly glances the evening before. "Why is she angry with us?" whispered Roger. But Gladys shook her head. "I don't know," she replied. "She isn't as kind as Mrs. Nest and her son. Oh I do wish Papa would come for us, Roger!" "So do I," said the little fellow. But five minutes after, he had forgotten their troubles, for Madame Nestor took them into the long narrow room where she and her son and some of their workpeople had their meals, and established them at one end of the table, to have what _she_ called their "breakfast," but what to the children seemed their dinner. She was very kind to them, and gave them what she thought they would like best to eat, and some things, especially an omelette, they found very good. But the meat they did not care about. "It's so greasy, I can't eat it," said Gladys, after doing her best for fear Madame Nestor should think her rude. And Roger, who did not so much mind the greasiness of the gravy, could not eat it either because it was cooked with carrots, to which he had a particular dislike. They were not dainty children generally, but the stuffy room, and the different kind of cooking, and above all, perhaps, the want of their usual morning walk, seemed to take away their appetite. And the sight of Mademoiselle Anna's sharp contemptuous face across the table did not mend matters. "I wish we had some plain cold meat and potatoes," said Gladys, "like what we had at home. I could even like some nice plain bread and butter." "Not _this_ bread," said Roger, who was beginning to look doleful again. "I don't like the taste of this bread." So they both sat, watching all that was going on, but eating nothing themselves, till Madame Nestor, who had been busy carving, caught sight of them. "They do not eat, those poor dears," she said to her son; "I fear the food is not what they are accustomed to--but I cannot understand them nor they me. It is too sad! Can you not try to find out what they would like, Adolphe? You who speak English?" Monsieur Adolphe got very red; he was not generally shy, but his English, which he was rather given to boasting of when there was no need for using it, seemed less ready than his mother had expected. However, like her, he was very kind-hearted, and the sight of the two grave pale little faces troubled him. He went round to their side of the table. "You not eat?" he said. "Miss and Sir not eat nothing. Find not good?" Gladys's face brightened. It was something to have some one who understood a little, however little. "Oh yes," she said, timidly afraid of appearing uncivil, "it is very good; but we are not hungry. We are not accustomed to rich things. Might we--" she went on timidly, "do you think we might have a little bread and butter?" Monsieur Adolphe hesitated. He found it much more difficult than he had had any idea of to understand what Gladys said, though she spoke very plainly and clearly. "Leetle--leetle?" he repeated. "A little bread and butter," said Gladys again. This time he understood. "Bread and butter; I will go see," he answered, and then he hurried back to his mother, still busy at the side-table. "They do not seem accustomed to eat meat," he said, "they ask for bread and butter." "The greedy little things!" exclaimed Mademoiselle Anna, who had got up from her seat on pretence of handing a plate to Madame Nestor, but in reality to hear all that was going on. "How can they be so bold?" "It is the custom in England," said the old lady. "My cousin has often told me how the children there eat so much bread and butter. But I have no fresh butter in the house. Would not preserves please them? Here, Françoise," she went on, calling to the little servant. "Fetch some preserves from the cupboard, and give some with some bread to the poor little angels." "What a to-do to be sure!" muttered Anna to Adolphe. "I only hope your mother will be paid for the trouble she is giving herself, but I much doubt it. I believe it is all a trick to get rid of the two little plagues. English of the good classes do not leave their children to anybody's tender mercies in that way!" "That is true," said Adolphe, who, though he had a good deal of his mother's kind-heartedness, was easily impressed by what Anna said. "And they have certainly a curious accent. I had difficulty in understanding them. I never heard an accent like it in English." "Exactly," said Anna, tossing her head, "they are little cheats--no one will come for them, and no money will be sent. You will see--and so will your mother. But it will be too late. She should have thought twice before taking on herself such a charge." "I am quite of your opinion," said Adolphe. "Something must be done; my mother must be made to hear reason. If no one comes to fetch them in a day or two we must do something--even if I have to take them myself to the English Embassy." "Quite right, quite right, Monsieur Adolphe," said Anna spitefully. But Madame Nestor heard nothing of what they were saying. She was seated quite contentedly beside the children, happy to see them enjoying the bread and jam which they much preferred to the greasy meat, even though the bread tasted a little sour, though she could not persuade them to take any wine. "It isn't good for children," said Gladys gravely, looking up into her face. But poor Madame Nestor shook her head. "It is no use, my dears," she said in her own language. "I cannot understand! Dear me--I do wish the Papa would come. Poor dear angels--I fear I cannot make them happy! But at least I can wash up the dishes for Françoise and let her take them out a walk. You will like that--a nice promenade, will you not?" Gladys jumped up joyfully. "The promenade, Roger--we're going to hear the band play. Won't that be nice? Come let us go quick and get ready." Madame Nestor was enchanted. CHAPTER VII. THE KIND-LOOKING GENTLEMAN. "A friendly pleasant face he had, They really thought him very nice, And when adown the street he'd gone They nodded to him twice." CHANCE ACQUAINTANCES. They were soon ready, for though Gladys had had vague thoughts of trying to explain that she would like the big trunk unfastened to get out their "best" things, she gave up the idea when Madame Nestor got down the new ulsters which she evidently thought quite good enough, and proceeded to wrap them both up warmly. It was cold, she said, and thanks to the way she glanced out-of-doors when she made this remark, at the same time carefully covering up their throats with the white silk handkerchiefs they had had for the journey, Gladys understood her. "We don't look very nice, do we, Roger?" said the little girl, as with her brother's hand in hers, and Françoise, who was short and stout, and wore a big frilled cap, following close behind. "If there are a lot of children where the band plays we shall seem very plain. But I daresay it doesn't matter, and these ulsters are very warm." For it was very cold. It was one of those gray sunless days, less uncommon in Paris than some people imagine, and the Rue Verte was narrow and the houses composing it very high, so that _stray_ gleams of sunshine did not very easily get into it. The children shivered a little as they stood for a moment hesitating as to which way Françoise meant them to go, and one or two foot-passengers passing hurriedly, as most people do in that busy part of the town, jostled the two little people so that they shrank back frightened. "Give me your hands, little Sir and little Miss," said the sturdy peasant girl, catching hold of them, placing one on each side of her as she spoke. It went rather against Gladys's dignity, but still in her heart she was glad of Françoise's protection, though even with that they were a good deal bumped and pushed as they made their way along the narrow pavement. "It will be nicer when we get to the Boulevards," said Françoise; "there the pavement is so much wider." But Gladys did not understand. She thought the girl said something about _bulls_ and _large_, and she looked up half frightened, expecting to see a troop of cattle coming along the street. There was, however, nothing of the kind to be seen. "It's not like Whitebeach," said Gladys, trying to make Roger hear across Françoise's substantial person. But it was no use. Narrow as the street was, great heavy waggons and lurries came constantly following each other over the stones, so that the noise was really deafening, and it was impossible to hear what was said. By peeping sometimes in front of Françoise and sometimes behind her, Gladys could catch sight of Roger's little figure. He was looking solemn and grave; she could tell that by the way he was walking, even when she did not see his face. "I'm afraid he's very cold, poor little boy," thought Gladys to herself, quite forgetting her own little red nose and nipped fingers in concern for her brother. It was a little better after a while when they got out of the narrow street into a much wider one. _Too_ wide Gladys thought it, for the rush of carts and carriages and omnibuses and cabs was really frightening. She saw some people venturing to cross over to the other side in the midst of it all--one lady with a little boy, not much bigger than Roger, especially caught her attention. But she shut her eyes rather than watch them get across--which they did quite safely after all--so terrified was she of seeing them crushed beneath some of the monsters on wheels which seemed to the child's excited imagination to be pounding down one after the other on purpose to knock everything out of their way, like some great engines of war. And she squeezed Françoise's hand so tight that the girl turned round in a fright to see if any one was hurting Gladys, when a slight movement to one side made her fancy the little servant was intending to try to cross. [Illustration: 'Oh don't, don't cross that dreadful street,' Gladys exclaimed.] "Oh don't, don't cross that dreadful street," Gladys exclaimed. And Françoise understood what she meant, thanks to her tugs the other way, and set to work assuring her she had no such intention. "Are you frightened of crossing?" said a voice close beside her--an English voice belonging to a gentleman who had heard her piteous entreaty. "Yes, dreadfully. I'm sure we'll be killed if she takes us over," replied Gladys, lifting her little white face and troubled eyes to the stranger. He turned to Françoise and explained to her that it was hardly safe to attempt to cross, especially as the little girl was so frightened. He spoke, of course, in French, which seemed to him as easy as his own language, and Françoise replied eagerly. Then again the stranger turned to Gladys: "You need not be afraid, my dear little girl," he said, and his kind voice somehow made the tears come to her eyes, "your nurse does not wish to cross. You have not been long here, I suppose--you don't understand French?" "No," said Gladys, gulping down a sob, "we've--we've only just come." "Ah well, you'll soon feel more at home, and be able to explain all you mean for yourself. Good-bye," and raising his hat as perhaps an altogether Englishman would not have done to so little a girl, he smiled again, and in another moment had disappeared in the crowd. "The nurse seems kind enough, but she's rather stupid--just a peasant. And those children look so refined. But they don't seem happy, poor little souls. I wonder who they can be," said the young man to himself as he walked away. "I wish he was our Papa," said Roger. "So do I," said Gladys. And then a queer sort of regret came over her that she had not said more to him. "Perhaps he knows Papa, and could have helped us to find him," was the vague thought in her childish brain. It seemed to her that any English-speaking person in this great town of Paris must know "Papa," or something about him. Françoise walked on; _she_ wished for nothing better than a stroll along the Boulevards, even though this was by no means the best part of them, or containing the prettiest shops. But Gladys kept wishing for the "promenade" and the band. At the corner of a side-street she caught sight of a church at a little distance with some trees and green not far from it. It looked quieter and less crowded, and Gladys was seized with a wish to explore in that direction. She tugged at Françoise. "Mayn't we go up there?" she said, pointing in the direction of the trees. Françoise understood her. She was a good-natured girl, and turned with the children as Gladys wished, though it was against her liking to leave the noisy crowded Boulevards for the quieter side-streets. When they got close to the trees they turned out to be in a little enclosure with railings, a very small attempt at a "square garden," for there were houses round it on all sides, and, cold as it was, a few nurses and children were walking about it and looking cheerful enough, though no doubt they wished they were not so far away from the prettier parts of Paris where the parks and walks for children are so lively and amusing. Gladys looked round with a mixture of approval and disappointment. "It must be here that the band plays," she said to Roger; "but it isn't here to-day. And it's a very small place for a promenade; not nearly so pretty as it was at Whitebeach. But we might play here if it wasn't so cold. And there are nice benches for sitting on, you see." "I don't like being here," said Roger, shaking his head. "I'd like to go home." "Home"--again the word fell sadly on the little mother-sister's ear. But she said nothing to remind Roger of how homeless they were, though she could not help sighing when she thought of the only "going home" there was for them; the little dark bare cheerless bedroom, and the shop filled with sofas and chairs. Poor Madame Nestor doing her best, but understanding so little what a nice bright cosy nursery was like, and still worse, Mademoiselle Anna's sharp eyes flashing angrily at them across the table at meat times! "Wouldn't you like to have a run, Roger?" said Gladys suddenly. "It would make us feel warmer, and there's a nice straight bit of path here." Roger made no objection. He let go of Françoise's hand and took his sister's, and by signs Gladys managed to explain to the girl what they meant to do. "One, two, three, and away," she called out with an attempt at merriment, and off they set. Roger's stumpy little legs could not go as fast as Gladys's longer and thinner ones, but she took care not to let him find that out, and she was rewarded by the colour in his cheeks, and the brighter look in his eyes when they got back to Françoise again. "That's right," said she good-naturedly, and in her heart I think she too would have enjoyed a run, had it not been beneath her dignity to behave in so childish a manner within sight of the dignified nurses in their big cloaks and caps with streaming ribbons, who were strutting up and down the little enclosure. But it grew colder and grayer. "One could almost think it was going to snow," said Françoise, looking up at the sky. Gladys saw her looking up, but did not, of course, understand her words. "I wonder if she thinks it's going to rain," she said to Roger. "Anyway it's dreadfully cold," and she gave a little shiver. "We had better go home," said Françoise, for she was so accustomed to talking about everything she did that even the knowledge that she was not understood did not make her silent. And taking a hand of each child, she turned to go. Gladys and Roger did not mind; they felt tired, though they had not walked nearly so far as they often did at home, and cold, and there had been nothing in their walk to raise their poor little spirits, except perhaps the momentary glance of the bright-faced young Englishman. "That gentleman we met looked very kind, didn't he?" said Gladys to Roger, when they had got back to the Rue Verte, and Françoise was helping them to take off their boots. "Yes," said Roger, in his sober little voice, "I wish----" "What?" said Gladys. "I wish he was our Papa!" said Roger again, with a sigh. "He couldn't be," said Gladys, "he's too young." "He was _much_ bigger than you; he was bigger than _her_," persisted Roger, pointing to Françoise, for like many little children he could not separate the idea of age from size, and Gladys knew it was no use trying to explain to him his mistake. "Anyway, he _isn't_ our Papa," she said sadly. "I wonder what we shall do now," she went on. "Isn't it tea time?" asked Roger. "I'm afraid they don't have tea here," said Gladys. "There's some wine and water and some bread on the table in the little room behind the shop. I'm afraid that's meant for our tea." She was right; for when Françoise took them downstairs Madame Nestor immediately offered them wine and water, and when Gladys did her best to make the old lady understand that they did not like wine, she persisted in putting two or three lumps of sugar into the water in the glasses, which Roger did not object to, as he fished them out before they were more than half melted, and ate instead of drinking them, but which Gladys thought very nasty indeed, though she did not like not to take it as she had already refused the wine. "I wish I could get out my doll," said she, "I don't know what to play with, Roger." "I wish I could get my donkey," said Roger. And Madame Nestor saw that they looked dull and dreary, though she did not know what they said. A brilliant idea struck her. "I will get them some of the packets of patterns to look at," she said, "that will amuse them," and off she trotted to the workroom. "Find me the books of patterns, the prettiest ones, of the silky stuffs for curtains, and some of the cretonnes," she said to one of the young girls sewing there. Mademoiselle Anna looked up suspiciously. "Is there some one in the shop?" she said. "Shall I call Monsieur Adolphe? He has just gone to the other workroom." "No, no, do not trouble yourself," said Madame Nestor. "I only want the patterns to amuse my two little birds in there," and she nodded her head towards the room where the children were. Anna gave her head a little toss. "There is no letter about them yet, I suppose," she said. "Of course not. How could there be?" replied the old lady. "The poor things have been here but one night. I do not see why you should trouble yourself to be so cross about them. You are not _yet_ mistress of this house," upon which Anna murmured something about being sorry to see Madame Nestor troubled about the children, that was her only reason, she knew Madame to be so good, etc. Madame Nestor said no more, for it was seldom she spoke sharply to any one, and, to tell the truth, she was a little afraid of Anna, who some time or other was to be married to Adolphe, and take the place of the old lady, who looked forward then to having some rest in a little home of her own. She did not wish to quarrel with Anna, for she knew she would make a clever and useful wife to her son, but still unkindness to any one, above all to these little helpless strangers, made her really angry. She made the young workwoman help her to carry the big books of patterns to the little sitting-room, and at sight of them Gladys and Roger started up. They were pleased at the prospect of anything to do, poor little things, even lessons would have been welcome, and they were greatly delighted when, as well as the books, Madame Nestor produced a lot of scraps of cretonne with gay flowers and birds in all colour, and made them understand they might do as they liked with them. "Let's cut them out," exclaimed Gladys, "we can cut out lovely things and then afterwards we can paste them on white paper and make all sorts of things with them." But there were no scissors! Gladys opened and shut the middle and forefingers of her right hand repeating "scissors," till Madame Nestor understood and not only lent her a pair of her own, but sent a little way down the street to buy a little pair with blunt ends for Roger, so afraid was she of his cutting himself. "Oh, how nice," exclaimed both children, jumping up to kiss the kind old woman. "Now we can cut out beautifully, and when we are tired of cutting out we can look at these lovely patterns," said Gladys, as she settled herself and Roger comfortably at the table, and Madame Nestor went off to the workroom again, quite satisfied about them for the time. "You see there are _some_ things to be got really very nice in Paris, Roger," said Gladys in her prim old-fashioned way. "These scissors are really very nice, and I don't think they were dear. Madame Nestor gave the boy a piece like a small sixpence, and he brought her a halfpenny back. That isn't dear." "What did he bring her a halfpenny for? Do they sell halfpennies in the shops here?" asked Roger, looking very puzzled. "No, of course not. You're too little to understand. That's what they call 'giving change,'" replied Gladys, wisely. "Ellen told me that once when I went to a shop with her to buy something for Miss Susan. Now, Roger, will you cut out that blue bird, and I'll do these pinky flowers? Then afterwards we can paste them as if the bird was flying out of the flowers; won't that be pretty?" "I'd rather do the flowers," said Roger. "The bird's nose is so twisty--I can't do it." "Very well," said Gladys good-naturedly. "Then I'll do it, and you take the flowers. See they go in nice big rounds--you can easily do them." And for an hour or two the children were as really happy as they had been for a good while, and when the thought of their father and what had become of him pressed itself forward on Gladys, she pushed it back with the happy trust and hopefulness of children that "to-morrow" would bring good news. * * * * * In a part of Paris, at some distance from the Rue Verte, that very afternoon three people were sitting together in a pretty drawing-room at "afternoon tea." They were two ladies--a young, quite young one, and an older. And the third person was a gentleman, who had just come in. "It's so nice to find you at home, and above all at tea, Auntie," he said to the elder lady. "It is such a horrid day--as bad as London, except that there's no fog. You haven't been out, I suppose?" "Oh yes, indeed we have," replied the young lady. "We went a long way this morning--walking--to auntie's upholsterer, quite in the centre of the town. It looks very grim and uninviting there, the streets are so narrow and the houses so high." "I've walked a good way too to-day," said the young man. "I am glad to hear it, my boy," said his aunt. "I have been a little afraid of your studying too hard this winter, at least not taking exercise enough, and you being so accustomed to a country life too!" "I don't look very bad, do I?" said the young man, laughing. He stood up as he spoke, and his aunt and sister glanced at him with pride, though they tried to hide it. He was tall and handsome, and the expression of his face was particularly bright and pleasant. "You are very conceited," said his sister. "I am not going to pay you any compliments." He sat down again, and a more serious look came into his face; for some moments he did not speak. "What are you thinking about, Walter?" asked his sister. Walter looked up. "I was thinking about two little children I met to-day," he said. "Away over on the Boulevard X---- ever so far." "That is not so very far from where we were this morning," interrupted the aunt. "They were such tiny things, and they looked so forlorn and so unhappy; I can't get them out of my head," said Walter. "Did you give them anything? Did they seem quite alone?" asked Rosamond. Walter laughed. "You don't understand," he said; "they were not beggars. Bless me! I shouldn't like to encounter that very imperious little lady if she thought I had made you think they were beggars." "'Imperious little lady,' and 'poor forlorn little things;' what do you mean, Walter?" said Rosamond. "I mean what I say. They did look forlorn little creatures, and yet the small girl was as imperious as a princess. They were two little English children, newly arrived evidently, for they didn't understand a word of French. And they were being taken care of by a stupid sort of peasant girl turned into a 'bonne.' And the little girl thought the nurse was going to cross the street, and that she and the small boy would be killed, and she couldn't make the stupid owl understand, and I heard them talking English, and so I came to the rescue--that was all." "It isn't anything so very terrible," said the aunt. "No doubt they and their bonne will learn to understand each other in a little." "It wasn't that only," said Walter reflectively; "there was something out of gear, I am sure. The children looked so superior to the servant, and so--so out of their element dragging up and down that rough crowded place, while she gaped at the shop windows. And there was something so pathetic in the little girl's eyes." "In spite of her imperiousness," said Rosamond teasingly. "Yes," said Walter, without smiling. "It was queer altogether--the sending them out in that part of the town with that common sort of servant--and their not knowing any French. I suppose the days are gone by for stealing children or that sort of thing; but I could really have fancied there was something of the kind in this case." Rosamond and her aunt grew grave. "Poor little things!" they said. "Why did you not ask them who they were or where they came from, or something?" added Rosamond. "I don't know. I wish I had," said Walter. "But I'm not sure that I would have ventured on such a freedom with the little girl. I'm not indeed." "Then they didn't look _frightened_--the maid did not seem cross to them?" "Oh no, she was good-natured enough. Just a great stupid. No, they didn't look exactly frightened, except of the horses and carriages; but bewildered and unhappy, and out of their element. And yet so plucky! I'm certain they were well-bred children. I can't make it out." "Nor can I," said Rosamond. "I wonder if we shall ever hear any more about them." Curiously enough she dreamt that night that she was again in the furniture shop in the Rue Verte, and that she heard again a noise which she thought to be mice, but that pulling back a chair to see, she came upon two little children, who at once started to their feet, crying: "We're the boy and girl he met. Take us home, do. We're not mice, and we are _so_ unhappy." CHAPTER VIII. A FALL DOWNSTAIRS. "Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?" GOODY BLAKE. Some days passed; they were much the same as the first, except that the children--children-like--grew used to a certain extent to the things and people and manners and ways of the life in which they found themselves. Roger now and then seemed pretty contented, almost as if he were forgetting the strange changes that had come over them; so long as every one was kind to him, and he had Gladys at hand ready, so far as was possible for her, to attend to his slightest wish, he did not seem unhappy. But on the other hand, the least cross word, or one of Mademoiselle Anna's sharp looks, or even the want of things that he liked to eat, would set him off crying in a way he had never done before, and which nearly broke Gladys's heart. For she, though she seemed quiet and contented enough, was in reality very anxious and distressed. She was of an age to understand that something really serious must be the matter for her and Roger to be left with strangers in this way--no letters coming, no inquiries of any kind being made, just as if she and her little brother were forgotten by all the world! She could write a little, and once or twice she said to herself that if it went on very long she would try to send a letter to Miss Susan; but then again, when she remembered how glad that young lady had been to get rid of them, how she had disliked the idea of their staying with Mrs. Lacy after her marriage--for all this by scraps of conversation, remarks of servants, and so on, Gladys had been quick enough to find out--she felt as if she would rather do anything, stay anywhere, rather than ask Miss Susan to take them back. And then from time to time hope would rise strong in her, and she would wake in the morning firmly convinced that "Papa would come to-day"--hopes, alas, only to be disappointed! She was beginning to understand a little of what was said by those about them. Madame Nestor was as kind as ever, and her son, who had taken a great fancy to Roger, was decidedly kinder than he had been at first. With them alone Gladys felt she would not have minded anything so much; but she could see that Anna's dislike to them increased, and the child dreaded the hours of the meals, from the feeling of the hard scornful looks that Anna was then sure to cast on her. One day she overheard some talking between her and Madame Nestor. The young woman seemed angry, and the old one was remonstrating with her. Gladys heard that they were speaking about money, and also about some one going away, but that was all she could make out, though they were talking quite loud, and did not seem to mind her being there. "If only Anna was going away," thought Gladys, "I wouldn't mind anything. I wouldn't mind the not having baths, or tea, or bread and butter, or--or all the things we had at home, if only there was nobody to look so fierce at us. I'd almost rather be Madame Nestor's little servant, like Françoise, if only Anna would go away." It almost seemed as if her wishes had been overheard by some fairy, for the next morning, when they were called to the second breakfast--which the children counted their dinner--Anna's place was empty! Gladys squeezed Roger's hand under the table, and whispered to him: "She's gone, I do believe she's gone." Then looking up at Madame Nestor she saw her kind old face looking decidedly jollier than usual. "Yes," she said, nodding her head; "Anna is away. She has gone away for a few days." Gladys understood her partly but not altogether, but she did not mind. She was only too pleased to find it true, and that was the happiest day they had since they came to the Rue Verte. Madame Nestor sent out to the pastry-cook's near by for some nice little cakes of a kind the children had never tasted before, and which they found delicious, and Monsieur Adolphe said he would get them some roasted chestnuts to eat if they liked them. He found the words in a dictionary which he showed Gladys with great pride, and pointed them out to her, and was quite delighted when she told him how to pronounce them, and added: "I like roast chestnuts _very_ much." "Mademoiselle shall give me some lessons of English," he said to his mother, his round face beaming with pleasure. "You are quite right, they are little gentlepeople, there is no doubt of it; and I feel sure the Papa will come to fetch them in a few days. He will be very grateful to us for having taken such care of them--it may be a good thing in the end even from a business point of view, for I should have no objection to extend our English connection." No thought of gain to themselves in any way had entered Madame Nestor's head; but she was too pleased to see her son in such a good humour about the children to say anything to disagree with him. "He has a good heart, my Adolphe," she said to herself. "It is only Anna that makes him seem what he is not; if she would but stay away altogether! And yet, it would be difficult to find her equal in other ways." "Speaking of English," she said aloud, "reminds me that those English ladies will be getting impatient for their curtains. And the trimming has not yet come; how slow those makers are! It is a fortnight since they promised it for the end of the week." "It does not matter much," said Adolphe, "for no one can make them up properly except Anna. She should not have gone away just now; she knows there are several things that require her." "That is true," said Madame Nestor, and so it was. Mademoiselle Anna seemed purposely to have chosen a most inconvenient time for going off on a visit to her family, and when Madame Nestor reproached her for this she had replied that with all the money the Nestors had received for the two little strangers, they could well afford to engage for the time a first-rate workwoman to replace her. This was the conversation Gladys had heard and a little understood. Poor Madame Nestor, wishing to keep up the children's dignity, had told every one that Mr. Marton had left her plenty of money for them, making the most of the two or three pounds which was all he had been able to spare, and of which she had not as yet touched a farthing. But whether Anna's absence was inconvenient or not, it was very pleasant to most people concerned. Adolphe himself took the children out a walk, and though Gladys was at first not quite sure that it was not a little beneath her dignity to let the young man be her "chaperon," she ended by enjoying it very much. Thanks to his broken English and the few French words she was now beginning to understand, they got on very well; and when he had taken them some way out of Paris--or out of the centre of the town rather--in an omnibus, she was obliged to own that it was by no means the gray, grim, crowded, noisy, stuffy place it had seemed to her those first days in the Rue Verte. Poor little Roger was delighted! The carriages and horses were to him the most beautiful sight the world could show; and as they walked home down the Champs Elysées it was quite difficult to get him along, he wanted so constantly to stand still and stare about him. "How glad I am we had on our best things!" said Gladys, as she hung up her dark-blue braided serge jacket and dress--for long ago Madame Nestor had been obliged to open the big trunk to get out a change of attire for the children--"aren't you, Roger?" She smoothed dawn the scarlet breast on her little black felt hat as she spoke. "This hat is very neat, and so is my dress; but still they are very plain compared to the things all the children that we saw had on. Did you see that little girl in green velvet with a sort of very soft fur, like shaded gray fluff, all round it? And another one in a red silky dress, all trimmed with lace, and a white feather as long--as long as----" "Was it in that pretty big wide street?" asked Roger. "I saw a little boy like me with a 'plendid coat all over gold buttons." "That was a little page, not a gentleman," said Gladys, rather contemptuously. "Don't you remember Mrs. Ffolliot's page? Only perhaps he hadn't so many buttons. I'd like to go a walk there every day, wouldn't you?" But their conversation was interrupted by Madame Nestor's calling them down to have a little roll and a glass of milk, which she had discovered they liked much better than wine and water. "If only there would come a letter, or if Papa would come--oh, if Papa would but come before that Anna comes back again, everything would get all right! I do hope when he does come that Papa will let me give a nice present to Mrs. Nest," thought Gladys to herself as she was falling asleep that night. The next day was so bright and fine, that when the children saw Monsieur Adolphe putting on his coat to go out early in the morning they both wished they might go with him, and they told him so. He smiled, but told them in his funny English that it could not be. He was going out in a hurry, and only about business--some orders he was going to get from the English ladies. "English ladies," repeated Gladys. "Yes; have you not seen them? They were here one day." "We saw them," said Gladys, smiling, "but they did not see _us_. They thought we were mice," but the dictionary had to be fetched before Adolphe could make out what "mice" meant, even though Roger turned it into "mouses" to make it plainer. And then he had to hurry off--it was a long way, he said, in the Avenue Gérard, close to the Champs Elysées, that these ladies lived. "Avenue Gérard," repeated Gladys, in the idle way children sometimes catch up a name; "that's not hard to say. We say _avenue_ in English too. It means a road with lots of trees. Are there lots of trees where those ladies live, Mr. 'Dolph?" But "Mr. 'Dolph" had departed. After these bright days came again some dreary autumn weather. The children "wearied," as Scotch people say, a good deal. They were even glad on the fourth day to be sent out a short walk with Françoise. "I wonder if we shall see that nice gentleman again if we go up that big street?" said Roger. "I don't think we shall," said Gladys. "Most likely he doesn't live there. And it's a great many days ago. Perhaps he's gone back to England." It was indeed by this time nearly a fortnight that the little waifs had found refuge in the Rue Verte. The walk turned out less disagreeable than their first one with Françoise. They did go up the Boulevard, where the servant had some commissions, but they did not meet the "nice gentleman." They came home, however, in very good spirits; for at the big grocer's shop, where Françoise had bought several things, one of the head men had given them each an orange. And chattering together about how they should eat them--whether it was nicest to suck them, or to cut them with a knife, or to peel them and divide them into what are familiarly called "pigs"--the two children, with Françoise just behind them, reached the shop in the Rue Verte. The door stood open--that was a little unusual, but they did not stay to wonder at it, but ran in quickly, eager to show their oranges to their kind old friend. The door leading to the room behind the shop stood open also, and the children stopped short, for the room was full of people, all talking eagerly and seemingly much excited. There were all the workpeople and one or two neighbours, but neither Madame Nestor nor her son. Françoise, who had caught sight of the crowd and already overheard something of what they were saying, hurried forward, telling the children as she passed them to stay where they were, and frightened of they knew not what, the two little creatures took refuge in their old corner behind the blue sofa. "What can it be?" said Gladys. "P'raps Papa's come," suggested Roger. Gladys's heart gave a great leap, and she sprang up, glancing in the direction of the little crowd of people. But she quickly crouched down again. "Oh no," she said. "It can't be that. Françoise would not have told us to stay here. I'm afraid somebody's ill. It seems more like that." Her instinct was right. By degrees the talking subsided, and one or two of the workpeople went off to their business, and a moment or two after, when Adolphe Nestor suddenly made his appearance, there was a general hush, broken only by one or two voices inquiring "how she was." "Do you hear that, Roger?" whispered Gladys, nudging her brother; "they're asking how she is. That means Mrs. Nest, I'm sure. She must be ill." Roger said nothing, but listened solemnly. "Her was quite well when us went out," he observed, after a considerable pause. "Yes, but sometimes people get ill all of a sudden," said Gladys. Then, after a moment, "Roger," she said, "I think I'll go and ask. I shall be _so_ unhappy if poor Mrs. Nest is ill." "So will I," said Roger. They got up from the floor, and hand in hand crept timidly towards the door. Françoise was still standing there, listening to Adolphe, who was talking to the two or three still standing there. Françoise turned at the sound of the children's footsteps, and raised a warning finger. But Gladys put her aside, with what "Walter" would have called her imperious air. "Let us pass," she said. "I want to speak to Mr. 'Dolph." The young man heard the sound of his own name. "What is it?" he said quickly, in French. "I want to know what's the matter. Is Mrs. Nest ill?" asked Gladys. But she had to repeat her question two or three times before Adolphe understood it He was flurried and distressed--indeed, his eyes looked as if he had been crying--and that made it more difficult for him to catch the meaning of the child's words. But at last he did so. "Ah!" he exclaimed. "Yes, there is much the matter. My poor mother--she has fallen downstairs and broken her leg." Gladys clasped her two hands together. "Broken her leg," she repeated. "Oh, poor Mrs. Nest! Oh, it must hurt her dreadfully." At this Roger burst out crying. Adolphe turned round, and picked him up in his arms. "Poor little fellow," he said, "yes, he, too, is very sorry. What we are to do I know not. Anna away, too. I hope you will be very good and quiet children. Françoise, too, will be so busy--you will do all you can to give no trouble, will you not? I wish we had news of the Papa!" he added, as he turned away. He did not speak at all unkindly, but he seemed very much troubled, and with his broken English it was very difficult for Gladys to follow all he said. "May I go and see poor Mrs. Nest?" she said timidly. "No, no; you cannot see her for a long time," replied Adolphe hastily, as he left the room. "I must send a telegram to Mademoiselle Anna," he added to Françoise, and unfortunately for her peace of mind, Gladys understood him. She turned away, her lips quivering. "Come upstairs, dear," she said to her little brother. "Come to our room and I will take off your things." Roger followed her obediently. Françoise had disappeared into the kitchen, where more than ever she was needed, as there was no one else to see about the dinner--so the two little things climbed upstairs by themselves. It was already growing dusk--the dull little room looked cheerless, and felt chilly. Roger looked up into Gladys's eyes as she was unfastening his coat. "Are you crying, Gladdie?" he said, in his little soft sad tone. Gladys turned away a moment to wipe her eyes. If she had not done so she would probably have burst into a terrible fit of tears, for never had she felt so miserable and desolate. Her pride, too, was aroused, for she saw most plainly that she and Roger were more than ever a sad burden and trouble. But what could she do? What could any little girl of seven years old have done in such a case? The sight of Roger's meek sad face gave her a kind of strength. For his sake she must keep up anyway the appearance of cheerfulness. So she kissed him, and answered quietly: "I am very sorry for poor Mrs. Nest. She has been so kind to us." "Yes," said Roger. Then a bright idea struck him. "I'll say my prayers for her to be made better to-night. Will you, Gladdie?" "Yes," said Gladys, and there was comfort in the thought to her, for it brought with it another. "I'll ask God to help _us_," she thought to herself, "and when I go to bed I'll think and think, and perhaps He'll put something in my head. _Perhaps_ I must try to write to Miss Susan." The loss of Madame Nestor's constant kindness was quickly felt. No one came near the children, and when Gladys crept downstairs there was no light in the little sitting-room--no glasses of milk and plate of rolls waiting for them on the table, as had become a habit. And Roger was cold and hungry! He had asked Gladys to go down and look if there was any "goûter," as they had learnt to call this afternoon luncheon, and when she came up again and told him "no," the poor little fellow, frightened, and cold, and hungry, burst into loud sobbing. Gladys was so afraid it would be heard, and that they would be scolded for disturbing Madame Nestor, that she persuaded Roger to get into bed, where she covered him up warmly, and promised to tell him a story if he would leave off crying. It was not easy to keep her promise--she felt so on the point of bursting into tears herself that she had to stop every now and then to clear her throat, and she was not sorry when, on one of these occasions, instead of Roger's shrill little voice urging her to "go on. What do you stop for, Gladdie?" she heard by his regular breathing that he had fallen asleep. She had no light, but she felt about to be sure he was well covered, and then, leaning her head on the side of his bed, she tried to "think." "I would not mind anything so much if Anna was not coming back," she said to herself. "But if she is here, and poor Mrs. Nest shut up in her room, she can do anything she likes to us, for Mr. 'Dolph wouldn't know; and if I told him he'd think I was very naughty to bother him when his mother was ill. I think I must write to Miss Susan--at least, if Anna is _very_ unkind, I will--unless--unless--oh, if it _would_ but happen for Papa to come to-morrow, or a letter! I'll wait till to-morrow and see--and _perhaps_ Anna won't come back, not--not if Papa's in the train--she'd run away if she saw him, if he had Mrs. Nest's cap on, she'd"--and that was all, for before Gladys had settled what she would do, she too, as you see, had fallen asleep. She slept some time--an hour or two--and she awoke, feeling cold and stiff, though what had awakened her she did not at first know, till again, bringing with it the remembrance of having heard it before, the sound of a voice calling her reached her ears. "Mademoiselle--Mademoiselle Gladees," it said, "why do you not come? The dinner is all ready, and I have called you so many times." It was Françoise, tumbling up the narrow stair in the dark. Gladys heard her fumbling at the door, and called out "Françoise!" Then Roger woke and started up, trembling. "What is it--what is the matter, Gladdie?" he cried, and Gladys had to soothe and pet him, and say it was only Françoise; and Françoise in the meantime had got into the room, exclaiming at their having no light, and pulling a box of matches from her pocket, struck one, and hunted about till she found a bit of candle. It was a rather melancholy scene that the end of candle lighted up. "So--you have been asleep!" exclaimed the servant; "well, perhaps it was the best thing. Well, come down now, Monsieur Adolphe is asking for you," and she would scarcely let them wait to dip their hands in water and smooth their tumbled hair. "What will become of them when _she_ comes back and poor Madame ill in bed, who can say?" the peasant girl muttered to herself as she led them downstairs. "I wish their friends would come to fetch them--I do. It's certainly very strange for rich people to leave their children like that," and Françoise shook her head. Monsieur Adolphe received the children kindly. He had been a little alarmed when Françoise had told him she could not find them in the sitting-room, for he knew it would trouble his poor mother greatly if she found her little favourites were neglected, for the thought of them was one of the things most troubling the poor woman in the middle of her suffering. "If but the Papa would come for them," she had already said to her son. "I know not what to do. I think we must ask some advice. Anna dislikes them so; and if she comes back to-morrow----" "She may not come till the day after," said Adolphe. "Do not trouble yourself about anything just now. The children are all right for the moment." "And you will be kind to them at dinner, and give them nice pieces. They do not eat much, but they are used to more delicate cooking than ours." "Reassure yourself. I will do all as you would yourself. And if you keep quiet, my good Mamma, perhaps in a day or two you can see them for yourself. The great thing is to keep quiet, and that will keep down the fever, the doctor says," repeated poor Adolphe, who was really a good and affectionate son. "Ah, yes," thought poor Madame Nestor, "that is all very well, but at my age," for she was really old--old to be the mother of Adolphe, having married late in life, "at my age one does not break one's leg for nothing. But the good God knows best. If my time has come, so be it. I have no great anxiety to leave behind me, like some poor women, thank Heaven! Only these poor children!" And thanks to what Madame Nestor had said, and thanks in part, too, to his kind feelings, Adolphe was very friendly to the children at dinner; and in reply to their timid inquiries about his mother, told them that the doctor thought she was going on well, and in a day or two they might see her, if they were very good and quiet. So the meal passed off peacefully. "After all," thought Adolphe, "they do not cost one much. They eat like sparrows. Still it is a great responsibility--poor little things!" He took Roger in his arms and kissed him when he said good-night, and Gladys would have gone to bed feeling rather less unhappy, for Françoise put in her head to say she would come in half an hour to help to undress "Monsieur Roger," but for some words she overheard among some of the young workwomen, which she understood only too well--that Mademoiselle Anna was returning the next morning! "I _must_ write to Miss Susan," thought the little girl, as she at last fell asleep. CHAPTER IX. FROM BAD TO WORSE. "Their hearts were laden With sorrow, surprise, and fear." PRINCESS BOPEEP. Nobody came to wake the children the next morning. They slept later than usual, and when Gladys woke it was already as light as ever it was in the dull little room. But it was very cold--the weather had turned to frost in the night, which made the air clearer and brighter, and in their own warm rooms at Mrs. Lacy's the children would have rejoiced at the change. Here it was very different. Gladys lay waiting some time, wondering if no one was coming with their chocolate and bread, forgetting at first all that had happened the day before. By degrees it came back to her mind, and then she was no longer surprised at their being left alone. "Anna has come back," she thought to herself, "and she won't let them bring us our breakfast." She got out of bed, glad to see that Roger was still sleeping, and crossed the room, the cold wooden floor striking chill to her bare feet. She reached the door and opened it, peering down the narrow dark staircase. "Françoise," she called softly, for the kitchen was nearer than the workroom, and she hoped perhaps Françoise would come to her without Anna knowing. But no one answered. She heard voices in the distance--in the kitchen they seemed to be--and soon she fancied that she distinguished the sharp tones of Mademoiselle Anna, ordering about the poor little cook. Gladys quickly but softly shut the door and crossed the room again on tiptoes. She stood for a moment or two hesitating what to do. It was so cold that she felt half inclined to curl herself up in bed again and try to go to sleep! But if Roger woke, as he was sure to do soon--no, the best thing was for her to get dressed as quickly as possible. She bravely sponged herself as well as she could with the cold water, which was now always left in the room in a little jug; "no chance of any _hot_ water to-day!" she thought to herself as she remembered how unhappy she had been that first morning at not having a bath, and then went on to dress, though not without a good deal of difficulty, as several of her little under-garments fastened behind. Not till the last button was secured did Roger wake. "Gladdie," he said in a sleepy tone, "are you dressed. We haven't had our chocolate, Gladdie." "Never mind, Roger dear," said Gladys. "They're all very busy to-day, you know, so I've got up and dressed quickly, and now I'll go down and bring up your breakfast. Unless you'd rather get up first?" Roger considered. He was in rather a lazy mood, which was perhaps just as well. "No," he decided. "I'll have my breakfast first. And you can eat yours beside me, can't you, Gladdie?" "Yes," said Gladys, "that will be very nice." She spoke with a cheerfulness she was far from feeling, for in her heart she felt by no means sure of getting any breakfast at all. But just as she was turning to go a slight knocking was heard at the door. It was more like a scratching indeed, as if the person were afraid of being heard outside as well as by those in the room. "Mademoiselle," came in a loud whisper after the queer rapping had gone on for some time, "are you awake? Open--I have the hands full." It was Françoise. Gladys opened. The little servant, her round red face rounder and redder than usual, for she had been all the morning at the kitchen fire, and had besides been passing through unusual excitement, stumped into the room, a bowl, from which the steam of some hot liquid was rising, in one hand, and a plate with a large hunch of bread in the other. She put them down on the little table and wiped her hot face with her apron. "Ah, Mademoiselle," she said, "no one would believe it--the trouble I have had to get some breakfast for you! _She_ would not have it--lazy little creatures, she called you--you might come down and get it for yourselves--a piece of dry bread and some dripping soup--that was all she would have given you, and I know you are not used to that. So what did I do but wait till her back was turned--the cross cat--and then in with the milk and a tiny bit of chocolate--all I could find, and here it is! Hot, at any rate; but not very good, I fear." Gladys did not, of course, understand a quarter of the words which Françoise rattled off in her queer Norman-French; but her wits were sharpened by anxiety, and she gathered quite enough of the sense of the little servant's long speech to feel very grateful to her. In her hurry Françoise had poured all the chocolate--or hot milk rather, for there was very little chocolate in the composition--into one bowl; but the children were too hungry to be particular. They drank turn-about, and finished by crumbling up the remains of the bread in the remains of the milk and eating it with the spoon, turn-about also, Françoise standing by, watching them with satisfaction! Suddenly she started. "I must run down," she said, "or she will be after me again. I wish I could stay to help you to dress Monsieur Roger, but I dare not," and gathering up the dishes in her apron so that they could not be seen, she turned to go. "Dress him as quickly as you can," she said to Gladys, "and then she cannot say you have given any trouble. But stay--I will see if I cannot get you a little hot water for the poor bébé." And off she set, to appear again in a minute with a tin jug of hot water which she poured out into the basin at once for fear the absence of the tin jug should be discovered. "She has eyes on every side of her head," she whispered as she went off again. Roger's toilet was accomplished more luxuriously than poor Gladys's own, and he was quite bright and happy with no fear of Mademoiselle Anna or any one else, chirping like a little bird, as his sister took him down the narrow staircase to the room behind the shop where they spent the mornings. "Hush, Roger dear, we must be very quiet because poor Mrs. Nest is ill, you know," she said, when his shrill little voice rose higher and higher, for he had had an exceedingly good night and felt in excellent spirits. "She can't hear us down here," replied Roger. But Gladys still repeated her "hush," for, in reality, it was Anna who she feared might overhear Roger's chatter. She looked about for something to keep him quiet, but could see nothing. It was warm in the sitting-room--though if Anna could have done so, she would have ordered Françoise not to light the fire for the little plagues, as she called them--but except for that they would have been happier up in their bedroom, where Gladys had discovered a few of Roger's toys in a corner of the big trunk, which, however, Madame Nest had not allowed them to bring down. "When the Papa comes, I wish him to find all your things in good order," she had said. "The toys might get broken, so while you are here I will find you things to amuse you." But this morning the bundle of cretonne and cut-out birds and flowers was not to be seen! "I must tell Roger stories all the morning, I suppose," thought Gladys, and she was just going to propose doing so, when Roger, who had been standing peeping through the glass door which led into the shop, suddenly gave a cry of pleasure. "Oh, Gladdie," he said, "see what a pretty carriage and two prancey horses at the door!" Gladys ran to look--the shop door was wide open, for one of the apprentice boys was sweeping it out, and they could see right into the street. The carriage had stopped, as Roger said, and out of it stepped one of two people seated in it. It was the younger of the two ladies that the children had seen that first day in the Rue Verte when they were hidden behind the blue sofa in the corner. She came forward into the shop. "Is there no one here?" she said in French. The apprentice, very dusty and looking rather ashamed, came out of a corner. It was not often that ladies in grand carriages came themselves to the little shop, for though the Nestors had some very good customers, Monsieur Adolphe usually went himself to their houses for orders. "I will call some one," said the boy, "if Mademoiselle will have the goodness to wait a moment," and he disappeared through a little door in the corner of the shop which led into the workroom another way. The young lady shivered a little--it was very cold--and then walked about, glancing at the furniture now and then. She seemed to think it too cold to sit down. There was certainly no dearth of chairs! "I wonder if we should ask her to come in here," said Gladys. But before she had time to decide, the door by which the boy had gone out opened again and Mademoiselle Anna appeared. She came forward with the most gracious manner and sweetest smiles imaginable. Gladys, who had never seen her like that, felt quite amazed. The young lady received Anna's civilities very calmly. She had never seen her before, and thought her rather a vulgar young woman. But when Anna begged her to come for a moment into the sitting-room while she went to fetch the patterns the young lady had come for she did not refuse. "It is certainly bitterly cold this morning," she said. "And we are all so upset--by the sad accident to our poor dear Madame--Mademoiselle must excuse us," said Anna, leading the way to the sitting-room as she spoke. Rosamond stopped short. "An accident to that good Madame Nestor. I am very sorry," she exclaimed. [Illustration: Anna opened the door sharply, as she did everything, and in so doing overthrew the small person of Roger.] "Ah, yes," Anna went on in her honeyed tones, "it is really too sad. It was--but will not Mademoiselle come out of the cold, and I will tell her about it," she went on, backing towards the glass door. It opened inwards; the children, very much interested in watching the little scene in the shop, and not quite understanding Anna's intention, had not thought of getting out of the way. Anna opened the door sharply, as she did everything, and in so doing overthrew the small person of Roger, whose short fat legs were less agile than the longer and thinner ones of his sister. Gladys sprang away like a kitten, but only to spring back again the next moment, as a doleful cry rose from poor Roger. "You're not hurt, darling, are you?" she said, as she knelt down to pick him up. Roger went on crying softly. He preferred to take his time about deciding that he wasn't hurt. And in the meantime the stranger young lady had come into the room and was looking round her in some surprise. "Has the little boy fallen down?" she asked in French. "Poor little fellow! Are they Madame Nestor's grandchildren?" "Oh dear, no," replied Anna, casting a contemptuous glance at Gladys and Roger, who, crouching on the floor in a corner of the always dusky little room, could not be very clearly distinguished. "Get up," continued she, turning to them, "get up at once and go to your own room." Frightened by her tone and by Roger's continued sobbing, Gladys dragged him up from the floor as well as she could, and escaped with him by the door leading upstairs, near to which they happened to be. Something in the sudden change of Anna's tone roused the young lady's suspicions. "Who are they, then?" she asked again. "And are you sure the little boy is not hurt?" "He cries for nothing, Mademoiselle--he is always crying. They are children our good Madame has taken in out of charity; it is very difficult to manage with them just now, poor little things. They have been so neglected and are so troublesome; but we must do our best till our dear Madame gets better," and then she went on into a long description of the accident, how she herself had just gone to spend two days with her sister, whom she had not seen for years, when she had been recalled, etc., etc., all told so cleverly that Rosamond went away, thinking that after all she must be a very good sort of young woman, and that it was not right to yield to prejudice. Yet still she could not quite forget the glimpse she had had of the two little creatures taken in "out of charity," and the sound of Roger's stifled sobs. Gladys and he stayed upstairs till they were called down to "déjeûner." It was cold, but they minded the cold less than sharp words and unkind looks. Gladys wrapped Roger up in a shawl and pulled a blanket off the bed for herself, and then they both cuddled down together in a corner, and she told him all the stories she could think of. By twelve o'clock they were very hungry, for in spite of Françoise's endeavours they had had much less breakfast than usual, but they had no idea what time it was, and were too frightened to go down, and there they would have stayed, all day perhaps, if Adolphe, reminded of them by his poor mother's constant questions, had not sent one of the apprentice boys to fetch them down, and meek and trembling the two poor little things entered the long narrow room where all the members of the household were seated round the table. But there was no kindly welcome for them as at dinner the day before. Monsieur Adolphe's usually good-humoured face looked worried and vexed. "Sit down and take your food," he said coldly. "I am very sorry to hear from Mademoiselle Anna how troublesome you have been this morning. I thought you, Mademoiselle, as so much older than your brother, who is really only a baby, would have tried to keep him quiet for the sake of my poor mother." Gladys's face turned scarlet; at first she could scarcely believe that she had heard aright, for it was very difficult to understand the young man's bad English, but a glance at his face showed her she was not mistaken. She clasped her hands in a sort of despair. "Oh, Mr. 'Dolph," she said, "how can you think we would be so naughty? It was only that Roger fell down, and that made him cry." "Do not listen to her," said Anna in a hard indifferent tone, "naughty children always make excuses." But the sight of the real misery in Gladys's face was too much for kind-hearted Adolphe. He noticed, too, that both she and Roger were looking pale and pinched with cold, and he had his own doubts as to Anna's truthfulness, though he was too much under her to venture to contradict her. "Don't cry, my child," he said kindly. "Try to be very good and quiet the rest of the day, and eat your déjeûner now." Gladys made a valiant effort to choke down her tears. "Is Mrs. Nest better to-day," she asked. The son shook his head. "I fear not," he replied sadly; "she has a great deal of fever. And I am, unfortunately, obliged to go into the country for a day or two about some important business." "You are going away! oh, Mr. 'Dolph, there will be no one to take care of us," cried Gladys, the tears rushing to her eyes again. The young man was touched by her distress. "Oh yes, yes," he said; "they will all be very kind to you. I will speak to them, and I shall be soon back again, and you and my little Roger will be very good, I am sure." There was nothing more to be said. Gladys tried to go on eating, though her hunger had quite left her, and it was difficult to swallow anything without crying again. Only one thought grew clearer in her mind--"I must write to Miss Susan." During the rest of the meal Adolphe kept talking to Anna about the work and other things to be seen to while he was away. "You must be sure to send to-morrow early to put up those curtains at the English ladies'--9 Avenue Gérard." "9 Avenue Gérard--that is their new house," said Anna, and the address, which she had already heard twice repeated, caught Gladys's ear. "And tell the one who goes to ask for the patterns back--those the young lady took away to-day. Oh, by the bye, did she see the children?" asked Adolphe. "No, you may be sure. That is to say, I hurried them out of the way, forward little things. It was just the moment she was here, that he, the bébé there, chose for bursting out crying," replied Anna. "I hope she did not go away with the idea they were not kindly treated," said Adolphe, looking displeased. "She thought nothing about them--she hardly caught sight of them." "She did not see that they were English--her country-people?" "Certainly not," replied Anna. "Do you think I have no more sense than to bother all your customers with the history of any little beggars your mother chooses to take in?" "I was not speaking of all the customers--I was speaking of those English ladies who might have taken an interest in these children, because they too are English--or at least have given us some advice what to do. I have already been thinking of asking them. But now it may be too late if they saw the children crying and you scolding them; no doubt, they will either think they are naughty disagreeable children or that we are unkind to them. Either will do harm. You have made a great mistake." He got up and left the room, afraid perhaps of saying more, for at this moment he could not afford to quarrel with Anna. Poor man, his troubles seemed to be coming on him all at once! Gladys understood very little of what they were saying, but she saw that Adolphe was not pleased with Mademoiselle Anna, and it made her fear that Anna would be still crosser to Roger or her. But she took no notice of them, and when they had finished she called Françoise, and told her to take them into the sitting-room and make up the fire. "P'raps she's going to be kind now, Gladdie," said Roger, with the happy hopefulness of his age. But Gladys shook her head. Monsieur Adolphe set off that afternoon. For the first day or two things went on rather better than Gladys had expected. Anna had had a fright, and did not dare actually to neglect or ill-treat the children. So Gladys put off writing to Miss Susan, which, as you know, she had the greatest dislike to doing till she saw how things went on. Besides this same writing was no such easy matter for her. She had neither pen, ink, nor paper--she was not sure how to spell the address, and she had not a halfpenny of money! Very likely if she had spoken of her idea to Adolphe he would have been only too glad for her to write, but Anna was a very different person to deal with. "If I asked her for paper and a pen she would very likely scold me--very likely she wouldn't like me to write while Mr. 'Dolph is away, for fear he should think she had been unkind and that that had made me do it," reflected Gladys, whose wits were much sharpened by trouble. "And I _daren't_ make her angry while we're alone with her." Thus the letter was deferred. Things might possibly have gone smoothly till Adolphe's return, for Anna _wished_ to avoid any upset now she saw how strongly the Nestors felt on the subject. But unfortunately bad-tempered people cannot always control themselves to act as their common sense tells them would be best even for themselves. And Mademoiselle Anna had a very bad and violent temper, which often got quite the mastery of her. So the calm did not last long. CHAPTER X. "AVENUE GÉRARD, No. 9." "One foot up and the other foot down, For that is the way to London town. And just the same, over dale and hill, 'Tis also the way to wherever you will." OLD RHYME. It was a very cold day, colder than is usual in Paris in November, where the winter, though intense while it lasts, seldom sets in before the New Year. But though cold, there had been sufficient brightness and sunshine, though of a pale and feeble kind, to encourage the Mammas of Paris either to take out their darlings themselves or to entrust them to the nurses and maids, and nursery governesses of all nations who, on every fairly fine day, may be seen with their little charges walking up and down what Roger called "the pretty wide street," which had so taken his fancy the day of the expedition with Monsieur Adolphe. Among all the little groups walking up and down pretty steadily, for it was too cold for loitering, or whipping tops, or skipping-ropes, as in finer weather, two small figures hurrying along hand-in-hand, caught the attention of several people. Had they been distinctly of the humbler classes nobody would have noticed them much, for even in this aristocratic part of the town one sometimes sees quite poor children threading their way among or standing to admire the little richly-dressed pets who, after all, are but children like themselves. And sometimes a burst of innocent laughter, or bright smiles of pleasure, will spread from the rich to the poor, at the sight of Henri's top having triumphed over Xavier's, or at the solemn dignity of the walking doll of five-year-old Yvonne. But these two little people were evidently not of the lower classes. Not only were they warmly and neatly dressed--though that, indeed, would hardly have settled the question, as it is but very seldom in Paris that one sees the children of even quite humble parents ill or insufficiently clad--but even though their coats and hats were plain and unfashionable, there was about them a decided look of refinement and good-breeding. And yet they were alone! "Who can they be?" said one lady to another. "Just see how half-frightened and yet determined the little girl looks." "And how the boy clings to her. They are English, I suppose--English people are so eccentric, and let their children do all sorts of things _we_ would never dream of." "Not the English of the upper classes," replied the first lady, with a slight shade of annoyance. "You forget I am half English myself by my mother's side, so I should know. You take your ideas of the English from anything but the upper classes. I am always impressing that on my friends. How would you like if the English judged _us_ by the French they see in Leicester Square, or by the dressmakers and ladies' maids who go over and call themselves governesses?" "I wouldn't _like_ it, but I daresay it is often done, nevertheless," said the other lady good-naturedly. "But very likely those children do _not_ belong to the upper classes." "I don't know," said the first lady. She stopped as she spoke and looked after the children, who had now passed them, thoughtfully. "No," she went on, "I don't think they are common children. I fancy there must be something peculiar about them. Can they have lost their way? Antoinette," she added suddenly, turning round. "You may think me very foolish and eccentric--'English,' if you like, but I am going to run after them and see if there is anything the matter. Look after Lili for a moment for me, please." Antoinette laughed. "Do as you please, my dear," she said. So off hastened, in her rich velvet and furs, the other lady. It was not difficult to overtake the children, for the two pairs of legs had trotted a long way and were growing weary. But when close behind them their new friend slackened her pace. How was she to speak to them? She did not know that they were English, or even strangers, and if they were the former that did not much mend matters, for, alas! notwithstanding the half British origin she was rather fond of talking about, the pretty young mother had been an idle little girl in her time, and had consistently declined to learn any language but her own. _Now_, she wished for her Lili's sake to make up for lost time, and was looking out for an English governess, but as yet she dared not venture on any rash attempts. She summoned up her courage, however, and gently touched the little girl on the shoulder, and all her suspicions that something unusual was in question were awakened again by the start of terror the child gave, and the pallid look of misery, quickly followed by an expression of relief, with which she looked up in her face. "I thought it was Anna," she half whispered, clutching her little brother's hand more tightly than before. "Mademoiselle--my child," said the lady, for the dignity on the little face, white and frightened as it was, made her not sure how to address her. "Can I do anything to help you? You are alone--have you perhaps lost your way?" The last few words Gladys, for she of course it was, did not follow. But the offer of help, thanks to the kind eyes looking down on her, she understood. She gazed for a moment into these same eyes, and then seeming to gather confidence she carefully drew out from the pocket of her ulster--the same new ulster she had so proudly put on for the first time the day of the journey which was to have ended with "Papa" and happiness--a little piece of paper, rather smudgy-looking, it must be owned, which she unfolded and held up to the lady. On it were written the words-- "9 Avenue Gérard." "Avenue Gérard," repeated the lady; "is that where you want to go? It is not far from here." But seeing that the child did not take in the meaning of her words, she changed her tactics. Taking Gladys by the hand she led her to one side of the broad walk where they were standing, and pointing to a street at right angles from the rows of houses bordering the Champs Elysées. [Illustration: "Go along there," she said, "and then turn to the left and you will see the name, 'Avenue Gérard,' at the corner."] "Go along there," she said, "and then turn to the left and you will see the name, 'Avenue Gérard,' at the corner." She pointed as she spoke; then she stooped, and with the sharp point of the tiny umbrella she carried, traced in lines the directions she had given, in the gravel on which they were standing. Gladys considered for a moment in silence, then she lifted her head and nodded brightly. "I understand," she said, "and thank you _very_ much." Then taking Roger's hand, which, while speaking to the lady she had let go, she smiled again, and whispering something to her brother which made him pluck off his little cap, the two small pilgrims set off again on their journey. The lady stood for a moment looking after them, and I think there were tears in her eyes. "I wonder if I could have done more for them," she said to herself, "Fancy Lili and Jean by themselves like that! But they know where they have to go to--they are not lost." "How kind she was," said Gladys, as she led her little brother in the direction the lady had pointed out. "It is not far now, Roger, dear--are you _very_ tired?" Roger made a manful effort to step out more briskly. "Not so _very_, Gladdie. But oh, Gladdie, I was so frightened when I felt you stop and when I saw your face. Oh, Gladdie, I thought it was _her_." "So did I," said Gladys with a shiver. "Would she have put us in prison?" he asked. "I don't know," said Gladys. "I heard her say something to Françoise about the police. I don't know if that means prison. But these ladies won't let her, 'cos you know, Roger, they're _English_, like us." "Is all French peoples naughty?" inquired Roger meekly. "No, you silly little boy," giving him a small shake, "of course not. Think of Mrs. Nest, and Françoise, and even that lady--oh, I didn't mean to make you cry. You're not silly--I didn't mean it, dear." But Roger could not at once stop his tears, for they were as much the result of tiredness and excitement as of Gladys's words. "Gladdie," he went on plaintively, "what will you do if those ladies aren't kind to us?" "They'll help me to send a tele--you know what I mean--a letter in that quick way, to Miss Susan," replied Gladys confidently. "That's all I'm going to ask them. They'd never refuse that." "And could Miss Susan get here to-day, do you think?" Gladys hesitated. "I don't quite know. I don't know how long it takes _people_ to come that way. But I'm afraid it costs a good deal. We must ask the ladies. Perhaps they'll get us a little room somewhere, where Anna can't find us, till Miss Susan sends for us." "But," continued Roger, "what will you do if they're _out_, Gladdie?" Gladys did not answer. Strange to say, practical as she was, this possibility had never occurred to her. Her one idea had been to make her way to the Avenue Gérard at once, then it had seemed to her that all difficulties would be at an end. "What's the good of saying that, Roger," she said at last. "If they're out we'll----" "What?" "Wait till they come in, I suppose." "It'll be very cold waiting in the street--like beggars," grumbled Roger. But he said it in a low tone, not particularly wishing Gladys to hear. Only he was so tired that he had to grumble a little. Suddenly Gladys pulled up. "There it is," she said. "Look up there, Roger; that's the name, 'Av-e-nue Gér-ard.' It's just a street. I thought an avenue would have been all trees, like in the country. Nine--I wonder which is nine?" Opposite to where they stood was No. 34. Gladys led Roger on a little bit and looked at the number on the other side. It was 31, and the next beyond that was 29. "It's this way. They get littler this way," she exclaimed. "Come on, Roger, darling--it's not far." "But if we've to wait in the street," repeated Roger faintly, for he was now possessed by this new idea. Gladys said nothing--perhaps she did not hear. "Twenty-seven, twenty-five, twenty-three," she said, as they passed each house, so intent on reaching No. 9 that she did not even feel frightened. Between seventeen and fifteen there was a long space of hoardings shutting off unbuilt-upon ground--nine seemed a very long time of coming. But at last--at last! It was a large, very handsome house, and Gladys, young as she was, said at once to herself that the English ladies, as she had got into the way of calling them, must be _very_ very rich. For she did not understand that in Paris one enormous house, such as the one she was standing before, contains the dwellings of several families, each of which is often as large as a good-sized English house, only without stairs once you have entered, as all the rooms are on one floor. "I wonder which is the front door," said Gladys. "There seem so many in there." For the great doors of the entrance-court stood open, and, peeping in, it seemed to her that there was nothing but doors on every side to be seen. "We must ask," she at last said resolutely, and foraging in her pocket she again drew forth the crumpled piece of paper with "No. 9 Avenue Gérard," and armed with this marched in. A man started up from somewhere--indeed he had been already watching them, though they had not seen him. He was the porter for the whole house. "What do you want--whom are you looking for?" he said. At first, thinking they _were_ little beggars or something of the kind, for the courtyard was not very light, he had come out meaning to drive them away. But when he came nearer them he saw they were not what he had thought, and he spoke therefore rather more civilly. Still, he never thought of saying "Mademoiselle" to Gladys--no children of the upper classes would be wandering about alone! Gladys's only answer was to hold out the bit of paper. "Avenue Gérard, No. 9," read the man. "Yes, it is quite right--it is here. But there is no name. Who is it you want?" "The English ladies," replied Gladys in her own tongue, which she still seemed to think everybody should understand. She had gathered the meaning of the man's words, helped thereto by his gesticulations. "The English ladies--I don't know their name." Only one word was comprehensible by the porter. "English," he repeated, using of course the French word for "English." "It must be the English ladies on the second floor they want. No doubt they are some of the poor English those ladies are so kind to. And yet--" he looked at them dubiously. They didn't quite suit his description. Anyway, there was but one answer to give. "The ladies were out; the children must come again another day." Gladys and Roger, too, understood the first four words. Their worst fears had come true! If Gladys could have spoken French she would perhaps have found courage to ask the man to let them come in and wait a little; for as, speechless, still holding poor Roger by the hand, she slowly moved to go, she caught sight of a cheerful little room where a bright fire was burning, the glass door standing half open, and towards which the porter turned. "That must be his house," thought Gladys in a sort of half-stupid dreamy way. It was no use trying to ask him to let them go in and wait there. There was nowhere for them--he seemed to think they were beggars, and would perhaps call the police if they didn't go away at once. So she drew Roger out into the street again, out of the shelter of the court, where the wind felt rather less piercing, and, without speaking, wandered a few steps down the street they had two minutes ago toiled along so hopefully. "Where are you going, Gladdie? What are you going to do? I knew they'd be out," said Roger, breaking into one of his piteous fits of crying. Gladys's heart seemed as if it was going to stop. What _was_ she going to do? Wait in the street a little, she had said to Roger. But how could they? The wind seemed to be getting colder and colder; the daylight even was beginning to fade a little; they were not only cold, they were desperately hungry, for they had had nothing to eat except the little bowl of milk and crust of bread--that was all Françoise had been able to give them early that morning. She had been out at the market when the children ran away from Anna in one of her terrible tempers, so Gladys had not even been able to ask her for a few sous with which to get something to eat. Indeed, had Françoise been there, I daresay they would have been persuaded by her to wait till Adolphe came home, for he was expected that evening, though they did not know it! "Roger, _darling_, try not to cry so," said Gladys, at last finding her voice. "Wait a moment and I'll try to think. If only there was a shop near, perhaps they'd let us go in; but there are no shops in this street." No shops and very few passers-by, at this time of day anyway. A step sounded along the pavement just as Gladys had drawn Roger back to the wall of the house they were passing, meaning to wipe his eyes and turn up the collar of his coat to keep the wind from his throat. Gladys looked up in hopes that possibly, in some wonderful way, the new-comer might prove a friend in need. But no--it was only a man in a sort of uniform, and with a black bag strapped in front. Gladys had seen one like him at the Rue Verte; it was only the postman. He glanced at them as he passed; he was a kind-hearted little man, and would have been quite capable of taking the two forlorn "bébés" home to his good wife to be clothed and fed--for there are many kind Samaritans even in careless, selfish big towns like Paris--but how were they to guess that, or how was he to know their trouble? So he passed on; but a house or two farther on he stopped again, being accosted by a gentleman coming quickly up the street in the other direction, just as he was turning in to the courtyard of No. 9. "There is only a paper for you, sir," he said to the young man, whom he evidently knew, in answer to his inquiry. "Will you take it?" "Certainly," was the reply; and both, after a civil good-evening, were going on their way when a sound made them stop. It was Roger--all Gladys's efforts had been useless, and his temper as well as his courage giving way he burst into a loud roar. He was too worn out to have kept it up for long at such a pitch, but while it lasted it was very effective, for both the gentleman and the postman turned back. "I noticed these children a moment ago," said the latter. "I wondered if they had lost their way, but I dared not wait." "I'll see what it is," said the young man good-naturedly. But the postman lingered a moment. "What's the matter?" asked the young man in French. "What's the little boy crying for?" he went on, turning to Gladys. But her answer astonished him not a little. She stared blankly up in his face without speaking for a moment. Then with a sort of stifled scream she rushed forward and caught his hands. "Oh you're the nice gentleman we met--you are--_don't_ say you're not. You're the English gentleman, aren't you? Oh, will you take care of us--we're all alone--we've run away." Walter kept her poor little hands in his, but for half a moment he did not speak. I think there were tears in his eyes. He had so often thought of the little pair he had met on the Boulevards, that somehow he did not seem to feel surprised at this strange meeting. "My little girl," he said kindly, "who are you? Where have you run away from? Not from your home? I remember meeting you; but you must tell me more--you must tell me everything before I can help you or take you where you want to go." "No. 9 Avenue Gérard; that's where we were going," replied Gladys confusedly. "But they're out--the ladies are out." "And we have to wait in the stre-eet," sobbed Roger. Walter started. "9 Avenue Gérard," he said; "how can that be? Whom do you know there?" "Some ladies who'll be kind to us, and know what we say, for they're English. I don't know their name," answered Gladys. Walter saw there was but one thing to be done. He turned to the postman. "I know who they are," he said rapidly in French, with the instinctive wish to save this little lady, small as she was, from being made the subject of a sensational paragraph in some penny paper. "I have seen them before. They had come to see my aunt, who is very kind to her country-people, and were crying because she was out. It will be all right. Don't let yourself be late. I'll look after them." And relieved in his mind the postman trotted off. Walter turned to Gladys again. "_I_ live at No. 9," he said. "Those ladies are my aunt and my sister. So the best thing you can do is to come in with me and get warm. And when my aunt comes home you shall tell us all your troubles, and we will see what to do." "And you won't give us to the police?" asked Gladys, with a sudden misgiving. "We've _not_ done anything naughty. Will the ladies come soon?" For though on the first impulse she had flown to Walter with full confidence, she now somehow felt a little frightened of him. Perhaps his being on such good terms with the postman, whose uniform vaguely recalled a policeman to her excited imagination, or his speaking French so easily and quickly, had made her feel rather less sure of him. "_You_ won't give us to the police?" she repeated. Walter could hardly help smiling. "Of _course_ not," he answered. "Come now, you must trust me and not be afraid. Give me your hand, my little man; or stay, he's very tired, I'll carry him in." And he lifted Roger in his arms, while Gladys, greatly to her satisfaction, walked quietly beside them, her confidence completely restored. "He's very polite, and he sees I'm _big_," she said to herself as she followed him into the court, past the porter's bright little room, from whence that person put out his head to wish Walter a respectful "good-evening," keeping to himself the reflection which explains so many mysteries to our friends across the water, that "the English are really very eccentric. One never knows what they will be doing next." CHAPTER XI. WALTER'S TEA-PARTY. "They felt very happy and content and went indoors and sat to the table and had their dinner."--_The Almond Tree._ BROTHERS GRIMM. Rosamond and her aunt had a good many commissions to do that afternoon. They had not long before this changed their house, and there were still a great many pretty things to choose and to buy for the new rooms. But though it was pleasant work it was tiring, and it was, too, so exceedingly cold that even in the comfortable carriage with its hot-water bottles and fur rugs, the young girl shivered and said to her aunt she would be glad to be at home again, and to get a nice hot cup of tea. "Yes," said her aunt, "and it is getting late. At this time of year the days seem to close in so suddenly." "I'm afraid it is going to be a severe winter. I do so dislike severe winters, Auntie," said Rosamond, who had spent some part of her life in a warm climate. "So do I," said her aunt, with a sigh, "it makes everything so much harder for the poor. I really think it is true that cold is worse to endure than hunger." "You are so kind, Auntie dear," said Rosamond. "You really seem as if you felt other people's sufferings your own self. I think it is the little children I am most sorry for. Perhaps because I have been such a spoilt child myself! I cannot imagine how it would be possible to live through what some children have to live through. Above all, unkindness and neglect. That reminds me----" She was going to tell her aunt of the children she had seen at Madame Nestor's, and of the sharp way the young woman in the shop had spoken to them, but just at that moment the carriage turned into the courtyard of their house, and the footman sprung down and opened the door. "I wonder what put those children in my head just now?" thought Rosamond, as she followed her aunt slowly up the wide thickly-carpeted staircase. "I suppose it was talking of the poor people, though they were not exactly poor." But a moment or two later she really felt as if her thoughts had taken shape, or that she was dreaming, when she caught sight of the most unexpected picture that presented itself to herself and her aunt on opening the door of their pretty "little drawing-room." [Illustration: Walter was having a tea-party!] The room was brightly lighted, the fire was burning cheerily--not far from it stood the low afternoon tea-table covered with a white cloth and heaped up with plates of bread-and-butter and cakes--while the tea-urn sang its pleasant murmur. And the group round the table? That was the astonishing part of it. Walter was having a tea-party! For an instant--they had opened the door softly and he was very much taken up with his guests--the aunt and niece stood looking on without any one's hearing them. Walter was seated in a big arm-chair, and perched on his knee was a very tiny little boy in an English sailor dress. He was a pretty fair child, with a bright pink flush on his face, and he seemed exceedingly happy and to be thoroughly enjoying the cup of hot but mild tea and slice of cake which his host was pressing on him. And on a small chair just opposite sat a pale-faced dark-eyed little girl with an anxious look on her face, yet at the same time an expression of great content. No wonder; she was only seven years old! Fancy the relief it must have been to delicate little Gladys to find herself again in a room like this--to have the comfort of the delicious fire and the food even, to which she was accustomed--above all, to see Roger safe and happy; if only it would last! "_This_ tea isn't too strong for him, is it, Gladys?" Walter said. And Gladys leaning forward examined it with a motherly air, that was both pathetic and amusing. "No, that's quite right. That's just like what he had it at home." The aunt and niece looked at each other. "Who _can_ they be?" whispered the aunt; but Rosamond, though she had scarcely seen the faces of the children in the Rue Verte, seemed to know by instinct. But before she had time to speak, Walter started up; the whisper, low as it was, had caught his ear and Gladys's too. She too got up from her seat and stood facing the ladies, while her cheeks grew still paler, and the anxious look quite chased away the peaceful satisfaction from her poor little face. "Auntie!" said Walter, and in his voice too there was a little anxiety, not lost on Gladys. For though he knew his aunt to be as kind as any one could be, still it _was_ a rather "cool" thing, he felt, to have brought in two small people he had found in the street without knowing anything whatever about them, and to be giving them tea in her drawing-room. "Auntie," he repeated, "this young lady, Miss Gladys Bertram, and her little brother had come to see you, to ask your help. I found them waiting in the street, the concierge had told them you were out; it was bitterly cold, and they had come a very long way. I brought them in and gave them tea, as you see." His face had flushed as he spoke, and there was a tone of appeal in his voice; he could not _before_ Gladys add what was on his lips: "You are not vexed with me?" "You did quite right, my dear boy," said his aunt heartily. "Rosamond and I are cold and tired too. We should like a cup of tea also, and then these little friends of ours will tell us all they have to tell." "I have seen them before," added Walter in a lower tone, going nearer his aunt under pretext of getting her a chair. "You remember the children on the Boulevards I told you about the other day? It is they." But Gladys, who till then had stood still, gazing at the ladies without speaking, suddenly sprang forward and almost threw herself into "Auntie's" arms. "Oh, thank you, thank you!" she exclaimed, bursting into tears. "I was just thinking perhaps you'd be vexed with _him_," she pointed to Walter, "and he's been so kind, and it _is_ so nice here. Oh, we couldn't, we _couldn't_ go back there!" and clasping her new friend still more closely she sobbed as if her overcharged heart would break. Auntie and Rosamond soothed her with the kindest words they could find, and then Auntie, who always had her wits about her, reminded Gladys that they too were very anxious to have a cup of tea, would she help to pour it out? She evidently knew all about it, whereupon Gladys's sobs and tears stopped as if by magic, and she was again the motherly capable little girl they had seen her on entering the room. Tea over--before thinking of taking off their bonnets--Auntie and Rosamond, and Walter too, made Gladys tell them all she had to tell. It was a little difficult to follow at first, for, like a child she mixed up names and events in rather a kaleidoscope fashion. But at last by dint of patience and encouragement and several "beginnings again at the beginning," they got a clear idea of the whole strange and yet simple story, all of which that was known to Gladys herself, you, my little readers, already know, except the history of the last miserable day in the Rue Verte, when Anna's temper had got the better of her prudence to such an extent as to make Gladys feel they could bear it no longer. She had struck them both in her passion that very morning when Françoise was at the market, and wild with fear, more for Roger than herself, Gladys had set off to ask help and advice from the only people she knew of in all great Paris who could understand her story. "Except _him_," added Gladys, nodding at Walter, "but we didn't know where he lived. I couldn't write to Miss Susan, for I hadn't any paper or envelopes. I thought I'd wait till Mr. 'Dolph came home and that he'd let me write, but I don't know when he's coming, and I hadn't any money, and if _she_--oh! if she had struck Roger again it might have killed him. He's so little, you know," and Gladys shuddered. There was silence for a few moments. Then Auntie turned to Walter. "The first thing to be done, it seems to me, is for you to go to the Rue Verte to tell the Nestors--Madame Nestor, that is to say--where these little people are. She will be very uneasy, I fear, poor woman." "Anna won't tell her, I don't think," said Gladys. "Poor Mrs. Nest--she is so kind. I shouldn't like her to be unhappy." "And," continued the lady, "you must ask for the children's clothes." Gladys's eyes glistened. "Do you mean, are you going to let us stay here?" she said; "I mean till to-morrow, perhaps, till Miss Susan can come?" "Where else could you go, my dears?" said Auntie kindly. "I don't know; I--I thought perhaps you'd get us a little room somewhere, and Miss Susan would pay it when she comes. I thought perhaps you'd send her a tele--, you know what I mean, and perhaps she could come for us that way. It's so quick, only it costs a great deal, doesn't it?" Auntie and Rosamond had hard work to prevent themselves laughing at this queer idea of Gladys's, but when her mistake was explained to her, she took it very philosophically. "Then do you think I should write to Miss Susan to-day?" said Gladys. "_You'll_ help me, won't you?" she added, turning to Rosamond. "I don't know very well how to write the address." "Of course I will help you, dear," said Rosamond, but her aunt interrupted. "I do not think little Gladys need write to-night," she said. "Indeed, perhaps it may be as well for me to write for her to the lady she speaks of. But now, Walter, you had better go off at once, and bring back the children's belongings with you. What were you going to say, dear?" for Gladys seemed as if she were going to speak. Gladys's face grew red. "Anna said once that she would sell our big trunk and all our best clothes--I mean she said Mrs. Nest would--to get money for all we had cost them. But I'm sure Mrs. Nest wouldn't. And when Papa comes he'll pay everything." The elder lady looked at Walter. "Try and bring away everything with you," she said. "Take Louis, so that he may help to carry out the boxes. Do your best anyway." It turned out easier than Auntie had feared, for Walter found Adolphe Nestor already returned, and in a state of frantic anxiety about the children. Knowing that they could not be in better hands than those in which they had placed themselves, he was only too thankful to let them remain there, and gave Walter all the information he could about Mr. and Mrs. Marton, who had confided the children to his mother's care. "She can tell you all about the family better than I," he said. "I think even she has the address of Madame Marton's mother, where her cousin was so long nurse. Oh, they are in every way most respectable, and indeed one can see by the children themselves that they are little gentlepeople. There must be something sadly amiss for the father not to have come for them. I fear even that he is perhaps dead." Then he went on to tell Walter that he had told Anna he could no longer keep her in his employment, and that all was at an end with her. "And indeed," he said, his round face getting very red, "I think no man would be happy with a wife with such a temper," in which Walter, who at eighteen considered himself very wise, cordially agreed. Adolphe had not told his mother of the children's flight, for she was still very feverish and excitable; but he said she would be relieved to know where they had found refuge. And then he gave Walter the English money which Mr. Marton had left for their use, and which his mother had kept unbroken. Walter took it, though reluctantly, but he saw that it would have hurt Adolphe to refuse it; and he also reflected that there were other ways in which the Nestors could be rewarded for their kindness. And so he left the Rue Verte with all the children's belongings safely piled on the top of the cab, and with a much more friendly feeling to the upholsterer than he had expected to have, promising to let him know the result of the inquiries his aunt intended immediately to set on foot; and also assuring him that they should not leave Paris without coming to say good-bye to him and his kind old mother. When the two tired but happy little people were safely in bed that night, their three new friends sat round the fire to have a good talk about them. "It is a very strange affair, really," said Walter. "I'm more than half inclined to agree with Nestor that the father must be dead." "But even then," said Auntie, "the friends in England who had charge of them would have known it, and would have sent to inquire about them." "That 'Miss Susan,' as they call her, seems to me to have thought of nothing but the easiest way to get rid of them," said Rosamond indignantly. "She should never have let them start without a letter or a telegram of Captain Bertram's being actually in Paris, and, as far as I can make out from little Gladys, she had not got that--only of his arrival at Marseilles and his _intention_ of coming." "Did Gladys mention Marseilles? Does she know where it is?" asked Walter. "Yes, she said the old lady whom they were very fond of showed it to her on the map, and explained that it was the town in France 'at which the big ships from India stopped,' Gladys is quite clear about all that. She is a very clever child in some ways, though in others she seems almost a baby." "Nothing about her would surprise me after her managing to find her way here," said Auntie. "Just fancy her leading that baby, Roger, all the way here from the Rue Verte!" "Do you know how she did?" said Rosamond. "She tore a little piece of paper off the edge of a newspaper and wrote the address, 'Avenue Gérard 9,' on it with an end of pencil she found lying about; and she showed this bit of paper to anybody 'kind-looking' whom they met, and thus she got directed. Was it not a good idea? She said if she had _asked_ the way the French people would not have understood her speaking." "Then what do you decide to do, Auntie?" said Walter. "Shall I telegraph in the morning to this Miss Susan, or will you write?" Auntie hesitated. "_I_ don't see how you can do either with much chance of it reaching her," said Rosamond. "Gladys, you know, said she was going to be married." "Well, supposing in the first place," said Auntie, "we were to telegraph to the principal hotels at Marseilles and ask if Captain Bertram is there--it would do no harm--it is just possible that by some mistake he is all this time under the belief that the children are still in England." "That's not likely," said Walter; "no one would stay on at a hotel in Marseilles all this time for no reason--three weeks, it must be. But it's not a bad idea to telegraph there first." "Gladys would be so pleased if it proved not to be necessary to send to 'Miss Susan' at all," said Rosamond, who seemed to have obtained the little girl's full confidence. "Well, we shall see," said Auntie. "In the meantime the children are safe, and I hope happy." "Mr. and Mrs. Marton must be in India by this time," said Walter. "_They_ don't seem to have been to blame in the least--they did the best they could. It might be as well to write to them if we had their address." "Perhaps old Madame Nestor may have it," said Rosamond. "The maid--her niece or cousin, whichever it is--may have left it with her." "We can ask," said Auntie. "But it would take a good while to hear from India, and very likely they would have very little to tell, for there is one thing that strikes me," she went on thoughtfully, "which is, the _Martons_ cannot have thought there was anything wrong when they got to Marseilles, otherwise they would have written or telegraphed to the Rue Verte, and certainly to the friends in England." She looked up as if to read in the faces of her two young companions how this struck them. "That's true," said Walter. "But it only adds to the mystery," said Rosamond. "Supposing," said Walter, "that the address has been lost--that of the Nestors, I mean--and that all this time Captain Bertram is hunting up and down Paris for his children?" "That does not seem to me likely," said Auntie. "He would have telegraphed back to England." "Where it wouldn't have been known, Rosamond," said Walter. "Rather to Mr. Marton in India." "If he had _his_ address," said Walter again. "Well, anyway _that_ could be got in England," said Auntie, a little impatiently. "No, no, Walter, it can't be that. Why, supposing Captain Bertram were here looking for his children, the _police_ could have found them for him in a couple of days. No; I very much fear there is more wrong than a mere mistake. Poor little dears--they still seem to have such unbounded faith in 'Papa's coming.' I only trust no harm has come over him, poor man." Walter telegraphed the next morning in his aunt's name to the two principal hotels at Marseilles, to inquire if Captain Bertram was or had been there. From one came back the answer, "No such name known." From the other the information that Captain Bertram had not yet returned from Nice, and that letters and his luggage were waiting for him at the hotel. "Just read this, aunt," he said, hurrying into the drawing-room, and Auntie did so. Then she looked up. "It is as I feared, I feel sure," she said. "Walter, you must go to Nice yourself, and make inquiries." "I shall start to-night," said the young fellow readily. "Stay a moment," said Auntie again. "We have the _Times_ advertisements for the last few days; it may be as well to look over them." "And the Saturday papers, with all the births, marriages, and deaths of the week put in at once," said Rosamond. "You take the _Times_," she added to her brother, going to a side-table where all the papers were lying in a pile, "and I'll look through the others." For a few moments there was silence in the room. Gladys and Roger were very happy with some of their toys, which they had been allowed to unpack in the dining-room. "Bertram, Bertram, no, I see nothing. And there's no advertisement for two lost cherubs in the agony columns either," said Walter. Suddenly Rosamond gave a little exclamation. "Have you found anything?" asked Auntie. "Nothing about Captain Bertram," she replied. "But I think this must be the old lady they lived with. 'Alicia, widow of the late Major-General Lacy,' etc., etc., 'at Market-Lilford on the 16th November, aged 69.' I am sure it is she, for Gladys's second name is 'Alicia,' and she told me it was 'after Mrs. Lacy.'" "Poor old lady--she must have been very kind and good. That may explain 'Miss Susan's' apparent indifference. It was fully a fortnight ago, you see." "Must I tell Gladys?" said Rosamond. "Not yet, I think," said Auntie. "We may have worse to tell her, poor child." "I don't know that it _would_ be worse," said the young girl. "They can't remember their father." "Still, they have always been looking forward to his coming. If it ends in _good_ news, it will make them--Gladys especially--very happy." "As for Roger, perfect happiness is already his," said Rosamond. "He asks no more than weak tea and bread-and-butter, Gladys always at hand, a good fire, and nobody to scold him." CHAPTER XII. PAPA AT LAST. "And now, indeed, there lacked nothing to their happiness as long as they lived."--_The Golden Bird._ BROTHERS GRIMM. Walter went off to Nice that night. The children were not told distinctly the object of his journey. They were allowed to know that he might be passing near "the big town by the sea," which poor Mrs. Lacy, in her kind anxiety to make all clear, had pointed out to Gladys on the map; but that was all, for Auntie wished to save them any more of the nervous suspense and waiting of which they had had so much. She wished, too, to save them any suffering that could be avoided, from the fear of the sorrow, really worse than any they had yet known, which she often dreaded might be in store for them. "Let us make them as happy as ever we can for these few days," she said to Rosamond. "Nothing like happiness for making children strong and well, and they will soon forget all their past troubles." And Rosamond was only too ready to give her assistance to the kind plan, so that in all their lives Gladys and Roger had never been so much made of. The ladies were too wise to overdo it; they found too that it was very easy to amuse these simple little creatures, who had never known since they were born the slightest approach to "spoiling" or indulgence. Everything pleased them. The mere living in the pretty luxurious house--the waking up in the morning to the sight of the bright dainty room, where already a cheerful little fire would be blazing, for the weather continued exceedingly cold. The tempting "little breakfast" of real bread-and-butter and tea--for both Gladys and Roger found they had got very tired of chocolate--the capacious bath and abundance of hot water--above all, the kind and loving and gentle looks and words which surrounded them--all these would have been enough to make them happy. And a drive in Auntie's beautiful carriage, either into the centre of the town "to see the shops," or now and then to visit one of the wonderful old churches with their mysterious height of roof and softly brilliant windows, and _sometimes_, still better, the beautiful swelling organ music which seemed to them to come from nowhere, yet to be everywhere. Ah! those expeditions were a delight Gladys had never even dreamt of, and which little Roger could scarcely take in. They very much changed their opinion of Paris in those days, and no longer called it "an ugly dirty town," as it had seemed to them in their first experience at the Rue Verte. "And when Papa comes, we'll take him to see all these beautiful places, won't we?" said Gladys, for with rest and peace of mind had come back all her pretty childish hope and trust in that "coming." "Yes, dear," said Rosamond. But then she began quickly to speak to the little girl of the pretty colours of the still remaining beech leaves in the Bois de Boulogne, through which for a change they were that day driving. For she could not reply with any confidence in her tone, and she did not want the child to find out her misgiving. Walter had been gone three days and had written twice--once a hurried word to tell of his arrival, once the following day to tell of failure. He had been to two or three of the hotels but had found no traces of Captain Bertram, but there still remained several others, and he hoped to send by his next letter if not good yet anyway more certain news. So Auntie still put off writing to "Miss Susan," for though since seeing the announcement of Mrs. Lacy's death she did not blame her as much as at first, she yet could not feel it probable that the young lady was suffering great anxiety. "In any case I had better wait till Walter tells us _something_," she said to Rosamond. "And when I do write I do not know how to address the letter. Gladdie is sure she was to be married a very few days after they left, but she cannot remember the name of the gentleman, whom she has only seen once or twice, as he lived at a distance, and had made Miss Susan's acquaintance away from her home." "Address to her maiden name--it would be sent after her," suggested Rosamond. "But Gladdie is not sure what that is," replied Auntie, half laughing. "She doesn't know if it is 'Lacy,' or if she had a different name from her aunt. She is such a baby in some ways. I am sure she has not the slightest idea what _our_ surnames are. You are 'Rosamond' and I am 'Auntie.'" "Or 'Madame' when she speaks of you to the servants. She is getting on so nicely with her French, Auntie. That reminds me Louis has been to the Rue Verte, and has brought back word that Madame Nestor is much better, and would be so delighted to see the children any day we can send them." "Or take them," said Auntie. "I would not like them to go without us the first time, for fear they should feel at all frightened. And yet it is right for them to go. They must always be grateful to Madame Nestor, who did her very best for them." "Gladys confided to me she would be a little afraid of going back, though she knows that Anna is no longer there. But she says she will feel as if they were going back to _stay_ there, and as if _this_ would turn out to be only a beautiful dream." "Poor little dear," said Auntie. "And she's going to take her new doll--both to show her off, and that she may feel _she_ isn't a dream! She has such funny ideas sometimes. Auntie----" "What, dear?" "If Walter can't find the father--I suppose I should say if he is dead--what is to be done?" "We must find out all we can--through that Miss Susan, I suppose--as to who are the children's guardians, and what money they have, and all about it." "I wish we could adopt them," said Rosamond. "We're rich enough." "Yes; but that is not the only question. You are almost sure to marry." "I don't know that," said Rosamond, but her face flushed a little. "And Walter, too, some day." "Oh, Auntie! Walter! Why he's only eighteen." "Well, all the same, time goes on, and adopting children often causes complications. Besides, it is not likely that they have _no_ relations." "Well, we shall see what the next letter says," said Rosamond. It was not a letter after all, but a telegram, and this was what it said:-- "Found Bertram. Will explain all. Returning to-morrow." The aunt and niece looked at each other. "He might have said a little more," said the latter. "This is only enough to rouse our curiosity." "We must say nothing to the children yet," decided Auntie. "I do hope, as he is alive," said Rosamond, "that he's a nice good sort of man. If he weren't, that would be worse than anything--having to give up the children to him," and she looked quite unhappy. "Don't let your imagination run away with you so, my dear child," said Auntie. "It's very unlikely that he's not nice in every way. Remember what Gladys says of his kind letters, and how fond Mrs. Lacy was of him, and how she always taught them to look forward to his return. No; _my_ fears are about his health, poor fellow." The children went the next morning with Rosamond and her maid to see Madame Nestor, and Rosamond brought back with her to show her aunt a letter Madame Nestor had just received, which threw a little light on one part of the subject. It was from Léonie telling of Mr. and Mrs. Marton's arrival at their destination, and alluding to the children as if she had no doubt that they had only been left two or three days at the Rue Verte. "Monsieur," meaning Mr. Marton, "was so glad," she wrote, "to find at Marseilles that the children's Papa was going on to Paris almost at once. He had left a letter for Captain Bertram at the hotel, as he had gone to Nice for a day or two; and Madame had only just had time to write to the ladies in England to tell how it had all been. And she was writing by this mail to ask for news of the "dear little things," as she called Gladys and Roger. They had thought of them all the way, and Madame thanked Madame Nestor so much for her kindness. She--Léonie--hoped very much she would see them again some day. Then she presented her compliments to her cousin Adolphe, and promised to write again soon--and that was all." "It is still mysterious enough," said Auntie; "but it shows the Martons were not to blame. As Mr. Marton has written to England again, we shall probably be hearing something from 'Miss Susan' before long. It _is_ strange she has not written before, as she has had the Rue Verte address all this time, I suppose." And here, perhaps, as 'Miss Susan' is not, to my mind nor to yours either, children, I feel sure, by any means the most interesting person in this little story, though, on the other hand, she was far from without good qualities, it may be as well to explain how it had come to pass that nothing had been heard of her. Mrs. Lacy grew rapidly worse after the children left, but with her gentle unselfishness she would not allow her niece's marriage to be put off, but begged her on the contrary to hasten it, which was done. Two days after it had taken place, Susan, who had gone away for a very short honeymoon, was recalled. She never left Mrs. Lacy again till she died. I think the saddest part of dying for the dear old lady was over when she had said good-bye to her little favourites. For some time Susan felt no anxiety about the children, for, from Marseilles, she had heard from young Mrs. Marton of Captain Bertram's not having met them in Paris, and of the arrangement they had been obliged to make. But, that arrived at Marseilles, they had found he had gone two days before to Nice, to look for a house for his children, the landlord said, whom he was going to Paris to fetch. He had left all his luggage there, and had intended to be back this day or the day before, the landlord was not sure which, and to go on to Paris. No doubt he would be returning that same evening, only, unfortunately, his newly-arrived friends Mr. and Mrs. Marton would have gone, but he faithfully promised to deliver to him at once the letter Mr. Marton wrote and left for him. "It seems the only thing to do," added young Mrs. Marton, "and I do hope it will be all right. Captain Bertram must have mistaken a day. Anyway he will know where to find the children, I enclose their address to you too--at least I will get it from Léonie before I shut this letter, for I do not remember it, so that in case you do not hear soon from Captain Bertram you can write there." But in her hurry--for just as she was finishing the letter, her husband called to her that they must be off--the young lady forgot to enclose the address! So there was nowhere for Susan to write to, when, as the days went on and no letter came from Captain Bertram, she did begin to grow uneasy, not exactly about the children's safety, but about their father having gone for them. "Still," she said to her husband, "if he had _not_ got them with him, he would have written to ask where they were. He was never a very good correspondent. But I wonder he hasn't written to ask how my aunt is. I hope there is nothing the matter. I _hope_ I did not do wrong in letting them go without actually knowing of his being in Paris." Of course her husband assured her she had not. But her conscience was not at rest, for Susan had grown gentler now that she was happily married, and she was softened too by the thought of her kind aunt's state. All through the last sad days the children kept coming into her mind, and though Mrs. Lacy was too weak even to ask about them, Susan felt almost guilty when she finally tried to thank her for her goodness. "I don't deserve it," she thought, "I was not kind to the two human beings she loved best," and she wrote over and over again to Captain Bertram at the Marseilles hotel, begging him to send her news of the children, and when Mrs. Marton's letter came from India repeating what she had before written from Marseilles, but with of course no further news, and no mention of the Paris address, poor Susan became so unhappy that her husband promised to take her over to make inquiries in person if no answer came to another letter he sent to Marseilles to the landlord of the hotel, begging him to tell all he knew of Captain Bertram's movements. This letter brought a reply, as you will hear, from Captain Bertram himself. It was evening before Walter arrived. Gladys and Roger were in bed and asleep. Auntie and Rosamond were waiting for him with the greatest anxiety to hear his news. He looked bright and cheery as he came into the room, still enveloped in his wraps, which he began to pull off. "It's nice and warm in here," he said; "but, oh, it's so cold outside. And it was so mild and sunny down there; I would have liked to stay a day or two longer. It was to please _him_ I hurried back so quickly--poor man, he is in _such_ a state about the children!" "But, Walter, what is the meaning of it all? Why has he not come himself?" "Do you like him?" put in Rosamond. "Awfully," said Walter boyishly. "He's just what you would expect their father to be. But I'm forgetting--I haven't told you. He's been dreadfully ill--he can only just crawl a step or two. And all this time he's not had the slightest misgiving about the children, except the fear of not living to see them again of course. He's not had the least doubt of their being safe in England; and only just lately, as he began to get well enough to think consecutively, he has wondered why he got no letters. He was just going to try to write to that place--Market-Lilford--when I got there. So he was mystified too! But we got to the bottom of it. This was how it was. He was feeling ill at Marseilles--he had put off too long in India--and he thought it was the air of the place, and as he had some days to pass before he was due in Paris, he went on to Nice, thinking he'd get all right there and be able to look about for a house if he liked it. But instead of getting all right he broke down completely. He wrote out a telegram to tell Miss Susan that he was ill, and that she must not start the children. It would have been in plenty of time to stop them, had she got it, but she never did." "Never got it," repeated both ladies. "No; the waiter told him it was all right, but it wasn't. His writing was so bad that at the office they couldn't read the address, and the message was returned from London the next day; and by that time he was so ill that the doctor wouldn't allow them to ask him a thing, and he probably wouldn't have understood them if they had. This, you see, he's only found out since I got there. The doctor was meaning to tell him, but he took his time about it, and he did not know how important it was. So, in a way, nobody was to blame except that Miss Susan. That's what Bertram says himself; but while I was there he telegraphed to Marseilles for his letters. There were several from her, and the last so frantic that he's writing to say it's all right; especially as she's been very cut up about the poor old lady's death. But she shouldn't have started the children till he telegraphed _from Paris_. Besides, he had told her to send a maid with them for the journey. It wasn't the Martons' fault; they did their best." "Was he distressed at hearing of Mrs. Lacy's death?" asked Auntie. "_Very_," said Walter; "it put him back, the doctor said; but he'll be all right when he sees the children. If you had seen him when I told him about their finding their way to us, not even knowing our names, all over Paris! He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He's weak still, you know. And then he's so _dreadfully_ grateful to us! I was glad to get away." "And when does he want them?" said Rosamond dolefully. "As soon as possible. He can't come north this winter. And he's not rich, I can see. So I was thinking----" "What, my boy?" "It _is_ so cold here," repeated Walter; "it really feels terrible to come back to. Supposing we all go down there for a couple of months or so, to escape the cold? We could keep the children till Bertram is strong again and able to make his plans. I think we'd feel quite queer without them now. Besides, I promised him to bring them back to him." "What do you say, Rosamond?" said Auntie. "I should like it very much. It would be so nice not to part with them just yet." So it was decided. You can imagine how much had to be told to the children the next day. Mingled sadness and happiness--warp and woof of the web of life! But when they found themselves once more on the railway, with the kind friends they had learnt to know so well, really on the way to "Papa," I think the happiness was uppermost. He proved to be the dearest of Papas; not the very least like what they had imagined him. "Of course not," Gladys said; "people and things are never like what one fancies they will be." But though he was older and grayer, and perhaps at first sight a little _sadder_ than she had expected, he grew merry enough in the great happiness of having them with him, and as he gradually got strong and well again he seemed, too, to become younger. "Anyway," said Gladys, a few weeks after their arrival at Nice, "he _couldn't_ be nicer, could he, Roger?" in which opinion Roger solemnly agreed. "And now he's getting better," she added; "it's not a bad thing he's been ill, for it's made the doctor say he must never go back to India again." * * * * * Is that all there is to tell about the "two little waifs?" I think I must lift the curtain for an instant "ten years later," to show you little Roger a tall strong schoolboy, rather solemn still, but bidding fair to be all his father could wish him, and very devoted to a tiny girl of about the age at which we first saw Gladys, and who, as her mother is pretty Rosamond, he persists in calling his "niece," and with some show of reason, for her _real_ uncle, "Walter," is now the husband of his sister Gladys! And long before this, by the bye, another marriage had come to pass which it may amuse you to hear of. There is a new Madame Nestor in the Rue Verte, as well as the cheery old lady who still hobbles about briskly, though with a crutch. And the second Madame Nestor's first name is "Léonie." She is, I think, quite as clever as Mademoiselle Anna, and certainly _very_ much better tempered. And whenever any of the people you have heard of in this little book come to Paris, you may be sure they pay a visit to the little old shop, which is as full as ever of sofas and chairs, and where they always receive the heartiest welcome from the Nestor family. I wish, for my part, the histories of all "little waifs" ended as happily! THE END. BEDFORD STREET, COVENT GARDEN, LONDON. _October_, 1883. _Macmillan & Co.'s Catalogue of Works in_ _Belles Lettres, including Poetry, Fiction, etc._ * * * * * =ADDISON,= SELECTIONS FROM. By JOHN RICHARD GREEN, M.A., LL.D. (Golden Treasury Series.) 18mo. 4_s_. 6_d_. =ADVENTURES OF A BROWNIE, THE.= By the Author of "John Halifax, Gentleman." With Illustrations by Mrs. ALLINGHAM. New Edition. Globe 8vo. 4_s_. 6_d_. =ÆSOP.=--SOME OF ÆSOP'S FABLES. With Modern Instances shown in Designs by RANDOLPH CALDECOTT. From New Translations by ALFRED CALDECOTT, M.A. The Engraving by J. D. COOPER. Demy 4to. 7_s_. 6_d_. =ALLINGHAM.=--THE BALLAD BOOK. 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With Illustrations by ARTHUR HUGHES, and Engraved Title-Page by JEENS. Small 4to, cloth extra. 6_s_. LYRICAL POEMS. Extra fcap. 8vo. 6_s_. ORIGINAL HYMNS. Third Edition, enlarged 18mo. 1_s_. 6_d_. VISIONS OF ENGLAND; being a series of Lyrical Poems on Leading Events and Persons in English History. With a Preface and Notes. Crown 8vo. 7_s_. 6_d_. GOLDEN TREASURY OF THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICS. Edited by F. T. PALGRAVE. 18mo. 4_s_. 6_d_. SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS AND SONGS. Edited by F. T. PALGRAVE. With Vignette Title by JEENS. (Golden Treasury Series.) 18mo. 4_s_. 6_d_. THE CHILDREN'S TREASURY OF LYRICAL POETRY. Selected and arranged with Notes by F. T. PALGRAVE. 18mo. 2_s_. 6_d_. And in Two Parts, 1_s_. each. HERRICK: SELECTIONS FROM THE LYRICAL POEMS. With Notes. (Golden Treasury Series.) 18mo. 4_s_. 6_d_. =PANSIE'S FLOUR BIN.= By the Author of "When I was a Little Girl," "St. Olave's," &c. Illustrated by ADRIAN STOKES. Globe 8vo. 4_s_. 6_d_. =PATER.=--THE RENAISSANCE. 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59967	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file file which includes the original lovely illustrations in color. See 59967-h.htm or 59967-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/59967/59967-h/59967-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/59967/59967-h.zip) ON ANGELS' WINGS [Illustration: Violet's Surprise. _Page 89._] ON ANGELS' WINGS BY THE HON. MRS. GREENE London, Edinburgh, and New York Thomas Nelson and Sons _CONTENTS_ _I._ _Little Violet_ 9 _II._ _Mother's Farewell_ 16 _III._ _A Sad Discovery_ 21 _IV._ _Father's Love_ 28 _V._ _A Strange Book_ 43 _VI._ _Great Excitement_ 48 _VII._ _Fritz and Ella_ 55 _VIII._ _A Bitter Cry_ 76 _IX._ _Aunt Lizzie's Visit_ 87 _X._ _The Parting Kiss_ 105 _XI._ _The Bunch of Violets_ 115 _XII._ _The Silver Watch_ 127 _XIII._ _Noisy Friends_ 136 _XIV._ _Evelina_ 144 _XV._ _Weighed in the Balances_ 151 _XVI._ _Father's Letter_ 159 _XVII._ _The Kind Physician_ 166 _XVIII._ _Sorrowful Tidings_ 181 _XIX._ _A Bright Prospect_ 192 _XX._ _All Alone_ 212 _XXI._ _A Guilty Conscience_ 232 _XXII._ _A Startling Message_ 239 _XXIII._ _Great Preparations_ 249 _XXIV._ _A Grievous Disappointment_ 259 _XXV._ _Wings at Last_ 270 _XXVI._ "_No more Tears_" 283 _LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS._ _Violet's Surprise_ _Frontispiece._ _Violet helps her Father_ 32 _Learning the News_ 52 _Going forth to War_ 76 _Carving the Cake_ 98 _The Farewell Kiss_ 114 _Reading the Letter_ 163 _The Procession_ 275 ON ANGELS' WINGS. CHAPTER I. LITTLE VIOLET. Every one knew little Violet. She sat always in a small window which projected out over the street, and her purple frock and pale face were looked for and recognized by almost every passer-by. She had sat in that curious turret-shaped window for four years--in winter, in spring, in summer, in autumn. Other children made snow men and pelted snowballs in the street beneath, while she looked on from above and laughed and clapped her hands. In the spring the little ones went off by the score and gathered yellow and purple crocuses, of which not a few found their way into Violet's lap, or bloomed again in the vases which stood on the sills of the old-fashioned eight-sided window. She loved to have those flowers, and took them from the children's hands with her brightest and most grateful smile. Later on they brought her violets, sweet wood-violets, and trailing ground-ivy; but for these flowers she now had no smile, only tears, which gathered and multiplied, and which would, despite all her efforts, run down her purple dress in large, bright drops. For was not she herself called Violet? and had not some one, not so long ago, often whispered this word to her in a voice which seemed for ever in her ears?-- "My own sweet Violet, lay thy head on mother's breast and rest thee a while. My little Violet is sweeter to me than all the flowers in the town." And now that Violet had no mother, she could scarcely bear to look at the purple blossoms which they brought to her in bunches; and yet she put them aside, and, when they were withered, treasured them all in "mother's Bible," which lay always on a little table beside her. In summer, in the gap at the far end of the street, between the church and the fountain, she could always catch a glimpse of the hills--the beautiful green hills, covered with trees to the very top, and from whence, in the autumn, the children returned laden with nuts, baskets and satchels and boxes full; and though Violet did not eat nuts, they made tea-things out of the shells, and had doll tea-parties in the old turret-window. A year ago she had been a very happy little girl; and although even then she could not walk, nor run, nor jump about like other children, still she never fretted about it. She had some one always with her who made the long days pass so happily, that she never stopped to ask herself why she was unlike the others, or why all the neighbours as they went by looked up at her with such pity in their eyes. Only once for a few moments she had seemed to understand something about it, when little Fritz Adler, her great friend, going by riding on a stick with a horse's head attached to it, shrieked up to her from the street beneath in great pride,-- "Ha, ha, Violet! look at me how I can prance; thou couldst not do so if thou triedst." "I could," she shouted. "By-and-by, when I can run like thee, I will ride too." "No, no, thou never wilt," screamed Fritz, giving his wooden horse a lash with his leather whip. "I wanted to give thee this horse, this very one; Ella had bought thee this very whip; but mother said 'No,' it would be folly to give thee such a present." "Why?" asked Violet. "Why, Fritz, did she say that?" "Ah! thou knowest thou art not like other children." "Why am not I like other children?" "Because thou canst not run or even walk about like me and Ella. Mother says thou art a little hunchback, and it would hurt thy poor back to ride and prance like this;" and Fritz, again lashing his horse, began to plunge violently up and down on the pavement opposite. "Fritz, what didst thou say? I am what?" but he could give no answer, for his mother, who lived in the little baker's shop across the road, rushing out, promptly secured the offender, and having given him a smart slap across the face, dragged him back into the house. "Mother, what did he say I was? and why did his mother slap him? He called me a little hunchback. What does that mean, mother?" Violet's mother had not been attending to the conversation. She had been working at a little white frilled pinafore for her daughter at a table near the stove, and she had just taken the crimping irons from the heart of the fire, red-hot and smoking; but when she heard these words she dropped them suddenly on the floor, and in a moment she was on her knees in front of little Violet's chair, and covering the child's thin white hands with kisses. "What does it signify what it means; he is a cruel boy to call thee such a name. Thou art my darling, my treasure, my sweetest Violet. Thou art the most precious little girl in all the town." Somewhat amazed at her mother's sudden anguish of mind, and at the passionate way she kissed her cheeks and stroked her hair, Violet gazed at her with eyes which widened and dilated, and then she seemed for a few moments lost in thought; after which she said, in her usual quiet voice, with only the faintest tinge of trouble in it,-- "Mother, dear, is this a hump I have on my back? and is that the reason why I sit in this chair and cannot walk?" "Dearest," replied her mother almost in a whisper, "my heart's love, do not fret or think any more about what Fritz said. Thou art one of God's own little children, and is not that the best thing of all?" Violet nodded her head--it was a way she had of agreeing to things said to her; but still she was not quite satisfied, for after a pause she said anxiously,-- "But did God give me this hump, mother? and what is in it that it pains me so?" As she asked this question, she gave a sudden sob, and some tears fell on the front of her pretty purple dress. "Do not cry, my sweetest treasure," cried the mother, drawing the child's head down on her shoulder, and once more covering it with kisses. "What does it matter what we are like here? If thou canst not walk nor run here, by-and-by Christ will carry my little lamb in his bosom; and if thou hast a hump on thy back now, what does it matter? Some day the good Lord Jesus will call my little one to himself, and then all the pain will be gone; and where the poor shoulders ache so much now, thou wilt have wings, shining wings, and thou wilt never cry there any more, but always be quite happy." "And Violet will have wings!--thou knowest that?" said the little girl, lifting her head suddenly from her mother's shoulder and looking earnestly into her face. "Yes, darling." "Beautiful, shining, silver wings; and no more hump and no more pain?" "No more hump and no more pain," replied her mother softly. "And thou wilt be there, dearest mother?" "Yes, sweetest treasure, I trust I shall be there." "And father?" "And father also." "And Fritz; will he be there? Will he not, mother?" "I hope so. Yes; but it was not kind of him to speak roughly to my little one." "His mother slapped him," said Violet sorrowfully. "He deserved it," replied her mother somewhat sharply. The little girl gave a long sigh; and pressing one of the tears which still stood in a bright drop on the front of her dress with the tip of her finger until it disappeared in the purple cashmere folds, she said softly,-- "I love Fritz. I must tell him what thou hast just told me, that though I cannot run or jump like him or Ella, some day, not very far away, when the Lord Jesus calls me, I shall have wings. Is it not true, mother?" "Quite true," she answered with an effort, then turned quickly away towards the stove and resumed her ironing. CHAPTER II. MOTHER'S FAREWELL. A year had flown away since that eventful day when Fritz had somewhat roughly awakened Violet to the fact that she was a little hunchback, and that she was never to run or walk like him or Ella; and now everything connected with this little life of hers was changed. The young mother with the fair hair and the blue eyes and the warm, loving heart, had flown away before her little girl. The good Lord Jesus had called her first, and she was asleep now in the little churchyard beside the church which stood at the end of the street. She could not shelter nor protect her little girl any more from hurtful words, nor press her to her heart to soothe the pain which they had caused her. She could not sit beside her in the window and read and talk to her till the hours flew by almost unnoticed, so that Violet often forgot that her back ached and that her legs were weary. It had come so suddenly too--at least to Violet it was sudden. She had not noticed the short coughs, or the quick breathing, or the flushed cheeks; only to her eyes her little mother, as she always called her, grew more lovely every day. But one night when she was asleep, and dreaming of a wooden go-cart which Fritz had promised to make for her the next day, her father came to her bedside and called to her to awake. "Violet, my darling, thou must awake. Come with me to thy mother; she is calling for thee." "For me," she said, rising up with sleepy eyes and tossed hair. "Where is dear mother, and why does she want me in the night?" Her father stooped down over the bed and lifted her up in his arms very gently, for it hurt her to lift her up quickly or roughly; and without answering her he carried her through the doorway into the inner room. "Mother, dear, why dost thou want me in the night?" asked Violet, sleepily stretching out her arms towards the bed in which her mother lay. "Is it night?" she replied in a voice which sounded quite strange to the little girl's ears. "John, where is my darling? I cannot see her; put her here, close beside me.--There, sweetest one; lay thy head on mother's breast." Violet placed her head on her mother's shoulder, and stretching out her little arm, threw it lovingly round her neck. "What ails sweet mother?" she said softly. "Art thou sick?" "Ay, sick unto death. Mother has sent for her little girl to bid her good-bye. Mother must say adieu to her poor sick girlie; but father will love thee, oh, so well.--Is it not so, beloved? Thou hast always been better to her than many mothers." "Yes, yes," he said huskily; "never fear, thou knowest that I love her." "And by-and-by she will follow me to heaven. Is it not so, John? She will be glad to find me there." "Yes, darling, yes. And now kiss thy little one, and I will carry her back to bed;" for the childish eyes were beginning to dilate with a strange terror, and Violet was shrinking nervously back against the wall. "Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye," cried the poor mother, clinging to the little white figure as John lifted her from the bed; "when Violet has wings she will fly to her dear mother in heaven, will she not?" "Yes," replied Violet, her face brightening up with a broad, sweet smile as her father lifted her in his arms, and she leaned her cheek against his, "beautiful silver wings; but mother must not go to heaven to-night, for to-morrow Fritz is to bring me my cart, and mother has promised to put a cushion in it and wheel Violet round the room." Her father carried her back to her bed and laid her down, oh, so softly and tenderly, and kissed her with a long kiss, longer than any he had ever given her before, and then he went back into the room and closed the door. Violet did not hear anything more. She looked for some time at the beautiful purple sky outside, filled with thousands of shining stars. She saw the roofs of the houses with their pointed gables; and on the top of the chimney opposite she could see the grave figure of a stork standing upright in the starlight beside its nest. She felt sad at first and trembled a little, she did not know why. For why had her mother called her in the middle of the night and said good-bye to her? Where was she going? She had never gone away anywhere from her before, and to-morrow she had promised to give her that ride in Fritz's cart, and to tell her again that story about the cruel tailor who ran his needle into the elephant's trunk; and Violet smiled and forgot her troubles as she remembered how the elephant filled his great trunk at the gutter and splashed it all over the tailor as he sat cross-legged at his work in the open window; and soon, her mind growing more composed, and somewhat tangled with sleep, she thought she heard the tailor crying somewhere outside in the street. She did not like to hear him sobbing; and every time she looked up, the elephant was still shooting up water into the air; but the bright drops which she saw were the stars still twinkling on the dark back-ground of the sky, and the sobbing came from the next room, where her father was kneeling brokenhearted by the bedside on which her little mother lay dead. CHAPTER III. A SAD DISCOVERY. It was not for many days that Violet understood that her mother was really dead; perhaps, indeed, she did not quite understand it for many months to come. It seemed so strange to her that in the morning when she opened her eyes her father was boiling the kettle on the stove, and arranging the little wooden tray, which was always laid on her bed, with her morning meal, hot and tempting, placed upon it. It was he, too, who, lifting her gently up, placed the pillows behind her poor tired shoulders, and propped up her back so that she could sit forward and eat her egg and the sweet rolls which the baker sent across the street every day, fresh and smoking, for her breakfast. "Where is mother?" she asked each morning with a little sorrowful smile; for her father was so good and kind, and he sat so patiently beside her bed, and buttered the bread with such care that she did not want to cry or sob, though there was such a lump in her throat that she could not swallow what he gave her. "Where is mother, dear father? She did not come to see me all yesterday." "She was not able to come," he said in a low voice. "But where is she? Is she in the next room?" John bowed his head over the tray, but made no answer. "Here, eat thy egg, little one; it will be cold." "Mother always lifts the top off for me," said she with a sob. "Ah, so she does. I am afraid father is a poor old stupid, is he not?" She looked up hurriedly, her father's voice sounded so strangely and his fingers trembled as he tried clumsily to lift the white top off the egg. Then she saw that tears were streaming down her father's face and trickling down his beard; and thinking she had pained him by her words, she threw her arms around his neck and cried out sorrowfully,-- "Thou best father, thou art not a bit stupid. I love thee, oh so much. The breakfast is too nice; only mother always eats a piece of my cake and drinks some of the milk, and thou must do so too." "Yes, yes, of course." John drew his hand hastily across his face, and broke off a piece of the cake. He drank a mouthful of the milk, and then quickly rising, he laid the piece of cake on the table by the stove, and went into the other room. It was the next day that Violet was told the truth, though the truth was to remain to her for many a long day a strange and cruel mystery. When she opened her eyes at the usual hour the following morning her father was not there, and only old Kate the servant, who waited on all the various lodgers in John's house, was in the room, standing by the stove, and pouring some water into a saucepan. "Where is father?" asked Violet, raising herself up painfully in the bed, and gazing around her with a frightened air. "He has gone out," replied Kate, keeping her back turned towards the child. "Go to sleep. He said I was not to wake thee till he came home." "But I am awake." "Never mind; thou must go to sleep again. He said thou wert on no account to awake or to speak until he returned." "But I cannot go to sleep again," cried Violet, beginning to whimper a little. "I can never go to sleep again in the mornings unless mother lifts me up in the bed and settles my pillows. Is mother gone out too? She has not come in these three mornings to see me." Kate did not answer the question, for at this moment she had upset some of the water out of the saucepan upon the top of the stove, and it frizzled and made a great hissing and noise. Meanwhile Violet had raised herself upon her elbow, and was gazing steadily at the door of her mother's room. "Kate," she said presently, in a low, coaxing voice, "couldst thou not carry me in thy arms in there? I know thou art very old, but father always says I am not heavier than a fly." "Thy father would be very angry if I were to attempt to carry thee. He is far too careful of thee to trust thee to my old bones." "But thou must do it, Kate." Then suddenly raising her voice till it sounded quite shrilly through the house, she cried out, "Mother, mother, may I not go into thy room? Dear mother, answer me. Violet's back aches, and she wants to lie in thy bed." "Tush! tush!" said Kate, coming hurriedly to the bedside of the little girl, and putting her hand softly on her shoulder; "thou must not cry and clamour so, it is no use; thy mother is not in there. She cannot hear thee; thou wilt only disturb the neighbours." "She is there, she is there. Open the door. She cannot hear me with all that noise down there in the street. Do open the door, that I may call to her." "There is no use calling to her, poor little lamb," said Kate, sitting down on the bed beside her and wiping away her burning tears. "She cannot hear thee. They have taken her away this morning, and she will not come back any more.--The child must know the truth some time," muttered Kate uneasily to herself. "Her father should have told her before he went out." "Why did they take her away?" asked Violet, still all unconscious of the bitter truth conveyed by the words. "Well, because it was arranged that she was to go this morning." "But where--where? Canst thou not answer me, Kate? Canst thou not tell me where is my little mother gone?" "She is gone to heaven," replied Kate, turning away her head and lifting her apron to her eyes. "Poor child, why does she ask me such questions?" "To heaven!" said Violet with a little start and then a long gasp of childish agony. "My mother, my own dear mother. She is not gone away, she is not gone to heaven without her little Violet; it is so far, so far away." "Hush, hush, child! It is not so very far away. Thou must not cry so. If thy father were to hear thee he would be angry with me that I have told thee." "My father is not gone to heaven too?" she cried, starting up from her pillows with a fresh burst of agony. "O Kate, Kate! father will not leave his little Violet.--Father, father, come, come to Violet." At this moment the door opened, and her father came in. His face was deadly pale, and he walked over to the bed with a look of absolute horror in his face. "My darling, my sweet one," he cried; "here is thy father. Why dost thou call for him so? What troubles thee? What makes thee cry? Father is here now; he cannot bear to see thee weep. What ails thee, my sweetest treasure?" "They have taken mother away out of the next room. I screamed to her, and she would not answer. And--and Kate says she will never come back to me any more." John looked up at the old servant with questioning eyes, full of deepest anger drowned in pain. "I could not help it, sir. The child awoke and made such a clamour I had to tell her. What wouldst thou have had me to do?" and the old woman burst into a fit of such unfeigned weeping that John uttered not a word of reproach, but turned again to soothe his little trembling darling. "Did the good Lord Jesus call my little mother away?" asked Violet with quivering lips. "Yes, my heart's treasure, he did," replied he hoarsely. "And he gave her wings?" "Yes, yes." "And Violet is only a poor little hunchback, and has no wings; and mother said he would call me first." John laid his head down on the pillow and sobbed. CHAPTER IV. FATHER'S LOVE. It was thus that Violet came to know that her mother was dead; but weary days and leaden months went by before she ceased to watch and wait for her; and each morning she only awoke to a fresh surprise, a fresh thrill of pain, a fresh wrestling of spirit against what could never be altered. While her father was in the room she seemed always able to repress the anguish of her little heart. He was so tender, so pitiful; he tried so earnestly to imitate the loving ways and words of the poor dead mother. But when he went out in the morning to the office for his orders, or to the forest to select wood for his trade, and his daughter was left temporarily under the charge of Kate, then it was that all the world seemed going wrong, and that Violet's tears flowed almost ceaselessly. Kate had a kind, loving heart, but she had, oh, such hard and sharp bones: and she had not learned by long and watchful practice the easiest way to lift the poor invalid. Each day when she raised Violet from her bed and placed her in her bath before the stove, there were bitter cries of pain and sobbing cries for "mother." Kate, too, was somewhat stupid and clumsy in the matter of dressing her charge. She had long sharp nails, which often scraped her little neck and arms; and the strings of the petticoats so often got into knots, which it took tedious minutes to undo again. Each day when John came home for his dinner at twelve, he found little Violet's eyes red with tears, and her usually pale face swelled and blotched with the traces of past grief. "Couldst not thou dress me, father?" she had said once pitifully. And he had promised to try; but he had not proved much more successful than Kate. The buttons of his coat had hurt her, and the strings of the little petticoats were to him an impossibility. He was a great big man, with hands like a giant; and he had a willing loving heart, bigger than his whole body, and yet the knots perplexed him even more than they did Kate; and after one trial even Violet said with a smile,-- "I am afraid father is not a very good dresser, is he?" To which he replied with a laugh,-- "No; I am afraid father is a regular old botch." But she saw as he turned away that there were tears in his eyes. After this she made no further lamentations over her dressing. It was not that Kate improved much, but she felt that the traces of her tears and her heavy eyes pained her father to his very heart. She saw it in his face each day as he entered the room at dinner time. She saw the anxious look of inquiry, and then the smile of relief as their eyes met, when there were no blistered cheeks or heavy eyelids to cause him sorrow. Her father was by trade a wood-carver, or perhaps more strictly speaking a toy-maker. He was wonderfully clever, and could make lovely boxes with carved fruit and flowers on their lids; and he could design and execute panels of cedar and walnut covered with the most delicate traceries; but his chief employment was making toys, jack-in-the-boxes, Noah's arks, sheep-folds, wooden soldiers, and wooden cannon, nine-pins, and heaps of other playthings; for the town was famous for its toy-shops, and John worked for one of the largest stores, and was well known to be the most skilful hand at the trade. He had a little workshop on the ground-floor of the house, where he had his lathe and where he kept all his tools, and the wooden boxes also into which, when the toys were finished, he packed them for the foreign market. In the old days, when the little mother was upstairs, and he knew that his Violet was happy, he used to sit in this little den for hours at a time, carving and singing; while the toys which were to fill the hearts of the foreign children with delight grew under his hands in a marvellous way. But now John never sang, and the work he formerly delighted in seemed to have lost its interest. At last he thought he would bring some of his work upstairs and sit of an evening in the window of Violet's room. Of course all the lathe-work and the coarser wood-carving must be done downstairs, but he could generally find some occupation which would not litter the room above, and which did not require noisy hammering or filing. Violet was enchanted at this new arrangement. She loved to see her father at his work, and to watch the piece of shapeless wood grow gradually under his hand into the form he wished it to assume. Above all, she loved to see him carving the animals for the Noah's arks. When he had this work to do he always sat close up beside her in the window; and as he finished each animal he used to place it for her approval on the window-sill, until sometimes all the narrow ledges were covered with elephants and ducks and pigs, apparently walking along in very solemn array. By-and-by he allowed her to help him in his work. He bought her a little paint-box, and he taught her how to colour some of the animals, the yellow canaries, the doves, and the speckled geese. He made her, too, a little table to fit exactly in front of her chair, very tall, with rails to it in front, on which she could place her feet, so that when she worked she need not lean forward to tire her back. The little birds and foxes and squirrels which she painted were far more beautifully coloured than those ordinarily placed in Noah's arks, because the colours she used were much finer than those in common use; so the good John could say with truthful pride to the neighbours who sometimes dropped in of an evening to chat with him and Violet,-- [Illustration: Violet helps her Father. _Page 32._] "See what my little daughter can do; see how she helps me at my work. There are no such animals to be seen in all Edelsheim." And then Violet's pale face would flush with pleasure, and tears, born of happy blushes, would fill her eyes while the neighbours looked admiringly at the yellow weasels and the little red foxes, coloured perhaps a thought too brightly, but still very pretty to look at. The toys, too, with which her room was now well stocked were a great attraction to the children of the neighbourhood; and, where guns and drums and swords were to be had for the asking, the little ones of course loved to congregate. There was beginning to be a talk now about a war with France, and the children's ideas took all of a sudden a most warlike turn. They banged the drums and blew the wooden trumpets and slashed at the chairs and tables till the din was horrible, and sometimes Violet's head ached, and she wished they would go away. But when they did go away, and the shadows grew long, and John had not returned from the forest, or was busy turning some critical work in his lathe, then she wished they were back again; for when she was alone the old ache always began at her heart, the old cry came again to her lips, "Mother, sweetest mother, come back to me." Of all the children who came to sit or play with Violet, she loved Fritz Adler the best. He and his little sister Ella were her almost daily visitors. Fritz's mother, the baker's wife opposite, always complained that Fritz was the "wildest fly" in all the town; and there certainly appeared to be an unusual amount of life about him, but perhaps this was just what made his company so pleasant to her. He always brought into her room a bright face and a hearty laugh, a great rush of free joyousness, which seemed to lift the heart of the sick child out of its languor and make it beat for the time healthily and happily. Besides this, she had trust in Fritz. He had never told her a lie, and she relied implicitly on all he said to her. With his curling hair and his bright eyes, his fresh colour and his careless stride, he was the very embryo of a young German soldier, prepared to conquer or to die, and fear had no place in his heart. A greater contrast than he presented to poor little Violet could not be imagined. She was so still, so pale, so passive. Her eyes, instead of sparkling, were grave, large, and almost the colour of her violet dress; and since her mother's death Fritz was almost the only person who had succeeded in making her laugh outright, and even this had been on very rare occasions. Ella, like her brother, was the very personification of rude health. She had rosy cheeks, curly fair hair which hung over her shoulders, dimpled hands, and great sturdy legs. She was simply Fritz's shadow. He exercised the same curious influence over her which he did over Violet. When Fritz galloped up and down the street, sword in hand, threatening death to every Frenchman who ever breathed, Ella was sure to be following behind him as fast as her fat legs would allow, imitating his every word and gesture. When Fritz fell unexpectedly into the gutter, Ella was certain to fall on the top of him; when Fritz sat in his little wooden cart drawn by Nero, the great black Newfoundland, and rushed down the cobbled hill at full speed, Ella was invariably beside him, with her fair hair floating out behind her in a yellow halo, and her fat legs propped on the little wooden board in front of her. If there was one thing more than another that Violet longed to be able to do, it was to drive in this cart. When she saw the wooden box flying down the street past the window, with the children seated in it, her heart gave great leaps of excitement, and she leaned almost dangerously forward in her chair to see them reach the foot of the hill. But the coming home was somewhat more tedious. Nero was very good at galloping down hill, but exceedingly bad about coming up it again. Fritz generally urged him forward on these occasions by stout tugs at his tail and fearful guttural sounds, in which Ella joined until her very cheeks grew purple; but Nero had evidently not a sensitive tail, and when toiling up the hill he seemed also to grow quite deaf. It tired Violet to watch them returning; for when she heard Fritz's excited adjurations, and saw Ella's cheeks blown out like a roasted apple, she felt somehow as if she were drawing the carriage up the hill herself; and her shoulders used to ache so that she had to give up looking out of the window, and lean back in her chair. Violet had a little basket fastened to a cord, which she could let down into the street from her window, and into which the children and the neighbours were in the habit of putting little presents. The baker's wife, Fritz's mother, often ran across the street and put in gingerbread cakes, still warm from the oven. The confectioner's boy, too, as he went by with his loaded tray of dainties, had a commission from his master to drop a package of sugar almonds or other sweets into the little wicker-work basket. Fritz, also, who was ingenious, had contrived an arrangement by which a little bell could be rung from the street up into her little turret-window whenever there was a gift waiting below for her in the street. But Fritz was also exceedingly mischievous; and one day, when he had rung the bell somewhat violently, and Violet had let down her small basket, she had found inside when she opened it only a large yellow frog squatting on a vine leaf, which immediately leaped out, first on her purple dress, and then upon the floor, where the cat pounced on it, and Violet's screams rang through the house. But Fritz had already reached the door, and the frog was carried off in his red pocket-handkerchief, and replaced among the cabbages in the back garden. After this she always opened her basket cautiously, especially when the bell was rung with unusual violence. And on one occasion, observing the legs of a cockroach issuing from the wicker sides of the basket, she opened the lid with special care, and seeing its contents, she turned the basket upside down, and shook everything quickly into the street beneath. The punishment was complete; for Fritz, who was standing directly underneath and gaping upwards, received a perfect shower of cockroaches on his face; and little Ella, also, who was smilingly gazing up at the window, had to rush into the shop opposite, to her mother, to have some of the struggling black creatures released from her web of yellow hair. This was one of the occasions on which Violet had really laughed. It would have been impossible not to do so, as the mirth which rose up from the street beneath was infectious to the last degree. Fritz's father, standing at his door, and over whose head clouds of steam were issuing from the bakery beyond, laughed at his son's discomfiture till the tears ran down his cheeks; and even the grim policeman walked out into the middle of the street, partly to avoid the black insects which were swarming on the narrow pavement beneath, and partly to catch a sight of little Violet's face. He had heard her laugh, and it had sounded like music in his ears; but now, as she glanced out quickly, he walked on again with a steady tread and a face like iron. His sword clanked against the pavement, and the spike on his helmet shone severely bright, and none could guess, as he passed them, that the heart so tightly fastened up within his blue uniform was soft as the baker's dough in the shop beside him, or that his eyes were blinded at this very moment with sudden tears. There were occasions when even he had placed gifts in the basket;--little toys which other hands had played with; story books which other eyes had feasted on greedily, and on whose pages were the marks of the little fingers which had held them once, so tightly and eagerly grasped; and occasionally a bundle of snowdrops had been dropped in hastily, whose stalks had been rolled in damp moss to keep them fresh till the morning, for he always placed his gifts in the basket at night-time. He rang no bell; no eye saw him. He did not call out to the little figure seated in the window above, with the shaded lamp burning on the table beside her; he asked for no thanks, but passed on with the same official tread, the same clanking sword, and the same ache for ever at his heart. Violet never knew who it was that placed these presents in her basket. She often asked Fritz if he could guess; but though he did guess the butcher, the chestnut-seller, and the lamplighter, simply because they had children, he never thought of the grave policeman, who so often, as he walked past, threatened to put him in prison. Violet treasured these gifts more than all her other presents. She felt, by a kind of instinct, that there was some story connected with them. On the fly-leaf of one book she had read with a sudden sting of strongest pain these words,--"For my own sick girlie, from her little mother." "Her little mother!" She had gazed at the crabbed characters till this word seemed to rise up off the page and enter into her very heart; immense tears gathered in her eyes, and fell in stars of bitterness upon the paper,--"For my own sick girlie, from her little mother." In the evening she had said to Fritz in a low voice, almost imploring in its entreaty,-- "Couldst not thou, dear Fritz, find out for me who gave me this?" "I have told thee already," replied Fritz, who was busy sharpening a wooden sword on the hard edge of the lowest window-sill. "It is the lamplighter; I am certain of it. Whenever he goes by with his ladder and lantern, I remark he is always looking up at this house and at thee; and, besides, his pockets are always bulged out as if he had heaps of things in them." The reasoning was, no doubt, good; but it did not satisfy Violet. "But has he any children, Fritz?" she asked softly and a little doubtfully, for Fritz sometimes grew impatient if his words were questioned. "Of course he has--hundreds of them." "But are any of them sick--sick, I mean, like me?" she pleaded anxiously. "Sick like thee?" he repeated vaguely, for his mind was still engrossed entirely with sharpening the deadly blade which he held in his hand; which he did by moistening it in his mouth and rubbing it on the wood before him, so that the window-sill was now quite black with paint, and so were his lips--"Sick like thee? How can I tell? All I know is, he has only one child, and she is the greatest goose in all the town--that fat red-haired girl called Minna, who sits under the red umbrella on the steps of the chapel and sells fruit." Violet shook her head and sighed. Fritz's description of the lamplighter's daughter did not fit in with her thoughts at all. The little sick maiden reading the book given her by her mother did not resemble in any point Fritz's fat girl selling fruit on the chapel steps. Again she sighed heavily, and murmured to herself, half in a whisper, "Oh, I wonder!" "What do you wonder about? What do you want to know? I'll tell you if you don't bother," said Fritz quickly. "I want to know if Minna could ever have had a 'little mother.'" Fritz had by this time succeeded in smashing the blade of the sword short off close to the very handle, and was standing up now, looking very red and angry opposite her, with a fearful smudge of paint on his lip and another on his cheek. "Violet!" he cried passionately, "see what thou hast made me do! Thou art a little goose thyself." He waved the broken stump of the sword in his hand, and then he stopped. Violet's book had slipped off her knees on to the floor, and Fritz, with his natural rough politeness, had stooped to pick it up. As he did so, he saw the written inscription on the fly-leaf. For a full minute he gazed at it; then looking up covertly at her, he saw that she had tears in her eyes. "Violet," he cried remorsefully, with his two stout arms stretched out to embrace and comfort her, "don't cry; it could not be the same girl, for," he added with decision, "Minna never had any mother; of that I am quite sure." CHAPTER V. A STRANGE BOOK. That evening, when John returned from the forest, he found his little daughter flushed and excited, with her eyes shining purple in the twilight and a strange earnestness in her manner, which, he feared, spoke of a sudden uprising of fever,--that fever which was so slowly but surely wasting away her little life. "Thou hast not been very long by thyself, hast thou, my sweet one?" he said anxiously, as he looked at the eyes raised up so lovingly to his, but still full of some strange and hidden tremor. "Oh no, Fritz has been here; and, besides, I have been reading." She glanced with almost the nervousness of guilt at the little table beside her, and moved herself restlessly on her chair. "My darling has been tiring herself, I fear," said John, sitting down on the window-sill beside her, and putting his great arm round her lovingly. "Well, now that father is returned, dost thou know--canst thou guess what he has been about all the afternoon?" "No, father," she said softly, laying her head down on his shoulder with a long, weary breath. Her thoughts were evidently engrossed by some subject of which he knew nothing. "Ah, my sweet one must not sigh like that," he said, drawing her tenderly towards him; "it makes father's heart ache; and, besides, when Violet hears father's news, instead of crying, she will almost fly out of her chair with joy." "What!" she cried, sitting so suddenly up that John was almost terrified, and had to loose his close grasp of his little girl; "tell me, father, quickly, quickly, tell Violet thy news." John gazed at her in silent wonder. He did not understand this mood--the brightly-glittering eyes, the deepening flush, the expression of a burning but unspoken anxiety, and the constant restless motion of the little hand which lay hot and dry in his palm. "What hast thou been reading?" he asked curiously, stretching out his arm towards the little table beside her, on which now for the first time he had noticed a book--a strange book with a yellow-spotted paper cover and red edges. It was open, but was turned down upon the Bible which always rested on the table beside her chair--her mother's Bible, the most precious thing she had in all the world. "Who gave thee this new book, and what story hast thou been troubling thy poor head with?" he asked kindly, as he would have lifted it from its resting-place. "Ah, do not touch it," she cried quickly, as she withdrew one hand from his grasp and laid it on the yellow-spotted cover; "I have not finished it yet. It is too lovely a story, and--first--first I must tell it all to Fritz; and then--then, father, if Fritz says it is true, then I will tell it all to thee." She ended her sentence with a quick sob of excitement. "Who gave thee the book, Violet?" "I do not know, father." She rubbed her fingers up and down the cover restlessly. "Thou dost not know?" "No; I have tried to think, but cannot tell. Fritz said perhaps it was the lantern-man gave it to me; but then his girl never had any mother." "My little life, my heart's blood, what ails thee? Let us talk no more of books or lantern-men, but instead, we will speak of the grand carriage that father is going to make for his Violet," cried John, beside himself with a sudden fear that the fever had risen to the sick child's head, and was filling the poor, weary brain with distracting fancies. He lifted her out of her chair with tenderest love, and, sitting down by the stove, all forgetful of the evening meal which he so much needed after his day's work, he told her, in quiet, unexcited tones, as he rocked her gently to and fro on his knee, how all the week he had been thinking over a design of a little carriage which he was going to make for her, and for which he had gone that afternoon to the forest to choose wood--a carriage with springs, which could go over the cobbles outside and not shake her poor back, and into which her pillows could all be put, and in which she would be as comfortably propped up as if she were in her chair at home. "And if that does not succeed, and my little one is too tired to drive, then we shall make a carriage with handles to it, and we shall carry thee everywhere thou choosest to go. Fritz and I can take thee out on Sundays for long drives. Is it not so, Violet?" "Yes, thou and Fritz," she echoed softly; "and then I can go down the hill and see the place where mother is asleep; cannot I, father?" "Yes, my heart, we will go there first." "Will she know I am there? Is she too far up, father?" "I cannot tell, darling." "But if--if--if Violet had--" The question died on her lips, and John had become strangely silent. By-and-by, as the room darkened and the long summer evening grew shadowy, he rose up and lifted his little weary daughter in his arms and laid her down on her bed. This time the knots came undone without trouble, and no Kate was needed to assist in putting on the white frilled night-dress, or to shake up the pillows behind her aching shoulders. John seemed to-night to have hands like her mother's, so softly did he lay her down and so quietly did he sit by her side stroking her hair while she said the prayers her mother had taught her, and to which her little lips remained ever faithful. As he leaned over her to give her his good-night and a kiss, she said softly, "Another kiss, father;" which having received, she murmured to herself lovingly, "Good-night, father; good-night, mother;" and soon she was fast asleep. CHAPTER VI. GREAT EXCITEMENT. When John knew by Violet's regular breathing that she was fast asleep, he rose gently from his seat beside the bed and went over to the little table, on which lay, amongst so many others of the child's treasures, the mother's Bible and the gold-spotted book. He took them up with quite a reverent, almost a guilty touch, and placed them with care upon the larger table at the foot of the bed. Then he lit the lamp, shaded it, and having once more leaned over the bed to see that Violet slept, he sat down to look at this new book in the pretty paper cover which seemed by its contents to have so excited and interested her. He placed his finger in the page at which he found it open, and turned first to look at the title. He smiled rather sadly as he read the name, for it was a book that he remembered well having read himself when he was a youngster. He had forgotten the stories now, but he recognized the clumsy woodcut which had had the power not so long ago to thrill his own heart with a feverish excitement, and make it beat with a mixed enthusiasm and distress. But it was with no mixed distress that his eye fell on the page where he had just placed his finger, and which had evidently been the centre point of poor little Violet's interest. On one side of the open book was a plate, divided by the old-fashioned style into three consecutive pictures, one above, one in the middle, and one at the foot of the page. On the opposite side was a short poem, consisting of three verses, each verse explanatory of the plate opposite it. It was called "The Hunchbacked Girl;" and as his eyes fell on the name and the pictures which accompanied it, he closed the book hurriedly, and said in a voice straining between anger and tears, "How wicked! They shall answer to me for this." But by-and-by, making a strong effort over himself, he opened at the page again and stared at the plates and the print until he saw them no more. The first picture represented a woman lying, evidently at the verge of death, in one of the garret rooms of a house situated in a large town; for one could see through the open window the roofs of houses opposite and the top of a church steeple. By her side knelt a man with a child in his arms, which he was holding up towards its mother to receive from her a last embrace; for her hands were outstretched also: and underneath were written the words, "Auf wiedersehen" (To meet again). The second picture represented a little child propped up in a chair at the same window, with its head resting on its hand and its eyes looking out desolately across the roofs and the steeple to the sky beyond. Underneath, in small text, were printed these two words, pathetic in their simplicity, "Ganz allein" (All alone). In the third picture the room was the same, but the chair stood empty at the window. The little pallet in the corner was empty also; but in the centre of the apartment, with eyes steadfastly uplifted, and with a radiant smile upon its face, stood the little hunchbacked child. On either side was an angel, holding it by its hands; and from between its poor, weary shoulders had sprung up two shining wings, rising into the air behind it, and apparently stretching themselves out for flight. Underneath was written, in the same small, close, old-fashioned printing, "Keine thräne mehr" (No more tears). John did not trust himself to look at the story. He laid his face down on the page and stretched out his hand on the table, while his fingers closed tightly on his palm. "God help my little Violet," he said bitterly to himself; "as long as I live she shall never be left alone." But even as he spoke, while his head was still bowed over the open page before him, and his heart throbbed heavily against the wooden table, he was aware of an unusual stir in the street beneath, a hum of voices rising higher and higher, the trampling of many feet, and far off, near the barrack square, a bugle call, loud and shrill, which made him start up from his sitting posture and walk quickly to the window. But what a sight it was his eyes fell upon! The street, so silent and peaceful a few minutes ago, and to all intents and purposes empty, was now a surging mass of human beings. All Edelsheim seemed gathered together in this one narrow thoroughfare. Every moment the voices were becoming louder, the excitement greater. It was with difficulty the lamplighter could force his way through the crowd to light the large lamp which hung in the centre of the street on a chain suspended across the roadway from the Adlers' house to his own. John opened the window for a moment, and looked out across the wooden box filled with violets which stood in the old mullioned embrasure. "Hist," he cried, leaning down and trying to catch the attention of some one immediately beneath the window, "what has happened?" The question was heard, for a woman looking suddenly upwards to see who spoke, flung her arms high up into the air and cried out in a shrilly voice of anguish, "War is proclaimed." He closed the window as suddenly as he had opened it, gave one glance towards the little bed to see that Violet was still asleep, and then sank down upon the broad window seat with his face covered. [Illustration: Learning the News. _Page 52._] War is proclaimed! Only three words, and yet the whole town was already rocking with their import. Bells were ringing, shouts were rising, men and women stood so closely packed beneath that one could have walked across their heads with safety. Exultant youths, full of their young life and young blood, so soon to be given and spilt for God and Fatherland, were flinging their caps in the air; men, too, with beards and grizzled hair, shouted and gesticulated frantically; others, grave and silent, turned their voices inward and cried aloud to the God of the fatherless and widow. Fritz, in his night-dress, at the little gable window opposite, was blowing a shrill tin trumpet and screaming out, in his high, boyish voice, "War, war, war!" which was echoed by a still higher treble in the room beyond. At last Violet stirred. It was almost impossible that with such a din going on outside she could sleep on. In a moment John had risen and was kneeling at her bedside. His hand had clasped the little fingers which lay so loosely upon the knitted counterpane. His bearded check was close to the white face on the pillow, barely discernible now in the closely-shaded light of the lamp which burned at the foot of the bed. He was ready with the word of love to quiet her alarms, and with a kiss to soothe her back to sleep, but they were not needed. She merely moved restlessly to and fro on her pillow, and muttered to herself in some dreamful excitement,-- "Look! look out into the street! What dost thou see, father?" John bent low over the child's face and touched it gently with his lips. He must have kissed her then, or his heart would have broken. Even in her sleep Violet knew who was bending over her. "Father," she said softly. "Yes, my heart's love, I am here beside thee." "Seest thou? is it not lovely?" "What? what?" he asked with a sob. "The little hunchback has wings." After this she gave a long, restful sigh, and turned her head against her father's arm. Nor did the noise in the street disturb her any more, though the cries at times rose almost to shrieks, and though the lamp in her room burned on unextinguished until daylight had taken its place. CHAPTER VII. FRITZ AND ELLA. The next day there seemed little if any diminution of the excitement. The crowd was not quite so dense; but ordinary business appeared for the time almost suspended. People were rushing up and down the street with slips of paper in their hands on which were printed the latest telegrams; and persons who were usually engrossed with their work in the early hours of the day were standing at the doors of their shops and houses discussing the great news of impending war, news which gathered with every hour fresh confirmation. Violet, of course, seated as usual in her chair in the window, could not but notice the bustle and the stir beneath; but it did not frighten or distress her, for her father had brought his work up to her room quite early this morning, and when he was near her she always reposed on his strength and courage in place of her own. But John was both distressed and disturbed; and presently seeing that Violet's hair was a little blown about by the wind, he made it a pretext for closing over the casement, so that she might not hear what the people were talking about so earnestly in the street underneath; and for a time his efforts were successful. It was only as the day wore on and it came near the time when he had to go to the store for orders that she grew restless, and the anxious pleading look came into her eyes which he never could bear to see, and which to-day he felt less able than ever to withstand. "I shall not be long away, darling," he said softly as he gathered up his tools and laid them on the broad window-sill beside her. "See, I am not taking away my work materials, and I shall be back almost before thou thinkest that I am gone. I will send Kate to sit with thee, and thou canst teach her how to paint the ducks for the magnet-box, only this time I would not give them scarlet wings; black, I think, would be better." Violet smiled at the idea of Kate's trying to paint the ducks--Kate, who was so blind that she could not see a cockroach creeping across the kitchen floor, and the length of whose nails would sadly interfere with her holding the paint-brush. "I would rather have Fritz to sit with me," she said plaintively. "Fritz! ah, well; but is not this the time for his school?" "He has not been at school all to-day. I have seen him ever so often at the window. See, father, he is there now; and oh! only look what a dress he has got on." She burst out laughing, and even John with his heavy heart could not repress a smile, for there at the window opposite stood Fritz with an enormous spiked helmet on his head; a huge military coat buttoned across his chest, which covered his whole body; and a pair of riding-boots on his legs, which evidently encumbered him a good deal, for just at this moment, while John and Violet were gazing at him, he made a sudden rush at some unseen enemy beside the curtain, and one of the boots doubling up at the ankle he fell waddling on the floor, his helmet tumbling off his head and going almost out of the window, while all his efforts to get up again, even with the assistance of fat Ella, who tugged at him with all her might and main, were fruitless. Again Violet burst out into one of those rare fits of real childlike laughter which always delighted and refreshed poor John's heart; but to-day, though he smiled somewhat grimly, he turned away quickly to the door, saying as he went: "I shall see about Fritz coming to sit with thee; but if his mother will not permit it thou must be content for awhile with Kate." "Yes, yes," cried Violet after him; "but do, please, send Fritz here. I have something so particular to ask him." She watched her father as he crossed over the street to the baker's. He was such a great tall man that he had generally to stoop as he went in at the doorway; but to-day Madam Adler met him at the entrance to the bakery, and they held what seemed to the watcher at the window upstairs a very lengthy conversation. Madam Adler, who was a round fat little body, gesticulating somewhat wildly, pointed first up the street and then down it, and clutched every now and then at her cap, which was hanging half off the back of her head, while she gazed up at the great tall man beside her, whose grave eyes were fixed intently upon her face, and who listened earnestly while she poured forth a torrent of words, not one of which Violet could hear from the buzz and noise in the street beneath. Fritz, who had regained his legs by this time, was now standing in the window opposite, making frantic signs across to Violet, who at first remained quite unconscious of his efforts; but presently looking up she saw him waving a sword furiously across the street to attract her attention; and seeing now he had secured it, he proceeded to make a sudden lunge at Ella, digging the weapon apparently deep into the very middle of her body. Ella immediately collapsed on the floor, and Fritz continued for some time to prod her violently. Violet screamed and turned away her head; but when she looked round again, Ella, with an enormous brown paper helmet on her head, was standing beside Fritz in the very middle of the window grinning from ear to ear, while her assailant, still martially attired in the old trailing coat, and with a face flushed with victory, had his arm thrown affectionately round her neck. By-and-by, as Violet still gazed across and smiled more and more at Fritz's excited movements, she saw her father enter the room opposite. He sat down in a chair a little distance from the window and called Fritz over to him, and a conversation ensued apparently of some interest, as Fritz never lifted his eyes from John's face while he was speaking to him, and Ella's countenance also assumed a kind of rigid stolidity most unnatural to it. But this tranquillity did not last long; for no sooner had John left the room, having shaken hands with Fritz and kissed Ella, than a kind of secondary excitement seemed to take possession of the children. Fritz first took off his own helmet, and then, while Ella was stooping down to unloosen her brown paper leggings, he snapped hers off also with a summary politeness which Ella seemed for a moment to resent; but Fritz had no time, evidently, to give to trifles. He laid both helmets on the foot of a couch which projected out into the window, and then he rapidly divested himself of his coat and his huge leather boots, winding up by planting Ella on the end of the sofa and tugging violently at her less cumbersome leggings, until the little girl descended suddenly upon her back on the floor. This time a few tears evidently softened the heart of the warrior, for he stooped down, lifted Ella from the ground, and covered her face with kisses; and in a few minutes Violet saw them both emerge from their house hand-in-hand and cross over the street, and push through the gathering of people towards the door of her own house, which opened immediately beneath her window. She felt rather sorry that Ella had come across with her brother, for she had something to say to Fritz, a question to ask him in secret about some subject which was troubling her, and which she felt she could only confide to him in private. But when the door of her room opened and Ella burst in all smiles and health and happiness, and rushed over to fling her dimpled arms round Violet's neck, she forgot for a time about her secret; and her spirits rose, and her white face broke into one of its sudden smiles, as she noticed scraps of cord and paper still sticking to Ella's fat legs which Fritz had evidently been too hurried to remove. "What hast thou been doing all this morning, Ella?" she asked curiously; "and why has Fritz not been at school? I have seen him ever since I was dressed, playing in the window." Ella's cheeks suddenly deepened to a purple red, and she gazed towards her brother with eyes which said plainly, "Thou must give an answer to this question." "I have not been at school because--because, well, because I did not go; and besides I was busy doing lots of other things." Ella's face looked decidedly relieved by this explanation of her brother's, which was entirely satisfactory to her own mind; but Violet was much puzzled by Fritz's words and still more perplexed by his manner, which was strange and quite unlike himself. While she was pondering with herself what it all meant Ella broke in upon the silence. "Yes, Fritz was doing lots of things all the morning--killing and cutting and stabbing the French, and he gave me an awful scrape on the arm; just look at it, Violet!" And Ella turned round the fattest of arms to Violet for compassionate inspection, across which just at the pink and dimpled elbow there certainly was a most undeniable and somewhat gory scratch. "Hold thy tongue, thou little gabbling goose of a chatterbox," cried Fritz, turning suddenly round in real anger and casting a glance of withering scorn upon his unhappy sister; "hast thou already forgotten what I said to thee in the hall downstairs?" "I did not say anything about the war," said Ella in reply, covering her face suddenly with her frilled pinafore and grasping on to the side of the invalid's chair, while she stretched out her hand as if to defend herself;--"I did not say one word about the war, did I, Violet?" "No, no; she said nothing--nothing that I heard. She is a good little lamb, and thou must not frighten her, Fritz," cried Violet soothingly, as she drew the little sobbing girl over to her side and held her arm tightly round her fat waist. "She is a good little new-born donkey," snorted Fritz still in much virtuous anger; "she has no more sense than the head of a pin. I told her something only a moment ago downstairs, and the instant she gets up into the room she must begin to let out the whole secret." "What secret?" "About the war," sobbed Ella. "About what war? I do not understand. Why is it a secret, and why should Ella not tell me?" she added in a distressed voice. "He said if I did tell thee he would cut my tongue out with his sword, and give me to the policeman to put me into the prison," sobbed Ella. "For shame, Fritz! how couldst thou frighten her so?" said Violet with quite a hot flush on her usually pale face.--"I will not let him touch thee, Ella. There, put down thy apron; Fritz was only laughing at thee." "Of course," cried Fritz contemptuously; "but she is such a little thrush, she would swallow a camel, hump and all, if one only held it up to her mouth." This brilliant sally was suggested by the descent of one of Violet's newly-painted animals upon Fritz's head from the window-ledge above. "I would not swallow a camel--I am not a thrush," still sobbed Ella, hiding her face against Violet's chair. "Well, well, what does it signify? stop crying," cried Fritz, making an effort over himself to recover his usual gallantry. "Come along, let's have some fun.--May we take down all those old beasts overhead and have a game with them?--may we, Violet? We have not played at crossing the desert for ages." "Yes, yes; only take care. Some of them are quite sticky, and one or two have broken legs; but there are lots of other animals in the Noah's ark in the corner." "All right; now we shall have real good fun," cried Fritz, tugging Ella's lingering arm from the rungs of Violet's chair with reassuring roughness and making room for her on the bench beside him. "Now, thou shalt be Noah, and Violet shall be Aaron, and I will be Moses with the rod." "What rod?" asked Ella, gazing up at her brother rather doubtfully with eyes all wet and smudged with tears, while she wriggled herself into a more comfortable position on the carpenter's hard bench beside him. "Oh, not the rod thou meanest," he replied reassuringly as he emptied out pell-mell a whole box full of animals upon the table--cows, sheep, ducks, elephants, and canary birds, all heaped up in a mound of wild confusion. Ella had by this time her yellow curly head pillowed confidingly against Fritz's left shoulder, and perfect harmony was restored between them. Violet was now the most silent of the three. For some minutes past she had seemed in a reverie, and occasionally she looked anxiously across at Fritz, as if longing but fearing to ask him some question. Whether he was aware of these longing, sorrowful glances directed towards him, it was impossible to tell. One might perhaps have thought so from the way he rambled on in a foolish, disconnected style, while he ranged the animals two by two along the edge of the table, and elicited shrieks of laughter from Ella by making the broken-legged elephant sit on its tail, while the no-legged goose was given a lift across the desert, seated between the horns of a scarlet cow. At last they were all arranged in order, from the elephant down to the little red spotted lady-bird, which was fully as large as the mouse some distance in front of it; and Ella was desired to keep her feet and arms under the table, as every time she stretched them out she was certain to overturn a whole cavalcade of animals. "Now Moses is going to drive them all into the ark, and I am Moses," cried Fritz triumphantly; "and any that are stupid and won't go in for me, Aaron can pick up and push them in after Moses, as hard as he likes." "But Moses did not drive the animals into the ark, nor Aaron either," said Violet smiling. "Yes, yes," shouted Ella, kicking her toes against the underneath part of the table, so that several of the astonished animals suddenly leaped high into the air and then fell down on their sides--"yes, yes; Fritz is right. Moses drove them in, every one, into the ark; he whacked them with his rod, and off they galloped." "For shame, Ella!" cried Violet, though she could not help laughing a little as she looked at the joyous round face opposite her, stretched in innocent smiles from ear to ear; "it was Noah who drove the animals into the ark; and besides, that story is in the Bible." "But Fritz said it was Moses," repeated Ella, whose confidence in Fritz's veracity was not easily to be shaken. "I know I did, but I was wrong. It was Noah of course--only, what does it matter? I never can remember the names of those very old men; and besides I don't much care for Bible stories--I like bits of them, that's all." "Oh!" said Violet, with a sound of such unmistakable dismay in her voice that Fritz looked up surprised; "thou dost not care for Bible stories, Fritz?" "No, he does not; only bits--bits the size of a crumb," chimed in Ella, who was busy crushing the heads of two stags together, to the total destruction of their antlers. "Hold thy tongue, Ella," cried Fritz angrily; "I do like some Bible stories, of course: Daniel in the lions' den; and Gehazi, who was turned white for telling a lie--that's a grand story; and the little child who was standing in the corn in the sun and got a headache, and who was made alive after he was dead, and given back to his mother--I like that best of all." "So do I," screamed Ella, whose mirth was momentarily becoming more irrepressible. "Get in, old humpy back, into thy box; get in, I say, old beast." This speech was addressed to a kind of violet-coloured camel which had stuck in the entrance to the ark and was now standing head downwards amongst its imprisoned comrades with its heels elevated in the air. "Ella, thou great goose, thou stupid little child, what art thou saying? thou must not speak of humps to Violet." A sudden push from Fritz's elbow sent the astonished Ella rolling off the bench on to the floor. "Violet," cried Fritz, suddenly looking up and taking no notice whatever of his sister's descent, for at this moment a spasm of recollection had flashed across his mind, "dost thou know, Violet, the lamplighter's girl _has_ a mother? I saw her yesterday morning in the market selling fish." "Selling fish?" said Violet, repeating Fritz's words in a curious, absent manner. "Yes; and such an old lobster I never saw. Her hands were just like claws, and--but what is the matter with thee? why art thou crying? It is all the fault of that horrid little Ella. But never mind; mother slapped me for speaking about thy hump, and Ella shall get slapped too." "I am not crying," said Violet, vainly trying to keep back a sob; "it is only because I have been waiting so long, Fritz, to say something to thee." "Not about the war?" cried Fritz, colouring crimson and bending his face down suddenly on the table. "I promised thy father I would tell thee nothing about it." "It is nothing about war. It is a secret, but--but I could not say it to thee before Ella; she would not understand." "Well, Ella shall go.--Come along home, thou little good-for-nought, and I will carry thee across on my back." Ella at these words half moved out from her hiding-place under the wooden table, whither after her fall she had retreated in some dudgeon, but she almost immediately drew herself in again, and said flatly,-- "Ella will not go home; mother will smack her for calling the camel a--" "Hist, thou little goose; mother will do nothing of the kind. Get up quickly, or I will not carry thee at all; there, hold on tightly now and keep thy heels quiet, for it is getting so dark and the stairs are so narrow I might fall down and break thy neck. Say good-evening now to Violet, and away we go." He carried Ella over to Violet's chair, and the little maiden put her soft loving arms about her neck and kissed her with all the strength of her childish heart. "Ella did not make thee cry, Violet, did she? Ella did not know that thou wast so fond of the poor--" She did not finish her sentence, for Fritz whirled her away suddenly. But Violet called down the stairs after her, "Ella did not make Violet cry; Ella is a good girl. Good-evening, sweet Ella." It was almost dusk when Fritz returned, and John had not yet come home. Violet heard the boy's step on the stairs, and her heart beat so fast that the neck of her little purple frock heaved up and down flutteringly. She had packed away all the animals she could fit into the Noah's ark, and the others she had placed in a heap on the window-sill. There was nothing now on the table before her but her mother's Bible and the book with the gold-spotted cover. For the twentieth time since Fritz had left the room, she had opened this book at the picture of the little hunchback and as hastily closed it again. "I will ask him first, and then I will show it to him," she said in a whisper to herself as she looked up nervously at the opening door. But Fritz came in quite unconscious of the fluttering heart; his own was beating so hard that he had to sit down on the chair by the stove to get his breath, and it was some moments before he gasped,-- "Well, if ever I take that great fat Ella on my back again! I would rather carry a cow to market on my shoulders than have her hanging on to my neck and throttling me. First she made me carry her up to the top of the house, to the very garret, because she said mother was there; and then all the way down again, because she said mother was in the bakehouse. Then I had to haul her all the way off again down the street to Madame Bellard's, and up to the top of that house, where we found mother and Madame Bollard crying over their coffee like two sea-crabs; and there I left Ella gaping at them with her eyes nearly falling out on her cheeks. Pah! she weighs at the least three tons." "What were they crying about?" asked Violet curiously; "I saw so many people crying in the street to-day." "People often cry when they have nothing else to do," he said, jumping up suddenly from his chair and raking out the ashes from the stove vehemently,--"at least Ella does; but of course they had something to cry for--only it is a secret, and thou must not ask me." "A secret?" she said, nervously pushing the little book in front of her up and down the table. "Thou hast not asked me yet, Fritz, what my secret is." "What is it, then?" he asked, coming close up to the table; and then recognizing the gold-spotted cover on the back of which Violet's fingers were trembling visibly, he added, "Is it about the lamplighter's girl? or hast thou perhaps found out the name of the little mother?" "No," said Violet, shaking her head; "I cannot think who the mother is. But oh, there is such a lovely story in her book, Fritz, and I want so much to ask of thee, 'Is it true?'" "Show it to me," said Fritz cheerfully. "Of course I can tell it to thee at once." But Violet covered the book with both her hands; and though it was now almost dusk, he noticed how the blood rushed over her white face, and she looked for a little while out of the window. "No, no--in a minute thou shalt see it; but first thou wilt tell me one thing, wilt thou not, Fritz? only one thing, but quite, quite truly;" and she turned her eyes upon him so earnestly that the boy felt almost frightened. "Of course I will answer thee truly; but first I must hear thy question." "If mother were here she could tell me all I want to know," sighed Violet, putting off the dreaded moment; "and father, I know he could also tell me, only he does not like me to talk about hunchbacks." "About hunchbacks!" cried Fritz with a sudden gasp; "I do not know anything about hunchbacks." "Yes, yes, thou dost," she cried excitedly. "I am a little hunchback; thou knowest that; thou saidst so thyself, Fritz, one day long ago. And now thou wilt tell me this one thing. Is it true--" She paused and breathed more quickly than ever; the question was evidently one of gigantic importance. "Is what true?" "That God gives the little hunchbacks these humps?" "Yes, of course; that is to say, first they get a fall or something, and then God gives them the humps afterwards." "And what does he put into them?" "What? I do not understand thee." "Is there not something inside of every poor hunchback's hump?" "Yes, of course there is." "Well, and what is it, Fritz? dear Fritz, tell me what it is." The question was breathed with actual pain. "Dost thou mean what is in thy hump--this thing?" and Fritz laid his hand very softly on her shoulders. "Yes." "Why, any one knows that. Bones, of course; I can feel them." "Bones?" she gasped. "Yes; bones, and flesh, and skin, and all that kind of thing." Violet's eyes distended; an anguish crept into them that appalled even Fritz. She drew the spotted book quickly over to her, and said slowly, as she opened it at the story of the hunchback, "Look at that picture, Fritz: that little sick child had 'wings' in her hump, lovely silver wings; and are not books like this true, Fritz? There are angels in the page, and the little girl flies up to her mother, and people would not write what was not true about angels and--and heaven." The question was a little puzzling; but Fritz answered it without hesitation. "The stories in this book are all fairy tales. Look at the cover and thou canst see that for thyself." "Fairy tales? but are fairy tales never true?" "No; at least none that I ever read." "But God, and the angels, and heaven are all in that book, and they are true; and the little sick hunchback, that is not a fairy tale, for I am sick just like her; and why--why must that one little bit be untrue? And besides," sobbed Violet, whose whole courage and hope seemed almost to have forsaken her,--"besides, the words under that picture are in the Bible. I found them in mother's own Bible: 'No more tears.'" As she lifted up her face to Fritz for some hope, some consolation, immense tears were running down her cheeks, and the boy felt a tightening in his own throat too. "What does it matter?" he said as he pushed the spotted book away from her; "I will throw this old thing out of the window if it makes thee cry. Thou dost not want wings; thou art the best little angel in all Edelsheim: and, besides, flies have wings, and they are horrid beasts; and so why need one care?" and he threw his arms round her neck, and kissed her wet face, and whispered every loving name he could think of into her ear. CHAPTER VIII. A BITTER CRY. The next few days were so full of a new excitement for Violet that she scarcely had time to think of the little hunchback, or of the shock her feelings had received from Fritz's words. All day long she sat in the window, absorbed in watching what was going on in the street beneath. Regiments of soldiers were constantly marching past, bands were playing, and flags flying from many of the opposite windows. Great forage-carts toiled up the hill, driven by soldiers; and Uhlans were for ever dashing up and down the street on their great tall horses, so that the points of their lances often seemed to come up to the very window at which she sat. [Illustration: Going forth to War. _Page 76._] But Violet was not afraid of them, for even in their haste they gave her often a nod as they went by. Many of the Uhlans were friends of her father's, and though she scarcely recognized some of them in their square caps, they knew her; and not a few, as they rode quickly past and saw the white face in the window, felt a shiver at their heart as they asked themselves the question, "If John goes to the war, what is to happen to the child?" But as yet the question was not decided, and though Violet had heard through Kate some talk of the war, her heart lay still in an unsuspecting calm. Once, as she saw a little child crying in the street below and holding on to its father's long military coat in an anguish of grief, she lifted her head suddenly and said to her father, who was busy making one of the wheels for her new carriage, "Thou art not a soldier, father?" "No, darling, no, not at this moment." "Thou wast a soldier once though, long ago, before Violet was born. Is it not so? Fritz has told me thou wert." "Yes, a long time ago." "And wert thou ever in a battle, father?" "Yes, my sweetest treasure, in several; but we will not talk of battles. Thou hast not asked me all to-day about the carriage. I have got the springs home this morning from the blacksmith, and it will be so light when it is finished that even Fritz could draw thee about in it." "How lovely to go up and down the street with Fritz as Ella does, ever so fast down the hill, and ever so slow up. I am not so heavy as Ella, am I, father?" "No, my poor little daughter, I am afraid not." "And thou, father, some day, thou wilt take me in my carriage to the hill, and we will gather nuts and bring them home in my carriage; and every one will wonder when they see no one in the window. They will look up and they will say, 'Where is little Violet?' and they will never think that she is gone far, far away, to that hill which is so very far off." The child's face was radiant; her eyes had turned to that deep purple hue which seemed always to match the shadows of her dress, and her cheeks had crimsoned with the thought of this new and wonderful life which was so soon to be hers. Poor John put down his wheel and went over to his favourite seat on the broad sill beside her. He had purposely set her to talk on this theme, and now she was breaking his heart with her innocent raptures. "I am afraid father is a great idler," he said, putting his head down very softly against her shoulder. "I ought to be downstairs in my workshop now, instead of chattering nonsense to thee all day." "But we were not talking nonsense, were we, father? It is quite true about the carriage, is it not? it is not a fairy tale, father?" "A fairy tale?" "Fritz says--;" she paused. "What does Fritz say?" John asked the question somewhat dreamily. He had been gazing at her earnestly for some minutes, and now he kissed her twice passionately, as if without any apparent reason. "Thou art father's little treasure, his darling, his own sweet little maiden," he said with almost a sob in his throat, "and thou must try and grow strong for father's sake." Violet looked up a little shyly, and put her arms round his neck. "And thou art the best father in all the world--dear, dear father." The old policeman, walking by in the street, saw the little maiden with her arms so tightly clasped round her father's neck; and he said to himself with a groan, "Poor maiden! she knows it all now, and she would fain hold him back if she could;" and he walked on. But Violet did not know it all, nor for many days did the truth dawn upon her. It fell to Fritz's lot, as usual, to be the one to proclaim the tidings. It was one evening about a month after war had been proclaimed. It had been a very hot day, and Violet was tired and weak, and not inclined to play or talk. She was leaning back against her pillows looking out at the pigeons, which always came at this hour of a summer's afternoon to sit and preen their feathers on the lantern-chain which hung high up across the street. She knew these pigeons quite well; she had given them all names. She placed crumbs for them every day on the window-sill beside her chair, and she delighted to see their fussy ways, twirling round and cooing angrily, and trying to push each other off the sill so as to secure the larger share of the food. But to-day she only watched them languidly. For the last three days neither Fritz nor Ella had called in to play with her. She had seen them in the street hanging on to the backs of the forage-waggons, and Fritz had once appeared in the window opposite with Ella's doll speared at the end of a lance, but seeing Violet beckoning to him to come across, he had shaken his head lugubriously and disappeared from her sight. So Violet, whose back was aching and whose little heart sank easily under any depressing influence, was alternately watching her father putting some finishing touches to the hood of her new carriage, and gazing out languidly at the pigeons and the storks on the red roofs, and the jackdaw in Fritz's window opposite, hopping everlastingly up and down from its perch, and screaming out some words which the baker's boy had taught it with much trouble to say. Beyond the roofs and between the fretted spire of the church she saw also the hill, looking so green and fresh in the golden evening air; and above it there was a pale green sky, flecked with amber clouds and little bars of red. Violet sighed heavily, and John looked up from his work. "What ails my treasure?" "Nothing, father, only I am so, so tired; and Fritz and Ella, they have not come to see me for so many days." "Ah, I will call over there presently and send them across to thee. I have but one or two nails to put in this hood, and then thy carriage will be finished; that is good, is it not?" "Delightful!" cried Violet, raising herself up in her chair to see better the last finishing touches put to her new possession; but as she did so her eyes fell for a moment on the pavement opposite, where a soldier was just stopping at the Adlers' door with a bundle of papers in his hand, surrounded and followed by a large and excited crowd. "What is it? father, come here. There is such a fuss in the street. A soldier has just gone in at the Adlers' house, and all the people are standing at their door, and one woman is crying." "I am afraid a great many women and children will cry before this evening is over," said her father very gravely, as he rose and went over to the window. "Why, father?" "Because their husbands and fathers will have to go away from them to the war, and leave them. Yes; it is just as I thought. It is the orderly corporal leaving the names at the different houses. Whose turn will it be next?" "But Fritz's father cannot be sent to the war; he is not a soldier, father?" "We must all be soldiers, little one, when a war comes, and we are called out to fight." "But thou, father, art not a soldier; thou saidst so to me thyself the other day. Father, dear father, turn round thy face to me. Tell Violet that thou wilt never be a soldier." "I cannot tell Violet what she asks me," said John slowly, turning his face and speaking in a strained, thick voice. "If the king wants me to fight for God and the Fatherland, of course I must go." "But he does not want thee; he has not sent for thee?" "Not yet," he said, sitting down beside his little girl, and lifting up one of her hands tenderly; "but he may want me. And if he does, I must go; must I not, Violet? Father could not stay at home if his king called him. A brave soldier is always ready to fight for his country." "But thou art not a soldier, father. The king has not called; and if he were to call for thee, I would not let thee go. For if father goes away to the war, and leaves Violet all alone, she must die! she must die! she must die!" Violet sobbed, and rocked herself to and fro in her chair. "There, there, my heart, thou must not say such things. The corporal has not called yet with father's name. Keep still, my lamb, and cease crying. Fritz will be here soon, and thou wilt see how brave he is. I will go over and call him," cried John, rising precipitately. The corporal had come out of the Adlers' house, and was crossing over towards their own doorway. "Father, father, stay!" cried Violet. "I would rather have thee to sit with me than Fritz." She caught at his coat. "Come back to me! come back, come back!" But he was already closing the door after him, and in a moment more she heard his footsteps hurrying down the stairs. With eyes full of blinding tears, she turned quickly to see him emerge into the street beneath; but though she brushed them from her eyes, he was nowhere to be seen. She looked up at the windows opposite, but he was not there either--only she could see Fritz lying on his face on the floor, and Ella stooping caressingly over him, with her little white apron to her eyes. The crowd was now gathered exactly under their own window, and Violet's heart beat so fast that at last she cried out loud in her misery, and Kate opening the door came in. "Kate, Kate, where is father?" she cried out anxiously. "Father is busy talking to the corporal downstairs. He cannot come up just yet." "The corporal!" screamed Violet passionately; "he is not coming to call my father to the war? Go down, Kate, to the door, and tell him he must not call him away. Father could not go to the war and leave me all alone." "No, no; to be sure not," said Kate soothingly. "Men with children have no business to go off fighting. I will tell him so when he comes up, and-- Ah, here comes Master Fritz, tearing across the street like a madman, and Miss Ella too." "Shut the door!" screamed Violet. "I do not want to see Fritz; I do not want to see Ella: I want only father, only father to come back." But before Kate's stiff bones could bear her across the room, the door flew open and the children rushed in. Fritz's cheeks were purple, his eyes were red, his blue-striped blouse was damp with tears. Ella tumbled in after him, her face also streaked and smeared from crying, and her pinafore hopelessly crumpled. "Hast thou heard the news, Violet?" screamed Fritz excitedly. "The Reserve has been called out, and father is to go to the war!" "What is the Reserve?" "Oh, all the soldiers who have been out fighting before, long ago. My father was in lots of battles before, and so was yours." "My father is not in the Reserve?" cried Violet, leaning forward eagerly. "Yes; of course he is. I saw the corporal put the same blue paper into his hand downstairs as he did into father's a few minutes ago." "And he is to go away to the war?" "Yes." "When?" "The day after to-morrow." Then such a cry of bitter anguish burst from Violet's lips that Fritz and Ella absolutely stood aghast with terror. She struggled wildly to get free from her chair, and to push her little table away which held her a close prisoner--"Let me out! let me down, Fritz, Ella! I must find father.--Father, father, father!" till at last the bitter cry echoed through the room, the house, and out into the street. Madam Adler opposite heard it, and thrust her fingers into her ears; the policeman walking past covered his eyes suddenly with his gloved hands; and John, saying farewell to the corporal in the hall, heard it also. In a few moments he was up the stairs, and held his darling close to his heart. Fritz and Ella speedily departed homewards, leaving the door wide open behind them. John rose and closed it, and he and Violet were left alone to their grief. CHAPTER IX. AUNT LIZZIE'S VISIT. The next day an aunt of Violet's arrived from a distant town. She was a sister of John's wife and a wife herself, very young and very fair, and with a wonderful likeness to the poor dead mother. Her husband, who was many years older than herself, was amongst the militia, and had not yet been called out; and at the cry from John's broken heart she came at once, leaving her own little ones behind her, to remain a few days with Violet, until the bitterness of the parting was over. On this day the little girl had made no effort to leave her bed; all the long morning she had remained with her head buried in the pillows, and with the sheet drawn over her head, deaf to all comfort or words of sympathy. For who could comfort her when the appalling fact remained unchanged that her father was going to leave her, to go to the war, and she would be left alone? In vain Fritz had stood by her bed and called to her. He had brought her a box of the most delicious sweetmeats, a farewell present from the confectioner; for poor Madame Bellard, like all the rest of the French residents in Edelsheim, had had to break up her home since the war was declared, and prepare to leave Germany at once; and now, as her shop was being closed, the children of the neighbourhood were profiting by her good-nature. To Violet she had sent a special gift of great beauty--a box of frosted silver, and all within were sweetmeats of various colours, pale pink and green and white, which shone glitteringly, as if they had been sprinkled over with diamond dust. But no words of Fritz, nor descriptions of the treasure he held in his hand, could induce Violet to look up. Her head was buried in her pillows, and no sound but smothered sobbings reached his ears. Once a little thin hand was stretched out for a moment through the sheets, and grasped his gratefully, and there was an effort to say something, but Fritz did not understand it; and having left the sweetmeat-box on the table beside her bed, he moved away dejectedly, followed by Ella, who, in endeavouring to walk out on her tip-toes, had nearly fallen down on her face in the doorway. Once in the afternoon Violet started up, and lifting herself painfully from the pillows, flung the clothes from off her face. She had heard a step on the stairs, and now she heard her father's voice calling to her. He was standing in the doorway as she looked up, and all the bright colour rushed to her pale face, and an exclamation of admiration and surprise burst quite unconsciously from her lips. "Father, is it thou? Oh, how splendid!" And splendid he did look this afternoon in his new uniform--a giant in height, in breadth, in strength, with a fair open face, which could look stern enough at times, but now there was no sternness about it, only a searching eagerness to see if he might win one smile from his darling in the bed yonder. John had to take his helmet off to enter at the doorway. And now, as he stood by his little girl's bed, turning himself round with an assumed pride for her admiration, he looked, as he was, one of the very flower of the German army, ready to die for his king and fatherland; with a heart of steel to face the foe, and a heart of wax to be moulded by those tiny burning fingers in the bed, into whatever shape or form she chose. "Has the king seen thee, father?" she asked with a sob and a smile. "No, my child." "Ah, he will be delighted. Thou art the finest soldier I ever saw." "Thou thinkest so, my treasure?" "Yes, yes; the best soldier in all the army"--she stretched out her arms lovingly, yearningly--"and the best, the very best, the dearest father in all the world." John put down his helmet on the bed; his spurs clattered, his sword clanked, as he stooped over it; but she heard nothing--only the whisper in her ear: "Violet, my heart's treasure, how can I go away and leave thee?" Later on in the evening, when he had gone out to make some final arrangements, and to buy some last comforts for his little girl, and she had relapsed into her former state of speechless grief, there came a tap at the door of her room, and a voice, which seemed to thrill through every fibre of her frame, cried softly,-- "Is Violet awake? May Aunt Lizzie come in?" Violet once more flung down the clothes and made a violent effort to rise up quickly. Her cheeks flamed to a carmine red, her eyes glowed in the twilight, and there was something in their expression which made her aunt pause on the threshold and place her hand suddenly upon her heart. "Poor little girlie! all alone?" she said, in the same sweet, low voice. "Aunt Lizzie has come at a good time to sit and comfort thee." Violet had not seen her Aunt Lizzie for two long years; but now, at this crisis of her young life, when her heart was hungering for a face which she could never see again, and her spirit was crying out for her lost mother to comfort her, Aunt Lizzie had come in at the door, with the same gentle voice, the same sweet blue eyes and waving golden hair, and had laid just such a soft cheek against her own. All Violet's reserve gave way at once, and she turned with a sudden movement of overpowering relief, and flung her arms around Aunt Lizzie's neck. "Aunt Lizzie! Aunt Lizzie! dost thou know, hast thou heard?--my father--;" here she turned her head in upon her aunt's breast; she could not finish the sentence--only a storm of sobs completed it. "Yes, yes; I know it all. Thy father has to go away to the war. It is terrible. I was thinking of thee all the way in the train, and of all the other poor little children in Edelsheim who must say 'Good-bye' to-morrow to their fathers." "But, Aunt Lizzie, Violet will be so lonely, so quite alone." "Yes; thy father is so wonderfully good, and so kind, thou wilt miss him more than most children: I know that well." "There will be no one to sit with Violet all day, no one to kiss Violet at night, no one to hear Violet say her prayers, no one to talk about mother--only Kate, and Kate never knows what Violet says." "Ah, well, Aunt Lizzie must think of some one to come and stay with Violet. Our little darling must not be left alone. We will talk to father this evening. And now Violet must dry her eyes. Aunt Lizzie has seen so many tears to-day that she feels quite sad; and, besides, when father comes home we must not weep." "Where did Aunt Lizzie see so many tears?" asked Violet, still sobbing. "Oh, so many!--such red eyes and blistered faces!--at the railway station. It was at first almost impossible for Aunt Lizzie to find a seat. Only the colonel interfered, and said they must make a place for her. So many wives with babies in their arms, sobbing and stretching out their hands; and quite old women from the country, and little girls about thy size." "Violet cannot go down to the station and see her father off to the war, can she, Aunt Lizzie?" "No, no; it would only make father sad, and it would tire thee." "Were there any poor little hunchbacks at the station at Edelsheim?" "What?" cried Aunt Lizzie, with almost a start of horror. "Sweetest treasure, thou must not say such things. Thou art our own sweet Violet--a little sick girlie that every one loves, and God most of all. Is it not so, my loved one?" "Some hunchbacks have wings," said Violet, with a sudden gasp and a swift upward glance at her aunt's face. "God gives them wings." "Yes, dearest child; and some day he will give thee wings too, and then Violet will fly away and be at rest: she will be so happy up there with mother; and she will have no more pain in her poor back, and she will never cry any more, nor have tears in her eyes." "Yes," said Violet, with a sigh and a long, fluttering sob, "no more tears. The poor little hunchback in the fairy tale never cried once, not once, after God gave her wings. I read that in the book, underneath the picture, and I know it is true, although Fritz will not believe it, for I found the words in mother's Bible." "Yes, yes, it is quite true," said Aunt Lizzie softly: "there will be no more sorrow nor trouble of any kind in heaven--nothing to make us cry--no more fighting, no more wars." "No more soldiers, and having to say 'Good-bye,'" added Violet sobbing. "Aunt Lizzie, Aunt Lizzie, Violet cannot say good-bye to father." "Ah, darling, it is hard, but thou must try to say it;" and Aunt Lizzie pressed the little head close to her breast. "Father is a soldier, and Violet must seek to be a soldier too. Thou wilt be brave, sweetest child, for his sake, wilt thou not? Father's heart is breaking at having to say farewell to his little girl, and yet thou seest, dearest one, how he strives for thy sake to be cheerful." "I know a text about soldiers, Aunt Lizzie," said Violet almost in a whisper. "What is it, my little girlie?" "'Fight the good fight;' but, Aunt Lizzie, Violet is too sick to fight, and her back aches so." "Violet is one of Christ's own little soldiers, and when she is very tired she must just lay her head on his breast, and he will fight for her all her battles, whatever they may be." "Yes; that is like mother's hymn that we used to say always at night, 'How sweet to rest on Jesus' breast.' And then when mother used to lie down beside Violet on the bed, and put her arms so closely around her, Violet used to say, 'How sweet to rest on mother's breast;' and there was no harm, was there, Aunt Lizzie?" "None, none," replied the young mother with an effort to keep back her own tears. "Now lay thy head softly down on Aunt Lizzie's breast, and she will sing thee to sleep." "Dost thou know what Kate said to Violet once?" asked the little girl, a smile spreading over all her face. "No, my child; what was it?" "She said Violet would soon sleep on mother's breast, and then Violet would have no more headaches. Is not that lovely, Aunt Lizzie?" "Lovely," she answered almost in a whisper. While they were talking thus, John came in. At first his face was somewhat white and stern. He seemed afraid to trust himself to glance towards the bed. When at last he did look across to the corner where Aunt Lizzie, who had taken off her hat and shawl, was sitting on the bed beside Violet, his face suddenly changed; a light, a look came into it, a sudden flush passed over his handsome face, and he stretched out his hand with a hasty movement and a quick outburst of thanks. "Lizzie, thou best of sisters! so thou hast come. I scarcely dared to hope it. It has been too good of thee to leave thy home; and of Henry, too, to spare thee." He kissed her affectionately, and sat down on the edge of the bed, where Violet lay, partially supported by her aunt's arm. "Ah, God be thanked, my task is now comparatively light." He drew a long, deep breath, and tried to smile a happy smile as he gazed into his little girl's face and lifted one of her hands into his own. "I have had such a busy afternoon," he continued, still searching into the large wistful eyes opposite him for some ray of cheerfulness. "I have finished Violet's carriage, and I have bought a lovely cushion for it, and a rug to put over her feet; and Fritz put Ella into it, and found it was so light he could draw her up the steep hill from the church to the fountain without drawing breath: so now Violet can go out also every day and get some roses in her cheeks.--Is that not so, my heart's angel?" Violet nodded her head silently, and pressed her father's hand, but no words came. "And father is going to give Violet his canary to take care of for him; and such a grand cage as he has bought for him, all gold and silver, and with beautiful green fountains. And Violet must feed him herself, and see that he is never hungry or thirsty either. Eh, my darling?" "Yes, father." "And here is a desk father has got for thee--a real leather desk full of paper and envelopes and beautiful red sealing-wax; and, look here, my treasure, a seal with 'Violet' on it. Is not that lovely?" "Beautiful," said Violet, her eyes dilating and her mouth expanding with a troubled smile. "And somewhere in the desk Violet will find, if she searches well for it, a little box with silver in it, bright silver money to buy stamps with; and when she wants more money in her box she must ask Madam Adler for it, and then she can always write letters to father and tell him all the news." "Father will write to Violet?" "Of course, of course;--and the ink-bottle thou hast not seen yet, nor the pens and pencils," cried John with a sudden access of interest; for Violet's lips quivered ominously, and one large tear had already fallen with a splash upon the pink blotting-paper. "And now we will shut up the desk, and Violet will get up on father's knee. We are all going to sit by the stove and have our supper. And father has a cake for thee, which Madame Bellard has baked on purpose for us. Wait till Aunt Lizzie sees it; it is all sugar on the top. It was good of Madame Bellard, in all her trouble, to think of us. Was it not, Violet?" "Yes, yes, too good," she said softly. It did not take long to dress her. A couple of shawls fastened loosely round her, and stockings drawn up over her feet, were enough for the occasion; and when the coffee was ready the cake was uncovered in all its glory. Such a splendid cake as it was, all covered with creamy frosted white sugar; and on the top were letters made of pink comfits, which formed these words, "John and Violet;" and underneath, in smaller comfits of the same colour, was added, "Auf wiedersehen" (To meet again). [Illustration: Carving the Cake. _Page 98._] Poor Violet! once her eyes fell on the pink letters it was with difficulty she could swallow any of the cake. She put a small piece in her mouth, and crumbled up the rest in her fingers, letting the currants fall through them on the floor. She drank her coffee eagerly, so as to swallow down the tiny bits she had taken; and then John, watching her closely, saw it was no use to offer her any more. "We must give some of this grand cake to Kate," he said presently. "We cannot allow Aunt Lizzie to eat it all. And Fritz, too, and Ella, they must each have a slice." He took up the knife and began to carve the cake with some recklessness. Violet watched him intently as he cut a large piece for Kate, then another for Fritz; and the knife was already buried in the frosted silver for Ella's slice, when she suddenly stretched out her hand and cried out piteously,-- "No, dear father, not there. Ah, leave that piece for me. Do not cut off those words; Violet loves them." John drew out the knife and laid it on the plate. "Aunt Lizzie shall cut Ella a slice by-and-by," he said softly; then drew his girl so close in to his side that Violet could feel the loud beating of his heart. After all, the supper proved but a sorry meal, though Aunt Lizzie talked and laughed and told anecdotes about her children at home, some of which caught Violet's attention, and drew forth questions and answers; but every now and then a deep unconscious sigh from John, or a smothered sob from Violet, would show that their minds had wandered far away from the little fair-haired children at Gützberg. At last he got up and laid her down upon her bed. "I must say good-night now to my darling," he said wearily as he stretched his arms up into the air. "Father is very tired, and he must go down to the barracks presently." "Not to stay--not to sleep? Thou wilt not say good-bye to-night?" cried Violet. "Dear father, not to-night!" Her appeal broke into one long, pitiful wail. "No, no; not to-night. Oh, darling child, if Violet only knew how father's heart aches, she would not cry so. Try, sweetest darling, to be brave. Father will come back when he has reported himself to the captain, and Aunt Lizzie will stay with thee while he is away." Violet ceased crying aloud, and lying back on her pillows, resorted to her old device of drawing the bedclothes over her face. John stooped down and kissed the little hand that grasped them so tightly; then saying a few words in a low voice to Aunt Lizzie, he went out of the room. When he returned about two hours later, Violet was asleep. Her aunt had sat by her bed and sung to her, in a low, droning voice, little hymns and nursery songs familiar to her ears in the old mother days, until at last the sobbing ceased, the hand which held the sheet gradually relaxed, and the child slept. Poor John! it was a relief to him to find all so quiet in the room when he came up. He had the bird-cage in his hand, which he hung up on a peg in the centre of the eight-sided alcove which formed the window, and which jutted out some distance over the street. Then he drew a chair over into the alcove for Lizzie, and they sat down in the gloaming to talk over Violet and what was to be done to insure her happiness and comfort during the time he must be away at the war. It was a long talk and a sad one, and to John, sitting there in the moonlit window, it seemed as if he were speaking in a dream to the poor little dead mother; for Aunt Lizzie listened with the same earnest sympathy, and when she replied it was in the same low tones. When she spoke, too, of the poor sick child lying now so quietly asleep on the bed in the corner, she used the very same expressions and endearing epithets of love, which came back to poor John's ears like whispers from the grave. It was finally arranged between them that she was to remain with Violet for a few days after his departure, so as to allow the first burst of childish grief to pass over under her loving and watchful care. Then Aunt Lizzie had hoped that it might have been possible to have moved the poor little invalid to Gützberg, where she could have devoted herself to her charge, and she would have done so lovingly and faithfully. But John had already thought of this plan, and had consulted over it with the physician, a kind and clever man, who had known Violet from her birth; and he had decided against the plan, saying that any attempt to move the child from the room where she had lived all her little life would be almost certainly attended with fatal consequences. The shock of a removal, and the tearing up of the frail tendrils which held this little fading flower to life would cause it suddenly to wither away. "And besides," the doctor added kindly, "what should we all do here in Edelsheim without our little Violet? Why, you might almost as well take down the clock out of the old church tower and tell us still to know the time of day, as to take our Violet's face from the window and tell us all to live pure and patient lives. No, no, good man; leave us the child, and I for one will watch over her." So John had returned home with sudden tears in his eyes, satisfied that the doctor was right. And Aunt Lizzie afterwards confirmed him regretfully in the same view; for she had said to Violet that afternoon, when she was lying on the bed beside her, "How would Violet like to leave Edelsheim for a little while, just while father is away, and to return with Aunt Lizzie to Gützberg? The little children at home would scream with joy to have Violet amongst them, and they would hold out their hands to welcome her." But the child had cried out almost in terror, "No, no, no; do not take Violet to Gützberg. She must watch for father at the window; she must wait for him till he comes home. He will not be long away. And besides, Aunt Lizzie, Violet could not leave her little mother. She is quite, quite close to Violet down there at the church; and sometimes Violet sends her flowers; and Fritz calls out quite loud, 'Mother, mother, Violet sends thee these flowers and her heart's love, and never, never forgets thee.' Fritz says it is all no use--she does not hear him calling out; but oh, Aunt Lizzie, Violet knows she does listen, for God hears all Violet's prayers, and father says my little mother is quite close to God." After this outburst from the child's heart her aunt did not seek to urge her point. To tear asunder such strong links of love would indeed be death to Violet, and the little aching, loving heart, already half in heaven, must not be troubled further by any act of hers. So now, all thoughts of Gützberg having been abandoned, it was arranged that a little maid called Evelina, who was at present in charge of Lizzie's children at Gützberg, should be engaged by John as nurse to Violet. She had been living in Lizzie's family for three years, and had a pretty bright face, a gentle manner, and up to this time had, under Lizzie's motherly direction, taken excellent care of the little ones. She was the only person Lizzie knew whom she could recommend from personal experience; and she undertook to impress on the girl's mind that she must, during John's absence, devote herself entirely to the sick child, and have no thought but for her comfort and happiness. "One word more, Lizzie," said John, in a low, constrained voice, as he bent his head down on the back of Violet's chair, which stood empty in the moonlit window. "If--if, dearest Lizzie, it should please God that I should not return--what then? What is to become of my poor child?" "God preserve us from such trouble," cried Lizzie, starting up suddenly, for there was a movement in the corner. "Hush. Violet will hear thee. Make thy mind happy. If I were to leave Gützberg and the children, and even Henry himself, I would come here and be a mother to her." "It will not be for long," he said almost inaudibly as he lifted his helmet from the window seat and rose up. "The doctor told me so to-day. Thanks, a thousand thanks, good Lizzie. To-morrow at ten I shall be here to say good-bye. I shall have but a few minutes, that is all. We start at twelve for the front." CHAPTER X. THE PARTING KISS. Aunt Lizzie slept beside Violet that night, with her arms tightly clasped around the little girl for whom the day was to break so bitterly. She found the soft breathing of the child, so peaceful in its restfulness, almost more difficult to listen to than the quick uneasy panting of the afternoon, for she knew well the anguish to which she must by-and-by awaken. "So He giveth His beloved sleep," she murmured to herself as, in the summer dawn, she watched the little face so tranquilly turned towards her; and though occasionally there was a little fluttering sob, it was only a relic of yesterday's passionate weeping. Once when Violet smiled in her sleep and nestled more closely to her, Lizzie kissed her gently on the forehead. The child moved, smiled again, a broadening, happy smile, and said with a sigh of content, "On mother's breast." Aunt Lizzie could not sleep. She watched the bands of crimson rising slowly up behind the roofs opposite like streaks of blood. The cocks crew and screamed from yard, and garden, and barn. The fountain at the angle of the street dribbled and splashed monotonously. There was a child crying in an opposite house, bitterly, ceaselessly. The canary awoke, stretched its wings with the help of its thin yellow legs, took a drink at the green fountain, having eyed it first with suspicion, and then burst out into a loud joyous carol. Aunt Lizzie was afraid it would awake Violet; but she slept calmly on. Then the sun itself rose up in all its splendour and shone gloriously over all. The red roofs blazed and glistened. The orange weather-cock on the chimney of Madame Bellard's house looked as if each separate painted feather on its wings were a tongue of fire, while the scarlet nasturtiums creeping up the red brick shaft trembled and glowed brilliantly. Aunt Lizzie's mind, from the long night's watching, felt hot and confused. The rays of the sun which shone slantingly through the round old-fashioned panes of glass in the window threw stripes of prismatic colour on the floor and on the chest which held the dead mother's clothes and all the little relics of her homely happy life. If that bitter crying opposite would cease, Lizzie felt as if she could think connectedly. If it were not for the fear of disturbing Violet, she would have got up ere now and closed the open pane in the window. She tried to think of the little children at home at Gützberg, of their bright smiles, and hearts innocent of care, but it was impossible. A drum in the distant barrack had begun to throb, and her heart, leaping up to a sudden agony, throbbed with it. How many other hearts, too, were stirring at that call! men buckling on their armour; and women, who had not slept all night, starting up to fresh paroxysms of grief and despair. It was vain to hope that all the brave fellows going forth this day from their homes would come back to them safe and unharmed. Yet each one cried in their heart, "O God, let this bitterness not come to me"--"Spare, good Lord, spare my husband"--"Lord Jesus, have pity on my son"--"Beloved, thou wilt return to me safe"--"Ah, dear one, forget me not;" while the little ones smiled their adieus, knowing not the dread future. At six o'clock the whole town seemed astir. Men were talking in the streets; spurs were clanking on the pavement as soldiers hurried to and fro. Bugles were calling, and the incessant rolling of drums came now, not only from the distant barrack across the river, but it seemed as if the whole air and the blue sky itself were full of this dread prophetic sound. At seven o'clock, Lizzie, slipping her arm quietly from under Violet, got up and dressed herself. When she came to the window, the first thing she saw opposite was Ella. She was standing in her little night-dress at the small top window in the roof. Her fair hair was partly tied back with a little white night-cap, but stray locks hung out disconsolately. Her face was supported by her two dimpled hands, and her elbows rested on the sill. It needed but one glance at the child's face and eyes for Aunt Lizzie to know who it was who had spent the night in such ceaseless bitter weeping. Even now, though her attention seemed temporarily attracted by the bustle in the street, she saw the white frilled sleeve from time to time passed quickly across the child's face. In a few minutes Fritz appeared at the other little window in the red roof opposite. He also was attired in his night-dress; but he had a drum hung round his neck by a piece of cord, on which, as he looked down into the street, he began to beat with a prodigious noise; and on his head was a newspaper cap, from which streamed ribbons of scarlet, yellow, and blue. When he was momentarily exhausted he flung open the window, and stretched out his head excitedly. "War, war, war!" he shouted. "Fritz will go to the war. Fritz will beat the drum and kill the French, and bang and hack and slash with all his might, till every man is dead." A brass trumpet which generally hung on a nail in the garret window, and which was often used by Fritz as a signal to attract Violet's attention, was now taken down and blown vehemently into the air; and then the drum was rattled upon more vigorously than ever. A few of those gathered beneath in the street looked up on hearing the noise, and recognizing Fritz, smiled somewhat sadly; but when Lizzie glanced across again at the little window of Ella's room, the child had vanished, and the drum having ceased clattering for a moment, she could hear that the crying in the room opposite had been resumed. "How she does weep, poor little girl! and what a noise the boy makes," said Lizzie, closing over the casement. "He will certainly awaken our Violet." She tried to attract Fritz's attention, to make him desist, but finding it useless, she fastened the bolt and turned back into the room. To her surprise, on looking round, she found Violet sitting up in her bed, her eyes wide open and her face very pale. "Aunt Lizzie?" "Well, darling, hast thou been long awake?" "A little while. When will father be here?" "Very soon now." "I do not want to say 'Good-bye,' Aunt Lizzie." "No, darling, it is a hard word to speak." "Will father say 'Good-bye' to Violet?" "I suppose so. It is at least likely; but wherefore, darling child, dost thou ask Aunt Lizzie this question?" "I do not want to say 'Good-bye,'" repeated Violet in the same sad voice. "It makes Violet cry to say 'Good-bye.'" "Ah"--Aunt Lizzie paused with a little start as she suddenly recognized the cause of the child's distressful thoughts--"ah, I understand it. Violet would rather that there were no 'good-byes' said. Aunt Lizzie will tell father so, and he will understand what Violet wishes. Is not this what thou meanest, dearest child?" Violet nodded her head. "Aunt Lizzie, what is Fritz shouting about over there at the window? and is not his father also going away to the war?" "Yes, my child; and Fritz is screaming out that he will be a soldier too. He is a noisy lad, that Fritz." "Violet wants to be a soldier too," said she in an almost inaudible voice; "but father is so long in coming, and Violet's heart goes so quick, Aunt Lizzie, and it makes her sick." "Here, let me smooth thy hair." Her aunt stooped quickly and kissed the little white face. "Let me bathe thy face and put on a nice clean pinafore, and then thou wilt look so bright and fresh for father. And now try and drink this cup of milk. It will do thee good." She offered the cup to her, but the child shook her head. "I could not drink it. All the morning something is in Violet's throat, just here, and she cannot make it go down." "Well, we will not mind the milk." Aunt Lizzie put the cup on the table, and brushed out her long fair hair and tied it up with her purple ribbon. She bathed her face with warm water from the sauce-pan on the stove, and the pinafore was already half over her head, when the door opened and John came in. "Aunt Lizzie, is it father? Tell him, tell him quickly," cried Violet in a sudden tremor. "Violet cannot be a soldier unless thou tellest him first what I said to thee." Lizzie turned from the bed, leaving the pinafore still over the child's face. John was already half-way across the room, and there was such a look of questioning anguish in his gaze as it met hers that she could scarcely frame the words of poor Violet's request. She whispered, however, something in his ear, which after a second's thought he readily understood; and stepping over towards the bed, he waited until Lizzie drew the pinafore down from his little girl's face, gazing at her with the expression in his eyes of one who waits with a speechless pain and dread to look on the features of the dead. But what was this! When the face was uncovered there was a smile, an actual smile on her lips, and one which grew with the mounting colour in her cheeks as she stretched up her arms quickly and said in a hurried whisper, "Father, Violet has been waiting for thee." "Yes, darling, I am somewhat late, but it was with difficulty I could push my way up here through the streets. I thought at one time I should hardly have been able to force my way through them at all, and that I should have been forced to say 'Good-bye' from the street." "From the street?" cried Aunt Lizzie and Violet in one breath. "Yes; the colonel has decided that we are to march through the Market-place and then down by the fountain and along past these windows to the station." "And I shall see thee again, father?" "Yes, my darling." "Aunt Lizzie will hold me in her arms, and I will look out at thee from the window." "Yes, little treasure, yes." "And Violet will watch thee coming up the street; and then she will see thee all the way along, along, until at last she will look, and look and will see thee no more." The smile had spread wider and wider, and the eyes fixed on his face had dilated and darkened to their deepest purple; but now there came a sudden pause, and the lips trembled. It was evident the struggle could not last much longer. The little heart was brave, but the flesh was weak. "Father, I have a secret." "Yes, my own Violet; what is it?" He stooped down, and Aunt Lizzie moved away. "Dost thou see my face, father?" "Yes, yes; the sweetest face in all the world. "But dost thou see it, father?" "Yes." "Put thy arms round my neck, and I will tell thee Violet's secret." He put his arms round his little daughter, and held her tightly to his breast while she placed her lips to his ear. "Violet is a soldier. The Lord Jesus can make even little sick girls brave. And, father, listen; look once more at Violet's face; look at her eyes." There was a pause, and then came the whisper, scarcely more than a fluttering breath--"Dost thou not see?--no more tears." He held her back for one moment and looked into her eyes. He kissed her passionately twice; then recognizing that this whisper was his darling's farewell, he drew her to his heart with one long, silent pressure, and turned away quickly. One moment he gazed from the window, then stretching out his hand to Lizzie with averted face, he passed out into the street. [Illustration: The Farewell Kiss. _Page 114._] CHAPTER XI. THE BUNCH OF VIOLETS. For a long time after John left the room Lizzie did not look round at Violet. She could not trust herself to do so. Bitter tears were running quickly down her own cheeks, and she dreaded to see the face of the child, so she sat by the stove and covered her eyes with her hands, grieving, oh, so sorely, that there was yet another farewell to be gone through, and that Violet's small stock of strength and brave little spirit must be tried still further. She was surprised, therefore, when about a quarter of an hour after John's departure Violet called to her in a low, quiet voice,-- "Aunt Lizzie, is the flower-shop far from here?" "No, my darling; it is only just round the corner." "I mean the stall where Fritz buys the flowers for mother. I forget the name." "I do not know the name either," replied her aunt, rising and brushing the tears off her face; "but yesterday afternoon, when I was walking from the station, I noticed beautiful flowers for sale in a shop close to this house." "Didst thou see any violets there?" "Yes, plenty of them." There was a short pause, and then Violet said earnestly,-- "Aunt Lizzie, wilt thou go to the shop and buy me some violets? It is not far, thou saidst, and I have some money in my new desk." "Of course I will go," said Aunt Lizzie, turning at once to look for her hat. "Never mind the money, darling; they will not cost much." "But I should like to give the money. And please, Aunt Lizzie, buy a large bunch, and very sweet. Sometimes Fritz buys violets that have no smell, and I do not care for them." "All right; Aunt Lizzie will choose the very sweetest she can find. And now here is the desk, and while Aunt Lizzie is tying on her hat thou canst take out the money." Violet opened her new possession, and with trembling, eager fingers, removed the little secret receptacle which held her newly-acquired money and drew out several silver coins. She placed them on the counterpane and waited for her aunt to turn round. "Aunt Lizzie, wilt thou do one more thing for Violet?" "Certainly, anything. What is it, my little darling?" for the child's face was covered with a crimson blush which darkened in its distress to almost a purple hue. "Darling, what is it?" "The cake, Aunt Lizzie, which father put by last night in the cupboard. May I have it?" "Certainly." Then, seeing her increased confusion, she added thoughtfully, "Aunt Lizzie is too glad that Violet should care to have the cake. It was made for thee, dearest, and madame would be so disappointed if thou didst not eat some of it." Violet did not speak. She lifted her eyes nervously to her aunt's face, and moved her hands restlessly to and fro on the counterpane. "I suppose I had better cut a slice for thee, the dish is so heavy; and now I may give thee some milk, dearest. Thou hast had no breakfast." "Please don't cut the cake, Aunt Lizzie." "Well, here it is. I will put it on the table beside thee; and here is the milk." Violet nodded her head with that silent acquiescence which so often with her took the place of words, and Aunt Lizzie went down the stairs perplexed and wondering. When she reached the little side street she found the flower-stall literally besieged with women and children purchasing bouquets and bunches of flowers, to give to their dear ones ere they started for the war--beautiful blue forget-me-nots, moss roses, lilies of the valley. It seemed this morning as if the poorest child in the town had a penny to spare for this purpose. Aunt Lizzie could scarcely force her way to the back of the stall, where a basket of sweet purple violets not yet unpacked had caught her eye. "No, no," cried the woman excitedly as Lizzie put down her hand to select a bunch; "these cannot be touched until the others on the counter are sold." "Oh, it is for a little sick child. I promised I would bring her home the sweetest in thy shop; and she will pay thee well, too, poor little girl." "Who is the child?" asked the woman, curiously looking up at the young wife's pleading face, a something in the eyes and the voice stirring up old recollections. "Is it little Violet who has sent thee for them?" "Yes, yes, the same." "Take then what thou wilt, and from where thou wilt. There are even better bunches in the little tub under the table--real sweet violets from the king's garden; but they are not too good for her." Lizzie knelt down and selected the finest bunch she could find in the tub--deep purple violets with the dew still on them and their stalks bound up with soft green moss. "Thanks a thousand times; these are real beauties," she said gratefully. "How much do I owe thee for them?" and she held out her hand, in the palm of which lay Violet's money. "Nothing," said the woman quickly. "Go, take them to her; she is welcome to them." "But Violet wished to pay; she will be grieved." "Don't let her grieve, then. She has enough pain in her heart for this day, I warrant. If she says anything, tell her that I will call some day myself for my payment; and that will be one look at her sweet little face. There, take a bunch of those blue forget-me-nots beside thee, and don't stop to thank me. My hands are too full this morning for such needless waste of time;" and she turned away quickly to attend to her other customers. Lizzie went back with her hands full of flowers and her eyes full of tears. How this little girl was beloved by all the town!--she a poor, sick, crippled child; and yet she seemed to have cords of love binding her to almost every heart in the town. Aunt Lizzie smiled as she said to herself, "For of such is the kingdom of heaven;" and a vision full of comfort passed before her eyes of the Lord Jesus standing with outstretched arms waiting patiently to gather this little suffering lamb into his arms. When she reached the house she paused a moment at the door, for she was anxious to give Violet time to eat some of the breakfast which she had left beside her, and, in the nervous state in which she had left her, she felt sure the little girl would not be able to do so if any one were beside her. So, leaning against the entrance door of the house with the flowers and money in her hand, she stood a little aside from the crowd, lost in a sorrowful reverie. It was not until a figure had darkened the doorway for a full minute or so that she looked up and perceived the policeman standing in front of her. "How goes it with the little girl upstairs?" he said, in a dry, matter-of-fact voice. "Pretty well, thank you," she replied, wondering at the interruption. "Does she sleep? can she eat? is she heart-broken?" He spoke abruptly, and Lizzie noticed with surprise that his lip was trembling beneath his thick frizzled mustache. "She is making a brave fight," replied she warmly; "but the worst is to come." "Yes, that is it," he said quickly. "Once he is gone there will be no keeping her. She will fade away, poor little flower, and be no more seen. Good-morning. It is well for her to-day that she has one kind heart to fly to." He touched his hat with military punctilio as he departed, but his eyes, which looked straight before him out into the street, were full of tears. "How does he know about her?" thought Aunt Lizzie wonderingly as she went slowly up the stairs; "and what a soft heart he must have beneath that hard and battered exterior." When she opened the door of Violet's room she found the child sitting up in her bed with her face flushed and her eyes unnaturally bright. She had her desk open on the counterpane beside her, and immediately in front of her, resting on her knees, was the piece of cake which yesterday she had refused to allow her father to cut. Her aunt went over to the bedside with her bunch of deep purple violets and the blue forget-me-nots and laid them on the coverlet. As she did so, Violet looked up and said, rather wearily,-- "Aunt Lizzie, canst thou help me?" "Certainly; what is it?" "It is so hard to print such a long word;" and she pointed with a nervous hesitation to the pink letters on the cake. Her aunt saw it all now--the little scrap of paper covered with almost illegible letters, and the shy action of the child to hide the effort from her eyes. "Couldst not thou hold my hand on the pencil and show me how?" she asked almost piteously. "Violet prints so badly." "Of course I can. Wait but one moment until I take off my hat and cloak, and we will do it beautifully together. It is not, after all, so badly done," she added comfortingly as she took up the paper and examined it. "I can read the 'Auf' quite plainly, and the other letters can be easily improved." In a little time the words were printed quite distinctly--"Auf wiedersehen" (To meet again). Violet drew a deep breath as they were finished, and lay back on her pillows; but after a time she roused herself up again and said,-- "Still one thing more, Aunt Lizzie. Violet wants to print her own name on the paper, all by herself. She must do it quite by herself alone; but thou canst print it first, and then Violet can do it afterwards ever so like." Aunt Lizzie saw at once what the child wanted, and so one letter at a time was drawn by her on a separate piece of paper, and Violet copied it painfully, until at last, with many shaky strokes and trembling uplines and places where there were no lines visible at all, the name "Violet" was printed in, crookedly enough, beneath the farewell words of love and hope. "'To meet again'--those are lovely words, Aunt Lizzie, are they not?" and Violet smiled, for her task of love was finished. Then with hands that trembled painfully she fastened the crumpled paper to the bunch of violets lying on the bed, and looked up at her aunt. "I will not put these," she said simply, touching the blue flowers, which lay beside the other bunch on the counterpane. "Father will not forget his Violet; for thou seest I am his little Violet--am I not, Aunt Lizzie? and he would much rather have those. I know he would." There was such questioning anxiety in her eyes that her aunt hastened to reassure her. "The violets are far the best," she said with decision. "The forget-me-nots are a present from the flower-woman to thyself." "Oh, how kind--how lovely!" she said, almost in a whisper, as she lifted the blue flowers to cover the fast-rising blushes which the painful excitement of the moment kept ever driving to her cheeks.--"Aunt Lizzie, what is that?" She started up with a bitter cry. "It is the drum, it is the drum, and Violet is not dressed." It _was_ the drum. Her aunt went over to the window and looked out. Far, far away, down at the foot of the hill close by the church, she could see soldiers marching out of the Market-place and defiling into the square in front of the large fountain. "Aunt Lizzie, is it the drum? Violet knows it is the drum, and she is not dressed to see father go by." The cry grew to a shriek. Lizzie's face was deathly pale as she turned round, but she said quietly,-- "Do not fret, thou dear angel. Aunt Lizzie will put on thy dressing-gown and hold thee in her arms at the window." "Quick, quick!" screamed Violet, snatching up the bunch of violets; "they are coming quite close; I hear them." "They are still a long way off," said her aunt reassuringly; "it will take them nearly ten minutes to reach to the top of the hill." "But my father--he will watch for me, he will look up for me; he will think I am not there." "Hush! quiet a moment, or I cannot lift thee in my arms. Oh, what a little tiny thing thou art! Now where are the violets?" "Here, here," cried the child, stretching out her hand; "now open the window quick! Aunt Lizzie, there he is; I see him. My father! my dear father!" The band was playing a familiar martial air, the drums thundered and shook the air, the trumpet-blasts seemed to cut all hearts in sunder; the old men and children in the windows screamed and shrieked, while the women in the streets, rushing along wildly beside the soldiers, uttered loud cries and bitter lamentations; and yet above all was heard one voice, one little child's voice, uplifted high in its misery. "My father! my father! look up, look at thy Violet; she is here at the window.--Aunt Lizzie, hold me tight. I cannot see. The ground is moving. My father, where is he? I saw him a moment ago." "He is just approaching; he is now beneath thee in the street, darling. Lean out; Aunt Lizzie will not let thee fall." "Father, father! farewell, farewell! come back to Violet." She flung the violets, as she spoke, far out into the quivering air. They fell first upon the heads of the surging crowd beneath, and then upon the ground. The men were marching on, John had passed by, and Aunt Lizzie groaned as she saw that in another moment they must be trampled under foot; but while Violet still cried aloud, "Farewell, farewell," some one in the crowd had pushed forward, stooped down hurriedly, and picked them up. It was the policeman; and with a quick onward rush he had overtaken John in his march and thrust the flowers into his hand. John gave one glance at the little paper, which had unrolled itself in its fall and displayed its farewell message to his aching eyes. He turned his head, waved the violets high above his shining helmet, and looked lingeringly back at the face so deathly pale at the open window. "He sees thee, my darling; he is waving his hand to thee," cried her aunt with choking tears. "Farewell, farewell, farewell--'To meet again,'" cried Violet with failing voice. "Dear father--'To meet again'--to--;" but the black moving mass had passed out of sight, the helmets had ceased to glitter, and Violet's head sank on Aunt Lizzie's shoulder with a sob. CHAPTER XII. THE SILVER WATCH. The regiment had at length passed by, and the sound of the drums and trumpets had become almost inaudible, when Aunt Lizzie rose to lay her sobbing burden on the bed. "So, my little loved one, we must rest now," she said softly; "and Aunt Lizzie will lie down beside Violet while she tries to sleep." But at this moment a bell over her head rang with a somewhat sharp clang. "What is that?" she said, pausing astonished with the child in her arms. "Oh, it is nothing; only the basket-bell, Aunt Lizzie." "The basket-bell? what is that, and where is it?" "The bell is over Violet's chair, and the basket is in the street," replied the child wearily. "Lay me down, Aunt Lizzie, for Violet's head aches so." Lizzie laid the child on the bed, and shook up the pillows. The bell rang again. Aunt Lizzie crept over to the window quietly and looked about her curiously, till presently, catching sight of a red cord attached to Violet's chair, she imagined she had lit on the right object. She drew it up inch by inch, and by-and-by the little straw basket made its appearance at the window, and she lifted it in. She hesitated a moment, then seeing Violet's eyes open she asked her softly,-- "Am I to open it, darling? or shall I give it to thee?" "Do thou open it, Aunt Lizzie; Violet is too tired." Her aunt drew out with some surprise a small package, most carefully fastened up and sealed. On the outside was printed in a clear strong hand,--"For little Violet, from a friend." "This must be a present for thee, my child; something very precious it seems too." "Oh, not now; put it away, Aunt Lizzie; Violet's head aches so." "What! thou wilt not even look at it?" cried her aunt, whose own curiosity was now somewhat raised, and she carried the package over to the side of the bed; but Violet only pressed her head down into the pillows and waved the gift away with her hand. "Aunt Lizzie, Aunt Lizzie, my head it aches so. Come and sit beside Violet; for her father, her good, dear father, is gone away, so far away; and what can she do--what can she do--what can she do?" There were sobs, but as yet no tears. "Thou canst pray to the good God to keep him safe and well," said her aunt softly, as she laid the packet on the table; "that will do thee good." But while she stooped down and comforted the child with kisses and loving words, there was a knock at the door, and she cried softly,-- "Oh, who comes now? the child is tired and must sleep." But it was the doctor who opened the door and walked in. He had promised John, the night before, to look after little Violet in the first access of her trouble; and as he walked towards the bed, she gave him a little smile of welcome. He sat down beside her, drawing his chair quite close up, and took the little girl's hand in his, looking earnestly at her for a few minutes without speaking. Violet blushed one of those painful blushes so common to her now, which flooded all the poor pale face with vivid carmine. "What is this?" said the doctor, turning his eyes slowly away from her and looking at the sealed package on the table close to him; "what have we here? A present for Violet, 'from a friend.'" He took it up in his hand and examined it carefully. "Thou hast not opened it yet, I perceive." "No; some other day," she said softly. "Why some other day? why not now?" and the doctor held out the packet to her. She stretched out her hand nervously; but it trembled so, and the parcel was so weighty for its size, that it fell from her grasp on the counterpane. "There, there, that is enough; I will open it for thee." The doctor took it up and broke the seal, looking at it curiously as he did so. It had on it a little bird flying out of a cage, with the simple motto over it, "Free at last." Inside the first paper was a layer of soft pink cotton wool. "It must be something very precious," said the doctor, adjusting his glasses. Violet rose a little on her elbow and looked also. "Ho! I have a guess; but I can scarcely believe it possible." "What?" she asked in a low voice, scarcely conscious even that she spoke, and with her eyes riveted on the parcel, from which the doctor was now slowly removing the pink wool. "Oh, wonderful! I have guessed rightly. It is what I thought; and this is a gift for thee, Violet." "But what is it? I cannot see it." She rose now entirely from her pillows. "O Aunt Lizzie, see--it is a watch!" "A watch!" cried her aunt excitedly, who had been standing all this time by the bedside with her eyes full of tears; "is it possible?" "A watch for me!--how beautiful!" Violet held it in her hand, gazing at it with those deep purple-coloured eyes which spoke so often to those she loved, even when the mouth was silent. "Let me look at it again; it is quite a beauty." The doctor took it in his hand. It was a silver watch with a double case--a case which opened with a spring to show the face. The back was all chased with the ordinary criss-cross lines, only in the centre there was a small round space with a name carved on it; and on the opposite side there was a space also, filled in with a wreath of blue forget-me-nots in enamel. "Oh, how strange! I have certainly seen this watch before. Let me try if I could read the name." The doctor rose, and going over to the window adjusted his glasses with great accuracy. "It is just as I thought--'Margaret.' And who is the friend who has given our little Violet this beautiful present?" "I do not know," she said, shaking her head; "it came in the basket." "In the basket?" said the doctor; "and there was no name?" "None," replied Aunt Lizzie. "I drew it up myself, and took out the parcel; that is quite certain." "Then I must tell no tales," said the good old man smiling; "only Violet, I know, will take great care of the present;" and turning back he replaced the watch in her hand. "Yes," said she softly; but her eyes were full of question. "It belonged once to a little sick girl whom I knew well, and who is now an angel in heaven," he said in a low voice. "A little sick girl," repeated Violet, gazing at him with eyes widening and darkening. "Yes; she died early this spring, just when the flowers were beginning to shoot up and the larks to sing. She just stretched out her wings like the little bird on this seal, and flew straight up to heaven." "Her wings!" cried Violet with a gasp; "was she--;" she paused again, colouring painfully. "Was she what? what is it, my poor little girlie?" asked the doctor kindly. "Was she a little hunchback like me?" "A what? what does the child say?" cried the doctor in evident distress.--"Yes, she was like thee; and I will tell thee why: Because she was one of the sweetest little maidens in the world;" and with a sudden tenderness he stroked back Violet's hair and kissed her on the forehead. "She was one of the Lord Jesus' own little lambs; and when she was very tired and very sad she told him all her trouble, and he loved her and comforted her." "Yes," said Violet with a little trembling sigh, and enormous tears rising up and clouding her eyes. "And now," he said, sitting down by the bedside and taking the child's hand, "we must feel Violet's pulse with this new watch and make it useful." What a burning little hand it was, and how the poor heart was beating! There was no need to look at the minute hand, for the thread of life leaped on at a countless speed, and the doctor closed the cover with a snap. "Violet is a good girl; she will take the medicine I shall send her presently." She nodded her head, and as she did so the tears fell out of her eyes upon the linen sheet. She looked up swiftly, deprecatingly at her aunt. "She has been such a good girl all the morning," said Aunt Lizzie; "she has been so brave, our Violet. She would not shed a tear to fret her father or make his heart ache. I think now we may let her cry a little; is it not so, sir?" "Certainly; it will do her good to cry." The doctor's voice was husky, and he dropped his glasses quickly, so that they clicked against the buttons of his coat. "I shall send her up now at once a little draught, very small, and without a bad taste; let her take it the moment it comes; and try and keep the room and the house quiet. We must get her over this day and night somehow," he added as he reached the door. "Of all the patients I shall have to see this afternoon there is not one for whom my heart aches as it does for the little maiden yonder. The sorrows of this world will not trouble her long. Good-evening;" and going down the stairs, the doctor blew his nose sonorously and went out into the street. The thoroughfare was almost deserted now. The women had gone back into their houses to weep and pray; and the men, what able-bodied men there were left, had resumed their daily toil. It seemed as if a great fire had died out of the heart of the town and left nothing but ashes behind it. Only the clank of the policeman's sword could be heard resounding through the empty street, clinking slowly against the stones of the pavement. "Good-evening," said the doctor as they met presently face to face; "how goes it with thee, William? I suppose thy son is off with all the rest of the lads this morning." "Yes, doctor." "It has been a hard day for thee, no doubt." "Yes, hard enough; though, the good God pardon me, I nearly lost sight of the poor lad, watching the girl up at the window yonder throwing the violets to her father. It was enough to make one's heartstrings crack." "She reminds thee of thy little Margaret, no doubt," said the doctor kindly. "I have seen the likeness; and I have also seen the joy which thy kind heart has procured for her this afternoon, at perhaps the most critical moment of her life." "God be praised!" said the policeman earnestly. "Can she, will she live, do you think, until he returns?" "Heaven only knows," replied the doctor as he nodded his farewell. "It is well for those good friends who are already at rest." CHAPTER XIII. NOISY FRIENDS. The next morning Fritz and Ella came over quite early, before Violet was up, to see her. Her head ached still, and Aunt Lizzie had advised her to stay in bed until after her dinner. All night she had lain with the silver watch clasped in her hand, and all the morning too she had held it tightly pressed in towards her. "It had belonged once to a little girl who was now in heaven;" that had been the burden of her thoughts ever since she had heard its history. "This little sick child had stretched out her wings and flown straight up to God." The doctor had said so; and she remembered a day, long ago, when she had heard her father say to her mother that the doctor was the best and kindest man in all Edelsheim. And then poor Violet, burying her head deep down in the pillows, had said, in a low voice of entreaty, "O good Lord Jesus, give Violet wings, too, and take her soon to heaven." Fritz was, for him, quite nervous when he first entered the room, and Ella kept as much in his shadow as possible. Every one in the house and in the street had been talking about Violet, and her great trouble since the departure of the regiment; and Fritz had come to look upon his little friend as a kind of curiosity, to be approached with an unusual degree of compassion and gentleness. But the ruse of the old policeman, to distract her thoughts for a time, had succeeded almost beyond his hopes. She was quite like herself this morning, and stretched out her hand at once to her playfellows affectionately, and said with some excitement,-- "Fritz, look at my watch." "Thy watch! Who gave it thee?" "I do not know," she said, with a slow, sweet smile; "it came in the basket. It has got forget-me-nots on one side, and Margaret on the other; and the little girl it belonged to is in heaven." "How dost thou know?" "The doctor said so. She was very very sick, and when the flowers and the larks came, God gave her wings, and she flew right up there." "Where?" asked Fritz. "There; far away, over the roofs and over the steeple, high, high; ever so high up, up, till at last she was with God." "And who was she? what was her name?" questioned Fritz. "I do not know," said Violet, shaking her head. "But, Fritz, I was wondering. I was thinking all last night that perhaps it was the same little sick girl who had the book. Thou rememberest, dost thou not? It came in the basket too." "What book?" "About the little hunchback," said Violet in a whisper. "Oh!" cried Fritz, with quite a visible start; "yes; of course I remember the fairy-tale book. We thought at first it was the girl with the oranges; but she cannot be in heaven, because I saw her to-day." "No, not a bit of that girl is in heaven," cried Ella joyously. "Fritz and I saw her to-day. Fritz climbed up the steps, and gave her hair a chuck; and she jumped round so fast that she fell over, and bumped down every step--bump, bump, bump--and all the oranges galloped after her. When she got to the bottom," screamed Ella, "she was sitting in the middle of her own basket, and her heels up in the air--so;" and Ella plumped down on her back on the floor, and elevated two of the stoutest legs imaginable. "She bellowed after us that she would call the police," cried Fritz, continuing the story with much zest; "but I screamed back to her that the police would put her in prison for sticking pins in her oranges and sucking them, as I have seen her do hundreds of times. Then she flew into a worse rage, and said that she would run home and tell her father. So Ella and I laughed, for she would have a long way to run to tell her father--would she not, Violet?" "Yes," she said quickly; but the smile which had risen at the children's story suddenly died out from her lips. Fritz said, "Perhaps she would have to run all the way to Paris; and it would be nicer to pick up oranges out of the gutter than cannon balls, and be bursted all to pieces by powder." Aunt Lizzie cried "Hush!" and rose from her chair by the stove; but the children did not hear her, and went on excitedly,-- "And do you know, there has been fighting already, and lots of people killed; but not in our regiment," added Fritz hastily, for he was alarmed at the sudden agony that came into Violet's face. "I saw the picture," cried Ella at the tip-top of her voice. "I saw it in the shop window--a man climbing up a great steep rock with no head on him at all. It had just been banged off his body by a gun. And another man on his face, with only one leg. And dost thou know what Fritz said? If he had been there the French people would never have got into that town--not they, old blockheads as they are." "What town?" asked Violet, almost in a whisper. "Saarbrück, near the Rhine. But it was all a shabby trick of the French; so all the people say. And we will make them pay for it by-and-by; see if we won't. We will hunt them out of it again with cannons, and powders, and drums." "Yes, with powders and drums!" shouted Ella.--"And dost thou know, Violet, Fritz wanted to go to the war with father, and beat a big drum all day with an apron on him; and he screamed so, father said 'Perhaps.' And all night Ella cried and cried, and never stopped; and in the morning father got out of his bed and kissed Ella, and said Fritz must stay at home and take care of me. And Fritz was in such a rage he tore Ella's night-cap in two, and flung it in the bread-oven." "Come, now, we have had enough noise for one afternoon," said Aunt Lizzie quietly. "Suppose we all sit round the stove and let Violet rest; her head has ached all the morning, and she looks very tired." "Oh no, Aunt Lizzie; let them stay," said Violet and she stretched out her hands to the children. "I have not seen Fritz for so many days, nor Ella either." "Mother would not let us come," said Fritz bluntly. "She said thou wouldst be busy saying good-bye to thy father and crying, and it would be no use bothering." "Yes, very busy crying," said Ella plaintively. "And I am going to begin now and say my prayers," observed Fritz, whose eyes had suddenly rested on Violet's Bible lying on the table beside her bed. "Mother says Ella and I ought to pray every morning and every night for father to come home safe; and so I am going to begin to-night." "And didst thou not always say thy prayers every morning and every night?" asked Aunt Lizzie in some surprise. "Oh yes, I always say them," observed Fritz; "but I don't think about them; at least not much." "He does not think about them one scrap," said Ella cheerfully; "he stares at the wall, and goes sound asleep; and sometimes he looks round at me, and begins to laugh; and sometimes he rattles his heels on the ground until mother comes up and smacks him." Aunt Lizzie shook her head at this history; and Violet said in a very low voice,-- "O Fritz, is not Ella joking?" "No," replied Fritz truthfully. "I don't much care for saying prayers. I like to ask God for things which I think he will give me, but it tires me to say the same thing so often. At least one month I used to pray every day for a lovely gray pony that was in the field, and I never got it. And, besides, every morning when I woke I used always to say to God, 'Good Lord God, make little Violet well;' and yet thou art still sick, and weaker and weaker. And then," continued Fritz, bending close down beside her, and speaking in a whisper, "once I prayed in the day, too, when I read that book about the little hunchback girl. I went straight home and asked God to give thee wings too; and yet thou hast never got them." "Yes," said Ella in a very grave tone, having overheard the whisper, "he went straight home and locked the door, and would not let Ella in; and Ella banged and banged, and it was all no use. And then she put her eye to the keyhole, and Fritz was saying his prayers at the kitchen table; and Ella heard him say, 'Please, good Lord Jesus, put wings on Violet's hump, like the little girl in the story. Amen.'" "Hush! we have had quite enough talking for one day," cried Aunt Lizzie again hurriedly, her face flushing crimson, as she gazed in anguish at the little sick girl in the bed. "Away with thee, Ella! away with thee too, Fritz! I cannot have my little girl tired." But Violet flung her arms round Fritz's neck affectionately, and cried out gratefully, "Thou dear, good Fritz!" Then putting her lips to his ear, she said in a low whisper, "The Lord Jesus does always hear when Fritz prays, and he will give me wings, and he will do all that Fritz asks him." CHAPTER XIV. EVELINA. The next day, about four o'clock in the afternoon, Evelina arrived from Gützberg. Violet had been told that she was coming, and that she was to be her own little maid and companion until her father returned to Edelsheim from the war. Aunt Lizzie, too, had promised that she would often come over and see her, and Fritz and Ella would meantime be her daily companions; and Madam Adler, too, had promised John that she would be constantly on the watch, coming to see that the child was well and happy. "It will not be for _very_ long, will it?" she had said to her Aunt Lizzie, as she was being dressed that morning for the first time since the departure of the regiment. "What will not be for long?" "Until father comes home," replied Violet smiling. "I heard him tell thee so that night when the moon was shining through the window. Did not he, Aunt Lizzie?" The child's eyes deepened with prophetic joy as she gazed full into her aunt's face, waiting for a reply. It did not come at once, and she added with an ever-increasing smile, "And when the war is over I shall see him again, ever so soon. He will cry out, 'Where is my own little Violet?' and look up; and I will stretch out my arms--so--Aunt Lizzie; and then all the fighting will be over, and we shall never have to say good-bye any more." Aunt Lizzie was drawing on Violet's stocking, and she bent her head very low to see that the seam was straight at the ankle. When she looked up again, the smile was still on Violet's lips, but her eyes were looking far away up into the blue sky, high, high up above the roofs and the steeple, to where the little sick girl, whose watch was beating so close to her heart now, had gone up to be with God. When Evelina arrived, there was quite a little company gathered together to meet her--Aunt Lizzie, and Violet, and Fritz, and Ella, and Madam Adler, who had baked a special loaf for the supper, and who had also a curiosity to see the new girl, and form her own opinion as to her capabilities. "What a huge box she has!" cried Fritz, who, full of interest, was kneeling on the cushioned window-sill, and could thus overlook the whole street. "And another box, too, stuck up beside the driver; and here she is herself, and two more boxes in her hand." "Yes, two little, tiny baby boxes," shouted Ella, whose rosy face was spread out against the windowpane, "and two very black hands." "Those are not her hands; those are her gloves, little donkey," cried Fritz contemptuously. "I saw her face; and she is ever so pretty.--She is indeed, Violet, ever, ever so pretty." Violet nodded her head in her grave, peculiar way. It was a moment of intense excitement to her the advent of this new girl, the friend who was to be always with her until her father's return; but no one could hear the throbbing of the little girl's heart. And though her eyes darkened and the pupils grew wider and wider, no one knew the tumult going on within her breast. As a rule, she took no interest in strangers. Like all invalids, she shrank from the entrance of those with whom she was not intimate; and those who knew and loved her pitied her distress when the crimson blushes, rushing in waves over her pale face, showed the nervous tremor of her heart. But to form a really new friendship was a thing almost impossible to her. She loved those whom she had known all her life, with a tenacity far beyond the usual love of children. She clung to them as all sick people cling to those who daily watch and tend them; and though Aunt Lizzie had sought in every way to inspire her with a feeling of confidence and interest in Evelina, she shrank from the thought of their first meeting. And now, as she heard the ascending footsteps, a sudden rush of unreasonable distrust and premature dislike seemed to fill her heart, and she turned her face quickly away towards the window, and held fast hold of Fritz's hand, who was standing with gaping mouth and eyes riveted on the doorway. There was a little flutter in the room. Aunt Lizzie rose and moved towards the door; Madam Adler, too, went forward; Ella drew back a step or two from the stove; and Violet, still looking with straining eyes at the houses opposite, heard, as the door opened, a sweet voice saying, in reply to some question of her aunt's,-- "Yes, thank you very much; I have had a very good journey. It was almost stiflingly hot in the train, but the air is cooler now." "And the children?" asked Aunt Lizzie. "Oh, the little angels, they are as well as possible. They cried, of course, when I took leave of them; but the master is taking them out this afternoon for a walk in the gardens; and the little one is quite happy.--Ah, is that the little sick girl yonder?" Violet turned her head quickly round and looked up. "Oh, how white she is!" Aunt Lizzie hurried forward and stood beside Violet's chair. "Here, sweet one," she said, kissing her on the forehead, "this is Evelina of whom we have talked so much. Thou and she will be great friends by-and-by. She has come all the way from Gützberg to take care of thee; is it not so, my treasure?" Violet nodded her head and smiled nervously, then stretched out her hand to take Evelina's, but there was no enthusiasm in the movement. "Ah, the poor child, she is nervous, she is shy, but we shall soon be the best of friends," cried Evelina pleasantly; "one cannot expect the little one to take to me all at once.--And who is this lad who looks as if he would eat me with his eyes, eh?" "I am Violet's own friend," replied Fritz, colouring purple, but placing his hand firmly on the back of Violet's chair. "Ah, it is very pleasant for her to have such a good friend," observed Evelina, laughing and throwing back her head so that the little gold bells on her ears tinkled;--"but by-and-by you must be my friend too; is it not so, eh?" "Perhaps," said Fritz shortly, while poor Violet looked down at her pinafore and blushed because Fritz was somewhat uncivil in his reply. "And who is this little cherub with the red cheeks? is she also a friend?" asked Evelina, as she sat down on the cushioned window-seat and tried to lift Ella on her knee; but the child wriggled somewhat roughly away from her, and a shower of wooden animals--ducks, pigs, and camels--which had been arrayed along the ledge overhead tumbled down in confusion over Evelina's hat, shoulders, and lap. This created a general laugh, in which even Violet joined, and the first stiffness of the introduction was in this manner happily got over. Evelina had a very pretty and pleasant face. There was certainly nothing to frighten one in it. Her hair, which seemed one mass of frizzly, golden threads, was brushed back from her face and pinned at the sides with somewhat large gold pins; she had eyes that seemed ever sparkling and smiling, rosy lips, and cheeks with dimples in them. When she took off her hat and put on a very dainty white cap with crimped frillings of lace, and a snowy linen apron also edged with carefully-goffered frills, she looked so fair and sweet and happy, that Violet's eyes became riveted upon her, and she followed all her movements with an unconscious interest. At last the moment came for Madam Adler to say good-bye, and Fritz and Ella as usual took a loving farewell of their little play-fellow. As Fritz flung his arms round Violet's neck, he said in a whisper,-- "She is very pretty this Evelina, but--" "What," cried Violet, a sudden distress coming into her eyes; "what is it, Fritz?" "Nothing--I am not sure--I do not know; some other day I will tell thee;" and before she could drag his meaning from him he had marched across the room with head erect, and so he preceded his mother down the stairs. CHAPTER XV. WEIGHED IN THE BALANCES. That "but" of Fritz's rested all the evening somewhat heavily on Violet's heart, otherwise there was something about Evelina that would perforce have fascinated the child. It was a face that seemed to grow prettier each time she looked at it; and her voice was so sweet, especially when she sang little snatches of song, which she did apparently unconsciously, as she went about the room setting everything in apple-pie order, and dusting the ornaments and furniture with an easy grace, as if all she did were a pleasure to her. In the evening, after Violet had been put to bed, Aunt Lizzie went out to get some letters, and Evelina and her charge were left alone. The moment the door closed on her protectress, the nervous look came back to Violet's eyes, and she gazed with a distressed intentness at the shining brass balls at the foot of her bed. Evelina, however, appeared quite unconscious of any difference in her manner. She added wood to the stove, polished the brass kettle, chirruped to the canary, and then seating herself at the window, she took out her knitting, and with swiftly-flying fingers went on with a stocking which she was making for one of the little boys at Gützberg. This she told Violet presently with much laughter, describing how the little tease Henry had pulled all the needles out of her work just at the most critical part, to make sticks for his soldiers' flags, and how she had had to go back and knit half the leg over again; and all the time that she laughed and told her story she was knitting away without once looking at her work, but straight out of the window at the houses and shops opposite. Once when she looked up hastily, she became aware of two faces placed against the high-up window of a house almost exactly opposite, and she saw that four eager eyes were following all her movements with an intense interest. In the fair, round, smiling face, with its great blue eyes, and its golden curls all tucked away inside a plain white linen nightcap, Evelina did not at first recognize Ella; but a glance at the burning eyes of the little boy who stood beside her, and who seemed to watch her own actions with an almost jealous anxiety, was sufficient to make her recognize the lad who had stood by Violet's chair that afternoon, and had replied so shortly to her question "that he was Violet's own friend." "Ah, that is where he lives, thy little friend. How he does stare!" Evelina put down her knitting for a minute, and nodding across to Fritz, drew out her pocket-handkerchief and waved it through the open pane beside her. Fritz bowed in reply rather stiffly. Ella pranced about in some excitement for a moment, but noticing that Fritz's expression was somewhat gloomy, she became grave also, and in a few minutes they both disappeared from the window. Then, almost without being aware of it, Violet and Evelina fell into quite a natural talk. Evelina had so many questions to ask about Ella and Fritz, and their parents, and the people who lived on either side of them, and how they all were, and what occupations they had; so that when Aunt Lizzie returned from her walk she was quite delighted to hear, as she placed her hand on the door, a quiet little laugh from Violet, as she exclaimed in evident amusement--"Indeed he is not; he is a grand old fellow, and I love him." "Old!" replied Evelina; "why, I should not call him old, and he is very handsome. I can see him now quite plainly, for he is looking up at me this moment." Evelina had risen, and was gazing out through the casement as Aunt Lizzie entered, so she did not hear her mistress's step until she was quite close beside her. "Of whom art thou speaking, darling?" asked Aunt Lizzie, glad to notice the smile which was still lingering on Violet's face. "Of the old policeman. Evelina asked me if he was a very cruel man, and he is so good, Aunt Lizzie; he sometimes kisses his hand to me; and dost not thou remember it was he who picked up my violets and gave them to--to father;" there was a sudden break in the child's voice, and the smile died suddenly away. "Ah yes, he is a good old fellow," replied her aunt quickly; "he spoke to me the other day and asked me all about thee." "About me, Aunt Lizzie?" "Yes, darling, about thee. Violet has many friends in the town of whom she knows little, or perhaps nothing; but they know her--they look up at her as they go past the window, and they love her." "They love me?" Violet smiled again, an inquiring, happy smile, and her little white face mantled with modest blushes. "So many friends," she said softly; then added almost in a whisper, "and also, Aunt Lizzie, the Lord Jesus; he is my friend too, is he not?" "He is indeed thy best friend; so good a friend, that no matter who else goes away and leaves little Violet, he is always beside her; and when she is very tired, and her back aches, and her heart is sad, then she has only to think how close he is beside her, and rest her little tired head just so against his breast." And as Aunt Lizzie spoke she drew Violet close beside her, and covered her upturned face with loving kisses. Evelina was seated again in the window as Aunt Lizzie turned round from the bed. Her fingers were flying swiftly, the steel needles clattered and chinked, but there was a moisture in her usually bright eyes, which her mistress understood and was glad to see. Two days afterwards Aunt Lizzie returned to Gützberg, leaving Evelina in sole charge of Violet. She had almost grown accustomed to her now. At first it was a sore trial to her that Evelina slept in the room which used to be her mother's. When the door of it opened and shut, her heart gave sudden leaps and starts, which made her sick and wretched. When she saw Evelina's hat hanging on the same nail where her mother's used to be, she turned her eyes away quickly; but even to this she soon grew accustomed, and said to herself, with a long, wishful sigh, "When father comes back all will be like home again." Fritz, too, became much more friendly with Evelina as the days wore on. She had quite a fund of fairy tales and children's stories, which she used to tell them in the evenings. It was after supper was finished that they used to gather round her in the window; and Violet's eyes grew and darkened and deepened in the summer twilight as she listened, inthralled, to the stories of forest gnomes and elves that hid themselves beneath the fragrant ferns and mosses of the woods. Evelina could sing, too. She had the sweetest voice imaginable, and she knew heaps of ballads; and when the song was an exciting one, she would act it with quick gestures and flashing eyes; or when it was sad, real tears sprung to them with an almost unnatural swiftness. Violet listened and pondered and watched every movement of the face before her; and yet, with an unconscious distrust, still kept the whole freedom of her loving heart uplifted in the balance. "Fritz," she said one evening suddenly, as he and she sat alone in the deep window-seat, "Fritz, tell me this one thing: dost thou love Evelina?" "I like her," replied Fritz quickly. "I like her too, she is ever so kind to me, and she never says a cross word, like old Kate; but I like Kate better." "I know," cried Fritz, who was busy peeling a stick and throwing the shavings on the ground, "she looks in the glass so often, and she is always twisting up little curls on her forehead. I can see her from the window opposite. And once she was smiling and bowing at herself in the glass, and she suddenly looked up and saw me; and she was such a little fool, she ran away with her face covered up with her hands and threw herself down on the bed. Still she is not too nasty," added Fritz comfortingly, "and I like her. She tells grand stories, and she is awfully good-natured." Violet listened almost awe-struck. Fritz was certainly wonderful at guessing and seeing things; he knew much better all about Evelina than she did, and he was able to explain things so easily. "She often says 'Yes' when she is not listening to one word any of us says; and when she leans out of the window and sings, she pretends she does not see the people in the street stopping to hear: she pretends lots of things; that I see well enough," cried Fritz, waving the newly-peeled white stick triumphantly over his head, and bringing it down on the cushion with a bang. "Still I like her, and Ella thinks her simply an angel." Violet grew more reassured; and when Evelina returned smiling and pretty, and with a lovely fresh cake full of currants in her hand for Violet, the room seemed quite bright again; and Ella coming across the street, and up the stairs with great bounds, was kept for the evening meal, and sat on Evelina's knee all the afternoon happier than any queen. CHAPTER XVI. FATHER'S LETTER. So the long days deepened, and the sun grew hot and strong over the town of Edelsheim. In the middle of the day the streets were almost deserted, except by those who, under cover of huge, mushroom-shaped umbrellas, ventured out to make their purchases. Even the roofs opposite had been almost deserted by the birds, which only twittered in the early morning; and the pigeons pattered up and down in the shadow of the eaves, or sat huddled together on the chain which hung across the street opposite Violet's window, for at mid-day their pink feet would have been scorched on the hot tiles of the houses opposite, where they generally congregated. Violet's canary seldom sang now. In the evening sometimes it trilled out a delicious song, with its head bent on one side, as if it were looking out through the opening in the roofs opposite to the hill, with its crown of trees and the blue sky over it so fresh and free; but in the morning it never sang. Evelina would not allow it to sing; its chattering and loud rejoicing as the sun arose had disturbed her sleep, and rising up early one morning, she had opened the door of her room suddenly, and with smothered, angry words, had rushed in and thrown a black shawl over the cage, which she had carried with her in her hand from the inner room. Violet, who was awake, and listening to her favourite's song with silent pleasure, protested loudly, but it was all of no use; Evelina was really angry, and she said sharply that if Violet chose to make a fuss about it she would remove the cage from the room altogether. Violet's heart beat and her eyes flamed, and she cried hotly after Evelina's retreating figure. "Father will soon come home, and then--" "Yes; and then thou mayest do as thou choosest, no doubt, and eat the little beast, head and tail, if it pleases thee; but it shall not keep me awake, that is all." Evelina closed the door sharply after her, and flung herself back into bed, angry with Violet and angry with herself. Both their voices had been raised, and the windows of the room lay wide open to catch even a passing breath of the cool morning air. And as Evelina had hurried past the window of her room she had caught a glimpse of the old policeman standing on the pavement opposite, and looking up anxiously with strained inquiring gaze at the projecting casement of Violet's room. He must have heard her anguished cry of protestation, "Father will come home soon, and then--" But her own voice, she hoped, had not been raised so loud. "The little spoiled thing! she thinks she must not be crossed in anything," she said pettishly to herself; and so turning on her pillow fell fast asleep. The same morning brought a letter from Violet's father, and her trouble about the canary bird was soon forgotten. It was such a long letter. Her eyes deepened and her cheeks flushed. She begged of Evelina to go across the street and ask Madam Adler to come over and read it out to her. Evelina took the message somewhat unwillingly, saying that she could read it for her with pleasure. But Violet shook her head and replied nervously, "Madam Adler knows father, and she will understand." "I suppose," replied Evelina with a short laugh, "any one who does not know thy father must be a blockhead, eh?" and running lightly down the stairs and across the street, she came suddenly face to face in the Adlers' doorway with the policeman. Evelina blushed a deep conscious blush and tried to hurry past; but laying his hand a moment on her arm he said gravely, while he pointed across at the window opposite,-- "How is the little maiden up yonder?" "Oh, she is like a mad thing this morning. She has got a letter from her father, and I have just flown across to call Madam Adler to read it to her." "So; that is good," he replied, still looking fixedly at Evelina's blushing face, and seeking to fix the eyes which looked every way except at him. "Let me pass, if you please," she said nervously; "the child will be impatient if I delay." "You are very kind to our Violet?" he said, moving a little aside. "She is happy?" "Oh yes, happy enough; that is to say when she gets everything she wants. She is a trifle peevish sometimes, and hard to manage. But we are great friends." "I fancied I had heard her crying this morning very early; was it not so?" "Pah!" cried Evelina with a toss of her head, "one must not stand in the street and count every cry a sick child gives. The canary bird chattered so that she could not sleep, nor I either, so I threw a shawl over its head, and there was an end of the matter." "So," said the policeman again, only this time more gravely, and allowed Evelina to go past him up the stairs. Madam Adler did not lose a moment in hastening to come at Violet's call. She too had had a letter from her husband, and had only just read the first line; but she thrust it into her pocket and hurried across the street. Little Violet's trembling heart must first be quieted, and then when she was satisfied Madam Adler would return and read her own letter in the quiet of her room with many thanks to the good God who had spared her husband so far. [Illustration: Reading the Letter. _Page 163._] She drew her chair beside the bed, and having kissed the little white face with its ardent, loving eyes, she took the letter from Violet's hand and read it out to her slowly. It was just such a letter as she had expected it would be--overflowing with love, and with almost no allusion to the war or its horrors, but giving accounts of their camp-life,--the bivouacs under the trees, the fires lighted on the grass, and the large camp-kettles swung upon poles over the blazing logs; and of the little children who came out of the villages and stole through the woods to stare at them; and of one little maiden who had made so bold as to come and sit on John's knee, and had stroked his beard and chatted to him in French, and finally had kissed him ere she went away. Sometimes they slept on the ground with nothing but the bright stars overhead, and sometimes they made houses of leaves and boughs, into which they crept at night, and were as comfortable as could be. But the chief part of the letter was taken up with home affairs. John wanted to know all about his Violet;--whether she was happy; what she did all day; whether she went out to drive in her carriage; if Fritz took good care of her, if Madam Adler came often to see her. Had the good doctor been to pay her a visit; was the canary well; did the poor back ache much? And inside the envelope, folded up carefully in a small piece of tissue-paper, were some wild flowers gathered from under the trees where they had bivouacked the night before. Violet could put them into mother's Bible. The flowers which she had given him were quite safe. He kept them always in a little package near his heart, and he loved to think of the words which Violet had printed for him--"To meet again." It is needless to say that Violet's eyes were full before this letter was ended, and Madam Adler had to speak quickly of the one which she must write to him in answer, and of all the news she would have to tell him--about her watch, and about the doctor's visit, and how Ella's front tooth had fallen out, and she could no longer eat the hard ginger-bread nuts in the bakery. Madam Adler promised to come over the next day to help her to write this letter, and having placed her mother's Bible on the bed beside her, she returned with an anxious heart to her own house to finish the closely-written page which lay hidden away in her pocket. CHAPTER XVII. THE KIND PHYSICIAN. The next morning Violet waited with some impatience for the time to arrive at which Madam Adler had promised to come and help her to write her letter. She made Evelina put her desk upon the bed, and her mother's Bible; and she had on a snowy clean pinafore and a fresh purple bow tying up her hair. Evelina looked very white this morning, and often when the child spoke to her she did not answer her. She went in and out of the room perpetually, and once or twice Violet heard her chattering in the street below in a low, excited voice; and when she did return, she did not look at Violet at all, but walked to the window and stared across at the house opposite. "Is Madam Adler coming?" asked Violet a little wearily, as for the twentieth time she pushed the desk to one side, for the weight of it on the counterpane tired her so. "I heard the clock strike twelve ages ago." "I do not see her coming," replied Evelina evasively. "Is Fritz at the window?" "No." "Or Ella?" "No." "Couldst thou not go across and see if she will soon be here? Do, Evelina, please." Evelina turned slowly away from the window and went downstairs, while the little girl once more drew the desk near her, and, opening it, took out a sheet of paper and a pen. But Evelina did not return for a long time, and Violet's head ached so much she had to lie back on her pillows. So the weary minutes dragged on, and there was no sound of any one coming. She drew out her watch and looked at it. It wanted but a quarter to one, and then it would be dinner-time, and the letter would surely be late for the post. How fast the watch ticked, and yet how slowly the hands moved on. Her heart too was beating so loud and so fast she felt as if she were a part of the watch, and it made her more restless and impatient. So she put it back under her pillow and tried to lie quite still. It was such a hot morning, and the sun was beating straight in on her bed. "If only Evelina would come back and draw down the blind," she murmured, for it was useless now to think of writing a letter before dinner-time. There were ducks quacking somewhere down in the street, too, and making such a noise. When Evelina returned she must ask her to shut the window; and perhaps if she fell asleep for a few minutes her head would cease aching, and the sun would have moved away from her bed. All at once, just as she had pushed her desk quite away and lain down with her back to the window, she heard Fritz's voice raised quite loud and high in the room on the opposite side of the street; he was evidently calling out to some one in a tone of entreaty and dismay. Violet with a sudden eagerness struggled upwards in her bed and listened. "Mother, mother, look up! thou must look up! Father is not dead! father is not dead! Speak to Fritz!" "What is it?" murmured Violet to herself with a sudden catch at her breath; "what is Fritz saying?--Oh! here is some one coming." For there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs, and then a low knock at the door. It was the doctor. Violet recognized his kind good face with a start of joy, and stretched out her little white hands lovingly. "So," he cried, looking first at her and then with surprise round the room. "How is this?--quite alone, little one?" "Yes, Evelina is gone out; she went across to call Madam Adler to come to me again." "So," said the doctor again, his face growing somewhat graver as he looked earnestly at her. "I do not think that Madam Adler can come to see thee this morning. But first I must tell thee some good news: I have just heard that thy father is quite well." "Yes?" said Violet questioningly. "I also had a letter from my father;" and she held up an envelope which she had kept tightly pressed until now in her left hand. "But mine was not a letter; it was a telegram." "A telegram?" she repeated, puzzled and distressed. "Yes, dearest child," said the doctor, taking her hand in his and half turning aside his head. "Thank God thy father is safe and well. I have made that sure for thee. But there has been a battle--a great battle; and our regiment was given the honour of being placed in the front; and some, of course, have been wounded; and some will never suffer any more; and some are safe, and thy father is amongst those whom God has spared." "My father!" cried Violet excitedly; "he has been in a battle, and he did not tell me so in his letter; and--and he is safe!" "Yes. He could not have told thee in his letter. The battle was fought yesterday, and the news only came in last night." "And is any one hurt?" she cried, clasping the doctor's hand with her burning fingers. "Is Fritz's father safe?" "I am afraid he has been very seriously hurt," he replied. "He is not dead?" gasped Violet. "No, no; not dead. But it is uncertain whether he can recover." "Poor, poor Fritz! that is why he cried so loud this morning. I heard him in my bed here calling to his mother." "Just so. Madam Adler is in terrible distress; and Fritz, like a brave boy, is doing all he can to comfort her; and when Fritz comes to see thee thou must be brave also, my Violet, and try to comfort him." "Yes," she replied, nodding her head in assent, for words were growing difficult to speak, and large tears were rolling down her face. "I never thought of battles," she said pleadingly, as if in excuse for her tears. "So much the better," said the doctor, pressing the little hot hand in his. "It is much pleasanter to think of peace." "And soon there will be peace," she said, lifting up her dark, pitiful eyes to his face, heavy with tears. "Yes, soon there will be peace," he replied, looking at her with a strange, long earnestness. "And then I shall see father," she added softly, while through the troubled darkness of her eyes there came a slow sweet smile. At this moment Evelina came into the room; and the doctor hearing her enter, rose up to take his leave. "Do not leave the child again to-day alone," he said in an undertone as he walked on towards the window where Evelina stood; "and watch her carefully. People may come in and tell her things which may excite and pain her, and her little thread of life will not bear it. We must try to keep it going for a little longer. She is very weak this morning, and seems excited and restless." "It is all about a letter to her father which she wishes Madam Adler to write for her; and now the thing is impossible." "Why cannot you write it for her, eh?" "She will not have me to do it; no, not on any account," replied Evelina somewhat pettishly. "Humph!" The doctor gazed out of the window for a moment, and then turning to her he said quickly,-- "You are very good to the child--careful, gentle, patient? These things are an absolute necessity." "I do all I can to please her," said Evelina, blushing hotly under the doctor's earnest gaze. "But sick children are full of fancies." "It is a privilege to nurse such a child. Had I not my own hands full of work, and the sick and the dying to think of, I should come and sit here day and night to watch by her and comfort her.--Eh, little one," he said, turning suddenly round and moving again towards the bed, "shall I come to-morrow morning early and write that letter for thee to thy father?" "Oh, wilt thou?" cried Violet with a sudden access of unmeasured delight as she stretched out her arms gratefully. "That will be too lovely;--and thou canst tell him everything, and that Violet is quite well, and so--so--" "Happy," suggested the doctor. "Yes." (A faint blush.) "Yes, so happy waiting for him to come home." The blush deepened as the truthful heart sought about to extricate itself. "I understand," he said, taking both the little hands in his. "So happy when thou thinkest of father coming home, but often a little lonely and a little tired of waiting; and often the head aches, and one cannot be very happy when one's head is aching, can one?" "Yes, that is it," replied Violet. "But I was not thinking of headaches, only sometimes--I am too tired; and then--" (she glanced towards Evelina nervously), "and then I am sorry if--" "Exactly; so am I," cried the doctor laughing. "When I am too tired I feel as if I must take a stick and beat some one; and I am sure Evelina must be black and blue with all the bruises thou givest her. I should not at all like to receive a blow from this powerful wrist." The doctor stooped as he spoke and kissed the little hand he held in his. Violet laughed, and the rain of repentant tears was averted. When the doctor left the room Evelina came and sat by Violet's bed. She drew her chair quite close, and speaking very gently to her she lifted the heavy desk off the counterpane and put it aside on the long walnut-wood chest, which, standing close to the bed, served as a kind of table. "What a kind old fellow that doctor seems," she said presently. "He appears to be a great friend of thine." "Yes," replied Violet softly; "father's friend and mother's, and now mine." "Ah, so. And he has known thee all thy life?" "Yes, all my life." "And hast thou been sick always?" "Yes, always." Violet sighed a little and moved somewhat restlessly on her pillow. "And thy mother,--canst thou remember her?" "Oh yes, quite well. She has not left me so very long. She slept there in that very room. She was too beautiful. All day long she sat with me, and I was always happy." "And thy father--what is he like?" "My father? Hast thou not seen him? He is, oh, so tall--almost up to the ceiling. He is the--but thou wilt see him for thyself, and then thou wilt know how splendid he is, and how good. When the war is over he will come home ever so fast to Violet." "Without doubt," replied Evelina cheerfully. "And is he dark, or fair?" "Quite dark." "And thy mother--was she dark also?" "Oh no. My mother, she is quite, quite fair. She has yellow hair. I will show thee some of it." Violet put out her hand and drew over her mother's Bible, which lay on the counterpane. She touched it so reverently, and opened it with such a nervous thrill, that Evelina watched her movements with a growing interest. Between the fly-leaves of the book there was a small package folded up in silver paper. The child opened this with nervous, trembling fingers, and revealed a lock of soft golden hair tied up with a black ribbon. "And that is thy mother's hair? How fine and soft and golden it is! Why, it is almost the very same colour as mine. Let us see." Evelina stretched out her hand to take it, but Violet drew back the book quickly; and then, blushing painfully at her own rudeness, shut up the little packet and closed the cover of the Bible. "Ah, there is a page of thy book coming out now," cried Evelina, taking no apparent notice of her distress, and pointing to a loose leaf which stretched some distance beyond the cover. "No, it is not possible!" She lifted up the book with a gesture of horror, but soon recovering herself said quickly,--"Ah, see, it is not out of the Bible. It is only the picture of the poor little hunchback. It fell out of its own cover, so I put it in here." "A picture of what?" asked Evelina, looking curiously at the loose leaf which Violet had drawn from its resting-place. "It is only a fairy tale," said Violet somewhat sadly as she placed the old faded print in Evelina's extended hand. "How comical!" cried Evelina laughing. "The child has a face like an old man; but then all hunchbacks have got that kind of dried-up, wizened expression." Violet bent her head low down over her mother's Bible to hide the sudden vivid colour which flooded all her face; but presently lifting up her head and seeing that Evelina was still staring curiously at the picture, she said very softly, almost in a whisper,-- "Thou knowest, dost thou not, that I am a little hunchback?" "Oh, what folly!" (It was now Evelina's turn to grow confused and absolutely awkward.) "Why, thou little vain monkey, thou art fishing for compliments. It is useless for me to tell thee what thou art. Thou knowest well enough--'the sweet Violet of Edelsheim, the flower of all the town.'" No responsive smile lit up Violet's face at this sudden outburst of flattery. She only added, as if following out her own thoughts,-- "Fritz knows I am a hunchback, but he does not believe about the wings." "What about the wings?" "Dost thou not see in the picture there, low down on the page, where it is written, 'No more tears'? for dost thou not see God gave the little hunchback wings, and she flew quite away with the angels up, up to heaven." "Oh, yes, of course," cried Evelina. "I have read the story in another book, only it was about a boy. He had, oh, such a dreadful hump on his back, so ugly, people could not bear to look at him; or if they did they made faces at him and pointed their fingers at him, and even his own mother was ashamed. But all the time there were beautiful golden wings folded up inside his hump; and one day when--when--;" Evelina hesitated a little and pinched up the frilling of her cuff nervously. "Yes, what?--go on," cried Violet. Evelina looked up. The child's eyes shone with a purple light of joy; her face was radiant, her lips trembled. "Go on, go on." "Well, one day when he was out walking in the street, a wicked, cruel boy threw a stone at him--a large, heavy stone--and it struck him on the back." "Go on," cried Violet, clutching Evelina's wrist with her burning little hand. "God helped him, I am sure." "Yes, God helped him; for when all the people cried out and ran to him suddenly, there came a great light all round him, so that they could not see where he lay, and there were angels all round about him comforting him; and then out of his poor aching shoulders there sprang up all at once two great shining wings, and the angels whispered something in his ears, and he stretched his wings wide out, and away he flew with them right up to heaven; and God opened the gates and took him in, and he was at rest." "Yes, quite at rest; and he too had no more tears, and he was quite, quite happy," said Violet. "And this is all true, is it not, Evelina?" Evelina caught one glimpse of the little quivering face, and she replied quickly,-- "Without doubt; at least it is just as I read it in the book." "It was not a fairy tale?" "No, certainly not." "Evelina, come closer. There, put thy arms round my neck." Violet pressed her little burning lips on Evelina's cheek. "I will never be cross with thee any more--never, never. I will try to love thee better every day.--And all the poor sick hunchbacks have wings, have they not; and I, too, I shall have wings?" "Oh yes, beautiful shining wings." In Evelina's own throat there was a catch now, and she breathed painfully. "There, let me settle thy pillows, and try and rest a bit; it will do thee good to sleep awhile." "Yes, I am so tired; but that story thou toldest me is too, too lovely." She loosened her arms from Evelina's neck and lay back with a long contented sigh. "Where shall I put this Bible, darling?" "On the chest, please; or stay, it is better to put it inside. Open the lid and lay it down in the corner quite close to my bed." Evelina raised the cover, as she was told, and placed the book in the spot indicated by Violet. "Take care that thou dost not crush the hat. Just lift the muslin and see." Evelina lifted a long strip of muslin which lay all along the inside of the chest. In the corner next the bed there lay a large Leghorn hat, trimmed with pale blue ribbon and forget-me-nots. "Ah, how beautiful! Whose hat is it?" she asked, stooping quickly to examine it. "It is my mother's. She always wore it on Sundays. And father put it by there with all her other clothes when--when--; but please cover it up and shut the box." Evelina closed the lid very slowly, her eyes to the last moment dwelling on the forget-me-nots and the trimming of pale blue satin. "Lovely!" she said again to herself as she shut down the cover. "Yes, lovely!" murmured Violet, whose eyelids were already closing; "and when Violet has wings mother will be standing there, beside God, waiting for her." "Poor child!" said Evelina, turning and looking compassionately at the little faded face on the pillow; "she has but one idea, and that is heaven." Then crossing the room and opening the door of the inner apartment, she walked gently over to the glass which stood on the dressing-table, and gazed at herself for a long time in the mirror. "I am sure I should look lovely in that hat," she said presently. "I have just the complexion for forget-me-nots, and besides, my hair is just the same colour as the lock she showed me." And then taking up her knitting from the table, she returned to Violet's room and sat down in the window to work. CHAPTER XVIII. SORROWFUL TIDINGS. The next morning the doctor came early, and, true to his promise, acted as scribe for Violet. Such a long letter as was despatched to poor John, full of all the little scraps of news that Violet had been treasuring up for ever so long, and a few leaves of the ivy which grew up the side of the house and in at the window where she generally sat, and one yellow feather which had dropped out of the canary bird's wing. Violet felt quite elated when the letter was finished, and the doctor himself carried it off to the post, leaving her smiling, with eyes bright with pleasure and cheeks just a little flushed by the unusual exertion. When the doctor was gone she insisted on being lifted up and placed as usual in the window. Evelina was surprised at the energy she showed in all her movements, and the weary time of her dressing went on with fewer sighs than usual. It was not until she was actually seated in her old chair in the embrasure that she seemed for the first time to realize the terrible trouble that had come upon her friends in the house opposite. She had been so busy thinking of her father and of the letter which was to go to him, that she had not taken in all the sorrow that had fallen on the town and its inhabitants; but she could not sit long at the window this morning and not see or hear something of it. It seemed to her, after a little time, that all the people in Edelsheim were weeping. There were women standing at Madam Adler's door wringing their hands, and others with aprons to their eyes sobbing. Many of them had slips of paper in their hands which they gazed at every moment, and then burst out crying afresh. Even the policeman, as he passed down the street opposite, had tears in his eyes, and as he tried to smile up at her window Violet saw how they fell on the breast of his coat. "What are they all crying for in the street below?" she asked plaintively, as Evelina came out of the inner room and sat down in the window seat opposite her: "is Fritz's father so very, very ill, or what is it?" "It is not only for him they are weeping, poor creatures," cried Evelina, gazing earnestly after the policeman, who was slowly pacing down the street with his head bent upon his chest. "They have all suffered, poor souls. There is not one in Edelsheim that has not lost a friend, or a brother, a father, or a husband, or a lover. The regiment was in the very front of the battle, and the men were mowed down like grass; at least so the paper says." "What paper?" "The newspaper: but the doctor said thou wert on no account to see it; indeed I ought not to speak to thee of such things at all, only one must answer plain questions when they are put to one.--Oh, here comes the little Ella and her brother; they are crossing the street, and they will bring thee all the news." Violet turned quickly round, for her eyes had been fixed with an ever increasing horror on Evelina's face, and now she just caught a glimpse of Ella's fair hair floating behind her as she passed under the overhanging eaves of the window. In a moment more both children had burst into the room, Ella a little in advance of Fritz, who was quite breathless and red in his endeavours to keep pace with her, and had his hand tightly locked in the gathers of her dress, by which he vainly tried to hold her back. "Hast thou heard, Violet?" cried Ella, her voice raised almost to a scream as she endeavoured to be the first to tell the news,--"hast thou heard that father has lost his leg, one whole leg? It is quite true: first they shot it off, and then they cut it off, and now he is in the hospital. And the policeman's son has both his arms shot off him; and the father of the orange-girl is dead, and she was screaming all the morning on the steps of the chapel, and no oranges in her basket at all." "Silence, you little dunderhead," cried Fritz, shaking Ella so violently by her skirt that she was forced for a moment to pause and resent his rudeness; "did not mother tell thee this morning that thou wert not to frighten Violet with all these stories?" "But are they true?" asked Violet eagerly. "Yes, quite true," echoed Ella. Violet still looked towards Fritz for confirmation. "Yes, they are quite true," he said gravely; "but thy father is safe. Mother said so; she had a telegram from him this morning." "A telegram?" "Well, yes. A message to say father was going on well, and to give thee his love." "His love," echoed Violet in a whisper. "And loads and loads of people are dead," continued Ella, who had not half exhausted her store of news; "and the little man who used to sell the peppermint sticks has had his whole head blown off. His wife says it is not a bit true, and she wanted to go off in a cart this morning to look for him, only the doctor would not let her. Mother said the poor woman's head was gone; so then, you see, they would neither of them have heads, I suppose; and would not that be rather funny, Violet?" Evelina tittered a little, and went into the next room to hide her laughter; but Fritz grew very red, and said angrily, "The little donkey! she does not know what she talks about, only picking up what other people say." "I don't pick up what other people say. I heard every word, and lots more," rejoined Ella stoutly; but still she blushed at Fritz's reproof, and shuffled her shoulders along the wall uneasily. "And is thy father very sick? will he come home soon?" asked Violet, whose face and lips had been gradually whitening as the children's talk went on. "Ah, that I cannot tell thee. Mother says it will be a long time before he can move at all, and then he will have to get crutches." "And must he always walk with crutches, always, always?" asked Violet, whose mind was only gradually opening up to all the sadness of the occasion. "Yes, always," replied Fritz; "for, of course, he could not walk on one leg." "I can hop on one leg," observed Ella from the corner into which she had been gradually retreating. "This morning, when I heard all about father, I hopped six times up and down the kitchen and never put my hand on anything." "And can thy father never bake any more bread, nor stand any more at the door in the evening and kiss hands up to me?" "That I do not know. He will stand, perhaps, in the bakery and look on; and then, thou knowest, he can have a chair put down in the doorway, and he can see thee from there.--O Ella, canst thou not keep still?" For Ella had now emerged from her corner near the stove, and with the handle of the little stove-brush planted under her arm, was prancing up and down the floor with one leg drawn up behind her and the other coming down at intervals with tremendous thumps on the floor. "Do keep still," cried Fritz again. But Ella, who had sat all day long silent and miserable in the house opposite, was now flushed with the excitement of freedom both of limb and speech, and up and down the room she hopped and bounded with glowing cheeks and flying hair, crying out, "See how I can hop!" until at last the brush-stick slipped with a sudden jerk from under her arm, and she came crash down on the floor on her face. "Ha, ha! that comes from pretending to have only one leg," shouted Fritz, half laughing himself at the catastrophe. But when he picked up poor Ella and found that her lip was cut and swelled, and her little fat elbow all scraped and bleeding, too, he carried her over in his arms to a chair and kissed her a hundred times. It was all, however, of no avail. Ella, it is true, made no sound whatever for a moment or two, and Violet, quite terrified, leaned forward in her chair anxiously. But Ella was only waiting to recover her breath: her nerves had been strained to the highest pitch, poor child, and now with almost a convulsive struggle a piercing cry burst forth, loud and long, and terrifying to hear. Evelina came rushing out of the inner room, and snatching the child from Fritz's arms, without listening to explanation or remonstrance, she carried her down the stairs and quickly across the street to her mother. Fritz sprang up to follow, but looking round at Violet's pale face, he paused and hesitated. "I will stay with thee till she comes back," he said comfortingly, and he returned and stood by her side, though his lips and hands trembled with the passion he strove to repress. They could hear poor Ella's cries all the way up the stairs and long after she entered the little sitting-room opposite. They saw her mother take her upon her knee, and press her head against her bosom, and dry her eyes softly with her handkerchief, and wipe the blood from her lip. And then Fritz saw Evelina come out of the door again; but she did not cross the street or look up at their window as he expected she would do, but instead she walked for some distance along the narrow pavement until she met the policeman, who was slowly returning on his beat. "Pah!" cried Fritz, shooting out his lips with a motion of the supremest contempt, "she is a sly old fox, and I hate her." "Whom?" asked Violet, whose mind had wandered far away, and whose hand was resting wearily on the cover of her mother's Bible. "Evelina," cried Fritz stoutly; "she is a vain old chattering pea-hen." "Ah no, thou must not say so, Fritz." "Why not? she does not care one straw for thee." "Yes, yes, she does; she has told me such lovely things." "What about?" "Ah, about a poor sick boy. It was not a fairy tale; it was quite true. He was a poor little hunchback like me, and God gave him wings, beautiful silver wings; and some one threw a stone at him, and all at once he stretched out his wings, and angels came to meet him, and he went right up to heaven;--and this story is true." Fritz coloured violently and made no reply. He looked a moment into Violet's eyes and then gazed nervously aside. Presently he came over to her chair and put his arm round her neck. "No, no, it is not true," he cried in a sudden anguish; "it must not be true; I do not want thee to have wings. Thou must get well. I do not want thee to die and go away and leave me." "To die?" said Violet with a little gasp; "ah no, I do not want to die; only mother said when I had wings I should have no more pain and no more tears. And now thou art crying, Fritz, and I do not like to see it." "I cannot help crying," sobbed Fritz. "Then thou hadst better take up thy cap and go away," said Evelina somewhat sharply from the doorway; "we have had tears enough in this room for one day." Fritz rose up proudly and took his cap from the table at the foot of the bed. "And when thou talkest to the policeman next time," continued Evelina in the same unpleasant tone, "thou mayest find some other subject more interesting to him than to talk about me, and tell tales of--" "I told no tales," cried Fritz hotly; "he asked me wert thou very good to his little friend Violet, that was all." "Well, and what didst thou say?" "I said nothing; I did not answer him. I went into the house and shut the door." "That was the most unkind thing thou couldst have done. It was worse than telling tales." "I will be kinder next time," cried Fritz with a sudden spirit; "I will tell him everything." "Thou hast nothing to tell," screamed Evelina down the staircase. "Ha, ha!" laughed Fritz; "ask the looking-glass,--it sees more of thee than any one else." "Little villain! he shall not see much more of us," said Evelina angrily, as she shut the door and came back into the room. "The children at Gützberg would not dare to speak to me like that; they have better manners.--Wilt thou have thy dinner now?" she added more quietly, as she caught the look of weary pain and deep distress on Violet's face. "No, thank you; I could not eat, I am so tired; please let me go back to bed." Evelina undressed the child in silence; she was not cross, but her cheeks burned and she seemed engrossed in her own thoughts. Violet was not long in bed before she fell asleep. She was very tired, and she slept heavily. When she woke again the afternoon was almost spent and the room was empty. She raised herself a little on her pillows and looked about her. The door of the inner room was slightly ajar, and she leaned forward to see if any one was there. She could just catch a glimpse of Evelina's figure. She was standing opposite the mirror and was trying something on her head. "It is mother's hat," gasped Violet; "I see the blue ribbons." At this moment Evelina turned round quickly, and catching a glimpse of the child's face, she shut the door with a snap. CHAPTER XIX. A BRIGHT PROSPECT. It seemed to Violet, as the long autumn days went by, and she sat in the old place in the window, that the town was changed. All the people who went by in the street were dressed in black; very few smiled as they looked up at her, though they kissed their hands as usual and nodded their heads. The basket-bell seldom rang now; and, worst of all, Fritz never came to see her. It was not that Evelina had carried her threat into execution; but, alas! Fritz had got the hooping-cough, and the doctor had forbidden him to enter Violet's house. It would be fatal to the child, he said, to catch such an illness; and one must remember not only her weakness, but also the great love of poor John away at the war, who was ever, day and night, thinking of his darling, and wondering whether God would spare her to him until his return. So the days dragged on somewhat heavily, and Violet grew very weary. No air seemed to come down from the hill far away. The little children who went on expeditions to gather nuts were nearly all dressed in black, and they did not come back singing and dancing as they used to do. Evelina once brought in an apronful of nuts and poured them into Violet's lap; and Ella, too, came bouncing in one afternoon with an old cap of Fritz's full to the brim with the choicest hazels; but Violet had no fancy for them, though she kissed Ella and thanked Evelina for remembering her. "When father comes home," she said to Ella, "then he will take me in my carriage to the hill, first to see mother, and then all the way up the hill; the nuts will not be gone by that time?" she said questioningly. "I will take thee out to-morrow to the hill, if thou choosest," said Evelina, looking round towards the corner of the room where the carriage stood covered over by a rug; "it would brighten thee up a bit, and Miss Ella could come too if she liked." "Yes, yes!" cried Ella, jumping about wildly and flinging her arms around Violet's neck. "Come, come, come, come to-morrow and gather nuts with Ella!" "I should like to go with father first," said Violet nervously, for the temptation was great; "and my back aches so, I should be frightened." "Thy back will not ache less for waiting," observed Evelina shortly. "No, not one bit less," urged Ella with the broadest smile of satisfaction on her face. "And as to waiting for thy father," continued Evelina, "goodness knows when he will be back again; the leaves and nuts and all may be off the trees before the war is over." "Yes; leaves and nuts and all," echoed Ella; "and mother says perhaps the snow will be on the ground before our soldiers come home, and battles and battles and battles. And do you know they tumble all the dead horses into great big holes--fifteen great horses into one hole; and one great enormous shell which a man shot out of a gun, it first went through a house, and then it went through a garden, and then it went through a wall, and then it went through a woman who was baking a cake, and at last it went through a steeple, and down tumbled the whole church, and every one was killed; and was not that a grand shot, Violet?" Ella spread out her arms triumphantly and laughed in concert with Evelina, who shrieked in the corner. "The policeman said it was not one bit true; but he is a mouldy old fellow," cried Ella excitedly; "he was never in no battles, only marching up and down and up and down. He gave me a flower for thee, Violet, yesterday, and as I was standing in the street it fell in the gutter, and the water carried it off in one moment under the stones." "A flower? for me?" "Yes; he had it in his hand, and he said, 'Give this to my little friend in the window up there;' and while I was looking ever so high up trying to see thee, down fell the flower in the water, and away it goes. But what harm? it was only a little violet," cried Ella, drawing close to Violet with eyes full of a great mystery. "What is it?" "Fritz found it out himself the other day and showed it to me and to mother." "What?" again asked Violet, her eyes gazing eagerly into the little face before her. "Violets have got humps on their backs; and thou--thou--art a violet too, and thou hast a hump on thy back; and is not that funny?" "Hush!" cried Evelina, catching Ella by the skirt of her dress and trying to draw her back from Violet's chair; "such talk is not allowed in this room." "Oh yes, let her tell me; I love to hear what Fritz says about the violets." "What a strange child she is!" cried Evelina to herself as she let go the skirt. "Go on," said Violet anxiously; "what more did Fritz say?" "He had seven violets in his hand. He spread them all out on the table and counted them, for he had sent me with a whole penny to the shop, and only got back seven flowers. The woman had no flowers in her shop, only lovely yellow wreaths with writing on them to hang on dead people's graves; and when I brought one back to Fritz he was mad angry, and said he would not send thee over such a thing for all the world. He called me a blockhead, and said thy father was not dead, but quite alive and well, and it was no use; and so the woman gave the violets." "Yes," said Violet somewhat faintly. "And Fritz was so angry. He spread them all out on the table, and was going to chop off all their heads with a knife, when he found out about the humps; and then he called mother up from the bakery and showed them to her." "And what did she say?" asked Violet, deeply interested in Ella's recital. "Fritz asked was that why they called thee Violet, because thou also hast a hump? and mother said, 'Hush, foolish boy.' Violet was like a little angel when she was born, and soon she would be an angel again. And then Fritz got his penknife and cut open all the humps, to see what was in them; and there wasn't anything to see, only things all folded up, and quite shining." "Ah," murmured Violet faintly. "And then Fritz gave a great cough, and away flew all the violets off the table--heads and tails, and humps and all; and mother had to hold Fritz by both the hands, for he coughed as if his head would have fallen off too." Ella laughed heartily at the recollection, and letting go Violet's dress clambered up into the window, where, kneeling on the window-sill, she seized upon some of the wooden animals ranged along the ledges, and began with infinite pains to make the camel try to kiss the elephant. "Only I don't know where the elephant keeps his mouth," she said plaintively. By-and-by she ceased playing and fell to singing, her round face pressed against the window-frame, and her eyes looking out towards the hill. Evelina put down her knitting and listened. The child had the sweetest voice in all Edelsheim--clear, fresh, and true. She sang unconsciously a hymn about green pastures and lambs who followed their Shepherd by the side of still waters, and whom, when weary, he carried in his bosom tenderly and full of care. Evelina looked across at Violet to express her admiration and amazement at the beauty and pathos of the child's voice; but Violet did not see her, for her eyes were fixed on the little cap beside her filled with the fresh hazel-nuts, with their pale green leaves, and rich with the odour of the trees which grew on the hill yonder still hanging about them. A great longing was beginning to fill her soul--to go out like all the other children and see the woods and the squirrels and the boughs laden with their fruit; to see the cattle and the fields and the little waterfall close by the road, at the foot of which Fritz had told her one could always find lovely damp moss with leaves which looked like trees. She had some of these leaves put away in mother's Bible, and she would like to see them and gather them for herself. And now so deep was her reverie that she did not even notice Ella's descent from the window-sill, and was scarcely conscious of the parting kiss, given in some haste as Fritz had signalled to Ella to return home at once, and had held out to her view a tempting cake full of currants, and covered over with pink sugar. When Ella was gone Evelina rose up to prepare the dinner; but her attention was once more drawn to the child's deep reverie, and to the earnest gaze fixed so immovably upon the cap full of green nuts which rested on her knees. "Well, Violet, what art thou thinking of, with thy great big eyes so wide open?" she asked, turning round with the wooden bread-plate in her hand. "Art thou searching for a wood-fairy amongst the leaves?" "No; I was thinking." "Thinking of what?" "I was thinking of the hill, and of the carriage father made for me, and of what thou wert saying a few minutes ago about--about--about going to the hill." "Yes, certainly; why not? We will put thee in thy carriage after dinner, and away we shall go all the way up the hill; and we shall have rare fun. I shall send across after dinner for Miss Ella, and she shall push and I will pull; and then, when we are there, we can pack all the nuts into the foot of the carriage, and then we will cover thee all over with boughs, and every one will say as we return, 'Oh, look at our little Violet hidden among the sweet green leaves.'" Evelina was in her best mood to-day; and, besides, when she looked into the child's eyes she always felt a stirring in her heart, like the good seed trying to thrust itself up amongst the tares and follies of her vain and wavering nature. Violet could not eat much of the dinner Evelina had got ready for her, though it was hot and tempting enough. Evelina had a taste for cookery, and the meals were always well and skilfully prepared. To-day her mind was too disturbed to be conscious almost of what she was eating. This expedition to the hill was full of an excitement which choked and stifled her. To be out in the fresh air, to hear the birds sing, to see the trees waving, to watch the children gathering nuts; perhaps they even might hold down some of the boughs close enough to her carriage, so that she might gather some herself! And then only to think what a letter she could write to her father! how rejoiced he would be to think that his carriage had been used at last, and that the expedition to the hill had been such a happy one. Evelina ate her own dinner very happily, and tried to induce Violet to do the same. She laughed and chatted, and was herself quite elated at the thought of the expedition. The little girl grew more and more excited as Evelina described all the things they would see and all the people they would meet. Her eyes glowed and her cheeks burned, and when the dinner was over she watched with an ever-increasing anxiety the preparations which Evelina began to make for their expedition. The carriage was drawn out from its covering; the cushions were dusted; pillows with clean frilled covers over them were placed carefully on the cushions to support Violet's back and shoulders. Then on the rail at the back was hung a basket for the nuts; and on the foot Evelina threw a scarlet shawl of her own, which gave a bright and glowing finish to it all. "Evelina, thou art too kind," cried Violet, stretching out her arms suddenly. "I will tell father--I will tell everybody--how good thou art to me." Evelina returned the child's embrace warmly, blushing a little as she did so. "Ah, if so, thou wilt be better than Master Fritz yonder," she cried, looking quickly across at the house opposite. "A nice character he gave of me to the policeman, who will not so much as look at me now if I meet him in the street. But what do I care?--not one hazel-nut for him or his long sallow face, the old stick-in-the-mud. He asks every one as many questions about thee as if he were thy father." "He is my friend," said Violet nervously, as she heard the thrill of anger in Evelina's tones. "Bah! I suppose because he walks up and down the street, and kisses hands to thee now and again as he goes by, he reckons himself thy friend--much more of a friend than those who take care of thee all day and all night. But what is the use of talking? It is not of him we are thinking, but of the lovely ride we are going to have to-day to the woods. Let me see now;--where is thy hat? and thou wilt want some little coat, I suppose, to put over thy dress." "I have no hat," replied Violet, looking up with suddenly clouded eyes--"no hat, and no coat." "How is that?--neither hat nor coat?" "Father said he would buy me a hat and cloak when he took me out in my carriage; but he is not here now. O Evelina, cannot I go in the carriage as Ella often goes in Fritz's wooden cart? Or Ella, perhaps, would lend me a hat. Do go across if thou canst find me one somewhere." It seemed to Violet as if some great impediment had suddenly started up in the path of her promised happiness. "I need not go to trouble Madam Adler about hats. I could put something better on thy head than anything she could lend thee," said Evelina with a little laugh. "Why, a beggar child in Edelsheim would not pick Miss Ella's hat out of the gutter." Violet did not hear this remark about Edelsheim or her little friend Ella. A thought had suddenly come into her head, and she was struggling with herself how best she could make it known to her companion. "Evelina!" "Well, what is it? I suppose thou art too grand to wear one of my hats?" "No, no; but I have thought of something. I would like to wear mother's hat, which is in the box." "What! the splendid Leghorn with the blue silk ribbons? Impossible." "Why?" asked Violet, colouring violently as she met the astonished eyes of Evelina. "It has forget-me-nots on it, and I would love to wear it--oh, this one day. Do not shake thy head so, Evelina. Father said that by-and-by, when I was big, I might wear it." "Thy father, of course, can give thee leave to do what he likes when he is here; but to wear such a hat to go to the hill, the very thought of it is ridiculous." "But mother would love me to wear it. She gave me always what I asked for," pleaded Violet with tear-choked earnestness. "And that is just why thou art such a little spoiled brat, who must have everything thine own way. Then let us talk no more about it. The hat would be destroyed if it were crushed up against the pillows, the brim would be broken; and the dust and leaves and dirt off the trees would ruin the trimming. Wait some day until I take thee to church, and then--" "To church!" cried Violet, stretching out her hands suddenly, and uttering a cry of joy. "Yes, yes; why not? We can draw thee there some day in the carriage, and I can carry thee inside in my arms." "And I shall see where mother is asleep. Is it not so, Evelina?" "Yes, yes. Now dry up thy tears, and think of the nuts and the trees, and all the fun we are going to have." Violet drew a deep sigh of relief, and turned her eyes once more towards the carriage. Her heart was too full for any words as she wiped the tears off her cheeks and pinafore, and gazed with interest at Evelina, who, having finished setting the room in order, began to prepare herself for the expedition by putting a little muslin tippet on her shoulders, tied up with blue bows; and the daintiest white frilled cap upon her head, which sat just far enough back to show the pretty golden curls which clustered round her forehead coaxingly. "Now, little lovebird," she said, turning with her pleasantest smile towards the sick child, whose eyes, she could see, were following all her movements with an almost ardent admiration,--"now I am off to look for a little hat for thyself. I saw one in a shop yesterday, just beside the flower-shop, and it is just the very thing for thee. It is made of brown straw, shady, and yet not too large. I shall not be a moment away." "Thou art too good, Evelina," cried Violet eagerly. "And if thou seest the policeman tell him that I am going out to-day in my carriage. He will be glad, I know, to hear that, for he is my friend; and I will say to him how good thou art to me." "Yes, yes," shouted Evelina, turning briskly down the stairs; "if I see him I shall tell him." And Violet, leaning back in her chair, folded her arms on her lap and looked across at the top of the green hill, in whose cool shadows she hoped so soon to be resting. Evelina was not very long away. She returned blushing and smiling with a pretty brown hat in her hand having a wreath of yellow buttercups twisted round its crown. "There, darling," she cried, placing it on Violet's head, "is not that lovely? The woman in the shop nearly wept for joy when she heard it was for thee; and she chose this wreath for thee herself. She actually refused to take any money for it, not a penny, though I said if thy father were at home he would insist on paying her. 'Ah, that is another thing,' she said, pinning the flowers round the hat so tastefully. 'I would accept twenty shillings this moment to know he were safe at home.' Was not that good of her?" asked Evelina, tilting the hat a little back on Violet's head. "We must not quite cover up thy face for all that, my angel," she added laughing, "or what would the old policeman say?" "The policeman!" cried Violet eagerly; "why, didst thou see him?" "Ah, now indeed I have some news for thee. I met him just at the corner by the flower-shop, and told him all about that promised drive to the hill this afternoon; and what dost thou think? He said if we could wait a while, until his duty was over, he would come with us there himself, and that he would rather draw thee one mile in thy little cart than the king himself in his state coach. I laughed at the old silly. As if he could draw the king one step, let alone the heavy state coach! But he is, after all, a good soul, for he nearly wept with joy at the news that thou wert going out, and asked so many questions about the carriage and the cushions that I thought I should never get home. So now I have been across and told little Ella that we shall not be ready just yet awhile; and her mother is delighted at the delay, for the child had just spilt a whole bottle of ink over her dress and pinafore and stockings, and she will require time to make her neat again. She had been crying, too, poor little wretch! for her eyes were sticking out like crabs' eyes; and Fritz had her on his knee, and was cramming bon-bons into her mouth." "Good old Fritz," said Violet softly. "Oh, good indeed! thou shouldst have heard all he said, and the names he called me; because why? he thinks thou shouldst not go to the hill without him. But his mother told him that was folly, as the summer would be over before he had done coughing. And then he talked a lot of rubbish about the doctor, and asking his leave; but bah! who listens to such a chattering magpie?" "Poor Fritz! father promised him that he should be the first to draw me in the carriage to the hill," said Violet, half speaking to herself; but Evelina, who had grown angry, caught the words, and said quickly,-- "Very good. Let Fritz be the first to draw thee to the hill! the policeman and I can well afford to wait for such an honour." Then seeing that the child had quite failed to take in the meaning of her cutting words, she added in a more kindly tone,-- "See now, it wants nearly two hours to the time when the policeman can come here, and--" "Two hours!" interrupted Violet, with almost a cry of disappointment. "Yes, two hours; and so much the better for thee, for now the sun is so hot it would just bake thee into a little pie. There was a child yesterday, Master Fritz said, who went to the hill and got such a headache from standing in a cornfield beside the river that last night they thought it was going to die." "Oh," said Violet thoughtfully;--she was thinking of the story in the Bible which Fritz had told her one time long ago. "And is it well now, Evelina?" "I do not know; I did not ask. The policeman can tell thee. He is not such a bad old fellow, after all. He is going to bring out cakes, and strawberries and cream, and a kettle, and I don't know what else, and we are to have tea under the trees. Is not that lovely?" "Lovely! too, too lovely!" replied Violet, her eyes kindling with a speechless joy. "And perhaps, Evelina, I shall hear the nightingales singing in the woods. Mother used to walk down there with father in the evenings long ago to listen, and once she had me in her arms--father told me so; but then I was only a very small baby. And shall I see glow-worms, too, and those little mice which have wings?" "Yes, yes, everything," replied Evelina, who was busy buttoning on a pair of very dainty boots: "we shall have a delicious evening, that is certain. And I would have thee go asleep now and think no more about it, and when thou awakest the two hours will be gone, and we shall lift thee straight away into thy carriage, and then hurrah for the hill! Why, thou wilt feel just like a bird escaped from its cage; and when once thou hast stretched thy wings and flown to the woods, I reckon we shall have pretty hard work to keep thee in the house any longer." "My wings!" echoed Violet in a tone of such concentrated interest that Evelina looked up startled and astonished; "when shall I have wings?" "Little goose," replied the girl, turning away her head suddenly from the sight of those pleading eyes; "how can I tell thee? Perhaps we shall cheat thee after all of thy wings, when we get thee out into the fresh air and the fields; and then what will thy father think when he comes home?" "I do not understand what thou meanest," said Violet plaintively. "Never mind what I mean: wings are all very well, no doubt, for birds and things that cannot walk; but fine fat arms and legs are better still. Ah, thou shouldest see thy cousins at Gützberg; they are something like children. I would not drag one of those fat things to the hill in thy carriage, not for all thou couldst give me." "But thou rememberest the little sick girl in the book, dost thou not, Evelina?" asked Violet, puzzled and anxious. "In what book?" Violet placed her hand on the spotted cover beside her on the table. "The picture is in mother's Bible," she said softly. "Oh yes, to be sure, I remember all about it; but we need not think about such sad things to-day. Go to sleep now, and I will draw this blind down beside thee and darken the room a bit." As Evelina stretched up her arms to reach the tassel of the narrow blind beside Violet's chair she caught her by her apron and said earnestly,-- "But thou, Evelina, thou believest that I shall have wings?" "Of course I do." "And will it be soon?" "Oh, how can I tell? before the winter, I daresay." "Before the winter?" repeated Violet reflectively; "that is not long to wait." "What a strange child thou art!" cried Evelina, putting her arms suddenly round Violet's neck and kissing her; "why art thou in such a hurry to leave us all? Is not Evelina good to thee?" "Oh yes, too good; only my back aches so, and the wings are so long coming." Evelina looked at the little white face turned up to her so wistfully, and said in her softest voice, "Pray to God, darling, for thy wings. He can give them to thee when he likes." "Yes, I do pray every day, and Fritz too; and thou, Evelina, thou also wilt ask God every morning and every evening when thou sayest thy prayers, wilt thou not?" Evelina suddenly flushed scarlet and turned away her face from the earnest pleading eyes. "Wilt thou not, Evelina?" "Yes, yes, of course; only do not let us talk any more about wings. Thou wilt be too tired for thy drive. Lie back on thy pillows now and dream of strawberries and cream, and thy friend the old policeman sitting with thee under the trees on the hill, and all the care he will take of thee, and of the long letter we must write by-and-by to thy father of all we have seen and done." CHAPTER XX. ALL ALONE. It was the sound of a cannon fired from the fort just across the river that woke Violet from the sleep into which she had fallen, and in which she had lain now peacefully resting for the last two hours. She did not often sleep so heavily in the day-time, but this afternoon she had been so excited and restless that her little body had felt quite worn out, and she had scarcely lain back on her pillows before a most delicious sleep had overtaken her. She had dreamt, too, such a lovely dream: a dream that she was out gathering flowers in a wide meadow at the foot of the hill--beautiful blue forget-me-nots and the yellow narcissus; and that morning, beside her and holding her hand, all dressed in white, with beautiful silver wings, was another child whom she seemed to know at once to be the little girl the doctor had told her of, who in the spring time, when the flowers were starting up and the larks were beginning to sing, had suddenly escaped, like a bird from its cage, and spreading her wings had flown right up to God. But now, in the dream, she was in the meadow with Violet, holding her hand and leading her along, and pointing out to her the beautiful flowers which were growing here and there through the grass. And Violet wondered even in her dream how it was that she had no pain in her shoulders, and that her feet seemed to carry her along so easily and swiftly over the meadows--sometimes, indeed, they did not seem to touch the ground at all, but only to skim over the heads of the tall grasses; and a delicious breeze was blowing down from the hill and wafting her along towards the spot where the forget-me-nots grew thickest, and where the sweet-scented jonquils stood up so pure and white in their beauty. And while she was stooping and gathering the blue flowers which she loved the best, she thought she heard a voice calling to her a long way off down the meadow--a very gentle voice, which at first sounded as if Aunt Lizzie were calling to her; but the little girl touched her on the shoulder and said,-- "Violet, dost thou not hear thy mother calling to thee?" "My mother! where?" and then remembering suddenly that her mother was dead, she said very sadly, "It cannot be my mother, for she is not here any longer; she is up in heaven with the angels, and I cannot go to her until God has given me wings." "Ah, dost thou not know that this is heaven, and that thou hast wings?" Then Violet, looking up suddenly, saw that the air was full of shining figures flitting to and fro across the sky; and there was a shining hill on which stood a great white throne, and on the steps of the throne the Lord Jesus was standing with a little lamb in his arms; and Violet suddenly felt herself rising up into the air like the angels, and soon she was flying swiftly across the meadow in the direction of the throne, flying, flying ever faster, that she might meet the good Lord Jesus whom she loved so much, and see the lamb that he had folded so closely to his breast. At last she came to the foot of the shining steps, and the good Lord Jesus was standing there waiting for her with a smile on his face; and she said to him very softly, "Dear Lord Jesus, show me the little lamb whom thou art carrying in thy bosom." And the Lord Jesus answered her, in a low, sweet voice, "Dost thou not know this is the little Violet from Edelsheim? She has fallen asleep, and I am going to lay her in her mother's arms." And Violet saw then that it was a little sick maiden that he carried so lovingly; and she stretched up that she might see the little girl's face. And when she did see it, it was quite white, and there were tears upon the cheeks, though the eyes were closed. But even while she was looking at it wonderingly, the Lord Jesus stooped down and kissed the child on the forehead; and she heard him say in a low voice, as he leaned over her, "No more tears." Then Violet remembered that she had heard those words somewhere before, and she stirred in her sleep, and stretched out her hand towards the table on which lay her mother's Bible, and the book with the spotted cover. But before she could find them, she awoke with a sudden start and a scream, for, from the fort across the river one of the great cannon had been fired off, and which always shook the town from end to end; and the window-frames were still rattling, and the Noah's ark animals falling down over the cushions beside her, when she awoke. "What is that?" she cried, hastily clutching at the rails of her chair to draw herself up from her pillows. "Evelina, what was that dreadful noise?" Either Evelina was not in the room or the noise had deafened her, for she did not answer Violet's question; and before she could speak again or look round, there was another roar of cannon from the fort, and once more the window-frames rattled and the animals fell pell-mell upon the cushioned window-seat beneath. "Evelina! Evelina! where art thou? why dost thou not answer?" cried Violet, who, suddenly aroused from a delicious dream of rest and peace, had scarcely yet realized either where she was or what was going on. She sat up now, and gazed around the room with a flushed face and anxious eyes; but no Evelina was there, though the carriage was still drawn out in the middle of the room, and the new brown hat was lying on the coverlet; and gradually Violet remembered that this was the afternoon that she was to have tea with the policeman and Ella under the trees on the hill. But surely the afternoon must be almost over now, for the evening shadows were already creeping into the room; and the pigeons were clustering on the window-sill beside her, looking for their usual meal, as they always did ere they went to roost. "Evelina, where art thou?" she cried once more, as she gazed at the door leading into the little room which once had been her mother's long ago; but no answer came from there either, only another dreadful roar from the cannon, which put all the pigeons to flight, and pitched Noah's wife headlong on the carpet. Violet had often heard them firing from the fort before, so, after the first three or four great bangs, it did not frighten her so much, only it made her head ache; but presently, leaning a little forward and looking through the window opposite her chair, she saw now that some great event must have happened, for people were racing down the street eagerly, and some were waving their hats, and some had on no hats at all, while, far off in the distance, she could hear a great sound of voices like a deafening cheer of joy. Again the cannon roared, and again there came the same hoarse shout, which seemed to come from somewhere down near the barracks. And now the people in the street were shouting also as they ran along; and so eager and breathless was their race, that when a woman stumbled and fell on the pathway no one turned to lift her up, or to notice the white face which for many minutes afterwards remained turned up motionless towards the sky. At last another woman, dressed in black, came out of a shop opposite, with a cup of water in her hand: she waited until the street was pretty clear, and then, crossing over, she put the cup to the woman's lips and helped to raise her up. Violet could hear the woman's voice speaking comfortingly to her companion, for the narrow casement which formed part of the great window looking over the street was open, and through it a soft breeze was coming in, which blew straight from the hill; and by-and-by, when the woman who had fainted was able to walk, she saw the other lead her across the street, and she distinctly heard her say, "Ah, is not this good news for the town? Now in Edelsheim we shall have no more tears." "No more tears!" They were the same words that Violet had just heard in her dream. She listened eagerly if she could hear more; but the woman had evidently gone into the little toy-shop close by, and another roar from the cannon set her trembling again, and her heart beat wildly against her little purple frock as she heard again--and this time nearer than before--a deafening shout of men and women's voices rising high upon the evening air. "Evelina! Evelina!" she cried, striving with trembling lips to make her voice heard above the din and uproar, "come, come to Violet. Will no one come to Violet?" But it was quite useless to call or cry out "Evelina." The girl had evidently gone out, and though tears of fear and disappointment streamed from Violet's eyes, and poured down over her little flushed cheeks, no one came to wipe them away or to comfort her. The cannon, too, roared louder and faster than ever; and all at once the great church bell at the foot of the street began to ring, and clanged out great strokes which set the whole air trembling, so that Violet thought even the blue sky over the house-tops was shaking with the din. But soon this blue sky began to change to a pale green, and then golden streaks came across it; and presently again broad bands of red, and all the green hill seemed on fire, till at last the great red sun dropped down behind it, and a gray light stole over all; and still Violet sat all alone in the window, while every church bell in the town was jangling, and the roar of voices came up hoarsely from the public gardens down by the barracks. She could not see across the street to the Adlers' house, for the blind which Evelina had drawn down beside her chair hid their windows from her sight, and there was no one stirring outside who could hear her cry, for the rush of the people towards the market-place was over, and the street had become utterly silent and deserted. As the darkness crept on, a dreadful fear came over the child's mind that she was going to be left alone in the room all the night--that Evelina had perhaps gone back to Gützberg, or that some accident had happened to her in the street. The corners of the room were growing dusky, and there were sounds of mice nibbling in the cupboard beside her. The bells in the town ceased ringing, and a dreadful silence seemed to fall over everything. Presently one of the mice stole out of the cupboard, and passing close to the foot of Violet's chair, climbed up the cord of the canary bird's cage, and squeezing itself in through the bars, disappeared in a twinkling. Even the lantern man had forgotten to come and light the lamp outside her window; and the pigeons had reluctantly deserted their posts on the sill outside, and retired to roost without their evening meal. "If only I could get out of this chair; if only I could walk; if only some one would come and open the door." And poor Violet moved restlessly to and fro in her chair, and craned her neck to see beyond the strip of narrow blind which hid the opposite house from her view. The window which looked across to the hill lay wide open, and every now and then a breeze came rushing in, which blew her hair softly about her face and refreshed her; but the hill itself lay now like a great black heap against the evening sky. No friendly moon was up, to frost the branches of the distant trees with silvery light, and only a few faint stars twinkled now and again through the gathering darkness. Presently she grew quite desperate, and strove in the foolishness of her fear to free herself from the bands which held her fast in her chair. She clutched at the blind, and tried to drag it down; and she called aloud frantically to Madam Adler, to Evelina, to Ella, to any one, to come and help her. But no one answered her, and she sank back, tired out, on the pillows behind her. Then some one in a neighbouring house began to sing, and she felt comforted. The first note of a human voice, which sounded not so far off, gave her some confidence, and she dragged herself up painfully and listened. It was a song which she had heard before, but at first she could not remember the words. The air was intensely sad, for Evelina had sung it one night when Violet was lying awake in her bed, and she remembered that she had put her fingers in her ears that she might not hear the words; but now, with a strange eagerness, she leaned forward. The woman was singing with all her heart. She scarcely touched the notes of the old piano on which she was accompanying herself; and by-and-by the words came out with a cruel clearness upon the evening air. Violet knew now who it was. It was the woman who kept the little toy-shop a few doors off, and whose husband, Ella told her, had been killed in the war. She had a little spinet, not very musical, on which Violet had often heard her play in the pleasant spring evenings before the war began; but, until this evening, the spinet had been silent for many a long day, and the woman's voice had been silent too. To-night it seemed as if she must cry out to some one,-- "My love is dead, and I am left alone." Violet listened so earnestly to the words, she was so anxious not to lose one of them, that for a time she forgot her own sorrows, and only thought of the poor woman who was never to see her husband any more, and whose heart seemed so terribly sad in that house only a few doors off. But presently the mouse plumped down out of the cage overhead almost upon her very knees, and startled her so that she screamed aloud; indeed she screamed several times, and clutched once more at the window-blind to try and drag it aside. And then she paused, for she fancied she had heard a step in the street beneath; and by-and-by she was sure there was a footstep slowly and stealthily creeping up the stairs towards the door of her room. But no one knocked or asked permission to enter; only there was a slight rustling against the wood, as if some one were waiting and listening outside. Violet, whose heart had leaped up with joy at the first sound of a human step, now felt terrified. A sudden sickness came over her; the wind from the hill blew in chilly through the window, and seemed to pass over her forehead in waves of ice. Her hands grew damp and cold; and the voice outside, singing in its pain "so quite alone," appeared to her to come from miles away and in a kind of curious dream. She fancied that it was the little girl in the book with the spotted cover who was sitting in a window somewhere "so quite alone," and crying out to the Lord Jesus across the roofs and the distant steeple. But in a moment, and before she had time to reason out this thought or to wonder whether she was awake or dreaming, there was a crash--a loud crackling as if all the houses in Edelsheim were falling to pieces; and as Violet, completely startled out of her faintness, sat up and looked out of the window, it appeared to her that the gray clouds over the hill had suddenly split open, and that hundreds of fairy snakes were rushing up with a swift fury through the sky. This was immediately succeeded by the same loud sound of voices which she had heard so often through the evening; and then in a moment the fairy snakes were gone, and the sky was full of pale red and green stars falling softly in a shower of beauty to the earth. "Evelina!" she cried once more, in a piteous entreaty, full of the agony of fear, "Evelina! where art thou?" There was a knock at the door now; and Violet, forgetful, in her new terror, of the step she had heard a moment ago on the stairs, cried out eagerly, "Come in." The door opened. Her eyes were still full of the red and green stars which she had seen falling outside over the dark outline of the hill, so for a moment she was dazzled, and could not see who had entered; but all at once, as the figure drew quite close to her chair, she called out loudly and lovingly, "My friend! my friend!" and threw her arms round the neck of the old policeman. "Ah, thou art frightened, little maiden," he said softly; "and quite alone," he added, looking keenly around the room as he knelt down beside her chair and took the two icy hands in his. The action and the tenderness of the touch brought back for a moment the thought of her father. "Yes, oh so frightened," she said, "and so lonely;" and she laid her head wearily against the shoulder of her protector. "It was so good of thee to come." Then suddenly she turned her face inwards against his cloak, for once again there came that fearful crackling noise down by the hill, and hundreds of fiery snakes again rushed upwards athwart the dark gray sky. "There, there! little darling, sweetest child! thou must not be so afraid; there is nothing to frighten one, only splendid fireworks which the people in the town are sending up to show their joy." "Fireworks! and are they only fireworks?" gasped Violet, still keeping her face pressed in close to the old man's heart; "and thou art sure that they are only fireworks?" "Yes; look out now and see how lovely they are. Blue and yellow and red stars are falling to the ground." "I do not like to look, it makes my heart go so fast." There was no need to tell him that fact, for the little fluttering heart was beating at that moment with terrifying speed against his bosom; so he rose up and drew down the blind across the window, and then he returned quietly to the chair and placed his arm tenderly around the little trembling figure. "And hast thou been long alone, poor little maiden?" he asked softly, as he lifted the damp hair off her forehead and stroked her cheek. "Yes, a long time," she sighed. "Where is thy maid?" "I do not know. I awoke, and she was not here. It was quite bright daylight--oh, such long hours ago. And I was to go in the carriage father made for me to the hill, and Ella too, and--" Violet paused and hesitated, and a burning blush covered all her face. She had remembered suddenly about the tea under the trees on the hill, and that the old policeman was to have been there too. "Well," he said curiously, as she paused and hesitated. "Then I awoke, and all the people were running screaming down the street, and the bells made such a noise, and I was frightened." "And no one was here to tell the good news?" "What good news?" "Ah, now I have something to gladden thy poor little heart with--great news. There has been a great victory for us. The war, people think, is over; and soon all our loved ones may come home to us again." "My father?" cried Violet, sitting suddenly upright in her chair and gazing into the policeman's face with eyes which, even in the gloom of the shaded room, shone with a more wonderful light than the violet stars which were falling again in a shower of beauty on the hill outside. "Yes, thy father, dearest maiden; he will soon be home: and that is why the people ran so fast in the street this afternoon, and why they are so noisy now, sending up rockets and making such a riot, screaming and shouting." "How soon?" asked Violet in a scarcely audible voice, for the sick faintness she had felt before was returning. "Ah, that I have not heard; but if all be true it cannot be very long--a month or so at most." Violet sighed unconsciously. "I am so--so tired," she said, almost under her breath. "Poor little maiden! it is weary work waiting." "When the lambs are very tired, and cannot walk any more, the Lord Jesus lifts them in his arms and carries them, does he not?" she said dreamily. "Yes, yes, of course." "And dost thou know, my friend, that I saw that lamb's face, and it was Violet's; and the Lord Jesus was going to put her into her mother's arms to rest herself." "When? where?" asked the policeman, growing frightened at the words which the child was so slowly uttering; and even in the darkness he could see the strange paleness of the little face. "In the meadow with the other little girl." "What little girl?" "The little one who sent me this watch. She was a very sick little girl like me--oh, so sick the doctor said; but she flew up in the spring with the flowers and the larks to heaven, and she--" At this moment a loud clattering on the stairs outside made itself heard over everything, and the door of the room burst open with a startling haste. It was Ella, breathless and panting loudly, who, rushing blindly forward in the darkness, first fell over the handle of the carriage which stood in the middle of the room ready for its first journey, and then over a low stool by the stove. She recovered herself quickly, however, and made for the corner where the dim outline of Violet's head was visible against the holland blind. "Violet, hast thou heard the news? Evelina has stopped to buy thee a cake at the shop, so I ran on ever so fast to tell it to thee first. There is a great battle which is all over, and we have a great victory and lots and lots of people killed, and a whole town tumbled down, and the man with the big nose, the grand emperor we saw in the picture, is all beaten into little pieces, and had to give up his sword to our king, and he will soon be put in prison; is not that splendid? And they sent up fire into the sky and frightened Ella, and lots of it tumbled down again, and stars and blue things; and a great red-hot stick, fell on the shoulders of the orange-girl and made her give such a hop and a scream. And--and--who is that sitting in the window beside thee?" Ella paused, her breath almost gone, and not a little frightened at the strange figure sitting wrapped in a cloak beside Violet's chair. "Will Evelina soon be here?" asked Violet plaintively; for the noise and the fuss were overpowering her. "Yes; Evelina is here," replied a voice at the door. "Ah, poor little maiden! all in the dark. But it is not my fault, as I will explain to thee. See, here is a lovely cake I have bought for thy supper. Thou wert so fast asleep I just slipped down a moment to hear the grand news, and then the crowd was so great one could not budge a foot. I thought a hundred times of thee and thy carriage, but we could never have dragged thee a foot through the throngs of people: and besides, that faithless old policeman never turned up, and I suppose forgot all about thee; but I will make him answer for it to-morrow," she added with a light laugh. "The policeman is here to answer for himself," said a voice coming out of the darkness; and between Evelina and the window there rose up a figure tall and dark, and to her eyes terrible to look at. "Oh! who is that?" she cried hastily. But no one replied to her question; only the figure in the window bent down low over the chair on which Violet sat, and said softly in her ear,-- "Dearest little maiden, the old policeman was not faithless; he did not forget thee, but he was sent for by his captain, and had to go to the gardens to keep order. Please God, to-morrow I will take thee to the hill. And now thou wilt say 'Good-night,' wilt thou not? and go to bed and rest, and dream of the good news of the home-coming, and the good father's joy to see his Violet once more. Good-night, little heart's love." Violet stretched up her arms and drew the kind grave face down to her. "Good-night, my friend," she said lovingly. "Ah, now I can hear thy watch ticking," he said in a hoarse whisper, "and it seems to say something to me." "What does it say?" "It says, 'Forget me not.'" "What?" said Violet, clutching eagerly at his coat; but he had stood up now and was fixing his helmet firmly on his head. Evelina, abashed and confounded, had moved noiselessly into the inner room, and Ella was gaping with open mouth at Violet's friend. "Good-night," he said once more, in a hoarse voice; "and to-morrow, if all be well, we shall have tea under the trees on the hill." "Yes, yes, yes," cried Ella joyfully, and forgetting her shyness she flung her fat arms around the knees of the advancing policeman; "and Ella may come too, may she not?" "Certainly; Miss Ella must come also. And now thou wilt take my hand, and I will leave thee at thy mother's house, for the little maiden in the chair is very tired, and she must sleep and rest.--Good-night," he cried once more as he reached the door and looked back. "Good-night," she replied with eagerness; and then in a low voice he heard her say softly, "Forget me not." CHAPTER XXI. A GUILTY CONSCIENCE. The next morning rose beautiful and bright and fair. The town was gay as gay could be; flags were hung from almost every window, and the hum of a great content seemed to fill the air. In Violet's room all was still. The carriage had been pushed back into the corner of the room, and the little girl was asleep. She had been sleeping nearly all the morning; indeed so profound was her repose that Evelina had grown nervous and summoned the doctor, whose carriage she had seen outside the toy-shop door. He came in quietly and stood beside the bed. The child's breathing was quick and regular, and her hand lay softly open upon the counterpane. "How long has she slept like this?" he asked in a low voice of Evelina, who stood with tearful eyes near the window. "Ever since last night when I put her to bed. It was the news of the victory, sir, which I think upset her." "Who told her of it?" "Little Ella, sir, Madam Adler's daughter." "Ah, of course, of course, children will talk; and she must have heard it some time or other. Has she spoken at all since morning?" "A few words, sir, but not much sense in them; about larks and flowers, and about wings--she is always rambling on to me about having wings." "She will soon have them," said the doctor shortly. "What!" said Violet, opening her eyes suddenly and looking up; "is that true? will Violet soon have wings?" "Yes, my poor little child, very soon." "Oh, how beautiful! how lovely!" she said with a sigh of the utmost content. Then turning her head suddenly, she said quickly, "Fritz, dost thou hear what the doctor says? Violet will soon have wings." Then she closed her eyes again and fell asleep. "We can do nothing for her," said the doctor, as he moved aside from the bed. "This stupor that she has fallen into is the result of the shock she received yesterday; for in her state good news is almost as disturbing in its results as bad. I think she may awake out of this sleep and be perhaps none the worse, but we cannot tell. God is very merciful, and the thread of her life is in his hands." "Yes, sir," said Evelina faintly. "Has she spoken at all to-day of her father?" "No, sir, not exactly; only once she said something about a great victory, and smiled a little." The doctor turned back and looked again at the quiet face on the pillow, and repeated in a low voice several times the words, "A great victory." "Yes, poor Violet! thy victory too is close at hand; and then cometh the peace which passeth all understanding." "I shall come again to-night," he said, as he turned away towards the door; "and meanwhile no one must enter this room to disturb her, nor must she be left alone for a moment. Remember, she has been intrusted to your care by her father, and to mine, and we are responsible for her." "Yes, sir; I shall watch her very carefully," replied Evelina humbly. When the doctor was gone, Evelina sat down on the chair by the stove and cried bitterly, for a miserable feeling of guilt was over her. The smile on Violet's face was more difficult for her to look at now than the wakeful restlessness of pain and weariness; indeed everything in the room seemed to reproach her this morning: the carriage standing in the corner; the little brown hat with its wreath of buttercups, which something in Evelina's heart told her would never be asked for again; the cake, which had not been tasted; the window-sill littered with the fallen animals which had been shaken from their usual resting-place by the firing of the cannon; and a kind of dull consciousness resting over all that the end was close at hand, and that the child lying so quietly on the bed yonder was, oh so near heaven;--and she--where was she? and what did she know of that peace which the doctor said passed all understanding? She stood up presently, and going over to the bed, opened the dead mother's Bible. Between the leaves lay the picture which Violet loved so much to look at. Evelina's eye fell on the centre plate, where the little girl was represented seated all alone in the garret-room, looking out over the roofs and the chimneys towards the far-off sky. "All alone," she murmured, reading the print beneath it; then turned on hastily, for it seemed to remind her painfully of her conduct yesterday. Presently she came on the lock of golden hair which Violet prized so highly, the long, glistening curl tied up with a knot of black ribbon, and she lifted it up carefully and looked at it with interest; then walking softly across to a little mirror which hung against the wall, she laid it against her own golden curls, and said under her breath, "Just the same colour." She put back the hair into the Bible; and then some other thought following quickly on the comparison, she went over to the trunk which stood beside Violet's bed, and, lifting the lid noiselessly, drew out once more from the corner the hat trimmed with the blue forget-me-nots, which she carried into her own room and presently closed the door. Meanwhile Violet, quite unconscious that her most precious possessions were being ruthlessly trifled with in the adjoining chamber, slept on quietly. She did not rouse up until quite late in the afternoon, when she saw Evelina sitting in the window-seat as usual, and knitting stockings for the Gützberg children. "I am going soon to see father," she said softly; but at the words, Evelina, who was in a reverie, started violently, and almost let the knitting slip from her fingers. "Aunt Lizzie will be glad when father comes home; will she not, Evelina?" "Yes, of course; every one will be glad." "And the children, the little cousins at Gützberg,--will not they too be delighted?" "Oh, they are too young to know such things." "But they will be watching all this time for thee to go back." "So thou art thinking already of sending me back to Gützberg?" "No, no," cried Violet, blushing hotly; "I do not want to send thee away, only Aunt Lizzie said she could spare thee a little while, and now it is so long since father went; and when he comes home he will take care of me all day long, and never be the least bit tired; and I will tell father how good thou hast been to me all this long time." "I had a letter from thy aunt this morning," said Evelina, turning away her face towards the window; "only a few lines. She is coming over here in a few days to see thee; and probably if thy father returns I shall go back with her. She sent thee her love, and she is making thee a little cloak to wear when thou goest out in thy carriage." "Ah, how good. I will wear it when father takes me out; that will not be long to wait." When the doctor came again in the evening, he was quite delighted with the brightness of the little face, and with the rare happy smile which was lighting up all its features. Violet chatted to him more naturally than she had done for many a long day. She showed him her carriage; and told him of the cloak Aunt Lizzie was making for her; and laughed when she said how the cannon-shot had thrown down Noah's wife and all the animals. "I may see Ella to-morrow, may I not?" she asked wistfully, as he moved towards the door. "Certainly; if she is not too noisy." "Oh, Ella is always good," she cried joyously; "and I am never lonely when she is here." Madam Adler, too, came across in the evening. Her heart was full of anger against Evelina for having deserted her charge the day before; but when she entered the room and found Violet sitting on Evelina's knee by the stove, with her arms round the girl's neck, who was singing to her, she thought the reprimand would be ill-timed, and she determined to wait for a better opportunity. CHAPTER XXII. A STARTLING MESSAGE. It was not many days before the town of Edelsheim awoke to the fact that the war was not over, and that though the French emperor was a prisoner, France seemed determined to fight to the bitter end. The gay flags which had been hung out of the windows so joyfully were now rolled up again and put aside, and the people went about their work with dejected faces, awaiting the dread tidings that their loved ones were ordered to march forward towards Paris, and fight the enemy there. But Violet knew nothing of all this. Secure in the certainty of her father's speedy return, she sat daily in the window watching. She very seldom spoke now; it seemed to tire her. But she smiled to herself much oftener than she had hitherto done, and waved her little thin hand to Fritz, who was ever on the watch in the house opposite; and constantly, in the warm autumn evenings, when the windows of both houses were open, he called across to her and told her his news. Violet smiled and nodded her head, but she had no strength to call back again, nor even to draw up the cord of the little basket into which Fritz was constantly dropping little gifts and scraps of paper, on which were printed in large letters messages of love and comfort:--"Fritz will soon be well enough to see Violet"--"Fritz is making a boat for Violet;" and once or twice, in a very closely-folded message, were the words, "Fritz is always asking God to make Violet well." But at last there came a message from Fritz which roused her for a time out of her lethargy, and set her heart beating wildly. It was a beautiful autumn evening; the town was rosy red in the sunset, and all the casements of the oriel window lay wide open. Violet, who had not spoken for several hours, was lying back on her pillows half sleeping, half waking, with her eyes dreamily fixed on the hill, which was wrapped in a soft purple mist. The canary bird was picking out the loose feathers from its wings in the cage overhead; and the old jackdaw on the opposite side of the street, for a wonder was at rest, with his head tucked under his wing. Fritz for a long time had been making signals to Violet from the high-up dormer window of the house; but her face had been turned away, and though her eyes were fixed on the far-off hill, she saw nothing but a waving meadow bright with flowers, over whose green fragrant grass she was passing with a delicious freedom, her feet not actually touching the ground, only here and there skimming over the cool meadow grass, while a refreshing air wafted her along without fatigue and without pain. She often had this fancy now, that she was floating along over the earth, that she was free from the ache in her back and the weary heaviness of her limbs; and this afternoon she was listening again to that voice from the meadow saying, "I am going to lay this poor tired lamb in its mother's bosom." But all at once, when she was seeking once more to see the face of the child which the Lord Jesus held so lovingly in his arms, the basket-bell rang with a sharp tinkle overhead, and she awoke from her dream to find herself no longer wandering amid green pastures, but propped up among her pillows, oh so tired, and with a sudden tearful longing to lay her head against some loving heart and be at rest. At the sound of the bell, Evelina, who had been dozing also in a chair near the stove, started up angrily, and going over to the window, looked down into the street. "Ha! it is just as I thought, thou little donkey. Hast thou no sense, Master Fritz, but to go and ring bells in people's ears when they are asleep? See, now, thou hast startled Violet out of her dreams, and she will be ill all the night." "No, no," said Violet eagerly; but there were sudden tears of distress and weakness standing in her uplifted eyes. "Look in the basket, Violet," cried Fritz, taking no notice of Evelina's wrath; "there is something in it that I want thee to see, and it is all--" Before, however, Fritz could finish his sentence, his mother had appeared in the doorway, and seizing Fritz by the collar of his coat, had dragged him backwards into the bakery. "I will not have thee disturbing Violet with thy folly," she said angrily, and pushed him into the back passage. Meantime Evelina, her own curiosity aroused, had drawn up the little cord from which dangled the basket. "It is uncommonly light," she said, as she lifted it in at the window. "It strikes me, if I am not mistaken, that Master Fritz is at his old pranks again. Yes, it is just as I thought; the basket is quite empty. It is just a silly trick he has played upon thee, and nothing else." Evelina turned the basket upside down as she spoke, and shook out some old dried moss and withered leaves, and a little scrap of dirty paper folded into a minute size, which fluttered down and lit on the window-seat beside Violet. "Little wretch! I shall box his ears the next time I see him," cried Evelina angrily. "To come and waken people up for such a senseless joke." "There was something in the basket," pleaded Violet in a low voice. "I tell thee there was not," replied Evelina sharply; "unless thou callest a handful of dead leaves something." The child's eyes rested wistfully on the little scrap of folded paper lying almost within her reach on the window-seat, but she said nothing. When Evelina was vexed, Violet felt afraid of her; and besides, she was down on her knees now gathering the moss and dirt off the floor, and she did not like to trouble her further. But Evelina's tempers were never of long duration. When she stood up again she was smiling, and said with a laugh,-- "I have a mind to go across the street and tie this basket on to Master Fritz's back and hunt him up and down the town for his pains. At any rate, the next time it happens I shall just cut the cord, and then there will be an end of it all." "No, no, thou wilt not do that, Evelina," cried Violet, stretching out her hands eagerly. "There is no saying what Evelina might do when she is angry," replied the girl, laughing lightly as she dropped the basket once more out of the window. "Ah, there is the newsman in the street and lots of people gathered round him; I must run down for a moment and see what fresh telegrams have come in. I shall just buy a paper from him and be back immediately." Violet nodded her head silently, and Evelina, having again arranged the cord in its place, left the room. When the door was closed, and Evelina's flying footsteps were distinctly audible in the street beneath, Violet tried to stretch out her hand for the piece of paper which had fluttered down out of the basket on to the window-seat beside her; but she found, to her grief, that it was just an inch or two beyond the reach of her finger-tips. She looked round for something with which she could draw it nearer to her, and at last, after some difficulty, she succeeded with the help of the spotted book in pushing it to the edge of the cushion, where she could stretch out her hand and take hold of it. Even this little exertion tried her. She panted, and for some moments did not attempt to open the paper. Her heart beat quickly and her hands trembled. She did not believe that Fritz had been playing a trick upon her, and she guessed that there was some special piece of news to be found in the little crumpled scrap which she held tightly pressed up in her hand. At last she opened it out, and as she read the words printed across it in large letters she gave quite a sharp cry and started up in her chair. "Ella is going to be an angel, and have wings." This was the whole message--no explanation, no other word to give a hint or a reason, and no Fritz at the window opposite to make things clear. She stared again at the words. Her cheeks grew crimson, her eyes darkened, tears came into them and fell upon the dirty scrap of paper on her knee. Ella was going to have wings! Ella, who could run and jump and walk and was never tired; who could laugh and sing and hop and follow Fritz wherever he went. Ella was going to have wings! And Ella had no hump upon her back, no pain, no tiredness. She had not been waiting for them long, oh, so long as she had! A great lump came struggling up into her throat, drops of sweat gathered on her forehead. The book with the spotted cover lay across her knees; the tears came splash, splash upon the yellow binding; and Violet, bending her head down lower, said in a sobbing whisper,-- "Oh, dear Lord Jesus! canst thou not also give wings to Violet? Violet is so tired, and cannot walk or run." Then followed another long sob and a shower of burning tears, in the midst of which the door opened and Evelina came laughing in, her eyes brimming with fun and her whole manner joyous and gay. "Did any one ever hear of such an idea?" she cried, flinging herself down on a chair. "To make that great fat Miss Ella an angel! the very thought of it gives one almost a fit. I could almost die of laughter.--But what is the matter with the child? What art thou crying for, Violet?" and Evelina rose and came over to Violet, whose head was bent upon her purple frock, and her face was covered with her hands. "What troubles thee? Look up, Violet, and hear my news. There is going to be a great procession through the town. The general is coming home wounded from the war. Such a brave old fellow! he has had both his arms shot off, and two of his sons have been killed in the battle of Sedan; so all Edelsheim is going out to meet him on his return and give him a welcome. And there are to be hundreds of girls dressed in white, who are to sing beautiful songs and scatter flowers on the road; and a whole band of little angels, who are to have wings, and they are to sing too. And just imagine--Ella over the way is to be an angel! Such an idea! one might just as well make an angel of a little fat, squeaking pig; but of course it is for her voice they want her. Ah, Miss Violet, it is a shame for thee to go on crying so when I have brought thee home such a grand piece of news. What ails thee? Look up and tell me." "I want to be an angel too," cried Violet with a bursting sob. "An angel! Ah, is that it? Poor little darling! thou wilt be an angel soon enough." "But Ella will have wings first, and will fly away from Violet, and Violet is so lonely." "Miss Ella fly!" cried Evelina, throwing up her hands again and bursting into a fresh fit of laughter. "Why, it would take all the wings in the town to lift her off her feet. No, no; do not be afraid; Miss Ella will not fly." "Could not I go with the other little angels?" sobbed Violet. "Ah, no, no, my treasure; that would be impossible. Thou canst not walk, and it is a long way to the station." "But if I had wings." "Yes, yes, of course, if thou hadst wings that would be another thing; then thou couldst fly wherever thou hadst a wish," said Evelina soothingly, for the pleading eyes so full of their sorrow pained her. "And the doctor said, soon, very soon, Violet would have them; and perhaps God would give Violet wings that very day, and then she could go with all the other angels. Is it not so, Evelina?" "Yes, yes; of course, when the Lord Jesus gives Violet wings then she can go where she likes." "I will ask him, yes, I will ask him," said Violet softly; and through her tears there broke a sweet struggling smile as she lifted her eyes to the sky above the shadowy hill and held communion with her God. CHAPTER XXIII. GREAT PREPARATIONS. The morning of the procession had come--such a glorious morning!--bright sunshine, blue sky, and a soft breeze blowing down from the hill. At an early hour the whole town was astir. Every one was anxious to join in or to see this procession; for the brave general for whose home-coming it was planned was the favourite of the town, and all were anxious to do him honour. It seemed to them only a few days ago that they had seen his sturdy figure walking down the shady alley accompanied by his sons, fine fair-haired young fellows, who had since then fallen wounded to death in the dreadful battle of Sedan. Those whose work could be got over in the early morning rose with the sun, so as to leave the afternoon free to do honour to their general. The washerwomen at the river's edge were battering their linen on the stones from early dawn, while the usually sulky river crept in to-day bright with little rivulets of gold; and the walls of the gray old castle were gay with flags, whose shining spear-heads caught the first rays of the rising sun. In the streets the pigeons were already pecking happily, for the noisy tread of the early risers had disturbed them; and beneath the windows of Violet's house a whole cluster were collected, Madam Adler having already risen and thrown out to them a large sieveful of corn which she had brought from the bakery for the purpose. She looked up at Violet's window before she turned to re-enter the shop, and sighed heavily. She had been, in the evening before, to see her little darling, and to show her Ella dressed in her angel's garments,--soft white raiment, and glistening wings. But the effect on Violet had been so overpowering that Madam Adler had hurried Ella away, and had herself been obliged to listen to a lecture from Evelina for having so thoughtlessly broken in on the child's evening sleep and set her heart beating with a distress too deep for words. Madam Adler had made no reply to Evelina's reproaches, for her own heart was too full of pain, to see the great change which had lately come over the little wan face; and when she saw the sudden lustre which burned in Violet's eyes at the first sight of Ella with the white dress and the shining wings, and then listened to the passionate sobbing which followed, she had gone back to her own house overwhelmed with grief at the result of her visit, and she longed for the day of the procession to be over, that the subject might pass away from Violet's mind, and Ella's wings be folded up and put away. Ella, upstairs in her room, was awake also this morning at an unusually early hour. She could not rest, with the joyous expectation of being an angel and walking in the great procession; and ever so many times she had risen and gone over and touched with her soft, fat fingers the wings so beautifully tipped with silver and shining with stars, and which lay upon the table in the middle of the room: but every time she looked at them a sorrowful remembrance came over her of Violet's face and her bitter tears; and at last the little girl walked back to her bedside, and kneeling down said softly,-- "Oh, thou good Lord Jesus, be very kind to poor Violet in the house opposite, and give her wings too, like Ella!" She looked up very steadily at the ceiling as she said these words. Her wide-open eyes seemed to see far up above the roof and the chimneys and the storks. The soft yellow hair was straggling out in long loops and curls from under her linen night-cap, her elbows rested on the bed, and her dimpled fingers were clasped. Was she, after all, so unlike an angel, this "fat Miss Ella," at whose appearance Evelina could not restrain her laughter? When Ella had finished her little prayer, and was just saying "Amen" in a rather loud voice, the door opened and Fritz walked in. "What art thou doing, Ella?" he said rather curiously. "Out of bed already, at this early hour, and saying thy prayers! Dost thou think thou art an angel already?" Ella blushed crimson as she stood up, and she shuffled her little pink feet over each other uneasily on the carpet. "It was only about Violet," she said nervously, and her eyes travelled back again to the wings shining so softly on the dark oil-cloth cover of the table. "So thou hast been thinking of her too," said Fritz, drawing a deep breath. "I have thought of nothing else all night, and that is why I too am up so early, and dressed, as thou seest, for going out." Ella had noticed that Fritz had his cap in his hand, and she had wondered at it. "Well, well?" she asked open-mouthed. "Well, I am going off to the police barrack to try and see Violet's friend. Mother told me last night that she heard the procession was not to pass through our street at all, but was to turn up by the cathedral and across the market square to the station; and then poor Violet could not see it at all, or hear any of the music. Mother says she is glad, but I am not a bit; for look at this, Ella." Fritz drew from his trowsers pocket a little crumpled scrap of paper and spread it out upon the palm of his hand. "She dropped this out of the window to me last night;--and I know this one thing." Fritz spoke in a curious, husky voice, and turned away his face. "What thing, Fritz?" "Violet will never send me any more notes. Look at this;--I was half an hour before I could make it out." There was a large V, and then a lot of trembling up-and-down strokes without any pretence at printing, only there was a dot over one stroke, and a letter something like a "t" at the end; then came the word "wants," pretty fairly readable; then another trembling set of meaningless lines, and the word "angels;" and again a word which Fritz after much trouble had made out to be "sing." "Violet wants to hear the angels sing;" that was her message. "And I am going straight now to the barracks, and I shall show this to our policeman, and he shall go to the general's wife, and they shall arrange together that the procession _is_ to go through this street. I have settled it all in the night when I was lying awake." "Perhaps the general's wife will not do it." "Perhaps she will, thou little ass," replied Fritz curtly, as he banged the door after him and went out. "Ah, if I could give Violet my wings," said Ella softly, as, once more returning to the table, she touched the silver pinions which lay spread out upon it shiningly; "but the good Lord Jesus is much much kinder than Ella, and perhaps he will lend her some wings just for this one day." Ella went over to the casement and looked across and down at the closed shutters of Violet's window. She was singing softly to herself the words of the angels' song, which her mother had with much care been teaching to her for the last few days,-- "Angels, sing on, your faithful watches keeping, Sing us sweet fragments of the songs above, Till morning's joy shall end the night of weeping, And life's long shadows break in endless love." Ella had the sweetest childish voice that one could hear anywhere: yes, it was for this reason she had been chosen to form one of the angel-choir, and now as she came to the end of her verse, she sang out the chorus loud and clearly,-- "Angels of Jesus, Angels of light, Singing to welcome The pilgrims of night." Ella did not quite understand what the words of the hymn meant, though her mother had given many long minutes to their explanation. She only knew they were about the good Lord Jesus, and she felt that they were words Violet would love to hear; so she sang them loud enough and clear enough for the sound to reach her ears were she awake. But there was no stir in the oriel window except a burst of song from the canary opposite, behind whose cage the curtains of Violet's casement had been loosely folded; but the blind in the room next to hers was at this moment quickly drawn up, and Ella saw Evelina look out hurriedly into the street, and then withdraw as quickly behind the table. She was up early, too, and dressed already in a pretty white and blue muslin dress, which she was evidently trying on before the looking-glass, for Ella saw her take up some blue bows from the table and pin them on her dress, arranging them first in one place and then in another until she was satisfied with their effect. Ella wondered that Evelina should be so smartly dressed at so early an hour; but she wondered still more when she saw her turn back a moment from the window and then reappear with a large Leghorn hat in her hand, covered with some pale blue flowers, and lined with a pretty light blue satin, the same colour as the ribbon bows upon her dress. She turned it backwards and forwards for a few moments, picking up the blue flowers with her fingers, just here and there where they stuck too closely to the straw; and she bent the broad flap a little to one side, and pinned it up with much care; and then she placed it on her head, smiling a little and moving to and fro in front of the mirror. All at once she turned and walked away. Ella saw her hurriedly snap off the hat and throw it on the bed, and then move forward as if towards Violet's room. Ella watched for her to come back; but at last growing tired of waiting she lay down on her little bed, and, still humming the angels' chorus, she fell into a light sleep. Before, however, she had quite wandered off into the land of dreams the door of her room opened again, and Fritz came in with flushed face and excited manner. "It is all of no use," he cried, flinging his cap down at the foot of the bed. "I have seen the policeman, and he says it is no good for him to ask." "And he will not even try?" asked Ella, opening her sleepy eyes. "Oh yes, he will try. He has gone off now to see the colonel; but he knows it is all no use." Fritz sat down on the side of Ella's little cot, and suddenly burst out crying. "I wish I had never told her anything about it," he said sobbing. "Why, dear Fritz?" and Ella threw her fat arms round her brother's neck. "That old cat Evelina told the policeman that since I had told Violet about the angels she has had no sleep and can eat nothing, and that in a few days she will be quite dead." "Quite dead," echoed Ella mournfully; "and poor Fritz will never see her nor speak to her any more." "Hush, Ella," cried Fritz, springing up from the bed angrily; "Fritz will see her again. Fritz will speak to Violet again. He will go this instant and ask the Lord Jesus this very day to make her quite well, to take all the sickness away from her; and the Lord Jesus must listen to Fritz this time, for he will go out on the very top of the house and call ever so loud, so loud that he must hear him." And Fritz, his face all quivering with the anguish of the moment, started up and rushed wildly out of the room; and Ella heard his feet ascending the little wooden ladder that led out among the nasturtiums and the red geraniums on to the red-tiled roof above. CHAPTER XXIV. A GRIEVOUS DISAPPOINTMENT. It was still quite early when Evelina drew back the curtains in the oriel window and let in the rosy morning light. A few moments before, Violet had startled her by a cry of joy, so keen and unmistakable that she had hurried from the inner room in her white muslin dress to the child's bedside, only to find her face pressed in against the pillow, around which her arms were tightly pressed. "What is it? why didst thou call so?" she cried curiously as she stooped over the bed. "O Evelina, the angels were singing to me!" said Violet, lifting up a face still wreathed in the happiest smiles. "Didst thou not hear them, Evelina? I knew the very words they said. And father, dear father, he was there with them in the meadow beside the hill; and he stretched out his hands to me and cried out so loud, 'To meet again,' that I screamed out with joy." "Ah, that was indeed a lovely dream," said Evelina, stooping over the bed and kissing the little face still lighted up with the straggling beams of heavenly glory. "Go to sleep, dearest one, and perhaps thou mayest dream of the angels again." "And dost thou know, Evelina, in that meadow beside the hill, where the flowers grow, my feet never touch the ground--never." "Hush, little heart! go to sleep," she replied softly. "And thou, Evelina, wilt thou not be an angel too? for thou art dressed in white, and thou art so lovely and so kind," said the little voice from among its pillows. Evelina made no answer; her cheeks burned with a vivid red, and her heart gave loud throbs as she bent over the child and kissed her again passionately; then she turned and went back into the room. But her eyes were full of tears, and for many minutes afterwards she was restless and miserable, until at length she took off the white dress and laid it aside on the top of her trunk; and the hat with the blue forget-me-nots she hastily covered over with a handkerchief, and hid it away in the press. "What is the boy doing up there?" she said suddenly as she looked up at the red tiles of the house opposite. "Why, he is saying his prayers on the roof! Was ever anything so funny?" When Violet did awake later on, she seemed to have forgotten all about her dream; she sighed heavily, and there were bright red spots on her cheeks. She watched all Evelina's movements with a kind of dull curiosity, but for a long time she made no effort to speak. At last she said, with a weak and somewhat complaining voice, "Evelina, why art thou making the room ready so early? That brush knocks so loudly against the chairs, and Violet's head is aching." "I am up early because the whole town is up early," replied Evelina somewhat shortly; "and a room cannot be cleaned properly without brushing it." "And why is the whole town up early--why, Evelina?" "Why? of course thou knowest that this is the day of the grand procession, and one cannot be both inside of the house doing one's work and outside of it at the same time enjoying oneself." "And art thou going out to see the angels?" asked Violet, fixing her eyes sorrowfully on the face of Evelina. "That depends--I am not certain." "But thou wouldst like it, wouldst thou not?" "Yes, yes, of course." "And will it be a long way off, down a far, far street?" "No, no, quite close. They are to turn off at the fountain and go up by the cathedral." "Then Violet will perhaps hear them singing," cried the child, raising herself on her elbow, and flushing all over a lovely carmine colour. "I have often heard the women singing at the fountain in the evening." "Yes, I daresay." "Ah, how Violet would love to stand, like other little children in the street, and see the beautiful angels with their wings." A deep, longing sigh followed this remark. Evelina made no reply, and Violet still followed her movements wistfully with her eyes, till at last they fell upon the little carriage, which she was at this moment dusting, and which she presently pushed somewhat further back into the corner. "Just as far as the fountain," pleaded Violet with quivering lips. "No, no, it is impossible; for the greatest crowd of all will be just there. They are all to gather at the fountain, which is to be decked out with flowers; and the first chorus is to be sung beside it. To drag a carriage through such a multitude of people would be out of the question." "But in thine arms, Evelina; couldst thou not take me such a little way in thine arms?" "In my arms, dear love? who ever heard of such a thing?" "Yes, yes, only to the fountain, to see the angels and to hear them sing." "Thou askest me that which thou knowest well I cannot do," replied Evelina almost angrily. "The doctor would not hear of my taking thee out of thy bed to carry thee in my arms among such a lot of people. And besides, thou wouldst not like it thyself: other children would stare at thee, and say things, perhaps, which would hurt thee." "What would they say, Evelina?" "Ah, cruel things: children do not stop to pick their words." "But what would they say?" pleaded Violet, her eyes opening wide and her cheeks flushing. "They would, perhaps, point their fingers at thee and call thee names. Ah, I have heard such things often in the street. There are wicked children as well as good. I have seen them even throwing stones after little sick children." "Yes," cried Violet, sitting up straight, and her eyes deepening to the purple shade which always came with some great mental excitement; "and thou rememberest, Evelina, how one wicked boy threw a great heavy stone at a poor hunchback; and how God was watching, and when they would have thrown another the Lord Jesus laid his hand on the hunchback's shoulders, and out of them came two beautiful shining wings, and he flew straight up to heaven. Thou rememberest all this, Evelina?" "Oh yes, I daresay," replied Evelina, who was down on her knees polishing the stove. "But thou didst tell that very story to me." "Well, and what then?" "Then Violet is not afraid to go out in the streets; for the good Lord Jesus loves Violet very, very much, and if anything came to hurt her he would just give her wings, and she would fly away straight up to heaven." For a moment Evelina's heart relented, as she looked up from the stove at those earnest eyes full of such a beseeching entreaty. "Well, well, we can see when the time comes," she said quickly. "Lie down now, and don't talk about it any more. When I have done my work I will go and see the doctor and ask him; and if he says 'Yes,' why, then, we must arrange it somehow." "Ah, thou best Evelina, how good thou art!" cried Violet, stretching out her arms gratefully. But Evelina was perhaps too busy to notice the action. At any rate, she continued polishing the stove; and Violet, with eyes still darkly dilated with the wonder of some great but as yet unrealized joy, lay back upon her pillow, only saying to herself in a whisper, "Violet will see the angels and will hear them sing." At eleven o'clock Evelina went out. She was some time away, and Violet watched with a beating heart for her return. At last she heard footsteps on the stairs; but Evelina, instead of entering the kitchen, went into her own room and shut the door. Violet waited for a few minutes, and then called to her; but she received no answer. Evelina was walking hurriedly about the inside room, and did not hear her calling. At last the door opened, and Evelina came in. She had on a white dress now--a white muslin dress, dotted over with pale-blue spots; and on her bosom there was fastened a bunch of forget-me-nots, and on the front of the dress there were also pale-blue bows the same colour as the flowers. She looked so young and fresh, with her golden hair and her pretty smiling face, covered just now with a crimson blush, that Violet cried out involuntarily,-- "Oh how beautiful! how lovely! Hast thou seen the doctor?" But Evelina only said hastily, as she looked at the bed, "How stupid of me! I have forgotten to dress the child." "Then thou _wilt_ take me? O dearest Evelina, thou art too good to Violet." Evelina looked now really distressed. She came over and took the child's hot hands in hers, and sat down on the edge of the bed. "I have not seen the doctor," she said in a quick, nervous voice. "He was out, and had left no word where he was gone. I durst not take thee out on such a day without his leave. Although the sun is hot, there is a keen east wind blowing; so I will just run down to the fountain and have one look at the procession, and then come back to thee. I shall not be five minutes away, and thou shalt hear all about it when I return, and how Miss Ella looked, and how she sang; and then we shall have, oh such a feast when Evelina comes home--peaches and grapes which are in the next room waiting for us to eat them, and a cake covered with sugar, and a bunch of violets fastened on the top. And we shall have such fun; shall we not, thou little heart's love? And now Evelina will dress thee in thy little purple frock; and Miss Ella shall come back, wings and all, and have a share in our supper and our good things. And now thou wilt not be an ungrateful little girl, when Evelina has done all this for thee? Ah, for shame! dry thine eyes, and let us have no more tears." Violet drew her hand quickly out of Evelina's, and wiped away the tears which were flowing fast down her poor pale face; for was it not ungrateful and unkind of her to weep and fret when Evelina had been so good, and had bought for her such lovely things as grapes and peaches? Evelina tied an apron over her new dress and began to comb out Violet's yellow locks. They did not glisten now so brightly as they used to do, for long sickness had dimmed their golden colour; but still, when tied up with the dark purple knot, they hung prettily enough over the cashmere dress, into the neck and sleeves of which Evelina had sewn clean, soft, white frills. "There now! thou art quite lovely, quite charming!" cried Evelina, gazing at the little girl, whose lips still quivered with a suppressed excitement. "And see here! I will give thee some of my forget-me-nots, and thou shalt fasten them, so, on front of thy dress; and there will not be an angel in all the procession so fair as thee. Eh, little heart's darling, what sayest thou?" Violet did not answer; she only lifted her eyes to Evelina's face, as if she wished to speak and could not. "What is it? Is there anything more I can do for thee? for it is now on the stroke of twelve, and if I do not start at once I shall be late." "Please, please, Evelina, take Violet in thine arms, only this once--such a little way to the fountain, such a short, short street--that Violet may see the angels and hear them sing." "It is impossible," replied Evelina shortly, and growing very red. "But as thou art so determined to cry and to make a fuss, I will stay at home myself, and make an end of it all." And Evelina sat down on a chair, and tears came into her eyes. "No, no!" cried Violet passionately; "thou must go, Evelina. Violet will cry no more. She will wait here quite quietly till thou comest back. Yes, go now; please go, Evelina, ever so fast; and when thou hast seen the beautiful angels at the fountain, thou wilt come back quickly to Violet." Evelina rose up with averted face, and said, somewhat sullenly, "Well, as I am dressed, I suppose I may as well go; but after such a fuss and crying one cannot enjoy oneself very much." She pushed the door of her own room open as she said this, and, going in, drew the bolt quickly across it. A minute or two later she opened the other door at the side of the landing, and began to descend the stairs. "Evelina!" cried Violet after her piteously, "lift Violet first into the window. Evelina! Evelina! thou hast forgotten to put Violet into her chair!" Evelina turned to answer the child's appeal; but suddenly remembering something, she paused and raised her hand to her head. "I cannot wait now to take it off, for it is all pinned to my hair," she said peevishly. "In any case, I shall be back directly." And so, turning a deaf ear to Violet's cries, she went down the stairs and out into the street. CHAPTER XXV. WINGS AT LAST. Violet waited and listened until the last sound of Evelina's footsteps had died away, and then she fell into a sudden reverie. Her eyes remained fixed on the rails at the foot of her bed, and she neither moved nor spoke--only now and then a little shiver seemed to pass over her, and she sighed heavily, and her eyebrows were contracted with pain. A sudden sense of great loneliness had come over her, and with it a swift remembrance of her dear mother, the mother who had been carried out through that very door by which Evelina had that moment passed out, and who had never returned to her any more. Ah, had she been here now, she would have listened to her cries; she would have carried her in her arms to the fountain. She would have lifted her up so tenderly, and held her tightly, oh so tightly to her breast; and together they would have listened to the angels singing. And then again came the recollection of that dream, when the Lord Jesus had met her in the meadow, and had shown her the little lamb which he was carrying in his bosom--the little lamb with the white face, so like Violet. And she remembered the sound of his voice, as he said to her so softly, "See, she has fallen asleep, and I am going to lay her in her mother's arms." Ah, if Violet could fall asleep like that poor tired lamb, and awake in the arms of her dear mother, whose face she had not seen for so long--oh so long, yes, long, long ago! Again that thrilling shiver passed over her, and the little face grew pale. "Mother!" she cried--"mother! canst thou not hear me, mother? Mother! mother!" It rose higher and higher now, the wail of a child's despair. But, hark! what was that other sound without? Music--voices--a burst of sudden song somewhere not far off. Violet ceased to cry, and listened with large dilated eyes, from which the pain of the past moment had not yet departed. "The angels! the angels! I hear them singing!" she cried, starting up in an ecstasy of delight. "They are singing at the fountain; I can hear them. And Ella is with them, and she has wings. Ah, if some one could lift me gently and put me in my chair at the window!--Kate, Kate, come to Violet; come quickly." She had not long to wait for an answer to her call, for as she cried aloud for Kate, the old servant pushed open the door, and walked in. She had not come, however, at Violet's summons. She held a red-coloured envelope in her hand, and she looked round the room anxiously and somewhat angrily. "So; it is just as I thought. That little conceited minx has gone out, and left the child all alone. I just caught a sight of the hat as she whirled by the window, and I knew well where it came from." "Kate, Kate, listen to the angels. They are singing at the fountain. If thou speakest so loud, I cannot hear them." "Ay, ay; I hear them well enough. But who is to open this telegram and tell us what is in it?" "Ah, Kate, do not mind what is in it. Lift me in thy arms, dear Kate, and put me in my chair by the window." "Well, have patience a moment, and I will see if I can make out the words. I am a regular blockhead at reading; but the messenger is waiting at the door to see if there is any answer, and that silly girl may not be back for an hour." Kate turned a little aside, as she tore open the envelope, and looked back a moment at Violet with an evident nervousness of manner. "Ah, God be thanked! it is no bad news. It is from the good lady at Gützberg. She will be here this afternoon." But Violet did not hear one word Kate said. A great hope was rising in her bosom. The sound of the angels' voices was drawing nearer and nearer, and she could now almost catch the very words they were singing. It was growing clear to her that the procession must be advancing up the street. "Kate, Kate, where art thou going?" she cried suddenly, as the old servant moved towards the door. "Wilt thou not carry Violet across to her chair?" "Yes, yes, in a moment. I am only going to the street door, and I shall be back immediately." By the time she returned to the room Violet's cheeks were burning with excitement, and there was a look in her eyes which almost frightened the old servant. "Lift me to the window!" she cried, almost passionately. "The angels are coming! they have wings! I must see them! they are coming up the street!" Kate held out her arms quickly to the child; but her heart sank as she noticed the crimson cheeks, and the eyes which looked at her and yet did not seem to see her, so full were they of some deep and overpowering excitement. "Quick, quick! they are in the street!" she repeated feverishly. "Ay, ay, they are in the street, that is true enough; but have patience, dear heart. There is time enough yet. They are not so near as thou thinkest." Still Violet repeated the same words furiously--"Quick, quick! they are in the street! they are in the street!"--until Kate had taken her in her arms and carried her into the window. "Do not put me in the chair; put me on the seat in the middle of the window," she cried eagerly, as Kate would have deposited her in her usual place. "Violet can see so much better all up and down the street, and thou canst put thy arms round me, and hold me so tightly;--is it not so, Kate?" She turned round quickly, and put her burning lips against the old woman's cheek: "The good Lord Jesus holds the sick lambs ever so closely in his arms; and I am one of his lambs, for I saw its face--oh so white!--and it was Violet's." "Dear heart, she is crazed!" muttered Kate to herself.--"There now; sit down on the seat, and I will hold thee tightly, I warrant." "The angels! I see them! they are dressed in white! They are coming nearer and nearer! Kate, canst thou not see them too?" Violet clutched at the wooden box full of sweet violets, which stood on the window-sill outside, and drew herself forward with a sudden access of strength. The box, which was bound by many a cobweb to the mullioned stone, moved one inch or so, and rocked ominously. Two white pigeons, which were preening their feathers on the ledge just beside it, flew away frightened, and perched on the roof opposite. "Kate, Kate, I see Ella! She is waving her hand to me; there is a crown in it. Dost thou not see?--a crown of gold. She is holding it out to me." "Ay, ay; I see Miss Ella. How fat she looks; and cold too, poor child! her arms look quite blue in her thin white dress." "Ah, she looks beautiful--the angels of God are all beautiful. They fly about in heaven and have no pain, Kate. And look at Ella's wings how they shine. Stand up straight, Kate, and thou wilt see better." [Illustration: The Procession. _Page 275_.] Kate leaned a little forward over the child's head and looked out. "Yes, yes; one would almost think that they were real. But here is another messenger coming to the door with a telegram, and there is no one downstairs to take it from him." "Thou canst go down," cried Violet eagerly. "I am quite safe here in the window, and quite, quite comfortable." "Thou art sure, dear heart?" "Yes; I can hold on by the box until thou comest back." Here all at once the children's voices burst forth in the street beneath, and in a delicious harmony took up the melodious hymn,-- "Angels of Jesus, Angels of light, Singing to welcome The pilgrims of night." Ella's clear treble rose up high, high into the air, and seemed to enter in at the very window. Violet, clutching unconsciously at the box in front of her, drew herself more forward, till at length she was leaning over the sweet-scented leaves, and could see well down into the street beneath. There was a hush now among the crowd, for all the people gathered in the space below, listening entranced to the sweet childish treble as it rose higher and higher in its anxiety that the song should reach the ear of one the child loved. But all at once the song ceased, and a cry came from her parted lips--"See, see! look up! Violet is at the window, and she will fall." The white-robed procession paused for a moment at the shrill scream of the child, and all heads were turned up to see what was the cause of her anguish, while at the same moment a woman's voice, uplifted in sudden terror, cried passionately from amongst them, "Violet! ah, wicked child; go back. What art thou doing?" But Violet did not see the upturned faces, nor hear Evelina's cry of terror-struck reproach. She was alike unconscious of rebuke or fear, for in the street beneath her were gathered a glorious company of angels. Their raiment, white and glistening, dazzled her aching eyes; their crowns of gold seemed all on fire; while the voices of a great multitude rang in her ears in sweet, melodious invitation,-- "Come, weary soul; Jesus bids thee come." To Violet it was no longer the hot and dusty streets of Edelsheim on which she gazed. She did not see the rocking crowd or the terror imprinted now on every upturned face. No; those who caught a glimpse of her at this moment knew that she saw none of them--that some heavenly vision held her inthralled and amazed. Her lips were white; her eyes burned; she spoke, yet no one heard, till all at once she stretched out her arms with a cry of surpassing ecstasy, and exclaimed, "Mother, dear mother, see! look up! here is Violet." Then all the people knew what was coming, for the child as she uttered the last words had fallen forward upon the box. It was hopeless to think that Evelina with all her efforts could reach the room in time. The wooden box had turned over on its side, and the loosened clay and the fragrant flowers rattling over their heads and faces gave them timely warning to retreat. The crowd surged to each side; the angels, who had ceased their singing, recoiled with a terrified rapidity to the farther side of the street. Only one person, with a courageous presence of mind and a fearless love, rushed from amongst them to stay the terrible catastrophe. But was it, after all, so terrible that the women should faint, and the angels hide their faces in their hands? Only a flutter of a purple frock, a glimpse of golden hair, preceded by a sudden crash as the box of violets fell splintered on the pavement beneath. Then all looked upwards with a scream. But Violet was in the arms of the old policeman, and the shining yellow locks were hanging loosely over his shoulder. A crowd gathered round him quickly, and the people pressed upon him, while some of the little angels in their silver shoes stood on tiptoe that they might, perchance, catch one glimpse of that white, white face. Yes, it was white and still, and sad enough to look upon. "Keep back," cried the policeman sternly, "and let the child have room to breathe." "She will never breathe again," said the voice of a woman by his side; "the child is stone dead; we can see that for ourselves." It was Madam Adler who spoke, and she held Fritz by the hand, whose face was gray and rigid with fear and horror. "Keep back, I say; she is not dead. For pity's sake let the child have air!" There was a slight retrograde movement and then a general start of wonder. Violet had opened her eyes! For a second, hope rose in every breast; for a smile glimmered and flickered over the poor pale face, and the lips moved. She lifted the drooping arm which had hung so listlessly by her side, and laid it for a moment upon the faithful breast of the old policeman. "My friend," she said softly, and looked up into his eyes with a gaze which was terrible in its steadfastness of love; then the eyelids closed quietly again, and the smile died out. A hush fell on all the people. Surely this was death. But there was still a breath, and the little purple frock heaved slowly, and the frill of the white pinafore quivered with a thrilling motion. All at once she moved, turned her head quickly towards the street, and strove to raise herself in the arms of her friend. "Fritz, Fritz!" she cried eagerly, in a strange uplifted voice full of a strong appeal. "Yes, here is Fritz; what is it, dear Violet?" "Fritz is here," he replied faintly, lifting up an ashen face towards hers. But Violet's eyes were wide open now, and full of a wonderful joy. They travelled straight up over the housetops and the golden crown of the hill towards the bright blue sky, as if following some vision of delight. "Fritz!"--it was now a cry of triumph--"it is all quite true. See! look up yonder, high, high up. Ah, seest thou not now Violet has wings?" All the people with a common consent looked upward as she spoke; but there was nothing there to see but God's blue heaven and a speck of golden cloud sailing slowly past across the mountain top. When they turned back again they knew then that the child was dead; for the eyes, full still of that strange purple wonder, were immovably fixed upon the far off heavens, and the awe and majesty of death were creeping into them as the light of life died out. "Free at last," said the policeman, lifting up his face with a strange grim smile towards the distant sky. "She has escaped like a bird from its cage, and is gone up yonder." There was nothing more to wait for now. The policeman turned towards the door of Violet's house and carried her away from their eyes. The procession, re-forming, moved mournfully onwards. Some women in the street snatched up bunches of the violets which lay scattered about over the road, and thrust them into their bosoms. But Madam Adler, Fritz, and little Ella in her silver shoes and shining wings, remained behind, and they and many others followed the old policeman and his burden up the stairs; and Madam Adler, pushing her way on in front, opened the door of the kitchen to allow him to pass in. But there on the threshold they were met by Kate, behind whom stood the form of Evelina rigid with horror and dismay. "Is it all over?" cried the old woman distractedly--"is the child dead?--tell me now at once, is our Violet dead?" "Yes, quite dead." "Thou art certain?" "Yes, quite certain." "Then God be praised for all his mercies. She will never know this new trouble which has fallen upon us. Her father is gone also." She held out her hand vaguely towards them all with an open telegraph form crumpled up in her fingers. Madam Adler snatched it from her and read the words, "John was killed this morning in repulsing with his company a sortie of the enemy from the town of Metz." CHAPTER XXVI. "NO MORE TEARS." No more tears for little Violet. Yes, that was the joy which almost stilled their sorrow. How could they weep as they looked at that smile of perfect peace--that wonderful smile, fixed now in death, which had lightened up all her face as she cried out to Fritz with her parting breath, "Fritz, see!--it is all true--Violet has wings"? Aunt Lizzie sat all day beside the little bed--yes, and all night too. She was never tired looking at the sweet pale face, so restful in its sleep; and though tears flowed constantly down her cheeks, her heart was ever busy thanking God, who had so mercifully called home his little suffering lamb before the last sad news had reached her of her father's death. She was with them now, that was enough for her to know, and for evermore all would be peace. The little mother so long sighed for, the father who had so tenderly shielded his darling from trouble, and had watched over her in her loneliness--yes, they were all united now, and she knew that Violet was beyond the reach of trouble. For her and for them sorrow and sighing had fled away, and in their place had come the everlasting rest and happiness of heaven. No wonder that Aunt Lizzie rose up sometimes suddenly and kissed the sweet face with a passionate thrill of joy, nay, almost of envy. The neighbours streamed in all day long; indeed it seemed to Aunt Lizzie that the whole town of Edelsheim came to see the little face lying in such a sweet stillness on the pillow. Beautiful white flowers were laid upon the counterpane, and the air of the room was almost oppressive with the scent of the violets which were brought as a last offering, as a last tribute of love to their own Violet, the sweet flower of Edelsheim, whose face had ever looked out upon them from the many-sided window overhanging the street, with the patient smile so familiar to their eyes. In the evening, when all the rest were gone, Fritz stole in, leading Ella by the hand. Kate had just placed the lamp on the table, and Aunt Lizzie had risen up to draw the curtains; but he looked at neither of them, only walked over straight to the bedside, and stood there gazing at his little companion's face with an intense and speechless sorrow. But with Ella it was different. She gave one glance at the figure so unfamiliar in its stillness, and then fled with a cry to Aunt Lizzie, burying her face in her dress and sobbing violently. Aunt Lizzie drew the little girl into the inner room to comfort her; Kate hobbled down the stairs sobbing as she went; and Fritz was left alone, still standing gazing with a bursting heart at the smile which was not for him. For a moment he lifted his eyes and looked round the room nervously, and then he stooped and kissed her forehead. "Violet," he said softly, and waited, childlike, for an answer; but the lips did not move in response, only to his eyes, dazzled as they were with resisted tears, the smile seemed to widen at his call. "Violet, hist! Fritz knows now that thou hast wings. Violet, Fritz loves thee; and, listen, Violet, Fritz will always, always remember thee; and he will always love God, too, and the good Lord Jesus." Two immense tears fell upon Violet's face; and then Fritz, drawing nearer, knelt down by the side of the little bed and covered his face reverently with his hands. When Aunt Lizzie returned to the room Fritz was gone, but the tears which the boy had shed still glimmered faintly on the quiet face. That evening, too, the old policeman came to take his last look. He stood with uncovered head by the bedside, and uttered not a word. The face seemed to have a strange attraction for him, for he gazed at it without moving for many minutes. He, too, kissed his little friend ere he walked away, and laid in the cold clasped hands a bunch of blue forget-me-nots. But at the door he paused, and looking at Aunt Lizzie he asked, with an eye which for the moment burned with a suppressed anger, "Where is the girl?" "Dost thou mean Evelina?" "Yes, certainly." "Ah, she has returned to Gützberg; she left here the very evening of the accident. She feared, I think, to meet the face of any one who knew and loved our darling." "Ah, she did well," he said bitterly. "God, who forgives all sin, may pardon her. He can be merciful as well as just. But we of Edelsheim, never!" The next morning the carriage, made with such care by poor faithful John, was lifted out from its corner in the room and carried down into the street; and there they laid upon it the little white coffin which held the body of Violet. The descent to the little church-yard near the fountain was densely packed with mourners, and with difficulty the old policeman, assisted by Fritz, drew it through the weeping crowd. Behind it walked a company of children dressed in the same white robes with the same white wings which they had worn on the day of the procession; and now, as the little carriage moved on, their lips opened, and there burst forth the same song of the angels welcoming the weary soul to heaven which had startled Violet from her reverie only a few short days before and had called her from her loneliness and her fear to everlasting life. Thus her wish was fulfilled, that her first drive in the carriage made for her by her father should be to the place where her mother had been buried; and there they laid down the poor tired lamb at last, to sleep on its mother's breast. The people, gathered round the grave, sobbed and wept; the angels lifted up their voices with the same sweet but mournful cry; the policeman folded his arms on his breast, grim and stern, while his sword clinked against the gravel. But it was left for Fritz to know the whole grand truth. Standing there unconscious of all and everything around him, with eyes uplifted to heaven he saw her as she was. White-winged, rejoicing, exulting in her new-found strength, poised in the air above his head, radiant in robes of dazzling whiteness, he saw again that small white face break into a smile of rapture; and he heard a voice say, "Fritz, 'no more tears;' Violet has wings." And then some one cried out, "Look at the boy! he is white as death, he is fainting;" and so they lifted him into the church and laid him on the ground, and Aunt Lizzie placed his head upon her knee. And by-and-by the crowd dispersed, and those who lingered laid wreaths upon the grave; and some knelt down and kissed the earth above their little Violet's sleeping-place. * * * * * It is now many a long year since little Violet escaped out of her cage and mounted up like a bird to heaven, and yet she is remembered as lovingly as ever by the people of Edelsheim. If you turn aside into the little church-yard at the foot of the hill, you will see the monument that they have erected with much love and care to her memory. And perhaps you may meet there a woman who comes often to weep at her grave and to pray, but from whom the townspeople still turn away with aversion. She is never tired looking at the white face carved so faithfully and beautifully in marble, nor at the outstretched pinions which, spreading across the arms of the cross, support the cherub's head. There is no epitaph to tell of their darling's pure life, nor of her sad death; only three words, and yet they embrace all--"Violet has wings." It was Fritz who chose them. But to comfort the hearts of all those in Edelsheim who had loved her so well, the sculptor added at the base of the monument a bunch of fading violets, and beneath them he carved these words of hope and consolation--"Auf wiedersehen" (To meet again).